transgressings | inbox for duplicity;

Oh, but some of the stories must be rooted in truth.

[ For how many times had she fallen asleep after reading tales of brave knights and bold deeds, before she left her childhood behind and pursued darker narratives? Yet she'd always retained something of a fondness for the poets who wrote of recovered love and happiness achieved, a romantic even in her reading preferences.

She would never dream of encroaching on a warrior's space, especially one who still carries a weapon, but her skirts whisper as she shifts forward, fingers hovering in the air between Herian's sheathed blade and the curve of her hip. ]

You are bold when the occasion calls for it, I think.

[ And she nods in answer to the request, preparing to step over to the cart where she knows at least one bottle is always kept out for either company or the fellow occupants of this house. ]

Some.

( Her tone is ambiguous. By no means will she be clarifying which of the stories, oh no. That would surely not do.

As Miss Ives steps closer, Herian looks towards her. Wonders, briefly, if now is one such moment, only for her hostess to step away once more. A smile tugs very briefly, unseen, at the corner of her mouth. )

I've my moments, certainly. Though oft it seems that it is the outdoors that stir me most to action. To be under the watchful stars, mayhaps, sparks inspiration to great deeds.

The wilderness inspires all sorts of things in us.

[ She murmurs the answer almost like an afterthought, although there comes a moment when her gaze briefly lifts to hold onto the other pair while she reaches for the bottle; she's more than familiar with the adage that one should always let a good red breathe first, but patience has never been her strong suit.

She pours two, stopping at the halfway mark and then sets the bottle back down on the tray, carrying a glass in each hand before holding one out in offering and slowly sinking into a seat on the nearest sofa. ]

Permission, perhaps, to be bold.

( Accepting the wine with a quiet murmur of gratitude, Herian moves to the sofa as well. Her body is still bruised and painful, and sitting is not an act that can be carried out without her muscles making some protest, but she sees it through without betraying the spike of soreness. )

Mayhaps it reminds us of our true state. So much in our lives is... an artifice, constructed to keep us in check. Some aspects for the best. ( Others presumably less so, from her tone. ) We all of us rely on codes to govern us.

( A knight was hardly an exception to that. )

Do you oft rely upon permission, Miss Ives?

Edited 2019-11-01 19:52 (UTC)

[ The slight hesitation before the other woman moves to assume a seat beside her is something that does not escape her notice — and for the first time since Herian arrived, she begins to wonder exactly how much pain has persisted and what could have occurred to leave her in such prolonged discomfort.

The wine will help, to an extent, depending on how much of it she consumes, leaving the body in more of a relaxed state to accept touch, but the state of injury won't become apparent until they're in a more private place to enable removal of more layers. ]

Roles we are meant to play. Or ones that have been assigned to us, whether we agree with them or not.

[ She breathes a small laugh, considering the contents of her glass for a moment, and then lifts the cup to her lips for a measured sip. ]

I suppose in some cases, it may be better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

( Whether we agree with them or not. Aye, that was a matter she knew well. When she and Natasha walked each others dreams - if that could be considered a dream and any less than the truly nightmarish - she had been sharply reminded of choices rended from her. So too had she learned that of the other, a matter that had weighed on her since. They knew so much of each other while, in the same moment, knowing nothing at all. Carefully, as though it were some fragile ornament and not simply a thought, an abstract, Herian wraps the matter up to be set aside, gentle reverence demanding it be given its own time and not considered too lightly or fleetingly in the midst of other matters.

And still there was the matter of this place for consideration. By virtue of nothing at all, Miss Ives was marked by a line down her throat, where Herian was not. Society seemed to hold very different a meaning to many here, but she was raised in such a structure, rank and birth had mattered. She was a knight now, true, though it was the poorest slums that held her origins. Miss Ives was clearly a woman of nobility, and yet it is she who bares the mark to limit her?

For all that she keeps her expression carefully trained and even, the shift in mood is still, perhaps, apparent. )

Are you one inclined to obey, or defy?

( It may be overstepping. It could be flirtation, in their strange way, but there is a focus to how she asks, a watchfulness in considering Miss Ives reaction, her response, how she holds herself. )

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