Rowan + Saoirse
Who: Saoirse and Rowan
When: On the 22nd!
Where: The Golden Hour/Rowan's office
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for language and obnoxiousness and trolling.
Such a cold day! With snow underfoot and ice under snow, Saoirse had been veritably forced to quell her enthusiasm for barefooted ways and don boots for the occasion. They pinched terribly, and they hurt her feet in places she had forgotten existed, but at least they were not turning black at the toe like they had last year. She’d been fortunate, said the quack she’d played footsie with, that they hadn’t fallen off. “Whatever,” she said aloud in her own, native language, startling the sparse collection of neophytes the Hour had scuttling around. “Stupid man. What does he know?”
Oh, speaking of neophytes. One, too close to escape, got Saoirse’s small fingers dipping into a wrinkle of his shirt, and she pulled him close. “Hey sweetie,” she said, in English this time, although even after this long her accent distorted it into a mass of rolling, slipping syllables. “Lookin’ fer Rowan Mata. You wouldn’t know where he is like, would yer?” As a matter of fact, he would, and after a few moments of distraction and wondering whether the clockwork in the walls would fit into her pockets - and whether it would actually make any money on the markets… not likely, no - Saoirse found herself outside an office door.
She probably should’ve knocked, in retrospect, given that Mata was someone used to servants and authority and one of those people with a stick taller than himself rammed up his --- Whatever, she opened the door and sailed in as if she owned the place. Gosh, books everywhere. She could make a fortune if she stuffed those in her pockets. What on earth anyone could want with so much mouldy old paper, Saoirse would never understand.
“Mr Mata,” she cried, a cheerful, sing-song chirp of a greeting that sailed unerringly towards the back of the - unfortunately normal, everyday type, how disappointing - man therein. Her arms linked around his waist, her chin point set to his shoulder. What was personal space to old friends? "You don't do so well at hiding, do yer?"
Rowan had not been paying much attention to the room at large at that point. Measuring was a difficult process that required much concentration, especially at the small amounts that he had been measuring at the back of his office. Even if his practical experiments were being put on hold for now, he did not have to stop working on antidotes or salves for other purposes.
He definitely didn't pay much attention to his door opening. It was usually Lucia or Mari, and the reason he left it unlocked when he was in his office in the first place. Even the "Mr. Mata" didn't do much then set his teeth on edge before the realization he didn't recognize the voice sunk in, because he wouldn't put it past either of the two to use that term.
The touching was what brought his mind back to full awareness, even more than that the person said. Not even Lucia would wrap her arms around him like this, and they were sleeping together.
There was probably some screeching when Rowan dropped what he was doing and, instinctively, elbowed the person behind him so that they would let go what the fuck, before turning around to glare at the intruder.
"Who the fuck are- no, I don't even care. Get out of my office, now."
A screeching man was the last thing Saoirse had expected, but punches and elbows -- ah, well, she'd grown up in a troupe of irritating people, and so she dropped her Vanjalist prize and jumped sideways just in time. "Rude," she exclaimed, and groped around for the nearest book to smack at him with. She was well out of reach, but if it made him duck it would be satisfying enough. "That's no way to treat a guest, not at all."
The book fell from careless fingers, and she hopped up onto the nearest clear surface - cleared, of course, by a shove and a push of her arms to each side. Settled, she adjusted her bodice, dusted her shoulders off as if greatly affronted, and then rested one elbow atop the nearest pile of books. "Found yer. Least y'can do is gimme a drink for the time it took, aye."
If there was something more horrifying than a strange and more obnoxious than the rest of the women Rowan knew combined in his office, it was one that was touching his books.
Or using them as a weapon.
"Get the fuck out of my office," he repeated, walking towards her. If she wouldn't leave, he would grab her by the arm and force her to leave. "I have no idea who you are, but you are not allowed in here. I don't fucking care how long it took you."
He quickly went over the list of people who could potentially help him get her out, although in a building full of servants and researchers there wasn't much in the way of people that could do more physically than he could. Which meant compromise.
Fucking compromise.
"If you need to discuss something, we can discuss it somewhere else." That was not his fucking office.
For someone who spoke so prissily on the ledgers, he sure was a potty mouth in person, wasn't he? Saoirse's ruddy eyebrows lifted in mock horror, and she set her fingers to her lips as if heavily dismayed. "My, my," she said. "I've changed my mind, so I have. No smiles from you, just growls like a bear wi' a stick up his--" She paused, smirked, and inverted her fingers so that they pointed southwards. "You know."
She had absolutely no intention of leaving, and the moment he touched her, she'd scream the place down - and possibly claw out his eyes. Yes, definitely with the clawing. His close proximity had Saoirse's thoughts run along those lines just in case, and as if they'd translated to action already, she glanced at her fingernails to check their pointed state. Yeah, they'd do.
"Get over yerself," she said. "Sheesh."
"You're in my room, on my research, and in where you definitely do not fucking belong. Get out, before I call in the guards to have you dragged out." Useless guards that were there to make sure they didn't cut any more live people up, but right now he didn't care.
It was so, so tempting to just drag her out. He could ... except that Mari could probably out-punch him, so maybe he was overestimating his own strength.
So he stared her down, then walked to his door and opened it, startling some poor Neophyte who happened to be walking by at the right time. "We have an intruder," he said, curtly. "Could you please request that one of the guards come up here to handle it?" He turned back to the crazy bitch on his table. "Unless, of course, you are willing to leave on your own."
Saoirse stroked her chin, thoughtfully. She could get down, she could leave, but where would be the fun in that? This guy was like a candle to touch paper; or one of the flares they occasionally used on stage. The merest whisper of heat and boom! He went up in smoke and spouted nonsense noise. So much for the prissy academic and his superior manner. How enjoyable.
She beamed at him.
"Alright, alright," she said, and hopped off the table she'd claimed. A glint in her eye suggested the gypsy far from done, however, and she angled her movements over to the bench Rowan had been working on, taking her sweet time about examining the room itself in detail. Her ears had moved past Rowan, listening out intently for the signature clinking steps of a guard approaching the door. It took longer than Saoirse had expected, honestly - but then, the Hour were persona non grata, weren't they? In fact, this next few moments of performance depended on it.
"Y'should be nicer to folk," she said, bluntly, as the telltale jingle started at the end of the outer corridor. "First impressions are more important face to face than over a paper. Just a suggestion, aye."
Rowan watched her study the room in silence. It was obvious he worked with plants, as that was the majority of the books and there was the remains of his measurements on the table, but that was it. Unless she bothered to do any research on him beforehand, which he was very sure she did not, she wouldn't be able to pick up the specifics of his research.
Invasion of his personal space was the one thing that could get him up in arms and furious. The garden, being technically open to the public, was the usual target. Invasion of his office? Even the people who waved off his usual complaints would have a more difficult time waving this off.
At least some time to think made it more apparent who she was.
"I believe you should take your own advice. Being an intruder does not lend to positive reactions from people." The threat of theater on his behalf did not bother him much.
"Invited," she responded, crisply. "You knew I was comin' to find you, made a game out of it, so y'did. Now you've lost, and you're sore because I found you in the most obvious place you've got. Stupid, rootfoot, very stupid." Still, cheerful attitude littered her tone, and she abandoned whatever it was she was looking at and sailed to stand beside him at the door. Short though she was, he was still taller than she'd expected him to be. A name like his suggested squinty eyes and stumpy height, and although he had the former and had the skintone to match, his height was remarkably... well. Normal. Perhaps he was a mongrel like she was. Interesting.
The silhouette of the guard dropped over them, and rather than run, the diminutive woman simply laid her hand on his arm, snooty as you like. Without a further word to Rowan, she allowed herself to be escorted - or perhaps she was doing the escorting, confusion reigned. "This man has some pretty dangerous herbs in here," she told the guard, loudly, in as crisp and clear an English accent as one could ever hope for. "I know it's just the surgical areas you're observing, but given the illness that's been around the city of late, I'd start looking in there. He has Yew berries in there - did you know a single one of those could kill an entire household? My father used to use them to get rid of sick farm animals..."
The noise of her trailed off.
When: On the 22nd!
Where: The Golden Hour/Rowan's office
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for language and obnoxiousness and trolling.
Such a cold day! With snow underfoot and ice under snow, Saoirse had been veritably forced to quell her enthusiasm for barefooted ways and don boots for the occasion. They pinched terribly, and they hurt her feet in places she had forgotten existed, but at least they were not turning black at the toe like they had last year. She’d been fortunate, said the quack she’d played footsie with, that they hadn’t fallen off. “Whatever,” she said aloud in her own, native language, startling the sparse collection of neophytes the Hour had scuttling around. “Stupid man. What does he know?”
Oh, speaking of neophytes. One, too close to escape, got Saoirse’s small fingers dipping into a wrinkle of his shirt, and she pulled him close. “Hey sweetie,” she said, in English this time, although even after this long her accent distorted it into a mass of rolling, slipping syllables. “Lookin’ fer Rowan Mata. You wouldn’t know where he is like, would yer?” As a matter of fact, he would, and after a few moments of distraction and wondering whether the clockwork in the walls would fit into her pockets - and whether it would actually make any money on the markets… not likely, no - Saoirse found herself outside an office door.
She probably should’ve knocked, in retrospect, given that Mata was someone used to servants and authority and one of those people with a stick taller than himself rammed up his --- Whatever, she opened the door and sailed in as if she owned the place. Gosh, books everywhere. She could make a fortune if she stuffed those in her pockets. What on earth anyone could want with so much mouldy old paper, Saoirse would never understand.
“Mr Mata,” she cried, a cheerful, sing-song chirp of a greeting that sailed unerringly towards the back of the - unfortunately normal, everyday type, how disappointing - man therein. Her arms linked around his waist, her chin point set to his shoulder. What was personal space to old friends? "You don't do so well at hiding, do yer?"
Rowan had not been paying much attention to the room at large at that point. Measuring was a difficult process that required much concentration, especially at the small amounts that he had been measuring at the back of his office. Even if his practical experiments were being put on hold for now, he did not have to stop working on antidotes or salves for other purposes.
He definitely didn't pay much attention to his door opening. It was usually Lucia or Mari, and the reason he left it unlocked when he was in his office in the first place. Even the "Mr. Mata" didn't do much then set his teeth on edge before the realization he didn't recognize the voice sunk in, because he wouldn't put it past either of the two to use that term.
The touching was what brought his mind back to full awareness, even more than that the person said. Not even Lucia would wrap her arms around him like this, and they were sleeping together.
There was probably some screeching when Rowan dropped what he was doing and, instinctively, elbowed the person behind him so that they would let go what the fuck, before turning around to glare at the intruder.
"Who the fuck are- no, I don't even care. Get out of my office, now."
A screeching man was the last thing Saoirse had expected, but punches and elbows -- ah, well, she'd grown up in a troupe of irritating people, and so she dropped her Vanjalist prize and jumped sideways just in time. "Rude," she exclaimed, and groped around for the nearest book to smack at him with. She was well out of reach, but if it made him duck it would be satisfying enough. "That's no way to treat a guest, not at all."
The book fell from careless fingers, and she hopped up onto the nearest clear surface - cleared, of course, by a shove and a push of her arms to each side. Settled, she adjusted her bodice, dusted her shoulders off as if greatly affronted, and then rested one elbow atop the nearest pile of books. "Found yer. Least y'can do is gimme a drink for the time it took, aye."
If there was something more horrifying than a strange and more obnoxious than the rest of the women Rowan knew combined in his office, it was one that was touching his books.
Or using them as a weapon.
"Get the fuck out of my office," he repeated, walking towards her. If she wouldn't leave, he would grab her by the arm and force her to leave. "I have no idea who you are, but you are not allowed in here. I don't fucking care how long it took you."
He quickly went over the list of people who could potentially help him get her out, although in a building full of servants and researchers there wasn't much in the way of people that could do more physically than he could. Which meant compromise.
Fucking compromise.
"If you need to discuss something, we can discuss it somewhere else." That was not his fucking office.
For someone who spoke so prissily on the ledgers, he sure was a potty mouth in person, wasn't he? Saoirse's ruddy eyebrows lifted in mock horror, and she set her fingers to her lips as if heavily dismayed. "My, my," she said. "I've changed my mind, so I have. No smiles from you, just growls like a bear wi' a stick up his--" She paused, smirked, and inverted her fingers so that they pointed southwards. "You know."
She had absolutely no intention of leaving, and the moment he touched her, she'd scream the place down - and possibly claw out his eyes. Yes, definitely with the clawing. His close proximity had Saoirse's thoughts run along those lines just in case, and as if they'd translated to action already, she glanced at her fingernails to check their pointed state. Yeah, they'd do.
"Get over yerself," she said. "Sheesh."
"You're in my room, on my research, and in where you definitely do not fucking belong. Get out, before I call in the guards to have you dragged out." Useless guards that were there to make sure they didn't cut any more live people up, but right now he didn't care.
It was so, so tempting to just drag her out. He could ... except that Mari could probably out-punch him, so maybe he was overestimating his own strength.
So he stared her down, then walked to his door and opened it, startling some poor Neophyte who happened to be walking by at the right time. "We have an intruder," he said, curtly. "Could you please request that one of the guards come up here to handle it?" He turned back to the crazy bitch on his table. "Unless, of course, you are willing to leave on your own."
Saoirse stroked her chin, thoughtfully. She could get down, she could leave, but where would be the fun in that? This guy was like a candle to touch paper; or one of the flares they occasionally used on stage. The merest whisper of heat and boom! He went up in smoke and spouted nonsense noise. So much for the prissy academic and his superior manner. How enjoyable.
She beamed at him.
"Alright, alright," she said, and hopped off the table she'd claimed. A glint in her eye suggested the gypsy far from done, however, and she angled her movements over to the bench Rowan had been working on, taking her sweet time about examining the room itself in detail. Her ears had moved past Rowan, listening out intently for the signature clinking steps of a guard approaching the door. It took longer than Saoirse had expected, honestly - but then, the Hour were persona non grata, weren't they? In fact, this next few moments of performance depended on it.
"Y'should be nicer to folk," she said, bluntly, as the telltale jingle started at the end of the outer corridor. "First impressions are more important face to face than over a paper. Just a suggestion, aye."
Rowan watched her study the room in silence. It was obvious he worked with plants, as that was the majority of the books and there was the remains of his measurements on the table, but that was it. Unless she bothered to do any research on him beforehand, which he was very sure she did not, she wouldn't be able to pick up the specifics of his research.
Invasion of his personal space was the one thing that could get him up in arms and furious. The garden, being technically open to the public, was the usual target. Invasion of his office? Even the people who waved off his usual complaints would have a more difficult time waving this off.
At least some time to think made it more apparent who she was.
"I believe you should take your own advice. Being an intruder does not lend to positive reactions from people." The threat of theater on his behalf did not bother him much.
"Invited," she responded, crisply. "You knew I was comin' to find you, made a game out of it, so y'did. Now you've lost, and you're sore because I found you in the most obvious place you've got. Stupid, rootfoot, very stupid." Still, cheerful attitude littered her tone, and she abandoned whatever it was she was looking at and sailed to stand beside him at the door. Short though she was, he was still taller than she'd expected him to be. A name like his suggested squinty eyes and stumpy height, and although he had the former and had the skintone to match, his height was remarkably... well. Normal. Perhaps he was a mongrel like she was. Interesting.
The silhouette of the guard dropped over them, and rather than run, the diminutive woman simply laid her hand on his arm, snooty as you like. Without a further word to Rowan, she allowed herself to be escorted - or perhaps she was doing the escorting, confusion reigned. "This man has some pretty dangerous herbs in here," she told the guard, loudly, in as crisp and clear an English accent as one could ever hope for. "I know it's just the surgical areas you're observing, but given the illness that's been around the city of late, I'd start looking in there. He has Yew berries in there - did you know a single one of those could kill an entire household? My father used to use them to get rid of sick farm animals..."
The noise of her trailed off.