FFXII Fic: In The Hour Before Us, Chapter 3 (Larsa/Penelo, Other)
Have you ever had the experience of doing something terrible to keep yourself from doing something worse?
Well, this is like the fanficcing equivalent of that. I’m putting this up so I don’t put a half-raw and very much in need of revision version of chapter 1 of Twitlight up. (Rosalie is, damn it all, currently refusing to have a narrative voice that’s very different from my Penelo’s.) But-- while that’s in the works, I thought I might as well put that up. It’s for a dead series that will never again be updated-- but it was damn fun while it lasted, which about sums up my time in the FFXII fandom.
And a big thanks to moontear for really helping with Larsa’s letter. Gallantry with just the slightest edge of snark will never cease to be awesome to me.
Title: In The Hour Before Us, Chapter 3
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Series: In The Hour Before Us
Pairings: Larsa/Penelo, the slightest hint of Penelo/Larsa/Other (please don’t kill me…)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Boy meets girl. Boy rescues girl. Boy then technically kidnaps girl. When Penelo first meets Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, she has no idea what's in store for her...
Note: AU, Older!Larsa.
***
Unfortunately, Penelo's brilliant plan of tracking Larsa down to investigate what would happen if she set off into the wider world as his hired trollop suffered from a fatal flaw.
Which was, of course, the fact that as soon as she wanted to see him desperately… she found neither hide nor hair of him. And even as she inched her way around her current spacious quarters, she cursed the miserable fates that always handed her an anti-climax precisely when she wanted something to happen. If the Rozarrians were right and there truly was a divine hand out there that wrote down all the events that took place in a person’s life… she didn’t think much of whatever author was penning her exploits currently.
But still, missing Larsa may have been for the best. Negotiations did have a tendency to go wrong way up when one of the parties (see: herself) couldn’t even find a decent pair of underpants. And though the man might have been missing, his presence lingered in the form of a set of clothes spread upon her bed-sheets and a note pinned to them neatly.
And when she threw herself on the bed stark naked to go through what he had left behind, laughter was the best reaction for most of what she ended up reading.
Dearest Penelo, his note began brightly. And even if Penelo had known nothing else about the boy penning it, she would have been able to tell that he had been highly educated by his strong, clean hand and inability to stay away from twee openings that no normal person would use without severe amounts of irony.
(God bless the nobility.)
Dearest Penelo,
I must offer you my deepest apologies for not greeting you myself after your bath. Unfortunately, our generous host, the Marquis Halim Ondore IV, instructed me to meet him for a policy discussion within his private quarters and I must attend to whatever preoccupies his thoughts. Trust that I would much rather have lingered in your presence than spent another moment tiresomely going back and forth over policy discussion and whether ‘resistance’ or ‘rebellion’ would more suit a certain political movement whose current strategy mostly seems to entail hunkering down within a damp lair and not actually accomplishing much.
Penelo paused and then decided, on the whole, not to be flattered. Canny though Larsa might be, he really needed to work on his 'hiding the backhanded compliment' skills.
But before I was forced to vacate your domicile, I left a set of clothes for you upon your bed-- which I‘m sure you have found, as you‘ve already proven your keen eyesight from previous observations of Judge Ghis' (and I quote) ‘general douchebaggery‘.
Okay, that won an honest-to-god laugh from her. Apparently, being royalty didn’t mean having to skip an actual sense of humor. Which was nice to know, considering she might be spending a great deal of time with this particular royal in the future.
Maybe. Possibly. But she wouldn’t bet on either a yay or nay yet.
And I must apologize once more for not being able to clothe you in anything better than a set of old garments I salvaged from my luggage. Naturally, I do not tend to travel about the continent with a set of women’s clothing and I did not feel it was appropriate to ask the Marquis to lend me anything more than he has. In any case, I used to wear what I’ve passed down to you myself and I thought it would be more comfortable for you than my current wardrobe, given our disparity in heights. (Do not think of yourself as overly petite, my lady; rather, think of me as unnaturally elongated.)
Since Penelo’s head barely reached his collar bone, she agreed with this quite fervently. But then, most northerners tended to be freakishly lengthy. Possibly it was something they bred for up there, along with that ridiculous accent, a preference for armor that actually covered their abdomen and the ability to drop anything and everything when it came time to have tea. In fact, their instinct towards the drink was so strong that native-born Rabanastrans always looked forward to tea-time for the Archadians stationed in their city-- if only because if was the one thing that got those pricks off their backs regularly.
And I do hope this will be enough to persuade you to allow me to finally taking you shopping. I believe that once you give a proper look to the only other suitable dress I could find you, you will understand both why I greatly looked forward to growing older as a child and why the men-folk of my empire have a bit of a… reputation for gender ambiguity.
Penelo gave the clothes on the bed a quick glance and recoiled. He certainly hadn’t been kidding.
I have left a few books and journals for you to make use of in my absence, in case you pine for activity. And with luck, I will see you again in this very room shortly, though the Marquis can be rather long-winded indeed. In fact, I can only pray to any gods that exist that no one thinks to asks him of the recent hubbub over the strange revivification of a certain personage within his sky city. I have heard of cults before but I still cannot imagine why anyone would want to parade through the streets of Bhujerba in a drunken haze whilst screaming of the resurrection of a certain deceased captain and handing out illegible pamphlets proclaiming that the end is near and that only those that embrace his love in their hearts will be shown mercy.
Penelo’s eye twitched at that. That sounded almost uncomfortably like a certain person she was going to maim as soon as she tracked him down, actually…
In any case, I remain--
Larsa Ferrinas Solidor
Son of the Royal Line of House Solidor
Rulers of Archadia and Its Realms Beyond the Sea
And that made her smile sadly.
As though she could ever let herself forget that.
As though that gap could ever be breached.
But then, she shook her head decisively. She wasn’t going to let herself worry about anything of that nature right now-- not when she had so much unexpected freedom on her hands and so little time to exploit it. No, she wasn’t going to spend her time sighing and sulking over something she couldn‘t help. She was going to slip on the clothes left to her, quickly go through the books left behind to see if there was something she could use in the future-- and then a little exploring of her own, to a confirm a few hunches she’d been having.
After all, however kind this prince had been to her so far, she still didn’t know if she could trust him. Everything she knew of Larsa’s plans centered around the idea that he was attempting to help his empire by parceling back at least some of Dalmasca‘s sovereignty. And if those plans were simply part of a ploy to-- gods, she didn’t know-- to wrestle power from his father or his elder brothers or whoever it was that was keeping him from being merely a prince rather than an actual emperor…
The soft smile gracing her face turned brittle instantly.
She didn’t want to go through that; no, not ever again.
Not again and not even with this boy here.
Penelo forced herself to take a deep breath, to banish those memories from her mind decisively. There was a great deal to do and wallowing in the worst case scenario was useless-- she needed to go out and either confirm or dismiss her fears. She had long since learned that lying around being hopeless was practically the same as to lying down and admitting defeat. Even if action was hard, even if she was more used to reacting than acting--
Smarter than they thought she was, she reminded herself sternly, even as she dropped the towel around her and picked up a rather hopelessly puffy blouse that could have passed for a pillow case in dimmer light. Smarter and sharper and harsher and faster...
She could feel herself smiling now, mouth moving though she couldn‘t remember sending it any commands: a smile with a lot of teeth.
She had always been just a smidge brighter than people enjoying believing her to be.
And that was, and would always be, the hidden ace up her sleeve.
***
Unfortunately, while it was perfectly well and good to get dressed and go out searching for answers, Penelo found it hard to be a proper investigator once she got lost and found herself roaming about the corridors of a seemingly endless palace, panicking to the point of not quite knowing where was up, where was down, where was north, and where was south-- and whether she’d ever see another hume face again before she starved to death in a palatial wilderness after a pathetic attempt to cling to life by chewing on whatever tapestries she found.
Even more unfortunate was that she had no real idea what would prove that Larsa was trying to help Dalmasca by whoring her publicly out in his empire. It was true that she had always prided herself on being sassy, spunky, feisty, jolly and a host of other adjectives that were festive yet meaningless. But sadly, it was becoming increasingly clear to her that she wouldn’t know what conclusive evidence of Larsa's innocence would look like if it came up to her, stripped down to nothing but a pair of pasties and proceeded to do a sexy little shimmy.
And most unfortunate of all was the fact that she was currently stuck in an outfit that looked like a sullen cream-puff crossed over with an enraged plum, topped off with a hint of poisoned cherry. She wasn’t even sure what she was most humiliated by. Was it the poufy white sleeves that made her look as though she was smuggling moogles against her armpits? Or the itchy white ruff that kept savaging her chin? It could be the billowing gray tunic that made her look as though she had a pot belly she hadn't eaten enough to form in years. Or maybe the ridiculous purple tights that kept riding up her well toned rear in a way that was just maddening.
But really, her money for the crowning cherry on top of her woe-cake was on the stupid boots she had been forced to wear, what with her own pair having mysteriously disappeared after her bath. The stupid, stupid, stupid green-and-brown boots that kept cramping up on her feet with their stupid, stupid, stupid cherry-red heels and their stupid, stupid, stupid nearly invisible lacing going up her thighs--
What she had mistaken for an obscure joke was, to put it plainly, not. And at this point, wearing this outfit, she was coming ever closer to accepting-- even rejoicing!-- over the possibility of a lonely death that came from starving in the middle of an exceptionally well-furnished and aristocratic wilderness. Her only hope was that in due time, the scavengers that were sure to roam these gilded halls at night would come and chew the clothes off of her before her inevitable end. She might have stoically resigned herself to death but she still didn't want to go to her end looking like a lazy-eyed, color-blind, pastry-fetishizing pirate with absolutely no fashion sense whatsoever.
(But then, she’d heard rumors that even the king of pirates in Balfonheim dabbled with gender ambiguity, what with his well-known propensity for going about in bright pink pantaloons. Maybe she’d fit quite well into pirating life after all, much to Vaan‘s short-lived happiness and glee.)
But it was about the point in which she had decided to just lay down and let the elements savage her that her miracle finally came to her.
True, it wasn’t a miracle in any conventional sense, what with it being less a voice from the heavens or a triage of helpful forest animals than a man who walked into whatever god-forsaken hall she had found herself trapped in. And he wasn't exactly the most reassuring stranger to have stumbled onto either. Thin of face, dark of hair, narrow of eye, pursed of lip... and most worrying of all, fully armored and carrying a sword that glittered with a potent sense of malice even when fully sheathed...
Under normal circumstances, Penelo wouldn’t have classified meeting a stranger like this as a miracle of any shade, shape or form. In fact, under normal circumstances, she likely would have hastily bowed her head, mumbled an apology and scampered off as fast as these ridiculous green booties would take her. She hadn't spent all too many of her formative years in the slums of Lowtown without learning precisely what sort of gentlemen to avoid under what sort of conditions, after all. And a meeting with a dangerous stranger where no one else was a round...
But these weren’t normal circumstances. She was at least a hundred miles from home, she had been kidnapped once (possibly twice), she had been propositioned as a political operative by a prince from a foreign and very dangerous land, and she was somehow quite sure that she--
[shards and shrapnel under her feet; brother’s voice mumbling faltering incoherancies in her ear; hot breath on her damp and shuddering cheeks; reks underneath her in their bed, panting and groaning and almost laughing; something wet beneath her shaking fingers, sickly sweet and transmuting; the sliver of a sword sold off after war; a medal in her hand already rusting; a fairy tale prince felled by an arrow from beyond; a princess who had slit her own throat weeping; glint of golden hair glimpsed from far off; migelo whispering please gods, forgive me]
“Do I know you from somewhere?” she found herself asking hoarsely. Something in that skull-like face, something in those sunken eyes, something about him prickling at a thousand different portions inside her skull, needle-like and maddening...
And when he lowered those haunted eyes of his to look at hers, it was as though a lance made out of a thousand disconnected memories had seared her through entirely. She knew this man; she had seen him before, she--
"Who I am is none of your concern,” he murmured, and his voice was hoarse and yet startlingly similar to her own, all his syllables accented of a desert land she wanted to return to so desperately. “And neither does your identity intrigue me.”
A more sensible girl probably would have backed off at this point, simply because of the intensity of his stare. A more sensible girl would have apologized by now. A more sensible girl would have turned and already began retreating.
But instead, the lies easily sprang to her lips, as though she spent her whole life practicing.
(And maybe some part of her actually had. Perhaps this was the role of a lifetime here.)
“Well, I still wanna tell you my name's Elle,” she coolly said, letting her lips curl up into an inviting smile as she leaned in towards tall, dark and snarly. “And I’m Lord Larsa’s favorite mistress. You don't think it's worth just a bit of your time to talk to me?”
***
Author‘s Note: My greatest regret over having abandoned this fic? Never getting the chance to fully develop the Penelo/Larsa/Vossler (Larsa is so in the middle) political subtext buried. Here‘s hoping someone else will carry that crazy shipping torch from hereon!
Well, this is like the fanficcing equivalent of that. I’m putting this up so I don’t put a half-raw and very much in need of revision version of chapter 1 of Twitlight up. (Rosalie is, damn it all, currently refusing to have a narrative voice that’s very different from my Penelo’s.) But-- while that’s in the works, I thought I might as well put that up. It’s for a dead series that will never again be updated-- but it was damn fun while it lasted, which about sums up my time in the FFXII fandom.
And a big thanks to moontear for really helping with Larsa’s letter. Gallantry with just the slightest edge of snark will never cease to be awesome to me.
Title: In The Hour Before Us, Chapter 3
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Series: In The Hour Before Us
Pairings: Larsa/Penelo, the slightest hint of Penelo/Larsa/Other (please don’t kill me…)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Boy meets girl. Boy rescues girl. Boy then technically kidnaps girl. When Penelo first meets Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, she has no idea what's in store for her...
Note: AU, Older!Larsa.
***
Unfortunately, Penelo's brilliant plan of tracking Larsa down to investigate what would happen if she set off into the wider world as his hired trollop suffered from a fatal flaw.
Which was, of course, the fact that as soon as she wanted to see him desperately… she found neither hide nor hair of him. And even as she inched her way around her current spacious quarters, she cursed the miserable fates that always handed her an anti-climax precisely when she wanted something to happen. If the Rozarrians were right and there truly was a divine hand out there that wrote down all the events that took place in a person’s life… she didn’t think much of whatever author was penning her exploits currently.
But still, missing Larsa may have been for the best. Negotiations did have a tendency to go wrong way up when one of the parties (see: herself) couldn’t even find a decent pair of underpants. And though the man might have been missing, his presence lingered in the form of a set of clothes spread upon her bed-sheets and a note pinned to them neatly.
And when she threw herself on the bed stark naked to go through what he had left behind, laughter was the best reaction for most of what she ended up reading.
Dearest Penelo, his note began brightly. And even if Penelo had known nothing else about the boy penning it, she would have been able to tell that he had been highly educated by his strong, clean hand and inability to stay away from twee openings that no normal person would use without severe amounts of irony.
(God bless the nobility.)
Dearest Penelo,
I must offer you my deepest apologies for not greeting you myself after your bath. Unfortunately, our generous host, the Marquis Halim Ondore IV, instructed me to meet him for a policy discussion within his private quarters and I must attend to whatever preoccupies his thoughts. Trust that I would much rather have lingered in your presence than spent another moment tiresomely going back and forth over policy discussion and whether ‘resistance’ or ‘rebellion’ would more suit a certain political movement whose current strategy mostly seems to entail hunkering down within a damp lair and not actually accomplishing much.
Penelo paused and then decided, on the whole, not to be flattered. Canny though Larsa might be, he really needed to work on his 'hiding the backhanded compliment' skills.
But before I was forced to vacate your domicile, I left a set of clothes for you upon your bed-- which I‘m sure you have found, as you‘ve already proven your keen eyesight from previous observations of Judge Ghis' (and I quote) ‘general douchebaggery‘.
Okay, that won an honest-to-god laugh from her. Apparently, being royalty didn’t mean having to skip an actual sense of humor. Which was nice to know, considering she might be spending a great deal of time with this particular royal in the future.
Maybe. Possibly. But she wouldn’t bet on either a yay or nay yet.
And I must apologize once more for not being able to clothe you in anything better than a set of old garments I salvaged from my luggage. Naturally, I do not tend to travel about the continent with a set of women’s clothing and I did not feel it was appropriate to ask the Marquis to lend me anything more than he has. In any case, I used to wear what I’ve passed down to you myself and I thought it would be more comfortable for you than my current wardrobe, given our disparity in heights. (Do not think of yourself as overly petite, my lady; rather, think of me as unnaturally elongated.)
Since Penelo’s head barely reached his collar bone, she agreed with this quite fervently. But then, most northerners tended to be freakishly lengthy. Possibly it was something they bred for up there, along with that ridiculous accent, a preference for armor that actually covered their abdomen and the ability to drop anything and everything when it came time to have tea. In fact, their instinct towards the drink was so strong that native-born Rabanastrans always looked forward to tea-time for the Archadians stationed in their city-- if only because if was the one thing that got those pricks off their backs regularly.
And I do hope this will be enough to persuade you to allow me to finally taking you shopping. I believe that once you give a proper look to the only other suitable dress I could find you, you will understand both why I greatly looked forward to growing older as a child and why the men-folk of my empire have a bit of a… reputation for gender ambiguity.
Penelo gave the clothes on the bed a quick glance and recoiled. He certainly hadn’t been kidding.
I have left a few books and journals for you to make use of in my absence, in case you pine for activity. And with luck, I will see you again in this very room shortly, though the Marquis can be rather long-winded indeed. In fact, I can only pray to any gods that exist that no one thinks to asks him of the recent hubbub over the strange revivification of a certain personage within his sky city. I have heard of cults before but I still cannot imagine why anyone would want to parade through the streets of Bhujerba in a drunken haze whilst screaming of the resurrection of a certain deceased captain and handing out illegible pamphlets proclaiming that the end is near and that only those that embrace his love in their hearts will be shown mercy.
Penelo’s eye twitched at that. That sounded almost uncomfortably like a certain person she was going to maim as soon as she tracked him down, actually…
In any case, I remain--
Larsa Ferrinas Solidor
Son of the Royal Line of House Solidor
Rulers of Archadia and Its Realms Beyond the Sea
And that made her smile sadly.
As though she could ever let herself forget that.
As though that gap could ever be breached.
But then, she shook her head decisively. She wasn’t going to let herself worry about anything of that nature right now-- not when she had so much unexpected freedom on her hands and so little time to exploit it. No, she wasn’t going to spend her time sighing and sulking over something she couldn‘t help. She was going to slip on the clothes left to her, quickly go through the books left behind to see if there was something she could use in the future-- and then a little exploring of her own, to a confirm a few hunches she’d been having.
After all, however kind this prince had been to her so far, she still didn’t know if she could trust him. Everything she knew of Larsa’s plans centered around the idea that he was attempting to help his empire by parceling back at least some of Dalmasca‘s sovereignty. And if those plans were simply part of a ploy to-- gods, she didn’t know-- to wrestle power from his father or his elder brothers or whoever it was that was keeping him from being merely a prince rather than an actual emperor…
The soft smile gracing her face turned brittle instantly.
She didn’t want to go through that; no, not ever again.
Not again and not even with this boy here.
Penelo forced herself to take a deep breath, to banish those memories from her mind decisively. There was a great deal to do and wallowing in the worst case scenario was useless-- she needed to go out and either confirm or dismiss her fears. She had long since learned that lying around being hopeless was practically the same as to lying down and admitting defeat. Even if action was hard, even if she was more used to reacting than acting--
Smarter than they thought she was, she reminded herself sternly, even as she dropped the towel around her and picked up a rather hopelessly puffy blouse that could have passed for a pillow case in dimmer light. Smarter and sharper and harsher and faster...
She could feel herself smiling now, mouth moving though she couldn‘t remember sending it any commands: a smile with a lot of teeth.
She had always been just a smidge brighter than people enjoying believing her to be.
And that was, and would always be, the hidden ace up her sleeve.
***
Unfortunately, while it was perfectly well and good to get dressed and go out searching for answers, Penelo found it hard to be a proper investigator once she got lost and found herself roaming about the corridors of a seemingly endless palace, panicking to the point of not quite knowing where was up, where was down, where was north, and where was south-- and whether she’d ever see another hume face again before she starved to death in a palatial wilderness after a pathetic attempt to cling to life by chewing on whatever tapestries she found.
Even more unfortunate was that she had no real idea what would prove that Larsa was trying to help Dalmasca by whoring her publicly out in his empire. It was true that she had always prided herself on being sassy, spunky, feisty, jolly and a host of other adjectives that were festive yet meaningless. But sadly, it was becoming increasingly clear to her that she wouldn’t know what conclusive evidence of Larsa's innocence would look like if it came up to her, stripped down to nothing but a pair of pasties and proceeded to do a sexy little shimmy.
And most unfortunate of all was the fact that she was currently stuck in an outfit that looked like a sullen cream-puff crossed over with an enraged plum, topped off with a hint of poisoned cherry. She wasn’t even sure what she was most humiliated by. Was it the poufy white sleeves that made her look as though she was smuggling moogles against her armpits? Or the itchy white ruff that kept savaging her chin? It could be the billowing gray tunic that made her look as though she had a pot belly she hadn't eaten enough to form in years. Or maybe the ridiculous purple tights that kept riding up her well toned rear in a way that was just maddening.
But really, her money for the crowning cherry on top of her woe-cake was on the stupid boots she had been forced to wear, what with her own pair having mysteriously disappeared after her bath. The stupid, stupid, stupid green-and-brown boots that kept cramping up on her feet with their stupid, stupid, stupid cherry-red heels and their stupid, stupid, stupid nearly invisible lacing going up her thighs--
What she had mistaken for an obscure joke was, to put it plainly, not. And at this point, wearing this outfit, she was coming ever closer to accepting-- even rejoicing!-- over the possibility of a lonely death that came from starving in the middle of an exceptionally well-furnished and aristocratic wilderness. Her only hope was that in due time, the scavengers that were sure to roam these gilded halls at night would come and chew the clothes off of her before her inevitable end. She might have stoically resigned herself to death but she still didn't want to go to her end looking like a lazy-eyed, color-blind, pastry-fetishizing pirate with absolutely no fashion sense whatsoever.
(But then, she’d heard rumors that even the king of pirates in Balfonheim dabbled with gender ambiguity, what with his well-known propensity for going about in bright pink pantaloons. Maybe she’d fit quite well into pirating life after all, much to Vaan‘s short-lived happiness and glee.)
But it was about the point in which she had decided to just lay down and let the elements savage her that her miracle finally came to her.
True, it wasn’t a miracle in any conventional sense, what with it being less a voice from the heavens or a triage of helpful forest animals than a man who walked into whatever god-forsaken hall she had found herself trapped in. And he wasn't exactly the most reassuring stranger to have stumbled onto either. Thin of face, dark of hair, narrow of eye, pursed of lip... and most worrying of all, fully armored and carrying a sword that glittered with a potent sense of malice even when fully sheathed...
Under normal circumstances, Penelo wouldn’t have classified meeting a stranger like this as a miracle of any shade, shape or form. In fact, under normal circumstances, she likely would have hastily bowed her head, mumbled an apology and scampered off as fast as these ridiculous green booties would take her. She hadn't spent all too many of her formative years in the slums of Lowtown without learning precisely what sort of gentlemen to avoid under what sort of conditions, after all. And a meeting with a dangerous stranger where no one else was a round...
But these weren’t normal circumstances. She was at least a hundred miles from home, she had been kidnapped once (possibly twice), she had been propositioned as a political operative by a prince from a foreign and very dangerous land, and she was somehow quite sure that she--
[shards and shrapnel under her feet; brother’s voice mumbling faltering incoherancies in her ear; hot breath on her damp and shuddering cheeks; reks underneath her in their bed, panting and groaning and almost laughing; something wet beneath her shaking fingers, sickly sweet and transmuting; the sliver of a sword sold off after war; a medal in her hand already rusting; a fairy tale prince felled by an arrow from beyond; a princess who had slit her own throat weeping; glint of golden hair glimpsed from far off; migelo whispering please gods, forgive me]
“Do I know you from somewhere?” she found herself asking hoarsely. Something in that skull-like face, something in those sunken eyes, something about him prickling at a thousand different portions inside her skull, needle-like and maddening...
And when he lowered those haunted eyes of his to look at hers, it was as though a lance made out of a thousand disconnected memories had seared her through entirely. She knew this man; she had seen him before, she--
"Who I am is none of your concern,” he murmured, and his voice was hoarse and yet startlingly similar to her own, all his syllables accented of a desert land she wanted to return to so desperately. “And neither does your identity intrigue me.”
A more sensible girl probably would have backed off at this point, simply because of the intensity of his stare. A more sensible girl would have apologized by now. A more sensible girl would have turned and already began retreating.
But instead, the lies easily sprang to her lips, as though she spent her whole life practicing.
(And maybe some part of her actually had. Perhaps this was the role of a lifetime here.)
“Well, I still wanna tell you my name's Elle,” she coolly said, letting her lips curl up into an inviting smile as she leaned in towards tall, dark and snarly. “And I’m Lord Larsa’s favorite mistress. You don't think it's worth just a bit of your time to talk to me?”
***
Author‘s Note: My greatest regret over having abandoned this fic? Never getting the chance to fully develop the Penelo/Larsa/Vossler (Larsa is so in the middle) political subtext buried. Here‘s hoping someone else will carry that crazy shipping torch from hereon!