open. i have ridden in your cart, driver,

[trouvaille]

Who: Gwenaëlle Wynne-York + OTHERS, YOU?
When: Early Iuneril
Where: Aefenglom, the river, Daenerys's farm.
What: Local merrow goes walkabout mostly without feet.
Warnings: Nudity.


Having been invited by Jorah to spend a couple of days with her dog at the farm, it takes a little while to actually find a few free days in her schedule of mostly work and moping; when she does, it is mainly as an afterthought that she leaves a note with the perishables in the upstairs kitchen for Viren:

Yᴏᴜ'ʟʟ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʏs. Aᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄɪᴛʏ, ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀʀʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ, ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴀʙʟᴇ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ. Hᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ Pᴜᴛɪɴᴋᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴍʏ ʙᴀsᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ. G.

That accomplished, it's mainly a matter of ensuring that what she does need to take with her can be neatly and not-too-heavily packed into the saddlebags she's made an addition of to Putinka's leather vest, tying a pair of shoes in between with their laces, and holding Putin's enormous head between her hands and assuring him that he is an extremely good boy who is going to get a treat at the other end. (Nature of treat unclear. Might have just created work for Jorah.)

In this weather, it's a relief to strip off the sun-dress at the side of the river that she'd worn this far, stuffing it into one side of Putin's burden and leading him close enough to the edge that, if absolutely necessary, she could reach him with her tentacles. Which she has, a moment after diving into the blessedly cool and cleaner water, just one merrow among a variety of them, the gleam of her jeweled waist-chain sparkling enough to make her easy to track if, somehow, the rainbow-shine of her milky skin and additional limbs somehow wasn't enough.

She isn't in a rush. They have time. This is the most relaxing thing she's done in at least six months; she floats on her back, prism-slit pupils narrow with ease, half of her tentacles clutching and dragging along the side of the river as Putin variously sits nearby or trots alongside.

They follow the river out of the city, which is slightly less relaxing, and Putin has grown accustomed to the periodic investigation of one long, damp tentacle ensuring he is still there, or the way she circles him protectively when he drinks from the river, or that her investigative checking on him tends to result in water dripped on his head. Probably, if he were not carrying things she needs to keep dry, there would be splashing involved; that may come later.

Arriving at the farm, Gwen—

doesn't have a towel. She walks the last distance to what must be the farmstead alongside her enormous dog (arguably, large enough to obscure her present state of undress from some angles), water streaming from her hair down her back and beginning to dry in the air. Probably, she figures, she can borrow one and dry off enough to put some clothes on.

Comments

[newtralize]

[The true joke is that Newt is just incredibly awkward about people. She could be fully clothed and he'd still possibly stare at anything but her. Eye contact and anything of the sort was still not something he did and he's much too old for it to be merely a phase.

His brows furrow as though he seems to consider both her name and her dog's name.] Those are European names. [Their origins being different countries he thinks. He wonders if that makes her well traveled.

Not that he thinks about that because she mentions Theseus and it stings a little. Not being related or her knowing him, but that it reminds him that Theseus is gone.] Ah, yes. He's my brother, actually. You're acquainted. [She might notice. The way that he seems to make him marginally smaller as though he shrunk in on himself a little.] He's gone home again, so- [Newt tries not to think about the happenings at home. He realizes that it has been months (a year even?) since he had experienced the events of Paris and he rather not think about Leta. He also thinks that fine is really the word that he would consider given the emotional state his brother probably was in.] Yes, of course. I suppose he's fine.

[trouvaille]

We're European, ( is both agreement, accurate verbal shrug, and a sort of placeholder for this moment she's inadvertently stumbled into—

people come and go. she knows; it's why she has the lovely house that she still lives in the basement of. she'd never met theseus in person, so to speak, but shared a dream of a memory with him—a fleeting, bizarrely intimate acquaintance that she had liked, that had made what could have been a godawful experience a slightly less miserable one. she's sorry to hear he's gone, but probably not as sorry as his brother was to lose him,

certainly if she's to judge by looking at newt now. gwen is a lot of things, and while unfortunately sensitive about the best handling of other people's feelings isn't one of them, being cannily observant is. it would be hard for her to miss the way he responds...the shape of him, feeling the weight of that absence.

it is familiar.

she settles on, )

British people always are, aren't you? Stiff upper lip. Etcetera. ( her accent is almost british, but it's not her first language they're speaking; the crisply upper-class way she speaks english wouldn't be at all out of place in the kind of circles leta lestrange had moved in, but there are shades of florentine italian to the way she shapes some of her words, the cadence of her speech. plummy privilege, but thoroughly, as she said, european. ) I've been told it's rude to press.

( and she prefers not to push people on their feelings, in case they feel entitled to do the same to her. no habla emotions. )

Um—

Well, I'm from no where, really, too many places so it's a matter of debate.

[newtralize]

More familiar than what I've been coming across. Familiar is nice, really. [Familiar is nice especially when there's a certain bit of homesickness after being gone for so long. There's something hilarious about being homesick when Newt can't say he can think of a place he would consider home exactly.

Maybe he just misses the familiarity of his magic and his creatures or maybe he misses the few people he did grow attached to.

His mouth quirks into a bit of a crooked smile.] I suppose you are right about that, although I find my brother was more expressive than I ever was. [He isn't sure that's quite the right word. Theseus just had more trouble bottling his stronger feelings, whereas Newt merely just struggled on how to express himself in general.] Well, I can't say that I would call it rude or anything. I've found that people have found my way of things to be...unceremonious. [A pause.] It's a sore spot, but it is his second time. [It's really a polite way of implying that he isn't really willing to speak much on it, but he really doesn't know what he'd say at this point.]

Oh! Well, I don't think that's so terrible. While I am really quite British, which has been used as a descriptor and I really don't know what they expect given what I am, I find that I wouldn't resolutely call it my home.

I, uhm, I do fancy a lot of traveling. Certainly, where you come from is no real defining factor as to you as a person. Merely that it has perhaps influenced particular habits. [Newt's eyes may have flicked at her for maybe half a second before looking back to Putin. He finds it easier to keep his attention on her dog than her; though his gaze eventually seems to linger at the grass by her feet.]

[trouvaille]

( presumably, that is the point at which newt becomes aware that she doesn't have any. or at least, not at the moment; she isn't standing on the grass so much as half of her tentacles have emerged from the water to balance her half in and half out of it, milk-pearl pale and gleaming from the top of her to her slippery tips, shimmering rainbows where the light catches her, her lower half in constant restless motion beneath her translucent mantle.

all of her shines that way; from her too high, too sharp cheekbones down every inch of bare skin, of a piece with the prisms of her slit-pupils that seem to shimmer, starry, from certain angles. her eyes are huge and black and the teeth she rolls her lower lip between, incongruously girlish, are needle-fine and dangerously sharp.

but not threatening. just existing. she laughs, though, at the last part—she is more than happy to leave alone things he doesn't want to talk about, because fuck knows she has no desire to unpack someone else's feelings or give the unwarranted impression that she would welcome being pressed upon hers, so the slide into a different topic is easy. )

That's a very British thing to think, ( she informs him, amusement ringing in it. ) You can only ignore your culture if you're either still immersed in it or just oblivious to everyone else's. Or if you don't talk to many people where you go.

( probably, in a lot of places, the preferable option. gwen is not historically a great fan of other people. )

It makes a difference. I know because of being, I don't know, rootless. My father's an expat, though, so to him everything is as British as he wants it to be.