Desidério's quarters, such as they are, can be found on the third floor of the Gallows' former Templar tower, crammed between two other occupied rooms but given a practically palatial air thanks to the apparent disposal of the second set of furniture which seems to come standard with most rooms on this floor and the one above it. Space notwithstanding, it must be said that it isn't a particularly pleasant room. Certainly the narrow slit window carved high on the wall and the heavy stone walls and the very deck, much scarred floorboards underfoot more closely resemble a prison than they do a the second story apartments he'd kept in Seleny. He'd had a proper window there, with a ledge wide enough to set his heels out onto. And if he didn't care to make his own coffee (which he rarely did), he need only to lean across the railing and call down to Little Annette, the girl who was paid two bits a week to sweep the front step of the brasserie found on the floor below, and she would fetch him breakfast and coffee and bring it all up on a tray in exchange for a cigarette or a button.
('Those are expensive; for Maker's sake, Desidério, simply pay the girl to reattach them if you feel so strongly about a little charity.')
Anyway. The point is: the current state of affairs is untenable. Is it currently being made even more untenable by the person filling the room's sad little doorway.
Desidério sets down his boot with a hard thunk. Sat on the edge of the bed, he seems to have been putting the finishing touches of getting dressed. Presently, some of the color comes back into his face (read: a great deal of the color comes back into his face, as he goes from apoplectic pale to apoplectic crimson) and he resumes jamming his foot into his shoe, saying,
"We did not get off on any foot. And we are not in the same predicament. You are a serpent who deserves to be swinging from a noose over the Cerna who should be thanking the Maker, Andraste, and half the Dalish pantheon for the generosity you're getting away. I"—(bang bang!, goes the heel of the boot as he stamps past the half-loosed laces)—"Am the unluckiest man in the world."
There. Good. The boot is on. He briskly ties the laces then springs to his feet, making instantly to collect his gloves and sword and sword belt and purse and coat and whatever else from the desk and little chair that he can stuff into his arm.
Lia jumps a little at the banging foot, but keeps her face impassive. She stops herself from rolling her eyes, the drama of this man! There is, of course, something appealing about it, but it is desperately annoying. Imagine having all the strength and clout that comes with being a handsome man and wasting it by pouting!
"I don't believe in unlucky." She says evenly. "Luck isn't real, life is what you make of it. I think you are looking at this situation incorrectly." She moves the bag from one hand to the other, this one is her shard hand, so she winces. It still twinges a bit.
"We are in the same predicament in that we are stuck in the same place. The only thing I have done to you personally is outrun you and I have brought this to you as a gesture of good will."
She sets the bag down between them delicately, like you would with food for a feral animal.
"It isn't serpents." She says wryly. "It's the payment I received for my services."
Plus some is the truth. She had bracelet that had been given to her, but she knew if it was found on her later, it would never be believed it wasn't stolen. She didn't need sentimental reminders anyhow.
He has secured his purse strings, and slung his sword belt around to his hip to the appropriately rakish angle, and has shrugged into his coat, and is only this moment getting around to stuffing the first of two hands into their respective gloves, when something she says abruptly halts him. It's not something at the end of this little diplomatic peace offering, but rather something in the middle that gets him bristling like an affronted little tom cat.
The bag is set down. Payment, she says, for services rendered.
"Yes." She says slowly. "Objectively, that is what happened."
Lia tries to think of a way to soften this, but she isn't sure what to do if he's upset about the most true thing she said. This man's pride cannot override what happened.
"I'm very quick, everyone's always said so. Obviously, you are as well to keep up, but you didn't catch me, so, yes, I outran you."
This doesn't seem to be helping matters at all. She tries to recalibrate.
"That is not what objectively happened," he barks back, abruptly thrusting his one hand the rest of the way into its glove.
"You ran, I gave chase. And if it weren't for that nonsense in the Weyrs, I would have—" He is shaking the second glove in her direction, strangling it in his fist with the wide cuff of leather flapping. Outran him! Pah! Had she not run them off a hillside and tumbled them down into an open rift, he'd have snatched her up, trussed her, and lugged her directly to the nearest farmhouse where he'd have paid a handsome stack of coins for the use of a dogcart and whatever animal was fit to pull it back to Seleny and the eager noose of the waiting hangman.
"You should be grateful," he spits, shaking loose the strangled glove. Stuffing his second hand into it. "That I've not cut off your hands and posted them direct to Nimus."
He gives the bag on the floor between them a disgusted look.
Lia lets out a little huff through her nose that is almost imperceptible. He is so annoying! It's not usually quite this difficult. She glances back at the bag. He doesn't want the money and is still upset. Only one thing for it--
She walks confidently toward Desi, getting a little too close, and holds out her wrists to him.
"Go on!" She says looking him right in the eyes. She tosses her head a little and her hair flutters.
She's considerably taller than he is. He has to tilt his face up to glare at her in the eye. Despite this, in short order:
His gloved hand claps down on her wrist, and he wrenches her in the direction of the room's little beside table. His spare hand produces his belt knife. Well, if she fucking insists—
Lia squeaks in surprise at the speed in which she is pulled downward to her knees. Her hands hit the bedside table with a crack.
It's not a disagreeable sensation being overtaken by this man and a familiar wild thrill bubbles inside her. Perhaps, she will let him go through with it. Perhaps--
The glint of the knife brings her back to her senses.
"Unhand me!" She shrieks. "Let me go, you scoundrel! What do you want from me?"
That last question comes out with unmasked frustration. What does he want?
With a decisive thump, he has pinned her hand to the top of the bedside table. Shriek louder, he thinks, and maybe Orlov will materialize—
"Stop your blubbering," he barks, grip on her wrist tightening. The knife in his offhand is hefted for hacking. "You said to do it. I'm indulging you."
Lia's eyes widen as she recognizes this man isn't backing down. She tries to wriggle away as best she can, but somehow this man has trapped her. There's no way out.
"Oh, now you indulge me!" She spits out. "My kindness, my repaying more than what I owe, that you ignore. However, hacking off my limbs you're happy to oblige."
Her eyes flick around her trying to find something, anything, to defend herself with. There's nothing. It's almost as if Desi keeps his room clear of these things on purpose.
"You're incorrigible, you're as cruel as the demons that slapped these anchors on us, and I cannot stand you!"
Despite her words, she goes for the only move she has left after a calculated assessment: She kisses him.
He only has the one hand tightly in his control. The other may do what it pleases and it occurs to him when she lunges in his direction that this may have been an error in calculation. Perhaps she has a knife hidden somewhere on her person as well, and will now drive it between the ribs or somewhere equally unpleasant, and he will be left here to bleed on the floor of this nasty little room. His monk of a neighbor could take weeks to find him. What a fine end that would be.
He has only managed to jerk instinctively back by a half measure by the time her mouth finds his. His knee clips the little side cabinet hard, rattling it.
When Desidério jerks the rest of the way back, it comes with the turn of the knife point. It kisses her back: an extra fine touch there at the soft underside of her throat, ready to ruin with little more than a flicked wrist.
"Now you listen closely here," he says, some of that obstinate terrier snarling quality in him turned mercurial and cool. "I don't want your apologies. I don't want your dirty money. If you want to protect your shit reputation, you discuss the matter with whoever is minding you here. The Seneschal, or the Scoutmaster. I'm sure they would happily assist you in your reformation and seeing the matter between you and Nimus settled."
The knife point is very steady. He has a sure hand. His other hand, meanwhile, remains pinning her wrist.
"If you come to me in this room again, I swear to you that you'll not leave it with both your hands again. Understood?"
Lia's mouth is slightly open and she barely registers the knife at her throat. She may very well be in danger, but her mind is entirely flooded with confusion. This has simply never not worked before. Could she have done it wrongly? That seems impossible.
She looks into Desi's face, he appears quite genuinely angry and at once, the knife makes itself known to her and so does his hand firmly on her wrist. She gasps in offense, but doesn't move away. She's still too surprised.
"No." She responds in genuine wonder. "I do not understand. Do you not like women?"
He releases her wrist at the same time one of those recently booted feet gives her a thumping kick to the side of the thigh. It's a toppling kind of blow more than it is forceful, meant to knock her away from him and the knife point both. If she bruises her bony ass on the way, then it's what she deserves.
"Out!" Barked, gesturing to the door with a jerk of the knife.
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('Those are expensive; for Maker's sake, Desidério, simply pay the girl to reattach them if you feel so strongly about a little charity.')
Anyway. The point is: the current state of affairs is untenable. Is it currently being made even more untenable by the person filling the room's sad little doorway.
Desidério sets down his boot with a hard thunk. Sat on the edge of the bed, he seems to have been putting the finishing touches of getting dressed. Presently, some of the color comes back into his face (read: a great deal of the color comes back into his face, as he goes from apoplectic pale to apoplectic crimson) and he resumes jamming his foot into his shoe, saying,
"We did not get off on any foot. And we are not in the same predicament. You are a serpent who deserves to be swinging from a noose over the Cerna who should be thanking the Maker, Andraste, and half the Dalish pantheon for the generosity you're getting away. I"—(bang bang!, goes the heel of the boot as he stamps past the half-loosed laces)—"Am the unluckiest man in the world."
There. Good. The boot is on. He briskly ties the laces then springs to his feet, making instantly to collect his gloves and sword and sword belt and purse and coat and whatever else from the desk and little chair that he can stuff into his arm.
no subject
"I don't believe in unlucky." She says evenly. "Luck isn't real, life is what you make of it. I think you are looking at this situation incorrectly." She moves the bag from one hand to the other, this one is her shard hand, so she winces. It still twinges a bit.
"We are in the same predicament in that we are stuck in the same place. The only thing I have done to you personally is outrun you and I have brought this to you as a gesture of good will."
She sets the bag down between them delicately, like you would with food for a feral animal.
"It isn't serpents." She says wryly. "It's the payment I received for my services."
Plus some is the truth. She had bracelet that had been given to her, but she knew if it was found on her later, it would never be believed it wasn't stolen. She didn't need sentimental reminders anyhow.
no subject
The bag is set down. Payment, she says, for services rendered.
"Outrun me?"
no subject
"Yes." She says slowly. "Objectively, that is what happened."
Lia tries to think of a way to soften this, but she isn't sure what to do if he's upset about the most true thing she said. This man's pride cannot override what happened.
"I'm very quick, everyone's always said so. Obviously, you are as well to keep up, but you didn't catch me, so, yes, I outran you."
This doesn't seem to be helping matters at all. She tries to recalibrate.
"I do regret it now if it's any consolation."
Still, the bag just sits there.
no subject
"You ran, I gave chase. And if it weren't for that nonsense in the Weyrs, I would have—" He is shaking the second glove in her direction, strangling it in his fist with the wide cuff of leather flapping. Outran him! Pah! Had she not run them off a hillside and tumbled them down into an open rift, he'd have snatched her up, trussed her, and lugged her directly to the nearest farmhouse where he'd have paid a handsome stack of coins for the use of a dogcart and whatever animal was fit to pull it back to Seleny and the eager noose of the waiting hangman.
"You should be grateful," he spits, shaking loose the strangled glove. Stuffing his second hand into it. "That I've not cut off your hands and posted them direct to Nimus."
He gives the bag on the floor between them a disgusted look.
"Keep your money."
no subject
She walks confidently toward Desi, getting a little too close, and holds out her wrists to him.
"Go on!" She says looking him right in the eyes. She tosses her head a little and her hair flutters.
no subject
His gloved hand claps down on her wrist, and he wrenches her in the direction of the room's little beside table. His spare hand produces his belt knife. Well, if she fucking insists—
no subject
It's not a disagreeable sensation being overtaken by this man and a familiar wild thrill bubbles inside her. Perhaps, she will let him go through with it. Perhaps--
The glint of the knife brings her back to her senses.
"Unhand me!" She shrieks. "Let me go, you scoundrel! What do you want from me?"
That last question comes out with unmasked frustration. What does he want?
no subject
"Stop your blubbering," he barks, grip on her wrist tightening. The knife in his offhand is hefted for hacking. "You said to do it. I'm indulging you."
no subject
"Oh, now you indulge me!" She spits out. "My kindness, my repaying more than what I owe, that you ignore. However, hacking off my limbs you're happy to oblige."
Her eyes flick around her trying to find something, anything, to defend herself with. There's nothing. It's almost as if Desi keeps his room clear of these things on purpose.
"You're incorrigible, you're as cruel as the demons that slapped these anchors on us, and I cannot stand you!"
Despite her words, she goes for the only move she has left after a calculated assessment: She kisses him.
no subject
He has only managed to jerk instinctively back by a half measure by the time her mouth finds his. His knee clips the little side cabinet hard, rattling it.
When Desidério jerks the rest of the way back, it comes with the turn of the knife point. It kisses her back: an extra fine touch there at the soft underside of her throat, ready to ruin with little more than a flicked wrist.
"Now you listen closely here," he says, some of that obstinate terrier snarling quality in him turned mercurial and cool. "I don't want your apologies. I don't want your dirty money. If you want to protect your shit reputation, you discuss the matter with whoever is minding you here. The Seneschal, or the Scoutmaster. I'm sure they would happily assist you in your reformation and seeing the matter between you and Nimus settled."
The knife point is very steady. He has a sure hand. His other hand, meanwhile, remains pinning her wrist.
"If you come to me in this room again, I swear to you that you'll not leave it with both your hands again. Understood?"
no subject
Lia's mouth is slightly open and she barely registers the knife at her throat. She may very well be in danger, but her mind is entirely flooded with confusion. This has simply never not worked before. Could she have done it wrongly? That seems impossible.
She looks into Desi's face, he appears quite genuinely angry and at once, the knife makes itself known to her and so does his hand firmly on her wrist. She gasps in offense, but doesn't move away. She's still too surprised.
"No." She responds in genuine wonder. "I do not understand. Do you not like women?"
no subject
He releases her wrist at the same time one of those recently booted feet gives her a thumping kick to the side of the thigh. It's a toppling kind of blow more than it is forceful, meant to knock her away from him and the knife point both. If she bruises her bony ass on the way, then it's what she deserves.
"Out!" Barked, gesturing to the door with a jerk of the knife.