wynne-york, gwenaëlle. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trouvaille) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
aefenglom2019-11-24 09:48 am
trouvaille) wrote in aefenglom2019-11-24 09:48 am
audio ; un: gioia.
Name: Gwen Wynne-York
Date: 21/11
Format: audio
Date: 21/11
Format: audio
( drolly, a whiskey-low feminine voice with the sort of precisely learned diction that says English might not have been my first language, but privilege probably was, British at first blush but not originally to a trained ear, ) I mean, we've all written imaginary letters to the things that get us through a difficult evening, but I've never written mine down.
If someone is actually named 'Red Wine', first of all, apologies you didn't even get a selected red wine, second of all, I have something that I assume is yours.
( incorrectly. however, given it's addressed to him, a natural assumption to make. )
—and I don't tend to label my shit, but my name is Gwenaëlle Wynne-York and if you have anything of mine, that would be. Great. Whoever has it. Whatever the fuck it is.
If someone is actually named 'Red Wine', first of all, apologies you didn't even get a selected red wine, second of all, I have something that I assume is yours.
( incorrectly. however, given it's addressed to him, a natural assumption to make. )
—and I don't tend to label my shit, but my name is Gwenaëlle Wynne-York and if you have anything of mine, that would be. Great. Whoever has it. Whatever the fuck it is.
audio;
Turns out, there was an answer, and Steak's ears immediately prick. A letter? But what kind of... ]
Is that letter burned?
[ Half burnt, as though dragged out a fire before it could be completely consumed? ]
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( that does mean yes. )
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It was written by a murderer.
[ So blunt about that. ]
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Those things aren't mutually exclusive. Like, at all.
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[ Honestly, fair point. But more importantly, before Red Wine himself gets wind of this, and old wounds have to be reopened; ]
Where can I pick it up?
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though she doesn't fail to notice he didn't actually confirm his own identity, just the letter's. which is an interesting choice. )
I'm having lunch at [A RESTAURANT] in the Aristocratic District and I'll be there until probably 2:30 or so.
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I'll be there immediately.
[ Or near immediately. As soon as he can. He has no urgent errands to complete at this moment in time, fortuitously. Which is why, about ten or fifteen minutes later, a man with tall, curved horns and a tangle of tentacles around his waist, walks into the restaurant.
... And immediately realises he has no idea who the voice on the other end belongs to. Another case of acting before thinking, but it's reasonably easily remedied by calling the other user. ]
Which one are you?
[ So polite and well-mannered. ]
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like, there are better ways. substantially, and not irrelevantly. yet there is a low bar that he managed to clear, probably without even tripping on it, so gwen leans back in her seat and doesn't prevent her (enormous) dog from rising next to it, planting himself squarely between herself and the rest of the restaurant. it's a very nice restaurant, and apparently sufficiently tolerant of eccentricities that wanting her back to a wall and her dog to come in with her hadn't been a deal-breaker for the maitre'd.
the hand she lifts in a lazy little wave gleams, luminous, fine webbing between the fingers. so do her teeth when she smiles, rows of glass-glittering needles. her eyes are enormous, impossibly dark in this light, her pupils thin slits of prism, and her features exaggerated, sharp. she looks like a delicately pretty thing spun out of glass that might, if the mood struck her, tear someone's throat out. it is not inaccurate. )
So, are you the murderer?
( if he were red wine, he'd have said. ergo, it's a fair question and she is not immediately producing the letter. )
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Ultimately, he supposes it doesn't matter. He's here for the letter and nothing else. ]
What? [ The question makes him bristle, arms folding and nostrils flaring. Why, you—
He's done many things. Killed many a Fallen Angel. But murder? No. He wouldn't so much as dream of doing that. It's abhorrent, an anathema to all he was meant to be. ]
Of course not! Red Wine is my brother in arms, I had that letter before I came here.
[ And what Steak doesn't yet realise is that it was meant to draw him out, not Red Wine. ]
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sure, okay, murder is bad, whatever. anyway— )
Cool. Well, back to it, postie—
( is that better than murderer? will he go postal.
gwen offers out the letter. )
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Thank you, miss.
[ Having it back in his hands is enough to still Steak, just a little, as he checks the contents once more. The words are unimportant, all that really matters is that Bloody Mary sent them, that he's been harassing them — well, Red Wine — for more years than Steak could say.
His return to Palata was worth whatever ire he'd brought upon himself by doing so. ]
Should you meet a Soul called Bloody Mary, please let me know.
[ For her own safety as well as that of the city, and for Red Wine's. ]
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Do you mean something specific? By 'soul'.
( it doesn't sound like a naval thing. maybe it's a naval thing? he does not look like he's in the navy. )
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[ The answer is automatic, and he almost seems to leave it at that.
Except... Well. He's been here long enough to know that it raises questions — if not his name, then those words. ]
Humans on Tierra summoned us to fight by their sides.
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she tilts her head, leaning back again. droll, )
By their sides, or slightly in front of?
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Ultimately... ] It depends who summons you.
[ After all, had he been summoned by those relatives of his Attendant and Madam, he would have had a very different impression of humanity from the beginning.
He's grateful to have those many years in service to a decent man, all things considered. ]
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( the fuck 'em is heavily implied, but for whatever reason (and it can't be an unwillingness to generally tell anyone to get fucked to their face, because about thirty seconds in her company will confirm that one (1) luminous chihuahua has no fear of the big dogs) she lets it sit in the air, unsaid.
she does seem to be committing him to memory, though. she reaches for her glass, then, plucking the lemon slice out of the water and sipping it, downright delicately. )
Okay. I'll let you know.
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(Well, Steak does. It's all but branded into his blood to help them.)
He nods once more, fingers clutching the letter a little more tightly. ]
Thank you. I'll see you around.
[ Most likely. And, with a glance towards her dog, and then to her, Steak backs out and begins to head for the door. ]
audio;
[The man who answers has a fairly nondescript accent, by all accounts, but in the way that one might have such an accent if they've been away from their place of origin for some time. There's something there, but it's almost entirely indiscernible.
His tone is dry.]
I am Red Wine. I'm afraid I have nothing of yours.
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You're going to want to collect it from the other guy.
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[A sigh. One might almost picture him pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.]
Which 'other guy' is this?
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but when will that stop her from pushing back against the assumption of humans as the norm. literally never, because they suck and she has empirical evidence. )
And he was the dramatic horns guy who responded before you.
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[Steak. Of course he'd immediately poke his nose in where he was neither needed or wanted.]
And I suppose you assumed his honesty when he claimed these letters to be his. He never does know when to leave well enough alone.
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( matter of fact. and in fairness to him, although she's not sufficiently invested in helping him out to clarify the matter, he didn't claim either of those things. )
He recognized it, and I was happy to make it his problem and not mine.
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[Steak, you in trouble, boy.]
My thanks for your... assistance, miss.
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He was very offended I asked him if he was the murderer that wrote it. Which, personally, I think under the circumstances was a perfectly fair question when he was picking up mail that wasn't his that he said was written by a murderer.
( this is both a. a valid point she feels needs to be made about how she was being completely reasonable and he's a punk, and b. a smooth way of sliding in a warning about the possible content of this letter he's got to go and seek out now without making it A Thing. )
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[Not that she would have known that, and Steak is a punk, and though there's nothing to worry about at all (for Red Wine, anyway) he does somewhat appreciate the attempt to warn him.]
As to why he sees it necessary to intercept my belongings... I have a theory or two about that, as well.
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( it's good advice, albeit rich coming from miss melodrama 2k19. )
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[Look, it is good advice, and Red Wine is more than happy to be party to any conversation that highlights his fellow Soul's numerous flaws.]
But I'll be sure to pass the message on.
audio;
It's like they're handing out random crap to everyone. Er-- I guess it isn't all crap.
[He's got this fancy as fuck cello... He's hoping he won't break it.]
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[He laughs a bit.]
I dunno. I got this giant instrument thing...?
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What kind of instrument is it?
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I got some sort of big wooden string instrument. It looks fancy, like some sort of professional might want. I dunno what made anyone think I'd be that person. I've got big clumsy sausages for fingers.
[He's joking!!]
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( he probably specifically did not want gwen casually speculating about his business in a public forum, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. )
Like a harp or something?
( —well, she sounds interested. )
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[He only knows what a violin is because of Elliot Craig.]
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( there's a brief pause as she considers the likelihood he knows the difference. )
Like, does it come up to your leg or your shoulder?
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[There's the sound of some shuffling a very concerning thunk.]
Up to my leg?
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Can I see it?
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[How the hell does he change this watch thing into a facecall... Face time, where?? Ah. The image starts with a blur before it shows Zack's cheek and then he moves the camera to show off the fancy looking cello. The very one.]
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( she doesn't switch, so he can't see the reaction but only hear the abruptness of her silence, the careful way she masters her response. )
That's mine.
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Oh, shit? Are you serious?!
[...]
Wait a minute, how do you know it's yours...
[He can't just give someone's instrument away to ANYONE. How can he know it's actually hers?]
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E W Y.
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What are the chances?! You're right. It's all here.
[Honestly, he's super relieved.]
I've gotta get this thing back to you.
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now she's glad. )
I can send you the address where we're living, if you want to drop it off? I'll be back there later.
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[He has no interest in keeping something so precious to someone else. He's not a musician anyway.]
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