crystal.

[elegiaque]

FORM: Crystal
SENDER: Gwenaëlle Baudin
RECIPIENT: You lot.

( this might be the soonest that she's ever begun a crystal message for the gallows after having done one within a month or so. gwenaëlle's voice, again, briskly businesslike: )

Before we all fuck off to parts unknown, if you're within a few inches of my height and happen to wear mostly or ever dresses, and you're in need of something suitable to wear out in the cities, I am clearing a great deal of my old wardrobe. I can help with on the spot alterations, but anything that's going to need to be properly taken apart for you will obviously have to wait.

If you don't need a dress to look presentable in Nevarra City and you just want to rifle through my old clothes for something you might like, that's also fine. I'm doing my prep before we leave, and if I'm not on the boat, Guilfoyle will be. He's a dab hand with a needle.

( on the boat, a profusion of mostly creamy, neutral fabrics have taken over the gallery that opens out from her entrance hall: sorted loosely by styles, fabrics, colours, patterns, the cushions that usually occupy the space shunted into a corner, some dresses that need hanging put up over the top of the art that hangs between the wide windows. there are shoes, some placed with the dresses they were bought to match, others just lined up along the narrow walkaway that rings the room around the conversation pit; several grand hats, a few cloaks and coats.

some of it will be familiar, if you've been here for long enough, but she suspects most of the probable handful people who might be interested won't have been; will not recognise her in the things she is giving away. )

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[elegiaque]

Go ahead, ( is absently said, only glancing up from what she's doing — which, if glanced back at, looks like some creative rearranging of the guard schedules for the foreseeable future to account for the work they're doing very much not in the gallows.

a beat.

she glances up again, and after a slightly longer look: )

Don't forget to do something about your hair.

[aberratic]

[ ness has already moved on to looking through the available dresses, immediately passing over some as too fancy to be of practical use to her, and then passing over more, and—oh dear. she may have to heighten her standards in order to get anything fruitful out of this; she hasn't got very many other options, after all.

she's about to start over, look back through what's on offer with a much less practical eye, when gwenaëlle speaks up. her hands stutter on a floral skirt, and she pauses, fighting against a rise of shame. ]

Yes, [ she adjusts the kerchief, tucks a wayward strand back under it. ] I will.

[elegiaque]

( what gwenaëlle has considered casual in her time has very little crossover with what any other person might also consider practical; it's relatively safe to say that there's probably nothing here that would qualify for most other people's definition of either. )

If you haven't already,

( maybe she's just not had the time, or other priorities; it isn't immediately obvious to her that ness would need any more help than the reminder, )

I'd recommend asking Gela where she gets what she uses on hers.

[aberratic]

A useful suggestion, [ she agrees, though the tone is wrong, and she knows it as soon as she says it. the realization is enough to make her loose a deep breath, rolling her neck and squaring her shoulders. this is overdramatic, and childish besides—if she's going to be so obviously upset, she shouldn't force gwenaëlle to ask her about it. ]

Truthfully, [ said slowly, carefully, ] I don't find it easy to do much that requires looking in a mirror, anymore. I don't look like myself.

[ it's difficult to explain, the vertigo that comes over one when one looks in the mirror and is faced with a stranger. ness hasn't found the words for it yet, and so hasn't tried; she's just muddled through, as best she can.

her best isn't very good, when it comes to this. ]

[elegiaque]

( gwenaëlle recalls, a little, the things ness has said before about her father, the shade of her skin —

recalls, too, the way she had felt in the dream that had been loxley's world, feeling the points of her ears. the peculiar euphoria that had accompanied it, how she'd worn her hair pulled away from them, remembered so dimly the pinch of fingers pressing the soft roundness of the ears of a child into nearly-points and it is easy, actually, to reverse it. even only: standing in the courtyard of skyhold, vigorously adjusting her bodice, making a joke of it so that asher would tell her she was beautiful.

(how gentle he had been with her, bracketing that little display with his body.) )

I've taught myself to do it by feel, ( she says, after a pause, looking up this time, ) when I'm in the field. Once you've done it that way a few times, it's almost easier without the mirror— and anything more complicated will need a second pair of hands, anyway.

( there is an offer hanging implicit in that, but she hesitates to press it. )

[aberratic]

[ the usual desperate instinct toward self-sufficience rears its head, insisting the not-quite-offer be denied—she knows it's possible to do it by feel now, which should be enough to teach it to herself and not bother gwenaëlle any further—

but she will be in val royeaux soon, and minrathous, and nevarra, and it's important that she get this right. there is precious little time for trial and error, for testing what works and what does not, and absolutely no leeway for not at minimum looking like she belongs.

best not to force gwenaëlle to offer twice. ]

That's a skill I would like to learn, [ admitted quietly, as though against her own will. ] I would prefer not to embarrass Riftwatch if I can help it.