She does make it to Yseult's office but did not give herself enough time to walk up there: she enters the office breathing hard, cheeks bright red from exertion and embarrassment. Searching in vain for a reflective surface (in which she might check her appearance), she starts to pat at her hair, tidying it, tucking loose, thin strands behind her ears.
The Scoutmaster is at her desk.
Vega clears her throat urgently at her. She stops plucking at her dress, leaving her arms rigid at her sides.
The Scoutmaster is at her desk, a pen in hand, poised over a page on the blotter. She doesn't look up as Vega arrives, not that the extra moment will do her so very much good--there is no mirror in the office.
"Sit," she instructs, presumably meaning the lightly cushioned pair of wooden chairs set opposite her current position, not the armchairs arranged before the hearth on the far wall, upholstered in a tasteful shade of gray. Yseult herself wears green, her blouse a brilliant emerald wool, the right sleeve rolled neatly back to avoid stray ink. She makes another note.
She looks very elegant; it's extra insulting to Vega that they be made to meet like this, Yseult poised behind her desk, writing and looking beautiful, Vega opposite standing her wearing red, skin to match, still breathing hard.
She sits.
Starts to fidget impatiently with a loose thread on her sleeve, left knee knocking against the edge of the desk and producing a soft, even sound. Is she supposed to wait until she has finished her thought?
Yseult lifts a finger at this second throat clearing, looking up from the page without raising her head or ceasing to write to smile in a way that is politely warm and understanding, but not apologetic.
"If you need a cup of water, please help yourself," she says, indicating a sideboard with a pitcher atop it by the angle of her head. "This is nearly finished."
Whether Vega gets up or not, she writes what looks like another sentence or two, blots the page, and finally sets it and her pen aside, folding her hands in front of her and fixing her eyes on Vega. "What led you to choose the Scouting Division?"
Vega looks at it, then back at Yseult, whose attention has gone back to what she is writing. She stares at her, hard. Then she gets slowly to her feet and takes her time pouring a cup of water, drinking with her head turned to the side, wary of gulping down anything directly in front of her new Division head.
When she glances back, Yseult is looking at her suddenly, having silently completed her sentence and set down her pen. It makes Vega fumble the cup when it's already at her mouth, and she spills water down her chin.
Mortified, wiping her mouth with her fingers, she returns to her seat.
"I—" didn't suit any of the others, a horrible thing to say if she wishes to be taken seriously. "I believe my skills are best suited to the Scouting Division."
Yseult maintains eye-contact (or at least the fix of her attention, if avoided) as Vega fumbles, slops, wipes, sits, and answers. She does not allow a pause to linger after that response, into which might steal an unspoken sense that statement is being compared with action and found less than convincing.
Instead, she lifts a brow and asks with apparent sincerity, "How would you describe those skills?"
"I," Vega starts, losing the battle to fidget to at least some degree (her leg jogging underneath her skirt and hopefully out of sight), "I know how to fence. I am very good with a bow. I speak three languages. I am a powerful force mage, and a link to Tevinter, should you ever need that.
"I have a younger brother—" is not a skill, but proof. Her voice is quickening, spine straightening. "And he is horrible, he is the worst person I know, so I have been gathering information on him, for years, so that I can take him apart when he least expects it. He has no idea."
Yes she seems very stealthy. The first half, though, fencing, archery, languages, that's good. More useful than Yseult might have hoped. The brother--well, it's good that she's been upfront about it. Beyond that, who knows.
"Those are useful skills," she confirms, with a measured nod. Her head is tilted a degree, chin lifted slightly. "Which languages? And how is your brother horrible?"
Yes, they are. Vega seems to feel better, relaxing somewhat, leg stilling. "Tevene," obviously, "Trade and Antivan." She would know more Orlesian had she stayed at home and bore the insufferable weight of her younger brother being the family favourite—
Even thinking about it makes her face feel hot, her pulse race. There is a sharp taste in her mouth.
She swallows before she speaks. "He is afforded opportunities I am not."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Action, 2/2
The Scoutmaster is at her desk.
Vega clears her throat urgently at her. She stops plucking at her dress, leaving her arms rigid at her sides.
no subject
"Sit," she instructs, presumably meaning the lightly cushioned pair of wooden chairs set opposite her current position, not the armchairs arranged before the hearth on the far wall, upholstered in a tasteful shade of gray. Yseult herself wears green, her blouse a brilliant emerald wool, the right sleeve rolled neatly back to avoid stray ink. She makes another note.
no subject
She sits.
Starts to fidget impatiently with a loose thread on her sleeve, left knee knocking against the edge of the desk and producing a soft, even sound. Is she supposed to wait until she has finished her thought?
Vega clears her throat again.
no subject
"If you need a cup of water, please help yourself," she says, indicating a sideboard with a pitcher atop it by the angle of her head. "This is nearly finished."
Whether Vega gets up or not, she writes what looks like another sentence or two, blots the page, and finally sets it and her pen aside, folding her hands in front of her and fixing her eyes on Vega. "What led you to choose the Scouting Division?"
no subject
When she glances back, Yseult is looking at her suddenly, having silently completed her sentence and set down her pen. It makes Vega fumble the cup when it's already at her mouth, and she spills water down her chin.
Mortified, wiping her mouth with her fingers, she returns to her seat.
"I—" didn't suit any of the others, a horrible thing to say if she wishes to be taken seriously. "I believe my skills are best suited to the Scouting Division."
shit sorry
Instead, she lifts a brow and asks with apparent sincerity, "How would you describe those skills?"
allg!
"I have a younger brother—" is not a skill, but proof. Her voice is quickening, spine straightening. "And he is horrible, he is the worst person I know, so I have been gathering information on him, for years, so that I can take him apart when he least expects it. He has no idea."
She is also stealthy.
no subject
"Those are useful skills," she confirms, with a measured nod. Her head is tilted a degree, chin lifted slightly. "Which languages? And how is your brother horrible?"
no subject
Even thinking about it makes her face feel hot, her pulse race. There is a sharp taste in her mouth.
She swallows before she speaks. "He is afforded opportunities I am not."