moirine + ira // acting
Who: Moirine & Ira
When: Yesterday, after this post.
Where: The Fox 'n Crown
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for language and Ira
Moirine thought that she'd be racked with guilt after informing on Zafer. As she sidled into the Fox'n'Crown, shoulders nearly bunched up around her ears, she realized she felt nothing at all about it. After being subjected to his histrionics, she'd only seen a cowardly Other kneeling before her. If that was the state he'd been reduced to, she ought to use him to earn a few coins. The real Zafer would understand that a child's life mattered more than his own now.
Shaking the snow from her hood, she looked about for Ira. Her heart started beating faster just considering what else he might say to her. Moirine had no way to threaten him now; she had to fume in silence and let him insult her. All too soon, she spotted Ira's inky head across the room and weaved through tables to get to him.
"My money," she said beneath her breath, making no move to sit.
Ira's eyebrows lifted, and he smiled before he shook his head, black mop of hair tousling with it. "Girlie," he sighed. Pointedly, he pat the opposite side of the table, where an empty chair sat waiting. "You can't just make demands like that! Real rude, real indelicate."
He leaned back in his chair, rocking on the back legs. "We own this city now," he said with a smile, "Why not take the time to celebrate it? 'Sides, I miss your pretty face. Sit."
'We'. She wasn't a true Whisper, just someone in their pocket. She owned nothing, and the longer she let him stall her, the less likely it was that he'd hold to his word and pay her. Moirine sat down slowly, her eyes on Ira the entire time. She'd known him for a snake from the beginning, but the rest of them found him so charming. It made her sick.
"I'm not demanding anything. I only want what we agreed-" Her fingers tangled together in her lap. Her tone was too haughty for a bar like this, for a pregnant maid. "'bout. Then I can get out of your hair."
He was going to call her a bad actress again.
Ira's smile widened. "Remember what we talked about?" He thumbed at his nose, his chair creaking as he rocked it back and forth. "Makin' somebody believe you like 'em when you don't is the hardest act you can do. And you failing, girlie. Real bad."
He slipped his hand into his vest and pulled out a small coin purse. He shook it, just to let her hear the jingle from inside, and then slid it back into his pocket. "I got your money. You got nothin' but time. Give poor Ira some of it, hm?"
She wanted to argue with him. How would she ever convince him, the one who'd given her that little bit of wisdom, that she liked him? He'd always see through her. Moirine held her tongue, though, and smiled wanly.
"What you want with my time, then? Outside of looking at my pretty face?" Did she sound like he did? Did she blend? No one in the Grounds looked at her twice these days even when she spoke, but... hearing herself like this was so jarring. "You bored, Ira? You lonely?"
He gave a little laugh of delight. "Sure am." He let his chair fall level with a thunk and leaned over the table to smirk at her, black eyes half-lidded. "You gonna help me?" Ira's voice lowered to a stage whisper. "I'll call you sister if that's what you want. Shake a little. Beg. You like that?"
And here, he thought, is where she'd break. He watched her, waiting, smiling.
Her jaw clenched, but she smoothed her lips into a smile. No words would come as Moirine's fingernails bit into her palms. Instead, she cleared her throat and looked around, looking anywhere but at Ira. She only needed a moment, then she could come back at him.
"Drink?" she asked and got up without waiting for him to reply. A cider was a small price to pay for the time she needed to collect herself. Besides, perhaps she wouldn't hate his waxy face so much once she was tipsy.
Returning with two tall glasses of cider, Moirine retook her seat. "Is that what you like?" She pulled a face and a half-second later gulped down a good quarter of her drink. Gasping, she shrugged. "Seems your mum's got a lot to worry about."
'Only worms beg,' hovered on the tip of her tongue.
He was holding back a grin by the time Moirine returned, having watched her escape to the bar and waddle back. He slid the cider she bought him close to him, but didn't drink, instead toying with the glass and twisting it back and forth against the table. "My mum's back in Paris," Ira sighed. "Big as it is, my pecker don't stretch that long. Has to make do with what's here."
She really was a bad actress. Weren't Occias supposed to be practiced in diplomacy? That was a kind of acting, from what Ira knew, but given a different name to make it sound more gentlemanly. Pretending you liked someone to get what you wanted... and stabbing them in the back if they wouldn't give it to you. That was all politics was. Ira took a sip of his cider, mouth tilting up crooked once he'd swallowed and wet his lips. "The only mum what's got to worry is you," he said, pointing his wooden finger at her. "That bastard in you is gonna be as simple as you is."
"That wasn't what I m-" she began crossly, then forced down her annoyance. Were she the greatest actress in the world, she still wouldn't be able to make it seem as if she genuinely liked Ira. A level voice was all Moirine could manage.
Was he actually trying to help? Or was it that he was bored and lonely and she was an easy target? The latter was infinitely more believable than the former. And, even knowing that she was a source of entertainment, she had to take it.
All her reasoning went up in a puff of steam when the word 'bastard' came out of his mouth. It was by the grace of Cita that she didn't let go of the heavy glass in her hand when she flung its contents in Ira's face. Her son would be fine.
People were staring now. Growing cagey, Moirine lowered her eyes, all the fury drained out of her. "My money," she muttered. "I don't want to play your game anymore."
He'd flinched a second before the cider splashed in his face; Ira's eyes were shut tight as he flexed his jaw and drew a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his eyes first, then the rest of his face, and mopped at the cider that dripped from his black hair. Then he balled the damp cloth in his fist on the table and opened his eyes. "You're damn stupid if you don't think I'm sayin' the truth," he muttered. There was cold fury in his face, but he kept calm, tapping his fingers in a slow rhythm against the tabletop until he drew a deep breath and pulled the coin purse from his vest.
"Here." He tossed it across the table at her. First Llewelyn disrespecting him, and now this. He'd get back at her somehow. "Go waddle back to your Lord."
"Damn stupid to sit down with you," she muttered beneath her breath, her voice quavering. Moirine only looked at Ira once. Once was enough. If Silence ever decided that Myron wasn't worth spying on, Ira wouldn't mind slitting her open at all. Between his dead stare and the attention she'd drawn, Moirine had to force herself not to bolt, unpaid.
She snatched the purse up and, her stomach a mess of knots, she opened it to make sure he hadn't given her a handful of iron ingots. Counting the coins was out of the question, but... it seemed he'd kept to his word. Moirine cinched the purse shut and turned to leave the pub without another word.
When: Yesterday, after this post.
Where: The Fox 'n Crown
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for language and Ira
Moirine thought that she'd be racked with guilt after informing on Zafer. As she sidled into the Fox'n'Crown, shoulders nearly bunched up around her ears, she realized she felt nothing at all about it. After being subjected to his histrionics, she'd only seen a cowardly Other kneeling before her. If that was the state he'd been reduced to, she ought to use him to earn a few coins. The real Zafer would understand that a child's life mattered more than his own now.
Shaking the snow from her hood, she looked about for Ira. Her heart started beating faster just considering what else he might say to her. Moirine had no way to threaten him now; she had to fume in silence and let him insult her. All too soon, she spotted Ira's inky head across the room and weaved through tables to get to him.
"My money," she said beneath her breath, making no move to sit.
Ira's eyebrows lifted, and he smiled before he shook his head, black mop of hair tousling with it. "Girlie," he sighed. Pointedly, he pat the opposite side of the table, where an empty chair sat waiting. "You can't just make demands like that! Real rude, real indelicate."
He leaned back in his chair, rocking on the back legs. "We own this city now," he said with a smile, "Why not take the time to celebrate it? 'Sides, I miss your pretty face. Sit."
'We'. She wasn't a true Whisper, just someone in their pocket. She owned nothing, and the longer she let him stall her, the less likely it was that he'd hold to his word and pay her. Moirine sat down slowly, her eyes on Ira the entire time. She'd known him for a snake from the beginning, but the rest of them found him so charming. It made her sick.
"I'm not demanding anything. I only want what we agreed-" Her fingers tangled together in her lap. Her tone was too haughty for a bar like this, for a pregnant maid. "'bout. Then I can get out of your hair."
He was going to call her a bad actress again.
Ira's smile widened. "Remember what we talked about?" He thumbed at his nose, his chair creaking as he rocked it back and forth. "Makin' somebody believe you like 'em when you don't is the hardest act you can do. And you failing, girlie. Real bad."
He slipped his hand into his vest and pulled out a small coin purse. He shook it, just to let her hear the jingle from inside, and then slid it back into his pocket. "I got your money. You got nothin' but time. Give poor Ira some of it, hm?"
She wanted to argue with him. How would she ever convince him, the one who'd given her that little bit of wisdom, that she liked him? He'd always see through her. Moirine held her tongue, though, and smiled wanly.
"What you want with my time, then? Outside of looking at my pretty face?" Did she sound like he did? Did she blend? No one in the Grounds looked at her twice these days even when she spoke, but... hearing herself like this was so jarring. "You bored, Ira? You lonely?"
He gave a little laugh of delight. "Sure am." He let his chair fall level with a thunk and leaned over the table to smirk at her, black eyes half-lidded. "You gonna help me?" Ira's voice lowered to a stage whisper. "I'll call you sister if that's what you want. Shake a little. Beg. You like that?"
And here, he thought, is where she'd break. He watched her, waiting, smiling.
Her jaw clenched, but she smoothed her lips into a smile. No words would come as Moirine's fingernails bit into her palms. Instead, she cleared her throat and looked around, looking anywhere but at Ira. She only needed a moment, then she could come back at him.
"Drink?" she asked and got up without waiting for him to reply. A cider was a small price to pay for the time she needed to collect herself. Besides, perhaps she wouldn't hate his waxy face so much once she was tipsy.
Returning with two tall glasses of cider, Moirine retook her seat. "Is that what you like?" She pulled a face and a half-second later gulped down a good quarter of her drink. Gasping, she shrugged. "Seems your mum's got a lot to worry about."
'Only worms beg,' hovered on the tip of her tongue.
He was holding back a grin by the time Moirine returned, having watched her escape to the bar and waddle back. He slid the cider she bought him close to him, but didn't drink, instead toying with the glass and twisting it back and forth against the table. "My mum's back in Paris," Ira sighed. "Big as it is, my pecker don't stretch that long. Has to make do with what's here."
She really was a bad actress. Weren't Occias supposed to be practiced in diplomacy? That was a kind of acting, from what Ira knew, but given a different name to make it sound more gentlemanly. Pretending you liked someone to get what you wanted... and stabbing them in the back if they wouldn't give it to you. That was all politics was. Ira took a sip of his cider, mouth tilting up crooked once he'd swallowed and wet his lips. "The only mum what's got to worry is you," he said, pointing his wooden finger at her. "That bastard in you is gonna be as simple as you is."
"That wasn't what I m-" she began crossly, then forced down her annoyance. Were she the greatest actress in the world, she still wouldn't be able to make it seem as if she genuinely liked Ira. A level voice was all Moirine could manage.
Was he actually trying to help? Or was it that he was bored and lonely and she was an easy target? The latter was infinitely more believable than the former. And, even knowing that she was a source of entertainment, she had to take it.
All her reasoning went up in a puff of steam when the word 'bastard' came out of his mouth. It was by the grace of Cita that she didn't let go of the heavy glass in her hand when she flung its contents in Ira's face. Her son would be fine.
People were staring now. Growing cagey, Moirine lowered her eyes, all the fury drained out of her. "My money," she muttered. "I don't want to play your game anymore."
He'd flinched a second before the cider splashed in his face; Ira's eyes were shut tight as he flexed his jaw and drew a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his eyes first, then the rest of his face, and mopped at the cider that dripped from his black hair. Then he balled the damp cloth in his fist on the table and opened his eyes. "You're damn stupid if you don't think I'm sayin' the truth," he muttered. There was cold fury in his face, but he kept calm, tapping his fingers in a slow rhythm against the tabletop until he drew a deep breath and pulled the coin purse from his vest.
"Here." He tossed it across the table at her. First Llewelyn disrespecting him, and now this. He'd get back at her somehow. "Go waddle back to your Lord."
"Damn stupid to sit down with you," she muttered beneath her breath, her voice quavering. Moirine only looked at Ira once. Once was enough. If Silence ever decided that Myron wasn't worth spying on, Ira wouldn't mind slitting her open at all. Between his dead stare and the attention she'd drawn, Moirine had to force herself not to bolt, unpaid.
She snatched the purse up and, her stomach a mess of knots, she opened it to make sure he hadn't given her a handful of iron ingots. Counting the coins was out of the question, but... it seemed he'd kept to his word. Moirine cinched the purse shut and turned to leave the pub without another word.