Without fail, the rifters that Gwenaëlle warms to the fastest are those that are getting with the program.
It isn't that she lacks sympathy — any more — for their plight. For the sense of what's been lost, even as she's the first to point out it probably sort of hasn't, in a manner of speaking, speed-running strangers through an existential crisis through sheer bluntness when the subject arises. Whatever the particulars, the result is a stranger in a strange place, thrown headlong into conflict, adrift from everything familiar and required to adapt. She doesn't not understand that that's fucked,
but as she had said it to Hermione: tomorrow doesn't give a shit what any of us have lost getting here. They're all here, regardless. The thing that matters most to her is what they do with that, and all of which is to say: her blurry first impression of Wanda Maximoff, aside from a peculiar deja vu that she doesn't immediately place (it will come to her later, and she will dismiss it instantly), is someone who is not afraid to roll her sleeves up and muck in. Someone throwing herself into it, instead, and if the effort is made then Gwenaëlle is always willing to meet it, albeit sometimes messily, sharply, albeit with all the bedside manner of a stumbling nuggalope.
That initial approval is underlined by Wanda's sureness now, and as she breaks into a run alongside her — keeping Wanda on her blind side, the bladed tails of her deep green coat streaming behind, slight and fast — it's a moment she'll remember, later. That she didn't hesitate.
None of which stops her from saying, “Fuck me,” Orlais by way of the High Quarter, looking like someone's pirate fantasy and sounding like a potty-mouthed princess, “but it's never just a little, normal one with these people—”
Nevarrans. They're so damned dramatic.
(The gauntlet she's wearing on her left hand, she turns palm up as they run, adjusting the crystal focuses over the anchor-shard one-handed, efficient, familiar. It gleams with sickly-bright power.)
iiib.
It isn't that she lacks sympathy — any more — for their plight. For the sense of what's been lost, even as she's the first to point out it probably sort of hasn't, in a manner of speaking, speed-running strangers through an existential crisis through sheer bluntness when the subject arises. Whatever the particulars, the result is a stranger in a strange place, thrown headlong into conflict, adrift from everything familiar and required to adapt. She doesn't not understand that that's fucked,
but as she had said it to Hermione: tomorrow doesn't give a shit what any of us have lost getting here. They're all here, regardless. The thing that matters most to her is what they do with that, and all of which is to say: her blurry first impression of Wanda Maximoff, aside from a peculiar deja vu that she doesn't immediately place (it will come to her later, and she will dismiss it instantly), is someone who is not afraid to roll her sleeves up and muck in. Someone throwing herself into it, instead, and if the effort is made then Gwenaëlle is always willing to meet it, albeit sometimes messily, sharply, albeit with all the bedside manner of a stumbling nuggalope.
That initial approval is underlined by Wanda's sureness now, and as she breaks into a run alongside her — keeping Wanda on her blind side, the bladed tails of her deep green coat streaming behind, slight and fast — it's a moment she'll remember, later. That she didn't hesitate.
None of which stops her from saying, “Fuck me,” Orlais by way of the High Quarter, looking like someone's pirate fantasy and sounding like a potty-mouthed princess, “but it's never just a little, normal one with these people—”
Nevarrans. They're so damned dramatic.
(The gauntlet she's wearing on her left hand, she turns palm up as they run, adjusting the crystal focuses over the anchor-shard one-handed, efficient, familiar. It gleams with sickly-bright power.)