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001 ♙ video ♙ how the other half lives
[ In response to this post.
When the picture comes on what you find is a beautiful woman with heart-shaped face and a head of curly red hair, half-done up like she's someone important (she isn't). When she talks, there's a lazy drawling quality to her voice, as well as an air of condescension and carelessness. It's hard to tell just how much she really means the things she says, whether she's actually frustrated or not. But the fact that Ros — who's never posted on the Network before — has finally bothered to speak up must be an indication of something. (Right?)
She sits with an elbow propped up onto a table, her chin settled into the seat of its palm. Despite the nature of her message, she smiles frivolously. As if she hadn't a care in the world. ]
S'not my business — all those secrets of yours you lot are hiding in plain sight. Leave cleverness to the clever ones, I say. [ Her smile widens as if to add I'm not clever at all, I'm just a whore, but that's window dressing really. Distraction and deflection. If she wasn't clever, Ros wouldn't have all her teeth, wouldn't work for Littlefinger. She'd be bottom of the barrel and Ros has managed just fine, thank you. ] But if you're going on and on 'bout how we're all meant to save our skins and the means to do it, here's a friendly bit'f advice:
Not all of us can read, dears.
Now you learned lot might come from places full'f words and numbers. Where babes come tumbling out their mothers smart as maesters 'prentices, too busy with reading to even stop for a suckle. But some of us don't. Some of us had t'work for a living. The dirty kind'f work that gets your hands messy. [ That turn of phrase seems to amuse her. She thinks of farmhands in the fields, of smiths at their forges. (Yes, terribly messy.) She thinks about how she's fucked them all — and lords too. (Yes, Ros can be clever sometimes.) ] The sweaty kind'f work.
And we dirty, sweaty, dumb lot — we want to live, same as you.
So if all your whispering's a bit of nothing — then carry on, good as you like. But if it's a bit of something, well— [ She tips her head and, for the first time in the feed, looks expectant rather than bored. ] —give us a listen, mm?
When the picture comes on what you find is a beautiful woman with heart-shaped face and a head of curly red hair, half-done up like she's someone important (she isn't). When she talks, there's a lazy drawling quality to her voice, as well as an air of condescension and carelessness. It's hard to tell just how much she really means the things she says, whether she's actually frustrated or not. But the fact that Ros — who's never posted on the Network before — has finally bothered to speak up must be an indication of something. (Right?)
She sits with an elbow propped up onto a table, her chin settled into the seat of its palm. Despite the nature of her message, she smiles frivolously. As if she hadn't a care in the world. ]
S'not my business — all those secrets of yours you lot are hiding in plain sight. Leave cleverness to the clever ones, I say. [ Her smile widens as if to add I'm not clever at all, I'm just a whore, but that's window dressing really. Distraction and deflection. If she wasn't clever, Ros wouldn't have all her teeth, wouldn't work for Littlefinger. She'd be bottom of the barrel and Ros has managed just fine, thank you. ] But if you're going on and on 'bout how we're all meant to save our skins and the means to do it, here's a friendly bit'f advice:
Not all of us can read, dears.
Now you learned lot might come from places full'f words and numbers. Where babes come tumbling out their mothers smart as maesters 'prentices, too busy with reading to even stop for a suckle. But some of us don't. Some of us had t'work for a living. The dirty kind'f work that gets your hands messy. [ That turn of phrase seems to amuse her. She thinks of farmhands in the fields, of smiths at their forges. (Yes, terribly messy.) She thinks about how she's fucked them all — and lords too. (Yes, Ros can be clever sometimes.) ] The sweaty kind'f work.
And we dirty, sweaty, dumb lot — we want to live, same as you.
So if all your whispering's a bit of nothing — then carry on, good as you like. But if it's a bit of something, well— [ She tips her head and, for the first time in the feed, looks expectant rather than bored. ] —give us a listen, mm?
no subject
[ How's that for a conversation ender? ]
no subject
Twenty six, first off. There's twenty-six letters, which are the little symbols people use to make up words.
no subject
Not here, dear.
[ She means in person, by which she means to simply see him. ]
no subject
[He shuts his communicator, because what's saying goodbye properly, and within a few minutes is standing outside Ros' door.]
Oye, darlin'!