WHO: Gwenaëlle Baudin, Nell Voss, Marcoulf Ricart, Lakshmi Bai & possibly another. WHAT: An escort mission in southern Orlais. WHEN: This month. WHERE: Halamshiral, the Dales. NOTES: Sub-headers in the comments.
[ She is drunk enough to be clear in her meanings, regretful enough to talk in riddles. Her fingers skimmed the rim of the glass, moving about in a sway back and forth like the movement of the servants. Leaning, working, draping. The steady sweep of brooms. The clatter of crates onto carts, horses stamping idly under the impatience of holding in one place. A serenity that is full of movement. A utter inability to stay still even if she must stay put.
Where does she come from, does she suppose? Does she come from Dales or Lake Celestine, Mountains or mined deserts? Neither, all of them. She comes from nowhere at all. ]
Hard to say. I have been many places. [ She wets her lip, finds she can scarcely remember home in the midst of the taste of the wine. ] But... my home has always been at the edge of a desert. Even if... that is only one part of a land that covers from the to the forests thick with green and so dense you could not see and elephant until it trampled you, [ does he know what an elephant is? Perhaps not, but he ought to understand the merit at least. He was a clever man, if quiet. ] But you would loathe dressing as you do. It is hot, in summer, blisteringly so. More than the worst days I have felt here.
[ But then, here was a great deal better than the perpetually cool and damp of London. ]
[He listens, ear tipped in her direction even if his gaze is firmly attached to either the contents of his cup or on the activity of the courtyard below them. Were she travel far North, he thinks she might find a place closer to what she describes. The heat is said to be stifling there and there are stories he heard as a boy about elephants there. You're in luck, Lakshmi; maybe not everything is as different as it seems.
Maybe if it weren't for the jug of wine, her longing for the place wouldn't be so obvious. It might at least be less keen. But that's fine. Marcoulf supposes people are allowed their homesickness. After a moment of sipping wine, he does his part to indulge her:]
[ Was there any other answer that could be expected? How she adored them, how she ached for them. She takes a sip, slow. Thinking about it. ] No. No one would call her so. Jhansi is a fortress, cut into the desert. She exists, where perhaps she should not.
[ Falls silent, again, falls to watching the wine, taking a slow sip. Her Jhansi. Her dark haired, white-walled city. Dark eyed, flowering where water hardly flowed. She misses, and she misses, and she misses, and she is so full of pride for her home, how could she not be? Contrary, cutting at end pieces. Offset and against each other when she speaks again. ]
Yes, she is beautiful. But, a hard one. Made out of wildness and emptiness.
[For a moment he says nothing, turning his cup idly between his hands. But after a beat, Marcoulf nods in apparent approval and raises his drink in the ghost of a toast. 'To your Jhansi,' it seems to say. He takes a long drink, then sets the half emptied cup aside and finally turns his attention properly to the dagger he's meant to have been sharpening this whole time.]
Is there anything similar here to what you might see from home? The people, maybe. Or the color of the sky.
[Fuck if he knows, right? The sun might rise in Jhansi as far as he's concerned. He thinks it's better to ask questions when in conversation with women anyway. Sorting out what to talk about otherwise can be challenging, so best to let her pick the direction as he runs the whetstone down the length of the blade.]
[ And she - so helpfully - fills his cup again. The generosity easy once it starts to flow, and mercifully, her hands do not even shake. ]
No, little in common with the people. Save that people are ever the same when it truly comes down to it. Their faiths, hopes, pride. [ A sigh. He goes back to cleaning his weapon, she leans back onto her elbow. One foot kicked out, as she went back to watching the servants take in the laundry, bring out another set.
But the same? Your nobility is a hungry, corrupt thing, your people are suffering, your land tears itself apart, and threatens being swallowed up. That, I know. Easier to take another sip. ] But the sky... I think that is the same.
[He lets her fill the cup, though he thinks he won't touch it again. Not here anyway. Maybe he'll take it with him when he goes, though. Better to do his drinking in the ludicrously appointed room he'd been appointed than here on the veranda. Instead he fills the lopsided quiet with the steady, rhythmic pass of the knife's edge across the stone.]
Then it's just a matter of getting used to the weather. [Never mind that his attention is wholly devoted to the work under his hands, it's definitely at least meant as a joke - the line of his mouth twitching behind the unruly curl of his whiskers.
Anyway.]
You said Jhansi is a fortress and you're a strong rider. Is fighting your people's trade?
[ A joke that she snorts at, shaking her head. Not least because she can't imagine why it should be the least bit funny, and yet. She pauses, her hand stilling at the corner of her mouth as she swallows another mouthful of wine. ]
It is a little more complicated than that. But in a way, I suppose, we are. In my Great-Grandfather's time - he was raised up by and served a great hero to my people. Peshwa Bajirao Ballal, A Peshwa is... what you might call a First Minister to the King, and he served as a general and financial advisor to a great empire. [ Hoped that ought to do, easier if they had the English house of commons, but there you had it. ] Since then, we... served and fought for the Peshwa. Trained as fighters. When I was born, so too my father trained me just the same.
[ All the important details to give him what he wanted to know - without explaining any further. Not half bad for someone well on their way to getting utterly sodden. ] I do not think he ever expected me to take to it as well as I did.
A common thing with fathers and their daughters, I think. [He literally wouldn't know - not when it comes to daughters -, but it seems like the right thing to say. He can see how it would be easy for a man to underestimate his own flesh and blood.
Hiss says the knife's edge against the whetstone's grain. He pauses to test the edge for a burr with his thumb and must be satisfied as he turns the dagger and resumes the work from the other side.]
And your siblings? Were they taught the same, or did he learn his lesson off you?
[She must have them, and it's simpler to ask after them than the man. He's probably dead and that's not the kind of conversation to start with a person in their cup. She doesn't seem the type to shed tears, but she could be and he wouldn't know what to do with her then.]
[ It's a cruel thing to divert otherwise polite conversation with truths as miserable as hers so often were. 'He died when my brother was a child and our homeland was destroyed' was hardly a decent way to carry any conversation. So she kept to soldier's details. Removed facts. Both for the sake of keeping her own outwards persona in place...
... and to keep herself thinking too long on the matter. She was long past weeping over much of anything in grief. ]
Unfortunately, he fell in battle before he could train my younger brother.
[ Picking out the details, the way she likes them. ]
But I was thankfully in a position to afford his mother - my father's second wife - enough income to see to their upkeep. He was much my younger, you see. I hope in time he receives training.
[ Had he lived? There was more of a chance for him than her own son, she knew that much. Moropant Tambe was hunted only because of his rebel daughter, but his wife? No one should have cared much at all save to prove a point. One, she hopes by this point, well and truly made. ]
[Well, it was a good try. Note to self: don't talk to any Rifters about their families. It's a universally miserable subject.]
Sorry to hear it. [Rassssp goes the knife's edge against the whetstone. He doesn't linger much on the mention of her father's death - not because he isn't sympathetic, but the timing is bad. Better to talk of nicer things when drinking. Anything else seems... presumptive.] I'm sure your brother will take to it, though. I heard a thing is easier to learn when there's a history for it in siblings and fathers and so on.
[He wouldn't know first hand, but it seems right.]
[ Bemused mildly, she's obviously not here to bemoan something long-suffering in such a way. It was, and she's had enough time at least, to know how to speak of it without the pain bubbling up like blood to a fresh wound.
She taps her thumbs against her pads of her fingers, tapping them to off rhythm. ]
[He hums, a low mild sound to compliment the murmur of the dagger against the whetstone.]
On the road, mostly. I travelled as a boy and it was necessary to learn. [These roads can be dangerous. Mademoiselle Baudin had required an escort for a reason.] And in the war as well - the one fought here not so long ago, if you've heard about it at all.
[Not the most politic thing to discuss, but he suspects the servants here are used to that sort of thing.]
[ More than, at least the path here hadn't been too fraught.
And maybe it's not, but there was a wonderful thing to being a rifter, she's found, she may ask whatever question she pleases, and it can be put down to general ignorance. ]
Grand Duke Gaspard broke rank, split the army and led a number of men against the Empress in a bid for the throne. He was meant to have it when Emperor Florian died, but Celene snapped the seat out from under him. The Grand Game, you know.
[He tests the edge of the blade. Feels the burr against the pad of his thumb and must be satisfied as a moment later he sheaths the dagger with a soft snap.]
He was for some time known as a chevalier and master tactician. Fought honorably and won against the Nevarran incursion. When some questions about Orlesian security came up, someone thought he might be a better guiding hand through it than the Empress.
[ She doesn't need to guess what happens after, taking a deep sip of her wine to hide the roll of her eyes. ]
Typical.
[ It's a bitter, sharp mutter, but one she has even deep in her cups, to keep to herself. The one she has an even greater sense not to say - if they behave that way, neither of them deserve it. ] Have they reached an accord?
In a sense. A year ago they met for peace talks, only the meeting was disrupted by a contingent of supposedly independent rebels and calling themselves the Freemen of the Dales. The story goes that the Grand Duke helped them gain access to the Winter Palace and in return, the Freeman turned on him and Celene both.
[If there's a note of skepticism in his voice, surely it's for the incongruous details in the story. Gaspard had held a reputation as an honorable fighter with no love for the Game; Marcoulf had seen him once along the border in the company with a half dozen chevaliers and can remembr thinking he looked square in a way few men of title, much less one so high, did. But somehow in the span of a few years that man becomes the kind who helps secret murderers into the the palace. It feels--
Well, whatever it feels like doesn't really matter anymore.
There's a leather loop run through a hole at the end of the whetstone. Marcoulf uses it to secure the whetstone to his belt at his hip.]
Luckily for the Empress, the Inquisition was on hand to reinforce the guard and run off the attack. After, the Grand Duke was taken into custody and the whole thing settled by execution.
[ It's parroted back, and that she could not keep to herself. Dry as a desert wind. Catches her thumb at the bottom of her wipes the taste of wine off of it. Enough there, to never want to come back. Squabbling princes and ambitious daughters. Taking and taking and taking and wondering why nothing ever good came of themselves.
Was it worth? Was it worth it Nana? Rao? When they took your lives? ]
Who are the Freemen of the Dales that they have no love for either?
[He clucks his tongue. There on the veranda as a half dozen servants fold an army of linens between them, it's a mild kind of sound.]
Deserters.
[If he sounds just as unimpressed with them as the rational behind the Duke's betrayal-- well. No one likes a coward, much less one who runs away shouting 'You're wrong,' at everyone left behind. It's a selfish way of doing things.]
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no subject
Where does she come from, does she suppose? Does she come from Dales or Lake Celestine, Mountains or mined deserts? Neither, all of them. She comes from nowhere at all. ]
Hard to say. I have been many places. [ She wets her lip, finds she can scarcely remember home in the midst of the taste of the wine. ] But... my home has always been at the edge of a desert. Even if... that is only one part of a land that covers from the to the forests thick with green and so dense you could not see and elephant until it trampled you, [ does he know what an elephant is? Perhaps not, but he ought to understand the merit at least. He was a clever man, if quiet. ] But you would loathe dressing as you do. It is hot, in summer, blisteringly so. More than the worst days I have felt here.
[ But then, here was a great deal better than the perpetually cool and damp of London. ]
no subject
Maybe if it weren't for the jug of wine, her longing for the place wouldn't be so obvious. It might at least be less keen. But that's fine. Marcoulf supposes people are allowed their homesickness. After a moment of sipping wine, he does his part to indulge her:]
Yes, but is it beautiful?
no subject
[ Falls silent, again, falls to watching the wine, taking a slow sip. Her Jhansi. Her dark haired, white-walled city. Dark eyed, flowering where water hardly flowed. She misses, and she misses, and she misses, and she is so full of pride for her home, how could she not be? Contrary, cutting at end pieces. Offset and against each other when she speaks again. ]
Yes, she is beautiful. But, a hard one. Made out of wildness and emptiness.
no subject
Is there anything similar here to what you might see from home? The people, maybe. Or the color of the sky.
[Fuck if he knows, right? The sun might rise in Jhansi as far as he's concerned. He thinks it's better to ask questions when in conversation with women anyway. Sorting out what to talk about otherwise can be challenging, so best to let her pick the direction as he runs the whetstone down the length of the blade.]
no subject
No, little in common with the people. Save that people are ever the same when it truly comes down to it. Their faiths, hopes, pride. [ A sigh. He goes back to cleaning his weapon, she leans back onto her elbow. One foot kicked out, as she went back to watching the servants take in the laundry, bring out another set.
But the same? Your nobility is a hungry, corrupt thing, your people are suffering, your land tears itself apart, and threatens being swallowed up. That, I know. Easier to take another sip. ] But the sky... I think that is the same.
no subject
Then it's just a matter of getting used to the weather. [Never mind that his attention is wholly devoted to the work under his hands, it's definitely at least meant as a joke - the line of his mouth twitching behind the unruly curl of his whiskers.
Anyway.]
You said Jhansi is a fortress and you're a strong rider. Is fighting your people's trade?
no subject
It is a little more complicated than that. But in a way, I suppose, we are. In my Great-Grandfather's time - he was raised up by and served a great hero to my people. Peshwa Bajirao Ballal, A Peshwa is... what you might call a First Minister to the King, and he served as a general and financial advisor to a great empire. [ Hoped that ought to do, easier if they had the English house of commons, but there you had it. ] Since then, we... served and fought for the Peshwa. Trained as fighters. When I was born, so too my father trained me just the same.
[ All the important details to give him what he wanted to know - without explaining any further. Not half bad for someone well on their way to getting utterly sodden. ] I do not think he ever expected me to take to it as well as I did.
no subject
Hiss says the knife's edge against the whetstone's grain. He pauses to test the edge for a burr with his thumb and must be satisfied as he turns the dagger and resumes the work from the other side.]
And your siblings? Were they taught the same, or did he learn his lesson off you?
[She must have them, and it's simpler to ask after them than the man. He's probably dead and that's not the kind of conversation to start with a person in their cup. She doesn't seem the type to shed tears, but she could be and he wouldn't know what to do with her then.]
no subject
... and to keep herself thinking too long on the matter. She was long past weeping over much of anything in grief. ]
Unfortunately, he fell in battle before he could train my younger brother.
[ Picking out the details, the way she likes them. ]
But I was thankfully in a position to afford his mother - my father's second wife - enough income to see to their upkeep. He was much my younger, you see. I hope in time he receives training.
[ Had he lived? There was more of a chance for him than her own son, she knew that much. Moropant Tambe was hunted only because of his rebel daughter, but his wife? No one should have cared much at all save to prove a point. One, she hopes by this point, well and truly made. ]
no subject
Sorry to hear it. [Rassssp goes the knife's edge against the whetstone. He doesn't linger much on the mention of her father's death - not because he isn't sympathetic, but the timing is bad. Better to talk of nicer things when drinking. Anything else seems... presumptive.] I'm sure your brother will take to it, though. I heard a thing is easier to learn when there's a history for it in siblings and fathers and so on.
[He wouldn't know first hand, but it seems right.]
no subject
[ Bemused mildly, she's obviously not here to bemoan something long-suffering in such a way. It was, and she's had enough time at least, to know how to speak of it without the pain bubbling up like blood to a fresh wound.
She taps her thumbs against her pads of her fingers, tapping them to off rhythm. ]
And yourself, where did you learn your skills?
no subject
On the road, mostly. I travelled as a boy and it was necessary to learn. [These roads can be dangerous. Mademoiselle Baudin had required an escort for a reason.] And in the war as well - the one fought here not so long ago, if you've heard about it at all.
[Not the most politic thing to discuss, but he suspects the servants here are used to that sort of thing.]
no subject
And maybe it's not, but there was a wonderful thing to being a rifter, she's found, she may ask whatever question she pleases, and it can be put down to general ignorance. ]
I have not. What happened?
no subject
[He tests the edge of the blade. Feels the burr against the pad of his thumb and must be satisfied as a moment later he sheaths the dagger with a soft snap.]
He was for some time known as a chevalier and master tactician. Fought honorably and won against the Nevarran incursion. When some questions about Orlesian security came up, someone thought he might be a better guiding hand through it than the Empress.
no subject
Typical.
[ It's a bitter, sharp mutter, but one she has even deep in her cups, to keep to herself. The one she has an even greater sense not to say - if they behave that way, neither of them deserve it. ] Have they reached an accord?
no subject
[If there's a note of skepticism in his voice, surely it's for the incongruous details in the story. Gaspard had held a reputation as an honorable fighter with no love for the Game; Marcoulf had seen him once along the border in the company with a half dozen chevaliers and can remembr thinking he looked square in a way few men of title, much less one so high, did. But somehow in the span of a few years that man becomes the kind who helps secret murderers into the the palace. It feels--
Well, whatever it feels like doesn't really matter anymore.
There's a leather loop run through a hole at the end of the whetstone. Marcoulf uses it to secure the whetstone to his belt at his hip.]
Luckily for the Empress, the Inquisition was on hand to reinforce the guard and run off the attack. After, the Grand Duke was taken into custody and the whole thing settled by execution.
[You know: typical.]
no subject
[ It's parroted back, and that she could not keep to herself. Dry as a desert wind. Catches her thumb at the bottom of her wipes the taste of wine off of it. Enough there, to never want to come back. Squabbling princes and ambitious daughters. Taking and taking and taking and wondering why nothing ever good came of themselves.
Was it worth? Was it worth it Nana? Rao? When they took your lives? ]
Who are the Freemen of the Dales that they have no love for either?
no subject
Deserters.
[If he sounds just as unimpressed with them as the rational behind the Duke's betrayal-- well. No one likes a coward, much less one who runs away shouting 'You're wrong,' at everyone left behind. It's a selfish way of doing things.]