WHO: Étienne, Kostos, and anyone who would like to stop and/or watch some unnecessary violence WHAT: Interpersonal conflict resolution WHEN: Nowish WHERE: The Templar dining hall in the Gallows NOTES: cw: punching; context
Maker sing her praises. He is finally able to straighten up, Étienne rolling his shoulders as he pulls free with the good lady's aid.
"You are, of course, correct." A cough to clear his throat, as he stands properly, and glances down his doublet, smoothing it with his hand. Taking a step towards his adversary, Étienne extends one hand to shake. "I'm happy to declare our peace, if you are."
His smile is impressively genuine, gracious, his gaze a little more cautious. This is a man who just tried to gnaw off his hand, after all. "We're all of the Inquisition, after all."
"Boo," Byerly calls out, "boo." Honestly, what is wrong with these people? This was the best thing that had happened to the Inquisition in weeks.
With a disappointed sigh, he turns towards Nell. "What ought to have been a victory for me turns into a loss for us all." And he lifts his glass and downs it in the air of someone mourning a lost friend.
The Priest tips chin up at Kostos’ answer and steps back as Wysteria intervenes. Not far back—presence is tangible pressure to compel behavior—but enough the Priest might stare down at the smaller rifter in mute disapproval.
At Byerly’s interjection the Priest raises eyes to study him instead. Outsider to this also (distaste creeps into the Priest’s expression) but not wrong in his assessment. For whatever selfish reason it is made.
Nell shrugs at Marisol's question. "No idea. Some Orlesian fuck from the sound of it."
She still makes no effort to get involved, not with Priest hovering and Wysteria fussing. Kostos can wipe his own bloody nose. She does, however, spot a bowl of soup abandoned on the table just behind her, and twists to take it up, blowing on a spoonful before eating.
"You know there are fights every night at half the taverns in Lowtown," she points out to the apparently-bloodthirsty Byerly a bit dryly. "He's," she gestures at her fellow Nevarran, "Even in some of them."
Kostos half turns his head at the boos, an ear toward the source, which puts Evrion back into his field of vision. For a moment he feels—something. A hunger pang in the empty space where shame should be, to have let his control slip that far in front of an apprentice.
But then Étienne talks again. A smooth shirt and a smile. Easy as that. Maybe it could be that easy for Kostos, too, if he put in any practice, but he hasn’t ever, and he won’t now.
To wit: “You can go fuck yourself,” he says, dark and quiet, while he climbs back up onto his feet unassisted, “as peacefully as you want.”
The desired effect might be mitigated somewhat by the fact that his bloody nose leaves him sounding congested and, upon reaching a standing position, he briefly lists to one side before managing to manually rediscover his balance.
When Kostos meets his eyes, Evrion hops to his feet and comes over to duck under his former tutor's arm, helping him catch his balance after it falters.
"D'you want some elfroot tea, Enchanter?" he asks quietly, with a crooked grin, "you'll be feeling that chair tomorrow."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
"You are, of course, correct." A cough to clear his throat, as he stands properly, and glances down his doublet, smoothing it with his hand. Taking a step towards his adversary, Étienne extends one hand to shake. "I'm happy to declare our peace, if you are."
His smile is impressively genuine, gracious, his gaze a little more cautious. This is a man who just tried to gnaw off his hand, after all. "We're all of the Inquisition, after all."
no subject
With a disappointed sigh, he turns towards Nell. "What ought to have been a victory for me turns into a loss for us all." And he lifts his glass and downs it in the air of someone mourning a lost friend.
no subject
Interesting. Disappointing.
Not wholly unexpected.
The Priest tips chin up at Kostos’ answer and steps back as Wysteria intervenes. Not far back—presence is tangible pressure to compel behavior—but enough the Priest might stare down at the smaller rifter in mute disapproval.
At Byerly’s interjection the Priest raises eyes to study him instead. Outsider to this also (distaste creeps into the Priest’s expression) but not wrong in his assessment. For whatever selfish reason it is made.
“Agreed.”
no subject
She still makes no effort to get involved, not with Priest hovering and Wysteria fussing. Kostos can wipe his own bloody nose. She does, however, spot a bowl of soup abandoned on the table just behind her, and twists to take it up, blowing on a spoonful before eating.
"You know there are fights every night at half the taverns in Lowtown," she points out to the apparently-bloodthirsty Byerly a bit dryly. "He's," she gestures at her fellow Nevarran, "Even in some of them."
no subject
But then Étienne talks again. A smooth shirt and a smile. Easy as that. Maybe it could be that easy for Kostos, too, if he put in any practice, but he hasn’t ever, and he won’t now.
To wit: “You can go fuck yourself,” he says, dark and quiet, while he climbs back up onto his feet unassisted, “as peacefully as you want.”
The desired effect might be mitigated somewhat by the fact that his bloody nose leaves him sounding congested and, upon reaching a standing position, he briefly lists to one side before managing to manually rediscover his balance.
He does not shake Étienne's fucking hand.
no subject
"D'you want some elfroot tea, Enchanter?" he asks quietly, with a crooked grin, "you'll be feeling that chair tomorrow."