WHO: Bastien, Darras, and Julius WHAT: Only the Inquisition is allowed to interfere with the Divine!! WHEN: Cloudreach, sometime WHERE: Val Royeaux NOTES: Divine plot! Anti-Gertruda, pro-Benedetta, almost entirely accidental.
It's a long story, but he has plenty of time to tell it while the pirate and the mage are making their way across the city to his location. He would meet them in the middle, if he could, but he can't, because he's stuck—but that's the end of the story.
The beginning of the story is a familiar face where a familiar face didn't belong, and Bastien pausing his walk to make a perfectly innocent attempt to say hello and what a long time it had been, and an awfully suspicious attempt at evading him, so of course he refused to be evaded, and then there was some running that was briefly joined by a pack of small Orlesian street dogs (adorable) and briefly interrupted by a crash into a perfume merchant's cart (smelly).
The ending is a rooftop, and some providential rope making the fall end a story and a half earlier than it might have otherwise. Normally Bastien would be able to get out of this himself, obviously, but he's fairly sure his shoulder is not where his shoulder is supposed to be.
"She was always better than me," he's concluding into his crystal, while dangling tangled and crooked but still making a half-hearted attempt to swing sideways toward the nearest window, "but not this much better, or I would not have—oh, hello."
The forms at the end of the ally are familiar, even in the dark, if only because he's good at familiarizing himself with forms. The crystal is put away.
"Hum a few bars and I might be able to pick it up."
This is an old joke. Everyone knows it. Darras moves down the alleyway, squinting up at Bastien where he's strung up. He's as at ease as he might be in any city, despite this one's particularly Orlesian qualities.
One of those qualities would be smell. Layered in with all the rest of the usual city smells are perfumes and scents, particularly pungent and signature in the high districts, as if every man, woman, and child has their own perfumer to follow them about. Or as the Orlesians call them, Noses.
As the wind blows down this alleyway, twisting Bastien where he is hanging, the smell of the crashed perfume cart wafts along with it, and Darras wrinkles his nose.
"Once we get up there, do we cut you down? Awful long way to fall, mate." He glances back at Julius, calculating. "Anything you can do to soften it? Unless you're unexpectedly brilliant at climbing, and then I s'ppose I can bunch my coat up and lay it beneath him to stop his head from breaking on the stone."
He says it all quite casually. This will be nothing, one way or another.
Julius is already evaluating the situation before Darras asks directly, his expression one of a man trying to work out a complicated arithmetic problem. "I'm not a healer, but I can do a bit of healing. Combat first aid, essentially. I could try to get the shoulder from here, or wait until he's down just in case." Julius surveys the area, thinking through his options. "...I can make a shield out of a small piece of the Fade," which is definitely not alarming in any way, "but I'm honestly not sure it would help with falling damage. That's not what it's designed for."
At least, he thinks briefly, the alleyway is deserted enough that he can do whatever he needs to without worrying about drawing unwelcome attention. Orlesian self-absorption has its uses. (No offense, Batien.)
"I'd be a better climber if I weren't in robes and a Venatori hadn't crushed my foot with an axe at Ghislain," he says after a moment, frank, turning to Darras. "I could try to alter a glyph to absorb some damage, but honestly that could backfire badly enough that it might be better to just try to catch him."
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The beginning of the story is a familiar face where a familiar face didn't belong, and Bastien pausing his walk to make a perfectly innocent attempt to say hello and what a long time it had been, and an awfully suspicious attempt at evading him, so of course he refused to be evaded, and then there was some running that was briefly joined by a pack of small Orlesian street dogs (adorable) and briefly interrupted by a crash into a perfume merchant's cart (smelly).
The ending is a rooftop, and some providential rope making the fall end a story and a half earlier than it might have otherwise. Normally Bastien would be able to get out of this himself, obviously, but he's fairly sure his shoulder is not where his shoulder is supposed to be.
"She was always better than me," he's concluding into his crystal, while dangling tangled and crooked but still making a half-hearted attempt to swing sideways toward the nearest window, "but not this much better, or I would not have—oh, hello."
The forms at the end of the ally are familiar, even in the dark, if only because he's good at familiarizing himself with forms. The crystal is put away.
"Which of you is best at scaling walls?"
no subject
This is an old joke. Everyone knows it. Darras moves down the alleyway, squinting up at Bastien where he's strung up. He's as at ease as he might be in any city, despite this one's particularly Orlesian qualities.
One of those qualities would be smell. Layered in with all the rest of the usual city smells are perfumes and scents, particularly pungent and signature in the high districts, as if every man, woman, and child has their own perfumer to follow them about. Or as the Orlesians call them, Noses.
As the wind blows down this alleyway, twisting Bastien where he is hanging, the smell of the crashed perfume cart wafts along with it, and Darras wrinkles his nose.
"Once we get up there, do we cut you down? Awful long way to fall, mate." He glances back at Julius, calculating. "Anything you can do to soften it? Unless you're unexpectedly brilliant at climbing, and then I s'ppose I can bunch my coat up and lay it beneath him to stop his head from breaking on the stone."
He says it all quite casually. This will be nothing, one way or another.
Better late than never?
At least, he thinks briefly, the alleyway is deserted enough that he can do whatever he needs to without worrying about drawing unwelcome attention. Orlesian self-absorption has its uses. (No offense, Batien.)
"I'd be a better climber if I weren't in robes and a Venatori hadn't crushed my foot with an axe at Ghislain," he says after a moment, frank, turning to Darras. "I could try to alter a glyph to absorb some damage, but honestly that could backfire badly enough that it might be better to just try to catch him."
Not exactly comforting, but honest.