open | i thought i found it

[byblow]

WHO: Alistair, Bastien, Kostos, and whoever wants to deal with them.
WHAT: Open/catch-all.
WHEN: Justinian
WHERE: Mostly Kirkwall
NOTES: hmu @ circuitry if you need to talk about something or want to plan something that doesn’t fit here! or just wildcard me without warning. and brackets are aces if that’s your preference.

–ALISTAIR→

i. project sashamiri offices

He hasn’t been gone all that long, in the scheme of things, but there are still reports to catch up on before Alistair can confidently spot himself into the reorganized effort to Make Corypheus Cut It Out.

He hates sitting and reading. It’s one of his least favorite things. Walking and reading is better. Sitting and not reading is fine. But this? Disgusting. The fact that he’s doing it anyway is proof that he cares a whole, whole lot about saving the world, even if he says things like, “Do you think it’s too late to make everyone call him Sethius instead? I think that would be better for morale.” He mimes a crier. “Orlais menaced by Seth.”

ii. eyrie

“Well, who cares what you think?” Alistair is asking one of the griffons—one that’s taken his offered strip of meat and retreated, leaving him alone with his arms crossed. He wouldn’t be fussing if he didn’t think he was alone with them, but their tussling and occasional screeches mask approaching footsteps. “You’re just an enormous bird. You eat hair.”

But he still wants one of them to like him. Just one. It doesn’t matter which.

–BASTIEN→

i. mage tower dining hall

Only the kitchen in the Templar Tower has a staff and food to serve, which is probably why Bastien has never seen anyone actually eat in the dining hall in the Mage Tower, and why he feels justified in completely rearranging it without asking anybody else what they think.

Or, he did feel justified, before it gave way to feeling tired. He’s moved all of the chairs but only about a third of the heavy wooden tables to the edges of the room, and turned most of the relocated onto their sides. But that was all his relatively meager muscle mass could handle. The tables have won. The tables were always fated to win.

Now he’s lying on his back on one of them, legs dangling, staring at the ceiling, with his lute held loose on his chest while he plucks out a messy sketch of a melody, able to be gracious in defeat if it means he doesn’t have to move for a while.

ii. practice range

Depending on how much someone knows about this and that, a couple things might be apparent.

The first is that Bastien has done this before. Good form—comfortably textbook, learned from someone who knew what they were doing—though he seems to be reminding himself of before each shot, like a child straining to recite a poem accurately.

The second is that he probably used to be better at it: he regards the arrows that land in the mid- and inner rings with the subdued satisfaction of a man whose expectations have just barely been met, not one who’s thrilled to have discovered how to hit the target at all, and when one arcs wild he drops his bow arm to his side and gives his eyes a frustrated, accusatory rub, like they’re to blame.

–KOSTOS→

i. wounded coast

If there were suspicious men along the coast, speaking a language that was definitely Tevinter (the Kirkwall guard who reported them had never heard Tevinter spoken before) and doing something that was definitely blood magic (she also couldn’t say what blood magic looked like, other than bloody), they’re gone by now, and the only signs of their potential existence are identical to the signs of standard-grade travelers stopping to butcher and cook a tusket.

That might have been fine. Better to be sure, and better that they be the ones making sure instead of a wet-eared local guard, and Kostos—crouching to poke around the campsite with a stick—is keeping the tusks, for his trouble.

Might have been fine, again, but for the storm clouds that have blustered in like they were late for a meeting. The first rain drops make him lift his head just in time for a lightning strike, not more than a few miles away, and a snarl of thunder.

“Fucking—” he says, suddenly reminded why he hates nature, and as the rain picks up he shrinks into his shoulders like a harassed cat. It doesn’t help.

ii. training grounds

The training dummy doesn’t deserve to die. But Kostos has been having a bad month/year/life, and trying to knock the shit out of the dummy with a staff has mainly served to highlight how much less useful and interesting that is than having the shit knocked out of him by Nell. Which brings him around to the important point of fuck Nell.

So that’s why, if someone wanders in, he’s standing there shirtless and a little sweaty, leaning on a training staff, and watching with dispassionate interest as four wisps circle wildly around the dummy—they’re having fun—and pelt it with ice and fire. It’s slow going, each pair counteracting the efforts of the other. The winners get a field trip and the losers go back to the Fade, however, so they’re putting their tiny wisp backs into it.

iii. lowtown

His month/year/life gets worse.

Down an alley most people know better than to traverse, with people most people know better than to bother, Kostos is currently sitting on the ground. He’s at an odd angle, because one of the dwarves flanking him is standing heavily on his right hand. The other has a handful of his shirt at the shoulder, and a third has a knife angled against his clavicle.

He doesn’t intend to lose any digits or eyes or ear lobes here. He let his nose be bloodied. And his lip. And his wrenched shoulder, fine, they could have that one too. But if it comes to genuine maiming, he’ll resort to magic—maybe. If he’s quick enough. Currently he’s attempting to call a bluff, and if he were a good gambler, he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.

“What do you think we could get if we sell him for parts?” Knife Dwarf asks, and Stomp Dwarf says, “Less than he owes, but more than nothing.”

Witty one-liners aren’t really Kostos’ thing, but neither is pleading, so he just grits his teeth.

Comments

[exsecutus]

[Nikos has shoved himself to his feet too. There's distance between them now, a space easily cleared if Kostos would choose to come at him in another tackle. He doesn't have the dirt-eye handicap. His handicap is that he's less fit than Kostos, which means that he's already breathing a little heavier, but glaring just as hard.

And by now he's put together what this is about. Her. She told. Nikos has killed a lot of people, but only one recently, and notably, and in mixed company that might spill her fucking guts to his fucking brother.

He'd agreed that it should be kept quiet. For the plan to succeed, it needed to be kept quiet. To avoid the fallout--to them, to the Inquisition, to the cause against Corypheus. Let them think someone else was to blame for it. Let it eat at the system from the outside, a rot that spreads in reverse.

That would be all right, if that was all there is to it. But Nikos wants the credit for it. If everything is in balance, always, politicking, playing the games by the rules, then fuck the game. Fuck politics. Fuck these systems and, more than anything: fuck Kostos.]

We did.

[There. He glares, steadily, at Kostos. Two easy words to summarize their plans and intentions and the act itself. Just a woman with a cut throat.]

And what're you going to do about it? Are you mad you were left out? Are you mad she-- [Nell, and fuck her too; Nikos all but spits on the ground when he thinks her name. So much for her.] --told you after it happened, so you couldn't try to push your way in, or stop it? What're you going to do about it? Because it did already happen, Kos. And I'm glad it fucking did.

[exequy]

[ The admission—the pride—brings him up short, and the partial accuracy of the accusations keeps him there, just for a moment, one eye squinched and leaking but his mouth ajar with a wounded outrage that transcends, temporarily, the desire to bash his brother’s head against the ground until they look a lot less alike. ]

I’m going to pay for it.

[ That’s what he’s going to do. He opens his eye and manages to keep it that way, red and watery but not ruined forever, and swipes furiously at it with the back of his hand. ]

Like I paid for Pentaghast. You’re going to go home and keep playing revolution over wine, and I’m going to— [ Not repeat himself again. ] But you got to make your point, whatever the fuck it was, and the world is— [ A gesture, tight and sharp but reminiscent of something more expansive. ] —so much fucking better now. So that’s.

[ Great.

He thinks he might be sick, or might take a swing. One of the two. He’ll have to choose soon. ]

[exsecutus]

Leave him the fuck out of this, [all furious and seething, and he's yelling now, and who cares--] I didn't ask you to pay for anything, I'm not playing at fucking anything you fucking stupid--

[And there is a point, there is a meaning, but he's the one that breaks and goes for Kostos, spurred by raw fury. That cold judgement, the assessment that extracts what Nikos has always feared he would become and spurned purposefully to spite it. Playing at revolution. Like it doesn't mean anything to him. Like it's some dalliance. Like disparate wealth and poor circumstance isn't what moves him. Wealth and easy privilege and playing with people is what he hates, what he was born to, what he would cut out of himself at any cost if he could.

Instead he has Kostos.

He punches him when he gets to him--face, first, then grabs for whatever he can, fold of shirt or hair or what the fuck ever, so he can pull him in to that next punch. He will rearrange his face and then they won't look like each other anymore and then Kostos can fuck off and do whatever he wants.]

[exequy]

It doesn't matter what you, [ Kostos is yelling back at a slightly lower volume when the fist connects. Then the second, and the pain cuts through all of the words and reasons, and blood floods his mouth, and everything becomes simple. He doesn't know what to do with a brother (and a best/only friend) who murdered their best hope in cold blood (and didn't even include him), but he knows how to take a punch, and he knows not to try to step back to escape the grip on his hair and instead to hunch his shoulders and shove forward to drive an assailant back, fist digging for a spot unprotected by ribs.

He registers, on some level, that in the absence of a jeering crowd or the shouts and metallic clangs of a war or the shouting of a disagreement, in a sunny garden, the scuffing and shuffling and grappling is strangely quiet and almost funny, but on most levels he's busy spitting blood to get it out of the way of his breathing—spitting it onto Nikos' shirt, incidentally. It murmurs to be used, but it always does, and he's never listened. He's never used magic in a fist fight at all.

But this isn't a flash-fire temper tantrum, or a tavern scrap for sport. It's genuine fury, all the way down to a gaping cavern of a wound, and when they do stagger into a wall and his hand lands on the stone, sparks scatter from underneath it. They're ephemeral, and harmless, but he freezes for a second all the same. ]

[exsecutus]

[He should notice, maybe. The sparks, a show of magic, that could pare down the Averesches even more. Should, maybe, fear Kostos--the way he should fear for himself more--but he's never been afraid for himself, only for others, and he's never been afraid of Kostos because Kostos has only ever made him fucking angry. It's anger that blinds and moves and pushes at Nikos, anger that turns everything white. This sharp thrust of fury that warps his insides, strengthens him, sharpens him in kind.

And so when Kostos freezes, Nikos goes in, drives his forearm hard against his brother's throat and puts his weight behind it. Sweat is standing on his brow and Kostos' spit and blood is on his shirtfront and the sharp good strike of Kostos' fist is still aching in his gut but that only makes him angry, too, fuck him, fuck all of this, he's choked with anger and his arm is like a bar, get Kostos up against the crumbled stone wall of the fucking Gallows and choke Kostos, too--]

[excipio]

Nikos. [ The courtyard was quiet. Now that Nikos has his brother pinned by the throat it's gone quiet again, or quieter, but before that there'd been scuffling and clipped accusations and, finally, the yelling. Caspar had been heading there anyway, fully expecting to find a half-drunk Averesch avoiding the Gallows at large — but even if he hadn't been, the noise might've been enough to divert his focus.

Kostos is a surprise; the two of them trying to kill each other isn't, though it does seem like an odd time and place for it. But Nikos seems to have it handled, and there's no immediate jump in his stride or impulse to break them up any faster than it'll take him to get there at a normal pace. It's a bit of extra time to listen and work out some context. Try to, anyway. It doesn't amount to much between the single abstract line he catches and the choking that follows.

The light's brief, an uneven flicker beneath Kostos' palm that bounces harmlessly off stone — but it's bright, and he's got a better view than Nikos. Caspar takes the last few strides at a quick pace, and the first time he says Nikos' name it's calm — too calm, given how efficiently it's ignored or unheard. Urgency creeps into the second try, one hand settling on Nikos' shoulder as soon as he's in reach. The grip's meant to halt, stopping short of hauling him back. ]

Nikos. That's enough.

[exequy]

[ For a few seconds, he isn't trying to breathe, and everything is still and distant, and there's the same feeling that's always come when some drunk in a tavern finally snapped, or just before the first arrows were loosed across a field, or when the eyes behind some Templar helmet or another were obviously weighing the potential fallout of throwing him off the walls against the immediate satisfaction. Just fucking do it. He's been waiting.

But for better or worse, his survival instinct always wins out—in this case, spurred by the appearance of Caspar fucking Perakis beyond Nikos' shoulder. Of all the possible saviors. No thank you.

Not that he actually has much of a choice in the matter. He jerks a hand into action, but there's no room to cast something—nothing as organized as a barrier, or the kind of electricity he stands a chance of controlling—and no room for momentum, only for digging uselessly at Nikos' side, and by then his lungs are starting to really insist he at least attempt to breathe. He chokes in earnest. Tries to jam a knee upward. Shit. ]

[exsecutus]

[Nikos does not really want his brother dead, which is why he's choking him. So he does not want to choke his brother to death. These would be the sort of statements one would give for the record, two lines on an incident report filed neatly away in the seneschal's office.

Nikos does want his brother to shut the fuck up. And he's achieved that, and he's blind to everything else, deaf to reason or appeals, to the stupid futile push of Kostos' hand, that attempt to knee him--yes, it's too far, yes, but let him suffer a little longer, like maybe then he will learn, he will know better--so that, next time, Kostos will think twice, he won't talk such a big fucking game, he won't pretend to understand, to have some obligation to correct his younger fuck-up of a brother, to come and find Nikos and try to punish him for doing what needed to be done.

When Caspar's hand falls on his shoulder, his reaction is delayed. All that thrumming anger like a keratinous armor, insulting him against influence. Two seconds, three; then he feels the hand, then he hears his name and thinks, first, fuck off (deaf, he's deaf, even to the voice he loves best), before his next heartbeat, next breath, a moment of clarity like dunking his head in cold water and coming up. That is the moment that he realizes, here is Caspar--and then he sees Kostos, his own stupid face, his first mirror, his fucking brother, and the moment telescopes out from there. Self-revulsion twists in his gut, untwisting half his hatred and anger, an opposite motion that makes him feel weak and sick and, still, yes, angry.

He shoves away, all at once. Knocks Caspar's hand off his shoulder, steps back, so Caspar is sort of between him and Kostos. His face feels bloodless--the tingling in his mouth, behind his eyes, the heavy thudding of his heart in his chest.]

He knows.

[--Still looking at Kostos, though he's addressing Caspar, and his voice is thick and choked and he's still so angry he feels weak with it--]

He thinks he fucking knows. His fucking ginger Ander told. And he thinks he knows.

[excipio]

[ He may as well be counting to those seconds, two, three, four — ready to press again on five, to pull back firmly, to really intercede. Nikos beats the timer, barely, and Caspar does nothing to resist when his grip's knocked loose and Nikos twists away.

Nikos wishing violence on his brother isn't exactly an event or some great mystery. That's reserved for the specific strength of it, the focus that kept his weight heavy on Kostos's neck a few seconds longer. Caspar could make more than one educated guess, but Nikos beats him to that, too — and it's the one he'd hope for last, given the choice.

There's a procedure for this, a rhythm set off by a simple look that leads to more slit throats and secrets. But that's for strangers, or acquaintances, or stupid revolutionaries who can be used but never trusted, stumbling their way into information that's over their heads.

It isn't for Nikos's brother. Caspar's watching him as he speaks, expression level, and there's only a slight pause before his focus shifts to Kostos. ]

What do you intend to do with it?

[ What he knows, or thinks he knows. He's not sure whether that's a real assessment or a petty one, but he'd guess the latter; either way, the nuance won't make it any less damning. ]

[exequy]

Find out.

[ A spat directive, not an answer, while he’s curled over against the wall and sucking down air with ragged force.

It would be nice if he could let everyone lie awake at night wondering, waiting for the sword to fall. It would be nice to have a sword. To be able to swing it specifically at Perakis, and maybe graze Nikos in the process, and probably miss Nell—who isn’t his anything, especially not now, but also don’t talk about her like that—

But he just decided, less than a minute ago, to not be suicidal. So he coughs, and wipes blood off his mouth with his wrist, and doesn’t look at Nikos. A familiar old habit. They just need a long table in a dim tower and their awkwardly determined parents. ]

I’ve known for a month. [ He could be more specific, but he doesn’t feel like doing Nell the favor of blaming magical compulsion. And he’s too busy giving Perakis a look that leaves no ambiguity as to which person he’d most want to hang. ] And none of you are dead yet, so—

[ So. He straightens up, but he stays against the wall, pinned there by the echo of Nikos’ forearm on his neck and the exhausting enormity of what they’ve done, of what it means, of all the things he won’t do about it. ]

—so just fuck off.