MOD EVENT ↠ IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Some dreams
WHEN: Harvestmere 9:45–Wintersend 9:46
WHERE: The Fade
NOTES: OOC post!

Comments

[bouchonne]

That sound sends a wave of fear through Byerly. Paradoxically, that fear steadies him, grounds him, as it has ever done. He feels sharper for it.

"Don't underestimate me, Bastien," he says with a rakish grin. "We'll have far more than that. Years of bad behavior and mortal sin. And it won't be the Vints who catch us - " It is the Venatori, right? Not Orlais? That's the problem with serving two masters, the enemies multiply - "but the Maker himself."

[cozen]

“Terribly ever after. Tempting.”

He could stand to spend a few more minutes entertaining the thought. But the clattering stops outside the house.

“If I did underestimate you. But I do not, and I would do very poorly in a dungeon, and not much better dead.”

Heavy boots, the front door. Bastien twists nimbly back up onto his feet.

“I hope you survive this, By,” he says, with sincerity that easily bleeds into something higher-spirited while he straightens his clothes. “And I hope you come after me, when you can. I am sure I will never catch you on your back foot again. It might be fun.”

[bouchonne]

Maker. The world seems even stiller, the lights even crisper, the sounds even sharper, as pure terror courses through Byerly. Because - but Bastien is right; he estimated Byerly truly. After all, Byerly was not ever a true bard, was he? He was just a Fereldan knock-off. A cheaper model, formed after the Blight on the model of the Orlesian artist. Bastien is the real thing.

And he played Byerly with all a bard's skill. And now By is here. I hope you come after me, he says, and again he's a liar, because the chances of Byerly emerging from this alive are essentially zero.

And so. So. As the footsteps approach, By asks one last question, his voice low. No veil of insincerity now. He means this one.

"Were you ever really my friend?"

[cozen]

If there were more time, he might wonder about the line between cultivating resources and cultivating relationships. About the value he could have imagined a disinherited Fereldan scandal would eventually have. About what greater purpose might have been served by lying on the floor of his room in Val Royeaux, draped in stolen jewelry and drunk off stolen wine, and laughing so hard at Byerly’s commentary on their mutual acquaintances that he choked.

If there were more time, he might indulge the sudden wild urge to hide a blade in Byerly’s jacket. For luck.

But there isn’t time for that. Just for a look (maybe regret, maybe pity, too subtle for there to be much of a difference in the dark) and, “Once,” before the door swings open for Fleurent the Idiot, who is hulking and bearded and flanked by smaller men with less Orlesian styling, and whose presence causes any feeling on Bastien’s face to recede.

He doesn’t move, just passes the papers into an open hand.

“Byerly Rutyer,” he says without being asked. “He’s a fool—“ It’s not a hidden dagger, but it might lower a guard or give him a turned back. “—but he is worth something. Do not waste him.”

“Shut up,” Fleurent says, and Bastien raises his eyebrows but doesn’t open his mouth while they close in to examine the catch.