open.

[byblow]

WHO: Alistair or Bastien or Kostos & Other People
WHAT: A Rather Blustery Day. Or rainy. Or both.
WHEN: Mid to late Drakonis
WHERE: Kirkwall & Surroundings
NOTES: Feel free to wildcard me instead, or hit me up if you would like something different and specific.

i. alistair in the project office with the dog statues

Alistair hasn't yet made good on his threats to decorate the Project Sashamiri office with dog paraphernalia. But he has brought in a half-dozen little wooden mabari carvings, reminiscent of the statues littered across Ferelden, to hide in drawers or behind frequently-used books or on top of the door frame, to see if it's possible to make Enchanter Julius crack.

It's possible to catch him at it, standing up on his toes to try to put one on top of a shelf where it can stare at Julius while he works. Equally likely to catch him frowning at his desk, though, holding a dagger to candle light and turning it this way and that, or with his chin down on his folded arms to glare at a book that he definitely can't read at that angle.

Regardless, someone will only have to pause in the doorway for him to beckon them closer and say, "You. Come here."

ii. alistair in the mountains with the mud bath

"You'd think the darkspawn would mind the rain," Alistair says, squelching through mud. "Wouldn't you? They spend so much time underground, they should be like the dwarves. Scary sky water, oooh."

It hasn't stopped raining since they left the Gallows--so several hours ago, at this point. But waiting for better weather is only a viable option when better weather seems like it might happen at some point. And the darkspawn, who do not mind the rain, are apparently sneaking in and out of a crevice newly opened by a mudslide in the Vinmarks.

So here they are. Alistair and whoever. He's been dealing with the rain pretty well, himself, despite what it's doing to his hair. But, maybe as comeuppance for teasing dwarvenkind, that's the moment where he loses his footing on a slick incline and splats flat on his back in the mud.

iii. bastien in the courtyard with the crushing sense of futility

If Bastien were telling a story about someone else, he'd have them crack and cry all over somebody, or spend so many days in bed that someone decided they ought to do something, or take some sort of dramatic lifelong vow, or clean out their room and disappear in the middle of the night and never be heard from again.

He comes closest to that last one. He packs a bag. Then he puts it under his bed, leaves it there, and goes about his business, mostly as usual. His smiles are just as quick but a little more muted, the cello sounds from his room become short and irregular and confined to rote scales, he's harder to find, and he lets small talk die small. But he's fine, right up until the point a gust of wind funnels through the Gallows' walls and smacks his armful of letters and notes out of his arms to scatter across the courtyard.

In another mood he'd take it in stride and run to catch them. In this one, he sits down heavy on the stairs and watches a few sweep out of sight down a stone corridor. Maybe they're important. He should probably be more worried about the possibility they'll end up puddles.

iv. bastien by the canal with the naked antivan

The problem with how Bastien works is that so much of it rests on letting people have their way and arranging the scene around them to make it useful. So when he's meant to be charming a wealthy visitor whose inclination is to get utterly smashed and a bit high, because what happens in Kirkwall stays in Kirkwall and can Bastien even imagine how dull life becomes once one is married with children--that's what he does.

Meo Fiesi, not Bastien.

And when he--Meo Fiesi--is then inclined to strip off all of his clothes and jump into a Lowtown canal because he's never been swimming naked, in the rain, on a public street, and apparently that specific combination is a personal dream, that's, you know. Great.

Bastien has called for back-up. Just in case the man starts to drown. Back-up can find him sitting in the drizzle with a pile of Antivan Merchant Clothing beside him, his feet dangling over the dirty canal, while someone in it says, with an Antivan accent, "This one is called the Butterfly!"

v. kostos in a cave with the incomplete deck of cards

A partial list of things Kostos hates and/or is bad at: Being stuck in a small space for a long period of time. The outdoors. People. Cold weather.

So having a sleepover in this cold, shallow mountain cave Northwest of Kirkwall, to monitor the reported potentially-suspicious comings and goings through the mountain pass that forms the shortest route from Nevarra City--he's handling it really well.

For example, the deck he brought along is apparently missing three cards, and he's decided the solution to that is to throw the remaining forty-odd cards off the edge of the cliff and into the distant river below, one at a time, while he silently watches the dark road for any bit of firelight.

vi. kostos in the market with the teddy bears

Mummies probably don't care about stuffed bears--at least not more than the wisps residing in their bodies care about anything novel. But the wisps probably don't care about enormous underground crypt-mansions, either, and they have those. Kostos has already told several imaginary people passing imaginary judgment to fuck off, in his head, while he picks through the contents of a stall in Hightown.

He could have gone to Lowtown. Even if mummies care a little bit about stuffed bears, they certainly don't need them to be newly made and neatly stitched.

It's for his own sake that he's tossing aside the ones with loose button eyes or frayed stitching. He's perfectly aware.

"Please stop touching everything," the seller says when his sifting knocks a few plaidweave tuskets out of their pyramid formation.

Kostos doesn't look up to counter, "Stop selling garbage," which is maybe not the best thing to say to someone you want to give you a good price.

Comments

[cozen]

“Everything,” Bastien says.

He transitions his grip on Byerly’s hand into something that isn’t quite a hug—crowding against his arm, briefly pressing his cheek against his shoulder—but then he sets him free and daringly stomps on the closest of his lost letters where it’s stuck to the stone walkway. A twist of his foot leaves it wrinkled and torn as well as wet.

Distracted and busy, it’s easier to add, tone even and conversational: “I don’t want to leave you with the wrong idea. We were never together. He was my friend, and I was—“ What’s a good word. “—pathetic. An embarrassment to my profession and my people. I wish now I had told you when you were in Val Royeaux, so you could have shoved me into the sea like I deserved.”

Or—he pauses his hunt for something else easy and consequence-free to destroy to look back at Byerly.

“But I suppose you were not in the position to be shoving anyone else into anything.”

[bouchonne]

How far they've come, Byerly thinks to himself. They'd adored each other, in their own ways, back when they were little more than boys in Val Royeaux. But they didn't trust each other, did they? Bastien told Byerly nothing of his Bard's path, nothing of this deep love of his, nothing of the lives he'd taken. Byerly told Bastien nothing of his family, nothing of his sister, nothing of what he'd seen during the Blight - nothing of the pain and dishonor that had driven him from Ferelden. They'd cracked locks and shared drinks and elbowed one another, and that was it.

It's easy to feel nostalgic for those days. Things were so simple back then. Their friendship was light, frothy, like a northern wheat ale or a watered wine from west Orlais - an easy, giggly sort of thing. There's much more pain in their relationship now, much more weight. The Bastien and Byerly of back then would be dismayed at the intimacy between the two of them now.

And yet. Byerly wouldn't sell what they have now, not for all the gems of Tevinter.

"No," he agrees, and even though there's pain in it there's also some rueful good humor. "I suspect I would have found it romantic, rather than shameful, given my own state of affairs. If anything, I'd have encouraged it."

[cozen]

“A terrible influence,” Bastien says, while he turns over an empty bucket with his foot. Wrecked. “I have always thought so. It is good you left when you did.”

He doesn’t mean it. He also doesn’t not mean it. If it’s even possible to decide what would likely have happened, if Byerly stayed in Orlais, Bastien isn’t going to devote any significant time to trying. Eyes ahead. On the horizon, ideally. When it isn’t hidden by stupid grey walls.

He tries to flatten his hair with his hand—rain makes it curl, just one more reason this is the worst month of his life—and gives Byerly a sideways look and a mouth-twist that wouldn’t really qualify as a smile, if his eyes weren’t friendly (and tired, still, but friendly-tired) above it, but does dimple his cheek. Habit.

“Are things all right with her now?”

[bouchonne]

"What a question, dear Bastien," Byerly murmurs. Under normal circumstances, he'd demur, give some indirect pleasantry that Bastien would understand perfectly well as a don't ask, and then they'd both agreeably move to a safer topic. But: for some reason, in this circumstance, it would be unacceptable to fail to answer. And Byerly cannot lie. Not right now.

So he takes a moment to draw in a breath, and then says, "Things are stable, at least. I pretend to forget about the fact that she's married to her little monster, she pretends that I'm civil on the subject. Every once in a while she goes vicious at me, and I've no damned idea why. Perhaps someday before I'm laying on my death-bed I'll understand what it is that I do that gets her back up, but I don't know if I'd wager money on the prospect." A moment, then - "She wants something from me. We agreed verbally that that something would be friendship, but it does not seem to be just that."

A moment, then he looks over at Bastien with a crooked smile. "Can you interpret her for me? I have the Orlesian tongue, but I was never able to fully understand the Orlesian character, I think."

[cozen]

“You know, she has never said a word to me about it,” Bastien says, as a disclaimer. He and Alexandrie get on well, but he wouldn’t claim she trusts him. “But the Orlesian character...”

He hums and gathers up his tattered good humor and flagging energy. The results are decent. He successfully sounds like a man musing carelessly over wine. Just a quiet one who hasn’t slept much.

“I am not well-traveled, but I think we might be Thedas’ great optimists. Our land is so beautiful and our sky is so bright, it is easy to believe that the world is always conspiring to make us happy. If we have our hearts set on a journey but the horizon is clouding, any little bird we see flying in that direction is a sign it will clear up before we get there.”

Fereldans, he would guess, only see the storm, and make grudging preparations for it to probably come their way and destroy their whole town. But like he said, he isn’t well-traveled.

“Add to this that we are used to people never saying what they mean, and you see? Fereldans can say they will never submit to our rule, and we think ah, they must put on their show, but there was less spitting that time. They are coming around. Or a man can put his hand on a friend’s shoulder and tell him that he could never have a relationship with a man—“ True story, while they’re being so horribly honest. It’s easier to deliver like a hypothetical example, and thinking not so much about Vincent as about Alexandrie and her sudden stillness when Byerly kissed her hand. “—and all the idiot will notice is that they are touching and the man is not saying he could never love one. So the little birds lead us into storms or bogs or off of cliffs, and then we feel betrayed.”

A generalized theory, of course, that does not fully account for the Marcoulfs and Sister Heloises of the country—every species has its outliers—and may not account for Alexandrie, either. He doesn’t know even a quarter of it.

“Except me,” Bastien adds in closing, with a little hand flourish that isn’t half-hearted, exactly, so much as muted by the circumstances. “Now that I am so old and wise, I know the birds can get fucked.”

[bouchonne]

Optimists? It's an odd way to think about them. Byerly had grown up with an Orlesian mother in a Bannorn that still remembered the blood and suffering of the Occupation. He still doesn't know, not entirely, what possessed his father to marry his mother - she'd come with a bit of wealth but no political advantage - save, perhaps, to curse his progeny with unfortunate circumstances as a sort of pre-revenge for the perceived crimes they would one day commit against him.

So By had grown up very, very aware of the Fereldan interpretation of the Orlesian character. Perfidious, cheating, scheming, power-hungry and grasping. A people whose circumstances had prevented them from ever suffering. They'd taken much from the Fereldan people, and sought always to still take more, with a smile on their face and a twinkle in their eye...Bastien's tale of a nation of wide-eyed naifs, swindling like it's a game rather than The Game, has a certain degree of appeal to it. It's a bizarre tale, make no mistake, but a rather charming one.

(Likely only charming because it's out of Bastien's mouth. Because despite his last disclaimer, optimism and sincerity still rolls off him in waves. A cynic might choose to believe that that optimism and sincerity is only an act, fabricated by a master Bard, but By thinks he knows better; and this sounds right for his friend. And that tale of the man who claims to never be able to love another man feels too honest. Too honest by far. And too familiar.)

"And so, what?" By pushes a hand into his pocket and smiles a crooked little smile. "I'm a little bird to her? Fluttering on and leading her into quicksand?"

[cozen]

"No, no, my friend," Bastien says. "In this metaphor, if I know what I am talking about at all, you are the journey she would like to take. The birds are a look that seems to last a second too long, or a kissed hand," a little more pointed there, "or gaps between your words where some persistent hope can slither through whether she would like it to or not. It is the sort of subtlety that is hard for Fereldans to pay attention to, I know, but for example—" with a sidelong look, as teasing as a jostling elbow to the ribs between those two younger men in Val Royeaux "—have you recently laid down on her and asked her to tell you how handsome you are?"

[bouchonne]

"Certainly not," he huffs, honestly. Mostly honestly. "She's married." And then, half an afterthought - "As am I." But Bastien isn't scolding him, just teasing, and so he oughtn't let himself get flustered. So he smooths down his shirtfront, and pushes past it, turning a very charming smile towards Bastien.

"Besides, is it so evil to ask someone to mark the truth?"

[cozen]

Married, married. Everyone is married. Bastien rolls his eyes. Fortunately his predictable commentary on the charming quaintness of Fereldan mores and morality (as if plenty of Orlesians don't feel similarly) is diverted by that smile. Bastien answers with a little bit of a glare, like that won't work on me, but after a second it gives way to an actually-sort-of-charmed little smile of his own.

"Oh, absolument," he says, without a drop of sincerity. "Abhorrent."

It might be careless, he could say more sincerely, with someone not so invulnerable and immovable and savvy to the deceptions of birds as he is. But the door to the kitchens (and wine stores) comes up to the left, so instead of saying anything he takes Byerly by the elbow to steer him that way.

He only cracks the door a little at first, to peer through, and finds the kitchen empty. Which is—well. It’s easier. But his shoulders slump and his nose wrinkles before he resigns himself to a scheme-free stroll through to the storage room and its wine racks.

They’re less well-stocked than when they were the Inquisition’s racks. While he’s squinting at a label, he says, “And how are things with Madame Fitcher? We go to the theater together sometimes, you know. If I disappear—“ less than likely; not impossible “—you will have to accompany her in my place. Tell her it was my final wish.”

[bouchonne]

It does occur to him, somewhat belatedly, that he had done that to Bastien. Flopped on him and demanded that the man call him handsome. And then he'd kissed him. Belatedly, he wonders if Bastien bears some hurt feelings over that. Surely not. Right? He doesn't think of Byerly as leading him on. They were just playing and joking - flirting a bit, sure enough, but in a harmless way. It feels like it has new weight, now, with Bastien's circumstances...

Surely Byerly isn't any sort of viable journey for Bastien. Right? The man is far too sensible to want someone like him. Even Lexie isn't really in love with Byerly so much as the idea of him - She craves pining and pain much more than she craves the drunken disgrace that is the real man. And Bastien is much too practical to want pining and pain, so therefore, it is just a game when they cuddle and kiss.

Right?

It's slightly distracting, enough that he takes a moment to catch up with Bastien's question. "That's..." He shakes his head very slightly and brings himself back to the present. "Fitcher? Oh, well enough. I charmed her with a pair of gloves, of late. It was an incredibly romantic gesture on my part." And then, with a mournful sigh - "You know, I've been chasing her for as long as she's been here, and I have yet to even see a bare thigh. It's quite the pursuit."

[cozen]

Despite his best efforts, Bastien remains incapable of reading minds, so he's helpless to do more than note the distraction—and barely note it, at that, distracted himself by the misery that's threatening to wind back around him like a snake if he doesn't keep moving. So he notes it, and he holds up two wine bottles with their labels turned toward Byerly, miming the wobble of an indecisive scale. Pick one.

"Mon pauvre garçon," he says in the meantime. "I am sorry I never arranged that locked door, but it is too late now. I care too much about her good opinion to gamble it on hijinks. Perhaps—have you tried music? She plays the viola."

(Disclaimer: not well. It could be a disaster, and he would laugh and take no responsibility.)

[bouchonne]

Byerly makes a great show of examining the bottles. "Hmm," he murmurs. And, as he thinks visibly - "That might not be a good path, then. If I ask her to play, then I must also play in turn, and my playing is such to turn the head of the Maker himself, and then she'd be so outmatched that she'd never speak with me again."

He reaches out, grabs one bottle, like he's made a decision. Then he makes a grand show of reconsidering - and grabs the other bottle as well. He's made his selection: both.

"Don't you think I'd have made a fine prophet?" he asks. If there's anything to cheer up the old spirits, it's some light blasphemy, no? "If Andraste hadn't gotten there first."

[cozen]

Bastien takes one of the bottles back—but only to tuck it back against Byerly’s person, rearranging arms and clothing to mask it. They’re stealing it, like he said, even if the kitchen is empty and no one cares.

“Byerly’s sword. For Byerly’s sake. Culotte bénie de Byerly.” His head and his eyebrows wobble in concerted approval. It is a cheering train of thought. “It has potential. What would you ask of your followers?”

[bouchonne]

"Fun," he responds, and he is markedly sincere when he says it. His smile is a little wistful. "Not even debauchery. Just fun. Doesn't it frustrate you, so utterly, how joyless all our faiths are? The Maker hates us, the Old Gods are cold and unknowable and tainted, the elven gods are always fucking each other over. I don't know what dwarves believe, but given what I've heard of dwarven society, it's got to be even worse than all the others. If I were to make a religion, it'd be founded on be kind to each other and laugh a little, won't you?"

As By speaks, he slips the bottle of wine into the waistband of his trousers. It stays there for a moment, but as soon as he takes an experimental step, the bottle slips down and falls, so that it sits heavy and bulging at his crotch. He frowns down at it.

"No one will be able to tell the difference, right?"

[cozen]

Bastien pauses his contemplation of the novelty of a religion centered on kindness and laughter to incline his head and contemplate Byerly's crotch instead.

"It looks fine to me," he decides, and puts a hand on Byerly's shoulder to try herding him toward the door as-is. "If anyone does notice, I will just tell them you have a condition. Énorme bite bénie."

[bouchonne]

"As befits a saint." He has to slouch and waddle to keep the glass from slipping further down his trouser leg, but he cannot resist doing so - it's worth a bit of awkwardness to make Bastien's eye twinkle.

"What would your religion be like? Since you would, as my rival, simply have to become my Black Divine."

[cozen]

Bastien lifts his chin and taps it with three rolling fingers while he thinks. It's a process that takes a little longer than it might some other time, when he wasn't both trying not to laugh at Byerly's waddling and—further in the background, maybe even receding into the distance—trying not to lie down on the stairs and never get up again.

How to twist Byerlism, as a good Black Divine ought to, when it's founded on kindness and fun. "Laughter as duty. Penance for every tear," he decides. "Criticism of one's superiors is unkind and so prohibited."

He was aiming for something terrible, but having arrived there, he wrinkles his nose.

"Perhaps I could be your Hessarian. From great rival to devoted follower—but without killing you first, if that is all right with you. I would rather not."

[bouchonne]

"I would rather you not," By agrees affably. "Having suffered through a murder attempt or two, I found the whole business very distressing. So I'll accept you as an acolyte."

He grips the waist of his trousers to make sure they remain firmly in place as he toddles up the steps, wine bottle shifting grotesquely with each footfall.

"And let us be honest - the work of the acolyte seems far more pleasant than the work of any sorts of prophets. They get hacked to bits and you sit back, chat about them a bit, and profit. Prophet profit."

[cozen]

Prophet profit is terrible. The wine bottle walk is terrible. Together they're too much, and Bastien presses his fist to his mouth for help holding in a laugh, because—because. Because it would feel like a betrayal of his own mood, to laugh, and because if he started then his eyes might water and it might turn into something else entirely.

"It does make you wonder," he says after that moment of self-collection, "what our religion would be like if there was no money in it, and—"

His shoulders shake. But he swallows it.

"Enough, enough. I will show mercy. You will wind up with an actual condition before we reach the top."

[bouchonne]

"Oh, I'm fairly certain I already have one of those," he says, "but I am worried that this fine vintage will be too warmed by the time we drink it, and so I shall desist."

He obligingly plunges his hand towards his crotch and scrounges around to recover the bottle. At that moment, a maid comes the other way, descending the stairs; she looks at them, and then looks at By's hand, and then looks very firmly away from them both as she passes. By executes a graceful bow (with one arm, the other being occupied) as she does.

"Here we are," he says, finally drawing the bottle out, and then bounding up the stairs two at a time. This burst of energy lasts about one flight (after which point, he finds himself genuinely winded).

[cozen]

While the maid passes, Bastien manages to keep it together, digging deep into his reserves to find the self-control to stand there with his shoulders straight and his arms folding behind his back, expression placid and unapologetic. Nothing is the matter, clearly, or if something is the matter, it’s not his fault.

As soon as she’s done, he crumples into silent shoulder-shaking laughter. It might have gone on for a long time, if watching Byerly vault up the stairs ahead of him hadn’t caused a surge of affection that, with his guard already so battered, borders on suffocating.

He shakes it off and catches up at a floppy-footed trot.

“Think you will make it, old man?”

[bouchonne]

"It seems unlikely," he says cheerily, and clasps a hand to his chest and tries to pretend that he's just pretending to be winded. The moment Bastien joins him, he drapes his arms over the man's shoulders, and murmurs in his ear, "Give me a piggy-back, won't you?"

Perhaps it's all too manic and absurd. Perhaps this is obnoxious. But he saw that laughter, and a smile, and he finds that he has, right now, no craving greater than Bastien's smile. Which, again, cruel; the man is entitled to his grief and sorrow. But Byerly hates it.

[cozen]

"If you were not so unfairly tall," Bastien says. Absurd, yes. Manic, certainly. But he's smiling again, inclining and turning his head to see what he can of Byerly's face (and keep him from breathing on his ear), not the least bit obnoxed. "But your feet would drag, and we would scuff your shoes."

Probably not. Regardless, carrying even a skinny full-grown adult man up the remaining stairs is probably best reserved for emergencies, for the sake of the involved spines.

Instead he crosses his arm to hold Byerly's wrist, so when he steps free and turns to walk up the stairs backwards he can pull him by the wrist. "You can do it. One step at a time."