WHO: Alexandrie, Athessa, Bastien, Barrow, Derrica, Nell, and Poesia WHAT: A Very Riftwatch Summer Vacation WHEN: Late Solace WHERE: Churneau, Occupied Orlais NOTES: Violence cw etc. Bunch of details here.
The only thing Barrow wants is a cigarette, and he's furious he doesn't have one. Well, that and a shirt maybe. In fact, his entire, notoriously affable demeanor has turned brooding and stormy, and he stays as far away from the others as he can manage, seeking privacy or perhaps just solitude as he lies back and stares at the sky. He won't snap at anyone, of course-- he's never intentionally rude-- but he gives the profound impression that he would rather not be bothered, and that in itself is quite unusual.
ii. traveling
He walks as often as he's able, resisting offers to ride in the cart unless met with absolute insistence. Barrow's mood seems to have shifted from quiet anger to total apathy, and he is still uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn as they make their way back.
Bastien generally tries not to bother people who would rather not be bothered, as a rule. Unless there's a good reason. One possible good reason is being the man in charge of an elaborate plan that's gone wrong and resulted in someone being imprisoned and tortured for several days. Another possible good reason is offering food. So:
"Barrow?" he whispers, from several feet away. It's too late and everyone is too dirty for him to fuss with unnecessary monsieurs. "I found some nuts in the cart."
He also has cigarettes. He's smoking one right now. He only doesn't offer because he doesn't know how badly one is wanted.
Focusing back in on the present, Barrow slowly, stiffly angles his head to look up at Bastien. He nods, indicating that food sounds good, but looks rather more longingly at the cigarette in Bastien's mouth.
"...got any more?" he asks brusquely, nodding to it.
He smiles. It's a subdued thing—less happiness, more relief to have something to contribute to alleviate some small degree of suffering.
"Yes."
But they require rolling. The one in his mouth is new, mouth-end not even a little damp, so he sits down cross-legged next to Barrow and holds the lit one out in offer. He'll make another.
"Of course," Bastien answers. He stays where he is and sets the nuts he discovered—not many, just someone's leftover snack in a little burlap bundle—within easy reach of Barrow's hand.
Apologizing and asking if Barrow is all right both seem equally pointless, bordering on insulting, so he doesn't. If it were him or one of the bards he used to work with, there would be exercises— fighting stances, reciting family trees, rhyming games, easy and familiar—until they felt fully back inside their own skin. For a Templar he barely knows?
Mm.
He fusses with his tobacco and rolling papers in silence for a few seconds, and then he asks, "Did anyone ever call you Obie?"
The nuts, and whatever minuscule nourishment they may offer, go wholesale into Barrow's mouth with a satisfying crunch, and he pulls the cigarette away long enough to not breathe it in while he's chewing.
It doesn't take long to resolve that, however, and pulls from it again with a bone-deep sigh that becomes a grunt of surprise at the end, to that question.
"...just one," he admits, with a smile good-natured enough to imply no harm done, but just terse enough to suggest it shouldn't be pushed.
Bastien doesn't have to sympathize with a person's desire to understand it. He'd be a soggy snotty mess of a sometimes-assassin if he did. But he himself has arranged a world where no one alive would even know his given name, never mind have to be told not to use it, so in this case he can do both. People should be called what they want to be called.
"Well," he says, "I like Barrow. Good luck to have a family name that fits you so well. Solid and... friendly, you know, at the same time."
This yields a chuckle, and any tension that was there dissipates as quickly as it arrived. "I'm glad it pleases you," he replies, and though there's sarcastic humor in it, the warmth behind his smirk should banish any perception of resentment. "Though perhaps a little less solid at the moment."
“Will you sit in the cart with me for a few minutes, Ser Barrow?”
It’s Alexandrie, her bearing courtly again despite being in only a chemise, with strips of fabric draped over one shoulder. She holds up the end of one illustratively.
“I should like to bind the joints we re-aligned, to support their healing.”
Barrow has gotten this far in life by never saying no to a lady, and it seems her intentions are beneficial, if a promise of more pain. He nods mutely and steps faster to hop onto the edge of the wagon with a grunt of anguish, having to take a moment to collect himself after. He’s taken his small exertions for granted, before now.
It doesn’t seem like the man’s quiet willingness to acquiesce will extend to making small-talk, but it wouldn’t do to have him concentrating entirely on the pressure of the cloth she’s winding, and so, as she does:
“Have you ever before torn down a wall with your bare hands?”
“The purpose of a wall is to keep something in or out, no?” The shoulders are going to take more time, more care. Hm. More cloth. Alexandrie frowns slightly and stops a moment to tie a few of the strips together, end to end, before stretching the fabric across his upper back and beginning to bind the other.
“If you render it unable to do so, is it still a wall?”
"Then I insist you relent and allow me to laud you for tearing down a wall with your bare hands."
The binding finished, she attempts to straighten the edges slightly, despite being sure that the sartorial value of his bandages is not his greatest concern. "Is that too tight? Feel you any numbness in your fingers?"
"Good." Alexandrie smiles back, although hers is full and bright. It dims after a moment, softens, as does her voice. "You will be gentle with yourself, I hope."
She settles herself, letting her legs hang off the back of the cart as if she dips them into water at the end of a pier, and muses at the road they have passed down. "I think perhaps there is always a desire to prove ones strength and resiliency to oneself, to the world, after moments when we have felt most vulnerable," she pauses for a moment, and then: "If you feel such a desire I certainly understand it... but if only for my sake, be gentle with yourself." She smiles again, a bit smaller than the first, and teases quietly. "I have already used my dress; if I must needs make more bandages, I shall be arriving in Kirkwall wearing nothing at all."
"I assure you I won't be out tearing down any more walls, at least anytime soon," Barrow gently replies, the courteous humor seeping through his otherwise ill temper, "I wouldn't want you to debase yourself on my account."
He falls silent for a moment, wincing with each jostle of the cart.
"If you've finished, my lady, I may return to the ground. I find it... rather more comfortable to walk."
Her head inclines courteously accompanied by a graceful—if a little weighted with weariness—flourish of her hand; an invitation to the road.
"To your comfort then." She tucks one foot behind the other, managing somehow to be prim in only a chemise, in a peasant's cart that bumps along the road. "My spotless virtue thanks you for your kind consideration."
She could say it with a straight face... but she'll let Barrow see her lips twitch up impishly anyway.
He hops down, and it nearly debilitates him, but this moment of anguish is better than hours of being tossed around in the cart. He looks up with an equally tired but impish, appreciative glint in his eye as he temporarily gets farther away.
She'd join him, but it's more fun to make a show of smoothing her "skirts" before raising a hand and wiggling her fingers in a cheeky 'farewell' as the cart outpaces him for a bit.
The effect is slightly ruined by one of the back wheels hitting a stone and jolting the wagon such that she emits a surprised squeak and has to catch herself. A moment later, she's laughing quietly behind her hand.
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The only thing Barrow wants is a cigarette, and he's furious he doesn't have one.
Well, that and a shirt maybe.
In fact, his entire, notoriously affable demeanor has turned brooding and stormy, and he stays as far away from the others as he can manage, seeking privacy or perhaps just solitude as he lies back and stares at the sky.
He won't snap at anyone, of course-- he's never intentionally rude-- but he gives the profound impression that he would rather not be bothered, and that in itself is quite unusual.
ii. traveling
He walks as often as he's able, resisting offers to ride in the cart unless met with absolute insistence. Barrow's mood seems to have shifted from quiet anger to total apathy, and he is still uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn as they make their way back.
i.
"Barrow?" he whispers, from several feet away. It's too late and everyone is too dirty for him to fuss with unnecessary monsieurs. "I found some nuts in the cart."
He also has cigarettes. He's smoking one right now. He only doesn't offer because he doesn't know how badly one is wanted.
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"...got any more?" he asks brusquely, nodding to it.
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He smiles. It's a subdued thing—less happiness, more relief to have something to contribute to alleviate some small degree of suffering.
"Yes."
But they require rolling. The one in his mouth is new, mouth-end not even a little damp, so he sits down cross-legged next to Barrow and holds the lit one out in offer. He'll make another.
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"Thanks, mate," he grunts, and takes it gratefully.
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Apologizing and asking if Barrow is all right both seem equally pointless, bordering on insulting, so he doesn't. If it were him or one of the bards he used to work with, there would be exercises— fighting stances, reciting family trees, rhyming games, easy and familiar—until they felt fully back inside their own skin. For a Templar he barely knows?
Mm.
He fusses with his tobacco and rolling papers in silence for a few seconds, and then he asks, "Did anyone ever call you Obie?"
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It doesn't take long to resolve that, however, and pulls from it again with a bone-deep sigh that becomes a grunt of surprise at the end, to that question.
"...just one," he admits, with a smile good-natured enough to imply no harm done, but just terse enough to suggest it shouldn't be pushed.
SORRY i missed you
"Well," he says, "I like Barrow. Good luck to have a family name that fits you so well. Solid and... friendly, you know, at the same time."
weeps bitterly
"I'm glad it pleases you," he replies, and though there's sarcastic humor in it, the warmth behind his smirk should banish any perception of resentment.
"Though perhaps a little less solid at the moment."
ii.
It’s Alexandrie, her bearing courtly again despite being in only a chemise, with strips of fabric draped over one shoulder. She holds up the end of one illustratively.
“I should like to bind the joints we re-aligned, to support their healing.”
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He nods mutely and steps faster to hop onto the edge of the wagon with a grunt of anguish, having to take a moment to collect himself after.
He’s taken his small exertions for granted, before now.
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“Have you ever before torn down a wall with your bare hands?”
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"I still haven't," he points out.
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"You are hard on yourself, Ser."
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“If you render it unable to do so, is it still a wall?”
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"I'm afraid I'm-- not much of a philosopher, my lady." At least not now, while all his nerves are crying out in anguish.
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The binding finished, she attempts to straighten the edges slightly, despite being sure that the sartorial value of his bandages is not his greatest concern. "Is that too tight? Feel you any numbness in your fingers?"
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When prompted, he stiffly wiggles his fingers. "No more than before," he assures her.
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She settles herself, letting her legs hang off the back of the cart as if she dips them into water at the end of a pier, and muses at the road they have passed down. "I think perhaps there is always a desire to prove ones strength and resiliency to oneself, to the world, after moments when we have felt most vulnerable," she pauses for a moment, and then: "If you feel such a desire I certainly understand it... but if only for my sake, be gentle with yourself." She smiles again, a bit smaller than the first, and teases quietly. "I have already used my dress; if I must needs make more bandages, I shall be arriving in Kirkwall wearing nothing at all."
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He falls silent for a moment, wincing with each jostle of the cart.
"If you've finished, my lady, I may return to the ground. I find it... rather more comfortable to walk."
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"To your comfort then." She tucks one foot behind the other, managing somehow to be prim in only a chemise, in a peasant's cart that bumps along the road. "My spotless virtue thanks you for your kind consideration."
She could say it with a straight face... but she'll let Barrow see her lips twitch up impishly anyway.
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The effect is slightly ruined by one of the back wheels hitting a stone and jolting the wagon such that she emits a surprised squeak and has to catch herself. A moment later, she's laughing quietly behind her hand.