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.
"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."
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"Thanks, mate," he grunts, and takes it gratefully.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."