WHO: Athessa, Madi, Lucien, Skull, and YOU!! WHAT: catch-all WHEN: mostly Satinalia and later WHERE: Kirkwall and The Gallows NOTES: post-murderhaus h/c is gonna go here
The flit, flit of cards being snappily played onto the tabletop might not transmit, but the disappointed click of her tongue against her teeth is audible before she asks: "Well, do you feel like trekking up to the aerie? Because if you don't, that eliminates one option right quick."
"That is good advice," Bastien says, and she might hear it twice: once from the crystal, and again from the corridor leading to the dining hall, sound growing louder and more distinct as he comes closer. "But do you think it is possible for a butt to be too good? You would warn me, wouldn't you—"
And there she is. He lowers the crystal and doesn't do anything to disguise that he's checking her over while he crosses the room, cheerful banter aside.
"—if it started to draw too much attention to itself?"
"Oh, that would be horrible. Thank you," Bastien says. He touches his heart, miming relief, while he comes closer. Then he touches the loose sling hanging around her neck instead, giving it a little tug that's half chiding, half curious.
A hum, accompanied by a satisfied little chin movement when her arm is back where it's supposed to be. Then he says, "Byerly is worried about you. He didn't say why. He just said I should talk to you."
The sigh is more of a hah, a quick burst of breath at hearing that.
Because she can't be angry at Byerly for being worried, or for calling Bastien in to deal with her. She did the same thing to him. She meddled in his affairs, even if it seems to have worked out in the end.
"Of course he did," she says, and steps around to stand beside Bastien and hook her left arm through his right. They're still going to the aerie.
"He is," Bastien agrees, bumping her shoulder a little while they start walking. Aerie it is. "And obviously I am a hard-hearted bastard who could care less if something is wrong."
"I like the way you say bastard. It sounds good in your accent." A quick aside before addressing the heart of the matter. Perhaps if she were dead-set against Bastien knowing anything, she'd have used it as a distraction.
"Nothing is wrong. Nothing apart from the usual things that are always wrong, anyway. War, Corypheus, all that shite."
"To be fair, that is a lot of shite," he says, because he likes the way she says that. Better than the Orlesian sheet he's prone to. "A lot to ask anyone to deal with. The other day, you know, I spilled some ink on a letter I was writing, and I was ready to quit right then. What is even the point of anything. We are all going to die."
Not that he said that. Or even thought it. He did, however, genuinely take a moment to stare at the page and feel defeated, so it's not a lie.
"Exactly! Everyone here has to deal with it, I'm hardly a special case for getting a dislocated shoulder."
In other words, Byerly is a worry-wart.
"By did that thing he does," she says once they reach the stairwell. "I dunno if he's ever done it with you, but he did the same thing after Churneau. Took one look and shut up tight. He almost left because I told him I didn't want to talk about what happened, I just wanted to play cards with him and Lexie."
Bastien lifts his chin and looks at the stone ceiling overhead, doing a review. He's never been more injured than scrapes and blisters, in the course of his work for Riftwatch, and never more captured (recently, anyway) than that time he and Darras had trouble talking their way out of the Orlesian Navy, but he was there when Sidony and Sonia were in danger or fresh out of it. He can extrapolate.
"I think he might, uh," Bastien says, dropping his voice as if it's a hush-hush secret, "care about you. Did you tell him didn't want to talk about Churneau, too? Or—"
A pause, at the foot of the stairs.
"Will it jostle your arm too much if you ride on my back?"
"No," she says, then gestures dismissively as she realizes she gave an answer that could apply to either question. "I mean, I didn't tell him I didn't— I told him about the scar, and Alaric."
Now she can address the stair question. She looks at the stairs. At him. Back at the stairs. At her arm. Considering her history with stairs and how they relate to arms, it'd be wise to refrain from piggy-back rides up to the aerie.
"Maybe. You wanna try one flight and see how much heavier I am at the landing?"
He drops onto one knee on the lowest step for her to hop aboard.
While she's doing that—hopefully, it'd suck if he dropped her before they even started—he says, "He might feel helpless, you know? When people he cares about are hurt, and he didn't stop it and he can't fix it. It's not my favorite, either."
Getting onto Bastien's back takes some maneuvering, namely the removal of her arm from the sling again, but she has to hold her arm about Bastien's neck the same way the sling would hold it anyway, so that's probably fine.
"I guess, but if that's the case he has a funny way of showing it," she mutters. "It feels like he's mad at me for getting hurt or something."
If she weren't injured he might pretend to struggle or trip or threaten to tip backwards—always a good time. But she is, so he when he stands up and starts up the stairs with her it's damn near graceful.
Slow, too. Two steps at a time, as advised, at an unhurried and even pace that won't kill his breathing.
"He might be mad," he says, "but I am sure it isn't at you. Just... the world, for being the way it is. Maybe himself, for not stopping everyone he cares for from ever being hurt. Did you wind up telling him what happened?"
"I gave him the quick version," she says, duly impressed by the feat of strength and only slightly concerned about him hurting himself. "Well. The snapped at him to get him to stop pressing version. It's not that I'm trying to keep it secret or anything, it's just..."
Athessa huffs out a sigh and lightly drums her fingers.
"I just wanted a break from it replaying in my head. He's gonna get the full report about it anyway."
At the first landing, he stops, but he also holds up a one moment finger. He's not putting her down. Just pausing. A few breaths.
"But I think it is also fair to be worried, when something bad has happened someone you care about, and for 'wait for the report' to not make you feel much better."
While he's taking a breather, Athessa looks down at the floor, conveys a shrug with a brief wave of her hand.
"You'll get the details in the report seemed kinder than we were tortured by a madman for no apparent reason. You can guess how well he took that information."
And now she has to anticipate how Bastien takes that information. It's harder to hide the subtleties of body language when two bodies are pressed together like this, so as much as Bastien can probably detect her discomfort and trepidation, she'll be able to tell if anything transmits through his shoulders or back to suggest...anything.
It's subtle. The mildest form of the sort of muscle-clench around the lungs that might accompany jumping into cold water, or trying to control breathing after a hard run, or preparing to take a hit in the gut. Most of it is in his stomach, but some of it is in his back.
Then he relaxes. Willpower and habit.
"Ouais, that does not sound like the sort of thing he would take well." Lightly. Bastien takes everything well, see. "Is he handled? The madman?"
It's subtle enough that Athessa nearly misses it, or passes it off as a side effect of the climb. But then he relaxes and that confirms it. She pats his shoulder, reassuring.
"Handled and axed and burned along with the inn he owned."
“Good,” Bastien says, with more relief than vengefulness.
He’s not still a danger. Athessa still has all her major pieces. If anyone else had died he would have already heard about it right now. It’s very possible he would have pressed for the full story anyway, if she hadn’t just told him how little she wanted to talk about it, but since she has—he nods, and gives her knee a friendly one-two squeeze where he’s holding it to help keep her on his back.
“Do you think there was anything you could have done to stop it?”
There are many ways the man could have been stopped, over the years. Because it was years, based on the extensive work put into that inn, that he was doing this undeterred.
He could have been caught. He could have kidnapped the wrong elf. He could have let one escape. He could have kidnapped a band of rough sorts far earlier. He could have taken ill and died. There could have been rumors about elves disappearing — but not in any circles they have ears in. Any one of their number could have caught wise before the sleeping gas filled the rooms. Or gotten up to take a piss, or wandered aimlessly in the throes of insomnia.
Athessa has given it plenty of thought, and her conversation with Isaac just confirms the conclusion.
"No," she says. "We were lucky, and more skilled than he planned for, I think. Not his usual fare."
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She wins and loses the game she was playing simultaneously, and sweeps the cards into a pile she neatens up and slips back into their box.
"It'll be even better for ton cul if you take the stairs two at a time."
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And there she is. He lowers the crystal and doesn't do anything to disguise that he's checking her over while he crosses the room, cheerful banter aside.
"—if it started to draw too much attention to itself?"
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"If it happened on accident, maybe, but I don't think there's such a thing as too good if you plan for it to be intentionally distracting."
Assuming they're headed up to the aerie for griffon introductions, she moves to stand, slipping the deck of cards into her pocket.
"But if your butt starts to draw more attention than your beautiful face, I will tell you."
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She puts her arm back in the sling, half chided.
"I only have to wear it a few more days."
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Because she can't be angry at Byerly for being worried, or for calling Bastien in to deal with her. She did the same thing to him. She meddled in his affairs, even if it seems to have worked out in the end.
"Of course he did," she says, and steps around to stand beside Bastien and hook her left arm through his right. They're still going to the aerie.
"He's such a softie."
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"Nothing is wrong. Nothing apart from the usual things that are always wrong, anyway. War, Corypheus, all that shite."
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Not that he said that. Or even thought it. He did, however, genuinely take a moment to stare at the page and feel defeated, so it's not a lie.
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In other words, Byerly is a worry-wart.
"By did that thing he does," she says once they reach the stairwell. "I dunno if he's ever done it with you, but he did the same thing after Churneau. Took one look and shut up tight. He almost left because I told him I didn't want to talk about what happened, I just wanted to play cards with him and Lexie."
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"I think he might, uh," Bastien says, dropping his voice as if it's a hush-hush secret, "care about you. Did you tell him didn't want to talk about Churneau, too? Or—"
A pause, at the foot of the stairs.
"Will it jostle your arm too much if you ride on my back?"
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"No," she says, then gestures dismissively as she realizes she gave an answer that could apply to either question. "I mean, I didn't tell him I didn't— I told him about the scar, and Alaric."
Now she can address the stair question. She looks at the stairs. At him. Back at the stairs. At her arm. Considering her history with stairs and how they relate to arms, it'd be wise to refrain from piggy-back rides up to the aerie.
"Maybe. You wanna try one flight and see how much heavier I am at the landing?"
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He drops onto one knee on the lowest step for her to hop aboard.
While she's doing that—hopefully, it'd suck if he dropped her before they even started—he says, "He might feel helpless, you know? When people he cares about are hurt, and he didn't stop it and he can't fix it. It's not my favorite, either."
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"I guess, but if that's the case he has a funny way of showing it," she mutters. "It feels like he's mad at me for getting hurt or something."
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Slow, too. Two steps at a time, as advised, at an unhurried and even pace that won't kill his breathing.
"He might be mad," he says, "but I am sure it isn't at you. Just... the world, for being the way it is. Maybe himself, for not stopping everyone he cares for from ever being hurt. Did you wind up telling him what happened?"
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Athessa huffs out a sigh and lightly drums her fingers.
"I just wanted a break from it replaying in my head. He's gonna get the full report about it anyway."
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At the first landing, he stops, but he also holds up a one moment finger. He's not putting her down. Just pausing. A few breaths.
"But I think it is also fair to be worried, when something bad has happened someone you care about, and for 'wait for the report' to not make you feel much better."
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"You'll get the details in the report seemed kinder than we were tortured by a madman for no apparent reason. You can guess how well he took that information."
And now she has to anticipate how Bastien takes that information. It's harder to hide the subtleties of body language when two bodies are pressed together like this, so as much as Bastien can probably detect her discomfort and trepidation, she'll be able to tell if anything transmits through his shoulders or back to suggest...anything.
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Then he relaxes. Willpower and habit.
"Ouais, that does not sound like the sort of thing he would take well." Lightly. Bastien takes everything well, see. "Is he handled? The madman?"
He starts up the next flight.
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"Handled and axed and burned along with the inn he owned."
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He’s not still a danger. Athessa still has all her major pieces. If anyone else had died he would have already heard about it right now. It’s very possible he would have pressed for the full story anyway, if she hadn’t just told him how little she wanted to talk about it, but since she has—he nods, and gives her knee a friendly one-two squeeze where he’s holding it to help keep her on his back.
“Do you think there was anything you could have done to stop it?”
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He could have been caught. He could have kidnapped the wrong elf. He could have let one escape. He could have kidnapped a band of rough sorts far earlier. He could have taken ill and died. There could have been rumors about elves disappearing — but not in any circles they have ears in. Any one of their number could have caught wise before the sleeping gas filled the rooms. Or gotten up to take a piss, or wandered aimlessly in the throes of insomnia.
Athessa has given it plenty of thought, and her conversation with Isaac just confirms the conclusion.
"No," she says. "We were lucky, and more skilled than he planned for, I think. Not his usual fare."