[CLOSED] You think that all your time is used

[archademode]

WHO: Gabranth, Byerly, Derrica, Diana, Barrow, potentially tba
WHAT: local man has bills to pay, time to take on 100 low level quests
WHEN: catch-all, consider it fairly current with a little give
WHERE: Gallows, Lowtown, tbd
NOTES: catch-all for threads involving (1) millenial judge magister in need of jobs + bonus horsegirl chapter + old men fights

Comments

[bouchonne]

How rude.

[ By lifts his eyebrows and widens his eyes with an exaggerated sort of offense. No one would mistake him for being genuinely hurt, but it's close enough to real that it can't quite be ignored. ]

Do you always speak this way to a friendly stranger?

[archademode]

[Yes.]

Friendliness most often works itself in as a shield for less desirable motivations. [Which isn't to say Byerly is the sort, despite Gabranth's own dour tone— he hardly knows the man enough to judge— but so far his stay here has been marked by willful intrusions wearing cheerful smiles, and he's a tired man in his own right.

Not just because of the work.] And I've little time to spare, I'm afraid.

Much less the sort of company worth keeping for a man of your distinction. [It's the doublet, really. And the cup of tea. And also the perfume— who let you out of Hightown, come to think of it?]

[bouchonne]

A man of my distinction, and my clear sinister intent. Is that it?

[ His smile turns just a bit sharper. The man is a fop, true enough, but there's a clear edge to him under the silliness. ]

[archademode]

[Hearing the undercurrent of his own wording laid out cuts Gabranth short in a single, visible instant. He's never been good for much in the way of conversation, and the thought that he's somehow directly insulted a man of potentially higher standing— no, certaintly higher, considering appearances—

His hands still in their movement, his helmet fixed where darkened sockets seem determined to bore a hole through the table beneath him.]

My apologies. [Even without a face to offer any amount of expression, his voice does the job of conveying regret well enough.]

My words were careless, I meant no disrespect by them.

[bouchonne]

[ And just like that, the sharpness passes, the smile turning easy and harmless once more. Cheerily, he says - ]

Pity. I like a bit of disrespect.

[ He extends his hand. ]

Byerly Rutyer.

[archademode]

[A note of hesitancy meets that outstretched hand, sticking itself between them in the form of a conversational lull— instead chased by a stiffened sort of half-bow by way of dipping his head low.

Sorry Byerly, dumb knight stuff dwells here.]

Judge Magister Gabranth, at your service.

[Byerly. The name sounds familiar. But then again, when you've been struck with a deluge of information, some things are bound to sink more than swim when it comes to memory.]

You're welcome to stay if you like, though I'll not remain much longer.

[And just like that, he's back to divvying up his meal as though preparing for war.]

[bouchonne]

[ A click of his tongue. By seems not to have noticed that last comment of Gabranth's. ]

Judge Magister. I must say, you present a rather different picture than the typical blackhaller. Somewhat spikier. And you certainly look different from a Royan lawyer.

[archademode]

A correct assertion.

My world is of a different breed than this one— though not so vastly that I've not been able to sufficiently acclimate. [His entire presence here, for example, remains a perfect case in point regarding interworldly etiquette and expectation.

Aka: why does no one else live in their armor, or find that to be a perfectly respectable way to go about divorcing oneself from their own humanity in order to act as little more than a weapon of war.]

Trust that it does not deter my desire to aid the cause.

[bouchonne]

[ Knowingly: ] So I've heard.

[archademode]

[Again, those hands go still. Again, he finds himself taken by surprise.

For a moment he wonders if this man isn't somehow the reincarnation of Vayne Solidor: imperceptible in his cleverness, perpetually capable of making Gabranth feel ever the fool at his side.]

...have you.

[Beneath that helm his vision shifts to one side, attempting to stitch together some thin map of his own potential reputation. Who he'd spoken to, who he's irritated or endeared. Jone, Barrow, Benedict, Laura, Commander Flint— it's pointless of course, and after a moment of thought, Gabranth simply surrenders his internal efforts. There are worse reputations to have than a man willing to both figuratively and literally lie down for a cause not his own.

And besides, it is true.]

I suppose asking from whom would do me little good.

[bouchonne]

[ From whom? By might laugh aloud. ]

I hope you don't think you cut a subtle figure, Judge Magister. People are going to notice you.

[archademode]

[Ever the fool.

There's a narrow little noise let out inside that helmet, something akin to a mildly amused scoff; he's never claimed to be a sagacious man.]

I suppose there is that.

[A beat, and then, as if coming to some some sort of realization:] Your introduction was intentional, then. You knew already who I was.

[bouchonne]

Of course.

[ His smile is easy. ]

I make it my business to know everyone - or at least know of everyone. And I take particular interest in do-gooders.

[archademode]

I’m afraid my hands are far too bloodied to be considered that. [No wincing, no whining. As natural a confession as discussing the matter of what tea Byerly drinks, or the color of the sky outside.]

But if there is something I can do for you in order to further your efforts, you need only ask.

[Compensation for that offer goes without mention. True, his pockets are lighter than the payments tailing him— there's no denying that. But if someone within Riftwatch is in need of help, he won’t ask them for coin in return.

For him, allegiances will always run deeper.]

[bouchonne]

[ A little flick upwards of his eyebrow at my hands are too bloodied - kudos on your drama, sir - but he doesn't comment. Instead, he gives a little twirl of his long, elegant fingers, and he says: ]

There is a little something, actually. I don't want to trouble you, of course.

[archademode]

[Thank you, he works very hard on it. You should see him when he’s turning it up to 11.]

Speak. I would see it done.

[And in recalling the fact that he'd been sought out— that this man looks (and in particular smells) of richer things than the ruddiness of war— the way Benedict had recoiled in dread of greater things than himself, setting a sort of perceived pattern in play regarding rank and need and all things perilous, there is a moment where that heavy helm twists to focus more fully on the man at his side. Voice lowered, attention fixed.]

...you are not in danger, are you?

[He seems generally untroubled, of course— but wounded animals are often the best at masking their own dismay.]

[bouchonne]

[ A little quirk of his lips, as much surprise as amusement. ]

What would you do if I were?

[archademode]

[Oaths carry weight. They matter, more than most ever care to realize— or perhaps purposely ignore. For Gabranth, however, they are the world.

And there’s a gravity to it, his answer. Heavy like stone, like the dead weight of a hard current.]

All that I could to keep you safe.

[This isn't a hypothetical, Byerly. He seems entirely convinced now that something is amiss.]

[bouchonne]

[ Huh. His eyebrows lift a few more millimeters. ]

Due to my position, I presume?

[archademode]

Your position? [Translation: no.]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly lightly touches his lips. Fascinating. ]

Well. No. I am not in danger. Though I shall remember to call on you if that changes.

[archademode]

[Well, it isn't the first time he's been wrong in estimation: reason #832765578 why he prefers to be directed, rather than mapping his own course by hand.]

As you will. [It's a simple thing, correcting his attention. Letting that rigid posture fade away into something— well, nominally more relaxed.] But there was something else you yet needed, if not that.

[bouchonne]

Mm.

[ The smile turns playful. ]

I wanted some dogooding.

[archademode]

[That word again. From inside the helm there's a hollowed little puff of a sound, a breath let out too quickly. Something like a scoff's milder, much less bitter cousin.]

Would you be accompanying me for it, this...[No. He can't bring himself to say it. Dark Souls rules of vocabulary strictly forbid usage of all words even vaguely similar to dogooding.] ...task.

[bouchonne]

Ah, no. I'm afraid I've some duties to attend to elsewhere. I hope that's all right?