WHO: Bastien (so far) + Various WHAT: Catch-all! A diplomacy mission, a Fitcherless card game, more TBD. WHEN: mumbles WHERE: Various NOTES: This might transform into an actual open post if I get my shit together fast enough.
OOC | This is mostly for Fitcher talk! Everyone in one thread, ideally.
Between his overfull slate of work and his overfull slate of social commitments ashore in the city, Bastien has never fully managed to be a fixture at the weekly evening card games in the Gallows' spare dining hall. But he's been there once a month or so, often enough to establish himself as a modest better, average player, and good sport. And he's here now, some number of weeks after Fitcher's departure, arriving before anyone else with Byerly in tow. He looks slightly rumpled. Inky-fingered. The plate of finger foods at his elbow on the table is to make up for the dinner he worked through earlier in the day.
"—so he is selling the house," he's telling Byerly while he shuffles the cards in his hands. "I tried to tell him it was only a freak occurrence, but he's convinced he lives on top of a teeming cricket nest and they will emerge again at any moment. He says he's losing sleep. He looks like it, too."
He does a flickering bit of cardistry before holding the deck over toward Byerly with a look that says impress me.
"He did deserve it, though," is a last thought about Percy and his mysterious cricket problem, for which they may or may not have been responsible, before his glance catches on Fitcher's traditional chair. These were her games. A segueless subject change: "Do you think she misses us at all?"
It's been off and on that Barrow joins the weekly game, less on than off in recent days, but something compels him to peer into the dining hall and then divert his course when he sees Bastien and Byerly setting up.
"All sort of rings different now," he remarks as he approaches, already beginning to fish a pre-rolled cigarette out of his belt pouch.
Byerly - is not quite ready for that question. Nor for discussion of Fitcher. So, instead, he simply takes the cards and shuffles. (Unsurprisingly, given his character and his long, deft fingers, he is phenomenally talented at fancy shuffling.)
And he says, as an aside to Barrow, "We let loose some crickets in a friend's house. Things have gotten...out of hand since then."
Barrow's comment gets a nod; Byerly's shuffling gets a low whistle of admiration; and Byerly's resistance to the subject gets raised eyebrows. But Bastien goes along with it easily enough, for the moment. "If he were just a little less dramatic—"
The thought is interrupted, here, by a chair legs screeching as a chair slides out from the table to invite Barrow to sit on it, as if by magic, save for how obviously it's explained by Bastien pushing it beneath the table with his foot.
The pause also gives him time to think and admit, "—I might fall in love with him." He winks at By, silly and unsubtle. It's a compliment, not a threat. "Would you come clean, Barrow, if your crickets were about to make a man give up his house?"
With a dadly grunt of acknowledgment, Barrow settles into the offered chair and leans forward to get a good look at the setup on the table, scratching idly at the stubble on his cheek as the topic of crickets is broached.
"Depends," he muses, "I suppose. On how long it stays funny."
Gela does not choke, delivering the silks to the de Maryacs. No ancient lineages are insulted. No valuable vases are knocked over. The Lady de Maryac seems particularly charmed by her curls and cheerful eyes, and when it comes time to hand over the elven artifact all of this is for, the Lord passes it into Gela's hands, rather than to the quiet partner who's been hanging around blandly in her shadow.
Once they're out of the house, Bastien sheds the blandness step by step like layers of clothing left behind on his way to swim in a river. The dull blankness in his eyes comes off first, then the stiff and proper posture, then the reserved absence of expression. By the time they reach the corner he's smiling, stuffing one hand into his pocket, and spinning on his heels to walk backwards so he can look at her.
"You were marvelous," he decides. "Nine out of ten."
Gela pauses, for a moment, to curtsey. One hand gathers her skirts and the other cradles the little, fine elven thing to her chest with care.
"Thank you!" She thinks that she's done well too. It's certainly nice to earn positive feedback after that weathering a rude questioning from that one jerk over the crystal (maybe you've heard of him); Gela is almost content to bask in the glow of Bastien's obvious approval. Almost. "What kept me from a perfect score?"
May as well take notes from the expert. She watched the way he donned that disguise, early, and remained mute in the background of her charm. It came across as stoic, quiet, believable. He's incredible at what he does. It's the way that Gela would like to be.
"My not wanting you to get too big of a head on your first outing," Bastien says. It's true. Maybe there are other, more difficult scenarios where he might have something to teach her, but for this? No notes. "You can get your big head after your tenth. That's the rule."
"After my tenth," she echoes, cheerful nonetheless, "I'll be sure to remember that."
And, continuing in that happy vein, she passes the little thing to him for his own perusal. It is very fine. Quite delicate. Gela has no idea what it is, but gathers it is worth all the fuss. "Pretty, isn't it."
Post-Templar disaster, pre-current time ig, time is weird, let's ignore it
Bastien—who has been found standing in one of the courtyards, watching his dog make her rounds snuffling at every tree and bush and patch of grass—takes all of this in with a mild-mannered eyebrow raise.
This isn't the first time Bastien has responded to Edgard's bluster with calm and thrown him slightly. He takes another breath and closes his eyes, feeling shame at the words.
"Y-yes." He responds eyes still closed. Another breath and then they flick open. "Well--it's not the only thing. Messed up a lot. But, it's just--"
Momentary calm lost, he huffs through his teeth again. The dog starts at this, but Edgard carries on.
"They want me to just do things even if I don't understand them. Killed that Templar because I thought he was about to kill you. But, maybe you had it or maybe I was wrong. Don't know."
"I think you were," Bastien says simply, while Whiskey comes over to investigate the huffing man. Her face is covered in wrinkles that slide back when she lifts her snout to sniff his hands.
Bastien smiles at that. Just a little. There's no anger in it, his I think you were.
Minimal judgment, too: "We are all wrong sometimes. Sometimes in ways that get people killed. It is the price of what we do here, non? But when someone is asking you not to kill anyone, that is a time I think you should err on the side of trusting them, I think."
This fully deflates Edgard who frowns and looks down at Whiskey. He sits down and takes the dog's face in his hands, petting her as he thinks. He knew Bastien would agree he was wrong, but the confirmation of it sinks in his stomach all the same.
"Just reacted. Trust isn't what I thought about or--not trusting. Just everyone dying and my watching it all."
He shakes his head.
"Maybe everyone makes mistakes, but I make a lot of them. Again and again. In different ways."
Whiskey sighs in contentment. At least someone is.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
open | the weekly wicked grace game
Between his overfull slate of work and his overfull slate of social commitments ashore in the city, Bastien has never fully managed to be a fixture at the weekly evening card games in the Gallows' spare dining hall. But he's been there once a month or so, often enough to establish himself as a modest better, average player, and good sport. And he's here now, some number of weeks after Fitcher's departure, arriving before anyone else with Byerly in tow. He looks slightly rumpled. Inky-fingered. The plate of finger foods at his elbow on the table is to make up for the dinner he worked through earlier in the day.
"—so he is selling the house," he's telling Byerly while he shuffles the cards in his hands. "I tried to tell him it was only a freak occurrence, but he's convinced he lives on top of a teeming cricket nest and they will emerge again at any moment. He says he's losing sleep. He looks like it, too."
He does a flickering bit of cardistry before holding the deck over toward Byerly with a look that says impress me.
"He did deserve it, though," is a last thought about Percy and his mysterious cricket problem, for which they may or may not have been responsible, before his glance catches on Fitcher's traditional chair. These were her games. A segueless subject change: "Do you think she misses us at all?"
I have been Threatened
"All sort of rings different now," he remarks as he approaches, already beginning to fish a pre-rolled cigarette out of his belt pouch.
no subject
And he says, as an aside to Barrow, "We let loose some crickets in a friend's house. Things have gotten...out of hand since then."
no subject
The thought is interrupted, here, by a chair legs screeching as a chair slides out from the table to invite Barrow to sit on it, as if by magic, save for how obviously it's explained by Bastien pushing it beneath the table with his foot.
The pause also gives him time to think and admit, "—I might fall in love with him." He winks at By, silly and unsubtle. It's a compliment, not a threat. "Would you come clean, Barrow, if your crickets were about to make a man give up his house?"
no subject
"Depends," he muses, "I suppose. On how long it stays funny."
closed | gela
Gela does not choke, delivering the silks to the de Maryacs. No ancient lineages are insulted. No valuable vases are knocked over. The Lady de Maryac seems particularly charmed by her curls and cheerful eyes, and when it comes time to hand over the elven artifact all of this is for, the Lord passes it into Gela's hands, rather than to the quiet partner who's been hanging around blandly in her shadow.
Once they're out of the house, Bastien sheds the blandness step by step like layers of clothing left behind on his way to swim in a river. The dull blankness in his eyes comes off first, then the stiff and proper posture, then the reserved absence of expression. By the time they reach the corner he's smiling, stuffing one hand into his pocket, and spinning on his heels to walk backwards so he can look at her.
"You were marvelous," he decides. "Nine out of ten."
no subject
"Thank you!" She thinks that she's done well too. It's certainly nice to earn positive feedback after that weathering a rude questioning from that one jerk over the crystal (maybe you've heard of him); Gela is almost content to bask in the glow of Bastien's obvious approval. Almost. "What kept me from a perfect score?"
May as well take notes from the expert. She watched the way he donned that disguise, early, and remained mute in the background of her charm. It came across as stoic, quiet, believable. He's incredible at what he does. It's the way that Gela would like to be.
no subject
He holds his hand out, palm up.
"Can I see it?"
no subject
And, continuing in that happy vein, she passes the little thing to him for his own perusal. It is very fine. Quite delicate. Gela has no idea what it is, but gathers it is worth all the fuss. "Pretty, isn't it."
Post-Templar disaster, pre-current time ig, time is weird, let's ignore it
“Think I’m leaving.” He blusters, angrier than intended. He shuts his eyes, he’s not angry at Bastien.
“Thought ‘d come tell you. Think ‘d better go before I fuck something else up.” He takes another breath. He calms slightly.
“Flint said—“ He shakes his head. Didn’t have the stomach is what he said. It doesn’t really matter, but it echoes in his head all the same.
“’s no point, not certain I’m cut out for all this.” All this being Riftwatch, but also maybe his usefulness. “Wanted to help and I’m not.”
no subject
"Because you killed that Templar?"
no subject
"Y-yes." He responds eyes still closed. Another breath and then they flick open. "Well--it's not the only thing. Messed up a lot. But, it's just--"
Momentary calm lost, he huffs through his teeth again. The dog starts at this, but Edgard carries on.
"They want me to just do things even if I don't understand them. Killed that Templar because I thought he was about to kill you. But, maybe you had it or maybe I was wrong. Don't know."
He folds his arms.
no subject
Bastien smiles at that. Just a little. There's no anger in it, his I think you were.
Minimal judgment, too: "We are all wrong sometimes. Sometimes in ways that get people killed. It is the price of what we do here, non? But when someone is asking you not to kill anyone, that is a time I think you should err on the side of trusting them, I think."
no subject
"Just reacted. Trust isn't what I thought about or--not trusting. Just everyone dying and my watching it all."
He shakes his head.
"Maybe everyone makes mistakes, but I make a lot of them. Again and again. In different ways."
Whiskey sighs in contentment. At least someone is.