[open & closed]

[quaestionespatris]

WHO: Tavi "Rutyer", Byerly Rutyer, and you! yes, even you!
WHAT: various open and closed starters for this guy, who definitely isn't an Altus mage! definitely probably.
WHEN: the very end of last month throughout the current month.
WHERE: the Gallows, unless otherwise specified.
NOTES: none currently, will update as needed.

i. settling in (closed to Byerly)

The guest quarters--or wherever it is that Byerly has decided to stash him while he conducts his clandestine investigation into his father's whereabouts--isn't much to write home about, but given Tavi has been alternating between sleeping rough and in stables or garden shacks care of the very meagre good will of strangers for the last few days, he is not about to complain. The bed is clean, and it looks like he has a secure enough space to stash his few belongings; in short, it could be much worse.

He hovers by the bed, twisting the worn old shoulder strap of his satchel between his fingers, then turns to look back at Byerly with that gleam of genuine gratitude shining in his eyes. "I really can't thank you enough," he tells him, not for the first time, and tries to still his fidgeting fingers. "I really ought to do something to repay you--or just, something to make myself useful while I'm here."

ii. exploring (open to all)

Tavi has had his fill of Kirkwall after his misadventure in Lowtown, and if the sideways glances he keeps catching from other members of Riftwatch are anything to judge by, he's going to have to work on his cover if he actually expects to fool people in the Gallows into thinking he is who he says he is, too. He stands out not quite like a sore thumb, but even after his years spent in Hunter Fell, there's no mistaking that accent for anything other than Tevene. And a posh one at that.

He tries his best to make up for it; if you encounter him in the library while trying to fetch a book down from a particularly high shelf, he's quite eager to pull up a stepping stool and climb up to fetch it down for you. Are you juggling an armful of boxes, books, or paperwork while simultaneously trying to nudge a closed door open with your foot? Suddenly there's a very earnest, smiling young man holding the door open for you and offering to help carry your burden to wherever it is you're going. Also, if you're a particularly sporty gentleman inclined towards taking your shirt off while exercising or going through sword forms on the training grounds, it is entirely possible that he ends up forgetting what he was doing, and trips over his own feet while admiring your shredded physique technique, of course.

iii. wildcard

[ooc: if none of these work for you or you'd like to hash out something specific, please hmu @ ragweed! actually even if these do work for you, still hmu on plurk c:]

Comments

ii

[panulus]

Take off his shirt?

Don't be absurd. He's not wearing his shirt at all. He has one, of course, and he's got it tied in his belt, next to one of his swords and a small pack. He is, mercifully for everyone in the area, wearing at least pants. And boots. They only emphasize his ass a lot little.

He's coming down from practice and heading to get a cup to pour some water into when he spots this earnest, smiling, bumbling boy. "You'll catch flies."

His own accent is gloriously Tevene, with a strange archaic lilt that is often used by gladiators in the more traditional training houses.

[quaestionespatris]

Tavi snaps his jaw shut and tries to pretend that two spots of vivid colour haven't just appeared high on his cheekbones. He clears his throat and tries not to make it too obvious that he's been staring at, well, everything that this obscenely attractive stranger has going on, and makes a bit of a show of rustling some papers in his hands.

"Yes, of course," he says immediately, then squeezes his eyes shut, "I mean--"

Yes, of course? Like the goal is to catch flies with his fucking mouth? Maker fucking preserve him--wait, hang on. Clocking that accent, he whips his head around to look after Gannicus, inquisitive as a cat that hasn't yet learned to avoid poking its nose at open flames.

[panulus]

"Is that what you eat?" he asks, but he's smiling, and it probably only makes it worse, because his smile lights up his whole face. He's easy in his skin, confident, as he takes a drink. "Well, can't account for Vintish taste."

Tavi, if he ever went to see the gladiators, might have seen Gannicus. More likely he would know his name. Either way, he's clocked Tavi's accent. "What do you mean, pup?"

[quaestionespatris]

He went once, perhaps ten years ago, in the company of his cousin Otho and his Uncle Luria, who hoped exposure to a bit of clean bloodsport might toughen up his nephew's gentle, bookish nature. It hadn't, and Otho had helped Tavi feign an allergic reaction to the candied mangos on offer in the stands as an excuse to get out of the arena before he had to see anyone die gruesomely beneath someone's sword. Gannicus' sword, specifically.

"No," he says while smiling foolishly back, because of course he is, then quickly tries to school his expression into something a bit more polite and respectable rather than baby's first visit to the gay bar wide-eyed ogling. He clears his throat again and fidgets with the papers, large eyes darting from whatever is written on them back to Gannicus' grin, then back again. "I mean, it's nothing, really."

A beat, and he taps his fingers on the papers, then can't help himself and steps forward. "Sorry, but--are you Gannicus?"

[panulus]

He drains the rest of his cup and ties it on his belt, and then looks up, without all that much in the way of surprise. He never got to spend all that much time outside of the training school, but whenever he did, he got enough awe to know that his face and name are well-known.

But it could always be that he knows him from someone here. "Yes, I am. Did you attend arena, or did the spoiled magelet tell you of me?"

He means Benedict, who is on Gannicus' shitlist, at the moment.

[quaestionespatris]

"The arena," he answers, even though it isn't actually a big mystery as to who the spoiled magelet in question is. Tavi tries very hard not to demonstrate any familiarity with who that is--Benedict who? never heard of her--and fidgets with his paperwork again, gesturing with it absently. "It must've been... Maker, I don't know. Ten, twelve years ago, maybe." A pause, lower lip trapped between his teeth, before he admits, "I didn't have the stomach for it, actually. Faked an illness to get my uncle to take me home before you'd done more than rile up the crowd a bit. But I remember you."

He has an earnest, sincere face to match his guileless blue eyes, and the longer he speaks, the more his posh Qarinus accent shines through like a beacon spelling out the words 'I'm an Altus mage' in bright glowing letters directly above his head. Figuratively speaking.

[panulus]

Ten years ago, Gannicus was already making waves, a young up and comer who was fierce and unstoppable. Most young vints would have given a lot to say they saw him then, when he was still in arena with Oenomaeus.

This one faked illness.

“You have stomach now, though, I see. Do you want to see me train?”

He has that smile again, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. He can be a bastard like that.

[quaestionespatris]

Flustered, Tavi's earnest little smile freezes on his face. His eyes dart down towards Gannicus' gloriously bare torso before he immediately drags them up again, like trying to keep a very excitable dog on a short leash.

He clears his throat, makes a little 'mm!' noise, and then, "Ah, well, I wouldn't have anything useful to say about your," down go the eyes again, "form."

[panulus]

Gannicus bursts into peals of laughter, then. It doesn’t sound mean at all, at least, as he looks at Tavi’s eager little face. He looks like a boy offered a sweet and knowing he has to decline just the same. “No, a highborn boy like you? I’d take advice from a braying goat first.”

That’s accompanied with a pat on his back. “How long have you been here, then? Long enough to get a taste for blood?”

ii

[untiltheyarent]

A casual "merci, Messere," is thrown to the unfamiliar young man as he opens the door, with an additional sidelong glance at how happy he appears to be doing so, and then a full stop when he offers to carry her basket.

It's full of heavy containers, rags, and brushes, various accoutrements for floor-scrubbing, and Fifi is carrying it with both arms, her expression the picture of guarded puzzlement. what do you want

[quaestionespatris]

To... to help. Which, he realizes, as he takes in her maid's apparel and cleaning supplies, is rather foolish of him. This is her job! He should let her do her job. Except he's already holding his hands out, the picture of pleasant solicitude, and if he withdrew now, wouldn't that be subtly (or unsubtly) implying that he believes it's right for her to be doing the cleaning, and the carrying of various cleaning things?

He doesn't lose his smile, but it gains an edge of slight panic. "That--looks heavy," he ventures hesitantly.

[untiltheyarent]

"It is," she says with the same caution, but catches that look in his eye, and, well. Fifi doesn't get opportunities like this very often, and it's been a long week.
She hands him the basket with a little smile, then nudges with her head the direction she's intending to go. It's up a lot of stairs. In fact, many more stairs than originally intended.

[quaestionespatris]

Tavi exhales a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding when Fifi relents and offers out the basket. Immediately he reaches out to take hold of it and, on some silly impulse he'll devote time to unpacking later, tells her, "thank you," like she's the one doing him a favour, rather than the reverse.

Then she lets go of it, and with a flustered, "ohshit," the basket and his arms both drop nearly a foot through the air, because the supplies are heavy and he has not done a day of manual labour in his life.

"I've got it--!" He manages to recover, hauling it back up before it can hit the ground, and clutches it to his chest. Two blue eyes peer back at her over the top of a mophead, pleading with her not to mock him. "Sorry, which way?"

[untiltheyarent]

He receives a winning smile when he thanks her-- all right, that's cute-- and Fifi waits until she sees his eyes again before she beckons him to the stairwell and begins to ascend it.

For seven flights.

"Are you new to Riftwatch, messere?" she asks conversationally after one or two, barely breaking a sweat. She could get used to this.

[quaestionespatris]

Half of Tavi's smile, emphasized by his raised eyebrows, is visible from behind that mophead when Fifi smiles at him, and he sets off after her. The first staircase isn't even that much of a challenge, really, because he's been doing lots and lots of walking for the past month and change. It's when he's about halfway up the second one that his body reminds him there is a world of difference between walking along a mostly straight path for a distance, and hauling a heavy load up several stone staircases.

Pink-faced and winded, he perseveres nonetheless...! "Sort of," he replies, gives the basket an adjustment in his arms, and takes another breath. (He's doing great!) "Just visiting my cousin. I'm out," another breath, "seeing the world and just had," this is a really unnecessary number of stairs, "to visit Kirkwall." Kirkwall being such a tourist trap, as everyone knows.

[untiltheyarent]

“Ah,” Fifi intones pleasantly over her shoulder, “who is your cousin?”

[quaestionespatris]

"Byerly Ruyter." A little half-step shuffle-step when he nearly loses his footing, but he regains it quickly enough. "How many," a breath, "more floors?"

also you said closed to byerly but bastien always comes too

[bouchonne]

Tavi's new quarters are cramped, as his roommate is a large printing press that selfishly dominates most of the room. Having two people in the room along with that monstrosity is an impossibility; consequently, Byerly leans out in the hall as he speaks with the young man.

"I wouldn't say no to that," he says in response. His manner is casual and wry and a little cynical - an attempt to puncture through a bit of that earnestness. This kindness is such a small one, after all. To be thanked for it so very often is making him feel a bit embarrassed.

But: Byerly doesn't know the details of Tavi's life, nor how he got here, but he can guess. By himself left home when he was seventeen, and the first nights sleeping in the open were certainly a shock. He'd almost cried when he'd made his way into a real bed once more. Probably would have thanked the provider of that bed profusely, too, if the lodgings hadn't come with so many strings attached.

It's nice to provide this sweet lad with shelter without ulterior motives. "You can certainly tend to the dogs. Rat Red - " A horrible little terrier, energetic and ferocious and a terror to socks everywhere - "Hasn't learned not to shit inside yet. So she has to go out frequently."

oops then yes also open to bastien!!

[quaestionespatris]

A dog that hasn't learned to shit outdoors yet. Tavi's grateful smile starts to fray at its edges, but, well, he did offer, didn't he? Mustering his courage, he clasps his hands together in front of himself, radiating 'yes, I absolutely might as well agree to this with a smile on my face' energy. "That's great," he declares, smiling. "I love dogs." He keeps smiling, because he's definitely telling the truth. Definitely maybe.

[bouchonne]

Byerly is pleased to see that Tavi absolutely hates this idea. Well and good; perhaps he'll learn to be cautious about making reckless offers of help henceforth.

"Of course you do," says Byerly, radiating guilelessness. "You're Fereldan, after all. We all love dogs."

[quaestionespatris]

"Do we?" Tavi asks without losing that pained smile. "Every one of us?" But he's accepted this as his penance for being unable to keep his earnest mouth shut. He sighs and hefts his satchel up and off his shoulder, letting it drop to the foot of the narrow little bed, then slips his hands into his pockets to still their fidgeting. His eyes linger on that satchel like it has personally let him down in some way.

"You know," begins after a moment, "now that I'm finally here, I don't even know where to start looking." For a clue. A meagre breadcrumb trail. Anything that might give him even a glimpse of where his father might have gone after he left Kirkwall.

[bouchonne]

This is a far more interesting topic than talk of gratitude and debts and all that rot, in Byerly's humble opinion. He tilts his head to the side and examines the lad with new engagement.

"Well," he says, "there are different avenues we can take depending on - hm - what exactly you want to get out of this. Is your goal to preserve your father's liberty, or do you mind if he ends up in Southern clutches once again?"

[quaestionespatris]

"Riftwatch can hang him for all I care," he says bitterly, but also unthinkingly, and it's clear almost the moment the harsh words leave his mouth that he doesn't mean them. A second later Tavi breathes out sharply past his nose, closes his eyes, and gives his head a taut little shake. "No, I don't want that. I don't," he insists and looks to Byerly again as though afraid his impulsive vitriol will alienate the only support system he's managed to gain for himself since leaving Hunter Fell.

He hesitates, then turns and rummages through his satchel to pull out a sheaf of parchment bound together with twine. He studies them fixedly for a moment. "I just need him to sign these. Then... well, then I suppose he and I never have to see each other again." An arrangement that seems to have suited Atticus Vedici just fine, up until now.

[bouchonne]

Byerly's shrug in response to that vitriol is utterly unjudgmental, and rather supportive as a result. It certainly doesn't sound as though the man has earned any loyalty. And if Tavi doesn't care what happens to the elder Vedici, then that makes things all the easier.

"What are they?" he asks, nodding to the parchment. Documents signing over the estate, perhaps?

[quaestionespatris]

He holds the papers as though they're as priceless to him as an Andrastian reliquary, and maybe they are. "Divorce papers," he says quietly and risks a look back at Byerly again. "For my mother. So she can remarry."

There's another set of papers, too, which he still holds carefully, but they seem less precious to him. "And these are abdication papers giving up his seat in the Magisterium to me. I can't reclaim any of the estate or what's in the bank without it."