faderift | [open & closed]

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:]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He thinks, immediately, that he should go home. That he should see if his family still remembers him, that barefoot wild boy who disappeared, one day.

And then he decides no, he can't. He can't do that. So.

He shrugs. "I have no plans. I go where I find work, for now."

What a strange thing; he really doesn't ever go anywhere with an intention, now.

A short little spell of silence follows, in which Tavi hasn't lost that sad little twist at the corners of his mouth. He isn't looking at Gannicus anymore, but instead at the drink in front of him, because Maker, he just isn't cut out for this. Lying, that is. In Qarinus his mother had handled all of that ugly business for their family, and then of course there had been his father's capture by the Inquisition, and the kidnapping by Benedict's mother, and then the flight to Hunter Fell. He's had no reason at all to perfect his poker face while managing Prelate van Reede's household affairs in Hunter Fell for the last seven years.

He exhales, sinks back into his seat, and decides to rip the bandage off. "I lied. I'm sorry." He rubs both hands against his eyes before pushing them through his hair, then lets them drop into his lap. "I'm not Byerly's cousin, and I'm not here to--" he makes a dull gesture with one hand, matching a subtle roll of his own eyes at his shitty cover story, "--see the world. That's just what we're telling people so no one decides to, I don't know. Interrogate me about nonsense I know nothing about."

He pauses a moment, and he focuses right on Tavi. Suddenly the boy is...something else. Not some moon-eyed highborn boy with no sense and a cousin nearby. Suddenly he's a liar, like the rest of them in a way, but also.

Also, Gannicus isn't here to judge. But he's also now part of an organization that is currently seeking out spies. So.

He leans back and seems like for all the world, he's unbothered by this news, and he just asks, "And I seemed to be the one most likely to confess to? You've been here for no time."

If Tavi is a spy, he's either the best in the business, or he is in desperate need of a new line of work. He doesn't look up from staring rather morosely down at his mug of... of whatever this is. Grog? Who even knows.

"No," he agrees, "but I'm going to have to stay here longer than I'd originally planned, because what I'm looking for just isn't bloody here, and I need help tracking it down. And when the truth eventually comes out, you'll all trust me all even less if you all discover I've been lying to you the whole time."

He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, then risks a guilt-stricken look Gannicus's way. (He really is very bad at this.) "I'm Octavius Vedici, not Rutyer. My father was a prisoner here seven years ago, and I'm trying to find him. Not to join him, I just," another tired gesture with one hand, "need him to sign some papers." He grimaces and looks back to his grog. "Stupid thing to lie about, really."

He is so bad at this.

Gannicus opens his mouth, then closes it, and then opens it again. And takes a deep, deep, deep breath in. "Vedici," he says, searching back if the name sound familiar; it doesn't. The truth is that outside of the trainer houses, the others who owned gladiators, and their small political inner circles, Gannicus was exposed to shockingly few people by name. So.

He takes a drink. "You're not very bright, pup."

An exhausted sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh bursts out of him. "No, I'm really not." Not about this, at any rate. He's meant to be sequestered away within the deepest recesses of a collection of rare books, or laying his hands upon the wounded to coax injured flesh to knit itself back together again, or playing his mandolin in the garden. Not stumbling after his inscrutable father's fading silhouette, failing at deceiving strangers while wearing his heart on his sleeve.

He rubs one hand against the back of his neck, spares Gannicus another look of doe-eyed chagrin, and says, "I really am a spirit healer, though. And I really am from Qarinus. That much is true, I swear."

He takes a moment, quiet, and he thinks about it. "Do you want to be good at this?" he asks, and it's hard to tell, at the moment, if he's asking if Tavi wants help.

He does not actually intend on helping him.

Tavi balks at that, visibly startled. "At what? Lying? No, not particularly." He reaches for his mug, lifts it, then remembers what's inside of it and sets it down again. After a pause, he admits, "I'd probably be better at it if I'd stayed in Tevinter."

"For who?" he asks, and he is clearly not going to accept any self pity, Octavius, thanks. "For you? For the men who toil below you?"

"Is that the kind of man you want to be? One who settles for the way things are?" he asks, which is an interesting question, because until very recently, that's the man Gannicus wanted to be.

He looks up sharply at that, though he doesn't look like he's about to protest Gannicus's accurate sumation of his circumstances. Because while it's true enough that nobody toils below him anymore, that certainly wasn't the case for the vast majority of his life, and he won't pretend otherwise.

As to whether he wants to be the kind of Tevene who settles for the way things are--

"No, never," he answers, honest and sincere and tired, in the way that one becomes tired from trying to be the sort of Tevene man who doesn't settle for the way things are. It's an existentially exhausting vocation when one is an Altus mage from Tevinter. "I only meant... I don't even know what I meant. But whatever else I am, I'm not that kind of man."

He watches him for another moment, quiet. He looks up, and just away, and then back. "Then be not that kind of man," he prompts, and he's almost prompting himself as much as he's prompting Tavi.

He looks at the drink in his hand. "Drink, Octavius."

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