"Ah," comes quiet and accompanied by a narrowing of his eyes more appreciative than surprised. Mages forcing sleep ranks up there with mages forcing paralysis on his list of top things he wishes they could not do—but it's nice when it's on your side. And clever thinking. And: "Sure."
Three Orlesians walk into a larder.
The conscious man is not quite where he was left. He's squirmed sideways in their absence, inched toward one of the shelves' vertical supports. The ragged wood on the edge of the column, too soft to cut through the rope holding his wrists rather than be sanded down by it, but no one can blame him for hoping.
Bastien crouches in front of him. He says, "Hey. Look."
The guard looks, eyes darting from face to face. The hope is dimming; he'd been dreaming they wouldn't come back, perhaps, and all he had to do was free himself and wait for the house to be quiet. But he doesn't look entirely beaten yet, either, eyes going slatey with rebelliousness instead of flat with despair. That takes just asking nicely off the table.
"We aren't in the business of hurting people who are only doing their jobs," Bastien says, which is at least aspirationally true—"but we don't have a lot of time, and we need to know how you knew to come here tonight. So this is going to hurt."
He doesn't look at Gwenaëlle. No one has said out loud that she's going to be the one to do it. She hasn't agreed. There's space for her to only stand there, if she wants to—and maybe Bastien shouldn't leave her the choice. Or maybe it'd be fucking patronizing not to.
There's no pause in his explanation or faltering in the apology-tinged determination on his face. "I'll give you a second to get used to that, and then I'll take off the gag, and you can tell us what you know. Our friend here is a healer," he adds, to dangle like either a lifeline or a threat, depending on which angle their captive is inclined to look at it from. Healers can make it go away. They can also make it take longer.
i would watch for the faces
Three Orlesians walk into a larder.
The conscious man is not quite where he was left. He's squirmed sideways in their absence, inched toward one of the shelves' vertical supports. The ragged wood on the edge of the column, too soft to cut through the rope holding his wrists rather than be sanded down by it, but no one can blame him for hoping.
Bastien crouches in front of him. He says, "Hey. Look."
The guard looks, eyes darting from face to face. The hope is dimming; he'd been dreaming they wouldn't come back, perhaps, and all he had to do was free himself and wait for the house to be quiet. But he doesn't look entirely beaten yet, either, eyes going slatey with rebelliousness instead of flat with despair. That takes just asking nicely off the table.
"We aren't in the business of hurting people who are only doing their jobs," Bastien says, which is at least aspirationally true—"but we don't have a lot of time, and we need to know how you knew to come here tonight. So this is going to hurt."
He doesn't look at Gwenaëlle. No one has said out loud that she's going to be the one to do it. She hasn't agreed. There's space for her to only stand there, if she wants to—and maybe Bastien shouldn't leave her the choice. Or maybe it'd be fucking patronizing not to.
There's no pause in his explanation or faltering in the apology-tinged determination on his face. "I'll give you a second to get used to that, and then I'll take off the gag, and you can tell us what you know. Our friend here is a healer," he adds, to dangle like either a lifeline or a threat, depending on which angle their captive is inclined to look at it from. Healers can make it go away. They can also make it take longer.