faderift | PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

If it weren't for Bastien's bad ear, he almost certainly wouldn't have been taken by surprise. But it's on that side that Byerly approaches. Maybe it's just coincidence - but even so, it might spark some hope that there's a memory in there, buried deep down. Some hidden knowledge of Bastien and his weaknesses.

And yet Byerly's voice, when he speaks, is chillingly pleasant. Not wry or teasing or warm or gruff or sultry or exhausted or any of the multitude of tones that Bastien hears from his beloved. Instead, it's the warm indifference of the Ambassador. Monstrous in its friendliness.

"A very pleasant evening to you, messere. Have you found everything you're looking for, or do you need a bit more time?"

His hand rests on the haft of his dagger. Not a threat yet, but a warning.

Without looking at him, Bastien says, "Five more minutes should do it," in the coastal Marcher accent Yseult has painstakingly taught him to imitate. Western, coastal. Wycome or thereabouts. Not entirely right, but the wrongness is in the care with which he makes some of the sounds, as likely to be compensation for a speech disorder or a pretentious affectation as anything else.

He snuffs out the flaming runestone before he turns away from the wardrobe. The sweater in his arms is a rough knit he'd only wear in public among dockhands and fishermen, and one Byerly wouldn't wear at all. He looks at the weapon first. Byerly's face second. He'd already steeled himself for the lack of recognition; the implicit threat is, if anything, comforting. He knows what to do about daggers.

A friendly, cocky smile is already in place and doesn't waver.

"Not here for trouble. Just something to wear. And if you wanted to read the book," is not out of the question for Byerly these days, really, "I can pick a different one."

"I see the problem here. The problem is that you seem to have mistaken my home for the Chantry, and me for a bleeding-heart sister here to give alms."

It's not exactly the most normal behavior for Byerly, all things considered. He's not generally precious about belongings, especially not something as rough-spun and shoddy as that sweater that Bastien is grabbing. And yet his posture shifts into something just a bit more aggressive. A strange protectiveness over these strange items? Or is it just common suspicion?

"Curious enough, since I'm not quite comely and buxom enough to be a holy temptress."

It's a loose thread, is what it is. Something he can grasp and tug on better than slippery indifference and blank absence of recognition from the one person—

He says, "That's your opinion, serah," smile widening asymmetrically, and he unfurls the sweater to hold it up against his torso in demonstration. It'd fit him, see? Like a glove.

Or like a mitten made by someone's arthritic grandmother, fine. But it'd fit.

"Come on. It's cold. I have had a shitty day. I fed the dogs and I didn't touch the drawer with the false bottom or the safe or the 'hidden' cellar." He twitches his fingers to suggest air quotes without releasing the sweater. The dim street light that seeps through the murky glass of the window glints off his ring. "And you're not going to hurt me, so tell me what warm thing you like the least. Not this? You like this?"

What sort of spy would be so skilled that he could find those hidden places, but so reckless that he would boast about it? The stranger standing before Byerly ceases to be a riddle and becomes a danger. The safe — Fine. Many could find the safe. That's half the point of it, to contain the normal valuables. To draw attention away from the places like that drawer, which contain documents that would prove quite a lot of trouble if they fell into the wrong hands. Those hiding places couldn't be found merely by accident.

(And if feeding the dogs means that he hurt them, then Byerly will peel his fucking skin off.)

A Bard. This man must be a Bard. The combination of skill and boldness is a hallmark of a piece in the Game. But why - why now, why here?

"All right," sighs Byerly. His hand relaxes and falls away from the dagger. He shakes his head. He would very much appear to be relaxing to one who didn't know him. "Fine. You're very kind for not touching any of the real valuables. But stealing my things and then slipping away into the night makes me look like such a patsy - at least stay for a drink."

The slight narrowing of Bastien's eyes could be suspicion at the shift in attitude. Suspicion about the possibility of being drugged or poisoned or ushered onto the cramped stairway only to be stabbed or strangled from behind. And it is a little bit that—the drugging in particular—but it's mostly you don't drink. Or, he'd better not. By's worked too hard for whatever fucking bullshit magic this is to ruin years of sobriety.

"I don't drink," is what Bastien says instead of any of that. It's even true, for the most part. Solidarity etc. "But I wouldn't say no to some water."

He's taking the sweater. He drapes it over his arm. The book, too, and two silver coins out of the many more he might have collected if he wanted to. Byerly's a good actor, but Bastien does know him. Would he hurt a mouthy thief? Killing a man in self-defense seems to have nearly broken his heart, once, but that was six blood-drenched years ago. Maybe he would.

Bastien can't quite bring himself to care. He gathers up his goods in both arms, leaving none free to pull a knife or grab a wrist if it comes to that.

"Coffee, at least," Byerly insists, which will serve to confirm Bastien's suspicion of drugging. Coffee is too precious by far to be wasted on a stranger — and its taste is perfect for disguising the bitterness of a sedative or truth serum.

He leads the way downstairs. A Bard, even one weighed down by things, could likely kill him quickly enough, and so there's a cautiousness to the descent. He is exquisitely attuned to the squeaking of the steps, listening for any misplacement of his weight. But none comes.

By had entered through a window. It had been the light coming from inside that had let him know that all was not well. This had meant he'd bypassed the first floor. So it's such a relief to see that both Rat Red and Whiskey are alive and well, with Rat Red still working on a hunk of some delicacy and Whiskey contentedly laying on her side. She gives a sigh of contentment when she sees Byerly, and hardly even reacts to the threat of the stranger. Some guard dogs these two are.

He tries not to show any sign that a great weight has been lifted off him. He just asks, mildly, "Do you take sugar?"

"No," is not true, but Bastien won't be drinking it anyway, and sugar is expensive, and he's interested to see if Byerly is able to do what he intends to do to the coffee without Bastien seeing the moment he does it—

—because he isn't leaving. And he could leave. The door is just there, past the dogs, who won't stop him. Maybe it's his scent? Not the memory that this scent belongs to him, but the way it's already mixed up with the house. The way it's probably still clinging to Byerly. It's only been a week.

He lifts the sweater to his face and inhales. It does smell like him. He hasn't been erased from the world entirely.

But he could leave. It's cold out there and warm in here, but the coins will get him a room for the night and then some. He could leave and go to bed, read himself to sleep from the same book he was reading himself to sleep from a week ago, and see how things look in the morning.

He watches Byerly's back. The part of him that would have been desperate enough to try wrapping around him, face between his shoulder blades, certain there was something in Byerly's chest that would recognize him even if it couldn't reach his head—that part was left in the market, where Fifi's first instinct was to fear him. He stays at the foot of the stairs and taps his foot, feigned impatience that's really an excuse to make some noise, so Byerly will hear where he is and not need to wonder.

He doesn't hope, exactly, but he does think—with the same remove he'd approach a chess game—maybe everyone can be led to seeing the holes, even if they can't recall what was meant to be in them. He tries: "Do you live here alone?"

He's fidgety. Perhaps Byerly's assessment of Bard was wrong; they're never so noisy. Perhaps he genuinely is just some fool who happened to stumble upon those hiding places. Or perhaps he's a fanciful sort of assassin, who likes to play an idiot to throw a target off-balance. Byerly has known some like that in the past.

"Do you suppose those are my clothes you're stealing?" The reminder of Byerly's absent companion pinches at his heart. He misses him dearly. He's been away for too long, and there's no hint when he'll be coming back again. The dogs are so listless and lonely without him.

But there's hardly any time to dwell on that. The draught in question is a mild sedative mixed with a truth serum, a concoction pulled together by Fereldan intelligence. It's a precious thing, and By doesn't use it lightly. But this seems like the proper time. With a deft hand, he unstoppers the vial he'd tucked up his sleeve, and he lets the concoction dribble into the mug he then hands to the stranger.

And By takes a seat at the table, gesturing the stranger towards the other seat.

It's smooth. In the flickering firelight Bastien can only see the shadow in which it might have happened, without any certainty it did. He's impressed enough to be smiling when Byerly moves to the table, but it's distant. He's distant. Something is in the coffee. Nothing deadly. He would put on a sedative. Byerly has a sending crystal, too, and Fifi might have told about their encounter in the market, and someone might already be on the way to assist him with lugging an unconscious imposter to the dungeon.

"I should go," he says.

He doesn't want to be here, with Byerly looking at him this way. The door is just there. Seated at the table as he is, not even Byerly's long legs wouldn't be enough to stop him before he made it through the door, and then it would come down to who knows the streets best. Good enough odds there.

"What did you put in it? Nothing too rare, I hope?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

The stranger should go; he's not going. Why not? There hadn't been any Marcher accents amongst those who insisted that they belong here, but it's a strange sort of Marcher accent. In Lowtown, there are men who'd show up and steal your things, and sometimes there are Bards who come to cut your throat. But the timing is strange.

So, then. Say this man is one of those who were ensnared with blood magic. Say he's been given false memories. Some ersatz sentiment might be what's making him so erratic. Sentiment makes men foolish, after all.

Byerly drinks his coffee. He tilts his head so that the light hits him well. He makes himself look as handsome as he can.

"Have some coffee with me."

As handsome as Byerly can look, firelit and sitting across a table with coffee, is not as handsome as Bastien's ever seen him. It's handily outdone by Byerly asleep with his mouth hanging open, and Byerly caught up enough in music to forget himself, and—

And any moment Byerly's looked at him like he wasn't a stranger.

The effort still makes Bastien smile, even though he says, "That's not going to work on me, gorgeous. Sorry to say. I'll listen to an offer though, if you have one. What'd make it worth my time to be poisoned?"

"The possibility that I'll remember."

That must be it. Why else would the stranger still be here? If assassination were what he's after, there have already been a dozen chances to strike. If simple theft, he'd have gone already with the coins he'd palmed. There's no reason but curiosity about Byerly. No reason but some connection he's been forced to think he has.

Poor man. The thought comes to him unbidden. A swell of sympathy. If Byerly's hypothesis is true, and his mind has been shaped by blood magic - It's unlikely that it would have been done willingly. And if it's a con, then it's a rather sad and harmless one. Isn't it?

"The possibility that something might break through."

Rather than deny any interest in that outcome and pretend Byerly hasn't correctly discerned what he's doing here, Bastien says, "It won't," all confidence, refusing to acknowledge the bloom of belief even as he's striding forward to raise the cup. First he looks inside, searching for recognizable film, then sniffs for anything recognizable.

Finding nothing, he tips the cup in a toast. "If this kills me, you will really regret it someday."

Hope's a liar, trust's a killer, and it's Byerly's fault entirely that Bastien is downing half the coffee in one go.

He hasn't taken a seat. He stands over the table and puts the cup back down, contemplating the flavor profile. If he can figure out what it is before it takes effect then he wins. It'd be nice to win something today.

He might well be able to. Byerly hasn't kept any secrets from Bastien, save for ones it would be outright treasonous to speak aloud. And so he might be able to taste the faint fragrance of lotus, and maybe he'll know this for what it is: a drug that brings calm and loosens inhibitions. Not anything that truly compels the truth, but something that makes a person babble and makes them so euphoric that they forget to be guarded.

It also causes dreadful gastrointestinal distress once it's left one's system. Very unfortunate for Bastien.

Byerly folds his hands before him and studies the stranger. His ease and his smile are gone. Instead, what's left in its place is intense study, sharply-focused eyes that study the stranger's face.

"I hope they haven't made you think I'm someone who'd murder so casually." Or perhaps he hopes they have made the stranger think that; perhaps it would be advantageous if their enemies didn't know just how soft an organization Riftwatch was. "Won't you sit?"

(The temptation to do so will take quite a bit of will to resist. The knees get soft on this drug, and the soul gets agreeable.)

Mark it down as half a win: he realizes, but only as he's pulling out the chair, enough of the concoction is his bloodstream to make obedience more instinctive but not enough for him not to notice it happening. There's still enough of the part that doesn't want to sit down—that never particularly wants to do what he's told—to say what the fuck are you doing to the part that would like to sit down very much.

He pauses, looking at the pulled-out chair, and then he backs away. Sitting down, yes. But on the sofa, further away, with the sweater on his lap like an old man's blanket and the rest of the terrible-idea coffee left behind on the table. Passive aggression's last stand.

"No one's made me think anything," he says. The sofa has brought him closer to the dogs. He taps his foot for their attention and succeeds only in acquiring Rat Red's, who's finished her snack and comes to sniff his boot, considering its relative edibility. Relaxation seeps in. He's so stupid. He says, "Salut, mon petit rongeur."

Orlesian. That's why his accent is so strange. People use their mother tongues when talking to animals - He's got to be doing the same. So maybe a Bard after all. But no - Who would set a Bard to this purpose? Who would use a silverite dagger to slaughter a druffalo? If someone were able to get their hands on someone as skilled as a Bard, they wouldn't waste him on killing a fool like Byerly.

Mon petit rongeur. It's a beloved nickname for Rat Red. Strange, that the stranger would produce it so easily - But she looks so ratlike; it's natural.

Byerly focuses on the task at hand. He asks in his own mother's tongue, "Why did you come here?"

He could put up more resistance to the loosening of his tongue, but he did guzzle that coffee in hopes of breaking through, so—

"I live here."

He doesn't look at Byerly. He leans down to offer Rat Red his hands for sniffing instead, with a mind to gather her up and hold, but once he's tipped forward it seems better to let gravity have its way. He lives here now, bent in half, with the Rat Red nibbling on his fingers.

It's not a sign of recognition. She's a brave little dog. She'd nibble anyone.

"But you aren't going to let me stay, and I don't want to stay with you looking at me this way, so I was going to get my things and some money and find a room somewhere while everyone figures this out. I don't," with a resurgence of energy and focus, "want to go to the Gallows."

"No man in his right mind would."

The thing is - Byerly's mind dwells on paranoia, all the ways in which this could be a plot or a trap. But as a plot or a trap, it's so byzantine as to border on performance art. Either give a man false memories or have him feign false memories. Have him pretend to live here, but not in a way in which he comes proudly proclaiming his right to Byerly's property, but in a way where he sneaks in at night and avoids any encounter. In spite of the fact that he's someone with real skills. And all to, what, come after Byerly? Who's not even Ambassador any longer? What purpose could it all serve?

Granted, the fact that the stranger is so good-looking is enough to raise suspicion. The way his eyes are dark and velvety and his mouth looks so quick to smile. The boldness of his brow. But it doesn't really raise suspicion enough to truly make any of the rest of it seem logical.

And maybe Byerly's feeling the lack of company in the house. His companion has been away for so long.

"What's your name?"

"Bastien," is spoken to the floor, as he's still bent over to give Red his hand. The coffee's really working now; he adds, "Or Laith," unbidden. "But no one calls me that. It's a secret. I told you because I trust you, and had I had to tell Benedict because everything is stupid, but no one else knows."

He has, over the course of this little Orlesian speech, slid over sideways, to lay with his torso on the sofa and his feet still more or less on the ground. When he slides back into Trade, there's no false accent over top of it.

"I know it won't do any good, but will you try?"

Try to remember, presumably. The spy's response to a request like that would be obvious: feign recognition. The euphoric effects of the drug would enhance the pleasure at getting what he wanted, and that would lead Bastien-or-Laith (a Marcher name? strange, but not enough to spark any new caution) to relax even further into it. He'd talk even more forthrightly. There's no greater gift an interrogator might be handed than the question are you a friend? and the opportunity to answer yes.

But Byerly isn't much of a spy anymore. He's changed. It's been so long now that he can scarcely remember what, or who, had led him to this change, but he knows he has no desire to be the interrogator to this poor madman. Nor does he want to torment him with false hope. That would not be la bonne chose a faire.

And so Byerly doesn't answer. Instead, he stands from his seat and approaches Bastien-or-Laith. And he kneels before him and starts to undo the laces of his boots. If allowed, he'll pull them off altogether.

"You'll stay here tonight."

If he were the trembling type—the eyes welling up with relief type—

But he's not. He's watching Byerly untie his boots with a naked mix of love and horror, the kind that comes from getting what you wanted but not like this, and the serum that's seeped into his bone marrow by now compels him to say, "I won't stay. As soon as this shit wears off I'm going to leave. And you're being so stupid, By."

Bastien could have guessed he might be this soft hearted. But he would have only been guessing. And if this were any other situation, if he weren't the one in this position, and he came home to learn Byerly had let what he believed was a rambling madman sleep on the sofa, he'd be so angry.

"If you think I'm mad or you think someone is in my head—it could only be a matter of time before something switches and I try to hurt you. And I'd do it, too, because I am so much better at fighting than you are. I'm really..." He touches Byerly's cheek for a second, then stops because, again: not like this. "I'm so much better."

The dogs begin at once to bark, Rat Red's fearsome yipping carrying her all the way down the stairs as Whiskey's long, alerting bay announces the presence of a visitor. A proper one, one who lets himself in downstairs with an aggravated, slightly concerned "Byerly?"

A scuffling sound at the door, and Rat Red's happy whining indicates that both dogs are being greeted in proper form.

Byerly doesn't flinch away from the touch on his cheek. It's intimate, but he's never been one to shy away from intimacy - not even intimacy from strangers. He just looks up at the man. How can you fear a man who's naming the ways in which he might be a danger? And doing so in that tone?

Poor man. I wish I might be who you want me to be. This handsome, clever man surely would give his heart to someone very worthy. It would be a pleasure to be that person.

He pulls back just a bit when he hears Benedict. He calls back to him: "I'm in the living room. Please don't be alarmed."

Presently unable to respond with anything but honesty and sleepy-limbed shamelessness, Bastien does just that, by groaning in audible disappointment and lazily pulling the blanket draped over the arm of the chaise to cover his face.

(It isn't Benedict's presence, period, that he finds objectionable. They've moved past that. It's very heartwarming. But Benedict's presence now, in the midst of chemical-induced vulnerability, sucks shit.

But he did chug half the cup all at once and nothing after. Maybe it will leave as quickly as it came on. Soon. Maybe.)

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