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

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.)

"Why would I be alarmed?" Benedict asks, shedding his cloak as he walks into the room (Rat Red tucked under his arm)-- and stops, looking between them. Something calculates in his expression, like he's not sure what he's seeing or how to feel about it.

"I can leave," he just says, uncertainly. Random hookup? In the house, though? That doesn't seem like Byerly's style.

The temptation to agree to this offer is quite powerful. No doubt Benedict will have strong words about what Byerly is doing right now. But - this is a home of sorts to Benedict as well. He does deserve to know the situation.

"No. This is - Bastien." Laith is a secret, he said. By can respect that. "He's one of the people who had their memories tampered with." Then, with a bit of embarrassment, "I drugged him. He does not seem to be like this normally."

"I am normally very composed," Bastien confirms from beneath his blanket.

"So you just... let him in," Benedict drawls, furrowing his brow at the stranger and then at Byerly, "one of them just attacked me, you know."

A pause.

"What'd you drug him with?"

Byerly frowns down as he finishes pulling off Bastien/Laith's socks. "There's a bit of it left in that coffee cup, if you want to give it a try."

Spy shit. You know how it goes.

"Are you hurt?" By straightens up and starts to adjust Bastien into a reclining position on the chaise, tilting him so he's not face-up. Just in case his stomach goes bad - better not to risk him choking.

Bastien cooperates—collaborates, even—with being repositioned, at first, before his drugged malleability runs into his his drugged earnest feelings about being manhandled and de-socked in front of Benedict. Then he kicks Byerly instead, in a harmless and floppy cut it out sort of way that doesn't land any harder than an elbow to the ribs.

A furtive glance to the cup, and the topic is quickly abandoned: yeah, right. Scratching Rat Red behind the ears, Benedict scrutinizes the prisoner.

"Just my pride," he admits, in a grumble-- Byerly would see right through it if he tried to be dramatic, but also most certainly recognizes how much one's pride can be hurt, if allowed.
"How'd he get in? What does he want?"

The kick might be a bit more alarming if the drugged man didn't signal what he was about to do so broadly. As it is, it's clearly something rather stupid and pointless rather than a real attack. "Ow," By says with pointed irritation, then shakes his head.

Then he says to Benedict, "He seems to believe he lives here. And seems to have enough knowledge of the place that he's had little trouble accessing it."

Benedict's brow furrows neatly. Something is wrong, and he can't put his finger on it, which only makes it all the worse.

He sidles over to drop into a chair, keeping his eyes on the prisoner all the while as he absently pets Rat Red. "The girl in Ellie's old office acted the same," he explains, "like she belonged there. Which they've all been insisting, obviously, but I didn't think they really believed it."

Until he did, anyway.

"If they're under mind control it'd have to be by someone in the vicinity."

"Maybe you're being controlled by someone in the vicinity," comes Bastien's voice from beneath the blanket. He's feeling less agreeable by the moment, albeit no less truthful. He pushes the blanket aside to facilitate jamming his arm down the front of his own dirty, days-worn shirt and jacket until his fist emerges triumphant with sending crystal and key on the end of their shared chain. "I have a key."

And knowledge. But mostly a key.

That's...unexpected. Byerly hadn't considered for a moment that the man hadn't simply broken in. Where did he get a key from? Well - Likely the same place he acquired the sending crystal. That did make sense; some corner of Byerly's mind insisted that it made sense.

"He's quite unlikely to lie under this drug. He believes it." Byerly rubs at his mouth, then reaches out to examine that chain more closely. Yes; that's unmistakably the key to this house.

"Would you know if he were a spirit?" Mages have the ability to tell that sort of thing, right?

Benedict wrinkles his nose at the stranger-- har har, but also let's not go bringing That up-- without demonstrating any real fear of him, at least until he mentions the key. That merits a glance to Byerly, and a shake of his head:

"No. Kostos would." Maybe we could invite him over and we'll kiss, "...you're letting him just. Stay here?"

That's worth removing the blanket, looking at Benedict with an odd sort of blankness: the result of annoyance running head-first into a potion that makes it difficult to feel very annoyed.

"It's very stupid," is not why he's almost annoyed, but it's what he's saying, earnestly. "If I was what you think I am, I could kill him. But I'm not, so you don't need to protect him from me."

That's the annoyance, blunted but struggling its way to the surface.

“Interesting,” Benedict snips, “I didn’t think I was asking you.”

PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

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