PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

[wythersake]

WHO: Ennaris Tavane, Julius, Bastien, Viktor, Clarisse La Rue + OTA
WHAT: Strangers arrive at the Gallows.
WHEN: A week in Haring.
WHERE: The Gallows / elsewhere
NOTES: Check out this OOC Post for details.

This is a catchall post for threads with or about the forgotten characters plot. Feel free to thread about it elsewhere as well!

• OOC Info
• Rookery Post

 

Comments

[cozen]

"Non?"

Heavy on the useless today — which is to say, heavy on the high class, an accent honed so sharp it can be heard even on that one syllable, his chin in his hand and his posture poor in a way that slants to suggest he thinks this is all a little beneath him. He glances up at Cedric, clocks smile and bruise.

It might be like kicking a puppy, or like sliding a puppy out of the way with your foot without paying it much attention at all. But a puppy that stood firm between them and a more peaceful entry, and threw Clarisse into the harbor, and squared up even sharper whenever anyone suggested something might be the matter with his head.

Under other circumstances, Bastien's interest in that last point would be much gentler, if no weaker.

"There is a Nevarran translation, but of course most of the nuance is lost."

The first part isn't true, so it naturally follows that the second isn't, either. But it would also still not be true if the first part were.

[dissolving]

"Sure," He agrees, leans back. Call it a lie, or a little paler, but there's one thing in this library that Cedric could compare; and the stranger's not squinting over Chant. "Reckon there's an art in that. What would y'change?"

It's not the first, second, or fifteenth question that he wants to ask; coming out somewhere behind: What's your name, how do you think you know me, why'd you ditch the others, and, How do you keep food out of that thing?

But something stubborn needs to know. Maybe that wiggle in his skull, maybe another, older. Defensive. Hears South, and money, and sharpens its teeth.

[cozen]

"I would make it, uh," and the pause here is faux thoughtful, seams visible — "not Nevarran."

And he flashes a smile, like your language is dull and so are your people is a joke they can both be in on. Like he isn't searching for the line — like he doesn't believe there can be one, where he's concerned.

"Do you read much, Ser Cedric?"

[dissolving]

Time's scarce. His evenings are spent a dozen places, and lately, at Rutyer's bequest; fumbling to work the puzzle of rhythm. He locks the door, he picks odd hours, so no one might hear or judge.

(A sharper eye to privacy than he's ever turned on Gela.)

"Reckon you got my advantage there, Messere."

Stretched a little dull, fight gone flat. Bastien will have heard that before, here and there on the back of a letter, an envoy, a particular officer of the guard. Recognition: Oh, this again,

Something in it now. A stutter, delayed. Out of practice.

"But I take recommendations in Trade." Does Orlesian have that word, A face wants a fist in it? Try motherfucker, or cunt, "That what you been doing for Riftwatch?"

He's no soldier. A soft belly's one thing, but taking off on his own, altogether another.