WHO: Nicola + You WHAT: Fresh meat. And eventually old gross meat too. WHEN: Bloomingtide, pre-mod plot. WHERE: Kirkwall & the Gallows for now. NOTES: Putting open and closed things for all my dudes in here as I write them, so if you want to plan something with any of them, tap my shoulder about it.
Byerly knows full well that if this man is asking that question, he already knows the answer to that question. Antivans are rarely curious. They are, more typically, excessively well-informed.
Still - that’s Benedict’s father, right? Who gives a damn about the father? He’s a minuscule presence next to his wife.
“Me? I suppose if you went back far enough, you could find something. Rutyer sap can be found in most of Thedas’ noble trees.”
Byerly smiles brightly. He watches closely to see how this no-longer-so-meek newcomer reacts to a bit of nonsense.
Nicola would not admit it, and he would be cross to know anyone else might be able to see it, but there is some amusement at that, hidden in infinitesimal shifts around his eyes. Some part of him does think it's funny. Or some distant part of him is only susceptible to the influence of big, bright smiles.
But aside from that faint glimmer, he looks as stern as if he were back home waiting for a hungover cousin to finish pulling on his pants.
"Then it is even more convenient to find you here," he says. "Your," what, eyebrows raising and a deep breath accompanying the guess, "seventeenth cousin however many times removed was in business with my relatives for some time. Perhaps they will reach a new agreement now that Governor Levati is dead — "
Benedict looks from Byerly back to Nicola, silently working to piece together what exactly is going on here and, as one might predict, coming up short. It’s with genuine indignant surprise that he meets the latter’s eyes again, on the subject of some dead governor or another—- why would he have anything to do with that? Why would his father, for that matter?
“…sorry?” His inclination is to scoff, roll his eyes toward Byerly. Who’s this weirdo?
Governor Levati. A relation of this newcomer, he supposes - or maybe not. Would a Crow be so unsubtle as to take the name of the person they were taking revenge for? Surely Yseult would have been aware if there was no Nicola Levati in existence and she was bringing in someone under a false name. Though - well - she was rather busy of late…And an Antivan didn’t need to be a Crow to have a blood vendetta.
Byerly’s smile remains pleasant, though his hand drifts slowly towards the knife at his belt. Just in case the man decides to pass along someone-or-other’s regards.
“I hope you’re not laboring under the misapprehension that dear Artemaeus is some emissary of some bit of his family’s business.”
Lounging with the suspicion, maybe — offering to buy the possibility a drink so they could talk —
He glances between them. Dear Artemaeus. The repeated looks to Rutyer. Interesting. Nicola can play along with that well enough: he focuses on the older man and speaks to him as if he's Artemaeus's minder, since that seems to be more or less the case. He only belatedly glances down to notice Rutyer's hand's progress toward the knife, eyebrows quirking in surprise, so he's either not a Crow or very good at pretending not to be one.
"This" Riftwatch, "would be a strange business for him if he was."
Well. Since this man has had the bad manners to overtly acknowledge Byerly’s move towards his knife, By will have the bad manners to openly lay his hand on its hilt.
Nicola's attention flicks back to Benedict. He takes a moment to stand there, silent, considering their expressions.
"Apparently not. I am sorry to have troubled you," he says.
He unfolds his arms from their formal rest behind his back and moves to continue on his way, but two steps in he stops and pivots back as if having just remembered:
"Chiaro Matelizi was my cousin — "
Not his first cousin. Or his second. But a cousin, somewhere in there.
" — and as you know, Señor Rutyer, he is also dead. I am busy this week, but... next Saturday?"
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Still - that’s Benedict’s father, right? Who gives a damn about the father? He’s a minuscule presence next to his wife.
“Me? I suppose if you went back far enough, you could find something. Rutyer sap can be found in most of Thedas’ noble trees.”
Byerly smiles brightly. He watches closely to see how this no-longer-so-meek newcomer reacts to a bit of nonsense.
no subject
But aside from that faint glimmer, he looks as stern as if he were back home waiting for a hungover cousin to finish pulling on his pants.
"Then it is even more convenient to find you here," he says. "Your," what, eyebrows raising and a deep breath accompanying the guess, "seventeenth cousin however many times removed was in business with my relatives for some time. Perhaps they will reach a new agreement now that Governor Levati is dead — "
He looks back at wide-eyed Benedict.
" — coincidentally, I'm sure."
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“…sorry?” His inclination is to scoff, roll his eyes toward Byerly. Who’s this weirdo?
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Byerly’s smile remains pleasant, though his hand drifts slowly towards the knife at his belt. Just in case the man decides to pass along someone-or-other’s regards.
“I hope you’re not laboring under the misapprehension that dear Artemaeus is some emissary of some bit of his family’s business.”
no subject
Lounging with the suspicion, maybe — offering to buy the possibility a drink so they could talk —
He glances between them. Dear Artemaeus. The repeated looks to Rutyer. Interesting. Nicola can play along with that well enough: he focuses on the older man and speaks to him as if he's Artemaeus's minder, since that seems to be more or less the case. He only belatedly glances down to notice Rutyer's hand's progress toward the knife, eyebrows quirking in surprise, so he's either not a Crow or very good at pretending not to be one.
"This" Riftwatch, "would be a strange business for him if he was."
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He's distantly aware of receiving a new dossier, an Antivan one, that he hasn't had the chance to look over yet. In the moment, he wishes he had.
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He arches his eyebrows. Can they help him?
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"Apparently not. I am sorry to have troubled you," he says.
He unfolds his arms from their formal rest behind his back and moves to continue on his way, but two steps in he stops and pivots back as if having just remembered:
"Chiaro Matelizi was my cousin — "
Not his first cousin. Or his second. But a cousin, somewhere in there.
" — and as you know, Señor Rutyer, he is also dead. I am busy this week, but... next Saturday?"