contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

Comments

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie pets the hair of the little girlish part of her that had hoped to be swept up and kissed, having been absent so long, and sends it out to play; he is joyful to see her, that can be enough. ]

Early on the afternoon tide, [ as invited, she moves to perch herself on the corner of the desk. ] The wind was with us near the entire journey back. I made a late appointment to irk you most terribly, but also so I might wash the salt out of my hair first.

[ She taps her lips thoughtfully with a finger, then exclaims: ]

Ah, but I did not ask! In future, do you prefer a genteel perfumed coif? Or wind-wild and smelling of the sea.

[littlemissfutility]

I think I can probably handle 'scandalous.'

[ How bad can it be? Someplace like this, where they don't even have electricity, she's kind of assuming there might be a flash of bare ankles. Something quaint. ]

But maybe I'll go to that one.

[cozen]

She takes after you.

[ Which might have sounded like a Fereldan Joke if it weren't all soggy with affection for the both of them.

But he wipes the besotted look off his nug-bare face forthwith and pulls the first of the gifts from the bags on his bed with whippy flourish. It's a wide, woven leather collar, three fingers thick, studded with small silk flowers in Val Royeaux's favorite colors of the month-or-three. It is something that, in a smaller size, would look more appropriate on one of the frilly little dogs the nobles carry. But it's not as garish as it could have been. ]

Pour la mademoiselle. [ He holds it at dog-level for her appraisal and talks to her as if he isn't actually talking to Byerly. ] There was another with big, ruffly petals to make you look like one big dog-flower, but I thought: you may be a fashionable young lady, but you are also a huntress. You needed something a little more sleek.

[bouchonne]

[ A lifted eyebrow. ]

Define scandalous for me.

[bouchonne]

I prefer whatever gets you back to me sooner.

[ He reaches out and traces a fingertip along one of her curls. There's an awkwardness in him, of course - there always is while saying sweet nothings to Lexie, specifically. Or sweet somethings. That's the problem, of course; he can't say nothings to her. It'd be easier if he could. ]

[littlemissfutility]

...Drugs, violence, sex? That's what would've been scandalous at home.

action;

[archademode]

[If not lord then sir. If not sir, then—]

Byerly.

[Heavy footfalls across stern flooring come to a full stop within the confines of Diplomacy's given office, that strangely typical armored visage lingering for a moment where it looms near the center of the room— before Gabranth reaches up without any amount of ceremony, hooking thumb and forefinger on either side beneath the ornate horns of his helm. It lifts free in a single, smooth motion: loosing a near-shoulder length tangle of pale hair, sharp eyes that narrow with trained precision beneath the shadow of a harsher brow. His face— for all its hawkish angles and the fine dusting of stubble running along his jaw— lacks pain of disfigurement or any promise of time, if such things were ever assumed.

If Byerly won’t let him pay respect to his rank with words, then he’ll do it his own way. As any true Judge of Archadia would.]

A moment of your time.

[tender]

[ there is some quiet, muted struggle to couch this sentiment, but lands on— ]

I think you're wrong.

[coquettish_trees]

[ The second problem of sweet somethings is that they make her soften. Make her quieter, make her look at him with luminous eyes when she reaches up to touch the back of his hand with fingertips as light as his.

It might be easier if she hid it, but she won’t and so there is an awkwardness in her— a kind of held-breath hesitance, knowing sometimes she is a thing that can burn.

A moment, and then effervescent again: ]

Then next time I will track road dirt and deck scum all over your fine rug, and let my hair look as if the wind and I have only just had an energetic tumble.

[bouchonne]

Yes?

[ A clear invitation to elaborate. ]

[bouchonne]

Blasphemy, too. Don't forget that.

[littlemissfutility]

Yeah, I'm not too worried about that.

[bouchonne]

[ It seems that Gabranth is -

A total fox. This is a surprise - By had expected, from the voice and the demeanor and the fact that his face is hidden, that the fellow would be haggard, scruffy, scarred, or at the very least ugly. But no, he's absolutely gorgeous, in a way that would have made Byerly's heart flutter when he was a younger and less committed man. When he was still making the mistake of falling for honorable, serious fellows. It's almost offensive, in its way: a man this beautiful, hiding his face, when By furiously rubs cream into his forehead and temples to keep from going wrinkly.

Truly, he has been cursed by the Maker. ]

By all means.

[ Somehow, he bites his tongue and keeps from making any quips about the fellow and his handsomeness and the unexpected treat of getting to see flesh and isn't this scandalous? he might blush indeed - and instead simply gestures from the seat across from him. ]

Wine? Brandy? Whiskey? [ At which point Byerly's hound-dog, non-coincidentally named Whiskey, wakes from her nap and lifts her head and stares up at Gabranth with liquid, adoring eyes, her tail wagging in greeting. ] Tea?

[bouchonne]

But your precious little ears!

[littlemissfutility]

If the worst they do around here is say "goddamn" sometimes, I think I'm gonna be okay.

[archademode]

No, thank you.

[Whiskey, for all her charms, earns a moment of Gabranth’s attention— a flicker of a shift in his eyeline— before he’s drawn back to focus on Byerly. It might not seem like much (trust that some part of him is dying inside at this very moment as that tail wags away), but it’s more than any Judge Magister ought to allow themselves to be distracted during a formal meeting.

Which is what this is, by the by, By.

He tucks his helmet against the crook of his arm, lifting his chin before continuing:]

I wished to speak with you about Lord Benedict Artemaeus, as I understand he is under your command.

[bouchonne]

"Andraste's tits" is a worse one.

[bouchonne]

Oh, Maker.

[ Byerly sighs and leans back in his chair. His hand drops down so that he can give Whiskey a good scratch between the ears. ]

What's the boy done?

[archademode]

A commendable job.

[Watching Byerly sink down into that chair is...well, it's relatable, really. They both know the man well enough to understand his own disastrous tendencies.

Which is exactly why Gabranth thought this meeting necessary in the first place.]

His assistance in extinguishing the Stormrider was invaluable; the man's spellwork proved to be its own discreet advantage. And in regards to your own area of expertise, I believe his efforts to sway the Orlesian nobility proved more than adequately sufficient.

[You know how this goes, Byerly, this is praise.]

[littlemissfutility]

If you're Andrastian, probably.

[bouchonne]

[ Oh. Well. That's a surprise. Byerly is caught mid-exasperation. ]

Really? I suppose the first isn't a surprise, though the second -

[ Hm. ]

Have you told the boy your estimation of his performance?

[archademode]

He is well aware, though his opinion— as my own— matters little compared to those in need of trustworthy assets.

[There is a steady pause there, hazel eyes lidding for a beat in thought, all too obvious now without a helmet to mask the sight of his own unsubtle tendencies.]

His standing is poor, as I am sure you yourself already understand. He does not advocate for himself, and so mired by that dread, he does not willingly act as often as he ought for Riftwatch's own benefit.

I intend to remedy this.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly's head tilts very slightly to the side. When he speaks, his voice is still rather droll - his voice is always droll - but so much less so that he actually nearly sounds like a normal person. ]

And how will you do so?

[archademode]

He is willing. He lacks his own fundamentals. They either were not instilled in him, or not properly enforced, but I intend to see that set right, as any fractured bone must be.

I believe he is a good man, Byerly. He need only the opportunity to prove himself as such.

[And so, with nothing else left to say but the bottom line, he adds, his own chin dipping to level off where his stare meets Byerly’s own:]

By force. As it was in Orlais.

[bouchonne]

[ Uh. ]

What, are you going to beat it into him?