[ His fingers curl, capturing Bastien's hand mid-spiral. He holds it there a moment - admiring the back of his hand, the lines of tendons and veins under the skin.
One would assume that there'd be something in the blood of a freeman or a peasant that would come to the surface - some physical qualities that mark him as different. Plenty of nobles claim that that's the case. You look like a peasant, they say, at times, like there's some secret feature that marks the lowborn. But Bastien's bones, his fine long limbs, his agile fingers, are as beautiful as any nobleman's. His high cheekbones and solid nose are as wonderful as they'd be if the man's parents had made a calculated match based on beauty, rather than based on whatever strategic thinking draws commoners to one another.
If Byerly had been a dutiful son, he wouldn't be holding a freeman's hand like this. If he were a proper Rutyer, he might find a lover in the lower classes, but she'd (or, if he were truly discreet, he'd) be less-than. Something to possess. Something to exploit. Not a partner in any way. Not someone who'd look him in the eye and offer assessments both gentle and blunt, who'd look after his soul. If he'd been a dutiful son, he'd never be able to keep a wife who would never produce his heirs. If he'd been a dutiful son, perhaps he could keep a married woman as a lover, but he could never keep that married woman, fortunes hitched to a Tevinter magister.
His father was a son of a bitch. Presumably still is. But...Odd and painful as the turns of his life have been, perhaps he's not so sorry to have ended up where he has. ]
That's how the Dalish do it, isn't it? Take in vagrants and ne'er-do-wells?
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[ His fingers curl, capturing Bastien's hand mid-spiral. He holds it there a moment - admiring the back of his hand, the lines of tendons and veins under the skin.
One would assume that there'd be something in the blood of a freeman or a peasant that would come to the surface - some physical qualities that mark him as different. Plenty of nobles claim that that's the case. You look like a peasant, they say, at times, like there's some secret feature that marks the lowborn. But Bastien's bones, his fine long limbs, his agile fingers, are as beautiful as any nobleman's. His high cheekbones and solid nose are as wonderful as they'd be if the man's parents had made a calculated match based on beauty, rather than based on whatever strategic thinking draws commoners to one another.
If Byerly had been a dutiful son, he wouldn't be holding a freeman's hand like this. If he were a proper Rutyer, he might find a lover in the lower classes, but she'd (or, if he were truly discreet, he'd) be less-than. Something to possess. Something to exploit. Not a partner in any way. Not someone who'd look him in the eye and offer assessments both gentle and blunt, who'd look after his soul. If he'd been a dutiful son, he'd never be able to keep a wife who would never produce his heirs. If he'd been a dutiful son, perhaps he could keep a married woman as a lover, but he could never keep that married woman, fortunes hitched to a Tevinter magister.
His father was a son of a bitch. Presumably still is. But...Odd and painful as the turns of his life have been, perhaps he's not so sorry to have ended up where he has. ]
That's how the Dalish do it, isn't it? Take in vagrants and ne'er-do-wells?