[ Bastien opens his mouth to answer, then shuts it, looking into the middle distance with a contemplative glaze. Not a bad thought. Except— ]
No. No, I could only break his heart, and if he had your eyes it would wreck me to do it.
[ Any sincerity at the core of that is wrapped in a thick layer of jovial teasing. ]
But if a standard water-pirate ever wants to, ah, have his ship boarded, I do a fantastic Orlesian naval captain. [ His accent gets even more Orlesian for it: ] We meet at last, Byerly Rutyaaaaarr.
[ He makes a rapier of his own, points and crosses finger blades, and keeps feigning a duel—lazily, but obviously with some idea how a rapier is meant to work—even while he otherwise drops the act. ]
Usually I am sad to see them go, but… [ Good riddance to Mean Creepy Dream Cousin. ] If he ever reappears, I will be much less nice to him.
For you? I will go as low as three. Some days. Seven on others. Alternating at random will keep him on his toes, you know?
[ His rapier is very bendy, because he's using it to flick the underside of Byerly's enchanting nose. Then he makes a show of sheathing it at his side and slides his arm around By's middle instead. ]
Bastien, what a horrific thought. Disinviting someone from a wedding? Unthinkable.
[ He shakes his head in mock-horror. Then: ]
Murders. His father was set to marry my aunt, who was a dreadful coquette. Poor thing. So disgraced was he by her infidelities that he killed her for them.
[ By frowns just a little bit. For others, he'd keep up some manic good cheer; in front of Bastien, though, he permits himself to show his pity and his melancholy. ]
It's hard to get an honest story about her now. She's more of a symbol than a person.
[ A coquettish aunt for Monsieur le Coquin. Bastien might be charmed, to finally hear tell of a relative that makes Byerly sound less like a solitary outcast among his own family, if she hadn’t died for it. ]
In Ferelden?
[ Must be. Of course people kill for jealousy in Orlais, but among the nobility they usually have to invent some other excuse, like irritation or boredom, so as not to seem unfashionable. ]
This was well before I was born, mind. But it was such a scandal. Especially because after that all happened, the bastard started fucking my uncle. Can you imagine? So salacious.
[ Bastien’s shrug is small enough it would have to be felt, not seen. ]
If his sister got herself killed for sleeping around, as he sees it, and his brother came along behind her to carry on with her killer… I can see how it might give a man some fucked-up ideas. About what happens when you are promiscuous, you know. About what sort of people men who sleep with men must be.
[ The tension ripples through him at once. Big enough to be both felt and seen. ]
He'd have to give a damn whether I lived or died. For the first one to be true. Which he never did. Or, no, that's not true; he'd have been happier if I'd died, I suspect.
[ Maybe Byerly’s beast of a father doesn’t have to be made sense of. He stops himself, and he twists his head around instead, forehead resting near Byerly’s ear. ]
[ That drains a bit of the tension away. It's still visible in his hands, though - they rub together, finger against finger. It's strangely reminiscent of the lashing of a cat's tail. ]
No. [ Then: ] My uncle died, as well. Murdered by his mother. [ That's unclear. There are a great many hes in this story. ] Miles' mother.
[ Bastien watches his hands. The half-dozen messages he might take away from them, if Byerly were a bard, jumble together. Like hearing a voice too muffled to decipher except for a syllable here and there. ]
This feud sounds very lopsided.
[ He holds his free hand out, palm up in offering, near Byerly’s busy fingers. ]
[ He notices how easy to read his hands are being. Forces them to still. And then places his fingertips into Bastien's hand. For the safety, if nothing else.
A bit more evenly: ]
Oh, we've inflicted our own bits of suffering on them. Have no doubt.
[ Bastien drags By’s captured hand onto his thigh, where he presses it to rest palm-up so he can trace it with his fingertips. Around the base of the palm, up and down each long finger, and around again from the beginning. There are no hidden bardic messages in his own fingers. ]
In the way that noble families do, in Ferelden. Opposition to their proposals during Landsmeets, sabotaging their agendas.
[ He's looking for messages in the patterns of those fingers on his. He's strangely comforted when none emerge. How strangely lovely it is, to talk as two normal men might talk. Not spies. Not using all their wiles to dissect the problems before them. Just two people muddling through. ]
Tragically, raiding their lands for their cattle and setting fire to their homes went out of favor when we started calling ourselves Fereldans instead of Alamarri.
Sometimes letting someone know you could have done worse and chose not to is very effective.
[ He’s pleased, to have earned a laugh in the midst of all this seriousness, and some of that lingers on his face while he returns to business and hand-tracing. ]
Have you encountered them since you left home? I suppose it would be hoping too much for some people to like you more because of it.
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No. No, I could only break his heart, and if he had your eyes it would wreck me to do it.
[ Any sincerity at the core of that is wrapped in a thick layer of jovial teasing. ]
But if a standard water-pirate ever wants to, ah, have his ship boarded, I do a fantastic Orlesian naval captain. [ His accent gets even more Orlesian for it: ] We meet at last, Byerly Rutyaaaaarr.
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[ By lifts a finger - clearly a teeny-tiy stand-in for a rapier. ]
I'm afraid, dear Captain de la Bastienne, that you've fallen into my trap.
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[ He makes a rapier of his own, points and crosses finger blades, and keeps feigning a duel—lazily, but obviously with some idea how a rapier is meant to work—even while he otherwise drops the act. ]
Usually I am sad to see them go, but… [ Good riddance to Mean Creepy Dream Cousin. ] If he ever reappears, I will be much less nice to him.
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I'd love to see it. It's hard to imagine you being un-nice.
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[ He swirls his finger, a circular parry to free it, and jabs it—gently—into Byerly’s neck, then slides it up under his chin.
With a sword, maybe it would be sexy. With his finger, he looks more on the verge of laughing. ]
But I did say less nice. So we are clear.
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Just a seven out of ten nice.
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For you? I will go as low as three. Some days. Seven on others. Alternating at random will keep him on his toes, you know?
[ His rapier is very bendy, because he's using it to flick the underside of Byerly's enchanting nose. Then he makes a show of sheathing it at his side and slides his arm around By's middle instead. ]
Do you know him very well? Your cousin.
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Not so well. Our families were in a bit of a feud, you see.
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[ He sounds more comfortable than salacious—but still equally intrigued. ]
The kind with murders? Or the kind where you are not invited to weddings?
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[ He shakes his head in mock-horror. Then: ]
Murders. His father was set to marry my aunt, who was a dreadful coquette. Poor thing. So disgraced was he by her infidelities that he killed her for them.
[ By frowns just a little bit. For others, he'd keep up some manic good cheer; in front of Bastien, though, he permits himself to show his pity and his melancholy. ]
It's hard to get an honest story about her now. She's more of a symbol than a person.
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In Ferelden?
[ Must be. Of course people kill for jealousy in Orlais, but among the nobility they usually have to invent some other excuse, like irritation or boredom, so as not to seem unfashionable. ]
Your father’s sister?
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[ A nod. ]
This was well before I was born, mind. But it was such a scandal. Especially because after that all happened, the bastard started fucking my uncle. Can you imagine? So salacious.
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Is that why your father was such a monster to you, you think?
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What do you mean?
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If his sister got herself killed for sleeping around, as he sees it, and his brother came along behind her to carry on with her killer… I can see how it might give a man some fucked-up ideas. About what happens when you are promiscuous, you know. About what sort of people men who sleep with men must be.
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[ The tension ripples through him at once. Big enough to be both felt and seen. ]
He'd have to give a damn whether I lived or died. For the first one to be true. Which he never did. Or, no, that's not true; he'd have been happier if I'd died, I suspect.
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[ Maybe Byerly’s beast of a father doesn’t have to be made sense of. He stops himself, and he twists his head around instead, forehead resting near Byerly’s ear. ]
It wouldn’t excuse him, anyway. Nothing would.
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[ That drains a bit of the tension away. It's still visible in his hands, though - they rub together, finger against finger. It's strangely reminiscent of the lashing of a cat's tail. ]
No. [ Then: ] My uncle died, as well. Murdered by his mother. [ That's unclear. There are a great many hes in this story. ] Miles' mother.
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This feud sounds very lopsided.
[ He holds his free hand out, palm up in offering, near Byerly’s busy fingers. ]
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A bit more evenly: ]
Oh, we've inflicted our own bits of suffering on them. Have no doubt.
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Bits?
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[ He's looking for messages in the patterns of those fingers on his. He's strangely comforted when none emerge. How strangely lovely it is, to talk as two normal men might talk. Not spies. Not using all their wiles to dissect the problems before them. Just two people muddling through. ]
Tragically, raiding their lands for their cattle and setting fire to their homes went out of favor when we started calling ourselves Fereldans instead of Alamarri.
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What about painting your name on the sides of their cattle in the dead of night?
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"Curse the Rutyers! Our druffalo will never be the same! At least not until the next time we bathe them!"
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[ He’s pleased, to have earned a laugh in the midst of all this seriousness, and some of that lingers on his face while he returns to business and hand-tracing. ]
Have you encountered them since you left home? I suppose it would be hoping too much for some people to like you more because of it.
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