[ Bastien laughs from his throat and pinches By's ribs.
And he doesn't insist on a real answer. Of course they'll make it up to Rivain. Even in the unlikely event Byerly has no interest in going, or going again, Bastien's fully aware he could ask By for nearly anything and get it.
Rather, while he's squirming around to fully remove the mask to set it on the bedside table, to get the blanket back up to his chin, to slot back against By's side— ]
[ Byerly doesn't parse the question - perhaps oddly. They're talking about property in Ferelden, after all; it should, naturally, follow that there'd be questions about his ancestral property, in Ferelden. But that place feels so little like his house that he's actually confused by the question. ]
[ He stretches his arm behind his head, and says - ]
It was grand once. It was built in the Steel Age, not long after the Avvar were driven from Ferelden, so it was one of the first family houses built as a true house instead of as a fortress. Hewn out of stone, set back a ways from the sea. It looked like a hulking hunchback when viewed from the town, scowling and heavy-browed. Three stories tall, with endless cold rooms - an attic filled with true horrors to fascinate a child's imagination. Hacked-off bits of Orlesian chevaliers kept in chests.
[ His smile is wry, but not amused. It seems from his expression that that gruesome detail was an anecdote, not a joke. ]
The ceiling had holes in it that grew year by year. By the time I was a teen, we surrendered the territory to the bats - no desire to go rabid, you see. It was a pity, because it was a fascinating little refuge.
[ Bastien's circles stay steady, his attention total. He loves it when Byerly gets evocative—and it's a funny thing, funny-strange, to imagine his bright, loud, lively By growing up in a house that sounds as if by all rights it should have been haunted, playing with bones in the attic. But it's also not funny at all, strange or otherwise. Of course he'd make himself the opposite of where he came from. Or make a brave try, while failing to entirely erase streaks of darkness and chilliness and morbidity. ]
A hiding place. [ Quiet, like he's being told a bed time story, but he doesn't sound tired at all. ] Was there anywhere else you liked, once the attic was gone?
[ There's a fondness to that. Maybe surprisingly, given how much he complains of his hatred of the outdoors - but that stated hatred doesn't really seem to align with Byerly's actual behavior. He likes the wild things. ]
[ Or he was. Now his laughter is mostly silent, but there's no masking the way his chest is shaking with it while he's nestled right up against someone. ]
Mon bûcheron, avec les ours. There is a Satinalia costume.
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And he doesn't insist on a real answer. Of course they'll make it up to Rivain. Even in the unlikely event Byerly has no interest in going, or going again, Bastien's fully aware he could ask By for nearly anything and get it.
Rather, while he's squirming around to fully remove the mask to set it on the bedside table, to get the blanket back up to his chin, to slot back against By's side— ]
What was your house like?
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[ Byerly doesn't parse the question - perhaps oddly. They're talking about property in Ferelden, after all; it should, naturally, follow that there'd be questions about his ancestral property, in Ferelden. But that place feels so little like his house that he's actually confused by the question. ]
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[ Not much that is very pleasant. He draws circles on By's chest. ]
Old. Big? In a way that was respectable a hundred and fifty years ago, but isn't really so big anymore, compared to other families'.
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[ A grim sort of satisfaction to the sound. ]
The old pile.
[ He stretches his arm behind his head, and says - ]
It was grand once. It was built in the Steel Age, not long after the Avvar were driven from Ferelden, so it was one of the first family houses built as a true house instead of as a fortress. Hewn out of stone, set back a ways from the sea. It looked like a hulking hunchback when viewed from the town, scowling and heavy-browed. Three stories tall, with endless cold rooms - an attic filled with true horrors to fascinate a child's imagination. Hacked-off bits of Orlesian chevaliers kept in chests.
[ His smile is wry, but not amused. It seems from his expression that that gruesome detail was an anecdote, not a joke. ]
The ceiling had holes in it that grew year by year. By the time I was a teen, we surrendered the territory to the bats - no desire to go rabid, you see. It was a pity, because it was a fascinating little refuge.
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A hiding place. [ Quiet, like he's being told a bed time story, but he doesn't sound tired at all. ] Was there anywhere else you liked, once the attic was gone?
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[ There's a fondness to that. Maybe surprisingly, given how much he complains of his hatred of the outdoors - but that stated hatred doesn't really seem to align with Byerly's actual behavior. He likes the wild things. ]
There was so much trouble to get into out there.
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Why do you think I enjoyed it so much?
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[ Or he was. Now his laughter is mostly silent, but there's no masking the way his chest is shaking with it while he's nestled right up against someone. ]
Mon bûcheron, avec les ours. There is a Satinalia costume.