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

[bouchonne]

Hm. Were you not able to be effective at the job?

[archademode]

[If it were possible at all to hear the sound of scorched pride through audio communication alone, this is likely as close as it gets: ] Of course there were no complications.

Ask after my service, and you shall find no fault.

[bouchonne]

There you are.

[ Cheerily: ]

It sounds like you had just what you needed to flourish.

[archademode]

[Byerly.]

My demand holds fast.

[bouchonne]

Well, good fellow, what did you think they would be doing? Orphans going outside city walls - did you think they were raiding an enemy caravan?

[archademode]

[The orphans in Ivalice dethroned gods and fought Gabranth on a military flagship so yes, actually. Probably.]

Is this world so tame that they do not?

[bouchonne]

[ For the very first time, Byerly finds himself feeling a bit wrong-footed while speaking to this fellow. This fact is audible in the little pause he takes - a brief moment of clear uncertainty. And, rather less suavely than usual: ]

Not typically, no. I don't necessarily see that as a sign of tameness.

[archademode]

[To his credit, if Gabranth notices that flicker of clear unease, he makes no mention of it.

after all, that would be rude]

What, then, if you do not see it as such.

[bouchonne]

Normalcy. There are a few places that send children to war, but very few.

[archademode]

Would that it could be the case across all worlds. Perhaps less strife would then bleed its way through the space between.

[But, akin to the tone he uses when he says it: this is not the way of things.]

I trust there will be no further obscurity between us. Had you simply confessed to the full nature of this request, know that I would not have refused.

[bouchonne]

As you wish, good fellow. Did you make any flower crowns for yourself, by the way?

[archademode]

[Dryly:]

Do I seem the sort?

[bouchonne]

I scarcely know you. How could I say?

[archademode]

Then permit me to inform your estimation, Lord Rutyer.

I am not.

[Though if Byerly should happen to ask around for curiosity’s sake after the fact, there may or may not be talk of the children swarming one particularly dour knight with hand made crowns of their own.

All of which he’d worn, by the way. Discarded only after they’d departed.]

[bouchonne]

Oh, I'm not a lord. Disinherited years ago. Byerly is fine enough.

[archademode]

[There’s a noise made for that, something low in his own throat, as if he isn’t quite sure how to endure the informality of it. But needs must, and so on and so forth.]

Is that when you came to join Riftwatch, then.

[Gabranth you can’t just ask people about being disinherited.]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly, though, sounds cheerily good-natured. He laughs. ]

Oh, Maker, no! I said years ago and I meant years ago. When I was a boy. We haven't been fighting this war that long, much as it feels like it at times.

[archademode]

...who would disown a child?

[bouchonne]

A teen. I was a boy more by merit of my fecklessness than my true age. What, that horrifies you when having children fight is simply normal?

[ Asked with curiosity, not condemnation. ]

[archademode]

Orphans made by the weight of war and all hungering disaster that crawls in its wake; countless in number but not directly crafted by matter of intent.

[And so, to that extent, with a hardened tone rather than anything openly sypathetic:]

Perhaps you stand better off for the distance so afforded to you.

[bouchonne]

Oh, I'm much better off for it.

[ Byerly sounds positively cheerful. Like this is a great amusement to him, rather than an agonizing story from a miserable life. ]

It makes me seem so deliciously interesting, doesn't it? Besides which, I've certainly developed a peculiar set of skills. Without that, I'd be of no use to this war at all.

[archademode]

[At the words ‘deliciously interesting’ there’s a faint noise from Gabranth. Not deliberately critical, mind, but—

Byerly had given him permission to be a touch more candid, hadn’t he.]

Skills?

[Narrow shoulders, frail hands and all— Gabranth can’t imagine him out there slinging a sword. Magic, maybe?]

[bouchonne]

[ A laugh. ]

Skills, yes, good fellow, skills. A man doesn't become head of Diplomacy without developing a gift of gab. And a man doesn't develop the gift of gab unless there's some reason to do so. A comfortable nobleman doesn't learn to charm, does he?

[archademode]

Head of—

[Excuse him, Byerly. Give him a moment, if you'd be so kind.


Actually, on second thought, he might have to call you back. That or he's died, because it's now startlingly quiet over there.

Probably the death thing.]

[archademode]

[Ah, there he is. Still alive.]

...no, more often than not a lifetime of comfort leads to an indolent result.