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

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[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.

[bouchonne]

Mm.

[ His voice rich with amusement: ]

You didn't know? No wonder you were cross.

[archademode]

[The words Lord Rutyer almost slip out. He bites his tongue to tamp down on it.

If he'd ever managed to overcome his own tendency for offending those he ought not to, then this is its triumphant return by Gabranth's own estimation.]

You misunderstood. I was not incensed.

[He was, though. He definitely was.]

[bouchonne]

You thought it was merely a fellow soldier foisting work off on you, rather than an assignment. I'd be cross.

[archademode]

Hardly a soldier.

[...is that not also technically an insult, Gabranth?]

Had I truly been unwilling, I could easily have denied you.

[And the orphans. And their very small flower crowns.]

Forgive my ignorance. Adjustment to this world has taxed more than I care to admit.

[bouchonne]

Well, you'd best be careful in the future. If you'd denied me, I'd have had you summarily executed for abandonment of duties.

[ And then, because Gabranth is so comically serious, By feels that he must be kind and amend: ]

Just kidding. It'd just be a lashing.

[ ...well, okay, semi-kind. ]

[archademode]

[His instincts are entirely correct. Between Barrow and Byerly, consider lashings now filed away under things that Definitely Do Happen around here.]

I did not think you the type to rely on bold measures.

[Most people hire someone else on for that. Like say, a Judge.]

[bouchonne]

Ah, Maker, preserve my wicked heart from honest ones.

[ He's laughing. ]

I'm joking, dear fellow, in truth I am. No hand would be laid upon you. The discipline of this organization is nearly nonexistent, and we'd fracture to pieces if we tried to actually impose any rules.

[archademode]

[Yet he’d been told— ah. Foolish him, it seems.]

How do you guard yourselves from injudiciousness if you enforce so little?

[Far too transparent and protective besides, he sounds more concerned than anything else, if his unmasked voice is any indication.]