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]

Why, I imagine he'd enjoy it. It'd mean something.

[archademode]

...as you will it.

[Which, in Gabranth speak (something someone who knows him well enough might recognize) means 'I don't understand, but not enough to be stubborn about it and argue'. Punctuated, of course, by the formality of a stiff bowing of his head in acquiescence.]

If there is nothing more, then.

[Or would you like to argue about something else, Byerly? This kind of indulgence is a new one for him, after all, and he's not certain how it's meant to go.]

[bouchonne]

Have we come to an agreement, then?

[ By's smile is amused and very difficult to parse. ]

[archademode]

[That smile— compared to the one he's most used to by way of leadership— might as well be a welcome sight in its familiarity. He isn't certain he's gotten the bargain he'd sought out (in fact, considering Gabranth's less-than-meager skills concerning positive reinforcement, there's no doubt he has not) but it sits close enough within the scope that he's willing to accept it by way of one last, single nod.]

As much as two such as us might hope for.

[bouchonne]

[ With a laugh - ]

What, that sounds pessimistic. Do you think we'll be at odds?

[archademode]

We are as Mist and nethicite in our predilections, is it so difficult to imagine that our difference in opinion might yet lead to more dissension the longer we press on?

[He asks it without inflection, without any amount of frustration or expectation on his part aside from the knowledge that he— bullish and cut from the cloth of certainty— and Byerly— slight and nimble of thought— would likely disagree on the matter of the very air itself if given chance to argue their case.]

[bouchonne]

Nethicite?

[ He purses his lips. It's obviously a metaphor, and he can certainly guess at the meaning, and so he's only really asking this to be a bit of an ass, but: ]

What is that, some sort of kidney stone?

[archademode]

I speak from experience when I say you would not wish it to be.

[There's wryness in it, that voice from inside his grim-wrought helm. Perhaps he's used to it by now, the way Byerly seeks to shift topic with abrupt ease.]

Another Judge Magister sought power by infusing himself with a single fleck of that stone, and I have been told little was left to speak of in the aftermath. It is volatile, that magick. And it chooses whom it favors.

[Still, that's beside the point:]

My question stands.

[bouchonne]

[ By shrugs, and replies cheerily: ]

I like dissension.

[archademode]

[The wearied sigh that earns.]

Of this, I am well aware.

[He hasn't forgotten your last assignment, after all.]

I would prefer peace in matters of leadership. Blood is meant for the battlefield, in my experience.

[bouchonne]

What, you've never split a lip or bloodied a nose during combat training?

[archademode]

[There's a noise that catches in the back of his throat there, just barely audible. Something perhaps to do with the burns he'd left Jone with upon their first meeting— kindled temper being what it is.

He dislikes the memory of it, and discards it the moment it arises.]

There is a difference. You seek trouble as a bird to its prey, though your heart is a far softer thing than your talons.

[bouchonne]

[ A laugh of surprise. ]

Maker, you don't mince words, do you?

[ Then a shake of his head. ]

Make no mistake, Judge Magister, my heart is a withered and deadened little thing. But a fellow can be hard-hearted and still have a sense of duty. Sharp talons, but jesses and a hood; that's all. I'm flattered by your generous assessment, though.

[ A small shrug. Then: ]

But don't dismiss the importance of diplomatic training, good fellow. Wordplay and swordplay must both be learned.

[archademode]

[He would defy that assessment by way of Benedict’s care— but instead opts to let it lie. No man wishes to be pulled from his own perceptions.]

For Lord Artemaeus, yes.

[For himself? No.

Request debates all you like, Byerly, he’s just going to keep smashing that Jeopardy buzzer and listing the first things that come to mind.]

Now, if you will excuse me, I fear I have little time left to spare. My own work in the name of Commander Flint is far from complete.

[It sucks also, but he’s keeping that part to himself thank you very much.]

[bouchonne]

As you will. I wouldn't want you to cross that fearsome fellow.

[archademode]

Much too late for that, I’m afraid.

[They are, and perhaps ever will be, entirely at odds. Still, rank is rank: Gabranth won’t willingly defy it for the sake of dislike alone, and he suspects— or at the very least hopes— such holds true in reverse.

Good work tends to ignore the weaknesses of disagreement.]

[bouchonne]

[ Drama?? Drama???????? ]

You'll have to tell me about it sometime.

[archademode]

[Drama.]

A gift then, for our next meeting.

[That’s a joke, Byerly. This man does not Talk Shit about those above his rank....but he might at the very least be persuaded to express dislike in regards to his given tasks, so. Small favors.]

I bid the both of you a good day.

[Both, he says, because Whiskey remains present and utterly valid as such, offering a bow that might well be aimed at the two of them, though— as always— it’s difficult to tell with all that armor blocking out line of sight. And then, as surely as his arrival, he's gone.]