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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[byblow]

Collateral. There we go.

[ He eyes Byerly for a moment—a search for impatience or skepticism. Though it’d be hard to tell, wouldn’t it? The man has one of those faces.

But Alistair’s been talking an awful lot. ]

What do you think? A bad time to bring it up?

[bouchonne]

An extraordinarily bad time to bring it up.

[ He rubs his chin and thinks. After a moment, he says - ]

Which may actually be somewhat to your advantage. It will serve to remind her just how little of a political threat you truly are. To the best of your knowledge, this was done out of political expedience, correct? Not because she resents your nose?

[byblow]

[ At just how little of a threat, Alistair interjects with a cheerful, ]

Ouch.

[ Accurate, though.

Alistair nods at the question—yes, all political, nothing to resent—then slows his nod down and grimaces a little. ]

Weeeell. Not the nose, but I did want her father executed. I might have had a little tantrum when he wasn’t. I don’t think she liked that.

[bouchonne]

[ With faux-innocence: ]

Did her father do something shitty? I feel like I might recall something of the sort.

[ Then, less glibly: ]

I imagine there's a bit less tension between you now?

[byblow]

Me and Loghain? Sure. Best friends.

[ If the measure of best friendship is choosing not to bludgeoning someone while their back is turned, despite ample opportunity, but still being happy to share their secrets, like: ]

He had a thing for Maric Theirin, you know.

[bouchonne]

[ Whoa. By did not know. ]

A thing. Meaning he carried a torch for him?

[ Because if so, that's good tea. ]

[byblow]

Oh, yes.

Apparently. I know when I fancy someone I think is gone forever, the first thing I do is leave their son for dead on a battlefield.

[bouchonne]

[ A little puff of air - shit, man - and then Byerly shakes his head. ]

I'd think that his love makes that act of treachery no more and no less evil than it was. If he loved Maric, or hated him, his king was his king. If he wanted another, he should have called a Landsmeet.

[ And then, with a wrinkle of his nose - ]

Then again, I suppose the opinions of two unwanted sons of Ferelden could not be less meaningful or significant.

[byblow]

[ Quite a staid opinion, for an erstwhile Sexy Corypheus. Alistair raises his eyebrows at it, but not to disagree—mostly because it's none of his business. The whole premise of this conversation and the promises he'd make to be able to go home are that it's none of his business. ]

I don't know. We could form a council. Start writing letters to advise everyone on who is and isn't the worst. If we have a fancy seal, people will listen to us.

[bouchonne]

[ And let's see if that impartiality cracks, good Prince Alistair.

Without asking, By rises and goes to pull a bottle of decent Fereldan whiskey. ]

Ooh, I like that. I think it'd have to be a very fancy seal, though. Either that, or our advice would have to be written very wittily.

[byblow]

Between the two of us, I think we could manage.

[ About the bottle, he thinks, ooh, grown-up drinks, but says nothing, because he is nearing forty. ]

A fancy seal, I mean. Wit might be beyond us, but a dwarf showed me how to draw a really fun S.

[bouchonne]

[ He pours two reasonable glasses of whiskey. The pours can get deeper later. ]

My good man, I don't have a single s in my name.

[byblow]

[ While he leans forward to steal his glass, Alistair is mouthing the spelling of Byerly's name—or a spelling of Byerly's name, B-I-E-R-L-E-I-G-H. He doesn't bother with his surname before he shakes his head. ]

The seal would say Unwanted Sons, [ with a half-circle gesture, where it'd be written across the top of something round, and then a half-circle for the bottom, ] of Ferelden. And in the middle we could have a sad-looking dog or something.

[bouchonne]

Ah.

[ He lays a finger alongside his nose. Clever. ]

No one can resist a sad-looking dog.

[ Which, speaking of which - By gives a little whistle, and after a pause, Whiskey comes trotting out from By's private chamber. No one can resist. ]

And who will we badmouth first? The Ferryman made a great show of not being able to understand my accent the other day, but he might be a little small-potatoes.

[byblow]

[ The clack-clack of dog nails makes Alistair lean sideways in his chair to see her better, smile rounding into a silent aww at the emergence of her droopy face. He hasn't yet righted himself and stopped watching her when he answers. ]

Small potatoes are great. The little ones you can eat like grapes? Amazing.

[ He takes a drink. ]

And then, uh...

[ Who does he dislike. Loghain? Already discussed. Nathaniel Howe? Brother in arms, bad form to bad-mouth to an outsider. Morrigan? Good mother to a child who is technically his son. ]

Maker. Everyone keeps winning me over. The ferryman first, and then there was a tavern keeper once who spit in my drink right in front of me. Five years ago. I didn't get a name. But I can track him down.

[bouchonne]

[ ? ]

Why did he spit in your drink?

[ Whiskey comes over and noses at Alistair's hand. She's a charmer, no doubt. ]

[byblow]

[ Alistair scratches her chin while he shrugs. ]

Someone said the Wardens took his favorite horse. We probably did. So—alright, he isn't the worst, either. Looks like we're picking exclusively on the ferryman. Does he dislike Fereldans, or just you?

[bouchonne]

Well, how's he treated you?