[ The journey home will take some time. She cannot tell if Edgard is miserable about this mission in particular, or if there some lingering despair hanging on him.
He seems sad. Maybe she cannot help him past it, or even change the reality of what they have just done, but she cannot pretend she is not aware of him in some way. ]
[Edgard is surprised at the question. He wasn’t under the impression that Derrica had noticed his existence at all. He’s hesitant. He knows his actions (and inactions) have been judged.]
[The amount of things that weigh on Edgard could sink the ship they're traveling on.]
It didn't seem like anyone else thought too much about it. [Namely the woman speaking to him.] I try to, when I can. But, yes, of course, it weighs on me. Not much to be done about it though.
[ This is maybe very generous. Derrica has no idea whether Nell cares, or Darras, or Lazar. Poesia certainly doesn't, but that's an outlier. ]
It can be hard to get accustomed to. Some of us came from places where we'd already been used to making decisions like that, but...well, I just wanted to let you know it's alright, to hesitate.
[Edgard sees he misjudged Derrica and appreciates her candor. But still—] Is it alright? Nobody seemed to take too kindly to it. I saw them. They think I’m weak.
[ And it's hard for Derrica to consider exactly what kind of impression he made, though she wants to assume the best of her fellow agents. ]
You shouldn't hold it against them. I'm sure no one thought anything other than you have a different line as to what should be done than they did. That's not weakness.
It's good to worry. But you have to decide at some point whether or not you are devoted to this thing and prepared to live with it if you've chosen wrongly.
[ And it's still not a bad thing to worry, besides. Derrica does plenty of that. ]
I believe in what we've been trying to do. I don't think I'm wrong, but I think I'll be able to live with it if I am, or if we fail.
[A long silence as Edgard takes in what Derrica is saying.]
I admire that. [He does. He's never trusted a blind devotion, (he's seen too much to ever be that way again) but he has never considered a devotion with your eyes open that Derrica is describing. Edgard still isn't sure thats a place he can reach, but he is grateful to Derrica's perspective. Perhaps, there is more to be learned here, after all.]
Thank you. For listening and [stutters a little] taking my concerns seriously. Not many do.
So: could, but won't. That is very good for you, New Edgard.
Now you should tell him that you really mean it and you are very sorry and you believe him, that he could cave in your chest with one step, but you are apologizing so that he won't do that to you.
That was going to be my next question. They have sweet ruins—the best I have found in Kirkwall. And, ah... chouquettes and [ with the sort of voice that accompanies an eyebrow wiggle ] puits d'amour, and gougères, and—
[ He'll keep reporting on his survey of the contents of this bakery until either Edgard interrupts him or he runs out of pastries to report on. ]
The gentle approach didn't work. Edgard pulls up his sleeves, grabs the blanket with his hands, and pulls it off Benedict. He throws the blanket on the floor.
With a gasp, Benedict curls suddenly, the crisp air hitting him like a an icy wave. Of course, the sudden movement makes all his muscles cry out, which results in another little whine.
"Benedict." Edgard lowers the register of his voice to a stern harsh growl. The sound of his voice signals danger and is distinctly different from the tone he usually uses with Benedict.
The tone remains unchanged and Edgard's eyes are crazed and wild. It becomes wildly apparent that this is a man who's both been to war and seen horrors.
"Then get your arse out of bed and go to training or I will MAKE YOU."
It's not a turn Benedict was expecting in the slightest, and his face even goes a little white from the shock of it. Glancing from side to side, it's clear there's a small part of him that wants to continue resisting just to see what will happen, but this is frightening enough coming from Edgard that he leaves it be. For now.
He slips out of bed and begins to get dressed, casting the occasional nervous glance back at Edgard. I'm up, I'm up.
Edgard stays silent and serious. This approach seems very effective. He is, in truth, surprised at how well this works and files that information away. His eyes stay wild. When Benedict glances back at him, he claps twice.
With a flinch when Edgard claps, Benedict looks at him like he's lost his mind, but has not stopped tucking in his shirt. He bends to put on his vest and begins to lace it up, watching him warily.
Now fully dressed, with his shoes on, Benedict looks like he might just be compelled all the way. But then he pauses, realizing he's been acting on instinct the whole time-- but Edgard hasn't actually moved, he's just been yelling.
Edgard who has been pretending to be mad this whole time suddenly gets Actually Mad at Benedict. He sucks in a lot of air, but responds in a menacing whisper.
"Or I will drag you there. Maybe in pieces if you make it difficult."
He throws up his hands and starts towards Benedict, reaching out to grab him by the shirt. What a little shit.
Seeing that change in Edgard's eyes, if nothing else, alerts Benedict to the fact that he may have pushed him a little too far--
but what's it to him anyway, how is this any of his business?--
--and Benedict starts away, as though to think better of it and run, but the very genuine soreness of his muscles prevents him from putting any distance between himself and Edgard before he's snatched by the shirt.
"Don't touch me!" he yelps, even if that ship's already sailed.
That request is not granted when Edgard fully lifts Benedict by the shirt and tosses him towards the door, prodding his back. All the way he is ranting,
"Do you know how fucking lucky you are to get properly trained? Do you know how many people, myself included, go to war knowing nothing and either figure it out or die? You sit here with your smoking and your taking people for granted and want to complain about your muscles being sore? Non!"
If Benedict hesitates, Edgard will kick him. Edgard likes Benedict, but is extremely pissed at this upper class asshole.
A gasp of alarm when Edgard picks him up turns to one of dismay when he's tossed forward, and once again unable to control the sore, wobbling noodles that are his limbs, Bene immediately collapses to the ground. But he keeps moving, the kick landing square on its intended target and met with another yip of pain as he scrambles to his feet.
"I'm going!" he shrilly insists, "I'm going, I'm going!"
It's been a long day, things having started off as they did, and by the time Benedict makes it back to the dorm: sore, tired, hands covered in paint from his mural project, he's ready to collapse.
He falls facefirst onto the bed, lying there for a moment before he begins to shrug off his jacket in the most low-effort undressing the world has ever seen.
With a disgruntled sound, Benedict grips the pillow and whips it back at Edgard, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on his hand to better converse.
"You're not my father," he says irritably, "and you can't tell me what to do."
Edgard sits up, catches the pillow, and puts it behind his head as he lays back. He rolls his eyes and softens.
"The father thing was a joke. I don't make a habit of telling people what to do, but you were being a shit and if no one is going to tell you, then I will."
"Well," Bene begins, pauses, and fights with the words for a moment before he simply lets that be his answer. Glaring at Edgard a moment longer, considering him, he gets back up out of bed and pads out of the room, tossing his vest on the bed as he leaves it. He'll be back, no doubt, but there's some complaining to do first.
......and after a brief conversation, he returns and sits on his bed looking rather like a discouraged cat.
"Fine," Bene mutters, clearly ready for this conversation to be over. He draws his knees up to his chest, resting his chin atop them and thinking it over, still with an air of quiet sulking.
"It is if you're being a shit." He rolls back over facing away. "I don't really care what you think. If it gets you to training and stops you from dying, then sure, I'll be an asshole."
Eyeing Edgard even after he's turned around, Bene watches him for a little bit, then continues getting ready for bed, slipping off his shoes and swapping his breeches for comfier pants (with his shirt long enough to preserve his modesty, of course).
Then he lies back again, this time with a little involuntary whimper, and blows out the candle on his bedside table. Well, goodnight then.
[ Noon comes ambling back into the Gallows with the look of someone who's spent a night doing something far more satisfying than sleeping. Under his arm is a stack of old books.
Which is the aforementioned something.
He waves at Edgard when he sees him. ]
'Llo, Ashes. You're lookin' worse for wear as always.
Probably for the best. Hate to see you get cooked.
[ His reward is an arch look from Noon, who slides the books out of Edgard's reach. Noon might respect the hell out of his new boss' ideas of everyone getting access to books, but he still thinks some caution is reasonable. ]
He's in bed. That tracks, that's where he belongs.
He's also being spooned, which, after a moment of picking through the haze, he realizes does Not track. Shifting around, he cranes his neck to see behind him, at the beard tickling the back of his neck, at--
"UGH!"
In his haste to scramble away, he falls on the floor.
Edgard drowsily feels the sweet-smelling warmth move away from him and opens his eyes in time to see Benedict falling out of his bed. He blinks again. Benedict in his bed?
Then as he fully awakens, he feels a sinking sensation as every thing that happened in the dream plays through his mind.
He sits up and leans forward hands over his face. "Oh shit!" He yells.
Rubbing his elbow where he hit it on the stone floor, Benedict wrinkles his nose at Edgard, because now he's the asshole for yelling.
This is all too much. He can't even accuse Edgard of crawling into his own bed, which would be far more understandable-- so he just sits here and sulks and thinks, trying to parse what happened before he woke up.
Edgard grips his face and then releases it. He then scoots over to the side of the bed to which Benedict is closest. He grips his forehead and runs his hands through his hair. Then he turns his focus toward the person on the floor.
Slowly rising to his feet, Benedict ignores whatever panic Edgard is having. He checks his hand-- shard still there, yes, that's predictable. He checks his eye, and is pleasantly surprised to find that it opens all the way.
"You sold me out," he says at last, quiet with disbelief, turning towards Edgard. He might be angry, or just confused-- it wasn't real, was it?
Edgard is holding his bow. (Not properly, he's holding it clutched to his chest like a baby.) He hears Benedict's words and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. He opens them again.
"We had the same dream then." He slumps back to the bed not taking his eyes off Benedict. He shakes his head and says faintly, more higher pitched than usual. "I did."
Slowly returning to his senses, Benedict raises up to sit on his own bed, but is still reeling far too much from this knowledge to start properly putting himself together for the morning.
"Would-..." He begins, finds it useless, and starts again, "...is that.... should I be worried?"
Edgard looks down at his bow and then gently sets it aside. He runs his hands through his hair. He shuts his eyes and when he opens them again, they're pained.
Edgard's not sure how to respond. He wants to tell him not to be worried, but Edgard knows he has messed things up in the past. But, he would never do it on purpose. But, his mind his reeling because he did and he did it to Benedict who is right in front of him. He says the only thing he can say.
The apology chills Benedict to the bone, and he isn't completely sure why: because he's frightened of Edgard? Because the man clearly meant it so deeply, after everything? Sorting through this is going to take time, time that he doesn't have at the moment-- he's got to get to training, and then work.
With a final uncertain glance at Edgard, Benedict pulls his training clothes on and goes out, leaving him to his thoughts.
It's around dinnertime that Benedict returns to the dormitory with the intention of changing clothes so he can go out into the city with Colin. After a long day of being fully exhausted, his first instinct is, instead, to heave himself onto his bed and sigh deeply at the feeling of being prone at last.
Maybe he'll ask Colin to reschedule. Maybe dinner isn't that important.
Edgard walks in shortly after and sees Benedict lying on the bed. He takes a breath and stays near the door. He starts to back out and then wills himself forward. He puts his things down near his own bed.
"Are you alright?" He says with his back to Benedict. It's a stupid question.
At the sound of Edgard's voice, Benedict grunts lightly and turns his head, looking at him from under his hair with half his face mashed into the pillow. Then he nods, tired rather than angry.
"Everyone's all fucked today," he admits, the corner of his mouth visible in its smirk between two strands of shinier-than-usual black hair.
Let's not talk about that. Or acknowledge it ever.
Propping himself up on his elbows, Bene looks over at Edgard.
"There was truth to some of it," he murmurs pensively, "like, there were things in it that... that I think are real. Or might be. But not all of them."
"Well," Bene begins, twisting his mouth to one side as he considers how to phrase it. "Um, I went to my parents', after... our whole thing. And there was a room there, where I was, and I didn't think I'd ever seen it before." He combs his hair back with his fingers, settling his head down with his chin on his arm.
"But I think I actually like. Did. ...I think it's real. And that's."
Bene's look back at him is almost incredulous-- is it that difficult to believe? But he supposes not everyone knows the situation, which almost makes the question more awkward.
"My parents are aligned with the Venatori," he says quietly, propping his head up on one hand, "they... think, or at least thought, I was here spying for them." An unclear emotion flickers across his face: likely something he's doing his damnedest to suppress. He drops his gaze, weighed by the shame of the situation.
"If I left Riftwatch I would have to answer to them, and to the other Alti involved with Corypheus. For failing as a double agent. ...I'm not a good liar."
A deep breath in yields a sigh through his nose, and Benedict nods.
"In the dream, Mother just..." He trails off immediately, finding the memory of it, and the authenticity of the emotions surrounding it, too overwhelming to continue. "...I was a prisoner," he amends, his gaze flickering up to Edgard's and down again.
"I went home a couple years back, to try and resolve something personal. I wasn't allowed to leave then, either, until I agreed to work against Riftwatch."
"Prisoner." Edgard echoes. "I'm sorry." And its clear he means that it happened at all as well as his own part in this.
He laughs a little, but there's no humor in it. "Here I thought you were someone easily frightened. But, getting away twice, three times if we count the dream, takes some bravery."
Benedict doesn't look at him, and in fact all the wind seems to be gone from his sails, if ever it was there at all.
"The dream wasn't real," he says in a soft, introspective tone, "and the first time I 'got away', if you want to call it that, it was under the agreement to betray Riftwatch. I spent the better part of a year in the dungeon, and will probably never be trusted again. If I ever was."
He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.
"So just. ...don't feel too bad, about what didn't really happen. It's not like you compromised anything in the waking world." Unlike some of us, goes unspoken.
The corner of Bene's mouth pulls up faintly, into what might be a smile if he hadn't just dredged up a whole bunch of things that individually give him reason not to.
"They let me out on the condition I can be useful," he continues softly, "and if I can't, then..."
He spares the finger-across-neck gesture, just looking wearily downward instead.
Edgard curses in Orlesian under his breath. It's always the same. People in power looking for someone to blame, hung up on usefulness and regulations. It's Alexandre all over again. Maybe it's because he's raw from the dream, but for once that thought doesn't bring him shame. His blood boils at the injustice of it and anyone given unfair burdens. He chews his lip, breathes out and speaks gruffly.
"Then you do your best. If that's not good enough, then, we'll figure it out."
If Benedict were aware of Edgard's thought process, he might seek to correct him-- but he isn't, and he won't, already regretting the amount of detail he's given.
Edgard's response merits a little smile, and a nod into his crossed arms as Benedict lays his head back down onto them.
"I do," he assures him mildly, "I am."
A brief pause, then: "Colin and I are going out in a bit, to take the edge off. Want to come?"
Edgard's eyes widen in surprise and he nods yes eagerly before thinking about it. He then grits his teeth a little when his brain catches up.
"You sure that that would be alright? Colin might have indicated that he needed some time." He didn't necessarily say away from Edgard, but he's a little wary of taking chances at the moment.
It seems sort of funny, that Colin would need more time than Benedict, but Colin is a sensitive sort in a way Bene doesn't always understand, and perhaps it's a sign of growth that he actually stops to recognize that before fishing the crystal out from under his shirt.
A quick conversation follows, in which he asks Colin if he'd all right with Edgard joining, approval is gained, and he smiles triumphantly at the latter.
"I do just fine." He says a little defensively. Edgard sighs, looks at Benedict, who has invited him out and is kind enough to forgive him. He sighs again and relents. He rolls his eyes.
"Alright, you can comb it." He says nearly inaudibly.
"You can borrow some of my clothes, if you want to look nice," he adds, "...you'll have to take a bath first, but I think we're about the same size."
Unearthing a wooden chest from beneath his bed, he sorts through it until he finds his comb, then comes to sit on Edgard's bed behind him. This will take a while.
Bene shakes his head to himself, this being the most obvious thing in the world.
"Your hair's like... well it's part of you. And it deserves to be treated well. At least treat it as well as you would a pet. You wouldn't let a dog get this ratty, would you?"
If you know to look down, if it's not too busy, if you're not in a city full of fucking dwarves. But it's Kirkwall, and it's got dwarves down to the buried slave bones, and when all's said and done it's spying birdshit on a buoy to spot him out here.
But he is here: Halfway between a stall and the steps, and a head above the tattooed woman at his side.
"Hey," Waved over. "Hey, Naca. This is the guy I been telling you about."
Edgard's face suddenly brightens. It's not every day he meets another bowman. He shoves up his right sleeve and offers it. Smiling, he eyes Naca's arms as if trying to tell which is hers.
"Was a soldier. Long time ago, not important. But, didn't want to die, so I got good. You?"
She spits and grabs his arm, sizing. There's something off about her shoulders — a familiar asymmetry. Vance shrugs helplessly: Look, he's just here to pay.
"Too many soldiers. Don't know if there's a good bowtree left in all Orlais." Groused. She releases him, steps back. "I'm making something special. Needs a test. Deserters here can't draw for shit."
"Don't disagree. If there is one left, should probably leave it for the birds." He grins lopsidedly as his arm is manhandled and then measured. He likes her, whoever she is.
"You asking me to test something?" His eyes widen adding a please.
Right after this occurs, Benedict is heading back toward the main tower with a big stupid smirk on his face, the kind that suggests he thinks he just got away with something.
There is nothing even vaguely Edgard-shaped in his awareness, and all is bliss.
Edgard usually isn't this serious. He only was once before, and Benedict remembers it well, but it was long enough ago that he can shrug it off as being from from a different time, a different him. Surely Edgard doesn't monitor him that closely.
He can't quite bring himself to fully deny it, thus lying again, but he doesn't want to acknowledge that that's what the statement was. So Bene shrugs, hoping as hard as he can that it's enough, and Edgard will leave him alone.
Sighing through his nose, Benedict averts eye contact, his shoulders hunching irritably. All right, so Edgard's got him. It's probably safer to not even acknowledge that what he was doing just now was also (just a little bit) lying, so he shrugs again, trying to quiet the pounding of his heart telling him that Danger Is Coming.
"Wh-- ow-- stop," Benedict stammers, scowling as he steps back and away from Edgard with every shove.
"Well I didn't know that," he snaps, taking a few larger steps back and standing his ground, "and you wouldn't have an opinion on this if you hadn't been listening in, so."
He folds his own arms.
"What're you gonna do? Beat me up, out here in front of everyone?" He gestures around to the courtyard. "I didn't do anything."
"That's the problem!" Edgard explodes. "You never do anything! You let everyone else fight and do the work and you lie to get out of it. You've been training. This is what it means!"
He shoves him again and yells, "And no one cares if you get beat up, Benedict! Except maybe me! So there wouldn't be an issue!"
"Stop--" Bene stumbles back again, flailing to catch his balance and managing, though likely not without drawing the attention of one or two passersby.
He lets Edgard finish, but anger boils in him, manifesting as an indignant sneer: "that's not fucking true and you know it," he snarls, suddenly stepping forward to push past.
"Fuck you, Edgard."
He might admit to lying, eventually: but never doing anything? Days of being at Byerly's beck and call, training in the yard, and biting back every poisonous instinct set in him by twenty years of parental training amounts to nothing?
Edgard takes the phrase 'within the hour' quite literally and doesn't rush. When he steps through the door into Flint's office some time since the crystal has passed, but it is still technically within the hour.
Edgard opens his mouth to speak, looks into Flint's face, and shuts his mouth again. There is an awkward pause where Edgard isn't sure what to do.
"Well, here I am." He finally says, a little lamely.
Fortunately, within the hour means just that and there is more than enough paperwork to make out or review or sign to fill whatever time might otherwise be spent drumming fingers on a tabletop. He is in fact still engaged in some stack of the stuff when Edgard arrives and hardly glances up in reply.
"Take a seat."
He gestures to one of the chairs before the desk, and looks back at the pages before him where he scratches out a few additional lines—
"I'm sending you to Orlais. You were with us at Ghislain, yes?"
"Then I recommend finding someone here who knows more about it to take with you, or relying heavily on the locals," he says, leaning back to rifle through a drawer.
A copied map and a single page letter is produced. Both are lain out on the desk between them. The letter begins, 'To Whom It May Concern, I am writing at the request of a coalition of rural livestock farmers—'
Flint covers it with the copied map. The border between Orlais and Nevarra is delineated with a bold dark line. He indicates a slab of territory immediately adjacent to it on the Orlesian side.
"Here. The ground is too rocky for growing, but this stretch is evidently a fine piece of grazing land. Sheep, cattle, and so on. It seems that as of late, the shepherds tending those flocks have been killed while on watch. The locals suspect some fanciful animal. Given the proliferation of rifts in the fields and what we know of how it affects the environment, a fade touched wolf or something similar isn't out of the question.
"But there are a dozen other rumors as well. That it might be some demon roving the countryside left over from the war, or some kind of heretic northern blood mage, or even the peasant farmers from the Nevarran side of the border looking to chase off their neighbors from good grazing."
Here, finally, a pause in this lecture. Flint looks up, attention piercing and calculating—measuring what percentage of this has penetrated what seems to be a somewhat notoriously thick skull.
"Not the livestock. Just the shepherds," is, all things considered, a remarkably minor quibble. The sharp point of Flint's retention relents a little; he goes so far as to settle back into his chair.
"But yes. You're to go there to track and kill whatever is responsible for the attacks. And I would prefer"—not to put too fine a point on it, but—"That we not inflame some old border dispute in the process."
Edgard nods slowly. He isn't interested in causing more problems in Orlais either. He bites his lip, thinking. The last time he was sent out to go after something causing problems it turned out to be people.
"Then you are to measure which is the least invasive solution between apprehending the murderer and returning them to the nearest magistrate, or seeing justice done somewhere quietly where no one will know the difference. Your purpose there is to restore order and preserve whatever measure of peace can be."
Simple in summary; likely complicated in practice. Let's hope for big wolf.
Flint motions to the copied map and the pages with it.
"You'll find everything you might need for reference there. The letter should direct you to the proper people in Le Bord. Choose one or two members of the company to take with you; if they're not in the division, I expect you will submit the request to the relevant office."
For a moment, that hand receives the blankest of blank looks. And then with a labored air, Flint peels himself far enough forward out of the chair to accept it. He gives him a firm handshake.
"I expect a report of some kind when you return." He nods to the door beyond Edgard's shoulder. "You're dismissed."
I'm very bad at ice magic, it takes... a lot more concentration than anything else I can manage, so that was part of it. Overdoing it on healing others probably contributed to the rest.
[ On his desk in the morning, Edgard will find some functional art: a quiver, simply made but with fine leather and exquisite construction, with two bundles of arrows in it. One is regular arrows, albeit of very good make and balance, and the other is comprised of oddities. Each arrow in the second bundle is made from the wood of a different local tree, fletched with the feathers of the birds that make their nests in that tree, and headed with either the stone or metal most common to the ground where that tree is most often found. These are far less suitable for shooting, but they are lovely, and perhaps fascinating to someone who has paid attention to the land. ]
[ Bastien's good enough with a bow to have not gotten his ears pulled all the way off by his bardmaster—so much better than most people—but Edgard is a better shot than he is, which is all the more reason to practice alongside him. Bastien might learn something. And he's a little competitive. A cheerful loser, but he'd rather win, or at least keep up. It's motivating.
While they're taking a break, though, to pull arrows out of the targets so they can start again, he says, ] Those ghosts. The dead ones. Were they from the war?
[A poor attempt at a joke. He knows what he's asking. He had hoped that Bastien hadn't seen the dead bodies, but clearly not. Edgard doesn't look at Bastien and fiddles with his bow.]
Yes. No. Well--one of them.
[He breathes in and hold his bow close, disarmed without an arrow now. He runs his fingers along it, trying to stay steady.]
[ Bastien lets his shortbow dangle from one hand, string caught in the last crooked joint of his finger, and watches Edgard with a steady mix of interest and concern. Concern for him. No fear. ]
One of them was from the war, or one of them was not?
[ Bastien resists the contrarian urge to spin the bow around on his finger like a toy hoop. Instead, with an air of affectionate indulgence, he slowly adds a second finger to the one crooked around the string.
Otherwise, he only tilts his head, waiting patiently for Edgard to explain himself further. ]
[Edgard squirms in the silence. He face flushes a little and waits uncomfortably long before--]
Rayan. He was a soldier with me.
[Even saying the name fills him with a hot shame. He shoves it down and turns from Bastien to pull an arrow out of a target. It takes some tugging, it's stuck tight.]
This one was one of yours. [He says referring to the arrow.] Don't know if you killed the target, but it's seriously injured. [At this he turns back to Bastien, grinning now.]
[Edgard's face darkens and he drops the arrow in Bastien's hand. His face hardens and he doesn't look at him. Report him? He had thought Bastien was a friend, someone he could trust, and apparently Bastien just wants to report him. Edgard is stupid, he's always stupid and there's always a catch. He doesn't consider that there might be something alarming about what he's said or hasn't said, he just feels hurt and it's underlined with other hurts he's felt before. He responds sharply.]
What are you concerned about? That I make a habit of chopping off people's heads?
[He wants to cry and this makes him angrier and instead of going inward it goes outward at Bastien.]
Was ordered to. Told that I had to prove that I was a good little soldier, so I did it and then I decided to not be a good little soldier anymore.
So report that! Tell them I followed orders and killed an innocent man and then I deserted. Tell them that's why I don't follow orders anymore unless I know why I'm following them and they make sense to me.
[He doesn't add the questions that are always there: was he right? was he wrong? He shuts his mind to that and doesn't let it in. He folds his arms and looks Bastien in the eye now.]
If you're concerned I might report anything about you, wouldn't dream of it.
[ If Bastien were trying to play Edgard, he might cower a little at his tone. Take a step away. Crumple his own face with hurt. The fellow is sensitive, empathetic—he might be sorry.
But he isn't trying to play him, so Bastien doesn't disguise his unflappable absence of hurt or alarm at the response. He only tilts his head, face still, eyes thoughtful with a touch of regret, while Edgard explains. ]
They know about me.
[ He doesn't smile, because Edgard is so miserable, but there's a self-deprecating sort of twist to his mouth for a moment, for a private thought. ]
I'm sorry that happened to you. And to him. None of it should have—the whole war. It was bullshit.
[Bastien's lack of a reaction catches Edgard off guard. He expected yelling and dramatics, but instead Bastien looks at him. Edgard is still red faced and angry and in the calm, he releases a breath feeling strange and more stupid than he did initially. He nods tersely.]
Bullshit. [He spits and it's unclear whether it's an agreement or indictment, but it's quieter than before.]
So, they know. Wouldn't have reported if they didn't.
[The last bits of anger sputters out and Edgard squats down to grab the dropped arrow and stays down.]
Maybe that's wrong. How should I know what's right? It doesn't matter, it's always wrong. It's bullshit.
Edited (oh no i made it all small ) 2022-05-16 03:10 (UTC)
[ Bastien inclines his head, when Edgard doesn't pop back up to standing. But after a moment he squats down, too, and tips forward onto his knees in front of him. ]
Some things are right.
[ He puts a hand on Edgard's shoulder. He is drifting, slowly, toward hugging him. Eventually. After a few silent vibe checks to see if he's allowed. The hand on the shoulder is the first one. ]
They have been hard for me to find, too, but I think this is one of them. Riftwatch.
[Edgard isn't used to this. Generally, his temper breaks what his mistakes do not. He flinches initially at the hand on his shoulder, but he doesn't move away.]
Hope so. [His tone is quieter now.] Trying to make up for-- [He shrugs and scoots a little closer to Bastien and then looks him in the eye and speaks directly.]
Not going to hurt anyone...innocent like that again. Not on purpose. Hope not on accident either but--
[But who can say what will happen? Edgard doesn't trust his own judgement and why should anyone else? He feels a wave rising and he takes a deep breath, pushing it down and away.]
[ It does strike him, a bit, that it was a rude question, but oh well, it will sort itself out as he explains— ]
I'm running an emergency drill, soon, for the company. I need someone to make note of the names of everyone who participates during.
[ —and Edgard would have witnessed it, at minimum, that the skill of reading and writing was something Marcus left behind in an elven temple. Perhaps it's this man's proximity to that event that makes him a worthwhile candidate. ]
[Marcus??? Asking him for help?? What's the catch?]
Could do that. Just their names? To make sure everyone is there?
[At this moment, Edgard remembers that Marcus lost the skill of reading and writing and it occurs to him maybe he doesn't want people to know. Edgard already does.]
Aye. And some indication of timing, if there are stragglers.
[ If asked, Marcus would profess not to mind, and that anyone who cares to find out eventually will. What does it matter, when all know the circumstances of such a loss?
But here he is. ]
It will be done during the night, so there will be some reluctance, I'm sure.
There's a below-grounds gathering point below the central tower. In the event that the Gallows is attacked and the Commander orders that we shelter, that's where we'll go, and the nature of the drill we'll run. You'll be posted there.
I've not scheduled which evening yet, but I'll contact you the morning of with a roster.
[ comes Bastien's voice one evening, over the crystals from all the way in Halamshiral, where I am assuming Edgard was not invited on account of the mud getting on all of the rich people's fancy clothes. ]
[ It’s a general, impersonally toothless hatred—the kind where he only wants them all to die until he knows one of them, and then that one is exempt. That one can be a farmer in the new world. It’s fine. ]
I have had four different conversations today about what shade of green our uniforms are and where they can find the dye.
[ What he's doing—what he's been doing since he was fourteen, when he sold himself to a bardmaster for the ability to sleep in a bed and read books, then spent years being strenuously and violently trained to walk and talk and dress and dance and eat and fuck and smile in a way Orlais' upper echelon would find acceptable and perhaps even charming—
It is not exactly fucking them.
But he aspires. ]
at some point when the dust has settled a little around the mod plot;
How you fared in our recent troubles. Whether you'd taken any facial injuries. Whether you'd taken any dramatic scars. Whether you'd like it if he took a dramatic scar. What I thought your favourite colour was, and whether I felt your eyes were more of a chestnut or mahogany. I said hazel, so that he'd back up a little, as at this point he was quite inadvisably close to my face -
[ still going: ]
How often do you and I speak? Have you mentioned him very frequently? What of his letters? Can I carry a message? Are there any conflicts of interest which would prevent that?
[ having been obsessed over by an unstable party, i've found the best method to safely and effectively communicate your concerns is to have a slap-fight about it in the bottom of a pirate ship -
I didn't fuck him. Clean up your mess, Edgard. The next time that anyone threatens me over our presumed affair, I will make very certain that you are incapable of the act.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
after the boat trip / breaks in this inbox.
[ The journey home will take some time. She cannot tell if Edgard is miserable about this mission in particular, or if there some lingering despair hanging on him.
He seems sad. Maybe she cannot help him past it, or even change the reality of what they have just done, but she cannot pretend she is not aware of him in some way. ]
Re: after the boat trip / breaks in this inbox.
I’m as alright as I usually am. Why?
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[ Dooming men who were fleeing, who might not have meant them any immediate harm. ]
I just wanted to make sure it wasn't...weighing on you, I suppose.
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It didn't seem like anyone else thought too much about it. [Namely the woman speaking to him.] I try to, when I can. But, yes, of course, it weighs on me. Not much to be done about it though.
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[ This is maybe very generous. Derrica has no idea whether Nell cares, or Darras, or Lazar. Poesia certainly doesn't, but that's an outlier. ]
It can be hard to get accustomed to. Some of us came from places where we'd already been used to making decisions like that, but...well, I just wanted to let you know it's alright, to hesitate.
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Is it alright? Nobody seemed to take too kindly to it. I saw them. They think I’m weak.
[And maybe he is.]
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[ And it's hard for Derrica to consider exactly what kind of impression he made, though she wants to assume the best of her fellow agents. ]
You shouldn't hold it against them. I'm sure no one thought anything other than you have a different line as to what should be done than they did. That's not weakness.
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Maybe not. [He then remembers Derrica's stance in the moment.] Does it weigh on you?
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[ Not as much as it should, Derrica realizes. ]
But I believe in what we're doing, and in keeping our people safe if it comes down to it.
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[Edgard lets out a long sigh.] I just wish I found it easier to believe in things without worrying about it.
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[ And it's still not a bad thing to worry, besides. Derrica does plenty of that. ]
I believe in what we've been trying to do. I don't think I'm wrong, but I think I'll be able to live with it if I am, or if we fail.
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I admire that. [He does. He's never trusted a blind devotion, (he's seen too much to ever be that way again) but he has never considered a devotion with your eyes open that Derrica is describing. Edgard still isn't sure thats a place he can reach, but he is grateful to Derrica's perspective. Perhaps, there is more to be learned here, after all.]
Thank you. For listening and [stutters a little] taking my concerns seriously. Not many do.
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[ It's such a small thing, just a minor conversation in the wake of a mission that hadn't gone as well as it could. ]
Try to get some rest, alright?
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[a small pause.]
You get some rest, too.
crystal message
Re: crystal message
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Someone is looking for you.
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[Long silence. and then]
Big guy? I might have...made him angry.
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[With delight, though--]
New Edgard! What did you do? You will tell me.
gasp I never got a notif for this!
I thought he was threatening me, so I threw mud on him and he, uh, took it the wrong way and I didn't know what to do, so I just kicked him and ran.
[whispering]
I think I hurt his feelings?
unforgivable (you are forgiven)
You should apologize.
ty
Do you think that will work? I will try and let you know. You are very smart.
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[preen preen preen. But also--]
You must apologize to him and then you must tell me how he takes it. Make sure that you do.
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[On the other hand..]
He didn’t though, before. He just stood there while I kicked him.
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Now you should tell him that you really mean it and you are very sorry and you believe him, that he could cave in your chest with one step, but you are apologizing so that he won't do that to you.
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Alright. I will write him another note. I will be very very humble too.
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And tell me what happens next.
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Doki, why is apologizing so hard?
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Where is his office?
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I don’t know! I couldn’t go if I wanted to which I do not.
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Great. I won’t go. I’ll tell him. Thank you, Doki.
crystal.
How hungry are you today, my friend? On a scale of one to a dozen.
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[ He'll keep reporting on his survey of the contents of this bakery until either Edgard interrupts him or he runs out of pastries to report on. ]
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A few moments later his voice is back, unmuffled: ]
I will be heading back to the Gallows as soon as I am done here, if you would like to meet me somewhere. Outside? It's a nice day.
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[ Better than inside, because you can see something other than big grey walls. ]
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[He stops to put on his yellow scarf and then dashes out the door.]
action
All but one, who greets the sun filtering through the window by groaning pitifully into his pillow, and doesn't move.
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He calls over to him,
“Benedict? Are you alright? Are you hungover?”
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It is day two.
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“You don’t look like you’re dying. What’s this training?”
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“What are you dying of?”
Edgard has a suspicion, but waits for confirmation.
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Then, "everything hurts."
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"You are not dying, Benedict, you are sore from training. If you stay in bed, you will only get more sore."
back to this idgaf
zooms right in
"Time to get up!"
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"Stop it!" he grumps over his shoulder.
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"Are you a coward?"
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"..um," he says timidly, "no...?"
Trying not to be counts for something, right?
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"Then get your arse out of bed and go to training or I will MAKE YOU."
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Glancing from side to side, it's clear there's a small part of him that wants to continue resisting just to see what will happen, but this is frightening enough coming from Edgard that he leaves it be. For now.
He slips out of bed and begins to get dressed, casting the occasional nervous glance back at Edgard. I'm up, I'm up.
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No more Mr. Nice Edgard.
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"Hurry or you will be late. You don't want to make a bad impression." says Edgard, who is always late and always makes terrible impressions.
Do as I say, not as I do.
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"...or what," Bene says, carefully.
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"Or I will drag you there. Maybe in pieces if you make it difficult."
He throws up his hands and starts towards Benedict, reaching out to grab him by the shirt. What a little shit.
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but what's it to him anyway, how is this any of his business?--
--and Benedict starts away, as though to think better of it and run, but the very genuine soreness of his muscles prevents him from putting any distance between himself and Edgard before he's snatched by the shirt.
"Don't touch me!" he yelps, even if that ship's already sailed.
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"Do you know how fucking lucky you are to get properly trained? Do you know how many people, myself included, go to war knowing nothing and either figure it out or die? You sit here with your smoking and your taking people for granted and want to complain about your muscles being sore? Non!"
If Benedict hesitates, Edgard will kick him. Edgard likes Benedict, but is extremely pissed at this upper class asshole.
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"I'm going!" he shrilly insists, "I'm going, I'm going!"
that same evening
He falls facefirst onto the bed, lying there for a moment before he begins to shrug off his jacket in the most low-effort undressing the world has ever seen.
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"Did you even go to training or did you sneak back here?"
Edgard is tired and extremely irritated.
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"Then I went to work, then I painted the dining hall. Is that enough for you, Mother?"
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"For today, yes. And Father."
He sighs and lays down on his bed.
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"You're not my father," he says irritably, "and you can't tell me what to do."
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"The father thing was a joke. I don't make a habit of telling people what to do, but you were being a shit and if no one is going to tell you, then I will."
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Glaring at Edgard a moment longer, considering him, he gets back up out of bed and pads out of the room, tossing his vest on the bed as he leaves it. He'll be back, no doubt, but there's some complaining to do first.
......and after a brief conversation, he returns and sits on his bed looking rather like a discouraged cat.
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"I'm sorry I kicked you. Maybe that was too far."
He then huffs annoyed.
"I can't believe that you think I'm a worse roommate than Marcoulf." This is an unforgivable offense.
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“How much did you hear?”
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"The walls are thin. You know that."
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“It hurt,” he mumbles petulantly.
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"It could've hurt a lot more, trust me." He huffs out air. "Don't be such a arse about something being given to you next time."
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"It's none of your business anyway, what I do."
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Benedict just really doesn't get it.
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"You care if I die?"
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"Yes."
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"Don't want people who don't deserve it to die and you don't. Seen that enough."
It's truly that simple to Edgard.
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"How do you know?" he asks, "that I don't."
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"I don't know! Best I can tell you don't and you haven't given me any reason to think otherwise."
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Eyeing Edgard even after he's turned around, Bene watches him for a little bit, then continues getting ready for bed, slipping off his shoes and swapping his breeches for comfier pants (with his shirt long enough to preserve his modesty, of course).
Then he lies back again, this time with a little involuntary whimper, and blows out the candle on his bedside table. Well, goodnight then.
Post Dream Adventure Action
Which is the aforementioned something.
He waves at Edgard when he sees him. ]
'Llo, Ashes. You're lookin' worse for wear as always.
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Thank you very much as always for your kind words.
[He lowers himself onto a chair like it might hurt him. Wait a second--]
Did you call me Ashes?
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Sure. Fits you good, if you ask me. You look like you sleep too close to your fire.
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Keep an appropriate distance from fire. Dangerous.
[He reaches out and taps the books in Noon's hand, just to bug him.]
Your precious books can catch fire too, you know.
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[ His reward is an arch look from Noon, who slides the books out of Edgard's reach. Noon might respect the hell out of his new boss' ideas of everyone getting access to books, but he still thinks some caution is reasonable. ]
You huntin' trouble, Ashes?
[ His tone is friendly and easy going. ]
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Depends. There trouble to hunt? What you reading...
[A long pause while he tries to come up with an equally unflattering nickname.]
...mountain book man.
[and fails.]
don't dreeeeam iiiit's oooover
He's in bed. That tracks, that's where he belongs.
He's also being spooned, which, after a moment of picking through the haze, he realizes does Not track. Shifting around, he cranes his neck to see behind him, at the beard tickling the back of his neck, at--
"UGH!"
In his haste to scramble away, he falls on the floor.
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Then as he fully awakens, he feels a sinking sensation as every thing that happened in the dream plays through his mind.
He sits up and leans forward hands over his face. "Oh shit!" He yells.
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This is all too much. He can't even accuse Edgard of crawling into his own bed, which would be far more understandable-- so he just sits here and sulks and thinks, trying to parse what happened before he woke up.
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"Benedict?" It's a soft worried tone.
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"What happened? What was that?"
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"Did you...also have a dream?"
If Benedict remembers, Edgard will be in deep shit.
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Surely they didn't have the same one.
...surely.
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"Please!" He whispers quietly.
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"You sold me out," he says at last, quiet with disbelief, turning towards Edgard. He might be angry, or just confused-- it wasn't real, was it?
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"We had the same dream then." He slumps back to the bed not taking his eyes off Benedict. He shakes his head and says faintly, more higher pitched than usual. "I did."
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"Would-..." He begins, finds it useless, and starts again, "...is that.... should I be worried?"
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Edgard's not sure how to respond. He wants to tell him not to be worried, but Edgard knows he has messed things up in the past. But, he would never do it on purpose. But, his mind his reeling because he did and he did it to Benedict who is right in front of him. He says the only thing he can say.
"I'm so sorry." He whispers.
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With a final uncertain glance at Edgard, Benedict pulls his training clothes on and goes out, leaving him to his thoughts.
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After Benedict leaves, he gives his own bed a kick and curses when he stubs his toe.
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Maybe he'll ask Colin to reschedule. Maybe dinner isn't that important.
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"Are you alright?" He says with his back to Benedict. It's a stupid question.
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"Everyone's all fucked today," he admits, the corner of his mouth visible in its smirk between two strands of shinier-than-usual black hair.
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"Well, we all woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Or--someone else's as the case may be."
He lays back onto his own bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Whole thing was fucked."
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Propping himself up on his elbows, Bene looks over at Edgard.
"There was truth to some of it," he murmurs pensively, "like, there were things in it that... that I think are real. Or might be. But not all of them."
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"How do you mean?"
He fiddles a little with a corner of a blanket.
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"Um, I went to my parents', after... our whole thing. And there was a room there, where I was, and I didn't think I'd ever seen it before." He combs his hair back with his fingers, settling his head down with his chin on his arm.
"But I think I actually like. Did. ...I think it's real. And that's."
He chews his lower lip for a moment.
"...bad."
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"Your parents?" He says incredulously. "You were captured by the Venatori to be taken to your parents?"
Edgard shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair. He then asks measuredly, "What sort of bad room?"
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"My parents are aligned with the Venatori," he says quietly, propping his head up on one hand, "they... think, or at least thought, I was here spying for them."
An unclear emotion flickers across his face: likely something he's doing his damnedest to suppress. He drops his gaze, weighed by the shame of the situation.
"If I left Riftwatch I would have to answer to them, and to the other Alti involved with Corypheus. For failing as a double agent. ...I'm not a good liar."
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His voice drops a little. "So that's what happened? They punished you for being a bad spy?"
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"In the dream, Mother just..." He trails off immediately, finding the memory of it, and the authenticity of the emotions surrounding it, too overwhelming to continue.
"...I was a prisoner," he amends, his gaze flickering up to Edgard's and down again.
"I went home a couple years back, to try and resolve something personal. I wasn't allowed to leave then, either, until I agreed to work against Riftwatch."
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He laughs a little, but there's no humor in it. "Here I thought you were someone easily frightened. But, getting away twice, three times if we count the dream, takes some bravery."
He tries to meet Benedict's gaze, but it wavers.
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"The dream wasn't real," he says in a soft, introspective tone, "and the first time I 'got away', if you want to call it that, it was under the agreement to betray Riftwatch. I spent the better part of a year in the dungeon, and will probably never be trusted again. If I ever was."
He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.
"So just. ...don't feel too bad, about what didn't really happen. It's not like you compromised anything in the waking world." Unlike some of us, goes unspoken.
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He folds his arms over his chest. "I didn't know any of this. But, it seems to me you're no longer in the dungeon. For what it's worth, I trust you."
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"They let me out on the condition I can be useful," he continues softly, "and if I can't, then..."
He spares the finger-across-neck gesture, just looking wearily downward instead.
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"Then you do your best. If that's not good enough, then, we'll figure it out."
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Edgard's response merits a little smile, and a nod into his crossed arms as Benedict lays his head back down onto them.
"I do," he assures him mildly, "I am."
A brief pause, then: "Colin and I are going out in a bit, to take the edge off. Want to come?"
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"You sure that that would be alright? Colin might have indicated that he needed some time." He didn't necessarily say away from Edgard, but he's a little wary of taking chances at the moment.
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It seems sort of funny, that Colin would need more time than Benedict, but Colin is a sensitive sort in a way Bene doesn't always understand, and perhaps it's a sign of growth that he actually stops to recognize that before fishing the crystal out from under his shirt.
A quick conversation follows, in which he asks Colin if he'd all right with Edgard joining, approval is gained, and he smiles triumphantly at the latter.
"Let's dress up," he decides, and pauses.
"Can I comb your hair?"
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"My hair?" He repeats faintly. "A-are you saying something is wrong with it?"
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"It's dirty," he points out, "you'll never pick up anyone that way. Or. ...you might, but they won't be the kind of people you want."
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"I do just fine." He says a little defensively. Edgard sighs, looks at Benedict, who has invited him out and is kind enough to forgive him. He sighs again and relents. He rolls his eyes.
"Alright, you can comb it." He says nearly inaudibly.
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"You can borrow some of my clothes, if you want to look nice," he adds, "...you'll have to take a bath first, but I think we're about the same size."
Unearthing a wooden chest from beneath his bed, he sorts through it until he finds his comb, then comes to sit on Edgard's bed behind him. This will take a while.
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His eyes roll to the top of his head to try to see Benedict's progress. "Ow! That hurts! I'd like to have hair left when you're through, thanks."
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He won't push it, though-- it's Edgard's loss.
Combing through as carefully as he can, he scoffs.
"Don't be a baby. I'm being as gentle as I can, all things considered."
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"I'm not being a baby! It hurts! Do you do this to yourself every day? Is this why it takes you so long? What are you doing? I can't see it!"
Edgard takes a deep breath. He is staying very still despite the string of complaints.
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...but that would take too long, to do properly."
He's being quite careful about not ripping the comb through knots, because tearing it would remove any chance of salvaging what's there.
"You could have lovely hair, if you'd only care for it."
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Each word is punctuated with a grimace as Benedict tears through it.
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"If you're not going to care for it, why keep it long?"
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He flinches a little in response to the battle with the wretched knot.
"Plus cutting it is also work."
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Bene shakes his head to himself, this being the most obvious thing in the world.
"Your hair's like... well it's part of you. And it deserves to be treated well. At least treat it as well as you would a pet. You wouldn't let a dog get this ratty, would you?"
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He huffs. "I am not mean to my hair, I just let it be natural."
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"No." He says quietly.
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Time to just. ...sit with that.
crystals;
eyes emoji
why?
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-> action
If you know to look down, if it's not too busy, if you're not in a city full of fucking dwarves. But it's Kirkwall, and it's got dwarves down to the buried slave bones, and when all's said and done it's spying birdshit on a buoy to spot him out here.
But he is here: Halfway between a stall and the steps, and a head above the tattooed woman at his side.
"Hey," Waved over. "Hey, Naca. This is the guy I been telling you about."
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"What have you been telling her?"
Edgard shrugs. "Whatever it is, Vance started it." It's partially a joke, but not all the way a joke.
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"Show me your drawing arm," Curt. "Where'd you learn to shoot?"
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"Was a soldier. Long time ago, not important. But, didn't want to die, so I got good. You?"
He nervously glances at Vance.
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She spits and grabs his arm, sizing. There's something off about her shoulders — a familiar asymmetry. Vance shrugs helplessly: Look, he's just here to pay.
"Too many soldiers. Don't know if there's a good bowtree left in all Orlais." Groused. She releases him, steps back. "I'm making something special. Needs a test. Deserters here can't draw for shit."
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"You asking me to test something?" His eyes widen adding a please.
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Vance mouths, behind her head: Say yes.
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But, he leans against a wall nonchalantly and his mouth says,
"Give it a shot if you want."
action
There is nothing even vaguely Edgard-shaped in his awareness, and all is bliss.
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"Why are you so happy? Couldn't be because you've been lying, is it?"
His tone is brusque, but stern. He means business.
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"What a rude assumption to make. Maybe I'm just having a good day."
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"Why would you assume it's an assumption?"
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"...what... do you mean," he asks, playing it very cool.
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He lowers his arms and says very quietly (but deadly).
"Lied about anything recently?"
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He can't quite bring himself to fully deny it, thus lying again, but he doesn't want to acknowledge that that's what the statement was. So Bene shrugs, hoping as hard as he can that it's enough, and Edgard will leave him alone.
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"So, now you're gunna lie to me too?"
He huffs and growls back.
"I heard you! I heard you lie to get out of that assignment."
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"It wasn't a real assignment," he grumbles.
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"And what isn't real about it?" He breathes evenly, deliberately.
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He shoves Benedict lightly with every word in the next sentence.
"That's what they said when they assigned me to it."
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"Well I didn't know that," he snaps, taking a few larger steps back and standing his ground, "and you wouldn't have an opinion on this if you hadn't been listening in, so."
He folds his own arms.
"What're you gonna do? Beat me up, out here in front of everyone?" He gestures around to the courtyard.
"I didn't do anything."
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He shoves him again and yells, "And no one cares if you get beat up, Benedict! Except maybe me! So there wouldn't be an issue!"
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He lets Edgard finish, but anger boils in him, manifesting as an indignant sneer: "that's not fucking true and you know it," he snarls, suddenly stepping forward to push past.
"Fuck you, Edgard."
He might admit to lying, eventually: but never doing anything? Days of being at Byerly's beck and call, training in the yard, and biting back every poisonous instinct set in him by twenty years of parental training amounts to nothing?
crystal;
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This is Edgard. Think maybe you got the wrong crystal?
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[So no.]
Be in the division office within the hour.
Action
Edgard opens his mouth to speak, looks into Flint's face, and shuts his mouth again. There is an awkward pause where Edgard isn't sure what to do.
"Well, here I am." He finally says, a little lamely.
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"Take a seat."
He gestures to one of the chairs before the desk, and looks back at the pages before him where he scratches out a few additional lines—
"I'm sending you to Orlais. You were with us at Ghislain, yes?"
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Edgard supposed it makes sense, send an Orlesian to Orlais, but he frowns a little, worried.
"Am I going back to Ghislain?"
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Here, finally, Flint sets aside both his pen and the reports before him and turns his full attention onto the man sitting across the desk.
"I know you're a fine shot. Have you done any tracking before?"
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"Only a little." He admits in response to Flint's question.
He grins a little at the compliment. It's nice to be appreciated.
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A copied map and a single page letter is produced. Both are lain out on the desk between them. The letter begins, 'To Whom It May Concern, I am writing at the request of a coalition of rural livestock farmers—'
Flint covers it with the copied map. The border between Orlais and Nevarra is delineated with a bold dark line. He indicates a slab of territory immediately adjacent to it on the Orlesian side.
"Here. The ground is too rocky for growing, but this stretch is evidently a fine piece of grazing land. Sheep, cattle, and so on. It seems that as of late, the shepherds tending those flocks have been killed while on watch. The locals suspect some fanciful animal. Given the proliferation of rifts in the fields and what we know of how it affects the environment, a fade touched wolf or something similar isn't out of the question.
"But there are a dozen other rumors as well. That it might be some demon roving the countryside left over from the war, or some kind of heretic northern blood mage, or even the peasant farmers from the Nevarran side of the border looking to chase off their neighbors from good grazing."
Here, finally, a pause in this lecture. Flint looks up, attention piercing and calculating—measuring what percentage of this has penetrated what seems to be a somewhat notoriously thick skull.
"Are you following?"
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"Following. Shepherds and livestock getting killed by something, possibly fade related but lots of rumors, and I'm guessing I'm to figure it out."
Edgard waits for confirmation. He sits up straighter, trying his best to look more responsible.
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"But yes. You're to go there to track and kill whatever is responsible for the attacks. And I would prefer"—not to put too fine a point on it, but—"That we not inflame some old border dispute in the process."
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"And if it is Nevarrans trying to get land?"
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Simple in summary; likely complicated in practice. Let's hope for big wolf.
Flint motions to the copied map and the pages with it.
"You'll find everything you might need for reference there. The letter should direct you to the proper people in Le Bord. Choose one or two members of the company to take with you; if they're not in the division, I expect you will submit the request to the relevant office."
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"Alright." He huffs out.
He stands to go and then pauses awkwardly for a moment crouched halfway between a sit and a stand. He holds out his hand to Flint.
He gnaws on his lip a little while he waits. This is what he's supposed to do, right?
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"I expect a report of some kind when you return." He nods to the door beyond Edgard's shoulder. "You're dismissed."
august; crystal
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How am I doing? Back at the gallows. That's...that's where I am.
[A soft clunk heard as he sits down.]
Very tired. From the Free Marches. But, all of me.
[A sigh and a pause before a tentative]
How are you doing?
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[ Back at the Gallows. Very tired. Possessed of her entire body. ]
It's alright, I suppose.
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Alright is alright. Glad for it. No injuries, then?
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Yell at someone too loudly?
[He speaks from experience.]
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How does that work? Do you have to shout things or is your magic in your throat?
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Probably in your throat then. Seems long enough to me. Rest of you, sort of small.
[It's all very logical.]
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You could well be right. I am rather small.
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[Edgard wouldn't last two seconds.]
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What did you do with your magic that took so much out of you?
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Satinalia~ (sorry for late :3)
VERY BELATEDLY
action.
While they're taking a break, though, to pull arrows out of the targets so they can start again, he says, ] Those ghosts. The dead ones. Were they from the war?
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[A poor attempt at a joke. He knows what he's asking. He had hoped that Bastien hadn't seen the dead bodies, but clearly not. Edgard doesn't look at Bastien and fiddles with his bow.]
Yes. No. Well--one of them.
[He breathes in and hold his bow close, disarmed without an arrow now. He runs his fingers along it, trying to stay steady.]
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One of them was from the war, or one of them was not?
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He can't help it.]
Careful, don't want to drop that. They don't seem it, but can be delicate.
[He hopes for a moment that maybe he's successfully changed the subject, but no. He shrugs.]
One was from the war. Or, directly anyway. 's all from the war in some way or another.
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Otherwise, he only tilts his head, waiting patiently for Edgard to explain himself further. ]
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Rayan. He was a soldier with me.
[Even saying the name fills him with a hot shame. He shoves it down and turns from Bastien to pull an arrow out of a target. It takes some tugging, it's stuck tight.]
This one was one of yours. [He says referring to the arrow.] Don't know if you killed the target, but it's seriously injured. [At this he turns back to Bastien, grinning now.]
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You don't want to talk about it.
[ Obviously. ]
Just tell me enough for me to know I don't need to report it to anyone.
[ To Flint, he means, or Yseult. ]
eek face, sorry mj
What are you concerned about? That I make a habit of chopping off people's heads?
[He wants to cry and this makes him angrier and instead of going inward it goes outward at Bastien.]
Was ordered to. Told that I had to prove that I was a good little soldier, so I did it and then I decided to not be a good little soldier anymore.
So report that! Tell them I followed orders and killed an innocent man and then I deserted. Tell them that's why I don't follow orders anymore unless I know why I'm following them and they make sense to me.
[He doesn't add the questions that are always there: was he right? was he wrong? He shuts his mind to that and doesn't let it in. He folds his arms and looks Bastien in the eye now.]
If you're concerned I might report anything about you, wouldn't dream of it.
[This is said with great resentment.]
forgot to say you SHOULD BE :,( (jk)
But he isn't trying to play him, so Bastien doesn't disguise his unflappable absence of hurt or alarm at the response. He only tilts his head, face still, eyes thoughtful with a touch of regret, while Edgard explains. ]
They know about me.
[ He doesn't smile, because Edgard is so miserable, but there's a self-deprecating sort of twist to his mouth for a moment, for a private thought. ]
I'm sorry that happened to you. And to him. None of it should have—the whole war. It was bullshit.
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Bullshit. [He spits and it's unclear whether it's an agreement or indictment, but it's quieter than before.]
So, they know. Wouldn't have reported if they didn't.
[The last bits of anger sputters out and Edgard squats down to grab the dropped arrow and stays down.]
Maybe that's wrong. How should I know what's right? It doesn't matter, it's always wrong. It's bullshit.
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Some things are right.
[ He puts a hand on Edgard's shoulder. He is drifting, slowly, toward hugging him. Eventually. After a few silent vibe checks to see if he's allowed. The hand on the shoulder is the first one. ]
They have been hard for me to find, too, but I think this is one of them. Riftwatch.
hand to heart
Hope so. [His tone is quieter now.] Trying to make up for-- [He shrugs and scoots a little closer to Bastien and then looks him in the eye and speaks directly.]
Not going to hurt anyone...innocent like that again. Not on purpose. Hope not on accident either but--
[But who can say what will happen? Edgard doesn't trust his own judgement and why should anyone else? He feels a wave rising and he takes a deep breath, pushing it down and away.]
crystal.
[ Hi. ]
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Was I supposed to read something?
[Hi back. Yes, he's literate.]
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[ It does strike him, a bit, that it was a rude question, but oh well, it will sort itself out as he explains— ]
I'm running an emergency drill, soon, for the company. I need someone to make note of the names of everyone who participates during.
[ —and Edgard would have witnessed it, at minimum, that the skill of reading and writing was something Marcus left behind in an elven temple. Perhaps it's this man's proximity to that event that makes him a worthwhile candidate. ]
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Could do that. Just their names? To make sure everyone is there?
[At this moment, Edgard remembers that Marcus lost the skill of reading and writing and it occurs to him maybe he doesn't want people to know. Edgard already does.]
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[ If asked, Marcus would profess not to mind, and that anyone who cares to find out eventually will. What does it matter, when all know the circumstances of such a loss?
But here he is. ]
It will be done during the night, so there will be some reluctance, I'm sure.
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[Please say yes.]
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[ And he's not not going to enjoy that part. ]
So I'd appreciate you not give anyone due warning ahead of time.
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[It's true, he wouldn't. First of all, he loves surprises. Secondly, Edgard's a man of his word. But, something still nags at him. So, he just asks.]
Why me? Why not--[A pause while Edgard tried to think of people Marcus associates with, realizes he has no idea, and continues] someone else?
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You're a member of Forces, and I've already assigned roles to three others of our division, one for each tower, to sound alarms.
[ A beat, then— ]
And you've understanding why I can't do this part myself, already.
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Yes. Understood. 'll do it.
Where will I be?
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There's a below-grounds gathering point below the central tower. In the event that the Gallows is attacked and the Commander orders that we shelter, that's where we'll go, and the nature of the drill we'll run. You'll be posted there.
I've not scheduled which evening yet, but I'll contact you the morning of with a roster.
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[This is even better than he thought! Edgard gets to hang out in the dirt for an assignment! What a great gig!]
'll be ready.
[He was born ready.]
crystal.
[ comes Bastien's voice one evening, over the crystals from all the way in Halamshiral, where I am assuming Edgard was not invited on account of the mud getting on all of the rich people's fancy clothes. ]
I had forgotten how much I hate these people.
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[Does Bastien hate anyone?]
Who 're we talking about?
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[ It’s a general, impersonally toothless hatred—the kind where he only wants them all to die until he knows one of them, and then that one is exempt. That one can be a farmer in the new world. It’s fine. ]
I have had four different conversations today about what shade of green our uniforms are and where they can find the dye.
TIL that the uniforms are green
[Isn't the point and definitely has nothing to do with how clean Edgard keeps things.]
Four is a lot of conversations about dye. More than I had though. Unless you count this one. Guess you've had five.
[Edgard may or may not feel put out about not being wanted at the fancy party.]
only in places! http://faderift.wikidot.com/riftwatch-uniforms
[ He sounds more cheerful already, see? ]
Do you remember who your liege was where you grew up? Were they any good?
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Don't remember. Wouldn't have ever seen 'm. 'spect my father did, maybe. Why?
Who sent you an invitation?
[wild change of subject back to the party.]
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The Baroness de Martigny. She is an old friend.
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yeah? Well 'm friends with--
[Oh no, does he know anyone impressive? Think, Edgard, Think.]
Sunbeam
[Quick, move on.]
Could've told your friend to invite your friends
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[ apologetically, ]
I assumed you wouldn't enjoy it anyway.
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Why're people strange to me?
[He's asking more than why he isn't invited to fancy parties, but not being invited to fancy parties is certainly part of it.]
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Well—
I think you are fine the way you are, Edgard. And you should live your life the way you want, and it doesn't matter if other people don't like it.
But if it bothers you very much,
[ as gently as he can manage, which is very gently, ]
cleaning up a little might make a difference.
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[ Both of which are better than Bastien, actually, but— ]
But, you know, fuck them.
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Bastien. You're right. Fuck them!
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Of course I am right.
[ What he's doing—what he's been doing since he was fourteen, when he sold himself to a bardmaster for the ability to sleep in a bed and read books, then spent years being strenuously and violently trained to walk and talk and dress and dance and eat and fuck and smile in a way Orlais' upper echelon would find acceptable and perhaps even charming—
It is not exactly fucking them.
But he aspires. ]
at some point when the dust has settled a little around the mod plot;
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What's he asking?
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[ still going: ]
How often do you and I speak? Have you mentioned him very frequently? What of his letters? Can I carry a message? Are there any conflicts of interest which would prevent that?
[ ew. ]
And whether he'd been coming on too strong.
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[A little hemming and hawing, he feels a bit guilty about what he's about to say.]
definitely told him I was alive then?
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[A dark thought.]
Didn't see the other me [Shudder] the demon with him, did you?
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What demon?
1/2
2/2
[a shuffling sound as he counts on his fingers]
two months
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[ well. he has more questions. ]
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[Anyway--]
If it fucked the farrier, 'm doomed.
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Are you alright?
[ - is what really matters. for the moment. ]
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Was doing a lot better til you told me this! Why is he still like this?
[with great intensity]
it's been years!
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a slow breath out. cover the bases: ]
Have you asked him to stop?
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Did you tell him to stop when he asked you all those questions?
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But- But-
[and here's the real truth]
it'll hurt his feelings
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[Seems violent!]
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