[ That's a real laugh - not loud, not long, just an appreciative chuckle at a well-constructed joke.
But he doesn't take the exit ramp. Instead: ]
When I was about seventeen. Or a few days shy of it. I, in my infinite wisdom - and not a bit of reckless fury - decided that I could make my way in the world with nothing but an extra pair of socks and my patchy autumn coat and my fiddle. It was in Firstfall, but it was an unseasonably warm day, and in my ignorance it never even occurred to me, say, things might get colder tomorrow.
I spent the first night on the road sleeping under a bridge and woke up with numb fingers. Couldn't warm my hands all day, which interfered with my clever plan to trade music for a ride in a haycart towards Denerim. But my eyes still worked. And along came a merchant who had a stack of correspondence he'd picked up in town but no time to read it yet. And so I didn't earn my way as a fiddler, but instead a learned factotum.
[ pinch pulls to crinkle, along the side of his mouth. rueful for tomorrow. yeah, they both remember what it was to be clarisse, to be twenty. remember, too, being seventeen. stupid. brave. ]
You still play?
[ it might get colder tomorrow. but it could warm, too. gotta be bold to believe it: that a better day could be. ]
There are rumors that the former Ambassador and his companion don hats and shabby clothes and help provide the music for a bawdy Lowtown dance-hall. There are rumors it happens every Tuesday.
[ helluva disguise. why'd you leave? what kept you from turning back? what ever came of that reckless fury, save that the story points out. away from home. toward a warmer day.
cedric studies his expression, his own leveling slow; behind the remains of a smile. it’s nice to not fucking fight the guy for a minute. ]
[ What a question. It actually takes Byerly back a moment. How could you describe the experience of playing? He settles, finally, on: ]
It is like being a bell, and being lifted and struck.
[ There’s a sincerity in that. Here, at last: something that Byerly loves without embarrassment or reservation or shame. One lone place where the armor of irony and suspicion and deception reveals a little gap, showing a quick flash of the tender heart underneath. ]
There’s a reason that we sing the Chant. The Maker speaks in music, and it’s how we can best respond.
[ even in the bawdy dance-halls. something feels right in that, sounds true; out of rutyer's mouth, in his own heart. never had the head for art, or the throat to sing — but there's more than one way to raise a sound.
when we're called, i mean to have something to say,
it all tastes trite. over-observed; skittish of recent scrutiny. but the only way out is through. cedric reaches a hand across the table, squeezes an arm, brief. lets go again with a nod. ]
[ There's a brief, startled look at the physical contact. Not quite a flinch, but clear enough from the very slight way By braces that he's more accustomed to slaps than comradely grips. No surprise, of course, with a personality like that.
(Or maybe it's a little sadder. Runaway kids get kicked. Kids run away because they got kicked. And he doesn't flinch like that when he's got his armor fully on.)
It's a quick recovery. A smile, full of wry bravado. ]
I do know some men who get that feeling during swordplay, or out on the training ground. Do you ever feel it there? That sense of rightness?
[ byerly's recoil, the speed of that reverse, reminds of steel itself. stepping forward for the slash. into the boot. he'll mull over that later: all the ways folks bluff. the reasons they might.
kids get kicked. sometimes, they put themselves between. ]
Everyone likes t'be good at something, [ cedric admits. he is very good with a blade. ] But it's... dunno. Means nothing, without a use.
[ without an answer to give. there is a song that he knows how to find, a great din that presses everything else out. no room in it to be one person – selfish, small – no room to be anything at all. ]
We bashed around, y'know. Sticks and brooms. Don't remember it feeling right 'til there was a reason.
[ It could be mocking. In this corrupt age, after all, there are no real heroes, are there? The best of Thedas are beaten down, while the worst gather power. A cynic would jeer at anyone with noble ambitions.
But one thing that's not so bad about Byerly: he lets you know when he's mocking you. And this time, he isn't. There's nothing contemptuous or arch in the word heroism.
(There would be, if Cedric's beginnings were a bit less humble. But how can you jeer at someone who has the world spit ten thousand times in his eye, and still tries to see clearly?) ]
[ and there's an ego on cedric for the way he bristled yesterday. pride doesn't only come for mages.
i don't expect recognition, vanya'd said, and sure — but it would be a nice change. riftwatch is full of heroes, bursts at the seams for story; for the work that matters. work that gets remembered. that means anything true. at least, he'd thought that, coming here,
he's had other thoughts since: signed in street pyres and burning hair. his eyes cut aside. mouth twitches in faint reflex. the edge of defensive ease. ]
But we all got a bit t'do, and I've got a shit voice.
Only a narcissist thinks he can change the world. Probably why this place is filled with jackasses.
[ His gesture encompasses the Gallows, and also himself. And lingers on himself longer than it lingers on the room around him. He's not utterly unselfaware.
Then a little flourish of his pen on the document. He purses his lips down at it. ]
A full twenty minutes of work! Horrible. I'll need to rest for the remainder of the day.
[ He presses a hand to his chest as he vamps. But then, with a bit of sincerity shot through with wryness - ]
Sorry we never really had a proper conversation till now. I've been a bit, shall we say, solipsistic ever since I died last summer. Trying to get my head back in the game, at least a little.
[ he's wiping an inkspot from the table (onto a sleeve, they've seen worse) when it comes, dry and confessional. honest. there's a careful shape to cedric's assignment here, there's a blank spot in the questions he's asked, and files he's read. granitefell,
really ought to report it. all that holds him back some days: the certainty that someone must already know.
so he's stalling when he echoes, ]
When y'died last summer.
[ which is not, probably, the kindest way to answer. ]
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no subject
[ That's a real laugh - not loud, not long, just an appreciative chuckle at a well-constructed joke.
But he doesn't take the exit ramp. Instead: ]
When I was about seventeen. Or a few days shy of it. I, in my infinite wisdom - and not a bit of reckless fury - decided that I could make my way in the world with nothing but an extra pair of socks and my patchy autumn coat and my fiddle. It was in Firstfall, but it was an unseasonably warm day, and in my ignorance it never even occurred to me, say, things might get colder tomorrow.
I spent the first night on the road sleeping under a bridge and woke up with numb fingers. Couldn't warm my hands all day, which interfered with my clever plan to trade music for a ride in a haycart towards Denerim. But my eyes still worked. And along came a merchant who had a stack of correspondence he'd picked up in town but no time to read it yet. And so I didn't earn my way as a fiddler, but instead a learned factotum.
[ He smiles wryly down at the pages before him. ]
Life does rhyme, at times.
no subject
You still play?
[ it might get colder tomorrow. but it could warm, too. gotta be bold to believe it: that a better day could be. ]
no subject
[ His own eyes crinkle with amusement. ]
Bizarre, no?
no subject
[ Has he ever been there on a Tuesday? But no, it’s mostly dwarves. And accordion. ]
no subject
I fear that the two of us might - hmm - stand out from the crowd there. That's a fine spot, though.
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[ helluva disguise. why'd you leave? what kept you from turning back? what ever came of that reckless fury, save that the story points out. away from home. toward a warmer day.
cedric studies his expression, his own leveling slow; behind the remains of a smile. it’s nice to not fucking fight the guy for a minute. ]
What’s it like? Playing.
[ never had the head for art. ]
no subject
It is like being a bell, and being lifted and struck.
[ There’s a sincerity in that. Here, at last: something that Byerly loves without embarrassment or reservation or shame. One lone place where the armor of irony and suspicion and deception reveals a little gap, showing a quick flash of the tender heart underneath. ]
There’s a reason that we sing the Chant. The Maker speaks in music, and it’s how we can best respond.
no subject
when we're called, i mean to have something to say,
it all tastes trite. over-observed; skittish of recent scrutiny. but the only way out is through. cedric reaches a hand across the table, squeezes an arm, brief. lets go again with a nod. ]
Hope one day t'hear it.
[ the way that byerly does. ]
no subject
(Or maybe it's a little sadder. Runaway kids get kicked. Kids run away because they got kicked. And he doesn't flinch like that when he's got his armor fully on.)
It's a quick recovery. A smile, full of wry bravado. ]
I do know some men who get that feeling during swordplay, or out on the training ground. Do you ever feel it there? That sense of rightness?
no subject
kids get kicked. sometimes, they put themselves between. ]
Everyone likes t'be good at something, [ cedric admits. he is very good with a blade. ] But it's... dunno. Means nothing, without a use.
[ without an answer to give. there is a song that he knows how to find, a great din that presses everything else out. no room in it to be one person – selfish, small – no room to be anything at all. ]
We bashed around, y'know. Sticks and brooms. Don't remember it feeling right 'til there was a reason.
no subject
[ It could be mocking. In this corrupt age, after all, there are no real heroes, are there? The best of Thedas are beaten down, while the worst gather power. A cynic would jeer at anyone with noble ambitions.
But one thing that's not so bad about Byerly: he lets you know when he's mocking you. And this time, he isn't. There's nothing contemptuous or arch in the word heroism.
(There would be, if Cedric's beginnings were a bit less humble. But how can you jeer at someone who has the world spit ten thousand times in his eye, and still tries to see clearly?) ]
no subject
[ and there's an ego on cedric for the way he bristled yesterday. pride doesn't only come for mages.
i don't expect recognition, vanya'd said, and sure — but it would be a nice change. riftwatch is full of heroes, bursts at the seams for story; for the work that matters. work that gets remembered. that means anything true. at least, he'd thought that, coming here,
he's had other thoughts since: signed in street pyres and burning hair. his eyes cut aside. mouth twitches in faint reflex. the edge of defensive ease. ]
But we all got a bit t'do, and I've got a shit voice.
no subject
[ His gesture encompasses the Gallows, and also himself. And lingers on himself longer than it lingers on the room around him. He's not utterly unselfaware.
Then a little flourish of his pen on the document. He purses his lips down at it. ]
There. That doesn't look terrible.
no subject
[ and a good change, that. his clear block letters were painfully militant for a social call. ]
Thanks. For sticking it out.
no subject
[ He presses a hand to his chest as he vamps. But then, with a bit of sincerity shot through with wryness - ]
Sorry we never really had a proper conversation till now. I've been a bit, shall we say, solipsistic ever since I died last summer. Trying to get my head back in the game, at least a little.
no subject
really ought to report it. all that holds him back some days: the certainty that someone must already know.
so he's stalling when he echoes, ]
When y'died last summer.
[ which is not, probably, the kindest way to answer. ]