[ 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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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. ]