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[bouchonne]

I mean that speaking with you is like speaking with a Tranquil.

[ Byerly's tapered, elegant fingertip comes up to tap lightly against his forehead. ]

A most curious quality for a Templar.

[dissolving]

[ the flick of an image: someone's grandmother shouts, and his ears ring; and herian rots from the head, cool as day.

another: bone fractures under fist, drawn back again. again. it felt good to break gautier's jaw. his nose. felt good to force his teeth in the dirt. for a moment, it even felt good when they pulled him off swinging —

it was a short moment. still tastes like shame. he's doing fine with the lyrium, and men who beat the shit out of their colleagues, they don't get to stay on it. ]

I doubt you met many Templars.

[ he smears a hand of sweat onto the back of his sleeve. better it not stain the page. ]

[bouchonne]

True enough.

[ Byerly leans backwards, licking the cigarette to seal it shut. The action hides his smile, leaving nothing but his archly amused gaze. ]

A most curious quality for any honest man, then. Which is what you are, isn't it? Honest?

[dissolving]

We're inventing a Rifter,

[ so apparently there are limits. he dips the pen to begin. ]

Was it disagreeing with you what pissed you off, or caring why you were upset?

[bouchonne]

Oh, I cannot possibly imagine that you cared whether or not I was upset. I do imagine that you cared about whether or not I perceived you as caring.

[ The cigarette having been rolled, he now offers it to Cedric. ]

Tevinter, that name, isn't it? Carsus?

[dissolving]

[ chalk that one down for caring. a tip of the pen: no thank you, he doesn't smoke. ]

'S Tevene. We left back in Blessed, no one's got dates.

[bouchonne]

Did you get shit for it?

[ You fuckin square? Byerly lights the cigarette for himself and takes a drag. ]

I can't imagine the lads training to be mage-crushers were too charmed by so Northern a name. Or did you keep it a secret?

[dissolving]

[ a puff of breath. not amused, really, some greyer cousin. did he get shit? ]

'S not a secret, [ chantry's built on paperwork. ] But I prefer Cedric. Since the March.

[bouchonne]

Why was the March the start of it?

[ Why not earlier? ]

[dissolving]

Reckon you can work that one out.

[bouchonne]

Hardly. I'd expect that self-loathing to come far earlier.

[dissolving]

'M not ashamed of my family.

[bouchonne]

But you prefer just Cedric now. What was it about the March?

[dissolving]

What's it for fighting Tevinter sees me drop a Vint name?

[ slow, steady, in the faint tones of: you're not a fucking idiot. he's writing now. (this copy elides the doodles at slate-edge) ]

[bouchonne]

[ An arched eyebrow. ]

Mm. The war didn’t start with the March, after all. And even if it had - I truly can’t imagine why it is that the act of setting Tevinter’s fields aflame led you to disavow your name. It would be akin to beating the shit out of a dwarf and then throwing away your fine dwarven sword as a result. No logic.

[dissolving]

[ the ashes of trevis are leagues away. a hard dot on a letter — ]

Yeah, well. People don't run on reason. [ to echo their previous discussion ] And there's only so many reasons elves run South.

[ this time, when he looks up, it's pointed. mouth taut. he isn't the only one being examined, here. ]

[bouchonne]

[ That catches Byerly flat-footed. His physical reaction to it is subtle: eyes narrowing for just a split second as he tries to understand and fails. Then he returns to his prior drill serenity. ]

Elves? Not sure I follow, dear fellow.

[ And then the thought occurs to him, and he tilts his head, studying Cedric’s face. ]

[dissolving]

'M not ashamed of my family,

[ repeated. impossible to divine where blood slopes for blood. takes after his father, the old joke, but it's his uncle's nose; his mother's high bones, grandfather's hair. stretched a little broad, set a little square.

perhaps, in some dismal southern castle, he'd spy another byerly.

cedric drops the stare, at last, to write. ink spots, spreads beyond the edge of a rune. ]

And I'm not bringing them back there.

[bouchonne]

[ There's a sharpness in Byerly's manner, now - less unpleasant in its way than his prior oppressive drollness. A focus in his eye. ]

Are you saying you're elf-blooded?

[ If he's wrong, he's probably going to get socked in the jaw. He braces himself for it. Templars have heavy fists, no doubt. ]

[dissolving]

That gonna be a problem?

[ it's even, not mild. he moves down a line (drops a word) ]

[bouchonne]

Hm.

[ Far from it, it seems; Byerly almost immediately stops being so fucking weird. His slouch becomes more comfortable and less disrespectful; his jeering smile normalizes into an ordinary expression of attention.

Because: an eely man who has the background of a warrior but who aims to please, who dodges questions and says what he thinks someone wants to hear rather than what he believes - that's suspicious. Unless the people-pleasing is a way you've devised to avoid getting your teeth bashed in by people who don't like the thing you are. ]

I imagine it's nearly always a problem for you. So I imagine that, yes, it will be a problem going forward, as well. But not one I intend to exacerbate.

[ He tilts his head. ]

Is this a secret? "Not ashamed" can sometimes mean "not afraid of trouble," but not always.

[dissolving]

[ a sluggish pulse in his chest: there's no true grace in telling someone you don’t mean to knife them. plenty like to hold it so. rutyer doesn't intend to exacerbate this, how fucking generous. ]

No. So if a secret's what you’re after, what's gonna make you feel big — then my favourite colour's blue, when I was sixteen I broke the hand off a statue, and I'd take it a kindness if you did the work you signed to.

[ a tight gesture to the page. ]

[bouchonne]

[ A lift of his eyebrows. And then, finally, he sticks the cigarette between his lips and actually gets to work. As he does: ]

Did you keep it?

The hand, I mean.

[dissolving]

Too busy figuring out how t'get back off the roof.

[ it's a decent draft, modeled after past letters — in places, a touch too closely, should the countess review her prior correspondence with riftwatch. this and that line could do with some rephrasing, and of course, by now the paper's a loss. ]

[bouchonne]

The statue was on a roof? Ambitious.

[ Byerly easily, fluidly, begins the rewrite - catching those little bits of cliched phrasing, smoothing over the rougher patches. He's very good at this. This was, after all, his life for some years. ]