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We should both have chosen surnames before we came here.
[ alas ]
I've been thinking about the Black Fox. How in his stories he causes all sorts of trouble for cruel lords and magisters and makes tyrants look foolish despite all their power. It would be useful to be able to do that to our enemies now.
[ alas ]
I've been thinking about the Black Fox. How in his stories he causes all sorts of trouble for cruel lords and magisters and makes tyrants look foolish despite all their power. It would be useful to be able to do that to our enemies now.
[ He may or may not guess despite the crystal that she grins. ]
In occupied Orlais. All of Orlais could use the morale. And in Tevinter. The Anderfels. It might need to be different characters tailored to suit. It seemed like a project you might enjoy.
In occupied Orlais. All of Orlais could use the morale. And in Tevinter. The Anderfels. It might need to be different characters tailored to suit. It seemed like a project you might enjoy.
Edited 2020-01-24 03:17 (UTC)
Sweet Andraste. [ Bienheureuse Andraste, in Orlesian, that’s important. ] You have justified my entire existence. Every moment of my life makes sense, if it has led to this.
[ He’s, like, half joking. ]
So yes. Of course. [ And before his head runs off too far— ] Do you think it is easier for a woman to pretend to be a man, than a man to be a woman?
[ He’s, like, half joking. ]
So yes. Of course. [ And before his head runs off too far— ] Do you think it is easier for a woman to pretend to be a man, than a man to be a woman?
[ Ilias is distracted. It's not his usual way-- they have not had so many lessons yet as to establish a norm, but he tends to be considerate of other people's time, and of Bastien's especially. (The intricacies of Orlesian court decorum are not his finest subject; an exchange of Nevarran pronunciation can only cover so many sins.) So he isn't late, nor inattentive precisely, but his polite smile comes with stress lines today, his pauses stretch a touch too long, and when things begin to wind down into a more conversational direction, he twists, ]
Do they not find it exhausting? To be forever circling the point. To never simply say what is in one's heart.
Do they not find it exhausting? To be forever circling the point. To never simply say what is in one's heart.
[ If Bastien notices the distraction, the only sign is that he’s a slower talker than normal, trying to keep a pace that even divided attention can match. But the question makes him pause entirely, for a moment, smiling in a thoughtful sort of way.
The easy answer is no people is a monolith. The pointed answer is what’s troubling you. Instead of either: ]
There was a poet in the Blessed Age—Lord Crépin Volant. He published forty-six sonnets. Beautiful, intricate things. They outlined the shape of the woman he was in love with in such careful detail, without ever naming her, that everyone knew it must be the Vicomtesse Mesmin. It could be no one else.
[ The impending tragedy is obvious. He pauses for a drink to let it loom. ]
But it was. It was the Lady Bonaventure, who had been keeping other suitors at bay and waiting for him to say something to her. When she was told of his sonnets for Mesmin, she married one of her other prospects within the fortnight.
Somehow he convinced someone to publish his next work—it was just her name, over and over again for fifty pages. It is probably the rarest book I have ever owned. His family destroyed as many as they could and found pressing responsibilities for him in the country.
—so yes. Sometimes they find it exhausting.
The easy answer is no people is a monolith. The pointed answer is what’s troubling you. Instead of either: ]
There was a poet in the Blessed Age—Lord Crépin Volant. He published forty-six sonnets. Beautiful, intricate things. They outlined the shape of the woman he was in love with in such careful detail, without ever naming her, that everyone knew it must be the Vicomtesse Mesmin. It could be no one else.
[ The impending tragedy is obvious. He pauses for a drink to let it loom. ]
But it was. It was the Lady Bonaventure, who had been keeping other suitors at bay and waiting for him to say something to her. When she was told of his sonnets for Mesmin, she married one of her other prospects within the fortnight.
Somehow he convinced someone to publish his next work—it was just her name, over and over again for fifty pages. It is probably the rarest book I have ever owned. His family destroyed as many as they could and found pressing responsibilities for him in the country.
—so yes. Sometimes they find it exhausting.
Spoken like a man quite adept at it, all the same.
[ An answer outlined, clearer than one spoken. It softens the line of his brow in the telling. There had been a reason so circuitous a nature had once drawn him, and Bastien's now serves a pleasant reminder. ]
One sketches the shape of one's heart only in verse, then, or song, or flowers pressed into letters or books. And there is some exquisite joy in being known by another from so scant an offering. But at the risk of an incomplete understanding. Of never being known at all.
[ Of tragedy. ]
Or one chooses a love that speaks what it is. Is that truer, do you think?
[ An answer outlined, clearer than one spoken. It softens the line of his brow in the telling. There had been a reason so circuitous a nature had once drawn him, and Bastien's now serves a pleasant reminder. ]
One sketches the shape of one's heart only in verse, then, or song, or flowers pressed into letters or books. And there is some exquisite joy in being known by another from so scant an offering. But at the risk of an incomplete understanding. Of never being known at all.
[ Of tragedy. ]
Or one chooses a love that speaks what it is. Is that truer, do you think?
Truer, [ he repeats with his own rolled R, as if it might be a new word for Bastien, he knows. ]
More real. Lady Bonaventure, for instance-- if her other suitor had been a man she'd known all her life. If he had long ago learned to crack open her ribcage and crawl inside -- and perhaps was not always kind there, nor she to him, but there was an honesty between them. A depth of intimacy, at least.
Might that not mean as much as Lord Volant's beautiful sonnets?
More real. Lady Bonaventure, for instance-- if her other suitor had been a man she'd known all her life. If he had long ago learned to crack open her ribcage and crawl inside -- and perhaps was not always kind there, nor she to him, but there was an honesty between them. A depth of intimacy, at least.
Might that not mean as much as Lord Volant's beautiful sonnets?
Ah.
[ A satisfied ah, to accompany a question coming further into focus, but then he leans in a bit, teasingly confiding: ]
I think you have put poor Volant at a disadvantage, Monsieur, if he must compete with someone who is already so intimate a companion.
[ A satisfied ah, to accompany a question coming further into focus, but then he leans in a bit, teasingly confiding: ]
I think you have put poor Volant at a disadvantage, Monsieur, if he must compete with someone who is already so intimate a companion.
[ Wilting, ] Not on purpose.
[ If he were the type to recline dramatically onto a fainting couch, this might be the moment; his eyebrows do their best instead. ]
You are not wrong, it is not a fair thing to compare -- but what is there for it? If only neither choice had any bearing on the other.
[ If he were the type to recline dramatically onto a fainting couch, this might be the moment; his eyebrows do their best instead. ]
You are not wrong, it is not a fair thing to compare -- but what is there for it? If only neither choice had any bearing on the other.
We are not being philosophical, then.
[ It isn't quite a question, and he doesn't wait for an answer. He finds cigarettes instead (rolled himself, but in advance) and plucks out one that's already half-gone and charred at one end before offering the tin toward Ilias. ]
Have you considered being less handsome? You might find you have fewer difficult choices.
[ It isn't quite a question, and he doesn't wait for an answer. He finds cigarettes instead (rolled himself, but in advance) and plucks out one that's already half-gone and charred at one end before offering the tin toward Ilias. ]
Have you considered being less handsome? You might find you have fewer difficult choices.
I did very well for myself living in a crypt and only coming up to the surface once every full moon.
[ Maybe he'll go back to that, but he accepts a cigarette gratefully, offering a light in turn. ]
You are a fair sight more charming that I, have you never had to make such a choice?
[ Maybe he'll go back to that, but he accepts a cigarette gratefully, offering a light in turn. ]
You are a fair sight more charming that I, have you never had to make such a choice?
Never.
[ He will take that light, and he will keep any commentary about Nevarra hiding its heartbreakers underground unspoken, because Circles are a touchy topic with the mages and Nevarra is currently on metaphorical fire and it altogether seems like needlessly dangerous ground for a joke. ]
I was blessed with a stupid heart. It can only hold one thought at a time. Frequently a foolish thought, but merci au Créateur, just the one.
[ He finds a scrap of unnecessary paper to serve as an ashtray and puts it on the table. ]
So—you have someone living in your ribcage, and someone writing you sonnets.
[ He will take that light, and he will keep any commentary about Nevarra hiding its heartbreakers underground unspoken, because Circles are a touchy topic with the mages and Nevarra is currently on metaphorical fire and it altogether seems like needlessly dangerous ground for a joke. ]
I was blessed with a stupid heart. It can only hold one thought at a time. Frequently a foolish thought, but merci au Créateur, just the one.
[ He finds a scrap of unnecessary paper to serve as an ashtray and puts it on the table. ]
So—you have someone living in your ribcage, and someone writing you sonnets.
More or less.
[ An incomplete metaphor, perhaps, but this feels indiscreet enough already. He takes a drag from his cigarette, gesturing with it as he continues, ]
Please understand, I don't wish to start gossip -- and I do not go around collecting hearts to break. I left him, the one in my ribs. I thought him dead.
[ An incomplete metaphor, perhaps, but this feels indiscreet enough already. He takes a drag from his cigarette, gesturing with it as he continues, ]
Please understand, I don't wish to start gossip -- and I do not go around collecting hearts to break. I left him, the one in my ribs. I thought him dead.
Yes. [ said with something strangely tremulous and fragile pulling at the corner of his lips. It's hidden swiftly, in the duck and turn of a head, but not elegantly. Not skilled at hiding, only accustomed to it. ]
It sounds quite silly now, but I needed to know if I could. If I could feel anything, really. [ A flourish of the hand, anxious to wave away any more serious consideration of that statement. ] But I could, and I did.
Only he wasn't dead, and now we are here. Three hearts in a knot.
It sounds quite silly now, but I needed to know if I could. If I could feel anything, really. [ A flourish of the hand, anxious to wave away any more serious consideration of that statement. ] But I could, and I did.
Only he wasn't dead, and now we are here. Three hearts in a knot.
Edited 2020-02-03 07:20 (UTC)
Four years. He gave me another to decide, once I knew he was alive, but I am afraid I imagined it a simpler choice than it is.
[ His mouth flattens, Ah well, and he spares a glance up to Bastien, grateful for the offered ear. ]
Would you never go back? To someone you had loved and left behind.
[ His mouth flattens, Ah well, and he spares a glance up to Bastien, grateful for the offered ear. ]
Would you never go back? To someone you had loved and left behind.
[ He's quiet for a few seconds, head shifting in time with unspoken thoughts, before he settles on: ]
Perhaps.
[ Very helpful. Very based on no actual experience. ]
I have never lost anyone to death. Only to life. Incompatibilities, arguments, other people. Problems that would still be lying in wait for us on a second attempt. But if something outside of us severed a thing that was otherwise good— [ That's what they're talking about here, right. ] —then maybe I would.
[ He tilts his head and smiles a little, prompting. ]
But you love your poet, too.
Perhaps.
[ Very helpful. Very based on no actual experience. ]
I have never lost anyone to death. Only to life. Incompatibilities, arguments, other people. Problems that would still be lying in wait for us on a second attempt. But if something outside of us severed a thing that was otherwise good— [ That's what they're talking about here, right. ] —then maybe I would.
[ He tilts his head and smiles a little, prompting. ]
But you love your poet, too.
[ The funny sort of stillness in his eyes for a beat, there and gone again, says Yes, definitely, that's what they're talking about. What else could it be.
But it melts away easily at the return to his poet, lost in an uncomplicated smile. ]
I do. It is different-- he is very different, but also it is a newer sort of intimacy. Different fears, different potential.
But it melts away easily at the return to his poet, lost in an uncomplicated smile. ]
I do. It is different-- he is very different, but also it is a newer sort of intimacy. Different fears, different potential.
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