[ Bastien's head tilts in consideration while he inhales smoke.
The first mage he ever met was named Thomin. Mid-twenties or so. On loan from the Montsimmard Circle, on paper to a baroness, but the baroness so far in Bastien's bardmaster's debt that Thomin lived in the house with them instead. He was a quiet presence in the corner, tall and looming to an undersized fourteen-year-old, quick to follow the old woman's orders. Once he froze Bastien where he stood, the cold burning for an instant and numb for many more, to allow time for the poor positioning of his feet to be thoroughly examined and eviscerated. There was no fighting that. There was nothing.
Thomin died the same night their bardmaster did. Rassin crept into his room and slit his throat before the body was cool, before anyone else could make a bid for his allegiance—though now, taller and older, Bastien suspects he might have preferred to just go home.
Anyway: there's are touches of understanding and acknowledgment in his reshaping smile, but no smidgen of apology for the magebane he is rarely without. Even now, sitting here. ]
That works for me,
[ contrastingly cavalier, is not about the magic, only the knives. Exaggerated cockiness. He's nearly forty, a little paunchy, deaf in one ear, out of practice. He'll be careful.
He has a clay ashtray on his desk, for the days he has not run out of his own tobacco. He pushes it a little further away from him, closer to Marcus. ]
Does it bother you? Locking him up. [ More importantly, ] Here. I guess under the circumstances are not many other options.
no subject
The first mage he ever met was named Thomin. Mid-twenties or so. On loan from the Montsimmard Circle, on paper to a baroness, but the baroness so far in Bastien's bardmaster's debt that Thomin lived in the house with them instead. He was a quiet presence in the corner, tall and looming to an undersized fourteen-year-old, quick to follow the old woman's orders. Once he froze Bastien where he stood, the cold burning for an instant and numb for many more, to allow time for the poor positioning of his feet to be thoroughly examined and eviscerated. There was no fighting that. There was nothing.
Thomin died the same night their bardmaster did. Rassin crept into his room and slit his throat before the body was cool, before anyone else could make a bid for his allegiance—though now, taller and older, Bastien suspects he might have preferred to just go home.
Anyway: there's are touches of understanding and acknowledgment in his reshaping smile, but no smidgen of apology for the magebane he is rarely without. Even now, sitting here. ]
That works for me,
[ contrastingly cavalier, is not about the magic, only the knives. Exaggerated cockiness. He's nearly forty, a little paunchy, deaf in one ear, out of practice. He'll be careful.
He has a clay ashtray on his desk, for the days he has not run out of his own tobacco. He pushes it a little further away from him, closer to Marcus. ]
Does it bother you? Locking him up. [ More importantly, ] Here. I guess under the circumstances are not many other options.