Her face takes a break from being on the tired-and-bummed side of neutral to pull towards peeved. Bastien is going to gently pry until he gets to the heart of the matter, or until she tells him to stop, and both options seem equally sigh-worthy.
"I wanted it to be used by a healer," she corrects. "But Colin and Derrica both said it's too much to accept."
It might have hurt his feelings, that look, if he weren't fairly good at deciding other people's moods weren't actually about him. But he is, so it doesn't.
Still, he gives a tight, rueful little smile and nods without lifting his head from his hand.
"D'accord," he says. "We can keep it here if you like, and when we reach out to them, we can talk about it again. I wouldn't want them to think we were carrying a stolen staff, but if you are going along you can explain."
"Sure, yeah. I figure if I'm not on a mission whenever that happens, I'll be going along. I am the resident Dalish, after all." She forgoes saying beggars can't be choosers because there's only so much self-deprecation she can put her friends through before even she gets sick of hearing it.
He stands up and picks up the wrapped staff to consider it. Seems a shame to tuck it in a cabinet, but leaving it out where someone might easily wander off with it isn’t good, either.
Idly—and not because he wouldn’t like to ask more about the staff or about Derrica and Colin—he asks, “Have you learned enough Orlesian to know why I call you Fauvette?” He holds up a staying finger. “If you know it means a songbird, you are only halfway there.”
There are a few reasons he could call her that. Her singing voice and her clan name are the most obvious reasons. That she is forthright with most information could be another. She certainly didn't do a very good job hiding that she was learning the language.
“Fauve means tawny—so I almost decided it was a bad idea, you know. But from it we have les fauvettes, our wild songbirds, and we also have les fauves. Wild cats. Not quite so little.”
He carries the staff to the armoire against the back wall, voice raising to carry back over his shoulder while he puts it away.
“And from that, sometimes we say fauve to just mean wild or fierce.”
Heading back to the desk, he ignores his chair and sits on the edge of it instead, closer to her. Who likes talking across a desk? Terrible.
“When you translate it to Trade, you lose that. Songbird, warbler. Sweet little things. But in Orlesian, the word has some teeth. A songbird,” in conclusion, “that you do not want to fuck with.”
For a moment she doesn't follow — tawny wild birds and cats, oh my — but by the end of his impromptu etymology lesson, a wry-but-flattered smile has begun to tug at Athessa's features.
"And here I thought it was just because of my voice."
That was before she knew he was a Bard, not that much has really changed since then. She'd still leap to save him, no matter how capable he is.
"Do you? It's hardly anything new," she sighs, but she does take his hand. Maybe she ought to tell Bastien more about Colin. Maybe she ought to tell him she kissed Derrica. Maybe she shouldn't say anything and should let him take a break from being the person she goes to for advice all the time.
Bastien shrugs at the first part, with a half-smile that dimples his cheek particularly well. He is innocent and blameless, and so on and so forth, and saving is still saving.
"I want to talk about anything you want to talk about," he says, lifting her hand to examine her knuckles as if they need to pass inspection. "If you don't want to tell me what is bothering you, you can tell me what you had for breakfast. I'll be captivated."
Her knuckles, as ever, are lightly bruised and scraped but otherwise intact, as one would expect from someone who often punches training dummies, enemies, and walls. (Not so much the latter of late, per Colin's request.)
"No you won't," she counters, light-hearted. "I didn't have breakfast."
Athessa sighs and wiggles her fingers within his grasp before asking, "How are things with you and Byerly?"
Bastien's mouth rounds into an astonished O, captivated by her meal-skipping, but at the question it shifts into a smile that's small and bashful. And unguarded. A rare thing, here equally attributable to the subject matter and the fact that it's Athessa asking, with no one else to see.
"Good." He looks back down at her knuckles, taps his thumb against one of the more faded bruises, turns her hand over to consider her palm instead. Then he glances back up to rescue himself from being too much of a dweeb by doing a second draft of the response: wiggled eyebrows and a more ridiculously purred, "Très bien. I took my own advice and talked to him about some things—can you believe it? A human man, practicing what he preaches. I deserve a medal."
Now it's her turn to gape at him, captivated by his good fortune. The face might be an exaggeration, but her delight is genuine, and Bastien's bashful smile was worth all the guilt she's felt about meddling. She'd take it up as a hobby if it guaranteed more of those smiles.
"I'll make one for you right away. It's an unprecedented feat, surely."
Are you only very clever when it comes to other people? Vanadi had asked her. Seems like a common thing.
"Whatcha lookin' at?" she says, and tips her head to look at her palm, wondering what he's reading there.
“Ah, well,” Bastien says, tilting her hand so she can see it better while he points things out, “this line—it means you will accumulate many animal companions during your lifetime. And this one means you will be very loved, even if it does not always feel like it. This long one means you will feel better if you talk about things instead of letting them eat away at you. And these little ones? They mean you need to come dancing with me soon.”
He leans forward so he can show her her hand closer-up.
“See? They are very specific—there is no line that means Bastien, of course, that would be ridiculous. But mustached... Orlesian... friend. Very clear.”
"Being good, being charming, hearing the woes of some silly girl with too many feelings," she lists them off, rote, as if they're all obvious line items.
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"Oh?"
He leans in his seat to look at it, for all the good it does.
"Wasn't it your—grandmother's? Right?"
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"Yeah, she was the clan's Keeper."
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She shrugs, stilling her hands when she notices that she's idly plucking at loose threads on the hem of her shawl.
"Seems a waste if it's not being used."
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"And you want it to be used for us to convince Dalish clans to like us?"
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"I wanted it to be used by a healer," she corrects. "But Colin and Derrica both said it's too much to accept."
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Still, he gives a tight, rueful little smile and nods without lifting his head from his hand.
"D'accord," he says. "We can keep it here if you like, and when we reach out to them, we can talk about it again. I wouldn't want them to think we were carrying a stolen staff, but if you are going along you can explain."
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He stands up and picks up the wrapped staff to consider it. Seems a shame to tuck it in a cabinet, but leaving it out where someone might easily wander off with it isn’t good, either.
Idly—and not because he wouldn’t like to ask more about the staff or about Derrica and Colin—he asks, “Have you learned enough Orlesian to know why I call you Fauvette?” He holds up a staying finger. “If you know it means a songbird, you are only halfway there.”
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"I guess I halfway know why, then."
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He carries the staff to the armoire against the back wall, voice raising to carry back over his shoulder while he puts it away.
“And from that, sometimes we say fauve to just mean wild or fierce.”
Heading back to the desk, he ignores his chair and sits on the edge of it instead, closer to her. Who likes talking across a desk? Terrible.
“When you translate it to Trade, you lose that. Songbird, warbler. Sweet little things. But in Orlesian, the word has some teeth. A songbird,” in conclusion, “that you do not want to fuck with.”
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"And here I thought it was just because of my voice."
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He holds his hand out to her from his position slightly above her, sitting on the desk.
“Do you want to talk about it? Derrica and Colin?”
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That was before she knew he was a Bard, not that much has really changed since then. She'd still leap to save him, no matter how capable he is.
"Do you? It's hardly anything new," she sighs, but she does take his hand. Maybe she ought to tell Bastien more about Colin. Maybe she ought to tell him she kissed Derrica. Maybe she shouldn't say anything and should let him take a break from being the person she goes to for advice all the time.
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"I want to talk about anything you want to talk about," he says, lifting her hand to examine her knuckles as if they need to pass inspection. "If you don't want to tell me what is bothering you, you can tell me what you had for breakfast. I'll be captivated."
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"No you won't," she counters, light-hearted. "I didn't have breakfast."
Athessa sighs and wiggles her fingers within his grasp before asking, "How are things with you and Byerly?"
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"Good." He looks back down at her knuckles, taps his thumb against one of the more faded bruises, turns her hand over to consider her palm instead. Then he glances back up to rescue himself from being too much of a dweeb by doing a second draft of the response: wiggled eyebrows and a more ridiculously purred, "Très bien. I took my own advice and talked to him about some things—can you believe it? A human man, practicing what he preaches. I deserve a medal."
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"I'll make one for you right away. It's an unprecedented feat, surely."
Are you only very clever when it comes to other people? Vanadi had asked her. Seems like a common thing.
"Whatcha lookin' at?" she says, and tips her head to look at her palm, wondering what he's reading there.
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He leans forward so he can show her her hand closer-up.
“See? They are very specific—there is no line that means Bastien, of course, that would be ridiculous. But mustached... Orlesian... friend. Very clear.”
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She holds her hand up in front of his face, then uses it to gently paw his face away.
"Don't you ever get tired of it?"
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One, two, three honest answers.
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Also it's embarrassing.
"I kissed Derrica the other day. It...didn't go well."
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"What does that mean, it didn't go well?"
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