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He's caught her off-guard, sidling up as the crowd exiting the ferry begins to disperse. That her surprise is obvious is a decent clue she's out of sorts, an uncharacteristic beat required to rearrange her face into a friendly smile and stop hunching into the turned-up collar of her coat with her gaze fixed firmly on the fog-damp cobbles. She sidesteps his question about where she was headed, but is easily persuaded to join him instead.
Which sees them settling in to a high-backed booth at an advantageous angle toward the back of the mid-range sort of establishment that is neither showily expensive enough for the Inquisition's Hightown contingent nor grimy enough for those still intent on imagining themselves characters in a Tethras novel. The crowd is lively without being rowdy, the games of chance in progress seem good-natured, and as Bastien returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses Yseult lifts her chin back toward the bar, and a young woman with curly dark hair who is just turning away with an expression of disappointment as she sees his destination. "You have an admirer."
Which sees them settling in to a high-backed booth at an advantageous angle toward the back of the mid-range sort of establishment that is neither showily expensive enough for the Inquisition's Hightown contingent nor grimy enough for those still intent on imagining themselves characters in a Tethras novel. The crowd is lively without being rowdy, the games of chance in progress seem good-natured, and as Bastien returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses Yseult lifts her chin back toward the bar, and a young woman with curly dark hair who is just turning away with an expression of disappointment as she sees his destination. "You have an admirer."
"I have seven admirers—
He doesn't turn to look, while he's depositing his offering and taking his seat. He knows who she's talking about, first of all, and second, if he looks now, and doesn't do anything, it will be that much harder to approach the woman later and act like he's only just noticed her, if he decides to be in the mood for that. Third, he's made a habit of undivided attention, the sort that makes people feel like they're the most important people in the room even when they aren't, though in this case—fourth, and last of all—Yseult really is.
"—and only one and a half friends."
Important, see.
The bottle's already mostly uncorked, courtesy of the bar staff, but he hands it to Yseult to finish the job.
He doesn't turn to look, while he's depositing his offering and taking his seat. He knows who she's talking about, first of all, and second, if he looks now, and doesn't do anything, it will be that much harder to approach the woman later and act like he's only just noticed her, if he decides to be in the mood for that. Third, he's made a habit of undivided attention, the sort that makes people feel like they're the most important people in the room even when they aren't, though in this case—fourth, and last of all—Yseult really is.
"—and only one and a half friends."
Important, see.
The bottle's already mostly uncorked, courtesy of the bar staff, but he hands it to Yseult to finish the job.
She exhales a laugh, and looses the cork from the bottle, politely pouring a generous measure into his glass before her own. She doesn't wait to drink, though, and deeply, enough to immediately top up her cup again as she asks,
"Am I the one or the half? Or are we each three-quarters friend?"
"Am I the one or the half? Or are we each three-quarters friend?"
"Perhaps you are the one and the half."
He's gentler on his glass than she is, watchful while he drinks, with his usual cheer darkened a little around the eyes by concern he doesn't try to hide. She isn't really the one and the half, of course—
"I will give you your missing quarter," he says, putting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand to look at her, "if you tell me what is wrong."
He's gentler on his glass than she is, watchful while he drinks, with his usual cheer darkened a little around the eyes by concern he doesn't try to hide. She isn't really the one and the half, of course—
"I will give you your missing quarter," he says, putting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand to look at her, "if you tell me what is wrong."
She thinks about lying--there's a moment where she gets the bemused smile and the denial ready, and for that moment it looks completely genuine--but she stops, and instead rolls her head on her neck, side to side and back round in a circle and lets out a breath.
"It's nothing," she says with a shake of her head. Half a lie. She'll get there. "Personal. Stupid. I'm letting myself be distracted and I need to put an end to it."
"It's nothing," she says with a shake of her head. Half a lie. She'll get there. "Personal. Stupid. I'm letting myself be distracted and I need to put an end to it."
He hums around a mouthful of wine. It's a skeptical sound, but once he's swallowed he smiles.
"Some wounds need air to heal, no?" he says. Wound may be melodramatic, but it's better suited to table talk with a relatively refined woman than the spoiled-meat-is-better-out-than-in analogy. "And who better to confide in than someone whose life you could so easily ruin?"
"Some wounds need air to heal, no?" he says. Wound may be melodramatic, but it's better suited to table talk with a relatively refined woman than the spoiled-meat-is-better-out-than-in analogy. "And who better to confide in than someone whose life you could so easily ruin?"
"Ah, is that the quarter?" A shift of mouth and brows that's a little sharp, a little dry, and then she lapses into a silence that is plainly considering. The wineglass is turned between her fingertips and stared into and sipped from, long and slow, before finally sat down, hands folded around its base.
"If I tell you, we'll be even in that. My employers can never know." She watches him, observing but mostly hesitating. She presses a thumb into the edge where cup meets table until the nail goes white.
"There's a man. I broke things off months ago, but he won't fix it or let it die."
"If I tell you, we'll be even in that. My employers can never know." She watches him, observing but mostly hesitating. She presses a thumb into the edge where cup meets table until the nail goes white.
"There's a man. I broke things off months ago, but he won't fix it or let it die."
Edited (ugh use contractions ever) 2019-02-19 05:28 (UTC)
[ When Bastien wakes, he’ll find that he’s received a terribly mysterious invitation to meet with a Hightown bookseller.
She’s come into possession of a number of rare maps that claim to reference graves and other monuments to figures from history and folklore, and she’d like to ask Bastien’s assistance in determining whether these could be of any value to the Inquisition. Unknown to him, a stranger (terrible, mysterious) may already be waiting.
The invitation is beautifully calligraphed, and includes a white rose for Bastien to wear, to signal that he should be allowed into the back rooms. Bastien doesn't actually have to accept the invitation. Not intentionally. Should he ignore or otherwise attempt to circumvent its summons, a chain of coincidences (terrible, mysterious, you get it by now) and well-timed accidents will conspire to see him there.
There are some maps, though they're nearly all the work of fantasy, and include multiple statues to dogs supposedly 'anointed' by the Chantry. There's also a bottle of wine, the sort of imported fruit that runs from expensive to baffling in winter, and a conspicuous deal of privacy given two strangers left with the valuable stock. (Don't worry, they'll be frisked on the way out by a very surly dwarf.)
OOC Note: Ilias is played by Jenni. Feel free to play out a thread, handwave things, or ignore it entirely, but check with each other first! ❤ ]
She’s come into possession of a number of rare maps that claim to reference graves and other monuments to figures from history and folklore, and she’d like to ask Bastien’s assistance in determining whether these could be of any value to the Inquisition. Unknown to him, a stranger (terrible, mysterious) may already be waiting.
The invitation is beautifully calligraphed, and includes a white rose for Bastien to wear, to signal that he should be allowed into the back rooms. Bastien doesn't actually have to accept the invitation. Not intentionally. Should he ignore or otherwise attempt to circumvent its summons, a chain of coincidences (terrible, mysterious, you get it by now) and well-timed accidents will conspire to see him there.
There are some maps, though they're nearly all the work of fantasy, and include multiple statues to dogs supposedly 'anointed' by the Chantry. There's also a bottle of wine, the sort of imported fruit that runs from expensive to baffling in winter, and a conspicuous deal of privacy given two strangers left with the valuable stock. (Don't worry, they'll be frisked on the way out by a very surly dwarf.)
OOC Note: Ilias is played by Jenni. Feel free to play out a thread, handwave things, or ignore it entirely, but check with each other first! ❤ ]
Edited 2019-02-26 00:41 (UTC)
"Ah," Bastien says, with intentionally arranged sympathy over real amused interest over deeper, more genuine sympathy—three layers, like a cake, and he doesn't take any pains to ensure Yseult won't be privy to each of them. "there is always a man. Unless there is a woman."
Who are her employers, exactly? He doesn't know. He doesn't ask. He might die of curiosity, but that's the third best thing to die of, after old age and an unseen blow to the head.
He's only being a little conniving when he adds, "Have you tried throwing his letters in the fire?"
Because that must be how they are communicating.
Who are her employers, exactly? He doesn't know. He doesn't ask. He might die of curiosity, but that's the third best thing to die of, after old age and an unseen blow to the head.
He's only being a little conniving when he adds, "Have you tried throwing his letters in the fire?"
Because that must be how they are communicating.
"I've tried keeping him at arm's length," she replies, her tone and her timing making it sound more like yes than the vague side-step it is while she decides how she feels about that sympathy and how far she trusts it. But the answer is she's already trusting it this far, and the effort of coming up with a way to continue with this half-lie without lapsing into all lies abruptly no longer feels quite worth it.
"He's here. He stumbled on me here and stayed." She keeps going, quick, before she has time to examine or think beyond the relief of spitting out the problem she's been gnawing on for half a year. "But he doesn't care about the Inquisition or its mission or its war. Corypheus could burn all Orlais tomorrow and it would make no difference to him."
"He's here. He stumbled on me here and stayed." She keeps going, quick, before she has time to examine or think beyond the relief of spitting out the problem she's been gnawing on for half a year. "But he doesn't care about the Inquisition or its mission or its war. Corypheus could burn all Orlais tomorrow and it would make no difference to him."
Edited 2019-03-01 06:29 (UTC)
"Wait."
He's lowering his wine glass. There's a hint there, one he'll follow up on—the fact that not caring about the Inquisition's mission is something worth her complaint—but there's also a wide spectrum of men who won't go away, from sweet and too dumb to take a hint (Bastien has been on that end of the spectrum himself, unfortunately) to controlling stalker. The last is unlikely, as Yseult seems perfectly capable of disposing of anyone who legitimately threatens her, but romance can make anyone a pacifist.
"Is this an annoyance, or a danger?"
He's lowering his wine glass. There's a hint there, one he'll follow up on—the fact that not caring about the Inquisition's mission is something worth her complaint—but there's also a wide spectrum of men who won't go away, from sweet and too dumb to take a hint (Bastien has been on that end of the spectrum himself, unfortunately) to controlling stalker. The last is unlikely, as Yseult seems perfectly capable of disposing of anyone who legitimately threatens her, but romance can make anyone a pacifist.
"Is this an annoyance, or a danger?"
She blinks once, confused. She has been wrestling with all of this for so long—years, if she's honest, not just the last few months since he arrived—that it's difficult to imagine how it must sound from the outside, to someone who doesn't know every stupid, painful detail. But she catches his meaning and immediately shakes her head, fingers uncurled from around the base of her wine glass to stretch toward him, forestalling.
"No, no, it's not like that. It's—" she flounders there, and says finally, with a rueful little laugh and another shake of her head, "It's much worse. If he were a problem like that I would know what to do."
"No, no, it's not like that. It's—" she flounders there, and says finally, with a rueful little laugh and another shake of her head, "It's much worse. If he were a problem like that I would know what to do."
There's a fairly long pause, while Bastien looks at her with the squinting concentration of a man trying to solve a puzzle or understand someone's indecipherable accent.
"He is here—for you?" No one seems to be making any great prophet here. In Skyhold, maybe. "A man is fighting a war for you? And this is a problem. Am I following?"
"He is here—for you?" No one seems to be making any great prophet here. In Skyhold, maybe. "A man is fighting a war for you? And this is a problem. Am I following?"
She bears the scrutiny, brows sliding together as the squinting continues, and then further as his take on the situation hangs a moment, and she squints at it in turn.
"Yes." Slowly. "And yes. It's not-- he's only here for me. He doesn't understand why I want to be here. He thinks it's stupid to risk myself for any of this. How can I be with a man like that? Who can see suffering or even cause it and not care?"
"Yes." Slowly. "And yes. It's not-- he's only here for me. He doesn't understand why I want to be here. He thinks it's stupid to risk myself for any of this. How can I be with a man like that? Who can see suffering or even cause it and not care?"
Her head tips, side to side, thumbing her wine glass. "He can be kind, and generous. But he was at Ghislain. He saw what the enemy is and what they'll do. And after, he told me it would be fine if we were selfish because others in the Inquisition are. He's been here half a year and he hasn't learned anything from it. He'd go back to being a pirate tomorrow if he didn't know I'd never speak to him again."
He's listening. It's a dilemma. He's forty percent scoundrel himself, only well-dressed, so perhaps not quite as much of a dilemma for him as it should be, but he does sympathize, genuinely, until she says pirate and that's all briefly shoved out of the way by his inner sea-shanty-singing twelve-year-old boy.
"Go back to being a what?"
"Go back to being a what?"
"A pirate."
She's looking at him warily, ready for either the how on earth or the does he have a parrot or any combination of the two. He's got that light in his eye like it's going to be the latter.
"Attacking and robbing innocent people. Killing them if they try to avoid being robbed. And he thinks that's no worse than what I do."
She's looking at him warily, ready for either the how on earth or the does he have a parrot or any combination of the two. He's got that light in his eye like it's going to be the latter.
"Attacking and robbing innocent people. Killing them if they try to avoid being robbed. And he thinks that's no worse than what I do."
Edited 2019-03-09 05:21 (UTC)
He could snap back into serious, sincere sympathy—and he considers it, less because it would be believable than because he’s a bit of a show off—but they’re friends, aren’t they? They’ve just decided they are. And he isn’t of a mind to ruin that by making a show out of how easily he could fake it. So the eager curiosity only dampens, rather than vanishing altogether, and he takes his time with a chastened drink of his wine.
“I can see how that would be a problem,” he says, setting the glass back down. “But it isn’t the least surmountable one I’ve ever heard of.”
“I can see how that would be a problem,” he says, setting the glass back down. “But it isn’t the least surmountable one I’ve ever heard of.”
"How?" She spreads a hand up and lets it drop. Somewhere in some internal ledger he gets a point for tamping down his interest without pretending it never was. "It's been eight months and he hasn't come around. I can't just give in. He'll think that means he's right, and he isn't. And how can I--." It only takes a second, but she stops, pulls back the rise in her voice, marshals her expression, folds her arms neatly on the table in front of her and starts again.
"I can't just give in now, after all of this. How can I live with myself if I go back to pretending I don't see the harm in what he does?"
"I can't just give in now, after all of this. How can I live with myself if I go back to pretending I don't see the harm in what he does?"
"I'm sure you couldn't."
Not really. He doesn't know her well enough, really, to be sure of what she can and can't live with. But that means erring on the side of whatever she insists, especially when she's so worked up—relatively speaking, so far as he's ever seen her—about it.
"And I wouldn't tell you that you should. Love is bullshit, anyway, nineteen times out of twenty."
Not really. He doesn't know her well enough, really, to be sure of what she can and can't live with. But that means erring on the side of whatever she insists, especially when she's so worked up—relatively speaking, so far as he's ever seen her—about it.
"And I wouldn't tell you that you should. Love is bullshit, anyway, nineteen times out of twenty."
She laughs, quick and sharp, and washes it down with the rest of the wine in her cup. But she can tell--and would've noticed a while ago, normally--that he's kind of just telling her what she seems to want to hear. What else can he do, anyway? She pours him a refill before her own, mouth tilting off-center, wry, self-conscious.
"Is that so? I'm not sure I would have taken you for a cynic."
"Is that so? I'm not sure I would have taken you for a cynic."
"It comes and goes," Bastien says, trading honesty for honesty, "depending on whether or not I think I've found the one in twenty. But not a single unmarried poet has written me so much as a couplet in years. At this point I would take a married one. I think that may be the litmus test."
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