[ is not smooth or uncaring. A bit fumbling, really. ]
—I was contacting you to ask if it matters how fresh the dragon blood is. For time travel. We know where the dragon is, we have an idea of how to handle it, and for the time being we have greater numbers. If it is still effective if it has been kept in a vial for a few years, it might be good of us to take the opportunity now to, uh.
[ Phhhhhhhhffff. ]
I could try to guess why you're unhappy with me, but it feels so awful to guess wrong.
[She says, unhappily—which is to say, in that turned up nose tenor of hers.]
I am merely practicing good security. The Ambassador has made it quite clear how much he would prefer I didn't tell just anyone about the various more delicate semantics of my work, particularly anyones who might take that information elsewhere and do whatever they wish with it. It seems unwise to surrender airship intelligence to a deserter.
I think for it to be desertion, I'd have to be under conscription or contract or—obliged, somehow, to be here for a particular length of time? Otherwise it is more of a resignation.
[ He hums his refusal to concede that point. It was a more comfortable misery, at least—to feel alone because he was alone. Not surrounded on all sides by people he'd seen every day for years who couldn't say or do what he needed someone to say or do because they had their own equally terrible problems, or didn't know him so well really, or lacked the temperament to hug a middle-aged man, or couldn't muster up a kind word for Byerly even in death.
But he wouldn't expect someone who's never had a temper tantrum (unimpeachably true!) to understand. So, ]
It was poorly done either way. I am sorry. You don't have to tell me about the airships. I imagine when one is finished it will impossible to miss anyway.
What do you think about the dragon, though? Is it worth going back now, or would it all go to waste if we didn't use it in a month?
I think [that saying the words I'm sorry doesn't actually always constitute an apology.] that the usefulness of the high dragon's blood over a great deal of other blood was to do with the arcane properties with which it was imbued. I would be very much surprised if those properties persisted over a prolonged period of time. But seeing as the whole endeavor was untested until it wasn't, I can't very well say one way or the other.
[ While his dream of dragon blood stores is made less likely, he screws his mouth over to one side, and afterwards it remains there for a few silent seconds. ]
I joined the Inquisition—
[ sounding mildly exhausted now, by this line of questioning and by the fact that it’s been that long ]
—because of the Battle of Ghislain. I was worried. I wanted to help. I might have helped some other way, maybe stayed in Orlais, but I was also bored, and whatever was happening here sounding very interesting.
Would you prefer to do this with coffee?
[ And faces. Hers to read, his to have adorable contrite eyes. Surely this would be easier that way. ]
[ She may arrive before him, then. But gabbing with the kitchen staff while he assembles a coffee tray only delays him a minute or two, and then he emerges, feet quiet and tray rattling.
The warm weather he’d hoped to enjoy while there’s time has abruptly turned into rain. The cloistered garden has those covered walkways on all sides, so that’s fine. A different kind of pleasant.
He sets up on a bench—beside her, if she’d already chosen one, or otherwise nearby—and fiddles with cups and spoons while he says, ]
[She had indeed arrived a few moments earlier, tailed by a little white (allegedly—today he sports traces of brown and grey spots that suggest a recent less than successful emergency bath) dog. She had selected a bench, and had just enough time to consider the possibility that Bastien might not arrive at all, and whether she considered pursuing him in order to upbraid him a worthy pursuit or merely too indictive of the very issue to bother with.
But then he had come after all, and she has patiently not launched directly into her assault the moment she had spotted him working around the garden's covered margins. Now, however—
A brisk nod. Right. With a click of her hard soled boot heels, Wysteria rises from her bench and turns to face him. The small dog leaps down from the bench as well, affecting a posture that anticipates they will momentarily be running off. Instead, Wysteria produces a paper from her pocket. She unfolds it, crisp crackle of paper inaudible over the drizzle of rain off the eaves.]
Point one. Dereliction of duty in a time of extreme duress. I am willing to in part forgive this, given the aforementioned return and effort expended to see the required components retrieved. Thank you. I trust you have thanked everyone who attended to your duties in the interim while they were also engaged with mourning various loved ones and friends. Thank goodness there was no Venatori assault on the main body of Riftwatch in the weeks that followed Granitefell, in which an extra pair of competent hands might have been required.
Point two. [This is not, evidently, the time for him to speak. The breath she requires to fund this is so swiftly sucked down that it hardly qualifies.] Blatant disregard for those who might consider themselves your friends and acquaintances. I must assume you notified at least your division head of your departure, and maintained an orderly record of your various works in progress lest the person who was meant to have picked up after you be further inconvenienced. That said, I find it highly inconsiderate to have departed so abruptly with little to no word spared for the company with whom you have spent these last five years, and who may or may not have at least wished to bid you farewell. It was unfairly done to those people, and it was an unfair affliction to give yourself—this business of pretending no one cares very much for one another.
Point three. Demonstration of a shockingly optimistic assessment of our day to day work which I would not have attributed to any member of this company, much less to a man of your professional capacities. The work of Riftwatch is dangerous. That we do not suffer loss with more frequency is fairly miraculous. It would behoove any member of the company to prepare themselves accordingly. If that is so wholly unpalatable to you, a person who may do as he pleases and go where he wills without restriction or consequence, then I would invite you to strongly consider the merits of your position here and whether it is responsible to pretend at commitment alongside people who have volunteered to face that danger or have little choice but to accept it.
[She lowers the paper. Looks at him. Somewhere in there, the small allegedly white dog has given up and sat down.]
[ Her rise from the bench, her paper, the little dog—for the first few sentences, he looks as much charmed as sorry, though he's polite enough to aim that at the dog.
After the first few sentences, it drains out of him.
Uncomfortable shifting is not something he does, as a rule. His eyebrows pinch here and there to signal a few quibbles—at unfair affliction to give yourself, and unpalatable, and at the very end, little choice but to accept it. The points he cannot quibble with, both those he might have predicted and those he hadn't really considered, get no such obvious reaction. He fits in three sips of coffee. He looks away once, for one second, when the garden brightens with a distant flash of lightning. If he looks smaller on the bench when she arrives at her stopping point than when she began, it is mostly a matter of vibes.
His head shake is a half-step up from a head twitch. ]
[It is a very quick concession. And not a particularly satisfying outcome. The scrunching of her face says as much. Yet—]
Very well.
[The little white dog stands up again as Wysteria hands across the piece of paper—(quarter piece, really, for there is still something of a shortage). He stands to perch his front paws expectantly on the edge of Bastien's bench as if this may be a treat he hopes to share in.
The paper itself has notes written in first one direction, and then crosswise again across the first lines to make full use of the space.]
Bastien turns it one way and then the other, scanning the notes quick enough to only catch a fraction of what they say. His free hand drops down to offer the little dog a sniff, perhaps a chin scratch if he’s amenable, and he glances up at Wysteria. ]
Generally it is a good thing, [ tired around the edges, but not without some warmth and distant amusement at her disappointed face scrunching, ] to mount a first strike so thorough and well-planned that the enemy immediately surrenders.
[ Bastien nods. Yes, she would have—but it's also a nod to himself, an acceptance of this state of affairs where there is little to nothing he can say that will go over well, and he will have to live with her well-reasoned nose-scrunching disapproval for the foreseeable future.
Which means what he would really like is to get away. But he doesn't move, aside from skritching the dog and executing a neat refolding of her paper with one hand. ]
I shouldn't have left. If I had to leave, I shouldn't have left the way I did. I'm sorry that I went, and I'm sorry that I've disappointed you.
[ Bastien considers her, then glances back at her notes—still folded, because he is reviewing her arguments in his head.
The best he might sincerely do is a plea for understanding and however much grace five years might have earned him, with the rest to be repaid on schedule. But supposing no one alive wanted to deal with his feelings was a good third of the problem, after all, and on the list of places he might attempt to challenge that supposition, "Wysteria de Foncé nee Poppell thirsting for a debate" is just above "large carnivores," below "highwaymen holding me at knifepoint."
He opens his mouth. He puffs out only air. An inhale, and he tries again, half-hearted. ]
A man of my professional capacities recognizes a sunk ship. I would have given it another few weeks at most before it was announced we were reducing our operating costs, relocating somewhere harder to find, and narrowing our focus to exclusively rifts and arcana and all of that, and anyone who was not of use in that area would be invited to contribute their talents to the Inquisition instead.
[ Maybe. It had very little to do with anything, regardless. ]
Nonsense. What absurdity. [What a terrible counter argument. She scoffs.]
Even if we had gone off to do just that, the work of investigating rifts and their associated arcana requires— You went to the Arlathans, yes? Do you imagine myself and Viktor and Miss Smythe just traipsing along through the jungles on our own? To say nothing of the intent of the Venatori themselves. Clearly they understand Riftwatch and its purposes as a threat to their own. They meant to kill us in Rialto, and succeeded in part at Granitefell. If anything—
[She reaches for a word, and failing to find it instead stamps her foot. It makes for a dull thwack amidst the hissing of the rain beyond the covered walkway. It does the job required of it thought, for she continues:]
It is our duty to persist! If that is true, then they should be frightened!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[A single word reply from Wysteria de Foncé. Ominous.]
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[ is not smooth or uncaring. A bit fumbling, really. ]
—I was contacting you to ask if it matters how fresh the dragon blood is. For time travel. We know where the dragon is, we have an idea of how to handle it, and for the time being we have greater numbers. If it is still effective if it has been kept in a vial for a few years, it might be good of us to take the opportunity now to, uh.
[ Phhhhhhhhffff. ]
I could try to guess why you're unhappy with me, but it feels so awful to guess wrong.
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[She says, unhappily—which is to say, in that turned up nose tenor of hers.]
I am merely practicing good security. The Ambassador has made it quite clear how much he would prefer I didn't tell just anyone about the various more delicate semantics of my work, particularly anyones who might take that information elsewhere and do whatever they wish with it. It seems unwise to surrender airship intelligence to a deserter.
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[ In the middle of the night, without notice.
But still. ]
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Come on. It isn't as if I ran off the Venatori. And I came back.
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[ A breath and shift. ]
I don’t suppose you’ve ever had a temper tantrum.
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Certainly not.
[Crisp, prim, and wholly unimpeachable.]
And even if I had, that doesn't change that it was poorly done. I can't imagine that storming off to be miserable made it any less miserable.
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But he wouldn't expect someone who's never had a temper tantrum (unimpeachably true!) to understand. So, ]
It was poorly done either way. I am sorry. You don't have to tell me about the airships. I imagine when one is finished it will impossible to miss anyway.
What do you think about the dragon, though? Is it worth going back now, or would it all go to waste if we didn't use it in a month?
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Why did you join Riftwatch?
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I joined the Inquisition—
[ sounding mildly exhausted now, by this line of questioning and by the fact that it’s been that long ]
—because of the Battle of Ghislain. I was worried. I wanted to help. I might have helped some other way, maybe stayed in Orlais, but I was also bored, and whatever was happening here sounding very interesting.
Would you prefer to do this with coffee?
[ And faces. Hers to read, his to have adorable contrite eyes. Surely this would be easier that way. ]
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Herb garden after lunch? I will bring the coffee. Or if you are in Hightown today I can come there.
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[And will arrive promptly so as to be expeditious about delivering upon her threats.]
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The warm weather he’d hoped to enjoy while there’s time has abruptly turned into rain. The cloistered garden has those covered walkways on all sides, so that’s fine. A different kind of pleasant.
He sets up on a bench—beside her, if she’d already chosen one, or otherwise nearby—and fiddles with cups and spoons while he says, ]
Alright. I’m ready.
god im sorry
But then he had come after all, and she has patiently not launched directly into her assault the moment she had spotted him working around the garden's covered margins. Now, however—
A brisk nod. Right. With a click of her hard soled boot heels, Wysteria rises from her bench and turns to face him. The small dog leaps down from the bench as well, affecting a posture that anticipates they will momentarily be running off. Instead, Wysteria produces a paper from her pocket. She unfolds it, crisp crackle of paper inaudible over the drizzle of rain off the eaves.]
Point one. Dereliction of duty in a time of extreme duress. I am willing to in part forgive this, given the aforementioned return and effort expended to see the required components retrieved. Thank you. I trust you have thanked everyone who attended to your duties in the interim while they were also engaged with mourning various loved ones and friends. Thank goodness there was no Venatori assault on the main body of Riftwatch in the weeks that followed Granitefell, in which an extra pair of competent hands might have been required.
Point two. [This is not, evidently, the time for him to speak. The breath she requires to fund this is so swiftly sucked down that it hardly qualifies.] Blatant disregard for those who might consider themselves your friends and acquaintances. I must assume you notified at least your division head of your departure, and maintained an orderly record of your various works in progress lest the person who was meant to have picked up after you be further inconvenienced. That said, I find it highly inconsiderate to have departed so abruptly with little to no word spared for the company with whom you have spent these last five years, and who may or may not have at least wished to bid you farewell. It was unfairly done to those people, and it was an unfair affliction to give yourself—this business of pretending no one cares very much for one another.
Point three. Demonstration of a shockingly optimistic assessment of our day to day work which I would not have attributed to any member of this company, much less to a man of your professional capacities. The work of Riftwatch is dangerous. That we do not suffer loss with more frequency is fairly miraculous. It would behoove any member of the company to prepare themselves accordingly. If that is so wholly unpalatable to you, a person who may do as he pleases and go where he wills without restriction or consequence, then I would invite you to strongly consider the merits of your position here and whether it is responsible to pretend at commitment alongside people who have volunteered to face that danger or have little choice but to accept it.
[She lowers the paper. Looks at him. Somewhere in there, the small allegedly white dog has given up and sat down.]
You may defend yourself now.
for being too good?
After the first few sentences, it drains out of him.
Uncomfortable shifting is not something he does, as a rule. His eyebrows pinch here and there to signal a few quibbles—at unfair affliction to give yourself, and unpalatable, and at the very end, little choice but to accept it. The points he cannot quibble with, both those he might have predicted and those he hadn't really considered, get no such obvious reaction. He fits in three sips of coffee. He looks away once, for one second, when the garden brightens with a distant flash of lightning. If he looks smaller on the bench when she arrives at her stopping point than when she began, it is mostly a matter of vibes.
His head shake is a half-step up from a head twitch. ]
I'm sure I could not. I'll concede.
[ He gestures to her paper. ]
May I see it?
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Very well.
[The little white dog stands up again as Wysteria hands across the piece of paper—(quarter piece, really, for there is still something of a shortage). He stands to perch his front paws expectantly on the edge of Bastien's bench as if this may be a treat he hopes to share in.
The paper itself has notes written in first one direction, and then crosswise again across the first lines to make full use of the space.]
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Bastien turns it one way and then the other, scanning the notes quick enough to only catch a fraction of what they say. His free hand drops down to offer the little dog a sniff, perhaps a chin scratch if he’s amenable, and he glances up at Wysteria. ]
Generally it is a good thing, [ tired around the edges, but not without some warmth and distant amusement at her disappointed face scrunching, ] to mount a first strike so thorough and well-planned that the enemy immediately surrenders.
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Wysteria, meanwhile, simply wrinkles her nose further.]
Yes, these last weeks I'd rather gathered the considerable advantage to be gleaned from an overwhelming assault.
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Which means what he would really like is to get away. But he doesn't move, aside from skritching the dog and executing a neat refolding of her paper with one hand. ]
I shouldn't have left. If I had to leave, I shouldn't have left the way I did. I'm sorry that I went, and I'm sorry that I've disappointed you.
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[This is a snipping assessment, perfectly clean and bloodless. And then, because she can only restrain her irritation for so long—]
You are not meant to just apologize. It seems very insincere.
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The best he might sincerely do is a plea for understanding and however much grace five years might have earned him, with the rest to be repaid on schedule. But supposing no one alive wanted to deal with his feelings was a good third of the problem, after all, and on the list of places he might attempt to challenge that supposition, "Wysteria de Foncé nee Poppell thirsting for a debate" is just above "large carnivores," below "highwaymen holding me at knifepoint."
He opens his mouth. He puffs out only air. An inhale, and he tries again, half-hearted. ]
A man of my professional capacities recognizes a sunk ship. I would have given it another few weeks at most before it was announced we were reducing our operating costs, relocating somewhere harder to find, and narrowing our focus to exclusively rifts and arcana and all of that, and anyone who was not of use in that area would be invited to contribute their talents to the Inquisition instead.
[ Maybe. It had very little to do with anything, regardless. ]
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Even if we had gone off to do just that, the work of investigating rifts and their associated arcana requires— You went to the Arlathans, yes? Do you imagine myself and Viktor and Miss Smythe just traipsing along through the jungles on our own? To say nothing of the intent of the Venatori themselves. Clearly they understand Riftwatch and its purposes as a threat to their own. They meant to kill us in Rialto, and succeeded in part at Granitefell. If anything—
[She reaches for a word, and failing to find it instead stamps her foot. It makes for a dull thwack amidst the hissing of the rain beyond the covered walkway. It does the job required of it thought, for she continues:]
It is our duty to persist! If that is true, then they should be frightened!
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