Trust. [So flat and humorless as to be almost barking. Some ember of anger flashes briefly in his face, white hot, before being rearranged - not hidden, just not there at the forefront in the set of his jaw or the fixed point of his attention.]
I'm sorry. I must have misplaced it somewhere between you having no opinion on any topic whatsoever and the implication that I'm a Tevinter agent. What am I meant to be trusting you to do?
[ A spare, elegant shrug. Honestly, this oughtn't be so hard to understand. And it's not as though he hasn't incentivized the man quite thoroughly. Trust Byerly, or ruin of his reputation and prospects and likely control of his crew would follow. How is that difficult? ]
Your job, as I understand it and as is the case with every Division Head, is to support and guide our efforts here to help win this war. So long as that holds true, and allowing that your work doesn't begin and end with providing worthless commentary from the center of the room, then I see no reason why we shouldn't be happy partners.
[It's good brandy spoiled utterly, so he doesn't feel any guilt for simply throwing the rest of it back. Afterward, the empty glass is set aside - closer to him than to the bottle - and he once more moves to rise from the chair.]
[Once, as a boy, he'd fought another junior officer. He can't remember what was said to start it, only that somehow in the fury of the moment he'd left himself. Gone somewhere distant and unthinking, swallowed up by some force that waited under his skin. He'd come to only in the aftermath of having been struck by the sailing master with a belaying pin and had for a second or ten of dizzying pain been certain that this is what it felt like to become a mage. He was eleven. It had been the right time to be overtaken by something. The realization of bloody knuckles and bruised ribs and no trace of the arcane had been as much shock as disappointment - a cold fury of ruined want that dumbed the sting of the caning that came after.
There is something of that now - that bitterness in his mouth. He discovers that at some point, he's risen to his feet and set his hand back on the empty glass. The edge of it digs into his fingers and all the blood has drained from his face.
(He isn't a big man. Not really. But standing there, he is at once dangerous - there is a knife in his broad belt and his bare forearms are corded muscle and little else. Piracy is a hard life, and it must mean something that he wears so few scars produced by it.)
He picks up the glass and doesn't strike Byerly in the face with it. Instead, he makes do with taking the bottle as well.]
[ Of all the things - That hadn't been meant as provocation. Quite the opposite - he'd meant to build a little solidarity. Surely for a man who hates Tevinter, fucking over one of the highest of the Vints was a point of pride. But for a moment, By's hand found his blade, because for that moment he'd thought an attack was to come.
But there is none, in the end. So - very well.
He opens his mouth to protest taking that bottle, then decides - no. Let the Captain become used to drinking his liquor; there may come a day when that habit will be useful for introducing a little something extra. Hopefully not, but...Perhaps. ]
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no subject
I'm sorry. I must have misplaced it somewhere between you having no opinion on any topic whatsoever and the implication that I'm a Tevinter agent. What am I meant to be trusting you to do?
no subject
[ A spare, elegant shrug. Honestly, this oughtn't be so hard to understand. And it's not as though he hasn't incentivized the man quite thoroughly. Trust Byerly, or ruin of his reputation and prospects and likely control of his crew would follow. How is that difficult? ]
I didn't volunteer for it for my health.
no subject
[It's good brandy spoiled utterly, so he doesn't feel any guilt for simply throwing the rest of it back. Afterward, the empty glass is set aside - closer to him than to the bottle - and he once more moves to rise from the chair.]
Now, if you'll forgive me, I have work to do.
no subject
[ But - ]
One last thing before you go.
[ C'mon, sit. ]
no subject
A pause. An expectant look.]
no subject
Did you really fuck an altus' wife? And escaped with your life, after disrupting their precious bloodlines.
no subject
There is something of that now - that bitterness in his mouth. He discovers that at some point, he's risen to his feet and set his hand back on the empty glass. The edge of it digs into his fingers and all the blood has drained from his face.
(He isn't a big man. Not really. But standing there, he is at once dangerous - there is a knife in his broad belt and his bare forearms are corded muscle and little else. Piracy is a hard life, and it must mean something that he wears so few scars produced by it.)
He picks up the glass and doesn't strike Byerly in the face with it. Instead, he makes do with taking the bottle as well.]
Enjoy your day, Mssr Rutyer.
[And then he is leaving.]
no subject
But there is none, in the end. So - very well.
He opens his mouth to protest taking that bottle, then decides - no. Let the Captain become used to drinking his liquor; there may come a day when that habit will be useful for introducing a little something extra. Hopefully not, but...Perhaps. ]