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[katabasis]

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[katabasis]

[Who knows who might be standing beside Rutyer in this moment? In the spirit of 'I can neither confirm nor deny allegations of threatening to murder your loves ones':]

The matter is either worth your concern or it is not. If you'd like to discuss it further, then you know where to find me.

[bouchonne]

[ By realizes the reason for Flint's evasiveness, of course, and - Well. That would have been clever on his part, wouldn't it? But he's too incandescently angry to even plan that far ahead. Ah, he wants to murder this fuck. ]

May I bring something to drink? A nice Tevinter red?

[katabasis]

If you like. I'll be in the Division office for the next hour.

[And that’s the end of that.]

[bouchonne]

What a sweet mad thing you are.

[ By swaggers in not ten minutes later, wine dangling from his hand, toothy smile on his lips. ]

I've always thought of your breed as slimy slithering little monsters scrabbling in the dark, but you're a proper berserker, aren't you? Perhaps you've Avvar blood. Perhaps we're cousins.

[katabasis]

[Flint doesn't rise to greet him. He's been free of the division office for a few days - here or there; on the Walrus maybe, or in Kirkwall or attending to Riftwatch business beyond it, or somewhere else entirely after something else completely -, and his absence shows in the thick stack of documents on the table.

He signs his name to the bottom of a report, then trades it for a new one. The motion is oddly small and economical, though he sounds cheery enough:]

It’s possible. I believe my grandmother was from the South.

[bouchonne]

[ By laughs. It's either that or punch the son of a bitch in the nose, and By has made a long career of failing to live up to his own berserker heritage. So. He laughs. ]

And what sent her to roll in Northern shit?

[katabasis]

My grandfather was a merchant sailor by trade. I assume that somehow had something to do with it.

[Another scratch of the pen, another stiff displacement of paper.]

[bouchonne]

The family business.

[ By drapes himself across the chair opposite Flint. ]

[katabasis]

Indeed.

[A soft rustling of papers, a pause as he gives some element in the report a second review, and then it too is signed and transferred away. Tomorrow, if he isn't defending his position after gutting Byerly all over the office's rug, he'll see about finding Nell's replacement. There's no reason to be short an assistant.]

[bouchonne]

[ The wine is uncorked. Glasses are poured. In typical Byerly fashion, he's somehow managed to source a very fine vintage in a warzone, in a time of want. ]

I chose to avoid the family business, myself.

[katabasis]

[A 'hmmm' of acknowledgement. Scratch, scratch, scratch goes the pen across a new sheet.]

[bouchonne]

Violence, of course, being said family business. In the name of the King. Or the Queen.

[ He says that last bit like it's an afterthought. ]

I suppose you've never seen a Blight, have you?

[katabasis]

I have not.

[Imagine for a moment that they have nothing against one another. This could almost be one of those casually useless conversations between two people comfortable enough with one another's precense to be verging on dismissive.]

You should have tried your hand at it. You might have enjoyed it.

[Scratch, scratch. A pause. He dashes off another two lines, then briefly sets the pen aside in favor of the glass.]

[bouchonne]

It is ironic, since it's your people who gave them to us. The Blights. If there were justice, I suppose you'd be fighting your dark gods alone.

[ He smiles sweetly, and picks up his own glass. Doesn't drink. ]

But - do you think? That I'd enjoy it? I don't know. Blood makes me feel faint.

[katabasis]

Does it?

[He turns to the next page, and this must be something worth actual consideration. He takes to nursing the glass, attention fixed on the pages as he slowly thumbs through it. Presumably Rutyer will reach his point given an age to do so.]

[bouchonne]

Dreadfully so. I am, you understand, a weak man. Cowardly.

[katabasis]

[Here, a glance up. Is that why this is taking so long - cowardice?

Then his focus slides back to the page.]

[bouchonne]

I suppose you wouldn't know what it's like to be a coward. So brave. So strapping and burly. Boldness personified.

[ His voice is pitching a little lower, now, the obnoxious edge softening into a bit more of a murmur. Strangely calming. ]

[katabasis]

[It doesn't warrant address. Scratch, scratch goes the pen. What he does eventually offer without looking up is:]

You have half an hour remaining, Messr Rutyer. You may of course spend it however you like.

[bouchonne]

Mm.

[ That warning goes barely acknowledged. ]

Did you ever have a moment where you were a coward?

[katabasis]

I can't say that I've had the luxury, no.

[What happens to a young soporati boy on a Tevene ship who is too stricken with fear to do what he is ordered? He has no idea, but he can imagine it.]

[bouchonne]

Do you fancy cowardice a luxury?

[katabasis]

I do.

[Plain enough.

(Maybe he will dismiss Rutyer early after all. Sitting like this as if nothing is wrong with the jagged ache in his side is making his fingers buzz.)]

[bouchonne]

Such ignorance.

[ There's a warm curl of amusement in Byerly's voice. It's rather sweet-sounding.

He hasn't drunk any of his wine. ]

To go through life a coward is like going through life like your little quartermaster, stumbling about on a single leg. No one makes an allowance for your shortcoming, but you must still do all that others do.

[katabasis]

Fear is normal, [he says, attention still there on the page before him. The handwriting is truly awful. Who the fuck filed this?] Cowards are made either by their inaction or in their refusal to own the choices they do make. Perhaps our definition of the word differs.

[He takes another sip from the glass-- and then pauses. Perhaps he catches the other glass, still full, in the corner of his eye or maybe the low sway of Byerly's voice has registered, or maybe he is simply tired of this particular series of papers. Either way, Flint looks up, sets aside his pen and finally sits back in the chair. If there is a wince, he pretends there isn't.]

The philosophy is a pleasant change of pace.