A huff of amusement inflated Rahse’s slumping posture. Sleep for dinner? A bold joke coming from a woman who had endured a few such nights in recent memory. Leaning toward her, Rahse would slide onto his side facing her, planting an appreciative peck on her forehead even as her tone returned to considered sobriety, a good question soon to follow. She’d need that humor to get far enough to find an answer. Hell, he’d need it more.
”I don’t know.” Melting into the bed a bit, Rahse’s guard lowered than he intended, eyes closing as his smile became more and more weary, threatening to slip entirely. For a moment, he’d lie there in… not defeat, far from that, but belabored wonder. For just a moment, there was no answer.
Then the wheels began to turn.
”The Free Marches are the Frosts’ purlieu. Even if we secure ourselves in one of the more upstanding city-states, say Hercinia or… maybe Starkhaven… we would have to continue to contend with their methods. Spies. Investigators. An assassin once Bastien knows enough.” Bringing a hand up to pinch his nose, Rahse would flop onto his back, half his body hanging off the bed. Nose in-hand, he’d continue.
”Escaping the Marches entirely to deny them their native advantages, their established contacts and coin-for-blood employees-” Rahse would click his teeth, well aware of the irony of him deriding prioritizing gold to morality, Finally opening his eyes, he’d scan the ceiling for a moment, his musings turning internal. When they clicked together in some fashion, he’d turn his head to face her again.
”Tevinter slavers treat run-away foreigners like escaped sheep. That leaves us two options. We play ‘the game’ in Orlais, or we try to fall off the map in Ferelden.” Smile returning, it’d be smaller this time, a little more honest perhaps.
”How’s your stomach for double-speak and entendre, love?” Ferelden would be a matter of hiding, and running, and hiding. But Orlais, with its politics and its masks and its secret deal, was perhaps the only game Rahse could match their frigid pursuant at. Especially with both of them starting with a blank board, forced to collect pieces all their own.
”I don’t know.” Melting into the bed a bit, Rahse’s guard lowered than he intended, eyes closing as his smile became more and more weary, threatening to slip entirely. For a moment, he’d lie there in… not defeat, far from that, but belabored wonder. For just a moment, there was no answer.
Then the wheels began to turn.
”The Free Marches are the Frosts’ purlieu. Even if we secure ourselves in one of the more upstanding city-states, say Hercinia or… maybe Starkhaven… we would have to continue to contend with their methods. Spies. Investigators. An assassin once Bastien knows enough.” Bringing a hand up to pinch his nose, Rahse would flop onto his back, half his body hanging off the bed. Nose in-hand, he’d continue.
”Escaping the Marches entirely to deny them their native advantages, their established contacts and coin-for-blood employees-” Rahse would click his teeth, well aware of the irony of him deriding prioritizing gold to morality,
”Tevinter slavers treat run-away foreigners like escaped sheep. That leaves us two options. We play ‘the game’ in Orlais, or we try to fall off the map in Ferelden.” Smile returning, it’d be smaller this time, a little more honest perhaps.
”How’s your stomach for double-speak and entendre, love?” Ferelden would be a matter of hiding, and running, and hiding. But Orlais, with its politics and its masks and its secret deal, was perhaps the only game Rahse could match their frigid pursuant at. Especially with both of them starting with a blank board, forced to collect pieces all their own.
07-13-2024, 09:15 PM
