#heirbane

@heirbane

"Gaius." His father's name was said in a tight tone, one that was heavy with exasperation. Such behavior coming from a Legatus (ex Legatus) felt unthinkable to imagine and yet here he was, forced to watch as the man he had called 'father' dance (poorly) with a woman who had to be half his age and size. The cause of the odd behavior could have been traced back to the several empty flagons of ale that Gaius had imbibed, but that knowledge provided lukewarm comfort. After all, alcohol didn't make a person do something they didn't want to do.

The overly affection behavior toward Alta was one thing, but the sight of his father offering him a wink and what could only be described as a gesture of touching his lips to the tips of his fingers before gesturing toward Rex was the breaking point for him. The aura rolled his eyes before turning to walk out of the crowded room; this celebration could finish without him.

FINE. IM DOING IT JUST FOR YOU RAINBOW

solus watches his blood flee the room at gaius' behest, expression sour. how very noble is the dog that growls to protect its' master. solus can appreciate that instinct, imbecilic as it is.

"brave, are we?" solus tilts his head, eyes still on the closed door as if watching varis walk down the long hallway, able to see straight through the metal. his grandson's soul is not nearly as radiant as his grandmother's had been, but it shines brighter than those around him, all those poor wretches with no ancient blood to speak of in their veins. solus watches the hue fade as varis leaves and thinks, what a waste. but what else could be expected from such a perverse union between a man and an insect?

solus suddenly turns his face towards gaius, expression inscrutable. "do you think he might do the same for you, were your positions reversed? you may be dismayed to know the answer." he's genuinely curious, even though he knows the truth himself. the young wolf can be rather intriguing like that: naive and noble to a fault, yet still willing to do what must be done, bloody blade and all.

BG3 starters // @heirbane

It feels strange, seeing a man like Gaius in despair. Even now, with his former "shepherd to the weak" mindset forsaken, he remained inscrutable even without the armored helm to conceal his expressions. A changed man now, aye, but a stoic man all the same, whose moments of vulnerability were few and far in between.

Yet every man has their shadows, their moonless nights. This, Meteor knows better than most, and when he quietly enters Gaius' room with a tray of stew balanced on his hand, the sight of empty bottles crowding the table reminds him of his own past demons. Of the twenty something bottles that littered the tables and floor of his inn room at Cloud Nine, as much alcohol it took to drown out his sorrow over Haurchefant, until not even his supernatural constitution could keep up any longer.

He had been alone then, unable to show weakness anywhere and thus forced to deal with his pain by himself. He wouldn't let Gaius be the same way, former enemy or no. The tray is set on an empty space on the table that isn't taken up by cups or bottles, and then Meteor takes a seat next to where Gaius slumps. If the man wants him gone, he speaks nothing of it. Instead, he spills his regrets to Meteor, as alcohol is wont to make a man do.

"There is no redemption. Can't you see? It's too late."

Perhaps if these words had been spoken to him back then, he would have no good answer for them, but he has already learned about dealing with guilt through his reconciliation with Fray and Myste, and so he has an answer now.

That answer, however, does not offer any comfort. He cannot offer any; it is not his place to. Instead, he says, "It weighs as it should." You have sinned greatly, and you must live with that fact. "Maybe there will be no forgiveness, but can you afford to stop moving forward now? Is your burden really that light?"

His hand comes to rest on Gaius' shoulder. "Regardless, the fact remains that you want to change for the better... and so long as that remains true, you can consider me your ally. One who thinks you ought to stop chugging this swill and get some rest."

Eventually, he hauls Gaius to bed, dumping him on the mattress without much effort and pulling the thin worn blanket over his body. The stew he left on the table is brought to the nightstand, a hot tincture placed on top of the lid to keep it warm when the man eventually awakens with a monstrous hangover. When they next meet again, Gaius looks weary and disheveled, but the stoic mask is back, his expression betraying none of crushing guilt he had displayed the night before.

He had not said his words in the hopes of getting any form of apology from his father. Rex had known better than to even hope to get a true acknowledgement of his failures. Certainly the man could say, could claim, that he had tried - and that would be the truth. He had.

But his efforts hadn't raised children. He had raised soldiers, and they had been left at the mercy of the Garlean Empire with Gaius' presumed death. Of course his father could not have predicted what happened - or so Rex might have thought.

But he knew better. He knew his father better than any of his siblings ever could have. Perhaps he knew Gaius better than Gaius knew himself.

"I would not have expected to hear such pathetic whimpering from the Black Wolf himself." And Gaius' broken stare was met with a flat, unblinking glare from vivid orange eyes. "You've gotten soft in your old age. I almost believe that you think you took us in with such an altruistic goal."

The Black Wolf would have only cared about doing all he could for the glory of Garlemald.

-- it was dangerous for him to dwell on these thoughts, though. They brought with them a surge of anger that threatened to awake the voice in the back of his mind that craved for him to give into his baser impulses. It had taken him months to learn to curb the impulse to attack anyone on sight, the warrior of light his most notable target. The overwhelming and stomach-curling surges of aether that came with it, and the sickly sensation of someone else in his mind always followed.

yotsuyu plays at impassivity, but inside, the rage burns like a cold fire. another man who scolds her like a dog is certainly nothing novel, but something in his voice echoes sashihai.

(she burns dinner, because she doesn't know how to use the stove; he makes her eat it off the floor like a dog, then takes her by the hair and-)

she's only returned to the past for a moment, but it's too late: regrettably, uncontrollably, yotsuyu flinches. foolish--the viceroy's hand reaches for his teacup, not to grab at her. but she refuses to throw out the entire gambit. her expression smooths out again, as if nothing has happened, and her timid expression returns. no, she can use this. she can pretend to be a simpering sheep, overwhelmed by the presence of a general. is that not what garlean men think doman women are? meek and stupid lambs, for breeding and for pleasure at best? the doman resistance wants information from the legatus while he is on doma, and yotsuyu wants to see if there are any cracks in the armor she can slip her roots into. what good is a flower that floats away when the flood comes? better to plant roots now, to secure herself something greater. the resistance will never succeed, even she can see that. it will not tread water, and she refuses to be dragged underneath the tide alongside it.

"forgive me, my lord," she says, faux-innocent, pulling her hand back from where it nearly touches his armor. playing at the shy young maid she has been instructed to be, she adjusts the tea tray she has brought instead, shuffling her foot.

"i have never seen such armor in person. i forgot myself. i-" yotsuyu pretends to cut herself off, pretends to chastise herself, to cringe at the sound of her own voice. it is a good performance, she thinks, the only give away that not all is what it seems the sharp intelligence in her eyes. perhaps her makeup is too fine for a maid, but her costume, otherwise, is excellent; hair pulled back loosely to frame her face, robe modest but tight against her skin. she is an actor, and this is a stage she could walk blindfolded.

garlemald is harsher than doma, by far. and not just in climate. no one wants chiyo to succeed here, to claw citizenship within her tight grasp. domans are mocked relentlessly in this side of the world, the subject of baseless propaganda at worst and offensive pornography at best; the idea that one could stand beside them as an ally (worse, as an equal) disconcerts most garleans. gaius is more generous than most.

chiyo doesn't meet her superior's eye, instead studies a growing crack in the floor, hands clasped behind her back at attention. helmet removed, the au'ra sports a fist-shaped bruise down the side of her face, but she pays it no heed--the one who'd struck her is in far worse shape. livia's armor will need weeks to be properly repaired.

scrapping is beneath her. beneath them both. but livia had started it, and chiyo certainly wasn't opposed to denying the little mongrel's request. still, she has some measure of shame about their scrap, otherwise she'd answer gaius outright. she attacked me first is borderline juvenile, something chiyo is determined not to be. but without saying that, she doesn't know how to explain--though given livia's track record, chiyo thinks it should be rather obvious.

Hikari looked over her shoulder and huffed. "Why d'you care? If I had t'list every mentor I had we'd be here all damned day. Yer Garlean, but y'at least know how soul stones work, right?" She didn't know the storied history behind every deed inscribed in the one she made contact with regarding Fray, nor every person. "I've come a long way from the little whelp y'faced them years ago. Every move I've either adapted, picked up, or developed on m'own. 'M also still pretty good with an axe."