i ran out of polite ways to tell people to go fuck themselves. pardon my language. + sol
it's not like the special fire force to hang around asakusa on their days off. whatever duties and obligations its members are compelled to attend to don't really take them anywhere past the kaminarimon very often which, really, is fine by benimaru. but there's always the exception, and then the exception within the exception. the eighth company is already a ragtag bunch of burgeoning nonconformists, but its oldest soldier is as different from the rest of them as it gets. she's here of her own volition, after all, for some reason benimaru can't understand. [ the loyal imperial dogs often choose to stay where their masters can yank at their leash. ]
in a sense, @laesarus (as sol) is sort of like him. the kind of moron that hibachi would have had a field day berating into submission. perhaps it's why she takes more readily to the old gravel streets of asakusa rather than the pavement and asphalt of the rest of tokyo. sol's loud mouth and hard - edged confidence would suit the seventh well in its everyday show of resistance against holy sol. it could also threaten konro with premature greying. either or.
sol. a hell of a name to have in this day and age. in the eyes of the empire, her very existence is heresy.
benimaru looks to her, a mirthless noise that could have been a chuckle making its way past his lips. " uh - huh. i'm sure they were all heartbroken you couldn't show proper manners. " his stoic amusement is short - lived. " that won't fly here, though. people bite back in asakusa. " it's not a threat. at least he hopes it doesn't sound like a threat. " fuck around and find out. pardon my language. "
❛ Ya know, there is a big difference between 'it's fine, it's just a bit of money' and 'there's enough here to buy food for a week'. ❜ he lifts the pouch of coins, hefty with its contents, and sets it on Kagami's counter. And to think that this has happened before, because there's no way it hasn't: nobody could ever react so calmly to a robbery in broad daylight if it there hadn't already been a ... first instance (and maybe even more than one). Nothing a spirited chase through the back alleys couldn't solve, though, as well as some stern diplomacy. ❛ Luckily, there's ways to make a thief part with their prize. Hope you're not missin' any. ❜
“ thank you, rei. i didn’t mean to busy you with having to fetch my money back so .. suddenly. ” the fan that is never far from kagami’s grasp is held between gentle hands that trace against the guard, and before she sets it next to the knitted coin purse he’s heroically returned to her. the drawstring, a pretty cool green color, is wrapped around delicate fingers and slowly undone: to be roughly shoulder-checked into an aggressive tug-of-war is not an act she is willing to be a player in. so she simply … let go, and let the thief make off with it.
“ you didn’t have to fight over it, did you? it is only money. i can always win more. people are always playing games in town. ”
❛ I know it's only money, ❜ he says, leaning on one shoulder against the counter with a roll of his eyes, ❛ and that you can make it back, but this was just as recoverable! Earning's take time; this? Only a couple'a minutes or twenty, in this case. ❜ Rei is the picture of ease, and it's with that same serenity that he tucks his hair behind his ear and watches Kagami count the coins. ❛ Besides, I didn't fight your pickpocket: I just gave them a stern talkin' to. ❜ A pause. Almost intentional. ❛ And made them trip. Taste of gravel might make them reconsider next time. ❜
it's only once Kagami has gone through the context of the pouch that he speaks up again. ❛ How would you have made the money back anyway? You'd have to win a pretty big pot at somethin' like shogi for that. ❜
❛ I guess I should find it comfortin' kind of? maybe that you're my last remaining audience member even when it looks like everyone else is gone. ❜ they let the last note fade and drift away, not unlike wind - borne leaves in the fall, before slipping off the fingerpicks and turning to lie down on their side. There's some nights when an inn's guests will request some music, which he is more than glad to provide but most decide to retire after two songs, by which point Rei is left by himself to practice quietly.
that's the usual scenario, anyway, but things have been unusual since he left his village. Sometimes, a presence remains, heralded by the scent of cinnamon, bergamot, and the kind of iron that reminds him of blood or a forge. Rei reaches for the sake cup he hasn't finished and all but knocks it back.
they close their eyes and sigh. The breeze sweeping through the enclosed courtyard brings with it a bit of jasmine and fresh air. ❛ You should be runnin' away from me, not coming back. We oughta make it a chase! That'd give me material to write songs about us. ❜
my ability to articulate is smol but my undying love for vann is lorge
something i adore about vann is how people-oriented and observant he is – that he listens and observes others with intent to understand and connect with people, even those he disagrees with or who may make him uncomfortable. this is something that occurs throughout his interactions with others –
exhibit a: he follows Lyonel's ringed finger as it pushes against his plate, his silence almost sepulchral. Not only does he allow himself to be dissected so out of respect for a man of higher status, but because patience and endurance often reward him with a clearer picture of those he deals with (source)
exhibit b: Victor Conley radiates discomfort whenever he's forced to stay still, not so much physically but personally. He fancies himself an ever - shifting mirror, forever reflecting the world around him to minimize the risk of finding his own image staring back at him. It's no way to live. Vann understands, though, perhaps all too well. (source)
exhibit c: they haven't met like this very often and yet every time Tristan has made it a conscious effort to avoid any and all kinds of physical contact, no matter how involuntary or inevitable. Vann finally understands why. What he doesn't get is why Tristan remains around what must be worse than (source)
and oftentimes, i think this sort of observation can make someone wary because they don't know the intent, but vann is always clear about his motives and he always tries to meet people where they are.
exhibit a: Vann again meets Adella halfway, having learned that a verbal challenge is more soothing than proper comfort. (source)
exhibit b: if Valentina's aiming for charming, as experience seems to say, then Vann aims for amicable, willing to meet them halfway in both humor and flippancy […] (source)
exhibit c: It isn't reticence that stops him, but rather her: from the moment they agreed on and lived compromise, the pace has been Laera's to set. […] he won't take what she isn't ready to give. The world's asked enough of her already. (source)
exhibit d: Vann understands that she's marked him not to hurt him but to claim him. […] Vann has recovered from his stumble and kissed her back, enveloping her hand around his collar with his own, a grip just short of vice - like clamped around her flesh. To meet, not to hurt. (source)
which leads me to this –
so i joke about this but what i love most about vann is his incredible capacity for compassion and empathy – and the fact that sharing it isn't conditional on the recipient being a good person or matching that kindness. even when he's angry, even in the face of injustice — he stands his ground but never strikes back out of anger or pain inflicted on him; that compassion and empathy still remains.
[ I pity such a lonely existence. ] […] He doesn't regret defending himself, but loneliness is a blade that bleeds its wearer; it's painful enough to bear without having to be reminded of it. (source)
The bite of her smile doesn't show her fangs. because of it, Vann allows himself to mellow. […] turning fully towards Sol in a show of openness. Another olive branch, as it were, even though he's offered too many. I pity such a lonely existence. It still troubles him to have said that (source)
this being after sol emotionally and psychologically gutted him repeatedly, shamelessly, and completely unrepentantly when he refused to go tit-for-tat with her. i was yelling at you about this when i first read it but i still think of it very often because despite how disastrously that conversation went (and on top of how she opened this conversation too!!) even when vann is hurt and angry, he never responds with cruelty.
he's never considered himself a prey animal, but now he feels like a rabbit undaunted and unnerved and in fact defiant in the face of the fox that thought himself too clever, too arrogant. […] ❛❛ But no, everything is about strength and survival and triumph, isn't it. […] I don't know what or who made you like this ... but I pity such a lonely existence. ❜❜ (source)
[…] there's nothing admirable about fighting fire with fire, […] There's always a better, though not always gentler, way of bringing the clandestine into the light. […] he can't help but feel some gloom at the fact he's only found out through jabs and verbal disarmament. He takes no pleasure in it. (source)
vann never acts to punish or exact retribution. and again, this is after sol has spoken cruelly throughout the conversation to purposefully provoke cruelty from him in turn! but vann never plays her game. he defends himself, asserts his boundaries firmly and doesn't tolerate disrespect but he never tries to take a pound of flesh from her even though he'd be completely justified – more than that, he regrets that he hurts sol and is unhappy that progress made during their conversation involved hurting her. the fact that they went from what should by all rights have been a party-ending conversation to ribbing each other (granted that events are currently unfolding) is such a huge display of how willing vann is to give someone despite being horrifically hurt because he understands the kind of pain that motivates such behaviour.
he does this with saren, too –
he gets close, perhaps a bit too much, but he has neither the strength to berate saren nor the desire to let anyone hear what he has to say. the closeness however lets him take in the extent of saren's reconstruction. last vann saw him, he was but a writhing husk corrupted by sovereign, screaming bloody murder as nothing but a puppet of the reapers. his mask of anger slips. […] " that was bad timing. i feel i feel like a bomb, so please let me see the council and we'll ... i'll be all yours later, alright? “ (source)
– the fact that in this moment, even in the middle of a fuckin ptsd episode, vann registers just how fucked up saren's existence is at this point and explains his outburst to saren despite the fact he's fully justified in it is just. Wow!! I'm Abnormal!!!
he shows this understanding time and time again too –
exhibit a: he feels Adella's gaze on him next, like greedy fingers tearing a ripe apple in half to find the worm burrowed in its core, but he doesn't falter under such pressure. Of course, he still allows her to huddle for warmth. (source)
exhibit b: Vann finds himself stunned, why lie, but it doesn't last long. Tristan is, after all, a man of many moods, even if they could simply be condensed into two. (unconsciously, he briefly worries his lower lip with his teeth before countering Tristan's mood). (source)
— and of course, the greatest example of it all:
Anger had dictated the first year of his convalescence. Anger had drowned out all prayers and songs, rendered him restless. The grief that soon followed paralyzed him for the better part of his days, until night came and he either wore his knees raw from kneeling before Tyr's shrine or shed enough tears for his eyes for burn. For the longest time, Vann wondered who was truly being punished: Castor for his violent deeds, or Vann for his inability to keep his vow of protection. But the fact of the matter is that he was never angry at Castor. How could he have been, when the last thing Vann ever saw and felt were eyes of full of tears and shaking hands at his throat?[ Vann takes another drink from his flagon, swallowing back that bile, that pain. It has no place here, not now. ] (source)
i need u to understand just how much this bit has lived rent free in my head since i read it. the amount of empathy that vann has, that the grief of callisto’s family and castor lashing out in anger because of that is so much of what traumatised vann from the whole situation.
it's so easy to give in to hate or just snap when someone does you wrong. but vann never does that – and he doesn't enjoy the results when that response is provoked from him. the understanding he shows and compassion he shares is one of my favourite things about him because it takes so much strength to practice this level of grace. he extends this grace no matter how difficult it is. if you need help and you ask for it, he will extend his hand – all you need to do is reach back. all you need to do is try to listen and mellow, because vann is so good at meeting people where they are. he supports them without coddling and he gives them space to grow without tolerating wrongdoings, whether against himself or others. i adore this about him most of all, because it's so amazing to see how he helps people want to change for themselves and be better simply by giving them space to grow without judgement. and that's so important when it comes to messy characters who follow the archetype of hurt people hurt people, because vann believes in the goodness people have within them and encourages growth without demanding change or forcing people into something they're not ready for and he'll hold them accountable for their actions.
#yourguy who truly epitomises “kindness is not weakness”.
[ to viya | 16:33. ] couldn't have waited for a day off.
[ to viya. | 16:34. ] fresh offa fight.
one more glob of blood hits the asphalt as Tristan spits (fucking Animal and his jabs to the face; that'll probably cost a tooth) and climbs onto his Thorton. The organizers of the fight had done a bang - up patch job, considering the fact he'd all but antagonized most of the audience present and that should've had him kicked out faster than one could say 'Arasaka', but there'll still be some things to look after when he gets back home. Not before meeting up with Vasya, though, because of course she wants to see him fresh off a paid spectacle at the far end of San Do.
[ viya. | 16:37. ] may have left the clan but still 'a fuckin brat'.
the engine roars to life, and he pulls up the holo as he reverses. At least she picks up. “ I oughtta leave you to make your way over yourself; I hear En - Cart's not busy at this time of day. Good luck pullin' into Kabuki on time. ”
she rolls her eyes at him, pinches her hand closed repeatedly as she mocks him. “ Yes, yes. I haven't got all day. Ass into gear or I'm calling your mom. ”
Tristan should've expected as much; ever since Vasya found out that this particular ex - Bakker had been born into old eddies and a trust fund, she's always liked pulling up the parental card. [ It makes him bristle, and he takes it out on a motorcycle cutting in front of him with a loud honk. ] “ Lay off the rich kid shit and maybe I'll use today's prize to pay for dinner. B'sides, if you ever actually try? Good luck. Probably say she never had a kid, anyway. On my way, okay? ”
he hangs up the call, runs his tongue over a cut on his upper lip. Tristan almost wants to call again, chat on the way to grab Vasya even if they're meeting up to go to Kabuki to shoot the shit over some yakisoba ... but he doesn't bother. His head's still partly ringing, the shrill ding of the bell buried deep in his ears, and he'd rather look somewhat decent. [ Rich kid for eighteen years, nomad for twelve. In some aspects, the trust fund kid still wins ... and at least it's in manners. ]
there's always a fight within a fight, and it's easy to spot them while benched and waiting for the next two fighters to cave each other's face in, maybe even break a rib or two. Fighting rings are a place of business and violence; clearly, the latter's about to break out ... or maybe not. [ The picture is clear: a Mox breaking off from the audience and proceeding to trail a Tyger Claw, and everyone with half a brain knows how that'll end. ] It's really not his business, it shouldn't be, but Tristan still hops off the wall he's been sitting atop of and becomes the third party in an already busy dance.
what grabs his attention isn't just the typical bright Mox colors, but rather how her slow walk slows down even further into a zombie - like meandering. Aimless, mindless: it's a body shutting down under the weight of cyberware. Tristan himself has gone through it many a time, and yet watching it happen is just as terrifying as experiencing it.
he wouldn't normally do this anyone, Mox or otherwise, but every second he hesitates is another tick filling up the Danger meter: Tristan grabs a gentle hold of her shoulders and squeezes, enough to anchor her consciousness to reality and to keep her legs from giving out. “ Hey, hey. Not worth it, you hear me? Not when you're shutting down. You're okay, I gotcha. ”
from lamb : you ain't dying yet. i got'cha. (YEAHHHHHHHHH)
bleeding's easy or rather, it's gotten easier in the months that he's taken up with this undead gunslinger. Not everyone has the privilege (or misfortune, depending on one's point of view) of having died once already, which inevitably takes a lot of mortal weaknesses off the table, so whatever blood doesn't flow out of @lambeye has its origin point in Tristan: a man, pouring crimson for the both of them. Shootouts, like the one they're busy with surviving right now, are often the reason behind the trails of red. They're separated: Lamb was last seen ducking beneath a pile of crates, and Tristan finds himself taking cover behind a wall with the glaring issue of the shrapnel embedded into his arm and side.
that, and the bullet firmly lodged in his shoulder, too. (Bleeding's gotten so easy, Tristan may as well call it a pastime at this point.) It won't kill him; whether alone or in company, he's seen himself in worse situations than this, and dragons in the near country are tough nuts to crack. Consciousness is becoming hard to maintain, however, even if the cracks of revolver fire and the whizzing of wood splinters past his head are enough to jolt him into alertness.
pain whips his side as he leans out from cover, wide eyes searching for his next target, only to be met with silence. No more flying bullets, hollers or broken wood; it's as quiet as the grave revenants often crawl out of. Tristan's gun - wielding hand falters; his whole body does, and even though he falls, he finds shelter from the gravel in Lamb. Damn ghoul's popped up out of nowhere, like he sometimes does, to hold Tristan as upright as he can manage, the blood on his gloves mingling with that already caked onto Tristan's vest.
“ You ain't dying yet. I got'cha. ”
Tristan believes it, believes him. There's a certainty to Lamb's voice that lends additional weight and credence to everything he says. He spits blood, and half the glob ends up on the tip of his boot. “ Y'd better if not for my sake ... then for Bells. ” The grin that splits Lamb's face is as unsettling as he is, the fucker. [ He's coming down from the high of violence; he can be forgiven for smiling like a man possessed. ]
the Badlands doesn't always deserve its name; oftentimes, it's got treasures to admire at least for those that know how and where to look. Take a ride out west of NC and a whole other world opens up, both during the day and at night. It offers a view of the better kind of lights, the kind that doesn't constantly remind you of the life you lead and stumble through in the neon - lit concrete jungle of the city limits; 'the stars are forever', or so DeLou used to say. There's a freedom enjoyed only under the sky, but not everyone is willing to go out and seize it (that, and there's only so many encounters against Raffen Shiv clans that one can take before the stress forces you to crawl back to the lesser, more predictable evil).
Tristan's made a habit of coming out here, past the gas station and just north of Rocky Ridge, once a week one and a half if he's busy and he likes taking Vasya along with him. She's good company when she knows when to stop and slow down, to take time off her Night City legend career path and live. He wonders if she does that enough. He still remembers the day she left the Bakkers, determined to forge ahead as a trailblazer as though her time to be a young girl had ran out.
he's laid down on the roof of his Colby; Vasya's taken the hood, since she prefers to use the windshield as a backrest. The crowns of their heads are almost touching. “ Y'know, been thinking, ” he begins, shifting slightly. “ You ever play at nomad again and take down a corp AV, ” he takes his left hand to his ear, thumb and pinky stuck out in pantomime of a phone “ holler maybe? Be nice to salvage something. And don't ask me how I know that Kang Tao hit was you, by the way: I don't give up my sources. ”
[ 4. ] sender shoves receiver out of the way of a projectile. *3*
it had to be Scavs. Of course it had to be fucking Scavengers, turning up like the most intrusive slew of publicity one could get in a screamsheet except one, that's being kinder than they deserve; and two, even ads are more tolerable than them. Tristan rounds the corner to empty two Igla shells into an approaching gangoon, tearing an arm almost clean off the body in an explosion of red, before taking cover again, right as another slew of rifle bullets starts shredding plaster around him.
It had been a gig well done (a bit of theft, a sprinkle of sabotage, and a great deal of crippling a storage facility that served as a drop - off point for 'exchanged personal goods') and it would have stayed as such had a convoy of Scavengers not had the awful timing they always do. The devolution into a small scale war zone had been nothing short of inevitable.
deeper into the warehouse, from behind stacked containers that provide convenient cover, an agonized howl rings, sparks fly, a body collapses, and the remaining Scavengers warn about a netrunner; no doubt, it's @darkdevour's work, not too far from him. [ Tristan's never admitted it to her face but she terrifies him at times, and this is one of those times. 'Looks that could kill' is a saying that has a huge disclaimer tacked on in V's presence: hers are looks that could and can kill, and she doesn't even have to keep you in her line of sight for that to happen. ]
it's the opening that Tristan needs to rush them, and he does. Stupid. It registers far too slowly for his own good, but he's not going to slow down in time to duck and avoid the mini - rocket headed in his direction. Fuck. Fuck. Something in him freezes. Really? Out in the middle of fucking nowhere? And because a PLS projectile blew his head off? Tristan tries to drop; he's too slow, too bulky, too stupid
something, someone, collides with him hard enough to send him flying in a skewed direction that has most definitely saved his life. Metal, gravel, crate fragments and assorted debris pelt him after the ensuing explosion, and what shocks him more than the ringing in his ears is the fact he's hearing it at all.
that, and “ ... nna watch your fucking head, you gonk!! ”
the next few seconds are a disjointed mess, but by the time Tristan comes to, his hands are have blood and bone shards on them and there's a very headless corpse at his feet. The warehouse is silent now. Tristan half - turns, slowly, to find Vasya staring at him with a mix of disbelief (that's normal) and some dregs of anger (also normal; she had to save him from a rookie mistake).
when he's by himself, it's easy to accept the possibility of death as his own fault, something he'll tear his way out of eventually. When he's reminded he's not alone, that's when flatlining becomes truly terrifying.
“ Should've let you do that, ” Tristan says into the uncomfortably warm silence. “ ... not as messy with your hacks. ”
“ Like you let me save your stupid ass. Yeah! Yeah, I think so too. ” no arguing with her there, so he stays quiet while his mind reunites with his body. He buys them drinks at the Afterlife later, and that's as good of a peace offering as he can give today.
we are, all of us, just visitors in each other’s lives. you will forget my visit soon enough. / sad, question mark?
the world ceases to be inside the Fade. Color is absent, bled out of existence like water squeezed from a cloth, like ichor pouring out of an open wound. Sound transforms into echoes and into silence; screams fade as if engulfed by a whisper, and time is forgotten, unfathomable. Deep greens and the faint smell of sulfur, to say nothing of a nightmare demon lurking unseen, would be better than this. Fear is easy to contend with, fear is embers needing to be put out every once in a while. Regret is an ocean and a flood all at once, and Tristan has been treading water for only the Maker knows how long.
he's been walking for what feels like an eternity, accompanied only by his own shadow and the specters of a leadership put into question. Harding has fallen by his hand already. HE DESTROYS EVERYTHING HE TOUCHES, but the final blow is not his to deal. A voice like @grewarden's — no, it's Athelstan's; there's no mistaking it — cuts through the air swift as a blade and sharp as a fang, and the sight of the warden's statue, a macabre stone monument, is a spear through the chest. Tristan stumbles, breathless and exhausted, a beast out of water powered simply by his instinct and will to survive.
YOU WILL FORGET MY VISIT SOON ENOUGH. I won't. He doesn't know whether he says it aloud or if it simply echoes off the walls of his mind. He would never have counted Athelstan among his many regrets but it takes little for the truth to surface: perhaps it's his fault that Athelstan has been denied death yet again, that the peace they've each fought for in their time continues to prove as fragile as glass. At the statue's feet, Tristan mourns his wrongdoings, tears mixing with the blood practically tattooed onto his face.
“ I ... I never would. ” gritting his teeth is the only way he can keep his anguish at bay, even if he feels it fighting to rend his jaw in half and escape him. “ I'd follow you under the fucking earth if you asked me to, so — ! I'm sorry ... let me — let me fix it, Thel, please — ”
Tristan doesn't know when exactly his body gives out, but eventually there's silence again and Athelstan's likeness is gone. He ignores the full - body agony that grips him as he stands and climbs up the crumbling stairs: he's not meant to stay here forever, no matter how much the Dread Wolf might want to keep him chained. The promises he's sworn need fulfilling.
assorted reaver - related things i'm thinking about today for no particular reason:
Tristan's a physical fighter. It's not just about the fact he's a frontline fighter, it's about the fact that if disarmed, he will resort to his fists. This is the main reason he always binds his hands like a professional fighter would, regardless of whether hand wraps would fit with the rest of his outfit. At times where he definitely can't wrap them (e.g., Winter Palace), he'll be wearing gloves. His hands, while he takes good care of them, are far more in line with his life as a fighter than as a (now disowned) noble. In his spare time, and when he needs to decompress, you'll find him boxing, maybe even punching the head off of a training dummy.
his skin is hardened in places, owing to the presence of rashvine in the dragon blood distillates that he prepares. Rashvine is poisonous and extremely dangerous if it enters the bloodstream, as it causes grey - colored calcifications to appear on the skin. Reavers know how to avoid the poisonous side - effects and take advantage of the skin - hardening properties (without the discoloration) but unless the application is topical in the form of a salve, they can't control where these calcifications happen.
he'll streak blood across his face as an intimidation tactic, but also right before / during combat: the smell of fresh dragon blood triggers a 'shark that just smelled blood' response. Really, when he reaches into the blood vial at his belt, everyone knows to give him a good amount of space.
post - combat check - ups are paramount; in fact, they're the single most important thing anyone can do for him. The adrenaline rush and its corresponding painkilling effects are devastating; it's a collective effort to make sure he's not going to collapse from blood loss from a hidden wound.
he makes for an excellent sparring buddy. His stamina is seemingly endless, and the fact he can take way more punishment that most means that his partner can go to town on him. Additionally, Tristan has excellent breath control, which clearly helps with overall oxygenation and endurance. He'll happily help with breathing exercises, because being in Skyhold only made him adapt even better (think of athletes and how they train in high altitude / low oxygen environments to increase oxygen capacity).
he's developed an incredible sense of smell, and it's similar in sensitivity to that of a qunari's. It's great when it comes to tracking, but the downside is that he's now overly sensitive to things such as perfumes, some metals / elements (think sulfur, copper, etc.), and salt. Not so fun fact, he came back from the Winter Palace with a raging headache, and had to make frequent trips to the balconies and the courtyard to manage his nausea. At least half of that mission was spent away from the ballroom, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been.
apropos of the second ask about that subject I'm answering, I wish I had the words to explain just how much being stuck in the prison of regret affected Tristan. Not only was it the second time he's done that (staying in the Fade; the first being ten years ago, because he stayed in place of Hawke and the Warden; he wouldn't have either one of their lives on his conscience, plus he still had the Anchor), but being back in the fold as a leader with the Evanuris as his next world - ending matter has given him plenty of extra regrets. The one that marks him as prime candidate material for the prison is his choice regarding Harding (to avoid spoilers one more time, iykyk), and the fact that Solas double - crosses him one more time? Actually devastating. He's all but losing his mind for the first week of his absence, haunted by both past and present regrets.
the only thing he's got left at the end of it all, and this is exactly what Vivienne told him after surviving Haven. is his anger. Anger can save you when everything else is gone. It powers him to keep going, face up to what the Fade throws at him one more time, and get out. Anger is his actual and at this point unending battery for most of the last third, except for whoever looks after him once the team pulls him out. Those people get to see him actually break down and he couldn't even tell them why specifically; it's 100% a mix of relief at being out, gratitude at being looked for so tirelessly, and just plain fucking exhaustion. A second rodeo in the Fade is a harrowing experience, and he barely gets any time to recover before the final assault on Minrathous. This man is paste by the time the game ends.
do you remember those you’ve killed? or are there so many that their faces fade together? // from émilie asking for a friend
there's an unspoken rule within and between some mercenary companies, and it goes as follows: you talk about the jobs you take, not the people you meet. It's a simple and elaborate way to say that what should matter is the endeavor as a whole and not whatever fool, justified or otherwise, that has the misfortune of meeting their end at your hands. It's a rule Tristan follows to this day, too; he may have shed a life of solitude for one of infamy, but a mercenary remains a mercenary whether in rough leathers or expensive satin.
it's hard to remember how many lives he's taken, only that despite the favor he shows diplomacy, the number is larger than he'll ever be able to illustrate or even make amends for. Tristan half - turns to face @mercysought and though he is sure of what he wants to say, he still considers his answer. Something not unlike shame blooms in his chest. Men have just as many ways to justify death as to deal it. [ Moments and questions like these convince him of the Maker's ever - present attention upon His followers. Maybe it's foolish to ascribe divine intent to a mortal's question, but Tristan has faced many a trial already: what would be one more? ]
he does not hesitate. “ I remember some, but not all of them. ” He considers for another moment's pause. “ The first life I took will always remain, clear as day. After a certain time and amount ... yes, one's next enemy becomes just another enemy. Another threat on your life, another body to cut down. But I don't think any of us are meant to remember every last instance of violence we take part in, really. That weight could kill us faster than any blade, arrow or poison. ”
now he turns fully, and the war room somehow runs cold despite the fire in the corner. Tristan wonders then if, somehow, Émilie refers to the blood frenzy that minstrels, gossip and rumor all adore to talk about and twist into its own kind of sordid tale. At times like those, she would be right: faces fade together into a red mist, and it is only when it subsides that Tristan can gaze at those that remain.
“ But the truth is, I remember enough. To say otherwise would be self - delusion. ”
you and i are more alike than you know, and that is not a compliment.
being similar to a man like Tristan Patel in any way, shape or form, however small, is more akin to one of life's backhanded insults than anything else it could offer. It starts with the name, then comparisons to animals and creatures of myth, and then the talk ... well, it talks itself whether they like it or not. The dragon and the viper, just as likely to be seen together talking biz as going at each other's throats, and oftentimes people bet on who'll be the first to actually reach for a neck. The smart ones know not to bet against @vipier, but others are simple thrill junkies that live and breathe opposition, so they think the dragon will strike first.
it's been months since the partnership formed, and their corner of NC is holding its breath. They're a system building towards overload, rogue daemons out in the net, until one day the outcome will either be system collapse, mutual purge, or one's deletion. Tristan doesn't know whether it's fortunate or revolting that their only deterrent is Simeon: to one of them, a cold, hard investment and flow of eddies; to the other ... well, he doesn't know. Feelings fuck with jobs, everyone knows that, and right now they're fucking with his job ... but even as Tristan narrows his eyes towards his namesake, whose back is mercifully turned, he knows that doubt is venom in his veins.
you and i are more alike than you know. He'd rather turn himself over to the Shiv than hear that one more time.
the city makes you realize less than savory things about yourself, teaches you lessons than even a life on the road could never impart: there's always, always, a version of you as mangled as roadkill, and it'll make itself known just as you think you've got yourself all sorted out. Fittingly, Tristan wants to keep a suitable distance from his employer, and right now that means booking it home. Pandora's is done for the day, anyway. Patel just likes keeping him around after hours to take his own pound of flesh, to tighten the screw one more time.
Tristan all but yanks his jacket off the backrest and moves towards the front entrance; an exit through the back might put him in an undesirable position, and he's had enough of lights and fake smiles and fine alcohol for one night. Tristan turns briefly just in time to see Patel's eyes flashing blue and to witness the night's share in eddies add itself to his balance.
it's not the first time he walks home, and it won't be the last. Sometimes it's good to prowl the streets while hoping some gonk will pick a fight and that if they do, he'll be able to imagine it's Patel he's brutalizing. One can dream. If not, there's always the punching bag he's got at home.