milliways_bar | (no subject)

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autor

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[OOM: From Nabudis to the Salikawood: Days 9-11.

Warnings for violence.]

When the door slides open, there is the sound of raucous partying beyond, or something very much like it: Cheering, revelry, people yelling encouraging but unclear things, music.

Sherral looks moderately delighted when he sees that the bar has taken him.

It's been two years since Nabudis, and it shows, somewhat: He's a good five or six inches taller, broader at the shoulders, sharper-featured, and what was a gash on his cheek is now only just visible as a reddish line. He's dressed for formality, in a dark charcoal grey dress uniform with four medals on the right breast.

"Thank you Faram, for your mercy," he murmurs vaguely upwards. He's going to have to make an extra large offering for this.

Botherable.

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Autor drops his hand from the door handle to the grounds as Sherral enters. "Oh," he says, blinking up at him. "You lived. And grew up."

The corner of his lip quirks. "Congratulations."

"That explains it," Sherral says wryly. "I thought you'd merely shrunk."

It is amazing how many times he's had to be refitted for armour the past two years.

"And I profess I did not expect to see this place again, but its arrival is welcome."

Autor actually shrinks a bit further, if only for a moment. "Ow," he chirps, wrinkling his nose. "Welcome back to the bar Lieu--well, I guess you're probably more than that, now. Do you still remember the rules?"

"Captain," Sherral supplies. "And I do. How long has it been here? You do not look as one aged along with me."

"I am not, and I'll likely not catch up to you, at this rate," Autor says, and cracks a grin. "I believe you were here four days ago?"

He sighs, content. "Time here is fascinating. It might be because the patrons have all manner of calendars. It's probably because the bar evolved capriciously."

"It's been two years for me," Sherral says wryly. "But once again, this place sweeps in to save me from a terrible fate. I mark I saw the Rozarrian ambassador lurching my way with drink in hand."

From the way he says it, you could replace 'Rozarrian ambassador' with 'Godzilla' and it would still make sense.

"Two years!" Autor says, craning his neck to look up at him. "No wonder you're taller. Congratulations on your promotion, though dealing with the Rozarrian ambassador seems like a poor trade-off. Are you stationed anywhere more permanently now, or still out and about?"

He's not about to ask about Nabudis.

"I think I preferred Rozarria when we were still officially at war with them," Sherral says agreeably, rubbing the back of his neck and looking back at the door. "Although their soldiers are decent enough people, and I can't claim that our bureaucrats are any better."

Beat.

"I'm stationed at a garrison now, in the capital city of Dalmasca. I'm in charge of patrolling the Westersand," Sherral says. "Although I seem to spend far too much time attending the Consul's many social events."

"Hm, I've never been to a party like that. Why are you required to attend?"

The boy stares up at him again, small and occasionally guileless. "You said the bar saved you again from a terrible fate," he muses. "Is the ambassador pursuing you with a child of marriageable age?"

He hopes the minute twitch of his lips doesn't give him away.

"I imagine the Consul thinks it would look bad if the leaders of each division of his garrison weren't present," Sherral says. "They start boring and end uncomfortably debaucherous, it's really quite a feat."

At the question, Sherral splutters slightly, going bright red. Very rapidly: "No! Why would - we're barely at peace, I very much doubt the ambassador wishes to betroth any of his children to Archadians. Especially not common Archadians."

Beat. "And his children are as bad as he is, perhaps worse. I have heard horror stories from his guard detail."

"Sounds rather Roman," Autor murmurs, and then leans back at Sherral's vehement deceleration. That twitch melts into an easy, modest smile. "I was teasing you, Captain. But now I'm curious: how large is Rozarria compared to Archadia? Do you know how long you'll be stationed at--where was it, again?"

"Perhaps I should take you back with me and present you to one of his daughters as a potential suitor," Sherral says, face and voice deadly serious. "His younger daughter is not much older than you. I gather she has a taste for large, muscular men with impressive endowments, but there are none in any nation who do not wish for variety now and then."

He doesn't crack a smile at all.

"Rozarria is smaller than Archadia, but not by much, and I'm stationed at Dalmasca's capital, Rabanastre."

Edited 2013-08-12 05:36 (UTC)

Autor raises his brows. Ah, so the puppy bites.

"Do you know how long your tour will be?" he asks. "How many men are you leading?"

Sherral gives him an extremely innocent look.

Then: "Until I'm ordered elsewhere. I have about a hundred and twenty men under my command."

Autor meets that look with a kitten-like sniff. "That's quite a few," he says. "No wonder you have to put up with the ambassador. Have you had a chance to explore Rabanastre, or are your duties too pressing?"

"I have. It's a very beautiful city, if a bit too hot for my tastes," Sherral says, mildly. "I'm not made for desert living, I fear."

Beat.

"You mentioned, er, Ro-mans before? I'm not familiar with the reference."

"Eh, people from a different world than you, apparently?" he says, shrugging. "So is Dalmasca largely covered by desert given that it contains the Westersand? What is Archadia like--I assume you grew up there?"

"Dalmasca is completely desert, although the Giza Plains go through rainy periods where plant life grows and there is heavy flooding," Sherral says. "Archadia is - temperate, but I come from a conquered territory to the north, Lock Galles. It's cold and mountainous."

"Oh, interesting," Autor says. "I assume, given that there's a Consul and a garrison, that Dalmasca has also been conquered? And it sounds like you're a long way from home. Why join the military?"

"Dalmasca is - occupied until it can self-govern again. When we sought peace, one of the king's senior knights assassinated him, and his only heir committed suicide shortly thereafter," Sherral says. "By holding Dalmasca, we prevent Rozarria from invading it or us until such a time as a Dalmascan government can be restored."

He shrugs slightly.

"Something unlikely to happen while the Senate keeps sending consuls more concerned with preening and socialising than securing the city."

"Aha," Autor says, tapping his chin. "So that would make the ambassador doubly resistant to sic one of his children on a common Archadian."

He purses his lips. "What's the selection process for a consul? It seems as if Dalmasca is an important borderland between the two countries; why not send out someone better trained to handle these things?"

"I'm sure the Senate has some highly convoluted selection process, but from the ground it rather looks like they just send a noble who wants to enhance his position," Sherral says ruefully.

"What a waste of resources," Autor says, shaking his head. "And time. I can't imagine this is endearing you to the people of Rabanastre, either. They're not going hungry, are they?"

"Luckily not. Trade and the supply of food are fairly good. They'd be better if the Consul provided me with another fifty men or so," Sherral says. "I could establish a secure trading route along the Westersand and we could establish a trade of supplies with Rozarrian border towns."

"Good," he says, frowning. "It'd be a festering wound otherwise. Is there a process wherein you could petition for that, or have you already? Are they unwilling to foster that kind of relationship with Rozarrian border towns--because that would be smart--or it is just that the cost of the men would take away from parties?"