ooc: bard life

[foxsays]

bard spec

the perils of bard life

The Masked Empire;

The masks were part of the Game, the ruthless and endless contest by which dynasties were founded and lost in Orlais, and the Chantry’s insistence that their people go unmasked was meant to suggest that they were beyond politics. It was a suggestion that few in Orlesian nobility took seriously.

“Of course, Your Radiance.” Nightingale sat, moving with a casual grace and coming to rest with her simple robes unwrinkled and unbunched. The subtle series of movements was the mark of a trained bard, and Celene filed the observation away for use as needed.

Leliana laughed the delicate cultured laugh of a noblewoman or trained bard. The effect made her sister’s robes look like a poor disguise.

It could have been nothing more than that, of course, but in Val Royeaux, everything was part of the Game, even the clandestine affairs of the more important servants. Briala had grown up watching the Game, and as one of Celene’s pieces, she was determined to win.

Celene steeled herself without any outward change of expression. She had played the Game for most of her life. No matter how prepared she was, no matter how much she had considered and planned and determined her strategy, there was always one moment of fear.

The most famous spies in Orlais were the bards. They were legendary for their ability to ferret out information, to lay intrigue and dissemble with skill enough to turn nobles to their purposes. They were invited to play despite this, and sometimes even because of it. The lords and ladies who played the Game always fancied themselves cunning enough to match wits with a master of lies and learn something from the exchange. But even as the bards outplayed the nobles, they were watched. They were famous. They were legendary.

Leliana looked away. She had been trained as a bard, so every movement she made was likely deliberate, but Celene thought that her discomfort was genuine.

She was at the edge of the clearing in the firelight a fortnight later, running through a set of drills that Lady Mantillon had called the Butterfly while Felassan and Michel plotted tomorrow’s ride, when Briala said from behind her, “You’re off on the second strike.”

Celene stopped and looked over her shoulder, hiding with a close-mouthed smile how sadly out of breath the exercises had left her. Briala had stripped off her armor and looked tired, dirty … and still lovely nevertheless, even as little more than a shadow kissed with golden light from the campfire.

It was the first time that Briala had spoken to Celene beyond the simple logistics of which trail to follow or when to take the rabbit off the fire. Celene had given her lover her space, waiting for a sign.

“I don’t believe so,” Celene said, keeping her voice calm and non-argumentative. “The lead hand parries the incoming thrust, and the back hand slashes across the upper arm to stop a counterattack before you move in to control the throat with both blades.”

She demonstrated in the air, her daggers catching the firelight as she slid them through the air against an imaginary opponent. There was no actual fire on the blades—she had removed all her magical tokens to get a better sense of how far out of practice she was.

“No.” Briala slid her own daggers out with unconscious grace, then sliced through the air. “The first isn’t just a parry. It’s a slash to the enemy’s wrist. The second strike isn’t to his striking arm. It’s to the throat.” Her strike was higher than Celene’s had been, a fast flick of the wrist whose grace and deceptive beauty gave the Butterfly its name. “That ensures that you’re in close enough to control the throat with your next move.”

“You’re certain? You always preferred Lady Mantillon’s archery lessons to the knife-work.”

“But I have used both,” Briala said. “And it is the throat.”

Celene smiled. “If you’ve already slashed their throat, controlling it hardly seems necessary.”

“Armor?” Briala asked. “Or magical protection? Or if you’re facing a darkspawn with tougher skin, or some creature from the Fade? Or if you’re using a peasant’s belt knife instead of a gleaming silverite blade because you’ve lost your throne?” She stepped in closer, and anger touched her face, drawing lines on her beautiful skin. “Things in the real world are often not as perfect as they are in the palace at Val Royeaux.”

Then, because Briala had been right, Celene went back to practicing, and aimed her second strike higher.

Celene stepped back, a simple, prudent move that put a stone sarcophagus between her and Gaspard and also put Briala more clearly in her line of vision. Briala had an arrow nocked in her bow, raised but not drawn. As Celene glanced over, Briala tapped her bow with her little finger. Anyone not trained in the bardic arts would have simply thought it the nervous gesture of a sloppy fighter.

From one bard to another, Briala’s gesture meant, “Encourage them to approach.”