Haven happens and Rylen grieves over lost friends and his lost Order. Grotesque images of his corrupted brothers and sisters come unbidden to his mind when he sleeps and he wonders if there is another life where he is like them; distorted by their faith and conviction. He wonders about Cullen and how intently he talks about stopping his supply for good. He wonders, maybe, if Cullen is right; if Lyrium really is a leash.
For the first time, in a long time, he spends a frigid night in camp getting quietly wasted. He wakes up the next day and vows to try harder.
On a snowy evening he catches Yvette with puffy eyes and shaking hands, grasping a long list of the casualties. Rylen is experienced with loss but the last thing he wants to be is a confidant. Instead, he assigns her a long list of complicated tasks and pulls Josephine aside.
By the time they find the Inquisitor and reach Skyhold, Yvette's eyes are focused again.
Rylen taps his boot against Cullen's makeshift desk to remove the lingering snowfall from his boot.
"Anywhere, as long as it's warmer than this." He says. Cullen chuckles before pointing toward the bottom left corner of his map of Thedas.
"The Western Approach," he says. "A desert essentially, so you're covered on that front."
Rylen considers this as he peers at the parchment. He is not so up do date with his Thedosian geography but the name rings a bell.
"What are our intentions there?"
"Scouting the region for Venatori, with Celene's permission of course." Cullen says with a sigh. "We've also received intelligence about an old Warden keep they're using as a base of operations. The overall goal is to take that so we can establish a foothold in the area. The Herald is following up on a contact in Crestwood at the moment but he may accompany the party if he gets back in time."
"The Herald?" Rylen furrows his brow. The Inquisitor typically preferred traveling light, avoiding large parties on the road where possible. "What's his interest in the area?"
"The usual," Cullen shrugs. "But I think he might have some Grey Warden leads to follow up on."
Rylen hums. Grey Wardens always put him on edge.
Cullen looks across at him, misinterpreting his frown.
"Is this okay?" He asks. "I can think of no one I'd rather have commanding our hold in the West but I know it was a big decision to move further from you family, I don't want to assign you somewhere that will make things harder."
Rylen clears his throat, self-consciousness settling over him like a second skin. He thinks of his father, bed bound, of Ella, giving the best years of her life to care for him.
"Whats a few more miles," he says with a false levity that he knows Cullen will see right through. "As long as I'm being paid, the arrangement remains the same."
Cullen hums.
"Well," he says, unconvinced. "As long as you're sure."
Rylen runs a hand over his chin. He can tell Cullen has not shaved that morning. The bags under his eyes are growing darker each day. Rylen knows he should ask, knows he should offer his ear. Just keep an eye on me. He doesn't want to put Cullen on the spot, but they are friends. Cullen has done the same for him.
"So, ah-how are you…handling things?" Rylen says finally. Cullen looks at him quizzically.
"What?"
"Ah- I mean with the, ah-" Rylen lowers his voice slightly, aware of the people milling around the courtyard. "-Lyrium."
Cullen blinks, then smiles ruefully.
"Right, yeah," he sighs, glancing around a little. "To be frank Rylen, it's a blighted nightmare."
Rylen nods slowly. Unsure what to say, but fortunately Cullen continues.
"It's like all the stories you hear, you know about the ones who get cut off," he says. "I can hardly sleep most nights, and my memories shot half the time. I keep having to write things down so I don't forget."
Rylen watches the other man intently, he thinks if he concentrates hard enough, maybe he'll understand why Cullen is torturing himself so. He thinks back to Haven, to his nightmares. Is this torture really worth Cullen's idea of freedom?
"Well, you can't tell," he says, trying to reassure him.
"You noticed."
"Yeah, but I know you're doing it." Rylen says. Cullen looks at him with a sidelong glance.
"Your Lieutenant noticed."
At this, Rylen coughs in surprise.
"What?"
"She said I seemed off and asked me if anything was the matter." Cullen sighs. "I mean it was quite nice of her to even notice, but what do I say to that?"
"You didn't tell her did you?"
Cullen shakes his head.
"No, I just said I was having trouble sleeping," he says. "She offered to get me some tea from Adan. I said not to bother but she did anyway."
"Yes," Rylen grouses. "She is a bit like that."
Cullen stares at him then, a dangerously shrewd expression on his face.
"Why do you dislike her so much?" He asks in a neutral tone. "She's actually quite a nice woman."
"I don't dis-like her," Rylen says. "I just-she annoys me. You know, with her habits, like how she's incessantly organizing my things and her way of speaking; she's always questioning me, but not like actually questioning me, just giving me these looks Cullen." He sighs. "I mean sure she's highly competent and you know me, I appreciate that, but at what cost?"
Cullen nods.
"Right." He says, and there is far too much amusement dancing in his eyes for Rylen to feel entirely comfortable.
To Rylen's great surprise Yvette volunteers assignment to the Western Approach with the rest of his regiment. It is not that he considers her weak or unable to handle living rough or working hard, Haven has spoken to that. Rather, he had assumed someone of her standing would jump at the chance to sleep within a castle's walls, with warm sheets and fireplaces, to mix it with the ever growing entourage of courtiers Lady Montilyet has been cultivating.
"I don't like the cold," Yvette explains as they shiver in the courtyard, waiting for Cullen to emerge from his War Table meeting.
"I thought you were from the Highlands." He says.
Yvette gives him a look.
"Lake Celestine is in the Heartlands."
He watches as she blows a puff of air into the frigid air. He shrugs.
"It's all the same to me." He says, swinging a boot through the snow at their feet. "We don't get snow in Starkhaven, but I can't say i like it that much. Seems to just get in the way."
Yvette laughs.
"My mother loved snow," she muses, regret lacing her tone. "She purchased an entire estate near Sarhnia just for that. I barely saw her in the winter."
An entire estate indeed. Rylen thinks of his father, his brothers and sisters, packed into their small townhouse in the outer ring. Not for the first time he thinks of how different he and Yvette truly are. But for the first time it makes him feel sad, not frustrated. Perhaps it is the cold going to his head, but he is suddenly curious.
"Do you miss her?"
There is a pause.
"Yes and no," says Yvette. If she is surprised by his uncharacteristic question, she doesn't let it show. "I loved her, but I didn't know her very well."
Rylen hums.
"I never knew my mother," he says.
He is surprised at his sudden openness; it just slips out. Yvette's look is both curious and empathetic.
"She died in childbirth?" She ventures and Rylen nods.
"I don't think my father has ever quite got over it." He rubs his chin. "But lucky for us both, there were more than a few siblings to take care of me."
Yvette nods, but there is sadness in her eyes. Rylen has never felt deprived without his mother. Some people react badly to his apathy but it would be an insult, he thinks, to the family he does have to feel second changed. It would be an insult to his father to pity him. He'd go as so far to say that he's never needed a mother, but he's not sure if that's quite true.
"It sounds like you had a good family," Yvette says.
"I still do," Rylen says. He thinks of his father, his siblings. "For the most part."
There is a pause, then Yvette says quietly; "Do you mind?"
He turns to her, confused.
"Do I mind what?"
"Me," she explains. "Volunteering for the Approach I mean."
He observes her. It is a rare moment of vulnerability. For all her circuity, Yvette has always come across as quietly confident. He assumes this is a by product of her upbringing. Seeing her unsure seems profoundly wrong, and something worms uncomfortably in his stomach at the thought that he has inspired such self doubt.
"Why do you think I would mind?"
Yvette's shoulder heaves with a silent breath.
"I think things have been working well between us recently, despite it all." She says. "But I know you find me difficult; I wouldn't want to rob you of a chance to be rid of me."
Rylen looks at her for a long moment. She barely meets his eyes, opting instead for a close scrutiny of his chin.
"Yvette," he says as evenly as he can, because he means what he's about to say, though it somewhat pains him to say it. "You may be the most annoying lieutenant aide I've ever had, but if you hadn't volunteered, I would have requested you anyway."
There is a shout and he looks up as Cullen strides across the courtyard, the Inquisitor and Blackwall trailing behind him. It would seem the elf is to join them after all.
From the corner of his eye Rylen knows Yvette is looking at him, properly this time.
He pointedly ignores whatever expression is on her face.
2 days before he is due to take 80 men west into Orlais, Lady Josephine Montilyet corners him in the barracks.
"General," she greets, her golden finery gleaming in the torchlight. "A word, if you please."
Rylen nods and directs the woman to a quiet corner.
"How can I help you, Lady Montilyet?"
"I realize this is somewhat irregular but I wanted to ask you if you could do me a favor." She says. "It's about your aide."
Rylen's curiosity immediately piques. Things have been good between him and Yvette recently, he might even go so far as to say friendly. Even since their mutual confessions in the courtyard Yvette has seemed less aloof and Rylen has found himself more than once going over her words in his head. Her vulnerability has made him wonder about how she views her position within the Inquisition.
"Yvette?" He says, despite the fact he currently has only one aide.
Josephine nods, fidgeting just slightly with the edges of her board.
"She's told me she'd going to the approach," Josephine says. "I advised her against it."
Rylen blinks.
"You did? Why?"
Josephine clears her throat delicately.
"I haven't always know Yvette well," she says. "But we have become closer during both our time here and I am of the opinion that it's best if she stays as far away from Orlais as possible."
Rylen furrows his brow.
"Why do you think that?"
A look of worry settles upon Josephine's lovely features.
"How much has Yvette told you about her family General?" She asks.
"Not much," he says. "Only that her mother is dead."
Josephine looks at him carefully. She appears to be deciding how much to tell him. Rylen wonders how bad it could possibly be.
"Yvette speaks quite highly of you, did you know that?" She says. Rylen blinks, mildly taken aback at this revelation. He shakes his head.
"I've never got the impression that she is particularly fond of me."
"Oh I never said she was fond of you," Josephine says with an amused lilt to her voice and a pull at the corner of her mouth. "But she does respect you."
Rylen suddenly feels both bafflingly self-conscious and pleased at the same time. He frowns.
"With all due respect Lady Montilyet, what does this have to do with your favor?"
This question apparently amuses Josephine because she smiles knowingly.
"I suppose I just wanted to see if I was able to butter you up a little," she says. "But Yvette was right, you are a very forthright man."
Rylen doesn't really now what to say to this but he knows what he'd say to Yvette, so he waits expectantly. Josephine chuckles, then sighs, expression changing back to the one of worry she wore when she first approached him.
"All I will say is that there are certain people in Orlais that might not have Yvette's best interests in mind. My favor is to ask if you could watch out for her."
Rylen crosses his arms.
"How do you mean?" He asks. "Because, like I say, we're not friends."
"I only mean to just keep an eye on her, as her superior." Josephine says. "Orlais can be a treacherous place for someone who doesn't subscribe to their preordained path."
Rylen considers this. It is as obscure and cryptic as something Yvette would say. Maybe circuity is a nobility thing, and not exclusively an Orlesian thing.
"Right."
Josephine looks at him, apparently unwilling to surrender more information, but nevertheless expectant of an answer. Rylen knows theres really only one correct one.
"Of course," he says. "She is a good aide, and I respect her abilities. I wouldn't want to see her come to harm."
As Josephine smiles, Rylen realizes that he really does mean every word.
The journey to The Approach is as long as it is arduous, but it is for the most part uneventful. They are blessed with the company of the Inquisitor and his selected companions. Rylen likes them well enough and the Inquisitor is certainly a force to be reckoned with. He is surrounded with all of his most competent captains, men and women who he knows he can achieve something with. However, there is one addition to the party that makes Rylen question the Inquisitor's judgment. That some aspect of their mission that predicated on Marian Hawke's intelligence, Rylen knew, what he didn't know was that the woman herself would be joining them.
It is, quite frankly, an insult.
Every time Rylen claps eyes on her head of raven hair and deep-set eyes, he is reminded of the destruction left behind in her wake. Destruction she abandoned when she disappeared and left people like Cullen to desperately pick up the pieces. And it's not just him. Murmurs arise with a few of his Marcher brethren, veterans of Kirkwall. Dangerous apostate, they murmur. Maleficarum.
Rylen tries to mediate the dissent but it is half hearted at best. Hawke's presence is so irksome that one day he finds himself scowling so deeply at her that Amelie asks if he is okay.
No, Rylen thinks, he is not okay.
"So you're the Knight-Captain from Starkhaven eh?" Hawke says, sidling into step beside him on the road one day. He eyes her suspiciously. He knew he would not be able to avoid her forever, but he is a little surprised at her gall at approaching him so causally. She clearly knows who he is.
"General," he corrects, wishing to be anywhere else. "And you're the one who destroyed Kirkwall's chantry."
Hawke seems to take this in her stride, smiling ruefully.
"Unfortunate business that," she says, entirely too flippantly for his tastes. "Mahanon informed me you were heavily involved in the aid efforts afterward."
Rylen frowns, a little scandalized at the use of the Inquisitor's first name.
"There was a lot of mess to clean up." He says, trying to measure the ice in his tone. "Thanks to you."
They walk in silence for a few moments.
"My gratitude for your efforts," The Champion says after a minute. Her tone is quiet, melancholy. "But I certainly don't revel in the destruction I caused."
Rylen hums his disapproval.
"That may well be," he says. "It doesn't mean I approve of your methods, or decisions."
"I would be surprised if you did," she says, examining his profile, something resigned in her tone. "You are a Templar, or you were I suppose."
Rylen turns to look at her with narrowed eyes.
"What does that mean?"
Hawke's jaw is hard. It is clear, even through his anger, that she is genuinely remorseful. But there is pity too, and it angers him further. What is there in him, for her to pity?
"You are friends with Cullen, yes?" She asks and Rylen nods. "Then you have some idea of the abuses of Meredith Stannard."
"I don't endorse Stannard, if that's what your implying."
"Of course not." She pauses. "But you strike me as a reasonable sort of man General. Tell me, would you Tranquil a man for sending a letter to his sweetheart?"
"No, that is barbaric."
"Well, that's the kind of barbarity I was fighting against from the very start, not just from Stannard, from the institution, your institution. I'm sure you can appreciate the concept of a no-win scenario, but some things are too wrong not to stand up against."
"I can," he says. "But there is a difference between losing well and losing badly."
Hawke hums in a incredulous tone.
"You are here," she observes. "So you obviously don't wish to serve the Order anymore."
"I am not about to share the reasons for my defection with you Serah." He says, recognizing a probe when he hears one. "And I'm not sure why you seem eager to justify your decisions to me, I'm not the one you owe anything to."
Hawk grumbles.
"Yeah, well," Hawke says. "Your scowls were beginning to give me a headache."
"If your constitution is that fragile, it's a wonder you're still alive."
Hawke huffs out a laugh; a small, slightly surprised thing, that niggles at Rylens already unraveling patience. What kind of a woman can laugh after being treated so contemptuously? Does she take nothing seriously?
"Look," Hawke says. "I'm just trying to clear the air. I'm not trying to form a blighted friendship circle where we air out all our grievances and become best friends."
"I don't require the air to be clear in order to be a professional." Rylen says and Hawke gives him an incredulous look.
"Is that right?" She says, words dripping with sarcasm. "Quite the skill you have there."
"Unlike some people, I am capable of making measured, sensible decisions."
"Are you fucking serious?" Hawke says and stops dead. Rylen lets out a silent sigh and moves to the side of the road.
"Yes, I am," he says, glancing at the rest of the company as they pass by, obviously curious about the exchange. "Very well, if you want to clear then lets clear the air; I think you are a careless, erratic and dangerous liability. You brought Kirkwall to its knees with your decisions and the when it needed someone to hold it together you disappeared."
It is Hawke's turn to scowl.
"You have no idea," she says, in a low voice, advancing on him with a pointed finger, her hand crackling just enough for Rylen to prepare himself for a silence. "No. Idea. How bad it was, none, okay? So before you lecture me on my decisions General, perhaps you should take some responsibility for the actions of your brethren okay? Do you know how long it took Cullen to wake up to Meredith's abhorrent behavior? Do you know why I left when I did? No one-" She pokes a finger into his breastplate and Rylen feels the shock through his leathers. "-no one, was in the right. I did my best." She leans away from him. "I pray that you never find yourself in a situation where you have to choose between death and more death, because I would certainly be interested to see how you make a 'sensible' decision then."
Hawke narrows her eyes at him for a moment, her jaw hard. Then, apparently satisfied her point has gotten across, or perhaps just fed up with his presence, she pushes past him to join the rear of the company.
Rylen takes a minute to process her monologue. The hair on his neck stands on end.
"Is there going to be a problem?"
He turns his head to see the dark eyes of the Inquisitor watching him carefully from atop his Halla. The elf, a slight thing, cocks his head to one side. Despite the Inquisitor being a good 10 years his junior Rylen feels distinctly like a small child.
"No your Worship," Rylen says. "Hawke and I were just…clearing the air."
"Ah," the elf says. "So, that's why Marian looks like she's about to set something on fire."
Rylen given the Inquisitor an incredulous look.
"With respect your Worship," he sighs, abandoning the rules of military hierarchy drummed into him over the years. "Why is she here?"
The Inquisitor sighs, as if he knew this would come up at some point. Of course it would, Rylen thinks, the elf would be a fool to think the unannounced presence of Marian Hawke would not cause a stir in a company with Marchers.
"Inquisitor is fine General," the elf says, hopping down from his Halla's back with graceful ease. He mutters some words to the creature, who whinnies and starts trotting to catch up with the others. "'Your worship' makes me feel like I'm the Divine, and you can imagine how odd that feels when I'm really a Dalish heretic."
He grins and Rylen's bad mood deflates, just a little. The Inquisitor gestures for them start walking again.
"I regret that I have been unforthcoming with you about some aspects of this mission." The Inquisitor admits, rubbing his neck. "Cullen speaks very highly of you and I do not wish to put you out."
Rylen hums.
"I would have appreciated some notice," he says. "The name Marian Hawke does not inspire positive feelings among me and some of my men."
"I realize that now," the Inquisitor says with some measure of regret. "And I apologize for it. The short of it is that there is a Grey Warden threat, and you know Grey Wardens, all very hush hush. Marian is here because she knows more about how Corepheyus and the Wardens are connected than any of us right now. I-" he clears his throat. "-We need her."
Rylen observes the boy in front of him, because he is a boy. Barely in his twenties, Mahanon Lavellan should, by rights be with his clan, shouldering a mere fraction of the responsibility he now has. The mark on the young elf's hand flickers and Rylen's gaze lingers on it. He has always been good at putting aside his emotions in service of the greater good.
"Thankyou for your candor Inquisitor," he says, looking up. "I assure you Hawke and I will not be a problem, not from my side at least. I will endeavor to mediate the matter with my men."
The Inquisitor smiles with such relief that Rylen almost finds himself believing his own words.
Halfway between Verchiel and Montissmard they pick up a Grey Warden named Stroud.
Unlike Hawke, this traveling companion is not a surprise. The Inquisitor makes good on his apology and helpfully informs Rylen of their newest traveling companion days before they come into contact. It is a pity that he does not tell Rylen why they seemingly require a Grey Warden. But Rylen doesn't question it. What he does question is the inordinate amount Yvette, of all people, spends with Warden Stroud, muttering in clipped Orlesian and laughing.
It is not that this bothers Rylen for any particular reason, no indeed, but he wonders what the pair could possibly have in common. Stroud is blunt, uncharismatic and seems to have no interest in anything unrelated to Warden affairs. Not that Rylen can necessarily fault him for this. It just surprises him that Yvette finds this interesting.
Later, he tries and fails, to sound casual when he questions her about it.
"He was at the Academie when I was, but much older." Yvette explains as she sorts through the supply lists. "He was going to join my father's company."
They are both working into the night, grateful for the peace of a well guarded camp. If she finds his questioning strange she doesn't let on.
"We didn't know each other at all really but it's nice to talk with someone from home."
Rylen nods as he scrawls out a note for Cullen. He doesn't quite understand how Stroud classifies as 'from home' when the man's been effectively exiled for 20 years.
"Amelie said his family was assassinated. That's why he joined."
"They were," she says. "It all caused a great stir, not that it was ever officially acknowledged."
Rylen looks up at this comment.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's the Game," Yvette says, waving her hand. "No one ever came out and said is family was killed, but they were."
"Ah," Rylen says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes into oblivion. "The Game."
Yvette, to her credit, smiles wryly.
"Indeed," she says, then without warning she raises an eyebrow at him. "Why the interest?"
Rylen scrambles for a reasonable excuse, he settles on the truth.
"I- you were just very friendly, that's all." He says.
"You wondered what we could possibly have in common," she says. "Besides you know, the Orlesian thing."
Rylen nods mutely. The trick Yvette conducts, where she reads his mind, is a disconcerting one.
"He is kind of handsome too," she says, a mischievous glint behind her mask. "Don't you think?"
Rylen splutters.
He thinks of Stroud's square jaw, his blue eyes, his disgraceful facial hair.
"I'm not one for a mustache," he finally coughs out, sure his ears are flaming red. Yvette laughs.
"Good to know," she says, grinning.
They slip into an easy silence for a moment. Rylen shakes his head, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable feeling of tightness creeping up his throat. She is teasing him, he decides, but somehow it just make him feel worse. He realizes that he doesn't quite know how to interact with her on a non-professional level, he doesn't quite know how to interact with anyone on a non-professional level. But this knowledge doesn't make him feel better about him embarrassment.
To distract himself he decides to ask the question hes been burning to ask since the first day he saw her fight. A very unprofessional question.
"You said you were 'at' the Academie." He begins and Yvette looks up. "Why aren't you a Chevalier? Were you not there to train? You're certainly capable enough."
Yvette's smile drops as quickly as a staggered man. She clears her throat and swallows.
"I was at the Academie to train, " she says through a hard jaw, nodding. "But I-ah, I never completed the training."
Rylen wonders at the sudden tension permeating Yvette's frame.
"You didn't graduate? Pass a test?" He says, suddenly realizing he has no idea how one even becomes a Chevalier. "Is that how it works?"
Yvette lets out a huff of a laugh and turns back to her work.
"Pass a test," she echoes cryptically, staring at the supply lists. "I can't say the test was actually passable to begin with, but it was a little like that I suppose."
Rylen waits for her to elaborate but she just continues to stare at the papers.
"Yvette?"
She blinks and looks at him.
"Sorry Ser," she says, pointing at the finished note. "Is this all? I need to go check the supplies for tomorrow."
Rylen nods slowly and lets her leave. Yvette has always been cryptic but shes never outright ignored a subject before. He watches her as she goes, a curious and confused tightness in his chest.
It is not until they take Griffin Wing Keep that Rylen realizes just how popular Yvette has become with the members of the company. During the siege she takes a harsh blow to her ribs, leaving her incapacitated. Afterward, more than a dozen soldiers Rylen barely recognizes ask her if she is okay. Yvette smiles and assure each one that she is fine, before inquiring after their own relative condition. Rylen chalks this up to well-trained social graces. He will reluctantly admit that she has always had a deft hand with people and she seems, now, completely charming.
Rylen thinks about that Cullen said before he left Skyhold and wonders if maybe she always was. But as he watches her in the aftermath of the siege, it occurs to him that perhaps it is because now Yvette seems to truly care about the cause. She smiles at people with openness; gone is the aloofness. If she didn't wear the mask, she could easily pass for one of them. He comments on it when he visits her in the makeshift infirmary.
"Do you remember when I told you that I wanted to do something with my life?" She says, and Rylen nods. "Well I finally feel like maybe I am."
Rylen doesn't immediately recognize Yvette the first time he sees her without her trimmings. Her silver mask is, by now, a vital part of his image of her. So, when she walks into the makeshift administration tent carrying a bundle of papers and looking like a regular person, he blinks and tries to remember if Cullen sent him a new aide.
"Ser?" She cocks her head at him.
"Yvette?"
He pauses, blindsided for a moment. Yvette, clearly aware of what is causing his slack jawed reaction, furrows her brows.
"It's too hot," she bemoans, but there is something tight in her performance. "My face has been melting ever since we passed into the Approach proper."
Rylen regains his composure, shifting in his chair, a little unsettled by his reaction. He takes the chance to examine her face in full.
Yvette had been scaling back the paint on her face over the past few months. But the full lack of mask reveals freckles that make her features appear softer, more feminine. The biggest reveal however, is her nose, a sharp aquiline shape, like his, but clearly broken at some point in her past.
"You look-"
Yvette glances away.
"-like a person." He finishes lamely. But what is he meant to say? He has eyes, and she is apparently a comely woman. But he certainly doesn't want to make things weird between them. She is still, after all, his subordinate. He is a professional.
"Oh," she says looking back at him with a quirk in her lip. There is an odd lilt of relief in her voice. "That's good, father always said I look like a bird."
"He was referring to your nose," Rylen states, on this matter he can relate.
"No Rylen, he was referring to my wings," Yvette says with a roll of her eyes. Rylen, he thinks. It is indeed a morning of firsts. Has she used his name before? He can't recall.
Yvette places the batch of messages on the table beside him and scratches at her chin.
"It feels very odd," she admits. "Naked almost."
There is something slightly titillating in hearing Yvette utter the word naked.
"I can imagine," he grits out, violently wrestling his errant mind back into line. Yvette looks alarmed at whatever expression he knows much be contorting his face.
"Are you okay?" She says, her brows furrowing. "I can put it back on if it's too strange."
Rylen clears his throat. He takes a breath. Stop being a fool, he thinks.
"Please do not put that ridiculous thing back on, I have despised it ever since it graced my presence." He says, meaning every word. Then, willing back what semblance of composure he has left, he grins at her. "But could you please summon Amelie? I need to settle a bet."
Yvette narrows her eyes at him.
"A bet?"
Rylen nods.
"Just a little wager to see how long you'd last." He says. "Her idea, she thought you'd hold out."
"You bet-" she says, looking scandalized. "-against me?"
"Not against you," he says, chuckling, enjoying the now unobstructed indignation on her face. It gives him a comforting sense of control. "I knew you were smart enough to come to your senses sooner rather than later. If anything, I had faith in your intelligence."
"Maker's Breath," Yvette exhales. She pauses for a moment, then leans closer, looming over him with both hands on the desk. Rylen would be lying to himself if he said it wasn't a little thrilling. "I want half of that wager."
Rylen barks out a laugh.
"Ha!" He exclaims, feeling slightly heady. "That's not how it works Yvette."
"Oh I think it is," Yvette hisses. "Unless you want me to put the thing back on."
Good humor trickling away, Rylen narrows his eyes.
"You wouldn't."
"If it saw you lose, I most certainly would."
Rylen stares her down for a moment. He comes to the swift conclusion that Yvette would absolutely would suffer the discomfort of her mask if it meant showing him up.
"Fine." He concedes. "You can take half."
"Excellent." She says, straightening in satisfaction. "Now," she sliding the letters forward on the desk. "Before I got get Amelie, there are some messages you need to look at before the scouts report."
Rylen takes them and settles in for the morning. Amelie comes and goes with much fanfare and indignation, the scouts come and deliver their report and the day carries on as it usually does. It is a normal, run-of-the-mill day.
Yet, as Rylen watches Yvette's face come and go, he cant help but feel something has shifted.
It isn't her mask.