“Hello,” Bastien answers—sort of, obviously it isn’t a real answer—with quiet cheer, from well over a below his line of sight.
His accent is Orlesian; so is his mustache, currently fashionable among the masses in Val Royeaux, and the cut of his clothing, and his overall affect. There is nothing soldierly about him. He looks like he belongs at a desk, or behind a cart selling books. But on the other hand, there’s no shying backwards away from the Qunari, and any mild gawking is of the same friendly, impressed quality that might be directed toward a friend’s expensive new hat.
“I am Bastien, and—Maker, you are tall. I hope that is a compliment.”
Either he's that dense ( yes ) or that proud ( also: yes ). His shoulders roll flat. Whoever this was, wasn't a threat. Here for something, though, in that - erg, what did Bas call it? Cheerful. That was it. Cheerful way. It's disgusting.
"Right. I am a Sten." That is as much as introductions go, but in turn, he nods his head. Greetings were given, or as far as he is concerned, he steps back. There. If he wants to come in, he can.
“Enchanté,” Bastien says, in a cursory sort of way, but he doesn’t follow the Sten back into his room. He resists the urge to lean forward and have a peek around inside, too.
He’s still smiling, but it’s already more subdued. Not because his feelings are hurt or anything. It’s just instinctive to straighten his shoulders and be a little more brusque in the face of the Qunari’s humorless severity.
“I have a gift for you, for Satinalia, but you must come with me to the kitchen,” he says. “Are you busy?”
There truthfully, even as he steps back and allows more of the room to be seen, that much to truly not on. Two beds have been crammed together on one side to allow for his size. The desk is empty. The floor is empty. The bed is half made. There is nothing of himself in his room as can be spared. It is not that he is neat, it's just that it is devoid of anything that might mark him out particularly.
"The gift?" He picks up briefly, though hardly much at all, in so much as he goes from frowning at the intrusion to looking mostly neutral. "I am free. There is nothing to do here most of the time."
They will have to do something about that—the nothing he’s apparently doing—but not on Satinalia. Or this day after Satinalia that they’re pretending is Satinalia. Whatever. Bastien steps further back, in a way that invites being followed.
“Good,” he says, and since it’s a fairly long walk: “How is your anchor? Does it hurt?”
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His accent is Orlesian; so is his mustache, currently fashionable among the masses in Val Royeaux, and the cut of his clothing, and his overall affect. There is nothing soldierly about him. He looks like he belongs at a desk, or behind a cart selling books. But on the other hand, there’s no shying backwards away from the Qunari, and any mild gawking is of the same friendly, impressed quality that might be directed toward a friend’s expensive new hat.
“I am Bastien, and—Maker, you are tall. I hope that is a compliment.”
no subject
Either he's that dense ( yes ) or that proud ( also: yes ). His shoulders roll flat. Whoever this was, wasn't a threat. Here for something, though, in that - erg, what did Bas call it? Cheerful. That was it. Cheerful way. It's disgusting.
"Right. I am a Sten." That is as much as introductions go, but in turn, he nods his head. Greetings were given, or as far as he is concerned, he steps back. There. If he wants to come in, he can.
no subject
He’s still smiling, but it’s already more subdued. Not because his feelings are hurt or anything. It’s just instinctive to straighten his shoulders and be a little more brusque in the face of the Qunari’s humorless severity.
“I have a gift for you, for Satinalia, but you must come with me to the kitchen,” he says. “Are you busy?”
no subject
"The gift?" He picks up briefly, though hardly much at all, in so much as he goes from frowning at the intrusion to looking mostly neutral. "I am free. There is nothing to do here most of the time."
no subject
“Good,” he says, and since it’s a fairly long walk: “How is your anchor? Does it hurt?”