FFXII fic: "Troppo"
Canon: FFXII
Title: Troppo
Characters: Vayne, Bergan
Rating: Worksafe. Colonialism.
Summary: The layers of hair nearest Vayne's scalp are tacky and damp with sweat, and he can feel trickles of it crawling down between his shoulderblades, under his tunic and vest and cloak. ~450 words.
TROPPO.
The layers of hair nearest Vayne's scalp are tacky and damp with sweat, and he can feel trickles of it crawling down between his shoulderblades, under his tunic and vest and cloak. The fine silk will stain. He shifts in his chair. The fabric separates from his skin and then resticks itself.
He's set up his base of operations in the office of the Dalmascan privy purse; near enough to the shrouded throne room that the limited elegance of this palace has its intended intimidating effect on visitors. He has absolutely no interest in setting himself up on that throne; for one, he's promised these people that he is only here to enact a peace he has little to do with.
It is not precisely true, but it saves him from unveiling the enormous seat and removing enough of his clothing to wear the appropriate regalia.
Bergan sits in the chair opposite, maps and records spilled across the table between them. Vayne straightens the largest map, lining up the angles of the table with the edges, and smooths it down. Even paper crinkles and puckers here, impregnated with the heaviness of the air. Vayne can hardly imagine the miserable heat inside Bergan's helm. It gives him fresh respect for the man.
There is a single window in the room, and Vayne has had it opened as wide as it will go. The sounds from the city outside rise up like desert mirages. He speaks the Dalmascan dialect well enough -- Gramis gave him an education, at the very least -- but the cadences are warped by distance, and all he can make out is a mass of chatter, the vowels nasal and sharp.
He is about to ask Bergan his opinion on arranging some sort of distribution of rice to the denizens of Lowtown, when there is a knock on the door. Bergan opens it. The man on the other side, in pantaloons and a vest that leaves most of his stomach bare, bows. His sandy hair, the same shade as his skin, flops in his eyes.
"Consul-Governor," he says. "There has been a small disturbance in the treasury."
Vayne waves him in. "Go on," he begins, in Dalmascan, warping his vowels out of true. Bergan stands in the doorway, a perfect steel statue, and the Dalmascan steps gingerly by. He does not sit down.
Vayne leans forward in his chair and tries not to squelch in his own sweat while enacting governance.
Title: Troppo
Characters: Vayne, Bergan
Rating: Worksafe. Colonialism.
Summary: The layers of hair nearest Vayne's scalp are tacky and damp with sweat, and he can feel trickles of it crawling down between his shoulderblades, under his tunic and vest and cloak. ~450 words.
TROPPO.
The layers of hair nearest Vayne's scalp are tacky and damp with sweat, and he can feel trickles of it crawling down between his shoulderblades, under his tunic and vest and cloak. The fine silk will stain. He shifts in his chair. The fabric separates from his skin and then resticks itself.
He's set up his base of operations in the office of the Dalmascan privy purse; near enough to the shrouded throne room that the limited elegance of this palace has its intended intimidating effect on visitors. He has absolutely no interest in setting himself up on that throne; for one, he's promised these people that he is only here to enact a peace he has little to do with.
It is not precisely true, but it saves him from unveiling the enormous seat and removing enough of his clothing to wear the appropriate regalia.
Bergan sits in the chair opposite, maps and records spilled across the table between them. Vayne straightens the largest map, lining up the angles of the table with the edges, and smooths it down. Even paper crinkles and puckers here, impregnated with the heaviness of the air. Vayne can hardly imagine the miserable heat inside Bergan's helm. It gives him fresh respect for the man.
There is a single window in the room, and Vayne has had it opened as wide as it will go. The sounds from the city outside rise up like desert mirages. He speaks the Dalmascan dialect well enough -- Gramis gave him an education, at the very least -- but the cadences are warped by distance, and all he can make out is a mass of chatter, the vowels nasal and sharp.
He is about to ask Bergan his opinion on arranging some sort of distribution of rice to the denizens of Lowtown, when there is a knock on the door. Bergan opens it. The man on the other side, in pantaloons and a vest that leaves most of his stomach bare, bows. His sandy hair, the same shade as his skin, flops in his eyes.
"Consul-Governor," he says. "There has been a small disturbance in the treasury."
Vayne waves him in. "Go on," he begins, in Dalmascan, warping his vowels out of true. Bergan stands in the doorway, a perfect steel statue, and the Dalmascan steps gingerly by. He does not sit down.
Vayne leans forward in his chair and tries not to squelch in his own sweat while enacting governance.