Us?
[ does us mean "flint, vane and silver" because hooo what an assortment. ]
[ does us mean "flint, vane and silver" because hooo what an assortment. ]
[Somehow--because against all odds, Nikos is good at his real job, and despite his piss-poor people skills, has managed to cultivate contacts in Kirkwall--a letter eventually gets to John Silver.]
[--and decent skill at decoding but Nikos doesn't want to talk about how tough the fucking code was so. Pettiness might be counter-purposeful in a lot of ways, but damn if it don't feel good.]
READ YOUR SHIP'S MANIFEST. SEE YOUR CAPTAIN IF YOU'VE APPROPRIATE SECURITY CLEARANCE.
-A.
[--and decent skill at decoding but Nikos doesn't want to talk about how tough the fucking code was so. Pettiness might be counter-purposeful in a lot of ways, but damn if it don't feel good.]
[ HISSES PETTILY ]
We graciously thank you for the delivery. Maybe next time try to stay out of the water until you've passed off the items to us.[ because who expresses gratitude without making it into a backhanded compliment? ]
- S.
['There's something you should see, by the way,' he'd said in the middle of the afternoon somewhere between two inconsequential ship matters that De Groot had refused to make any hard decisions on while they'd been away. He'd said it lightly as if discussing the weather.
Now, in the Walrus' cabin, Flint passes a stack of papers to him. They're all in his own familiar handwriting, but the contents are grossly atypical.]
Copies. Of the documents the Inquisition is, Maker willing, using to blackmail the would-be queen of Nevarra.
[What, like he was going to return these to Scoutmaster Ashara without taking notes first?]
How's the weather in Antiva these days?
Now, in the Walrus' cabin, Flint passes a stack of papers to him. They're all in his own familiar handwriting, but the contents are grossly atypical.]
Copies. Of the documents the Inquisition is, Maker willing, using to blackmail the would-be queen of Nevarra.
[What, like he was going to return these to Scoutmaster Ashara without taking notes first?]
How's the weather in Antiva these days?
[ From the moment Flint speaks those words aloud, John feels anticipation prickle across his skin, settle in his palms. There's nothing to grab and secret away in his pockets; he's moved far beyond that type of bounty.
The pile of documents Flint places in his hands is something far different. And far better, truly. John smooths a palm down the first page, smile curling across his face. ]
Now that is useful.
[ The documents are security. It means when they reach a certain point in their own campaign, the Inquisition will possess a safeguard against at least one nation. Jonn's quiet for a moment, before he lifts his gaze back to Flint. ]
Temperate. [ A beat. ] But fast-changing.
[ A faint note of exasperation creeps into John's voice as he recalls familial squabbles. ]
We'll have to proceed carefully there. And if anything goes wrong with that blasted dwarf...
[ John is still more bothered at the idea of losing their foothold in Antiva than at the idea of pissing of the Qunari, but what else is new. ]
The pile of documents Flint places in his hands is something far different. And far better, truly. John smooths a palm down the first page, smile curling across his face. ]
Now that is useful.
[ The documents are security. It means when they reach a certain point in their own campaign, the Inquisition will possess a safeguard against at least one nation. Jonn's quiet for a moment, before he lifts his gaze back to Flint. ]
Temperate. [ A beat. ] But fast-changing.
[ A faint note of exasperation creeps into John's voice as he recalls familial squabbles. ]
We'll have to proceed carefully there. And if anything goes wrong with that blasted dwarf...
[ John is still more bothered at the idea of losing their foothold in Antiva than at the idea of pissing of the Qunari, but what else is new. ]
I'm quartermaster of a ship, but I wouldn't say I'm the owner. Why?
They reach Kirkwall at midday as it surges with foot traffic and shouting and cut purses and merchant sailors and titled women in ribbons and silk accompanied by steel prickling shadows. A herd of blatting goats driven down from to foothills to the Lowtown by girl of fourteen, her little brother, and a rangy speckled dog lead their company, and they part ways only in the last twisting cut of the avenue - goats driven into the dirt packed side yards of the tanneries and butchers stinking of melting fat and singed hair, and the five of them following the final bend to the harborfront with its own distinctive brine and rot reek.
The Gallows sits just there in the distance against the flat matte grey of late Kingsway. By some fortuitous coincidence, the ferry from it is just over halfway across the water. They could easily make their way to meet it there at the slip slip and walk straight on, so passing in one uninterrupted line from Nevarra to the Gallows. It will be as if they were never gone at all.
Is that acceptable?
"You and I should see to the ship. De Groot will have something to say about the progress of the refit," Flint says to Silver. Anyway, it does them no good to return all at once.
Which is how the two of them finally find themselves finally diverging in a hired boat hacking speedily toward the Walrus under the power two paid oarmen. Flint sits quietly in the bow. There is something pale and drawn in him as he studies the shape of the Gallows between the crowded lines of merchant and fishing vessels at anchor, but otherwise there are no signs of trip's ill effects. All scratches and the magnificent array of bruising lay under a shirt and cinched belt and the fall of a dark coat, busted knuckles minimized by the heavy rings on his fingers so that there is no break at all in the illusion.
The Gallows sits just there in the distance against the flat matte grey of late Kingsway. By some fortuitous coincidence, the ferry from it is just over halfway across the water. They could easily make their way to meet it there at the slip slip and walk straight on, so passing in one uninterrupted line from Nevarra to the Gallows. It will be as if they were never gone at all.
Is that acceptable?
"You and I should see to the ship. De Groot will have something to say about the progress of the refit," Flint says to Silver. Anyway, it does them no good to return all at once.
Which is how the two of them finally find themselves finally diverging in a hired boat hacking speedily toward the Walrus under the power two paid oarmen. Flint sits quietly in the bow. There is something pale and drawn in him as he studies the shape of the Gallows between the crowded lines of merchant and fishing vessels at anchor, but otherwise there are no signs of trip's ill effects. All scratches and the magnificent array of bruising lay under a shirt and cinched belt and the fall of a dark coat, busted knuckles minimized by the heavy rings on his fingers so that there is no break at all in the illusion.
This is the second time in so many months that John has walked his way back to Kirkwall under unauspicious circumstances.
He is aware of a particular weight hanging over their journey home. John is many things, but he isn't a fool. He can guess at the source of it, even if he isn't willing to do anything but hope Flint's suspicions pass. It doesn't seem unreasonable, considering the chaos they had come out of.
But sitting in that small boat, taking stock of Flint as they are delivered back to the ship, John considers that whatever tension has drawn taut between them will not be released simply by returning to what is familiar to them. The impulse to speak comes to him several times, but they are not alone. So he watches Flint's torn knuckles and holds his tongue, suppresses the urge to spin out conversation away in any other direction.
Of course, once Flint's cabin door closes John finds himself with very little idea of what to say.
"You should sit," is what he decides upon. Certain impulses weigh out over all others. "I can see to what's needed here."
They both know they've come aboard for more reasons than just to hear De Groot's report. There are very few places in the Gallows where they can speak freely, and Flint is in no condition to rig a sloop to take them out onto the water this time.
He is aware of a particular weight hanging over their journey home. John is many things, but he isn't a fool. He can guess at the source of it, even if he isn't willing to do anything but hope Flint's suspicions pass. It doesn't seem unreasonable, considering the chaos they had come out of.
But sitting in that small boat, taking stock of Flint as they are delivered back to the ship, John considers that whatever tension has drawn taut between them will not be released simply by returning to what is familiar to them. The impulse to speak comes to him several times, but they are not alone. So he watches Flint's torn knuckles and holds his tongue, suppresses the urge to spin out conversation away in any other direction.
Of course, once Flint's cabin door closes John finds himself with very little idea of what to say.
"You should sit," is what he decides upon. Certain impulses weigh out over all others. "I can see to what's needed here."
They both know they've come aboard for more reasons than just to hear De Groot's report. There are very few places in the Gallows where they can speak freely, and Flint is in no condition to rig a sloop to take them out onto the water this time.
It is late in the day, more evening than dusk, and one of the half dozen Kirkwall public houses where John Silver sometimes holds court has already begun to swell with sailors and fishermen and bricklayers and hands from the Lowtown stockyards and smithies. When the man in question arrives, nominally at the head of a gaggle of Walrus men, he's almost immediately cut out by the barkeep's daughter.
"There's been a man waiting for you on the balcony for an hour," she says. Then thinks better and amends a warning: "I wouldn't go alone, Messr Silver. He was in a state when he arrived."
The slanting back balcony overlooks a narrow alley where the indeterminate outlines of three women are stripping featureless rectangles of half dried laundry from poorly ventilated lines made invisible by the failing light. A bell is ringing somwhere. By the time it reaches this place, deserted save for a rickety far table, some arrangement of the stone and plaster of the city surrounding it or the refraction of the harbor has afforded the sound a warped and sickly note.
Flint is there at that narrow table, his head supported by the hard line of thumb to temple, with only the company of some cracked lantern, a half empty bottle and a single cup. His attention in pinned below them, watching as those sheets are torn down. He doesn't look up.
"Took you long enough,” he says, as if the meeting isn’t largely happenstance. He could have asked him here and didn’t.
"There's been a man waiting for you on the balcony for an hour," she says. Then thinks better and amends a warning: "I wouldn't go alone, Messr Silver. He was in a state when he arrived."
The slanting back balcony overlooks a narrow alley where the indeterminate outlines of three women are stripping featureless rectangles of half dried laundry from poorly ventilated lines made invisible by the failing light. A bell is ringing somwhere. By the time it reaches this place, deserted save for a rickety far table, some arrangement of the stone and plaster of the city surrounding it or the refraction of the harbor has afforded the sound a warped and sickly note.
Flint is there at that narrow table, his head supported by the hard line of thumb to temple, with only the company of some cracked lantern, a half empty bottle and a single cup. His attention in pinned below them, watching as those sheets are torn down. He doesn't look up.
"Took you long enough,” he says, as if the meeting isn’t largely happenstance. He could have asked him here and didn’t.
Emlyn's warning gives John some idea of how things have been unfolding since Teren's transmission. He shrugs off the warning with a reassurance that stills comes to him easily in spite of all that's transpired: I have nothing to fear from him.
"I'd have come sooner if I realized you were waiting," John answers, maneuvering himself into a chair. He can hear the rising laughter and shouts from below as the Walrus men mix into the assembly below. This is a good place for the type of discussion John suspects they're edging towards. Voices don't carry far before being swallowed up by song or shouted story.
He almost asks What happened? but thinks better of it after watching Flint's face for a long moment.
"You could have set aside a cup for me, you know."
The labor of going back down for one isn't worth it. It's negligible, really. It's something to say that isn't bluntly dragging out whatever's gone wrong to be dissected before John's certain that's the best approach.
"I'd have come sooner if I realized you were waiting," John answers, maneuvering himself into a chair. He can hear the rising laughter and shouts from below as the Walrus men mix into the assembly below. This is a good place for the type of discussion John suspects they're edging towards. Voices don't carry far before being swallowed up by song or shouted story.
He almost asks What happened? but thinks better of it after watching Flint's face for a long moment.
"You could have set aside a cup for me, you know."
The labor of going back down for one isn't worth it. It's negligible, really. It's something to say that isn't bluntly dragging out whatever's gone wrong to be dissected before John's certain that's the best approach.
Oh? Well, let's hear it. I'm not occupied at the moment.
action. sorry about how you will never escape this character, eppy.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
propulsion
2019-10-30 08:51 am (UTC)(link)
[ Somewhere, John Silver was enjoying a meal alone, in a slightly less rambunctious corner of a tavern. Candlelight, music, hearty helpings served simply, ale brewed strong.
Operative word: was.
Because he is joined by someone else, a man who kind of sighs as he sits opposite him. Maybe a little recognisable if only because the Gallows are a small place, and Tony Stark is not what one would call nondescript. He doesn't sit down with his own drink, or his own food, but sit he does, looking across the table at the man he has joined for. Dinner?
After a beat of silence, one John might feel compelled to fill, Tony says; ]
You're a hard man to find, Mr Silver.
[ Is that true? Who knows. ]
Operative word: was.
Because he is joined by someone else, a man who kind of sighs as he sits opposite him. Maybe a little recognisable if only because the Gallows are a small place, and Tony Stark is not what one would call nondescript. He doesn't sit down with his own drink, or his own food, but sit he does, looking across the table at the man he has joined for. Dinner?
After a beat of silence, one John might feel compelled to fill, Tony says; ]
You're a hard man to find, Mr Silver.
[ Is that true? Who knows. ]
[ Normally, his dinner is interrupted by members of the Walrus crew. It's part of why John tends to take his meals here. So it isn't so much the sudden presence of company as it is the person taking a seat across from him. John's eyebrows raise, expression silently indicating: Am I tho in response to Tony's assertion. ]
What can I do for you, Messere Rhodes-Potts?
[ No real complaint about his interrupted dinner. He's situated here to invite interruption, can he really complain about being interrupted by someone other than intended? ]
I can offer you a drink, if you're inclined.
What can I do for you, Messere Rhodes-Potts?
[ No real complaint about his interrupted dinner. He's situated here to invite interruption, can he really complain about being interrupted by someone other than intended? ]
I can offer you a drink, if you're inclined.
Fereldan fucker, name of Rutyer. You know him?
I'm aware of him. I can't say we're well acquainted. Why?
Are you asking me my favorite kind of gossip?
[ what a fun, normal way to start a conversation.
Anyway, it takes John a few minutes to reply (aka relocate to the upper level of the tavern after advising Emlyn that no one should impose upon him) to Flint's question. ]
I am now. Why?
Anyway, it takes John a few minutes to reply (aka relocate to the upper level of the tavern after advising Emlyn that no one should impose upon him) to Flint's question. ]
I am now. Why?
[She tracks him down during the day, and makes it a point to approach him in a place a coworker could reasonably be expected to cross his path; no impinging on what might be personal time.]
Well, [briskly, as if continuing an existing conversation] I certainly have gained a deep if narrow understanding of Kirkwall's musical resources in the past few weeks. Assuming you're still looking for a minstrel or two?
[She hopes so. She has a list rolled up under one arm.]
Well, [briskly, as if continuing an existing conversation] I certainly have gained a deep if narrow understanding of Kirkwall's musical resources in the past few weeks. Assuming you're still looking for a minstrel or two?
[She hopes so. She has a list rolled up under one arm.]
Oh, absolutely. I am still lacking in qualified musicians.
[ Picking up the conversation in stride, beckoning her forward into the workspace he's commandeered for himself. ]
Have you found the best Kirkwall has to offer?
[ Or just the ones who will work for free? John isn't so picky. ]
[ Picking up the conversation in stride, beckoning her forward into the workspace he's commandeered for himself. ]
Have you found the best Kirkwall has to offer?
[ Or just the ones who will work for free? John isn't so picky. ]
literally 1 million years old, so if you want to let it go no worries:
sohighandwild
- 2020-05-20 23:43 (UTC) - Expand[ squint ]
Comparatively, very well. After a stretch of time sleeping on the ground, it makes one appreciate their bed.
[ but also— ]
Why the concern?
Comparatively, very well. After a stretch of time sleeping on the ground, it makes one appreciate their bed.
[ but also— ]
Why the concern?
https://thumbs.gfycat.com/AbandonedWelcomeGrackle-small.gif
wythersake
- 2020-07-20 03:31 (UTC) - ExpandThe room is at the top of a twisting back stair so narrow that two people couldn't reasonably be expected to pass in it - an event which seems unlikely to pass, as in the morning they will simply follow each other down again. It is had for twice what it should be, but the hour is late and the house knows what it can solicit from two men who are desperate for a place to lie down in a city which has already begun to stir again.
They had passed fishermen on the way here - sleep bright and sharp pairs of men moving in the direction opposite to them with all their gear. Within the hour, a small fleet of boats will make its way from their moorings and disappear into the grey pre-dawn. It's early work, he recalls. There is a memory of being a boy too young for anything, falling in and out of sleep in the cabling coiled in a boat's bow while a grandfather's gnarled hands performed work. There must have been someone there with them, he thinks. But he can't recall a name or face or a shape. Just the tang of salt, and the sound of labor, and the untethered sense of a boat rising and falling in the dark of the world before any sun thought to illuminate it.
The room at the top of the stairs is small, less lodging and more a closet which fits only a bed, a narrow table with a basin for washing, and the narrow strip required to stand beside or before either. But there is a window which faces out rather than toward a back alley and so it lacks some element of heat and density that had made Emlyn's back room so stifling.
A pair of heavy saddle bags is hooked at the end of the bed. And so is a coat and a belt with its sword and knife. And boots have been removed. And knit socks have been peeled away. And he is tugging, now, his shirt off over his head when he stumbles over his own tired limbs and kicks the bedpost so hard that he says, Fuck! loud enough that even the Maker with all his divine ambivalence must hear it.
It's a more apt prayer for the evening than anything else could hope to be.
They had passed fishermen on the way here - sleep bright and sharp pairs of men moving in the direction opposite to them with all their gear. Within the hour, a small fleet of boats will make its way from their moorings and disappear into the grey pre-dawn. It's early work, he recalls. There is a memory of being a boy too young for anything, falling in and out of sleep in the cabling coiled in a boat's bow while a grandfather's gnarled hands performed work. There must have been someone there with them, he thinks. But he can't recall a name or face or a shape. Just the tang of salt, and the sound of labor, and the untethered sense of a boat rising and falling in the dark of the world before any sun thought to illuminate it.
The room at the top of the stairs is small, less lodging and more a closet which fits only a bed, a narrow table with a basin for washing, and the narrow strip required to stand beside or before either. But there is a window which faces out rather than toward a back alley and so it lacks some element of heat and density that had made Emlyn's back room so stifling.
A pair of heavy saddle bags is hooked at the end of the bed. And so is a coat and a belt with its sword and knife. And boots have been removed. And knit socks have been peeled away. And he is tugging, now, his shirt off over his head when he stumbles over his own tired limbs and kicks the bedpost so hard that he says, Fuck! loud enough that even the Maker with all his divine ambivalence must hear it.
It's a more apt prayer for the evening than anything else could hope to be.
Edited 2020-08-13 05:27 (UTC)
As they pass through the streets, the fear and grief calcifies, wedged behind his chest. The city around them beats with the same rhythm, does not observe the ripples spread outward by a single story passed by a single crew. (There had been a letter once, long since fed to the fire, where John had attempted to describe Kirkwall to Madi and found himself falling short, unwilling to write What I mean to say is that I wish you were seeing it for yourself.) He has the same sense of adrenaline, trying to mark all the things spinning beyond his control, but even that can't stave off the exhaustion catching up to him. The ache burning in his shoulder and chest will be felt for days after this.
An exchange of coin gets them the sort of room John is exceedingly familiar with. He has made a make-shift home of such places before, but is now aware that such a room no longer suits him as it once did. All that now comes attached with does not fit neatly inside.
Sat at the foot of the bed, unlacing his boot, John has the benefit of feeling the shock of that contact. His coat and tunic slide to the floor, unimpeded. John's attention is elsewhere, and he's tired enough that lunging for items of clothing seems a waste of energy.
"You know, I think we overpaid," John says after a beat of silence, bare foot lowering to the floor.
An exchange of coin gets them the sort of room John is exceedingly familiar with. He has made a make-shift home of such places before, but is now aware that such a room no longer suits him as it once did. All that now comes attached with does not fit neatly inside.
Sat at the foot of the bed, unlacing his boot, John has the benefit of feeling the shock of that contact. His coat and tunic slide to the floor, unimpeded. John's attention is elsewhere, and he's tired enough that lunging for items of clothing seems a waste of energy.
"You know, I think we overpaid," John says after a beat of silence, bare foot lowering to the floor.
[ The tone of his voice clangs like an alarm. There's first the muffled chatter of voices, that dull as John moves away. ]
What's wrong?
What's wrong?
[A cream colored envelope with a pale pink seal appears either in his post box (if it escaped assault by the abomination), or is simply slipped under his door. The paper inside is rather fine, and the handwriting lovely, but the tone is rather more conversational than all of the other letters she's written for this particular project. It says:]
Captain Silver,
A colleague and I are throwing a small get together in Hightown to raise money for the benefit of Riftwatch. I cannot in any way claim it to be an officially endorsed initiative by Riftwatch, but I expect the proceeds to be highly beneficial for the organization. I know that you and I feel similarly about most social occasions in which we are expected to play as objects of fascination for the entertainment of guests, and so understand if you would prefer to avoid any association with the event. However, I believe you would be a most excellent addition to our ranks and personally would greatly appreciate the support.
My colleague (Valentine de Foncé, if you are at all familiar with the man) had suggested extending this invitation to your particular friend the Commander. However, as far as alleged gentlemen of fortune go, I thought you a more prudent (and frankly more pleasant) selection for the work. I have no doubt that you have any number of fascinating reels which might be gently adapted for the occupation of respectable company.
If you would care to join us, we will be convening at the end of Kingsway at the Lady Asgard's estate. Dinner and drinks will of course be provided.
Your Partner in Adventure,
Miss Wysteria A. Poppell
[ The reply comes on plain paper, with a splotch of what may or may not be ale at the corner. ]
Miss Wysteria A. Poppell,
I admit, I hesitate to accept the invitation. Less because of our shared reluctance to be gawked at, but because it seems whenever you and I embark on joint ventures it tends to end in kidnapping and long, unpleasant walks back to Kirkwall.
However, I enjoy nothing more than testing my luck against seemingly bad odds. Assuming I have no pressing business elsewhere, you can count on my presence.
I do have one question: have you and de Foncé any strong opinions on whether the subject of scrutiny should be allowed a guest of their own?
With fondest regards,
J. Silver
There is no knock to herald John's arrival. The sea is calm, the men are quiet, their contingent of apostates and malcontents are keeping to themselves, and John is letting himself in to the captain's cabin.
The aftermath of the struggle in the ruins is still written across his skin. Bruises have bloomed, and scratches and scrapes remain. Isaac might have lifted them away, but they're of more use to him where they are.
Exhaustion hasn't faded. Maybe part of that is because John can't quite stop thinking of all that's come apart, and how much it will take them to put it back together.
Several questions come to mind: Do you have a moment? or How's the wound, are you in pain?
Both discarded.
"Have a drink with me," John says instead, though there's nothing quite strong enough to stave off the weight of what's been lost.
The aftermath of the struggle in the ruins is still written across his skin. Bruises have bloomed, and scratches and scrapes remain. Isaac might have lifted them away, but they're of more use to him where they are.
Exhaustion hasn't faded. Maybe part of that is because John can't quite stop thinking of all that's come apart, and how much it will take them to put it back together.
Several questions come to mind: Do you have a moment? or How's the wound, are you in pain?
Both discarded.
"Have a drink with me," John says instead, though there's nothing quite strong enough to stave off the weight of what's been lost.
Edited 2020-10-28 20:07 (UTC)
The question now is, what are they returning to? Which work in Kirkwall takes priority? In which direction do they push first, and what - with Nascere fallen away and no place in the North left to preserve - can now be discarded? Pared back. Trimmed down to its most effective, sharpest point?
(And how, now that they have neither land or the promise of numbers to leverage, will they make themselves look as useful partners?)
Already the cabin has begun to take something of the look of the division office in Kirkwall: scattered pieces of a dozen thoughts half pursued and then put down in favor or some alternative (or some drifting thought, or eaten up by the pit behind his ribs which grows larger and not smaller for every nautical mile they travel South). In this moment, he's touching none of it; instead, Flint stands over the desk with a compass and ruler in hand, carefully plotting and updating their course of navigation in light of the most recent observations.
It is, despite the trigonometry involved, the simplest undertaking which occurs to him.
Flint must take some measurement of Silver too when he looks up, but it's an invisible thing. Quiet. Then the ruler is set aside. He makes some note on a waiting scrap of paper.
"Sit. I'll fetch a bottle."
(And how, now that they have neither land or the promise of numbers to leverage, will they make themselves look as useful partners?)
Already the cabin has begun to take something of the look of the division office in Kirkwall: scattered pieces of a dozen thoughts half pursued and then put down in favor or some alternative (or some drifting thought, or eaten up by the pit behind his ribs which grows larger and not smaller for every nautical mile they travel South). In this moment, he's touching none of it; instead, Flint stands over the desk with a compass and ruler in hand, carefully plotting and updating their course of navigation in light of the most recent observations.
It is, despite the trigonometry involved, the simplest undertaking which occurs to him.
Flint must take some measurement of Silver too when he looks up, but it's an invisible thing. Quiet. Then the ruler is set aside. He makes some note on a waiting scrap of paper.
"Sit. I'll fetch a bottle."
[ hm. ]
I received a dinner knife, from who knows where. I left it with the kitchen staff, though if they've misplaced it since that's their affair.
I received a dinner knife, from who knows where. I left it with the kitchen staff, though if they've misplaced it since that's their affair.
"Thank you for the cake."
Madi speaks from the doorway, leaning against the jamb and toeing the stone floor with embroidered leather boots as she looks in at John. Her expression is fond, to be sure, but there's a certain coyness as well that harkens back to years earlier, when they knew one another less intimately. That's not the cake's doing, though.
She's dressed warmly to combat the bitter cold of Kirkwall, the chill that pervades every inch of Gallows architecture, clinging to every stone. Her hair is bound up in a scarf, and about her shoulders is held the shawl he gave her for Satinalia, the ends of it secured in place with the wide belt at her waist.
"It was very good. Although, I am not sure I am qualified to judge whether or not Vlasta's claim is true."
Madi speaks from the doorway, leaning against the jamb and toeing the stone floor with embroidered leather boots as she looks in at John. Her expression is fond, to be sure, but there's a certain coyness as well that harkens back to years earlier, when they knew one another less intimately. That's not the cake's doing, though.
She's dressed warmly to combat the bitter cold of Kirkwall, the chill that pervades every inch of Gallows architecture, clinging to every stone. Her hair is bound up in a scarf, and about her shoulders is held the shawl he gave her for Satinalia, the ends of it secured in place with the wide belt at her waist.
"It was very good. Although, I am not sure I am qualified to judge whether or not Vlasta's claim is true."
For all John's complaints of the cold, the shutters in his room are habitually cracked. There is something good in the salt air, regardless of temperature.
The habit of leaving his door ajar while he's occupying the space has sometimes invited less desirable interruption. But, not for the first time, he is caught by the easy pleasure of Madi in Kirkwall, close enough at hand to appear in his doorway with a familiar sweetness in her expression.
"We might try Imre's and Gréta's, and then you'll be able to make a more informed decision," John tells her. The Walrus accounts log is open over his knee, and he closes it as he speaks. There is a moment's pause to take her in, consider her wrapped warm in a shawl he'd kept in his trunk for over a year. "That wrap suits. You look well in it."
Most things do. But there is real satisfaction in having given her something she's able to make use of here.
The habit of leaving his door ajar while he's occupying the space has sometimes invited less desirable interruption. But, not for the first time, he is caught by the easy pleasure of Madi in Kirkwall, close enough at hand to appear in his doorway with a familiar sweetness in her expression.
"We might try Imre's and Gréta's, and then you'll be able to make a more informed decision," John tells her. The Walrus accounts log is open over his knee, and he closes it as he speaks. There is a moment's pause to take her in, consider her wrapped warm in a shawl he'd kept in his trunk for over a year. "That wrap suits. You look well in it."
Most things do. But there is real satisfaction in having given her something she's able to make use of here.
[ without missing a beat— ]
Fortunately, I know exactly the place.
[ ish ]
Would you care to meet me at the Kirkwall docks, or would you prefer I come fetch you in the Gallows?
Fortunately, I know exactly the place.
[ ish ]
Would you care to meet me at the Kirkwall docks, or would you prefer I come fetch you in the Gallows?
Do you have a moment? I'm on assignment to Antiva soon, and I wondered if I might pick you up a souvenir.
Oh? This is a generous offer. Can I offer a suggestion, or do you have something in mind already?
The window is open and the sharp tang of salt air filters in through it. The chill of it is balanced by the fire stoked high in the fireplace, and by the crisp cut of the daylight painting a golden rectangle on the floor of the division office's ancillary apartment, and because the water in the washing basin is warm even where it happens to run down the back of Flint's bowed head, down the back of his neck and under the loose collar of his untucked shirt.
The scrape and tap of the razor against the basin's edge is slow, but methodical as a metronome in the closed room. Maker forbid the Commander's skull ever trend near the description of wooly.
"There might be some opportunity to sway the court's opinion of Debuchy and so empower an ally which we might steer as we like, but my concern lies closer to General Cuissard. There is a complication there we don't yet know the shape of, and to press the issue of the city's release without it may find risk repeating recent history."
Not that he is wholly against striking the city regardless of whether the Tevene forces have rigged it to explode as they did in Ghislain; it just happens that he'd prefer not to walk blindly into the fire.
The scrape and tap of the razor against the basin's edge is slow, but methodical as a metronome in the closed room. Maker forbid the Commander's skull ever trend near the description of wooly.
"There might be some opportunity to sway the court's opinion of Debuchy and so empower an ally which we might steer as we like, but my concern lies closer to General Cuissard. There is a complication there we don't yet know the shape of, and to press the issue of the city's release without it may find risk repeating recent history."
Not that he is wholly against striking the city regardless of whether the Tevene forces have rigged it to explode as they did in Ghislain; it just happens that he'd prefer not to walk blindly into the fire.
By now, John's hands are practiced, steady with the razor. No nicks, no slips. Just the rhythmic cycle of scrape, rinse, repeat until the job is done. It isn't a difficult to task to split his attention between Flint's scalp and the bare stretch of his neck and the conversational topic at hand: Orlais, a handful of generals, breaking Tevinter's grip on the city.
There's a momentary hum, holding place for John's answer as he runs his thumb up along the nape of Flint's neck, erasing the line painted by stray droplets of water.
"There's a chance they have something, or someone of his," John proposes, punctuated by the scritching work of the razor. "We know Tevinter forces aren't above keeping hold of a loved one to inspire a particular person to work on their behalf."
John's attention has been so occupied by Antiva of late. Daniello Bassadoar's imprisoned son is one of the many difficulties marked in John's notes.
There's a momentary hum, holding place for John's answer as he runs his thumb up along the nape of Flint's neck, erasing the line painted by stray droplets of water.
"There's a chance they have something, or someone of his," John proposes, punctuated by the scritching work of the razor. "We know Tevinter forces aren't above keeping hold of a loved one to inspire a particular person to work on their behalf."
John's attention has been so occupied by Antiva of late. Daniello Bassadoar's imprisoned son is one of the many difficulties marked in John's notes.
[ A susurration of muted conversations comes across they crystal first, fading further as John speaks. ]
If you're concerned about scandalizing the patrons of the Gull with your sweet nothings, let me reassure you they're quite unflappable.
[ However— ]
What is it?
If you're concerned about scandalizing the patrons of the Gull with your sweet nothings, let me reassure you they're quite unflappable.
[ However— ]
What is it?
That I should have pressed you into buying something a bit better than daggers back in Orzammar?
[ har har ]
[ har har ]
I'll be free in an hour or so. Care to meet in the gardens off the kitchens? I hear Yana has biscuits to spare from the morning's batch.
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