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.
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.
His head remains bowed under the brief scuff of that thumb, the idle point of contact passing without reaction as if he had somehow failed to register it. But this too is in a way practiced, or at the very least is a matter of reason. Don't squirm in the shadow of a straight razor. Instead, Flint's movements are isolated the the idle shift of his elbows across the chair arms. The turn of his hands where they are linked together before him. The habitual and unconscious fiddling with the rings worn at his fingers.
"The Mortalitasi. An Antivan merchant prince. Leveraging an Orlesian general's sentiment would certainly be par for the course."
"Difficult to verify, but not impossible. If we do it right, we can accomplish two things at once, and curry favor at court for Debuchy while we see what gossip can tell us about whether or not one of Cuissard's loved ones has been oddly absent for a time."
And if that's not the case, then—
There is a thought John has, wondering about Celene, about the kind of bargain that might be struck between a queen and an occupying army. If Cuissard is her man, and he is working under her edict, then who is to say that—
John lets the possibility sit there, held in check, as he scrapes the bristle from Flint's skull. John's fingers remain at the nape of his neck, set along the bend of his shoulder. It's early still, and his arm is not yet aching from the dig of his crutch, and the ritual of this routine balances the broad, sweeping scope of their conversation.
He listens and the silence with follows is not uncomfortable, only heavy like something held in an open, upturned palm.
"I would pay good money to know the Marquise of the Dales' opinion on all of this."
Is so broad a statement as to be an effort to disengage from the subject altogether. There's little they might affect on their own in this, which means pressing either Rutyer or Yseult and they have talked enough on both subjects to be hoarse and the threat of doing so again here now elicits the warning tingle of a headache behind his right eye.
So instead.
"The longer we all sit here and weigh the options, the longer the allied force remains divided. The Imperium will use any delay to their advantage. If a siege were put into place, it must be a conditional one. A show of force. Something to make clear to those occupying the city that they are expected to either relent swiftly or risk a direct assault with no place to retreat to."
The draw of the razor is steady, and for a moment, the sound of it's work is the only response.
"Do you intend to arrange for us to contribute?"
In which us means Riftwatch, for the moment. The amused dip in John's voice telegraphs the expression on his face, even as he stands unseen at Flint's back.
"It might save the generals and the Exalted March from making a decision at all and simply taking the natural course of action after the fact, if the instigation occurred independently of them."
They have the means to assess, at the very least. Griffons by night, if flown carefully, could provide them a clear idea of a target. How they approached it could be pieced together. And who knows what the new Provost can contribute, whether there was something being danced around in Research that might make all of this easier?
"If something were to go wrong under such circumstances, Riftwatch would almost certainly take the credit for it. I don't intend to play Celene's scapegoat."
But John isn't wrong. The impulse to set his thumb against the problem like a sort of a bruise and press to watch in which direction the whole body flinches is a tempting one.
"Better to convince one or two of the relevant Orlesians of the necessary course and assist them in putting it into action. But how we do the convincing is—" At the last moment, Flint stops himself from tilting his head for emphasis and instead channels it into a turn of the hand. "A matter with some flexibility."
"If we were able to encourage Jonquet to put his voice behind Debuchy and hold position there..."
But Flint's initial instinct is likely the best way to approach this. Sway favor towards Debuchy. Unearth whatever it is that Cuissard is concealing.
Goals that will be time-consuming to accomplish. It's the sort of work that comes without any guarantee. John doesn't think that needs to be said aloud. One hand braces briefly at Flint's shoulder as John shifts to one side, devotes his attention to the bristle of hair behind one ear.
"We might consult de Coucy, see if he has any inclination to expend influence on Debuchy's behalf."
Or Flint should consult Gwenaëlle, who should prevail upon her grandfather. Either or.
In an unconscious mirroring of the progression of that thought—
"A meeting with his granddaughter as an intermediary might be productive. Which I think," he adds, his head canting gently under the guidance of shifted weight and the shadow sensation of John's hand to better expose some habitually tricky spot to the razor. "May be the only time in the history of the world that anyone has proposed that role for Gwenaëlle."
But if they're to go mucking about in the Orlesian courts, they will need someone who can play the Game. Gwenaëlle can't; de Coucy can, and must have enough of a weakness to mouthy granddaughters or scoundrels or both else why be in Kirkwall otherwise? Who knows what a united front of the two might persuade him to invest in.
"And if it turns out that Cuissard really is speaking for the Empress, I can imagine little else that would satisfy Gwenaëlle more than further evidence for her vendetta."
Vendetta, he says, as if he isn't a fine purveyor of the thing.
"With that motivation, I can't imagine her not rising to the occasion."
It's a satisfying start, all the better if it turns up something that motivates Gwen and de Coucy both. John's understanding of his acquaintance with de Coucy refuses to coalesce into something he's comfortable putting his weight against, but he knows where he stands with Gwen, and he knows where Gwen stands with Flint. It feels less like an uncertain gamble, approaching the Duke.
It wouldn't hurt to have another, but John is content starting small.
And perhaps giving things a little nudge, where he can. Word of mouth can be a wondrously effective thing.
A pause in the rasp of the razor, giving way to the stroke of John's thumb along scalp to measure his work. It occupies him for a moment, enough so that his tone is a little absent as he says, "We might pay some attention to Debuchy's history. I imagine there's some unknown moments of valor worth shedding light on."
He hums, allowing the angle of his head to give under whatever mild pressures Silver exerts against it.
"It's been a long war," is an absent kind of agreement. Yes, there must be something. Yes, surely there are only three kinds of Orlesian leadership at this point: the brave, the foolish and the dead, luck having long reached the bottom of its cup. And he'd not marked Debuchy as a coward. Otherwise why bring it up at all in the first place?
And yet.
For a beat, he's quiet. In that suspended space between his knees, Flint's restless hands quiet. Then he laughs, a rasping sound.
The answering chuckle holds John's place, knife working so carefully at the delicate stretch of scalp behind Flint's ear.
"Agreed," comes after, carrying along with it John's impatience and frustration. The limitations of his own ability never quite stops rankling. What good is all his oratory in the face of the Orlesian court?
It's been a long war, Flint says, and John feels the way that truth sticks. Yes, it's been a long war. Longer than either of them had planned for.
"I'll try to suppress the sentiment while I consider how best to sing Debuchy's praises to the court," is what John says instead, reaching back again to dip the razor into the bowl, rinsing the lather from the blade. "But it can only help us with Gwenaëlle."
Practically a joke: how much help do they really need to solicit Gwen's assistance?
"I don't know. You'd certainly make an impression if that's what you took to Val Royeaux."
It's punctuated by a sidelong look, some faint cock of his temple and the absent sweep of his hand across the back of his neck to mop up the drips there now that the threat of interrupting the blade's edge has receded. That is a joke.
"There is another option. Maybe not an alternative to swaying the court's opinions of Debuchy, but something which might encourage the generals themselves to make their decisions sooner rather than later."
The look is met with a smile, the pull of amusement on John's face holding for a moment before passing into curiosity.
"Something more direct?" John questions, tone prompting. His fingers return to Flint's shoulder, pressing there as he turns back to the task at hand. "What do you imagine that to be?"
Creating urgency in such a way that their hand could not be discerned in the making is difficult, but not impossible. There are ways such a thing could be done. (An assessment helped along by success in dislodging seemingly unmovable pieces once already.) And if Debuchy is poised to receive the admiration of the court in the aftermath of whatever Flint is considering, all the better for their purposes.
He bows his head again, giving to the set of the hand there at his shoulder. It gives him little to do but to lace his fingers together, the calloused pad of a thumb scuffing restlessly along the first knuckle of his other hand. For a man given to severity and a kind of ravenous patience, he has little skill for maintaining stillness.
"If the army under them were to demand action or threaten to abandon the effort entire - that might serve to pressure the leadership waiting at Val Chevin's fringe to make some decisions. But they would have to be taken seriously, and we would have to find some way of motivating an army which has been fighting since some of them were boys without being seen as provocateurs."
"We could try what I'd attempted with the army stationed in the Anderfels," John suggests. "Maybe to greater effect, since I imagine motivating them to action is easier than persuading our enemies to desert their cause."
Though of course, the point stands: they'd have to do it without being seen as providing provocation.
"I can't get up on a box in the middle of camp, but we could see if Debuchy could suggest a handful of soldiers to do so on our behalf."
And surely they have enough agents in Riftwatch capable of making covert contact with those soldiers once they had the names. The blade works smoothly as John speaks, before he pauses again, shifting the blade from hand to hand as he moves to work at the bristle on the opposite side of Flint's scalp.
"Perhaps. Though better to identify likely speakers on our own. If someone were to discover Debuchy passed along the names of likely candidates to spark revolt among the foot soldiers, I can't imagine that would reflect kindly on him among his peers."
To say nothing of his reception at the Orlesian court, where a host of nobles--the sensible ones--must already be courting their own anxieties regarding what a peasant is likely to turn against when they are sick of fighting a common enemy and decide instead to find one which serves more specific interests.
"And," is like a new thought, one which is only just occurring to him as he sits quietly under the scrape of the blade. "If we were to bypass the generals to build trust among the men on the ground, that might later play to our advantage should we ever need to to circumvent them."
A pause, John humming agreement over the suggestion. His thumb runs along the stretch of newly shorn scalp.
"We could send a group. You were watched closely, I assume, but perhaps healers, some of our better fighters..."
People of apparently little importance, John means. Agents there to better the quality of life of the common soldiers, offer some minor pieces of assistance and pose no real interest to the generals. Who would look so closely at them?
"Do you think they'd be allowed to circulate without a chaperone?" is posed as John's fingers shift to his temple, John leaning in and against Flint's shoulder to avoid stepping around to stand face to face just yet.
"It's possible. Likely, even." It wouldn't be the first time that members of Riftwatch had worked with the Orlesian army. They're allied forces, after all.
With the blade not yet set against him, he shifts in the chair by the degree necessary to turn and tip his face back enough to look at least in the direction of Silver. The necessity of his shoulder as support keeps Flint from twisting far enough to meet his eye.
"Ket and Bastien," John says, reaching farther forward still to pass the blade into Flint's hands. "If we don't think rifters would create too much of a stir and distract from our purpose, Holden, Erik and Loxley as well."
As he speaks, John carries that forward momentum around, circling the chair. Meets Flint's gaze, some minor, fond quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he continues, "Maybe myself, if only to obligate them to entertain me while the rest do their work."
"Yseult likely won't care for it, but Rutyer might be convinced." A foothold for Ferelden among the ranks of the Orlesian army is unlikely to be something he could bring himself to refuse outright. Not if presented in that fashion. "I've no idea where Stark would fall, but if Bastien is involved then the rest would have to be."
Call him unnecessarily suspicious, but that much seems a given.
Casting a hand up to scuff his palm across the close shorn surface of his scalp, he says, "In any case, any reinforcements from Riftwatch will require a certain number of anchors in hands"—or wherever—"to appear legitimate. A rifter or two in addition to Ket and Bastien under your supervision seems plausible."
But after, "Rutyer will be interested in the prospect of interesting information to pass back to Aurora, if retaking the city isn't tempting enough for them both."
The state of the Orlesian army certainly must qualify as intriguing. John can't imagine Byerly would pretend otherwise.
But there is no contradiction to be made. If they use Bastien, and John sees few other candidates capable of the task, then they will have to assume the details of their objective will pass to Byerly then to Yseult, at the least. It's hard to know immediately where Stark fits into that configuration.
John draws the blade back, to attend to a missed patch with a few careful strokes and a hand at Flint's shoulder.
"Maybe we offer Yseult a few people of her choice, to accompany mine."
That hand is obedient enough, floating back down to the chair's arm again in time with the lowering of his brow. He addresses the point of his knee:
"And if her concern is a matter of personnel, that might work. But I suspect her qualms will have more to do with appealing to the rabble over the army's leadership. Maker forbid we hand anyone without a title any measure of leverage. Whoever she worked for must have been people of means."
Though that much likely goes without saying. Who else has the coin to afford such services? Yseult can hardly have been the intelligencer of farmers and seamstresses.
"I don't imagine she'll object to personnel, but affording her the chance to send along a few of her choices might make her feel as if she has a hold of the reins alongside us."
Punctuated by the last clink of the knife against the bowl, rinsing and then laying alongside it as John hooks the cloth and offers it to him. There is an easy comfort to inhabiting Flint's space, something long-established and well-worn by now, and while John returns the whole of his weight to the crutch, he doesn't step back to offer, "There's enough to counter her objections. We aren't alone in wanting to see Tevinter engaged rather than allowed to retreat and consolidate their power to create a problem elsewhere."
Maybe a reference to the disparate Orlesian leadership, but also a glancing estimation of Rutyer. Stark is still such an unknown quantity, but he's struck John as pragmatic. Maybe it wouldn't be such a struggle to sway him.
The cloth is accepted, some flickering look of skepticism casting across it in Silver's direction as he turns it over once. With a low hum of consideration, he takes the cloth to his scalp and mops up the damp at the back of his neck. Dries his hands, rings turning on their respective fingers.
"Given that we can't simply go around her,"—though it's clear where his preferences lie with respect to manuevering about Yseult—"It's likely the best argument that could be made to her. Though I doubt she'll hear it from me."
Here, now, his hand does make an inspection of the top of his head and behind his ears. The nape of his neck. Shifting the lay of his collar.
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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.
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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.
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"The Mortalitasi. An Antivan merchant prince. Leveraging an Orlesian general's sentiment would certainly be par for the course."
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And if that's not the case, then—
There is a thought John has, wondering about Celene, about the kind of bargain that might be struck between a queen and an occupying army. If Cuissard is her man, and he is working under her edict, then who is to say that—
John lets the possibility sit there, held in check, as he scrapes the bristle from Flint's skull. John's fingers remain at the nape of his neck, set along the bend of his shoulder. It's early still, and his arm is not yet aching from the dig of his crutch, and the ritual of this routine balances the broad, sweeping scope of their conversation.
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"I would pay good money to know the Marquise of the Dales' opinion on all of this."
Is so broad a statement as to be an effort to disengage from the subject altogether. There's little they might affect on their own in this, which means pressing either Rutyer or Yseult and they have talked enough on both subjects to be hoarse and the threat of doing so again here now elicits the warning tingle of a headache behind his right eye.
So instead.
"The longer we all sit here and weigh the options, the longer the allied force remains divided. The Imperium will use any delay to their advantage. If a siege were put into place, it must be a conditional one. A show of force. Something to make clear to those occupying the city that they are expected to either relent swiftly or risk a direct assault with no place to retreat to."
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"Do you intend to arrange for us to contribute?"
In which us means Riftwatch, for the moment. The amused dip in John's voice telegraphs the expression on his face, even as he stands unseen at Flint's back.
"It might save the generals and the Exalted March from making a decision at all and simply taking the natural course of action after the fact, if the instigation occurred independently of them."
They have the means to assess, at the very least. Griffons by night, if flown carefully, could provide them a clear idea of a target. How they approached it could be pieced together. And who knows what the new Provost can contribute, whether there was something being danced around in Research that might make all of this easier?
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But John isn't wrong. The impulse to set his thumb against the problem like a sort of a bruise and press to watch in which direction the whole body flinches is a tempting one.
"Better to convince one or two of the relevant Orlesians of the necessary course and assist them in putting it into action. But how we do the convincing is—" At the last moment, Flint stops himself from tilting his head for emphasis and instead channels it into a turn of the hand. "A matter with some flexibility."
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But Flint's initial instinct is likely the best way to approach this. Sway favor towards Debuchy. Unearth whatever it is that Cuissard is concealing.
Goals that will be time-consuming to accomplish. It's the sort of work that comes without any guarantee. John doesn't think that needs to be said aloud. One hand braces briefly at Flint's shoulder as John shifts to one side, devotes his attention to the bristle of hair behind one ear.
"We might consult de Coucy, see if he has any inclination to expend influence on Debuchy's behalf."
Or Flint should consult Gwenaëlle, who should prevail upon her grandfather. Either or.
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"A meeting with his granddaughter as an intermediary might be productive. Which I think," he adds, his head canting gently under the guidance of shifted weight and the shadow sensation of John's hand to better expose some habitually tricky spot to the razor. "May be the only time in the history of the world that anyone has proposed that role for Gwenaëlle."
But if they're to go mucking about in the Orlesian courts, they will need someone who can play the Game. Gwenaëlle can't; de Coucy can, and must have enough of a weakness to mouthy granddaughters or scoundrels or both else why be in Kirkwall otherwise? Who knows what a united front of the two might persuade him to invest in.
"And if it turns out that Cuissard really is speaking for the Empress, I can imagine little else that would satisfy Gwenaëlle more than further evidence for her vendetta."
Vendetta, he says, as if he isn't a fine purveyor of the thing.
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It's a satisfying start, all the better if it turns up something that motivates Gwen and de Coucy both. John's understanding of his acquaintance with de Coucy refuses to coalesce into something he's comfortable putting his weight against, but he knows where he stands with Gwen, and he knows where Gwen stands with Flint. It feels less like an uncertain gamble, approaching the Duke.
It wouldn't hurt to have another, but John is content starting small.
And perhaps giving things a little nudge, where he can. Word of mouth can be a wondrously effective thing.
A pause in the rasp of the razor, giving way to the stroke of John's thumb along scalp to measure his work. It occupies him for a moment, enough so that his tone is a little absent as he says, "We might pay some attention to Debuchy's history. I imagine there's some unknown moments of valor worth shedding light on."
And if not—
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He hums, allowing the angle of his head to give under whatever mild pressures Silver exerts against it.
"It's been a long war," is an absent kind of agreement. Yes, there must be something. Yes, surely there are only three kinds of Orlesian leadership at this point: the brave, the foolish and the dead, luck having long reached the bottom of its cup. And he'd not marked Debuchy as a coward. Otherwise why bring it up at all in the first place?
And yet.
For a beat, he's quiet. In that suspended space between his knees, Flint's restless hands quiet. Then he laughs, a rasping sound.
"Maker, fuck Orlais."
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"Agreed," comes after, carrying along with it John's impatience and frustration. The limitations of his own ability never quite stops rankling. What good is all his oratory in the face of the Orlesian court?
It's been a long war, Flint says, and John feels the way that truth sticks. Yes, it's been a long war. Longer than either of them had planned for.
"I'll try to suppress the sentiment while I consider how best to sing Debuchy's praises to the court," is what John says instead, reaching back again to dip the razor into the bowl, rinsing the lather from the blade. "But it can only help us with Gwenaëlle."
Practically a joke: how much help do they really need to solicit Gwen's assistance?
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It's punctuated by a sidelong look, some faint cock of his temple and the absent sweep of his hand across the back of his neck to mop up the drips there now that the threat of interrupting the blade's edge has receded. That is a joke.
"There is another option. Maybe not an alternative to swaying the court's opinions of Debuchy, but something which might encourage the generals themselves to make their decisions sooner rather than later."
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"Something more direct?" John questions, tone prompting. His fingers return to Flint's shoulder, pressing there as he turns back to the task at hand. "What do you imagine that to be?"
Creating urgency in such a way that their hand could not be discerned in the making is difficult, but not impossible. There are ways such a thing could be done. (An assessment helped along by success in dislodging seemingly unmovable pieces once already.) And if Debuchy is poised to receive the admiration of the court in the aftermath of whatever Flint is considering, all the better for their purposes.
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He bows his head again, giving to the set of the hand there at his shoulder. It gives him little to do but to lace his fingers together, the calloused pad of a thumb scuffing restlessly along the first knuckle of his other hand. For a man given to severity and a kind of ravenous patience, he has little skill for maintaining stillness.
"If the army under them were to demand action or threaten to abandon the effort entire - that might serve to pressure the leadership waiting at Val Chevin's fringe to make some decisions. But they would have to be taken seriously, and we would have to find some way of motivating an army which has been fighting since some of them were boys without being seen as provocateurs."
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Though of course, the point stands: they'd have to do it without being seen as providing provocation.
"I can't get up on a box in the middle of camp, but we could see if Debuchy could suggest a handful of soldiers to do so on our behalf."
And surely they have enough agents in Riftwatch capable of making covert contact with those soldiers once they had the names. The blade works smoothly as John speaks, before he pauses again, shifting the blade from hand to hand as he moves to work at the bristle on the opposite side of Flint's scalp.
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To say nothing of his reception at the Orlesian court, where a host of nobles--the sensible ones--must already be courting their own anxieties regarding what a peasant is likely to turn against when they are sick of fighting a common enemy and decide instead to find one which serves more specific interests.
"And," is like a new thought, one which is only just occurring to him as he sits quietly under the scrape of the blade. "If we were to bypass the generals to build trust among the men on the ground, that might later play to our advantage should we ever need to to circumvent them."
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"We could send a group. You were watched closely, I assume, but perhaps healers, some of our better fighters..."
People of apparently little importance, John means. Agents there to better the quality of life of the common soldiers, offer some minor pieces of assistance and pose no real interest to the generals. Who would look so closely at them?
"Do you think they'd be allowed to circulate without a chaperone?" is posed as John's fingers shift to his temple, John leaning in and against Flint's shoulder to avoid stepping around to stand face to face just yet.
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With the blade not yet set against him, he shifts in the chair by the degree necessary to turn and tip his face back enough to look at least in the direction of Silver. The necessity of his shoulder as support keeps Flint from twisting far enough to meet his eye.
"Who might you suggest for the work?"
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As he speaks, John carries that forward momentum around, circling the chair. Meets Flint's gaze, some minor, fond quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he continues, "Maybe myself, if only to obligate them to entertain me while the rest do their work."
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Call him unnecessarily suspicious, but that much seems a given.
Casting a hand up to scuff his palm across the close shorn surface of his scalp, he says, "In any case, any reinforcements from Riftwatch will require a certain number of anchors in hands"—or wherever—"to appear legitimate. A rifter or two in addition to Ket and Bastien under your supervision seems plausible."
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But after, "Rutyer will be interested in the prospect of interesting information to pass back to Aurora, if retaking the city isn't tempting enough for them both."
The state of the Orlesian army certainly must qualify as intriguing. John can't imagine Byerly would pretend otherwise.
But there is no contradiction to be made. If they use Bastien, and John sees few other candidates capable of the task, then they will have to assume the details of their objective will pass to Byerly then to Yseult, at the least. It's hard to know immediately where Stark fits into that configuration.
John draws the blade back, to attend to a missed patch with a few careful strokes and a hand at Flint's shoulder.
"Maybe we offer Yseult a few people of her choice, to accompany mine."
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"And if her concern is a matter of personnel, that might work. But I suspect her qualms will have more to do with appealing to the rabble over the army's leadership. Maker forbid we hand anyone without a title any measure of leverage. Whoever she worked for must have been people of means."
Though that much likely goes without saying. Who else has the coin to afford such services? Yseult can hardly have been the intelligencer of farmers and seamstresses.
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Punctuated by the last clink of the knife against the bowl, rinsing and then laying alongside it as John hooks the cloth and offers it to him. There is an easy comfort to inhabiting Flint's space, something long-established and well-worn by now, and while John returns the whole of his weight to the crutch, he doesn't step back to offer, "There's enough to counter her objections. We aren't alone in wanting to see Tevinter engaged rather than allowed to retreat and consolidate their power to create a problem elsewhere."
Maybe a reference to the disparate Orlesian leadership, but also a glancing estimation of Rutyer. Stark is still such an unknown quantity, but he's struck John as pragmatic. Maybe it wouldn't be such a struggle to sway him.
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"Given that we can't simply go around her,"—though it's clear where his preferences lie with respect to manuevering about Yseult—"It's likely the best argument that could be made to her. Though I doubt she'll hear it from me."
Here, now, his hand does make an inspection of the top of his head and behind his ears. The nape of his neck. Shifting the lay of his collar.
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