[OPEN] you don't know my brother he's a broken bone

[katabasis]

WHO: Flint, Marcoulf & YOU
WHAT: Catch-all for Solace
WHEN: Solace generally, backdated or forward-dated as is convenient.
WHERE: Kirkwall, various
NOTES: N/A, will update as necessary.

FLINT
i. a tavern

Kirkwall rises out of the sea, shaped like Tevinter and the Qun both. In the shadow of the Gallows, there can be no shaking the reminder of either nation. Flint thought it first from the Walrus' quarterdeck as the ship had made its way into the harbor under full sail and no colors at all. The city which finally greets them looks for all the world as if it could promise only one thing. You do not matter, whispers every old stone in Kirkwall - even the ones under the shadow of the Inquisition's banners. But maybe if the stones can't be convinced, there are people in the city who might be. That's the trick.

--and the trouble, seeing as they can't very well show up and start making demands of the Inquisition's local leadership. No, his job at present is to seem non-threatening enough so as not to induce panic and so pointedly ever present so there can be no choice but for someone who should to pay some attention to the anchored ship, to the men on it, and to Max and her money and to what she will eventually ask for.

To that end, Flint's acquired the use of the back room of one the grimy taverns along Kirkwall's docks. He keeps the dividing screen between it and the rest of the floor poorly extended so that he might go about his work - perfectly legitimate bookkeeping and discussion of revictualing - in sight of the other patrons and vice versa. Surely it takes no time at all for gossip to do its business:

There is a ship in the harbor which flies no nation's flag. Her crew has only been allowed ashore in small numbers which must mean they have a secret worth guarding and tongues loose enough to ply. Meanwhile, her captain does business from The Boar & The Bat. He speaks with the unmistakable accent of a Vint, asks lots of questions, and might just be persuaded to pay for the answers.

ii. the library

It's late, but there's a light burning in the library yet. It illuminates a table where Flint has seemingly taken up permanent residence, presiding over a mountain of charts, pamphlets, papers, and reports deemed unimportant enough to be shelved rather than locked in someone's desk drawer. Given the prodigious range of reading material at hand, it's not immediately clear what exactly he's looking for. It must be of some importance though as he's been at it for hours tonight and in days prior has combed through more than his fair share of the stacks.

He keeps a small ledger at hand, noting down names and places and figures as it pleases him. In the rare intervals where he steps out for some much needed fresh air, the light is left burning to ward off any ambitious late-night clerk from clearing away his collection and the notes are taken with him - folded twice and tucked away into his pocket. When not bent over his work or stretching his legs in the nearest half-lit courtyard, he can be found picking through the library's collection: pulling books out, then re-shelving them if they don't suit.

MARCOULF
i. the training grounds

The flash of his sword is one among a dozen in the yard. Marcoulf works quietly and systematically with the rapier, running himself through a series of lunges and pulls and side steps against his own shadow as the sun rises high and hot over the Gallows. For anyone with an eye for swordmanship, he's not poor with the blade; and for anyone familiar with an Orlesian chevalier or two, the exercises are like enough to doubtlessly be informed by some sensibly trained hand.

Marcoulf's clearly no teacher though despite the smattering of green hands swinging swords and maces around their more experienced peers in the training yard. He's too tight lipped to be useful to his neighbors, largely reliable only for trouncing unsuspecting victims and for accepting any challenge.

ii. notice board

The Inquisition might house, feed and clothe its ranks, but mostly what that boils down to is a lot of linen for washing, potatoes for peeling, and seams for mending. Even given the toll the delegation to Minrathous had taken on the stabels' population, Marcoulf's found plenty to busy himself with. Today that means patching shirts in the shadow of the Gallows' notice board. He's made himself perfectly comfortable on the stone step with a cushion that looks suspiciously like it might belong to one of the more well-appointed state rooms and has been steadily working his way through the basket of linen with his ear tipped toward anyone grousing about whatever they find posted on the board.

He's far too busy diligently closing holes from pulled threads and reinforcing fraying cuffs to read anything himself, you see. And it takes his attention to thread a needle, of course. And naturally it's much cooler in the shadow cast back here than standing in the sun squinting at tacked up bits of paper. All very logical reasons for why he might ask the next person who happens to examine the notice board's postings:

"Anything interesting?"

WILDCARD
(( shoot me a pm or throw me a starter; y'all know how this works. [okhandemoji] ))

Comments

m - training

[swordproof]

Six spends a great deal of time watching people train and practice in the Gallows; she's one of the few that seems content to help and offer aid to others, her instructions short, clipped and to the point, but tied hand in hand with gentle movements to adjust posture, stance and stride. She's careful as she moves around, her own greatsword on her back and her hands heavy with a borrowed long blade, content to find her own place to start to practice and train when she catches sight of a familiar face jabbing at a training dummy.

She cannot avoid stopping by; she wonders if she seems changed to him, grown in age as she has, though perhaps her appearance had not altered. She does not spend enough time looking at herself to recognise the shape of her face or the growth of her features, only noticing herself when her hair is too long and requires cutting.

"Do you train alone today, or would you tolerate a partner?" At her heels, a mabari puppy wiggles, staring up at the stranger with careful, intelligent eyes.

[esquive]

A moment ago, he'd been playing under the illusion of being as peacefully unobserved as was possible in a training yard. Now the line of his arm, halfway through a lunge, goes sharper. Marcoulf stills. He lowers the sword's point and fixes her with a stiff, crooked look. Scuffs the back of his free hand absently across his scraggly cheek to wipe away the prickle of sweat in his beard.

She looks like she hasn't slept well, is what she looks like.

"If you like, Ser." His eye line flickers toward the greatsword on her back, then slides to the blade she carries in hand. As long as she doesn't have plans to take his head off, then sure. Why not.

[swordproof]

She doesn't mean to disturb, truly, but she steps up to him because he is a familiar face and one she would like to spend more time with, if only because he has been kind to her without reason. She's still on the edge of uncertainty about that, uncomfortable with the knowledge that kindness came because of some illusion rank or title, but if it means that she can begin to make something like friends in this world she can hardly dismiss it.

"Only if you'd like to. I wouldn't force you if you'd rather train alone."

Six wouldn't be offended if that were the case; Marcoulf has certainly done enough for her that she would give him that without question. She moves to heft her greatsword off, stepping around to a space to place it down, giving a sharp command to Two to settle down by it.

[esquive]

"It's fine. I could use the practice." He's lapsed into what must be clearly a habitual flatness, a stiff-jointed stiltedness laced into the lines of his limbs and the hinges of his joints where moments ago he'd been perfectly capable of smooth, decisive action. It's not unlike a wary dog: an obvious competence couched in a consistently tipped head and perked ear.

He walks far enough back from the practice dummy to give them both some room to maneuver in - and some distance from which he might have a moment or two in which to judge that long sword at the end of her considerable reach. He'd seen her at the tourney and before, working in this self same yard, but observation is a different animal from being on the receiving end of her blade.

Regardless (of the over-calculated thinking, of his lopsided everything), Marcoulf stays light on his heels. Shifts absently, wrist flexing. Light glints up the length of the fine rapier.

"Whenever you're ready, Ser."

closed to gwen

[katabasis]

It takes a particular kind of person to have their portrait etched alongside their inflammatory political opinions. It's the sort of thing that more or less demands to be remembered, an inescapable mental note made when he'd come across a stack of pamphlets tucked alongside inside a book of otherwise little consequence - one of many evidently brought from Skyhold, the pamphlets stowed away with it. Left to his own devices, Flint might have asked after the name. If she was still in Skyhold maybe he would have even written a carefully worded letter.

He isn't afforded the opportunity.

Instead, Flint finds himself pausing at the top of the stairs leading from the Gallows down to the ferry slip to stare at a woman arriving there. Her hair is a different color than he might have guessed, but even from this vantage he can tell the face is exact. Whoever had done her portrait had known what they were doing, he thinks, already moving down the stairs.

Under different circumstances and given his leisure, he might still have just inquired after her. Written a note. Asked for her opinion on some inconsequential matter to see if he could tell if she was really the author of those pamphlets or just the face of them. After all, if he and the rest of the pirates from Nascere are meant to be mistaken for easy allies rather than potentially explosive ones, any blatant association with a woman recognizably behind some prickling propaganda writing might not be in anyone's long term best interests. But the circumstances aren't different. The circumstances are that the Inquisition has gone to Minrathos. There can be no affording gentle handling.

So he closes distance.

"Excuse me." Brusque, like he isn't used to that particular combination of words except as a substitute for 'fuck you very much.' His accent too is obvious from just that, laying at bizarre odds with the rest of him. "You're Mademoiselle Vauquelin, is that right?"

[elegiaque]

It hasn't been so long since the last time she was called so that she doesn't answer to it, but there's a pause; if he were further away then the pause might have been for a different reason altogether (where did your hair go, Uncle Gervais?) but he comes near enough quick enough that she has no opportunity to be so jarred. Instead, immediately cataloging details: accent, demeanor, dress. Accent. Gwenaëlle is not as unfamiliar with the particular way Tevene speakers shape their words as most young ladies of Orlais, but she is not (as he has already observed), most young ladies of Orlais.

“In another life,” she says, as if she hadn't missed that beat at all, and offers him her hand.

(As a lady might, for all that.)

“Baudin.” A brief pause. “If my lord owes a debt, you can take it up with Celene and see how far that gets you.”

Speaking of her inflammatory political opinions.

[katabasis]

Well, that answers the first question.

He takes her offered hand (like the sensible sort of man who knows how to), but lifts it only a few degrees. No sweeping gestures here; instead he fixes her with a direct, cataloging look and nods. "Baudin." An easy correction. He releases her hand.

"I'm not sure the Empress would know what do with being thanked for the diversion of a few hours' worth of reading. But, the author's picture is exact. She might eventually put the pieces together if a copy was sent with." Said so dismissively that it would take real effort to hear it like a threat. He does shift the line of his shoulders then. It's not really any kind of bow, but the sentiment of turning tack is there in the ghost of the gesture.

"Captain Flint of the Walrus." If he were to motion to her, the ship might just be visible from here as a dark shape in a harbor otherwise buzzing with summer trade. "Some of your pamphlets found their way into a copy of coastal maps."

[elegiaque]

“Ah, I've personally offended you,” she suggests, freed hand upon her bosom, widening her eyes like the ingenue she never really was—a jest, because she thinks she has not, actually, but Gwenaëlle doesn't need to exert herself so much as some to hear the whispered possibility of a threat and attempt with her very particular, if-you-like-that-sort-of-thing sort of charm to defang it. So much her father's daughter, in both thought and response to it, only she has spent much of the past month acutely aware of how far out of the Empress's easy grasp she was not.

Now and then her writing served its original purpose, drew in those who might be inspired to fill the gaps she had artfully outlined; she thinks that is not, in fact, why Captain Flint of the Walrus is interrupting her return. It would stretch credulity near to breaking if she were to presume that the man before her had been so moved by her words as to bring his ship to the Inquisition's cause, for all stranger things might have happened. This is possibly some other strange thing entirely—it's already interesting enough that when the tall, gaunt gentleman clearing her belongings from the ferry pauses at her elbow (silent, his gaze settled upon Flint and not his mistress), she says, “To the Provost's office,” without making any move to join her belongings or, indeed, her gentleman.

He acknowledges the instruction with an inclination of his head, expressionless gaze committing Flint's face to memory, and withdraws. (He will not personally deposit her things there; discretion is the better part of valor. Gwenaëlle will be present, the next time he crosses paths with her husband.)

“I'm afraid if you were looking for more light reading, Captain, I ceased publication after the—” debacle, “—business at the Winter Palace. But I'm happy to discuss my work.”

closed to yseult

[katabasis]

There's work to be done, and part of that work is seeing to it that they aren't blind here. It's all well and good to fold themselves in under the proverbial shadow of the Inquisition, but he's under no illusions how weak their footing is. Max's cache buys them little more than a place here. If there's to be any hope of cutting through the messy politics of the Inquisition and her allies, they'd need more than just a fortune and vague promises of arms with which to leverage. If there's any hope in inspiring some interest in the liberation of Nascere, the threat of the Corypheus' forces there must come hand in hand with information.

It always comes back to who knows the most, doesn't it? Fine. He can use that.

Which is how Flint finds himself on the docks in the early evening, waiting along the jetty for the arrival of someone he knows only by the description supplied by an evidently mutual contact. 'Contact,' he thinks and huffs out breath. More accurately: a deckhand of one of the trade ships in port who made a second trade out of being a rumormonger. He's as likely waiting for a cut purse with a sharp knife as he is a pretty brown-haired woman with an upturned nose, some knowledge of the coast, and an interest in doing business.

[hassaran]

The strangeness of this assignment hasn't worn off in the few weeks since she arrived in Kirkwall. Working openly, with known goals, under her own name--it all flies in the face of instinct and habit built over decades. Yseult may technically still have two masters, but one of them has all but abdicated his oversight, and following a single agenda just feels wrong. Like she is missing something, some plate in the air she set spinning and then forgot to keep watch of, and now who knows where it will land.

So it's something of a relief to run into an old contact, a deckhand out of Salle who knows her by a different name, but recalls her business well enough. She's more in need of contacts inland, these days, connections lost or misplaced through the neglect of the last two years, but it's a starting point. Something to do, some way to make herself useful outside the basic preliminaries she's tasked with while the Inquisition decides how much it trusts her.

And she'll admit to some curiosity about the man she is to meet. She'd heard the rumors of the Tevinter captain who'd set up shop in The Boar & the Bat, and made a brief stop by the tavern one night just to see if it was a face she'd ever seen before. It wasn't, but it's easily picked-out now, the lone figure on the docks, the telltale ginger of his beard in the waning light, that thing in his posture that causes foot traffic to divert with question around him. She drifts in with those crowds, sticking to the trailing edge of a knot of people and dropping off when she reaches him.

"Flint, I believe?" She's lifting a brow at him, and otherwise as described: brown hair, pretty enough, nose--debatable. Of just over average height and dressed simply, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms as freckled and tan as her face. She sounds like a Marcher, except not quite, something odd in the accent that can't quite be placed.

[katabasis]

He turns that half degree from the harbor and for a moment lays enough attention on her that the rest of it - the evening dock workers, the hawkers hurrying home before full night closes in, the rhythmic creak of the fishing dinghies shifting against their slip lines, and the hot breeze croaking in from the over the water to prickle sweat under the collar - might as well not be there. It's a flash of blatant evaluation, his eye rolling first to see that her hands are empty and then committing her face to memory. Information traders are slippery kinds of people; best to learn the look of them as quickly as possible.

Apparently satisfied, he eases. "That's right." Just that is more than enough to confirm at least part of the rumors. His accent is unmistakable. "I hear you've done reliable work along the coast."

He tips his head then, indicating the length of the dock in the opposite direction most of the foot traffic is shuffling in. So long as they're in the open, they might as well see to this business while on the move. Two people walking along the waterway is less remarkable than an obvious meeting held at dusk. Besides, on the off chance she has a partner waiting in the wings to cut purse strings the moment any coin is flashed, he'll be more likely to spot them if they're being forced to follow.

Paranoid? Him? Never.

[hassaran]

Her thoughts run along similar lines, as she scans the walk up ahead. There's another quay to get past before the buildings start crowding up toward the waterline, taverns and ropemakers, storage sheds and a minor merchants' guild, ramshackle, salt-crusted buildings all, and the grimy alleyways between them decent spots for an ambush, if that's Flint's aim. Not as quiet as might be ideal, but it's Kirkwall: you could knife someone in broad daylight around here and only cause roughly half the usual stir.

She gauges the most dangerous spots, and slows their pace a half step over the next couple strides, delaying arrival until she's gotten a better measure of the man beside her. He has her on height, weight, and reach by a comfortable margin, but she's little doubt she could take him she had to. She'd just prefer to get to dinner without having to wash blood off her hands, all other things being equal.

"I know my way around the Waking Sea and the Amaranthine," she says, impassive, and seeing no need to explain just what sort of reliable work she was doing if Flint hasn't already been told, "If your aim is to learn the area. Ramsby didn't say what it was you were after."

closed to silver

[katabasis]

The delegation to Minrathous had left that morning, tracing the highway with a rising dust column that had remained visible long after the party themselves had turned invisible. He'd been there to see them off, a shadow among a mix of Inquisition members saying their farewells and Kirkwall denizens looking for the cheap entertainment of a line of horses and flashing armor or the chance to sell an overpriced toothbrush to any victim who was only just realizing they'd forgotten to pack theirs.

It had been impressive in its way: two dozen plus mounts of every size, shape and color under the Inquisition's listing banners. The flash was for show, but to even afford the luxury of putting one on was worth something. And had they been pointed in any other imaginable direction, it might almost be reassuring.

As it is, it's trouble. Nevermind every other blighted thing, there will be difficult questions among the men on the Walrus shaped along the lines of 'What the fuck do you mean they're going to Tevinter?'. Worse still, there will need to be an answer for them that isn't, 'Mind your business.' There's already not enough of it to go around with the ship at anchor.

Fuck, Flint had thought as the delegation had finally wound its way out of the vast courtyard to the sound of clattering hooves and jingle of metal.

"Fuck," he snaps now in the narrow shared quarters as his hand knocks and overturns the inkwell at the corner of the table. It's quickly righted, but does it damage anyway: black splashed over the corner of the ledger he's been scratching at, spreading to touch a series of papers he's borrowed from the Inquisition's library. So much for taking and returning them without anyone noticing. Growling, Flint hurries to rescue everything else on the desk. Swears again when he finds the smear of ink on his forearm has transferred to the other side of the open book.

crawls in here

[hornswoggle]

"So you're taking it well, I see."

There had to be some sort of irony in the fact that their arrival has coincided so closely with the departure of the delegation. A week or so later and they'd have missed it, and John's task of talking the men round it's existence would have been easier. As it is, the spectacle of it is going to require some finesse and John doesn't have a distraction on hand.

"Give me that one."

John doesn't wait to simply lift what the tome of Flint's hand, avoiding the splotches of ink in the process. Nimble as he is, the end result is still John's hip leant against the desk, dabbing gingerly dabs at the ink.

"Max has gone with them, I hear," or John knows, because for whatever reason Max has shared certain pieces of information with them. "I'm fairly sure she'll tell us what went on when she gets back."

There's a way to use that to make the whole situation more palatable to the men. It's something, at least.

[katabasis]

"You're assuming we can trust her with the truth. There's every possibility she's of an entirely different mind about all of this."

That's been the risk since the beginning, hasn't it? That they would agree to give her and her share of the cache passage to the relative security of Kirkwall with the expectation that she do her own part in exchange for their cause. But who can say how far her commitment to this really stretches? Max had survived as a business woman in Nascere long after the men who called themselves pirates had been driven from it. She might be just as happy to make her way in legitimate ports doing legitimate work for legitimate people. For all they know, her desired outcome has been different since the moment they dropped anchor in the harbor and weren't snapped up and hung the moment they touched land. And while it's true that there are easier ways she might undercut them, putting herself on one side of a line where it comes to the Imperium's sway over the Inquisition's interests and they on the other is certainly an option.

Mindful of his fingers, Flint gathers the untouched papers and books and shifts them to the relative safety of the floor. A scrap of cloth is produced and flattened over the spilled ink to soak up the excess, stopping it slow determined sprawl before it can reach the table's edge. He checks his rolled sleeved, grimaces over the stain touching the edge, and snaps the ledger shut with a thud. It will press the ink stains onto both pages. Fine.

"This doesn't look like a cause for concern to you?"

Politely speaking, how the fuck is he meant to take this?

[hornswoggle]

It's a valid concern. It's one John shares, but doesn't give as much weight to. John lets both statements sit for a moment while he attempts to scrape the worst of the ink off the tome in his hands. The silence stretch. Flint's concerns settle. John considers what needs to be diffused and what needs to be indulged

"You better hope they aren't going to make us pay for these," is what John says finally, before letting it drop to the table. "But to your point, yes, it does look like a cause for a concern."

They didn't arrive in time to curtail the expedition in the first place. They just don't have the standing now, so they'll have to make whatever outcome comes to pass work for them.

"If it goes well, that is."

It's a very big "if" and John knows Flint won't find it comforting. But he still has to point it out. The meeting could go any number of ways. This could just as easily turn into an opportunity for them. And even if Flint doesn't find Max's presence there reassuring, John prefers the known entity of Max and her ambition to carry back her perception of the meeting than cobbling it together from gossip.

Flint, i!

[rathercommon]

Tavern shifts don't pay good money, but the goal isn't earning coin. Or at least the primary goal isn't that. The goal is learning things. No one minds their tongue around a barmaid, after all, especially not a young harmless-looking barmaid who has the ability to listen while seeming entirely disinterested. It's the best place to learn about this land, to hear people talk, listen in as they reveal things about their attitudes and their assumptions and their biases and blind-spots.

And, all right, it's also the best place to snoop. In her work so far, she hasn't managed to learn anything really useful, just vague information about where troops are being deployed and some speculation of who's sleeping with whom amongst the Inquisition brass (ugh) and talk of Corypheus' followers disguising themselves as refugees (yeah, right, like they even need to). But the problem so far has been that she's also been working the tables. No one discusses anything really juicy when they're out in the open.

So on this evening, she's feeling good, because she's been assigned to some of the back rooms. That, she's quite certain, is where the good stuff gets discussed - where deals are brokered, where shadowy men meet other shadowy men. Two rooms are empty, and the third occupied only by a single man; so she decides not to wait until someone shows up to talk to him, and instead decides to peek at his papers when he steps out. So she dithers until she sees him step out to use the toilet (and he looks a bit familiar, doesn't he? oh well), then goes into the room and sets down his drink and then leans over to examine the ledgers on the table, studying them for any signs of anything she can use.

[katabasis]

The usefulness of information is a funny thing, isn't it? It depends entirely on the owner and the audience. Words on a page can as easily disguised as so much chaff - charts of the labyrinthine channels leading between the Ferelden coastland and Brandel's Reach; a detailed account of two ships by the names of Lion and De Grasse, their descriptions and an estimation of their crews - rather than steel sharpened and waiting for the right target in a dark room - a ledger, kept meticulously, detailing a number of men versus an account of what must be rapidly dwindling cash and stores. There are other papers as well: a pamphlet on the Inquisition's rifter population with the portrait of a dark haired woman printed alongside it, a much folded piece of paper with a list of inland cities and a small sum of money noted beside each, a small book printed in Nevarran with pages so thin they might let light through.

Left to the eye of a quick reader, it might take only fifteen minutes to sort through in any reasonable way. After all, the handwriting is legible in most places and though the accounts are concise to the point of being vague they're hardly written in any kind of code. Unfortunately, she doesn't have fifteen minutes. Kitty's hardly allowed five before there's the sound of footfalls and the man who's meant to be occupying the back room resurfaces there in the doorway.

Flint stops short. He's midway through rolling his right shirt sleeve to the elbow and for a moment he must see only the apron behind her clothes. He nearly continues into the room unbothered. Then he double takes. A hard line furrows across his forehead.

"You."

[rathercommon]

Oh. Well. So...As she sets eyes on him, she can't exactly play harmless illiterate barmaid like she was planning to. This is the man from the library, she's certain, who'd recommended books to her - good books, too, useful books. Ones she'd enjoyed reading. Honestly, under most circumstances she'd be pleased to see him again, to deliver her evaluation of their quality, but - Snooping on someone who has the tools necessary to see through her lies isn't the best situation ever.

Honestly, though, this is interesting. She'd taken him for a wandering scholar, but he's one of the pirates who'd come in, wasn't he? Which is strange; he seems different. On a superficial level, sure; he's not nearly so witty or charming as Max, rather easier to get along with than Charles Vane. But it's true on a deeper level, too. He's different from what a pirate should be, in deep ways, philosophical ways...

Well. No time to reflect on that now. She shifts a few dishes to her tray, moving like she was already in the process of doing so, and then smiles suddenly like recognition just came upon her. "Oh, hullo," she greets, all good cheer and casual friendliness. "How funny, running into you here. D'you come here often?" There's a little shiver of nervousness running through her - will he see through the lie? and if so, will their previous friendliness be enough to give her an out? Or is she selling it well enough that he'll dismiss any suspicions?

closed to max

[katabasis]

There must be work that the Inquisition puts into motion that they manage to successfully play close enough to the chest to keep news of it from spilling out past the Gallows. Accepting an invitation to Minrathous is not that work. It's the sort of gossio that is so easily parsed that half of Kirkwall will have heard a rumor or a rumor from a friend or a friend by the day's end; news reaches Flint's ear by mid-morning. Which likely has something to do with the two Walrus men who manage to track Max down by the afternoon, Flint wants to see her, one of them explains. When? Right now. They wait until their escort is unavoidable.

Flint is clearly expecting her - not in the quarters the Inquisition has provided him or in the rented back room of a public house, but in the cabin of the Walrus proper. If the long looks from the crew are anything to go by, maybe some whisper of the Inquisitions's trip has reached the ship at anchor too. The welcome in the cabin is no warmer.

"Well?" Snapped out the moment the door shuts behind her skirts. If it sounds like a demand from behind the desk where Flint sits in that awful high-backed chair, then it's meant to.

hurls myself bodily into this

[ebeje]

There are a number of things Max does not appreciate about this situation. The summons. The manner of it. The escort. The location. That she does not know Flint quite well enough to say how many of those things are designed specifically to vex her and how many are just the way that he is, does nothing to assuage the steady riling of her pride with each step.

Although the fact that he is summoning her, that her presence and her actions are now important enough he cannot ignore them, is a certain kind of progress.

Her skirts swing against her legs. A step more, two and her boots level with the deck. She may be a very small woman in a very large, dark cabin surrounded by men she's not entirely certain can't afford to murder her, but she knows how to hold her ground when so inclined. Currently: so inclined.

"Well, what?" Use your words, Flint.

catches you!!

[katabasis]

Through the stern windows behind him, Kirkwall's bustling harbor is distorted only slightly through the weather warped glass. Even just the look of the ships at anchor and the ant sized motion of figures on the distance docks beyond them have an air of legitimacy; they all wear their nation's colors over merchant guild banners of family crests and even now a jolly boat from the port master makes it way under a full battalion of oars to some newly arrival trading vessel, hungry for the fee charged by legitimacy. Inside this cabin though-- here the very room might still smell like Nascere, like the lingering stench of qunari blackpowder, like just a finger width memory of the violence from which they now might otherwise seem so very far removed indeed.

There's no knife on the table at least. His skepticism isn't so naked as that.

"It was decided,"--formally or otherwise--"to largely leave you to your own devices when it came to negotiating on our behalf." On insinuating herself alongside the people the rest of them couldn't hope to. "With the Inquisition looking to Minrathous, it seems it would benefit us all now to be on the same page."

flint - i

[staysail]

[Being a man of poor education--largely self-taught, none of it out of books--Darras has no business in a library.

He does have business, often, in the taverns and on the docks of Kirkwall. Just because he's agreed to wear the look of an honest man of the Inquisition doesn't mean he'll stop darkening those thresholds. Honesty, on Darras, is a loose-fit disguise. He might present a trusthworthy profile, but there's an edge that catches if you've the eye for it.

Being with the Inquisition is equally a loose fit. Outright cloying, a cheap perfume that gets up the nose, a disease to irritate the skin. The best balm is to be among a folk that he knows better, a scene where he's more comfortable, sewage and bilgewater and warts and cheap ale and all. And even if Kirkwall isn't one of his usual stops, there's still those down there that know him, or know who he knows. Got to be careful, when he's here to play a part, to keep secret a lie that isn't his own. There's things that are worth more than his life, and perhaps he's as selfish as Yseult has accused him of being, if he's down here even gambling with it.

But come off it, he tells himself, in moments of doubt. There's a ship in the harbor which flies no nation's flag. It's not even a whisper: it's a truth. And the men and women that crew her, they're often discussed in places Darras haunts, whenever he's able. Gambling behind closed doors, sharing a drink in a corner tavern. The Walrus. The Qunari. Seas far away from here, dark tales, dramatic escape, bloodshed, battle and war and yeah, all right, half of it might be shit. Darras still wants to know it for himself.

Which is how Captain Darras Rivain--looking not very much like a captain, certainly not much of a pirate--looking like a simple sailor, albeit one with that edge, that catches--comes to be hanging about The Boar and The Bat, watching the comings and goings and what business he can spy from behind the folding screen and neat ledger.

This is worth a few days of his attention. Until in passing, one evening, he hails the man what's manning those ledgers and commanding his business. Flint. He's on a return trip to his private table there in the back, and Darras, half-finished with a mug of sour ale--]

D'you drink, or just come here to work?

[--well, he plain calls out his address. At least politeness won't be expected of him. He wants a measure of Flint. Not necessarily a lengthy conversation.]

[katabasis]

[A week ago the Boar had been one of easily a dozen public houses near the docks meant to serve the trade ships and their crews. But now it's home to a half dozen easily spread rumors - the cheapest kind of entertainment to be had by sailors who find themselves in a foreign port. The effect isn't enough to outright crowd the tavern, but it does warrant some winding between tables for Flint to make his way from the door. It makes him an easy target.

He turns when called and slows, finally pausing there in the Boar's common room. He makes a quick study of the stranger at the table, wrist hooked across the knife on his belt with such idleness that it's clearly a habitual rest place rather than any kind of threat. The murmur and bark of conversation in the room doesn't lower, but there's an unmistakable ripple along the surrounding benches. Glances are passed in this direction. Ears are pricked.]

Why, are you buying? [It's the drollest breed of sarcasm.]

[staysail]

[Darras tips his head, giving that an even and serious consideration.]

Depends on what you're drinking, [he says, eventually.] Man of expensive taste, he's difficult to keep friendship with.

[Not that anything served at the Boar is particular pricey, and all parties know that. Drink what's available, no special requests, with maybe a bottle or two of finer stuff kept somewhere.

Darras leans back in his chair for a better vantage, curiosity kept purposefully idle. He's as aware as anyone of the scrutiny of the room, the way the pressure changes depending on how many eaves are being dropped, and the like. An open approach, it's part demonstration and part performance. If secrecy is wanted, make the arrangements.]

It's a strange place to be working, if that is what you're doing. Obsessive, chasing coin like that. Now, if your fortune has soured and you find you're particularly ill-equipped to be paying for a drink, I might see clear to offering one. Out of charity.