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

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

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] ))

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"Lucky for us that there's so much work to be had right next door. How would the Inquisition keep anyone on otherwise."

It's not really a question, is it? He finishes rolling his sleeve, attention passing from her to the table with all its scattered detritus, and then glancing behind him into the main room of the public house. There's meant to be a Walrus man at the door, and there nominally is - only he's wandered by a wide enough margin that it's clear how the girl might have slipped by. Dumb fuck, Flint thinks. It might be for himself as much as the lackluster watch. Speaking of moral and pay and what how it buys dedication, what kind of moron leaves a broke man on the account alone to watch a door in a bustling dockside tavern.

This kind, apparently. He makes a mental note: whatever good will, whatever inspiration had kept them crewed between here and Nascere is fading.

Turning back to her, Flint draws the door shut behind him. The noise of the public room drops to a murmur as he crosses the room. There's a sword which must be his hanging from its hook on the chair back behind the table, but in a closed back room he has the look of a man who might not need it. Not really. His bare forearms are all sun dark and freckled, wired with muscle, and the hand he offers her is hard with callouses.

"I'm not sure I caught your name the last time we met."

When he reaches out, she nearly attacks - or nearly bolts. But he's just going for a handshake (theoretically; Stan had this trick where he'd grin and offer out a hand and then twist their arm up behind their back and step behind them and go for his knife. But that trick, he used on people bigger and stronger than him. He was a sneak only some of the time, when he needed to be). Still, she tells herself, she should have run when he was closing the door...but how would she have done? Room's too small, he's in the way and seems to fill twice the normal space.

The thought of lying about her name is considered and quickly dismissed. "Kitty," she answers. She doesn't take his hand, not with the risk that poses. Not with the way that'd cut off her access to the pen that's her only defense. Instead, she drops into a curtsy, the sort they'd been taught in school that they were to greet their betters with. She's a little rusty, but muscles don't ever fully forget their training.

"It's so, so lovely to run into you again," she says, smiling at him as sweetly and as vapidly as she can as she rises. "You were ever so kind before. Your name is...Flint, right?" God, she hopes she has it right. "That was the name I was giving yesterday when I was asking people about that poetry book you were looking for."

She hadn't been looking for it. Not yesterday. But it might make him think twice about acting against her if he knew his name had been in her mouth the day before. Maybe. Hopefully. If he even cares about reputation. God, she hopes he cares about reputation. Vaguely, she remembers Alexandrie's talk about wishes - mirages, leading you to drink sand. She feels suddenly like she's sucking at grit.

Reputation. That's a funny thing too. Say a name too loudly and it might carry into corners of the world he'd prefer it not to go. Not yet anyway. Give him some shred of a foothold here and then tell anyone from here to the Anderfels that the Inquisition is working in hand with the pirates of Nascere and Captain Flint. But until then, they're alive in a dangerous middle ground where they're almost certainly less worthwhile an ally than they are as a token to be exchanged for favors from the kind of monsters masquerading as people who would rather see them hanging from rope. The kind who might make promises to the Inquisition in exchange for it.

On the other hand, being nameless and toothless does them no good here, now, today. It warrants no promises, it demands no allowances. It gets them nothing and nowhere and, above all, no one. And there are rules to this even on the edge of the world, but especially in places like Kirkwall where every man under the Inquisition's banner plays at being equal with one hand and holds the places they came from or what they refuse to go back to behind their back in the other.

"That's right." The offered hand falls easily away. Flint turns his attention to the table for a moment, noting the lay of the papers and open ledgers with a critical eye before his study returns to her. "No luck, I take it?"

Finding the book of poetry, obviously.

She'd had the good sense, at least, to put everything back in its place. The ledger is open to the page he'd left it on; the pamphlet has been returned to the space where it had been laying, Gwenaelle's lovely face still staring up at that flattering angle. The only things that are different are the dishes she'd collected and that missing pen. Otherwise, Kitty had covered her tracks.

And she's glad, too, when he looks away from her to examine the table. In the amount of time he takes to study the table, she's almost certain she could have sprung forth and had the pen buried in his jugular if she'd chosen to. The fact that he looks away - it's possible that he's deadly enough that he could react in time to fend off her attack. But more likely, he's underestimating her just a little bit. He's seeing her as a little bit less dangerous than she is. That means that she has a small advantage, and it means that he's not infallible. That knowledge soothes her rattled nerves just a bit and makes her feel a touch steadier.

"'Fraid not," she answers with a theatrical sigh of regret. Then, because she's feeling a little bit braver, a little nosier, she says, "Not that it seems like you'd have time to read it, with everything you've got going on here. You're certainly busy, aren't you?"

"I was under the impression we were meant to be. There's apparently a war happening."

Whatever Flint sees on the table or in her face must somehow satisfy him for he draws away, moving around the table in the narrow room to take his seat again. If there's any tension left in the room, it must begin to come the rest of the way unwound as the close quarters open, as the distance widens. The sword remains hooked to the chair back. The way to the door is left open to her.

"And Cintero? No prize there either, I assume." He's sorting through the pages laid before him now. The worn slip of paper is refolded and pocketed, the chart book swept shut with a heavy thud. The rest he leaves as is in favor of the cup she'd set down before his arrival.

And, indeed, the last of her panic disappears when he sits. She's not about to forget that look on his face - if she even was right about it. She's starting to wonder if perhaps she hadn't misunderstood. After all, anger quite resembles indigestion, sometimes, and the food in this place is shite...But - no. She can't just assume he's got a gentle heart just because the man recommended her a book or two. A positive disposition towards education doesn't guarantee sweetness.

But even with those admonitions to herself, her hand relaxes (no longer ready to pull out that pen), and her heartrate slows, and her stomach stops churning. The hyperclarity that comes with fear ebbs away.

"No," she says with a bit of a sigh. "Which is too bad - he was the one I'm most interested in. He's from Tevinter, right?" She cocks her head at Flint; she doesn't quite have the ear for accents here that she did back home, but she's fairly sure that he and Cintero have that in common. "I do want to learn more about their...philosophy, everything."

He makes a low noise across the lip of the cup and takes a drink before answering properly. The food isn't the only thing here that's shit, but the master of the house isn't as willing to risk better spirits on credit like he is the letting of one of his back rooms. One of them is harder to get back than the other. Which is fine; he'll survive it and any drink at all would serve for that moment he needs to--

What? Collect himself? No, his suspicion has already wound itself into a knot so tight that he'd need more than the time it takes to move around a table and drink from a cup to free it. And that would require wanting to - for him to somehow distrust himself - and frankly, fuck that. Anyway it works out in her favor either way. If he were a jumpier, stupider kind, it wouldn't have taken much effort to deal with her in the messiest wat. She's a Rifter, a stranger in a dangerous city. Who would miss her?

But that would be ridiculous. Kitty might very well be as reliable as a sheet with a hole in it, but he at least trusts his own judgement. That extends to include everything on the table (that none of it's really all that dangerous, especially at the fingertips of a girl) and what he estimates is a fair chance that he can simply make her forget most of what she might have seen anyway.

Flint sets the glass aside, absently smoothing his beard after. "He is. A Laetan. And If I'm remembering correctly, he once worked in some capacity as an assistant to those seats in the Magisterium. As for Tevinter everything--" He fixes her with a look. "Are you a mage?"

"No," she answers, her voice sharpening just a touch. She gets control or herself a moment later. She quite doubts that he's got any love for mages, being a Tevinter exile and all, but it doesn't exactly seem like a grand idea to let him know exactly who and what she hates.

"It's just like you said. You can get your hands on lots of information from Ferelden, Orlais, the countries down here. But not Tevinter. Their history and their perspectives, they're kept secret - actively, I think, so that mages down here don't get any ideas. But if we're fighting against them, we've got to learn about them and understand them."

And you're a potential source of information, aren't you? She wishes she knew more. There must have been something on that table that gave some idea of who he is, of what he believes. Of how trustworthy he is, him and the others. But her background knowledge is still so weak; she doesn't even know how much she doesn't know. To be able to properly interpret, she'd have to know this world better.

Well. There's one way to potentially go about it. Abruptly, she asks -

"Why'd you leave Tevinter?"

Wherever she comes from can't be so oit of step with this place. Not with the kind of sharpness that takes hold of her for a moment there. If what's said about Rifters is true - that they aren't from the Fade, but from somewhere else having somehow passed through it to here -, then is the similarity between the clip in her voice and the one in a girl like Eleanor's morbid? Is there any place where people don't ruin each other, someone might have reason to wonder. If this is all the same in every direction, what reason can there to be to think it can be made different?

(But maybe that certainty is it's own guarantee. If every place in this world and the ones mirroring are the kind that grinds its people into either sharp edges or to nothing, maybe that's all the more reason that something different is inevitable. In one of those places, something will change. There's no reason it can't start in this one.)

'Why'd you leave Tevinter,' she asks and the lines of Flint's face darken and quiet. He'd just been beginning to put on the reproduction of that easiness he'd worn when they'd first met in the library. But now it hangs on him wrong as an ill-fitting coat, a shifting not stillness in the line of his mouth and the muscle rippling under his cheek.

"People in the South will tell you there's nothing for you in the Imperium unless you're a mage. But that isn't true." He finds he isn't angry she's asked. Just certain. "But I could say the same thing about Orlais, only about titles and land; or about Antiva's Crows and merchant caste. The thing none of them want you to know is that they all have the same use for you. Tevinter just wants to say what's possible for its people the same as the Qun does. All you have to do to belong in the place it picked is to believe the story it tells you."

Flint takes another drink from the glass. He shrugs and it's a measured gesture. "It turns out I'm not very agreeable."

There are moments when you feel like you've been struck. Not in the sense of being slapped - though there are certainly plenty of times when she feels like she's been slapped, when someone's words leave her disoriented and hurt and confused. This isn't like that. This is the strike of a clapper within a bell. Those words - all you have to do to belong is to believe the story - they tremble through her like a true tone, every part of it feeling right.

Because that's true. At home, the story that they'd told was that of magician superiority. It was why they littered the streets with propaganda. It was why they had their teachers feed their students lies. It was why people like Mandrake got on so well there, all sure of his power and his privilege - but it was also why her parents got on. She remembers her father fiddling with his tie, bobbing nervously when a magician came into the store. She remembers her mother clutching Mandrake about the knees, sobbing like a child beseeching a parent. She remembers - My daughter's been replaced by this surly vixen, who's got no respect for her betters or her country... She remembers bringing them flowers, and coming for dinner, and kissing them on the cheek, and loving them, and the feeling as they turned away from her. Because the story, the story they needed to believe, was so much more important than she ever was. And so they let the story be everything. Because that was what they needed to belong.

She remembers raising her hand in class. She remembers the mixture of exasperation and wariness and maybe even fear with which her teachers looked at her. They'd fed her such magnificent lies...She's always wondered if they knew the emptiness of their stories, or if they could see through it like she could. Maybe they saw through it, but they made themselves believe. How cowardly that was of them. But at the same time - perhaps they thought it was what was needed. Perhaps they thought that by telling those lies, they were keeping the kids safe. Make them believe. Make them belong.

More than anything, though, what feels true about what he says is that this is universal. Because he's right, isn't he? Her fight isn't against magicians. It's not against mages. It's not against Tevinter or even against Corypheus. Like Bartimaeus said, it's all cycles, history repeating itself, because the villain isn't tyrannical magicians or tyrannical commoners or any people at all. The villain, the enemy, is inequality; it's the petty pleasures people feel exercising power over one another. It's cruelty and fear and ignorance. It's the need to tell stories, and the desire to drive out those with a different point of view. That's what needs to be defeated.

Her cheeks go a bit pink as she's taken by emotion, by hope and despair and simple satisfaction over hearing that put into words, put eloquently into words. Her hands ball into fists. She forgets her fear of him altogether. And she says to him, voice fierce with passion, "But it doesn't have to be that way. Driving out those who don't agree. It can be better."

"It's not a question of 'can'. It must be better." For a hundreds of reasons, for a thousand. But today especially because-- "The alternative is a world ripped to pieces by a blighted madman."

There's no cause quite like a divine one. Even before the sky had torn itself in two and the world had gone to tatters, he might have called the thing he'd wanted that. Not holy, but just. Not blessed, but right - in the way that nature understood it, not in the way men do. The order of the world can't depend on the misery of people living in it; believing anything else is cruel. Now though? With all of Thedas at the brink of cannibalization? There simply is no other rational argument than this one. He believes that as much as he does in the Fade - a thing as invisible to him, but undeniable.

But today, he says it because if Kitty's seen anything of importance and has someone she plans to tell about it, she should see it in the right light. Maker fucking forbid anyone get the wrong idea before it's convenient. That she might be clever enough to understand is frankly secondary. He describes it as plainly as he might the sky:

"The Magisterium and Halamshiral, the Pentaghasts and Van Markhams and everyone like them - they may think they have a place in what comes after that, but they've only ever known the version of the world as they've defined it. The way we survive is by knowing something different and showing it to the rest of them."

"How do we know what's different, though?" It's a question that's been weighing on her ever since her conversation with Bartimaeus, where he talked of the way history repeats itself. It's a question that's lain even heavier on her since coming to Thedas. Because here's another world, a separate world, with none of the history of hers but all the same patterns. All the same cruelties. What does it mean for humanity, that it's like it here?

But what does it mean for humanity that there are people willing to fight, here, too? The Resistance had always seemed so isolated and alone. Some days it seemed as though there were no more than eleven rebels in all of London. But it's simply that rebels come in unlikely forms. For example, poetry-loving pirates with brutish appearances and Tevinter accents. (And she forgives him, now, for that murderous look - she and hers had murdered people who'd gotten too close.)

"A real break - a truly different way - that's hard. Sometimes you think you've found something different, but it's just more of the same - the same violence and cruelty. So, then." She pushes a lock of hair from her eyes. "What's your version of different?"

It's the kind of question that seems impossible to answer from the back room of the Boar & Bat or from the deck of a ship or even from the war tattered ground of an island so many weeks north from the point they both share now. What comes after this fight and the ones that must ienvitably follow has been an unspoken question for ten years. He should have a ready answer by now.

Instead he takes a moment longer to study her from behind the scratched table. There's no reason for him to tell her the truth. That he doesn't know the full shape of what different looks like, only he's sure that it's both possible to make it and that men like him should have no part in its design. So what he settles on is:

"A world where your capacity for happiness and the freedom to achieve it isn't dependent on what form or name or ability you were born with. Where that's right, not just a matter of convenience." He pauses. Taps his thumb on the closed ledger. "And yours?"

"God, I wish I knew." She answers with something that's rather akin to a laugh - not of amusement, but of smothered frustration given vent. A hand run through her hair musses it, but she makes no effort to push it back into place, her passion distracting her from her (considerable) vanity. And from her work; she props her shoulder against the wall of this little back room, setting herself into a position of semi-comfort as she speaks.

"I've been thinking about it without end since...Well, no. That's a lie." She purses her lips. "I was going to say since I was thirteen, but there was a time there when I thought I knew the way to go about things. I thought I had the answer. Me and my friends, we all thought we knew. But the story was that to overthrow the wicked, we needed to arm ourselves. And to arm ourselves, we needed things. And before long, getting things became the whole point. Greed overtook all of us.

"So every time I think I've got an answer - and sometimes I think I've got an answer, sometimes I convince myself of it - I wonder whether it's ever any good. If I think, well, sometimes you've got to do violence, is that true, or is it just because some part of me has been taught to love violence? When I think, take away power from those in charge, is it just 'cause I want it for myself? What's gonna stop me from turning just as bad as them?"

And then, in contrast to the over-verbose fretting she'd just engaged in, she offers a firm and concrete, "Democracy would be a good start, at least."

It pours free of her as water from a spout and he studies her as she goes. A comparison he thinks Kitty might mistake as uncharitable without the right context occurs to him - other young women he's known in similar postures and states, veering sharply in every conceivable direction after something she doesn't really know the shape of. It's an unpopular trajectory in most of the world, even Nascere. But in this back room with the door shut as in others like it, it's fine. Good, even. They're the kind of questions someone should think to ask.

He looks at her, leveling. The line of his mouth pulls at something like low, flat good humor behind his beard. "It's a start. That's good enough for today, isn't it?"

He's not sure it is. Someone should be thinking about their tomorrows, but it's not the kind of thing to say to a girl he seems to have just narrowly won back from-- whatever line they'd been near stepping over. It's not the thing to say to a girl at all. In fact the thought is almost entirely irrelevant to Kitty's existence beyond being spurred be it. It's sure as fuck not the thing to bring up if he's unprepared to direct it. So, sure. That works. The last thing he needs is to chip away at this nice shared footing they've found under themselves while she's in his de facto study in possession of--

Oh, that's what it is.

Flint's hand strays to a sheaf of papers on the desk. He lifts it, then sets it down again. Shifting a few more documents aside: "You didn't see a pen here, did you?"

Right. Funny thing that, isn't it? Not five minutes prior, she'd been thinking of ways to kill him. Now, she's spilled out enough of her history and her dreams to this man that he could probably have her hanged, if he had the ear of the right people. Five weeks away from her revolutionary comrades, and she's already so anxious for someone to talk to that she'll pour out all these dangerous thoughts to some random stranger?

But - not random. Either he's a kindred spirit or he's an agent provacateur far more skilled than any that Mr Mandrake ever tried to sow in their ranks. She believes him, believes his intentions, utterly. Of course, she's been made a fool of before...Well, she'll find out the truth of him soon enough, she supposes. Either someone will come banging on her door in the middle of the night, or they won't.

"A pen?" she asks. It's a convincing simulacrum of puzzlement. She shakes her head, and steps over to the desk to help him search - and, deftly, slips it under a sheaf of papers, so that the next stack he shifts he'll find it. "Oh - is that the one?" Then, with a winning smile - "No thieves in this fine establishment. Well, no, that's a lie, I know there must be dozens, but at least none with a hunger for writing utensils. Anything else I can get you, sir?"

So it is.

Plucking the pen from its hiding place, he draws a sheaf of papers to him and moves to dip the pen in the waiting inkwell. The soft scrape of the sharp edge is soothingly mundane in the same way the piles of paper and stacked ledgers are little more than dry correspondence and record keeping. Better to say nothing further about them or her surprise presence in the room; best to let her go away thinking of something else entirely. He thinks he's accomplished that much already. But maybe--

"Nothing. Only before you go, if you could satisfy my curiosity." Flint glances up at her as he taps excess ink from the pen. "The place you came from - how much do you want to go back to it?"

It's an unexpected question. Such a departure from what they'd been talking about before, and more than that - the question is one that she's not been asked yet. As a distraction tactic, it's quite good: emotionally charged, complex, difficult to answer. It takes her a moment to gather her thoughts, and to gather her thoughts with full concentration: a few tidbits of information she'd endeavored to commit to memory flee in the face of her thought processes.

"Oh." She utters that rather softly, then takes a breath. Her voice isn't entirely firm when she speaks, but she doesn't hesitate in her speech. "I don't want to go back. I've definitely things I want to accomplish there, but they've told me that there's another version of me back home, and that version of me, I've got to trust, is accomplishing those things. She's fighting for a better London. Me as I am here - I'm going to fight for a better Thedas. With my heart and soul."

And then, because she can't help but be curious, because the only Tevenes she's met are snotty about the grandeur and superiority of their gorgeous empire - "The place you came from, how much do you want to go back to it?"

It's a nice idea, isn't it? Being two places at once, being two things independent of one another. He can see the appeal; he can see how it would make it easy to be in a strange place, being asked to do strange things for the good of strange people. But is it true?, he wonders, knowing that finding any real answer is likely impossible. Maybe what she's been told regarding the circumstances surrounding her arrival and what parts she'd left behind is just a story too. At least this one is useful to everyone involved.

He scrawls the date in the upper corner of the paper, then moves to begin drafting the rest. In comparison, her question is so much easier to answer than his. Flint gives it no thought at all.

"You couldn't make me go."

Edited 2018-08-15 06:41 (UTC)

That's a bit interesting, that he doesn't even pause. And interesting that he immediately understands that she was asking about Tevinter. So in his heart, then, he isn't from Nascere. In his heart, he's still from Tevinter, but as an outlaw and an exile. What a strange thing, and what a sad thing, then. To fight for the liberation of a place when you don't feel like you're entirely of the place. She'd decided not to flee London for the Continent for practical reasons - the fight was better carried out from within England than from outside of it - but also in some ways because London was her home. Because she could fight better from her home. What sustains him, then, in his fight?

Perhaps it's his comrades. She hopes so. Perhaps it's the other pirates - Vane, and Max, and his crew - who keep him going and give him strength. Perhaps he loves them and fights for them. Or perhaps it's a grander sense of justice; perhaps it's his ideals that sustain him and keep him moving forward. A sense of what's right and wrong in the world. Or perhaps it is his island, his Nascere; maybe he loves it so much, even if it isn't the first thing he thinks of when he thinks of home. Maybe, even if he doesn't think of himself as being of that place, maybe it still brings him comfort and safety and warmth.

She watches him write, compassion - almost pity - in the quirk of her eyebrows and the set of her mouth. In that moment, looking at him, he certainly doesn't look the terrifying figure menacing her in the doorway; nor does he even seem the interesting, challenging man who'd spoken of politics just a few moments before. Instead, he just looks like someone who's worn. He looks exhausted. He looks like a man who's been on the road, who's been wandering, for far too long.

But - she needs to work. Right. She takes a breath and gathers up her tray and starts to retreat. But as she does, she says - "I hope you can find a place that is truly yours. I hope you find it someday soon." And, as she retreats, "Call me if you need anything."

He pauses, the scratch of the pen hesitating. It strikes him as wrong-- or maybe too right and sharp for it, and for a split second as he looks after her that unevenness must pass across his face. If he'd meant to steer her down some different road, he's clearly managed it. But she's walked him there with her and for a moment he doesn't recognize it. He's been watching the direction of their feet so intently that where they've ended is briefly disorienting.

"Mind yourself," he calls after her, though the shape of it is completely different from what it would have been minutes ago. The Boar & The Bat's patrons can be rough and she's just barely more than a girl.

When she's gone, Flint's attention returns to the page to discover his hand has lingered too long. A drip from the pen leeches to fill the loop of an l, open space eaten away into a dark black spot on the page. He makes soft sound, strikes the mangled word from the page, and resumes his work.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

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