[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
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Comments

[katabasis]

"Not presently. But I would like to know both better. I'd hear whatever you know of unmarked harbors and discrete anchorages, especially ones known to the crews out of Rivain and places like it." He's measuring the distance before them less than he is her, head cocked faintly to keep her from slipping too uncomfortably far into his peripherals. He'd prefer to know where her hands are should something go sideways - have the option of taking hold of her and brandishing that grip either as a shield or a weapon.

"And of the ships and men themselves. Most don't cruise so far North and I'm unfamiliar."

That's as good a start as any - useful intelligence, sure, but equally it's a test of her reliability. They've just sailed this coastline; there's no telling which inlets they'd made use of or whose path they may have crossed on their way to Kirkwall from the North. Best to check her figures against math he already knows some of the answers to before wading into the rest.

[hassaran]

Her response is a soft laugh, this allowance of amusement in keeping with the air of reserved self-possession that's emerging. It's there in how she moves, her tone, how infrequently she looks his way. There's a stillness in her posture even now, and her hands remain at her sides.

"Thousands of miles of coastline and two entire seas' worth of crews?" she replies, perhaps exaggerating the burden, but not by much, "I could not easily tell you all I know even were I so inclined." As for why she is not, she gives it only a beat before asking, "What does a man in league with the Inquisition want with such information? They've been no friend to similar trades."

[katabasis]

All her easy skepticism when he's recently found himself at the mercy of men and women eager to say anything to make some quick coin should be refreshing. Stumbling across someone with a sensible head screwed on their shoulders and real thought happening between her ears should be a relief. It's mostly just annoying though. Clever people have a better idea of what they're worth.

If it isn't one thing, it's a half dozen others.

"Like it or not, the Inquisition will eventually need ships at its disposal. Until it can build or purchase them, concessions will have to be made. Given the upset in Llomerryn, there may be some opportunity to pursue new friendships on less questionable grounds while the dust is still up." Done carefully and at some remove from Kirkwall it might be possible to bargain some alliance with those crews and ships most endangered by-- whatever the fuck was happening in Rivain-- without declaring it to the rest of the Inquisition's would be friends in higher places.

In theory anyway. All else fails, there's no harm in a contingency plan just as there's no harm in purchasing intelligence for the Inquisition's use if there's some possibility of finding a good pair of eyes to use to his own favor down the line.

[hassaran]

"So you're seeking information about potential allies, then, and places to meet them." Given the upset in Llomerryn, he said, and one of Yseult's brows had ticked upwards. He doesn't give the impression of a man who makes many idle remarks, and so she wonders now what may be taken from that one. A suggestion of greater knowledge than he's claimed, maybe, or a timely excuse turned to his benefit, a way to pull the Inquisition around him to cloak his own purposes in theirs.

"How convenient for the Inquisition," she replies, light, tone mild like a blade eased gently from its sheath, "They need a navy, and suddenly Llomerryn is ablaze and here you are, ready to make the most of it for them." She stops where the rail along the boardwalk ends before the next quay, a step toward it and a turn to face him, elbow leaned atop a post. "I've heard tell of men turning pirate almost overnight, but I don't recall ever hearing of the reverse. But perhaps you've found things too hot for you, compared to business in the Nocen." She's watching him now and making no secret of it, eyes narrowed against the setting sun over his shoulder. Testing a man's pride is always a good means of taking his measure. "Is an Inquisition salary the only way to fill your hold?"

[katabasis]

It's giving them both too much and not enough credit in turns. There had been talk when they first quit Nascere about finding their way to friendlier ports like Llomerryn and its half dozen little sisters. But the point made then is just as true today, if not moreso: the pirate confederate of the Waking Seas is hip deep in their own matters. Further, despite the legality of their operations the Raiders have come to know the comfort of their reputation and have been made ravenous for reward because of it. In comparison, the Inquisition might be described as desperate. One makes a better ally than the other, but only when offered some measure of reassurance.

Granted, had he known the Waking Sea pirates were on some kind of knife edge he might have tried more direct exploitation. For fuck's sake, they'd sailed by only days before the place was allegedly turned on its side. If there's a lost opportunity to be discussed, it's that one rather than the sorry state of the Walrus's hold. That they're entirely related issues makes both too relevant to dare skirting in conversation.

So he meets her study easily. The sun at his back means he doesn't have to squint to do it.

"If you're worried about whether you'll be paid for your work, don't be." If she's really that nosy, maybe her curiosity can be tempted in a more productive direction. "We've means to see that the Inquisition's interests are worth your time."

If there's a technically true thing for anyone to hear then let it be something the Inquisition and his crew already think they know.

[hassaran]

"I don't just work for money," she replies, as steady as he is, except for the squinting. She's already doing it less, eyes adjusting. "If I did I wouldn't have taken this meeting."

Maybe he can pay--what she knows of his resources is spotty, half guess-work and intuition--but there's no way he can afford what others might. Every one of those glittering mansions up the hill has enemies, and that's just here in Kirkwall. She's been offered enough bribes and buy-outs over the years to have a good sense of what her services are worth on the open market.

"Tell me about the interests."