[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

[swordproof]

Six offers herself because she has no reason to do otherwise, no reason to think that she ought not to give the same kindness in return. To her, it's simple; she has an arm and the ability to train, to fight, to prove herself and be strong. She is an able partner, she knows that, and decent enough to spar with if given the chance, and she wants to show that she can be worth something. Adalia's words hover in her mind - for her to prove her use to the Inquisition, for her to show that she is good, that she is important.

"I will do what I can, but I make no vows." Her lips twitch into a smile. "It might do them some good, to face someone other than a dummy." As though she can talk, having done the same for months on end, to the point where, years ago in her mind, she had cried upon them.

"Shall I stay with this blade or use my own?"

[esquive]

"Whatever you like best is just fine," he says, turning from the other fighters in the yard. The rapier is drawn with a thoughtless flourish.

Saying so may mean facing off with that horrible great sword, but there can be a kind of pleasure in that. In being certain a person can be trusted to make their own decisions. In having no responsibility to it other than to accept it. Setting all other things aside - which is easy to do it when thought of like a single package instead of a stack to be sorted -, the lack of responsibility is liberating, isn't it? Never mind that it's only for an hour in the morning, three days a week from here going forward. Never mind that she might insist otherwise. He can be firm on this. Let her do what she likes and they can both be satisfied by it.

He draws the dagger and beckons her on with a tilt of his head. "When you're ready."

[swordproof]

Six knows very well what she likes best; there's no hesitation as she moves to the side and hefts her greatsword into her hands, already welcoming the familiar weight of it.

She might have been trained in most weapons, ranging from swords to bows and staffs - but her greatsword had been her companion for years now. Adrian had taught her to use it well, had given her an advanced level of training the guards and mercenaries of her youth would never have been able to match, and she'll never stop being thankful for those lessons. She's stronger for it, certainly, but she's also more capable, more dangerous, and that is something necessary when there is danger at every corner.

Moving forward, she grips the end of her blade with a nod of her head, drawing it up high. It's time for her to play the defensive, she thinks, and she watches Marcoulf with a twitch of her lips.

"Same rules."