faderift | [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
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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You'd commit us to wait and do nothing." It bears only passing resemblance to a question.

If the Inquisition makes their way to Minrathous, there are necessary demands which follow. Can they really risk it even if there's only a one in four chance - one in ten even - that the meeting in Tevinter might succeed. They can no more afford that here than they could anywhere else. The world is leaned so impossible away from them; they can't afford to wait for it to swing in the other direction so it can fall into their lap. There must be a contingency plan.

"We should use this time to our advantage," he says, plucking at the ink saturated cloth. Doubling it over to its nominally clean side, Flint gingerly scrubs at the black spot as it soaks deeper and darker into the wood. The stain will need to be flushed with boiling water and salt to minimize the set of the color. "Command of the Gallows will be divided by this. There may be an opportunity for us there."

What it might look like, he couldn't guess. But that's why he says it aloud.

It isn't the kind of action Flint would like to take. John knows that. Ingratiating themselves with people in power and influencing public opinion is a more difficult sell to Flint than derailing any parlay with Tevinter before it started would have been. It's going to be damnably hard to convince the men of it, but not as difficult as it will be to curb the edge of Flint's anger.

"I'd commit us to making sure as many people as possible believe that delegation left on a fool's errand, yes."

Some of this can't be helped. They had come too late to identify the right players, and start their work. Max will come back knowing a bit more than they started, and maybe with the right kind of secrets to further their cause. But all of that requires waiting and hoping, neither of which make up a solid course of action.

"And you're right. Once we get in with the locals, we'll have a better idea of whose ear we need and how to make our case. This isn't ideal, but it's workable."

Says John before the situation blows up in his face within the next couple of days.

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

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