[CLOSED] wheres the light that was promised me

[katabasis]

WHO: Herian Amsel, John Silver, James Flint
WHAT: Extending an olive branch.
WHEN: Now-ish; after the return from Tevinter.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Politicking, proably

At the end of everything, the Archon does indeed pass quietly from custody aboard into what seems like just as silent captivity within the Gallows. Where he goes exactly and how he's being kept, Flint can't say. That should suit him. By every reasonable measure, the secrecy of it ought to satisfy the low, unpleasant suspicion in Flint that says somehow, some way, Radonis will find some way to leverage the situation to his benefit for as long as he's left alive. But of course it doesn't. That's not how any of this works.

Which is why only a few days after they make their landfall, he informs John he's going to see Herian Amsel. "Come if you like," he'd said while securing his sword onto his belt. He'd purposefully tightened the strap and checks the buckle.

During the journey back across the Amaranthine, along the coast and hacking up into the Waking Sea, Flint had occupied himself with the task of beating against the weather back to Kirkwall. The division of their company across two ships had been reason enough to avoid protracted conversation, the guarantee that the Archon wouldn't be paraded through the streets of Kirkwall upon their return enough to keep him checked. Which: fine. He'd pushed as far on that tack as was safe, but now that they're all so settled and comfortable again, it's time to come at the problem from a different angle.

He doesn't send a message ahead to Amsel's office to let her know they're coming, but he is patient enough about being shown in. Once inside, the the first thing Flint does is express some mild sound of remorse over the thoughtlessness of the sword at his side. He removes it from his belt and hooks it magnanimously on the back of one of the available chairs before taking a seat.

Otherwise, the first thing out of Flint's mouth to her is: "I wanted to make my apology. The discussion"—a gentle word for it—"we had was more heated than the situation required."

Comments

[dashing]

When they enter the room, Herian is not seated at her desk, which is further back in the room. Instead she sits at a round wooden table, a small vase of wildflowers set not quite perfectly on centre, and stands as they enter. Nods respectfully to them both, and notes (appreciates) Flint's gesture with the sword.

"Please. We all of us were under no small amount of strain. Tempers flare in such circumstances, even at the best of times." Her voice is— calm, steady. Heavily laden with Starkhaven. She herself seems to stand in different shades of winter, in strange contrast to the warm, welcoming tones of the room that she inhabits, and the way she holds herself is as precise as cut glass. A scar pulls a little at the corner of her mouth when she speaks, and her gaze is sharp and watchful. Knight-Enchanter Amsel, known Loyalist, is perhaps not an obvious diplomat.

And then there is the sleepy head of a corgi that pops up from a basket in the corner at the sound of people arriving.

"I am glad for your attendance hence, Captain Flint, and to meet you in person. Please, take a seat."

[hornswoggle]

This meeting is inevitable. It's what John had immediately identified as necessary on the ship in the midst of all the arguments regarding the Archon, and he finds himself glad that Flint initiates it on his own. There's some small, petty part of John that is still harboring some irritation about being ignored. But he's determined to keep that to himself. It serves no purpose, and John doesn't need reminding of the stakes. There's every reason to make amends, and set the stage for something more prosperous in the future.

He takes the offered seat beside Flint. He leans on his crutch, two hands folded over the worn wood. He suppresses the urge to comment on the dog.

"We're grateful you could see us on such short notice," John tells her as he takes in the way she carries herself and the scar on her face. "I'm sure there are plenty of other matters that require your attention at the moment."

One of which they are both obviously very interested in. John doesn't think it's any great mystery what they're here to discuss, apart from apologies. His gaze slants towards Flint, anticipating what comes next. To some extent, John is here to steady and smooth Flint's rougher edges rather than set the tone. Apparently, that's what a quartermaster does.

[katabasis]

Meeting around a table rather than at a desk, a dog, apologies and pleasantries to match - it's all very civilized, isn't it? But maybe that's just what's to be expected out of office suites in high towers on island outposts, far from the nastiest edges of the war and insulated (however briefly) by the false security of that safety. Not far from here, there's a man in a room called Radonis. Flint could hope for the room to be locked, for the man to be in chains, for a guard to be posted there and for no one to speak to him except whatever healer was keeping him alive for the purpose of prying information from him. He could hope for, even insist on, a half dozen things. He could ask every question, demand every answer.

But none of that will get him anywhere with Herian Amsel.

So as Flint settles into the chair, he lets himself relax into the lines of it. He hooks on elbow there at the chair arm, the line of his broad shoulders gone crooked. It's a far cry from the version of the man who was so quick to snarl at her across the sending crystals. This one is older, a little worn. He twists one of the silver rings absently about his finger, though the ease doesn't translate to his face. There his attention is fixed; he is sharp eyed and watching.

"I only thought I might explain myself. It's a sensitive subject, of course - the Archon's state of being. But I'm sure every expatriate from the Imperium would feel as strongly."

I'M A BUFFOON and missed the tag coming in, pls forgive

[dashing]

The crutch gives her a twinge of regret - not pity, but more the consideration of how having to ascend so many flights of stairs can aggravate new injuries, and be unpleasant with old ones. She does not comment on it, for risk of sounding condescending. Maker knows that she'd sooner push through things and be treated as any other, even if she doesn't have much of a comparison point so far as injuries went.

"I appreciate your interest, Quartermaster. I... am not so longstanding in my position nor so delusional that I imagine my own judgments inherently wiser than those of others around me. My imagining that each of us hence would have vastly different experiences on which we can judge things, and I think it best to take the time to learn and to listen, when the opportunity is afforded us."

On the seas, when doing the utmost to survive and escape was not necessarily the time for long dialogues, or for stirring doubt in decisions already made. Here there was room (at least for now) to breathe.

She nods to Flint, encouraging him to go on and ignoring the sleepy dog swaying as he totters out of his bed and towards Silver. First, though, a servant enters and sets down a fresh pot of tea, cups, and the necessary accompaniments, and she looks to both of the men with the silent question of whether they'd like any. It feels so silly, trivial almost, offering tea amidst serious discussions, but hospitality seems to have its place in diplomacy as well.

UNFORGIVABLE

[hornswoggle]

There's a luxury present in this room that Silver had once prized beyond all measure. It was not so long ago he had sat across from Flint and professed his hatred of the sea, piracy, and laboring towards a comfortable life. The little tastes of it serve now as a reminder of just how far his goals have shifted. All it took was the loss of his leg at the knee to rearrange his long term goals, apparently.

"Silver, actually," he amends, as he raises two fingers in answer to her unspoken question. An actual introduction seems almost...unnecessary at this point. Was the out and out argument over the Archon not an introduction of it's own? John offers his surname almost as an afterthought. If they're being polite, that's certainly part of the exchange.

"We have a...difficult history with the Archon, as I'm sure you can imagine," John says, which will surprise no one in this room. "His actions have caused a great deal of suffering."

John does not look at Flint, but the space in the wake of that statement is left for him.

me a week later: now who's the asshole

[katabasis]

He nods approvingly to the tea in question, lowering too his hand from the arm of the chair to snap softly so he might coax the sleepy dog's attention to him. Let this be an easy conversation, marked by wobbly legged puppies and swords conveniently forgotten until they can be divested with apparent and coincidental good will. He will take her courtesy, her honorable intentions, her professed lack of delusion, her tea and her willingness to listen. He's really only ever needed the last one. And with Silver having prepared the room--

"Of course, very little of that suffering has been at the hands of Radonis himself," Flint admits. "Tevinter was Tevinter before him and it will in all likelihood continue that way long after everyone in this room is dead. Excepting the end of the world, obviously."

It could be a joke if only what it implies isn't so distinctly unfunny.

"Radonis's actions, such are there are, are no more remarkable than his support of a corrupt magisterium obsessed with its own power - his approval of men and women who make their names with the pain of anyone who would choose something different. I've seen it. I've known it. People I've cared a great deal for have been ruined by it."

Said delicately enough, though there's no question he's tired by it even in circumstances he's purposefully engineered.

"Tevinter will do whatever it cares to with or without him for as long as it stands, no matter who is in that throne. But," he says, leaning forward to fetch his cup of tea from the tray. "I'm sure you can understand how it's easy to blame the convenient person at hand in the heat of the moment."

i'm going to say that i move at a stately pace and stand by that claim, by gum

[dashing]

"Silver," she corrects herself softly, as she pours the tea. Franklin's attention is drawn by the snap, and he perks up a little to start trotting over to Flint, yawning as he goes, and immediately smooshing his face against the offered hand. (A canine of great distinction, obviously.)

That much they had known. Tevinter and slavery went hand in hand, and in a state where slavery was legal, what other suffering could go on, forgiven? When blood magic was banned in law and ink but necessarily by moral codes, what horrors could unfold in the dark? "I do, and I think that your inclination is justified. I think we can... hope and work for Tevinter changing, but there are times I fear that meaningful changes that will bring an end to the suffering you speak of, rather than than simply unfolding from the orders of another, demand..." She exhales, and shakes her head. "Actions so severe that I wonder if their enactment would render those carrying them out just as bad as those they sought to better."

Trying to save the world is hard, gentlemen.

"I recall there being mention on the crystals of Nascere." A matter likely better left to people in particular projects to investigate further, rather throwing herself into ever communication when there was so much work to do. Sailors, Tevinter, Nascere - it all seemed reasonably connected. "Is that linked to Radonis, as well?"

a dignified pace, i'd say.

[hornswoggle]

"Only in as much as he and the rest of Tevinter desperately want it to be."

And it's a blessing that they can be the ones to say this first. Better that it be the pair of them stating very clearly that the island existed as it's own separate, sovereign entity rather than let the reverse be uttered.

"Tevinter has never had as firm a grip on the island as they'd wanted, and their current attempts have taken a high toll on the populace." John pauses. He looks away, gaze falling to the dog as it laps at Flint's hand. He thinks of Randall's cat, then Randall himself, and feels a brief pang of...something. Remorse? Among the many casualties John had always expected to weather, he hadn't thought Randall would stick in his head.

"And the suffering of their attempts has been very keenly felt by men like us, and our loved ones."

Which is again, making space for Flint to speak into. John certainly hadn't had any roots sunk into Nascere to mourn when Woodes Rogers arrived to set fire to it.