faderift | [open]

"When I was a boy," By says, as cheery and as wonderful as ever, "I used to play pirates. Well, in a manner of speaking. My cousins, you see, were much larger and heavier than I was, and so very often they would play pirates, whereas I was compelled to play naval officer. Dreadful business, though it has taught me to hold my breath for a very long time. In any case, though, in the end, they moved on from it - one has become an officer in the armed forces, praying for the day that our cousin Pierre kicks it so he might inherit the bannorn, another has taken interest in a shipping business. They moved on."

He stretches out a little further on the bench he's occupying. His speech has been calculatedly slow, ensuring that Flint is well enough naked that to leave would be truly embarrassing - an admission that Byerly is annoying him.

"So what would lead a man to stand, fully grown, fully formed, still waving a black flag and swearing rules don't apply to a blaggard like him?"

By the time he arrives at the point, Flint has shaken out his shirt and folded it with some attention, tucking it under the heavy belt removed a moment ago. The methodical requirements of undressing has been distracting enough that with his ear only half-halfheartedly turned toward the plodding story, he could almost miss the barb if it weren't so well directed from the start.

Without looking up, he chuckles. It's a low huffing sound.

"I suppose you'll have to find a pirate and ask him." Flint fixes the man with a glance then, brief and flat and little else. Technically, he is a member of the Inquisition. Technically the ship in the harbor is in service of the same and flies no flag at all, black or otherwise. Technically any rumor that's been overhead or said or traded along the Kirkwall docks or otherwise is nothing more than gossip.

He finishes undressing, folding his trousers and small clothes with similar care, then pushes up from the bench and steps down into the bath.

Byerly's smile widens just a touch, in appreciation of the man's sharp-witted response. How confident and level and easy he is in that wit. Is he slow to anger? That would be a pity; By loves a man with a temper, a man he can move this way and that as easily as a broken horse...Though, if he's being honest with himself, perhaps he actually loves a slow-tempered man even more. He adores a challenge. The best sort of steed is the one you break yourself.

Or, well, that's what he's heard, at least. He's certainly never done anything like horse-training. Maker, could you imagine? So sweaty.

"You don't know any?" By shifts easily to this new conversational ground. He knows the insult has been comprehended; he doesn't need to belabor the point. "You come from Nascere, after all. They say the men there are wicked and the women worse." He sighs, pressing his hand to his heart and rolling his eyes towards the ceiling in an exaggerated simulacrum of mourning. "Would that I could have seen the place before its demise."

"It sounds like you know more about it than I do. Last I heard, there was still fighting to be had on the island."

You know what Nascere has precious little of, though? Pipes with eated water being run through them. The company can't be helped, but the pools are better than a basin of salt water with its residual itching brine or a lukewarm standing bath where half his everything sits above the waterline. Here he can and does sink low enough on the submerged ledge to cover pockmarked scars, an aching knee, some pinched muscle or another.

"If you're looking for directions, any Tevene chartbook can tell you the right latitudes." The beard gets a thorough scrub. "If it were me, I'd stick with something dated no later than 8:60. The depths were largely revised when the Qunari landed Seheron."

"I might do that," he responds, arching an eyebrow. He moves his hands through the water, making little eddies. "I'm a grand sailor myself, you know. Phenomenally talented. Perhaps I'll commandeer someone's pleasure yacht. Take it to Nascere. I think I'd make a fine pirate king."

He sprawls out further, then, stretching out far enough that he can set his ankle on the ledge of the bath.

"Don't you think? I'm terribly dashing."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," he says through his fingers without much of a second glance in the man's direction. "Though if you're any sailor, the Inquisition must hate to lose you. I understand there's a ship to be crewed."

You can put that leg down, Byerly. You'll pull something if you're not careful.

"Mmmmaybe," he sighs, and sinks down a little further, stretching his leg out even a bit more. Extreme flexibility is one of his many, many incredible skills.

"I don't do terribly well with being ordered about, though. When I say I'm a sailor, what I mean is I'm unparalleled in my ability to handle a catamaran. Not so much...swabbing, dying of thirst and hunger abovedecks, being whipped by a tyrant for my inability to hop-to-it fast enough. You know how it is, I'm sure. I suppose you must have come up being whipped yourself, no?"

"As it happens, no." Which is true as much as it is a conversational disappointment. He'd seen plenty of lashings, had been caned and beaten as all children on ships are, but had never managed to put his foot so far down his mouth to get the cat himself. He can't honestly even remember the last time he's seen a lash anywhere but on the belt of a merchantman's boatswain. They have no place on a ship of free men and women.

Sinking low enough until the water that he can rest his head on the bath's edge, Flint closes his eyes. Settles. Does the mental math - how long will the baths stay hot when the crew tending the fires on the other side of the plumbing have gone? He probably has an hour before everything starts to go lukewarm. --Which he won't be spending if the company continues to be so persistent, but it's a thought worth entertaining.

"Is there something you do for the Inquisition? Since it isn't sailing."

Quite pleased to be able to deliver this answer, Byerly responds, "Diplomacy."

Then he shifts - lowers his foot, which was admittedly starting to cramp up a little - and then leans forward. "But then - how's discipline kept on your ship? If you're not being whipped about."

By knows quite well that this man is the captain of his ship - Flint, of the Walrus, a man of Tevinter (or so the rumors go) who'd defected to the piratical life, who seemed to have just appeared on Nascere. One day absent, the next a marauder and fiend. As if conjured from the Fade himself, as if he himself had tumbled out of a Rift. His sources (which are, admittedly, weaker up North than in the South) gave no good accounting of the man's history. So perhaps some grotesquely incorrect guesses might spur the man into a bit of chatter.

"Is your captain good to you?"

'Diplomacy' get a low rumbling noise, eyebrows quirking high. Of course. That all follows with enough horrible truth that it might be funny. That it is slightly funny even as he wheedles on. There are points - either strangely recently or what feels like but isn't distant at all - where this kind of razored sharp, prodding, one-sided conversation would saw at his shortest nerve. But Flint has practice now and as far as unrelenting bothers go, John Silver is a hard act to follow.

He scrubs a hand across the lower half of his face, tugging absently at the corner of his mustache. Chin tipping low, he opens his eyes to fix Byerly with an expectant look.

"What's your name?"

No 'I didn't think I caught it--' or 'Who's asking?'. It goes at the thing directly. Which: fine. Sometimes leading by example is the only way to get something done.

How fascinating. What a challenge. Usually, even the most recalcitrant of men will answer his questions - reluctantly, tersely, yes, but they won't just ignore them altogether. Flint does. By runs his thumb along his lower lip, smiling in growing pleasure, before executing a bow that's surprisingly graceful considering his position.

"Byerly Rutyer," he says. "Of Ferelden. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, good fellow."

And then for once, he falls silent instead of following up with chatter of his own, curious to see whether Flint will lead the conversation anywhere.

He could not meet it with his own introduction, but the specificity is important.

So: "Captain Flint. Of the Walrus," he says, hooking his elbow at the bath edge. He is sinew and sharpened weight, a tired old tiger. "Is there something you need, Mr Rutyer?"

"Pleasant company." By smiles at Flint. "An indulgence of my curiosity. I'm a terribly curious man. Captain Flint. Captain Flint." He turns it over on his tongue, then tilts his head back, eyes slitted like he's savoring it.

"You did not suffer, then, on your path to captaincy? Also, why is it called the Walrus? That's a dear little name. Not one to strike terror into the hearts of men. The hearts of oysters, perhaps."

His attention remains fixed, slow and quiet and even. He waits. He lets Byerly talk. It does not feel like patience or interest.

"I take it you're used to being indulged."

It's not really a question, is it? It's certainly not an answer to anything either.

Edited 2018-09-27 15:07 (UTC)

A cheerful shrug. "I'm used to that. Certainly. I'm also used to being whipped out of town. A good fellow such as myself has a wide variety of experiences, you see; nothing can surprise me any longer."

He runs his hand through the water and lifts it, enjoying the sight of water droplets making ripples on the surface of the bath. "But I suppose you know all about that. You have, too. Had all manner of lives."

Here, finally, some trace of Byerly having landed upon something. The not-quite-easiness of the lines of his face, the set of his mouth behind his whiskers, goes still like a held count.

He's been asking questions, but more important he's been telling a selection of small truths. This is what a venatori magister is and this is how he knows. He has opinions about Tevinter. He wants things in the Nocen Sea. No doubt Silver and Vane and Max have all said some corroborating pieces of the same and the idea that some of it might lead farther than Nascere, that someone might extend that study backward-- It's not beyond the realm of belief, but unlike the matter of piracy and where the Walrus comes from and what his reputation as her captain or what has or hasn't been done on Nascere or between it and Kirkall, it's no one's business.

Though if he's gone sharp, it's only for a moment. Because: "I expect you're right. You should try that line with everyone you meet in the Inquisition's service and see who denies it. That might actually tell you something interesting, Mr Rutyer."

Ah. Byerly goes sharp, too - a flicker of bright focus in his eyes, one rather at odds with his carefully-cultivated expression of droll unconcern. It's quick as a spark, there and then gone - but an observant man can see that Byerly is an observant man.

"Well, it'd tell me a thing or two about how people see themselves." He flings an arm along the back of the bath - as much to assume a position of casual unconcern as to ensure he has something to keep his head above water if Flint turns out to be the drown-a-fellow-to-dispose-of-the-evidence type. "They'll think - oh, yes, so many lives; I've gone from being a mage fighting templars to being a mage fighting Venatori, mon Créateur! I once was a drunkard in Nevarra, and now I'm a drunkard in Kirkwall. Andraste preserve us. But in truth, that's only really one path, isn't it. One with a bit of a curve, but not a complete break."

His smile is knowing. The implication is clear. Unlike you.

He doesn't much care for that flicker or the implication, stark as it is. Best to turn that point back the way it came:

"Not like you," Flint says and smiles, lopsided and with the impression of sharp teeth behind the good humor. He reaches for a shard of soap and sets to lathering and scrubbing.

"I'd think that'd be more useful to your division." Working dirt and tar out from under his fingernails now. "How people see themselves. I was under the impression trading on that was how diplomacy got things done. Can't very well deal with a Kirkwall drunkard with bar credit in Nevarra no matter where he came from."

"But of course you can. Diplomacy is a web, dear Captain, an intricate weave of favors and debts. Pull on one thread, get something done elsewhere. Buy a drink for a drunkard here, get to make use of that credit there. Untangle a mage from that web and find a trail of enemies who want him dead and who can be lured into mistakes."

This is an educated guess - very educated, but still a guess. And so Byerly is cautious and indirect. Hedging his bets. The last thing he wants to look is a fool - because it's clear enough from Flint's grunting silence so far that to seem a fool is to get nowhere with him. He just goes silent and disinterested. Clear enough that this is a rare man where, before him, you want to look devious rather than a harmless fop. It's an odd position to be in - trying to seem more intelligent rather than less.

So. "Tug on the leg of a pirate, and...? Perhaps - find that a whole mess of Tevinter naval secrets come falling out of the net with him." And he smiles, inscrutable, ready to pretend it was an idle comment if he's missed his mark, ready to look wise and informed if he's hit it.

Flint laughs, a barking and genuine sound that rings off the water. It sounds like 'Is that all?'

Without looking up from scrubbing under his nails: "There's no such thing. Anyone on the Nocen Sea could tell you most of what the Tevinter navy does and half of everyone could name every would-be secret inlet they make use of." Which isn't true, but it's closer to it than a lie. "If the diplomacy division or whatever project you're on needs coastal intelligence, I'll mark your maps for you. You'll want the Seheron landfalls and trade routes first, of course."

He glances to Byerly, lines of his face twitching with amusement. "Your hard work is appreciated. But no need to go in circles about it."

It's close to the truth, isn't it? Breathes right on a piece of it, but that's fine. He doesn't much care about that part.

Well, that was - rather irritating. He was hoping for another moment of cold stillness, indicating that he'd landed on something sensitive. Alas. Just smiling instead. And laughing. Dear heavens, Flint's laugh is off-putting.

But the most important thing is that Flint has confirmed it. There's no going back from that now, and new paths of conversation are opened by that fact. "I simply didn't want to offend," By says, casually enough. "After all, I've never met a single person who's ever wanted to be from Tevinter." Then, with a broad smile, he cascades some water over his hands and says, "So tell me, dear fellow, what made the break in your life's path?"

"Well I'm not Nevarran." The options are limited. Nevermind that the combination of Tevinter and the sea means very little. He was topsman or a boatswain, a carpenter's mate - one of literally hundreds of pressed men and slaves to take to the sea, every one with a reason to want to be rid of their circumstances. Funny though, how being Tevene is traded currency in so many parts of the world. Capture an Antivan ship and let the accent come through and the crew trembles in fear of blood magic; come to the Inquisition in Kirkwall and someone wants Imperium secrets.

"A shared interest in rooting out Venatori." Which is a square answer unless the question persists on being What turned you pirate? and not What brings you to Kirkwall, friend? Flint rinses his hands, the clinging soap from his arms. You're running out of time for this conversation, Byerly. "There's a woman - in your division, come to think of it. Max. I'm sure she'd be happy to see the whole matter made clear."

Edited 2018-09-28 23:07 (UTC)

"Our lovely Orlesian kidnapping victim, recently rescued. Yes. I know of her. So graceful, that one." He smiles cheerfully, and tries to think what he might say to stir a reaction out of him. It's not easy. The man's like a damned stone monolith, his skin nearly impenetrable...But he saw it once. Just briefly, but he saw it once. That talk of having had all manner of lives. But now, inquiring after being of Tevinter - that's getting him nowhere, isn't it? He really did think it'd work. But...well, that was optimistic, wasn't it; if Flint would flinch at being known for his origin, he'd work a bit harder to cover up that accent of his.

"I suppose she has a grudge against the Venatori, too, now. And your other companion - the stocky fellow - he hates them, too, I suppose. So you've no passion for the glory days of your home? The time when your land was a shining beacon to the world?"

It's Flint's turn to hook his elbow at the bath wall, fingertips flicking absently at the water's surface. That lopsided ghost of amusement still lingers there in his face, softening Flint's sharpest edges even if it doesn't reach down through shoulders or spine. "If I did, I imagine there are better places to be than an Inquisition bath. Are you worried about a spy in your midst, Mr Rutyer?"

That's the only thing keeping him here at present - the fact that he can't quite figure why the man's so fixed on asking. Someone's given him the work, probably. Or he's taken it upon himself with the expectation that if something interesting comes of the conversation, he might use it as currency elsewhere - the natural function of gossip. But the tacks he's taken, zagging the conversation along with seemingly no fixed end except to be pointed, cheerful and prickly in turns is--

Familiar and irritating and snags at his curiosity. What the fuck's he want?

"Hardly worried." By smiles at Flint, and gives him a wink, cheeky and cheery. All facetiousness and good humor.

The thing is this, as By sees it: the pirates are transparent about desiring their home island. More than anything else in the world, that is what they crave. That has been no secret. And there is one power that can deliver that to them with ease, and it's not the Inquisition. How simple it would be - in those moments before their flight from Nascere, a message from the Venatori. Earn back your land. Why else would they bother with a little spit of sand in a forsaken sea? Why divert resources to that place, if not for its strategic importance? And strategic importance not in terms of its location, not in terms of its resources, but in terms of its people - those people whom no Inquisition member would ever doubt. After all, who would ever think of a pirate bowing his head?

Byerly wonders whether Flint raising the possibility openly, cutting through the innuendo, is a sign of his trustworthiness. By doesn't think so. It's a tactic he himself uses often enough: speak the words openly, make them laughable, dismiss them. He's joked time and again about being a Ferelden spy, mocked at the idea that he's a patriot secretly here for his country. So - are you worried about a spy, the open discussion, makes him all the more...curious. Not worried. No, spies do not worry him. Because, you see, spies are never something to fear: they're something to explore and exploit. The question is, of course, whether Flint is keen enough to be aware of that, if he even knows the games he's playing...Is he a man of wit? Or is he as stolidly, solidly taciturn as his manner would imply?

"I think spy games are perfectly thrilling. I'd be delighted to find out you were working against us. It'd be like something out of a Varric Tethras novel." He reaches up to smooth down his mustache, and asks, lightly, with laughter - "So are you one? A spy? Please say yes."

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hate to see you go, love to watch you leave

thanks i hate it