faderift | [open]

"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."

There's an urge to think 'There,' and 'Sorted,' but there's something in way Rutyer is all easiness here in combination with that earlier, faintest glimmer of real keen intent that makes Flint linger over the possibility that this isn't what the other man wants at all. That maybe there's something here he hasn't quite grasped yet, a wriggling eel under the surface of this conversation, and even as his hand's grasping after it he isn't quite certain whether he's reaching towards its head or tail. One ends with teeth in his hand, though. That much he does know.

Good sense dictates a blunt dismissal. The last thing he can afford at present is to cultivate some deeper suspicion than what already hangs over their heads. His reputation is questionable as it is; between that and the matter with Radonis in the middle of the fucking ocean, he should be eager to appear candid. Has been with most anyone who asks. But then where will he be? Blind to the heading Rutyer's interest might take if whatever dull thing he says doesn't temper the man's curiosity is where.

Best keep it ahead of him then until he can figure out how best to direct it then.

He pins Byerly with a steady, fixed look. Some of that good humor has slid twitching sideways, maybe involuntarily, into smug. "Then I shouldn't say anything. I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

With a wolf sharp grin and a flick of the hand, Flint chases the water from his fingertips then moves at once to climb from the bath to dry himself with one of the towels.

And from that, Byerly knows...nothing. How decidedly irritating. He's still no closer than when he started to understanding anything about Flint, aside from, one, Flint has an uncomfortable relationship with his Tevene past, and two, Flint must play a mean hand of Wicked Grace. And three, Flint has a surprisingly appealing form that leads one's mind to briefly speculate about what all those rowdy sailors do get up to in their months with no women at hand. Aside from that? Nothing. It's a rare encounter where Byerly feels as though he may actually have given up more than he got.

How unusual. He traces his thumb along his lower lip, studying the muscles of Fint's back speculatively.

"How kind of you," By murmurs in response. Then he drops his hand into the water and smiles. There's something of a threat in it. "I shall have to ensure, then, that I surprise you at the most unexpected of times, to catch you as you scheme and plot against the noble Inquisition. Best keep your eyes open, watching out for Byerly Rutyer, my Captain."

Shaking out the fresh clothes from the packet he'd brought along, he dresses without remark or hurry - tucking away long shirt tails and rolling sleeves, buttoning trousers.. The heavy belt is re-cinched, rings shaken free from their boot and pocketed rather than slid back onto waiting fingers.

"Then you should do your best to make yourself interesting quickly, Mr Rutyer" he finally says while pulling on his boots, giving each a stamp and a tug to see it fully to the knee. Folding both towel and coat over his arm, Flint straightens and stands. And pauses to survey Byerly from that vantage, passing a dispassionate glance down the length of him and back again. It's punctuated at the last by a flat, direct look. "I might forget you otherwise."

With a leading tip of the head, Flint makes his way from the baths.

[open]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

hate to see you go, love to watch you leave

thanks i hate it