[OPEN] there is a light that i leave on

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria, Marcoulf, Flint and OPEN
WHAT: Open post/catch-all/buries myself in top levels
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: Kirkwall and misc
NOTES: Prose or brackets are a-okay. Feel free to hit me up on DM or discord if you want something specific that isn't here. Just posting a wildcard and winging it is awesome too.

Comments

i'm so mad

[hornswoggle]

The crews will need to be dealt with eventually. They will need to be converted or disposed of. They will need to love John the way Billy has taught the whole of Nascere to love him, or they will have to be removed before they can endanger this venture once their work is done. That thought passes through John's mind as Flint speaks, an unspoken weight to temper the inevitable selection of who best to bear out this mission.

There is no stutter in the beat of conversation. There are moments when John is taken aback by how well he has come to know Flint's mind. It is strange to him to realize that he understands his place as an extension of Flint; no objection rises in the wake of the realization that he is the one who will go to handpick these crews. Flint's hand is as steady on the rudder as his tone is as he speaks this plan into existence, setting John's path the same way he has done as he directed the skiff to carry them here.

"I know how to stay unnoticed."

It was not so long ago that John was anonymously making his way from land to ship to land again. It might not be so easy considering his leg, his crutch, but John thinks he can manage it.

"I'll find us two, to start. We'll see how that goes. If we need a third, we'll have a better idea of who to use by then."

John does not reach for the rudder. He clasps his hands in front of him, body still bowed towards Flint. What does it mean, that this measure of trust, this shared duty, no longer weighs heavily upon his shoulders? When did he grow accustomed to it? Of all the things that have become a responsibility and worry, this partnership is not one of them.

:'^)

[katabasis]

I know how to stay unnoticed, he says, and at once it's both truth and fiction. You know how to stay, Flint thinks. How to act in whatever capacity that requires. It's why John Silver is suitable to this.

(Going to Llomerryn. Being the Walrus' quartermaster. Playing the grim spectre in Billy's fictions. Sitting a handspan apart in a small boat being battered by the wind and cold, discussing what's required to bend the world to meet them.)

"We'll want crews not yet entrenched in whatever affair Llomerryn is presently engaged in. Fresh faces, or ones that haven't seen the kind of success we could offer them who are now looking for some scrap of legitimacy to float their name up the list while the rest are killing each other." But-- "I trust your judgement.

[hornswoggle]

Trust.

The profession of it, spoken aloud, burns like an ember. John feels it as if Flint has set a hot coal on his chest and let it burn it's way through John's ribs. Flint's trust is a peculiar thing. John finds value in it. He finds he would rather not part with it. He holds Flint's gaze for a long moment, letting the searing heat of that word subside before he replies.

"We're going to need a taste of something to give them right at the start."

John is skirting around the idea of asking Max. He will ask her eventually. But it's better to get this venture started without her. It's better for her not to be their sole source of information. Her assistance came with strings, and John isn't secure enough here to be able to navigate that in a way that ends in mutual benefit.

[katabasis]

"Kirkwall is one of the biggest trade ports in the South; I don't doubt we can send you off with something of value to barter with." Whether it comes from the Inquisition's own books or otherwise. There will be rumors enough to be found on the docks to keep any Amaranthine pirate worth much of anything in stock and trade for months. He'd done some fishing himself when they'd first made landfall - a small list of ships, their home ports and destinations, what they had carried in their holds.

"The trick," Flint says, and none of his heat has subsided. He is intent, leaned forward across his knee. Compass needle twisted away from North and toward a magnet. "Will eventually be to supply them with intelligence their own spies would have no possibility of feeding them. But that's something we can make inroads toward."

Better, he thinks, to start with what they're able. To not let this opportunity as the world is waiting with baited breath for Tevinter to make decisions about its path forward slip through their fingers.

[hornswoggle]

Flint's words are hot coals. This moment is electric. John feels the way he does before he picks a pocket, before he tells a lie, before he snatches at something beautiful that was never meant for him. Flint leans closer and John is aware of all the places where they are just nearly touching, leant together as they murmur, and he has the same sense he'd had in the dark across the fire: if he and Flint were to meet in the middle, it would be like open flame touching dry kindling.

There is great destructive power in these words. It is slow-going; it will be like the kinds of spells John had once painstakingly taught himself, the kind that were wrought of layer upon layer of murmured incantation. But the end result—

The end result will be bloody. But John couldn't flinch from that now. He watches Flint's expression and he nods, finding no flaw in his reasoning. John's fingers lace together as he draws a breath, mind ticking over possibilities.

"And I'm well-placed for that. When we get back to shore, I'll see about tallying which of our contacts could be promising in a few months time and after a little work."

Diplomats hear plenty of things. John will simply have to take on some work. And there is always Max, who hears all things, but who he knows Flint will be reluctant to utilize.

"This will work."

John says it with quiet marvel, pleasure with what they have wrought outweighing the faint trepidation over the end result. He raises his eyebrows at Flint, trying to find some echo of that surprise without any expectation that he'll see it echoed back to him. Flint's moments of doubt are few and far between; John doesn't imagine he'll be privy to all of them.

[katabasis]

There's no semblance of it to be found in him. Not today. If he'd been in possession of any trace of doubt, it had been as the Walrus had first passed into the unfamiliar waters of the Waking Sea, guided by outdated charts through its dreadful irregular channels, and it had felt something like sailing down the throat of a world built on making it infinitely clear that it had no interest making a place for them; weeks ago, as the Inquisition's forces had made their way to Minrathous; or early yesterday in Kirkwall before he'd resolved on this conference between them. Today, he had risen certain. Give the two of them a few moments in conversation with a fixed point on the horizon and agreement between them and they would find a path forward. He has committed himself to that.

This will work.

He doesn't grin at Silver, but the sensation of it flashes in his face. That belief turns him bright and sharp, all adamant momentum and wildly unsatisfied. Thrilled by it. For a moment, it's as if he's running toward two inexplicably equal things - undecided which he means to chase, but certain of his speed and footing. And-- Then Flint straightens from this, and it isn't a disappointment to do it (two inexplicably equal things). The conspiracy curve of his shoulders shakes free as his hand returns to tiller and sheet. The cleat is undone. The sail is trimmed in consideration for wind and direction.

In the cutting cold, the skiff heads up into the weather.