[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

[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any trace of doubt, it had been as the Walrus had first passed into the unfamiliar waters of the Waking Sea, guided by outdated charts through its dreadful irregular channels, and it had felt something like sailing down the throat of a world built on making it infinitely clear that it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.