faderift | [OPEN] there is a light that i leave on

[There's a bright young thing tending the the Gallows' herb garden these days in a broad brimmed hat and a borrowed dress, its sleeves pinned high all the better to-- limply pluck little weeds from the planting boxes or uncertainly fuss over this plant or that. She seems to spend most of her morning puttering around the gardens and accomplishing very little, but looking very determined about all of it up to and including sitting idly in the sun when it happens to finally strike this particular courtyard.

But on rare occasions, Wysteria can actually be found sitting on the edge of one of the planters attempting to trim cuttings from the plants for the half dozen people who seem to require them. She's hemming and hawing over a stalk of elf root now, setting her sharp knife first against the stem of one of the leaves and then lower - anxiously consulting the open book on her lap to see where the proper spot to cut it actually is.]

Edited 2018-10-04 05:07 (UTC)

[With a clatter, Wysteria collapses down into an empty space on one of the long dining tables. It's all going quite well, really - right up until her cup upends as she's unfolding a packet of papers from under her arm as she arranges herself on the bench. Wsyteria makes a horrible squawking noise, snatches after the cup and rather than closing her fist around it instead catapults it directly off her fingertips into whatever poor soul is sitting across the table from her.

Wysteria pales visibly.]

Oh. So sorry.

Edited 2018-10-04 05:07 (UTC)

[It's full dark and long since the last ferry from the Kirkwall docks to the Gallows has loosed its moorings, but there's a still light burning here: a lantern perched at once on the slip's farthest anchor posts against the impenetrable black of an otherwise overcast, starless evening. There's a man in the light's pool at well, hand resting with his palm across the pommel of a belt knife but idly so - wrist easy, elbow loose, as mild about having a dagger at his fingertips as is reasonable when occupying a strip of the docks in the middle of the night.

It's clear from the direction of his attention that he's waiting for something to come creeping out of the harbor from across the pitch dark water with its running, pressing tide and dense blanket of fog. It's also abundantly clear that he isn't nearly so impaired as being out on the ferry slip alone in the middle of the night might otherwise indicate. The creak of footsteps on the dock draws his ear; Flint fixes whoever's approaching out of the mottled night with a keen eye.]

You've missed the last boat.

Edited 2018-10-04 05:06 (UTC)

The back room of The Boar & The Bat is in the process of being vacated. Papers are being collected, charts re-rolled, books stacked and packed into a waiting and much worn sea trunk by the man who has occupied this back table turned office of business these many weeks.

--Not that Flint's in any particular hurry to get it done within the hour. Just as there have been benefits to being seen keeping the back room, there can be ones for being noticed leaving it. If they're meant to be part of the Inquisition, he can't very well keep doing business of out the back of a Kirkwall dock tavern. Best to do the thing properly at this juncture.

Besides, taking his time about transferring his things leaves plenty of opportunity for anyone intending some last minute bit of business removed strictly from under the shadow of the Inquisition's manner to find their way to him. Best to make room for such a thing if it can be allowed.

He's not out in these taverns very often. It's not like the chance of being recognized in the city itself is exactly low despite how he nearly always wears his Grey Warden robes so they're looking at the symbol more than his face, but there's a certain amount of control in those streets. Out here? Anyone could sail in, recognize him, freak out, and then mob's your uncle.

A contact had come in, however, so his usual avoidance has been abandoned. As has the usual robes. Anders is in very loose trousers with a tunic over them, and a hood over that. He feels naked without his staff, but there's nothing for it. At least now he can head out... until he catches sight of the man packing up through an open door and pauses. That's one of the pirates who have joined with the Inquisition, he's nearly certain. Steel? No, another one's got a metal name, Silver something. He frowns as he slowly walks over - the name isn't coming to him.

"You're... one of the captains, aren't you?" His voice is on the more quiet side. The tavern itself may be loud enough, but sometimes Anders remembers to mitigate risks.

The back room only just warrants the name and open as it is, in the process of shifting things out of it and with no Walrus man left posted at the door, it's an easy enough approach. Flint's sorting through papers, putting them into stacks and rolling them into irregular cylinders as Anders approaches. He binds one with string, gives Anders no more than a cursory glance, and then finishes winding the cord about the packet.

"Flint. Of the Walrus. She's the galleon at the east end of the harbor with the stern carving." Without missing a beat: "What do you want?"

He could be anyone - Flint's bet is Inquisition, given the phrasing, but there's more than its stock roving these parts of the Kirkwall docks. Sailors and merchants and spies and thieves and poor bastards trying to make an extra coin or two of which he's made a reputation of being fairly free with for the right service. Make a habit of paying for little bits of intelligence and the man before him now could be literally anyone.

That's confirmation. Anders takes a breath, knowing this is a risk. Some pirates have been fine with him. Some pirates have even been fine with him, and that reminds him how much he misses Isabela. But that's neither here nor there.

"Flint." He probably looks like he's a bit slow, with the pausing and hiding his face. Or maybe he just looks really suspicious. That's likely the truth of it. "How do you feel about mages, Flint?"

At least the man hadn't asked his name. Yet. Though that doesn't rule out Flint hearing him on the crystals and hearing him called by it. "Particularly mages seeking a lasting freedom?"

His hands pause over their task midway through tying a knot in the twine about one of the parchment packets. Here now he does give the man with his deep hood a look that fixes, calculating, for a long beat before he resumes the matter of packing the desk's contents away into the open trunk beside it.

"I suppose it depends on who's asking." So much for that Yet, Anders. Not that he'd recognize the man who tore Kirkwall in two by sight even with out the hood, so there's no chance that Flint's grown so suspicious as to be pointed about it. No, it's just the requisite qualifier particularly given events in the North. A Tevinter spy asking questions like that is a world different from some destitute Fereleden mage fresh from the ruins of their broken Circle. And Maker only knows who might be watching this place, making note of who he's seeing and what's said between them.

(All the more reason to abandon the Boar and resume his post on the Walrus. The need for prying eyes and listening ears is past.)

Anders hesitates. This is nothing like the first network he set up, when he could find relatives of mages held in the Gallows and go from there. Now it's bigger, because his goals are bigger. And it means taking risks.

Decided, Anders steps in, out of the doorway, out of the line of sight of anyone not in the hall, and pushes the hood back. He's nervous. It shows in the tightness of his eyes, and the defensive way he crosses one arm in front of himself

"Anders," he says. "That Anders, yes. And before a bounty tempts you, know that the Inquisition already knows I'm here. I've been working alongside them for closing on three years now. I've also worked alongside some pirates before, so I thought that if some were deemed trustworthy, perhaps it was worth asking a few questions."

Piss and blood.

[ Is the carefully pronounced, upper crust, all King's English, hiss of a curse as she realises the truth of it. Grouched up from behind her drawn veil ( even at this hour ), arms full of a wrapped bundle of cloth, rich from the look of it, though it is no more than a glimpse. The material that holds it is plain, allowing no more than the brief shine of gold to play in the half-light, bouncing about in moonlight a dull shine.

It's then she realises the echo of the voice, the familiarity of the shape that it calls from. Ah, well, that was a surprise, but perhaps not. Not if the stories were true about the man called Captain Flint. A man half made of the sea.

Oh, stop it, Manu, you are no girl listening to travellers stories. Fancifulness belonged to other women. ] - I meet you strange places, Captain Flint.

[It's the Inquisition's slip; it follows that any figure on it even at this hour would be on the self same roster. But the odds of finding familiar - even if it's just barely - company out here in the slightly too humid, slightly too still darkness are bad enough yet that a voice he recognizes makes for a mostly pleasant surprise.

It helps that Lakshmi had found a way to be largely inoffensive the last time they were in a room together.]

Finding a sailor on a dock? Madame, you have an unusual definition of 'strange places.'

[Nevermind the dead of night. He motions with one hand toward the packet in her arms then; it isn't a question so much as it is an offer to temporarily relieve her of it.]

Should a Captain not be on his ship, this time of night?

[ She steps closer, the slight chime of her heel on the ground. The faint clatter of anklets that are muffled in the thick weight of night.

Though - she considers it, a moment, watching his offer. Well, there was a start at least. Finding something beyond his and Kitty's talking, and her silence to their discussion she supposes this was as good as place as any to begin it. Getting both hands underneath the bundle, she gently places it in his hand, being mindful not to touch him in the process thereof. No closer than was proper, not more toward than was immediately required and respectful as she steps away.

It is a minor relief, to stretch out her arms. Prickled with sweat from her walk in the sticky night air, her hand lifts to press against the back of her neck, over her veil. ] Careful, it is my prize.

Ugh.

[ Kitty had known she was running that risk, but the tavern-keep had insisted she stay long enough to finish washing up, even as she'd told him she had someplace to be. How annoying. Now she's stuck here the entire night, not even a book to occupy her time, and tomorrow she'll be drowsy as anything because one simply cannot sleep well in the stables. ]

Last time I work a shift at The Frog and Cock. [ Then she turns to take in Flint, studying his face, trying to determine his mood. ] Did you miss the boat, too, Captain Flint, or is it your intent to be here?

[She's a funny thing, isn't she? All smoke and fire cut with enough doting affection to be practically maternal (he might have no opinion at all on the bulk of the chatter over the sending crystal, but at this rate it would take a quicker hand than his to quiet it before learning knowing Lakshmi Bai's doddering opinions on marriage and fabrics and Maker knows what else). Nevermind that she's bangled with enough gold to clink in the dark, but apparently doesn't mind having her hands full at night walking alone in Kirkwall. It might risk reminding him of someone he once knew - a not unkind comparison for Lakshmi, though maybe a simplified one for the other woman in question -, were she just slightly more one thing or less the other. The balance isn't right, which is good. The woman at his elbow now would suffer under a direct comparison.

He takes the packet and tucks it respectfully under one arm. There's enough heft there that it requires the support of his hip as well.]

I find a Captain can usually do what he pleases. You'll need a way back to your rooms, though; I hear they do a headcount in the Gallows these days. [It's hard to say in the shifting lantern light and the darkness that grapples with its edge, but there might be a flicker of sly humor in the look he gives her.] You wouldn't want to alarm anyone.

[It's difficult to mark in the flickering lamp light, the glow all hazy and shifting from the thick hanging fog, but he seems quiet there in the dark - occupied certainly, but not being actively sharpened by whatever's on his mind. He certainly doesn't seem bothered by her arrival.]

Different boat. I haven't missed mine. [He raises his eyebrows at her.] Hope you were paid in coin instead of a hot meal; I hear it's easier to hire a dinghy with the first one.

If he were the kind of man looking to cash in on that name, the Inquisition is the last place he'd take the man before him. He'd write to the Chantry first; failing that, he could make a fortune just by stringing Anders up in the nearest Kirkwall courtyard with just enough rope to let his toes touch the stone and charging passerby for the honor of throwing something at him. Anders could pay his bills for months. Luckily, there's no one else in the room to verbalize the temptation or else they might be headed in that direction even now.

Instead Flint studies him while rolling another stack of papers against his hip. It's a calculating look, the mental math passing blatantly over his face.

"Then you can appreciate how asking 'How do you feel about mages' is like asking 'How do you feel about fire'." You specifically, he thinks, have a great potential to be dangerous.

And useful.

"But I've no quarrel with any Southern mage. Ask your questions."

[ A little snort. ]

You ever been to the Frog and Cock? They ought to be paying their customers to eat there, not the other way around. Believe me, I'd not be there for anything less than gold.

[ And information, to be fair. It's a tavern that pulls, sometimes, Tevinter ex-pats. Good for eavesdropping on, good for learning about their mutual enemy to the north. But their hot water pastry is thick as her wrist, and it's like they've never even heard of salt. ]

Don't suppose your boat's going to the Gallows?

[He hasn't had the pleasure - though is all too happy make a mental note to dock it from the list should he ever be in the strategically questionable position of entertaining.]

It's not meant to. But for the sake of avoiding an international incident when someone discovers you missing, I'll see if it can't be convinced. [Someone will grouse - it's twice as far to pull in the dead of night under a heavy fog - but the girl's been clambering all over the blighted ship at Vane's invitation. He wouldn't be surprised if half the men at oars arriving with the boat will have already taken to her like a favorite pet cat while he wasn't looking.

(That will need to stop too, he thinks, mentally adding it to the long list of things that are changing or will need to shift in the very near future to accommodate certain needs. Vane's tithe for his new position can be using the Vint ship as his classroom.)]

How goes your side project?

[He has no conceivable idea what she might be doing with that extra money, but she's not spending it on hair ribbons. Hazarding a leading guess can't hurt him.]

There's an awful lot of weighing going on in Flint's expression. By the end of it Anders feels like the man could tell him every piece of information there is on the bounties offered for his head, and how Flint could best profit off of it. It's the risk with pirates. Some are good people. And some deal in people.

He considers commenting on how valuable fire can be, how some might say they liked having it but few would say they liked having mages, but there's no point. Flint is listening, giving him room. Anders leans against the wall, trying to relax a little.

"What would you charge to carry information, or a contact, or sometimes leaflets on your ships? There is nothing in place to protect my people from being rounded up again the moment Corypheus is defeated, and I'm endeavoring to change that. Faster travel and communication could help that."

And Flint's ships won't be watched the way Anders is every time he's on a griffon.

"My aim is construction, not destruction." This time.

[ Another snort greets that comment about the international incident. ]

I don't think Rifters are that popular, Captain Flint. But - thank you. [ He's doing her a good turn, after all, and making up a rather ridiculous excuse for doing so. So she tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles up at him. Honestly, under all the gruffness and intensity, he really is quite sweet. She doesn't think for a moment that he wouldn't be brutal if it came to it, but that doesn't take away from his sweetness. ]

And my side project? [ For once, that's a question to ground herself, rather than a faux-innocent question to buy her time while she figured out a lie. ] It's a lot. There's a lot ahead of me. Did Captain Vane tell you about what I'm doing?

[Flint dispenses with the 'Aren't you mean't to be telling someone official if you aren't coming home line.' He isn't her mother and the rest of what she has to say promises to be more interesting.

He turns by a half degree, attention that had before been more or less singularly focused on searching out a dark shape in the fog dividing now with an interested tip of the head and the smallest pinch of speculation working a line across his forehead. Does she mean learning the rigging? Whatever Vane has been teaching her of sailing and ships?]

He hasn't mentioned anything specific.

[ A small nod. It's not surprising; Vane isn't a chatty sort, it seems. Not even with his comrades.

She could come at it indirectly, she supposes, try to feel out his sentiments before committing to this. After all, sharing her plans with the wrong person could, potentially, smother them in the very crib. But she feels she's got the measure of Flint on one or two things. She may not know whether he can be trusted to watch her back if they're on a mission together, or keep her secrets about her home, but he can be trusted to believe in this. She's confident in that. ]

I want to help organize the slaves of Tevinter to rise up against the Venatori and Corypheus. And to do so in such a way that they'll be in position to take hold of the country once he's dislodged, to keep them just putting the Archon back on the throne. So that when it comes, they'll have the ability to negotiate for their freedom and right for self-governance.

Alarm anyone? Perish the thought.

[ It's murmured like a half soft maid, who had no thoughts in her head other than to please those about her. Hardly a truth to anyone who'd met her for more than a minute. Heard her talk at any length. ]

Unfortunately, my business often requires it - A moment. [ She sighs for it, reaching for her crystal. Fussing about with it a moment as she calls to Herian. A quick murmur that she had missed the last ferry back. No, no, it was of no matter, she would find a place for the evening. ] - If you do not mind my company, Captain, I would enjoy yours whilst I find somewhere for the evening.

[ Though with her hands-free, she settles back a little straighter. Fussing a moment with the edge of her veil, letting it sit straight and not get in her way, then to rest her hand at the blade at her hip. ]

[OPEN] there is a light that i leave on

WYSTERIA

Herb Gardens [open]

Dining Hall [open]

FLINT

Ferry Slip [open]

for anders;

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