faderift | [closed-ish]

The tower's grand staircases only go so far, cedeing then to winding backstairs and looping corridors that betray the Gallows for what it is: a fortress, a prison, the first blockade at the mouth of an equally tiered city. It's a slow climb to the Naval Presence offices.

Which is part of why they've paused here on a narrow stairwell. There's a tall, thin window here with enough of a ledge to constitute as a bench. Flint is already unlatching one of the panes, banging twice on the frame until the old hinge releases. A breath of cool air gasps past the mottled glass. In the strip of exposed daylight, there sits a dark cross-section of the Waking Sea over the angle corner of some rampart.

A conversation in constant progress resumes: "--the Walrus will need refitting before it goes, and I'd rather avoid battling the Inquisition's purse strings for it." Not the least reason for which is that it will prompt questions, from the Seneschal if no one else. "Would Max be willing?"

A pointed look to his companion says, You two get along, don't you?

When John allows for it, there is a sense of momentary disbelief at his current place in the world.

If anyone had ever told him that someday he'd be standing in the Gallows, spending months on end in Kirkwall, he would have laughed in their face. Yet here he is, walking in step with Flint as if he is not the sort of person who would have once been dragged into its depths and caged. There's some humor in his present situation, though John can't quite manage to take the same pleasure in his deception as he once did. The stakes have become very real for him.

His thoughts stray briefly as Flint wedges open the pane. John levers himself, unbidden, onto the slim bench, crutch clasped in two hands before him.

"I can ask her," John answers, which satisfies the unspoken query as well. "But I'd like to avoid depending on her good graces more than is absolutely necessary."

Though they lack a better option.

"It's a shame I was introduced to so many as an agent of the Inquisition in Antiva. We might have had something useful there." They may still be able to glean something useful there, but John's attention is drawn to more immediate concerns. "We'll need to make some considerations after all this is settled."

"All this" being such a light way to refer to the Divine Election.

It's a lightness that even now doesn't seem entirely wrong to his ear. Nevermind what he'd said to Kitty about everyone with sense having some opinion on who sits on the Sunburst Throne; nevermind that in a very real way, who is there will shape the days that follow; nevermind that they now occupy a position where these things matter with so much more immediacy than on the fringe of the world in a sea between the hungry press of Tevinter and the shadow of the Qun. Somehow, from the height of the Gallows' templar tower, the threat of the Grand Consensus seems strangely remote. A surmountable problem.

(What good is a moderate Divine? Nell had been so incensed. Really though - What good is any Divine?)

Flint sets his shoulder against the edge of the window box. He's satisfied to stand with a wrist hooked idly over a belt knife's pommel and the faint promise of fresh air wandering near.

"I expect we'll have some room to maneuver, so long as we avoid manage to avoid either Gertruda or Clorentine."

John grinds the heel of his hand down along one thigh, soothing a phantom ache as Flint speaks. He has come to a similar conclusion. It cannot be Gertruda. It certainly cannot be Clorentine. And it cannot be Elise. It leaves John with two, one of which he likes fairly more than the other, but his own personal appreciation of Agathe's ambition is besides the point.

He studies Flint's expression for a moment before he speaks, choosing his words with care.

"We've invested a fair amount of time into this," This meaning the Inquisition. "I'd like to be as certain as we can that the next person to occupy that station doesn't make all of that a waste."

And John's own personal needs, remote as they are, dictate that it would be nice to see someone vaguely reform-minded on the throne.

"I'm concerned some of our associates won't be able to consider the present options strategically."

A very generous way of putting it. Why isn't everyone emotionless and calculating??

A low noise of assent, a raised eyebrow. Both translate to: Ya think?

"It may be best to assume that at least a handful of them have designs to meddle with the candidates in some form. More significantly so than attempting to hamstring Clorentine, I mean." The Inquisiton's official stance of neutrality be damned. "If they're sabotaging one, there'd be no reason to not make some effort to trip up anyone else they don't care for."

The briefest pause. He's turning a ring idly on his finger.

"Scouting division may have some worthwhile intelligence for review."

John's head tips. I know.

But some things need to be said aloud, simply to receive that look from Flint and reassure himself very tangibly that they're on the same page. The whole affair feels delicate, more so than their place here in the Inquisition has felt in the entirety of their time here.

And the fact that it feels that way troubles him. Caring too much is a tricky business. He's learned that lesson very well.

"All the more reason I think we should get a hand in," John says smoothly. He thinks it's safe enough to count on public sentiment turning against Gertruda, but leaving it all to chance—

No. Simply can't be done.

"Will you be able to get a hold of those reports?" A pause, then: "Though we have information we can utilize, you know."

Information, a vision to realize, and John. Flint's accomplished plenty with those three things.

Here, something in his expression goes slightly crooked and terse. It's a flash of real impatience, an animal keen on some scent having its nose yanked around to point in some other direction. Yes, they do have information. Yes, but-- is this really where they should care to spend it?

But if there's a concern, he doesn't voice it. Instead, Flint's shoulder shifts against the stone of the window box. The brief pinch at the corner of his mouth smooths. Forget Scouting's reports for the moment; hear this out--:

"Did you have something particular in mind?"

John registers the shift in Flint's expression with a prickle of apprehension. Whatever point he's making must be made carefully. The page is wrinkled between them. The heel of John's palm pushes a second time down the muscle of his thigh as he considers it, how best to smooth it.

"I'd like to spread some rumors," John begins, and as carefully as he'd like to be about explaining this, some faint pleasure still bleeds into his voice at this proposed return to what he does best. "Gertruda has a fair number of supporters in Ostwick. I don't think it would be very difficult to convince people that the most prominent among them are Venatori supporters between some convincing gossip and the evidence we can provide."

There are other moving parts. He won't be able to accomplish this on his own, but he will be able to accomplish it. Of that he has little doubt.

But convincing Flint it's worthwhile is going to take a little more than this. John knows that, and waits for the questions he knows are coming, the best judge of whether or not Flint will allow himself to be convinced this is necessary or not.

"You can't honestly expect to go stamping your heel in some square in Ostwick and get so much as a scrap of anyone's attention."

--Is the easy, dulled parry in this conversation. Obviously they have some means beyond that. They have Venatori letters, which could be copied for forged further. They have a small cadre of Llomerryn pirates playing at Tevinter agents gnawing along the coast, whose informed exploits they might pin on anyone they chose. They've the means to make this happen if Silver cares to do it. The opportunity could be made, if his vision for it has any kind of clarity.

(Inciting yet more resentment for the Imperium is hardly wasted effort, but it demands questions.)

"Where exactly do you propose you'll spread these rumors?" No, the more pressing, better question is: "To whose benefit? Hamstringing Gertruda sees us saddled with Clorentine."

All questions that could easily carry some sharp edge to them, but don't. They're real questions; he's asking them honestly.

A flicker of amusement crosses John's face. A simpler time, with a simpler goal. John hadn't fully understood the consequences of courting the crew's attentions and acceptance at the time.

"Only if you think there aren't plenty among us who'd work to see her torn down as well."

Which John does, based on the tenor of the discussion he'd followed along with on the crystal. But more importantly—

"But I would rather have someone too foolish to make up her own mind than someone set on her course."

And someone who very probably thinks someone like John should be dragged into a Circle, or worse. He looks into Flint's face and feels the weight of that unknown, how it clouds Flint's observations of his motives.

"I would wager quite a bit that we have many among us working to advance some of the more palatable options. If we can drag one of the more inconvenient obstacles down a few notches, is that not worthwhile?"

And that is the sticking point. John only sees one clear path to use what they have gathered. There's only so many places that it makes sense to spread this information, and only so many places they'll have access to do so. John will still need the help, but he still only sees one clear course open to him for the moment.

[Once she sets her mind to it, it isn't terribly difficult to locate the man in question. Alexandrie has menionted one or two things regarding her suitor's looks that Wysteria belieces she might be able to pick him from a line if pressed. But more to the point - and this is the really helpful identifier -, there are only so many men from Tevinter to be found loitering about the Inquisition's margins.

From a distance, her first thought of the young gentleman from House Asgard is that he is both quite tall and seems very pale under his dark hair. She studies him from across the length of the Gallows' library for some minutes without much pretense, something in her expresison narrowed thoughtfully. Is he too tall for Alexandrie's company, maybe? How does she dance with him, with him so long in the leg? He must fairly good at shortening his stride. --Not that the Lad de la Fontaine is precisely short of stature, but these things must be considered in any match...

Wysteria snaps the book open on the table before her shut. Right. Squinting at the man from very nearly a room away will only get her so far. With a decisive air, Wysteria abandons her studies and makes her way toward him. Charges is not quite what she does, but certainly her approach his deliberate.]

Messere? Pardon me? Do you have a moment?

[Loki is not accustomed to being addressed when it is not strictly necessary. Those who would come to him for reports or questions are often loathe to do so--whether it is because he is Tevinter or because he is intentionally insufferable, it is hard to say. He is usually left in relative peace and, frankly, it is a state he enjoys.

When he is approached as he looks through the library for some simple book on basic Orlesian history, he is more surprised than not.

She could not possibly be addressing someone else, deliberate as her stance and approach were. Loki cocks a brow but inclines his head.]

Of course. [It is magnanimously said, but only because he has no idea who she is or what she wants him for. Once those are established, he will be as unpleasant as necessary to end this encounter.]

What can I help you with, Miss...?

[She's never been a very handy liar. Talking in a circle about a thing? Why certainly - that much she can handle with considerable finesse, if only because she's rather fond of talking and it's easiest to do more of it while wandering about the margins of a topic rather than cutting straight to the point of a thing. But in this instance, perhaps its best to be frank.

Wysteria adopts her brightest, most charming smile. It's rather beaming - slightly too wide to be considered pretty so much as simply boundlessly eager. She gives him the very slightest of curtsies and launches promptly into--]

Miss Wysteria Poppell. [The briefest of introductions.] You're of House Asgard, is that right? I believe we have a mutual friend in Alexanderie de la Fontaine. Which would ordinarily of course be reason enough for me to think to introduce myself, but I thought I might make some small imposition on you as well that I might not ordinarily were it not for our shared acquaintence and what I believe may be common interests if indeed you are the man from Tevinter dear Mademoiselle de la Fontaine speaks so well of.

['Well' is maybe a matter of perspective. Consider Wysteria herself presently unconvinced.]

He follows her speaking in the manner of a man who follows a river that he is currently being swept down. When she finishes there is a beat of silence while he waits to make certain she is finished, before he speaks.

She is a friend of Alexandrie? If she is bold enough to ask him for favors then she must be something of a close friend, though how close is hard to say. Alexandrie is and will ever be more amicable and given to friendliness than he is, even if they are well matched in craftiness and a penchant for acquiring favors and power.

In any case, friend or loose acquaintance, he can see no reason to refuse this request and potentially sabotage Alexandrie so, without further pause, he asks:]

Imposition? [Ah, but where are his manners?]

I am Loki of House Asgard and, unless I am gravely misinformed, I am the one Mademoiselle de la Fontaine speaks well of.

What may I do for you, Miss Poppell?

You are of course free to refuse, should I be asking too much. After all, we are practically strangers if not for out mutual friend. But-- [And here, she smile flashes slightly brighter still. Oh, she's trying very hard, isn't she?] You see, I have some interest in the practical, ah, practice of magic here and have so far been constrained to reading accounts out of books and hearing accounts of Circles and so on and so forth. I've yet to see it done, save at Ghislain which was a very poor field for study indeed. I'd like very much to sit quietly somewhere and make observation of certain practicing mages performing their craft for my study.

[A short inhale, and then she plows onward:]

I thought if anyone would be willing, it might be someone such as yourself who has little natural hesitation over the practice.

[Once she reaches the meat of her request, Loki's brows lift in surprise. Oh, to be certain, he is often asked to preform little tricks--the Orlesian nobility and quite a number of Marchers of standing enjoy being able to see something as taboo as magic (doubly so as it is a Tevinter doing it)--and he has always been happy to oblige them. They usually settle for sleight of hand, anyway.

This woman has studied magic, ostensibly, and wants to see it done in close observation?

How unusual.]

What school of magic would you wish to see?

[If she is trying to catch him out somehow, he hasn't sussed out how.]

Oh, any school at all would suit me. I would of course like to see as many as possible for the sake of being very thorough about my research, but one must start somewhere. Pray, which school are you educated in. Er-- practice?

[Her fingers have laced before her hopefully, attention very keen indeed.]

[closed-ish]

FLINT

for silver

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

WYSTERIA

for loki

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

BARTIMAEUS

MARCOULF