"If you'd prefer, I can level some absurd threat." He doesn't acknowledge the talk of dabbling — throwing Leander under the cart wouldn't promise much in the way of his own discretion. "Paste up posters about town: Extra, extra. The Vint's a witch."
The splay of a hand, ironic. No doubt Kirkwall whispers of their guests already.
"I can't say how your friend will take this," How much Flint even witnessed. "But I know how mine will. Let Ilias look the other way, allow Leander a bit of leverage. And you and I will keep this cockup from escalating."
Yseult has shown no inclination to their interests; Rutyer, Thranduil dismissed outright. Fazon too much too qunari to quite trust. To whatever ends the Commander has indulged this little venture, he remains the closest they have to an ally. There's an opportunity.
It's a choice that isn't a choice. If John says no, then everything falls apart. He isn't willing to allow that, and he isn't willing to disappear. (He is unwilling to try his chances killing three mages more skilled than he.)
So that leaves this. Being indebted, being known.
"You know I have a vested interest in that," John says finally, looking down, flicking ash again from the tip of the cigarette. "Alright."
For the moment, this is all there can be: acquiescence.
"I'll admit, I was envious," He tells Isaac, offering back the cigarette. "Between you and the Speaker, it was quite the display."
And John saw. Even if he is not entirely sure of how certain things were possible, or what they could even be called, he had seen. Maybe if this night had gone another way, they could have had a wholly different conversation.
"Which part?" He knows perfectly well. "The bit where the horse threw me, or when his trampled the Commander?"
He smokes, lets the night linger. At last,
"In Montsimmard, there was a vault they'd painted. Some Tranquil, I never heard the same name twice. Magnificent. Blue, and purple; gilded constellations. Half the Southern sky." Isaac shakes his head. "I discovered the book much later — the one she'd copied it from."
(Internal note: make Mhavos find him a book about Montsimmard)
That's all there is to be said about it for the moment. They have an arrangement, and providing they make it all the way back to Kirkwall, John can assess the situation then. He has to suppress the urge to try to demand something more, some reassurance of secrecy that will ultimately mean nothing at all.
They go back. Flint is still asleep. Ilias has finished gutting the horse. Leander is by the fire. One can almost pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened, apart from almost everyone being covered in blood and the gutted horse.
Time to pray for a speedy and uneventful journey home.
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The splay of a hand, ironic. No doubt Kirkwall whispers of their guests already.
"I can't say how your friend will take this," How much Flint even witnessed. "But I know how mine will. Let Ilias look the other way, allow Leander a bit of leverage. And you and I will keep this cockup from escalating."
Yseult has shown no inclination to their interests; Rutyer, Thranduil dismissed outright. Fazon too much too qunari to quite trust. To whatever ends the Commander has indulged this little venture, he remains the closest they have to an ally. There's an opportunity.
no subject
So that leaves this. Being indebted, being known.
"You know I have a vested interest in that," John says finally, looking down, flicking ash again from the tip of the cigarette. "Alright."
For the moment, this is all there can be: acquiescence.
"I'll admit, I was envious," He tells Isaac, offering back the cigarette. "Between you and the Speaker, it was quite the display."
And John saw. Even if he is not entirely sure of how certain things were possible, or what they could even be called, he had seen. Maybe if this night had gone another way, they could have had a wholly different conversation.
no subject
He smokes, lets the night linger. At last,
"In Montsimmard, there was a vault they'd painted. Some Tranquil, I never heard the same name twice. Magnificent. Blue, and purple; gilded constellations. Half the Southern sky." Isaac shakes his head. "I discovered the book much later — the one she'd copied it from."
Thumb-to-finger again: the light wicks out.
"I'm in the Infirmary most nights. Find me then."
no subject
(Internal note: make Mhavos find him a book about Montsimmard)
That's all there is to be said about it for the moment. They have an arrangement, and providing they make it all the way back to Kirkwall, John can assess the situation then. He has to suppress the urge to try to demand something more, some reassurance of secrecy that will ultimately mean nothing at all.
They go back. Flint is still asleep. Ilias has finished gutting the horse. Leander is by the fire. One can almost pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened, apart from almost everyone being covered in blood and the gutted horse.
Time to pray for a speedy and uneventful journey home.