open

[bouchonne]

WHO: Byerly & Kitty & you
WHAT: Open log! Assorted prompts!
WHEN: Months of Harvestmere & then Firstfall
WHERE: In and around Kirkwall
NOTES: If you're not into this junk tell me what junk you're into and I'll give you that junk

Prompts in comments my pretties. If none of em catch your fancy, then just throw up something that does.

Comments

[whatthefuckami]

[Hard to say, from this point, if he recognizes her. Fewer people do, outside the Imperium and its holdings--but a new ship in harbor's always something noticeable. And she's something noticeable, too.

She continues on in the same way, like the Lion's someone else's, asking dryly--]

This sailor of yours got a name?

[bouchonne]

[ He touches his chin. ]

I didn't ask.

[whatthefuckami]

Say what the cargo was?

[bouchonne]

Qunari gaatlok.

[whatthefuckami]

[A slight pause--less surprised, on her end, than taking his measure, though she doesn't know (or care) how it reads to him. And then:]

Really.

[bouchonne]

Indeed.

[ A puff on the pipe. ]

[whatthefuckami]

[She turns it over in her mind--not gaatlok in the hold, but the man offering the tale--her eyes steady on his occasionally visible face. (Every puff, another glimpse.)]

You a fence?

[bouchonne]

[ His head tilts slightly to the side. ]

At times.

[whatthefuckami]

[There's a pause, one that might mean she doesn't believe him--or maybe she's still thinking. Hard to say.

Finally--]

What'd he look like?

[bouchonne]

So many questions.

[whatthefuckami]

Yeah. [This is growing irritating.] But you ain't got nothing better to do, do you?

[bouchonne]

[ He puffs on his pipe. ]

Perhaps I don't. But where do you come from, that information is given away for free? Especially since you have no reason to want it, do you?

[whatthefuckami]

[It would be easy, she knows, to pull a knife on him. He doesn't look the type to put up a good fight, and she knows how to subdue the ones that do anyway. With a blade against his throat, pipe clattering on the dock, he might have a little more to say than what he's come up with so far.

But that's not what she wants to do--just what feels like an easy, obvious path forward. Mightn't be worth it, even if she did--he hasn't said anything that takes this story of his into the realm of actually happened. And even if he had...]

Ain't said that. [Whether he knows her or not, she obviously wants the information. She's not about to shy away from that.] Asked you before, and you said you didn't want nothing.

[bouchonne]

That was when you weren't making demands of me. But now it's all about everything I know, what's my contact's name...Why not ask my name first?

[whatthefuckami]

[Her response might come through better in the light: head dipping slightly, eyes widening as if to say well? Little of her expression--something between bored and annoyed and expectant--is liable to come through. If his name matters, then he can give it. It's not what she's here for.

As a general rule, she doesn't give a fuck about the names of random men smoking on the docks at night. That's every Maker-damned pirate waiting to get back on the sea. And occasional fences, too, it turns out.]

[bouchonne]

[ Another long puff, and then: ]

I had thought you'd be a little more vigorous in seeking out someone who might be going behind Captain Rackham's back.

[calicoy]

[Speak of the-]

What now? [He's walking up, having been staring at Anne from the deck for the last however long, and slowly growing bored with waiting for her to bring back the promised rum.] Yes, yes, lovely to meet you, sorry, we're not accepting new crew at the moment, perhaps come morning-...

[All nattered out while he waves to Anne, checks that she has a bottle in her hands and not a blade. Good, good, threat level significantly decreased. If Anne doesn't think he's worth stabbing and throwing into the docks with no witnesses in heavy darkness, he really must not be.]

[But only then does he actually get a proper look at Anne's companion. The shape of him, with his long pipe and hooded cloak... Back to Anne.] I've discovered the better smoking herbs are sold in Hightown, actually.

[whatthefuckami]

[Anne rolls her eyes, for all the good it does in the dark, under a hat, and crosses her arms. Because this whole thing's becoming well more of a pain in the arse than it needs to be, but also so some of the obvious is obvious. Rum, not a knife. Not a fighting stance. This is an irritant, but it's one they have to figure through, not dispose of.]

Ain't buying elfroot. [Since when does she bother with it--but the fuck making the ruckus doesn't need to know that. She juts her chin Byerly's way.] Says someone on the crew's trying to fence the gaatlok.

[No special emphasis on any of it. There isn't any need: Jack knows as well as she that there's not a speck of gaatlok on the Lion, neither before nor after they came into port. Whether that means the liar's on the crew or standing before them, she wants to know.]

[bouchonne]

[ And Byerly just smiles enigmatically and says nothing. ]

[calicoy]

[Cool. Cool cool cool.]

Makes about as much sense as anything that's happened lately. [He paws tentatively toward her rum. He's thirsty.] Is he my long-lost twin? I've always wanted one.

[whatthefuckami]

[She lets Jack take it, not bothering to turn her attention away from the man before them. Once they figure out where the hole in the story lies, they can get the fuck back on the ship and forget about the arsehole claiming to be waiting around for a gaatlok delivery. Until they hit that point, the rum's all Jack's.]

[bouchonne]

Maker, I hope not. I shouldn't wish you drawn into the Rutyer family curse.

[ Another puff on his pipe. ]

[calicoy]

Rutyer... Sounds Ferelden.

[Jack turns to Anne.]

Was he barking at you?

[It's an idle joke, ha ha. It's a question if he's a threat or a bother. It's wondering aloud if his bark has any bite.]

[whatthefuckami]

[She snorts. Still doesn't bother taking her eyes off Byerly Rutyer, sounds Fereldan, though her arms're slowly unfolding themselves.]

Not half enough.

[And, this time to Byerly, one hand idling near her belt:]

Last chance. Got anything you wanna say?

[bouchonne]

[ A grin blossoms across his face. He gestures at her hand with the glowing embers of his pipe and asks, mockingly: ]

Any last words, you mean? My, my. What an escalation.

[ Then, to Jack: ]

I'm a docile little lapdog, I promise. Bark only at rats and enemies. You wouldn't kill such a harmless creature, would you?