[OPEN]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria, Marcoulf, Flint, and/or Fitcher & YOU
WHAT: Open log for Wintermarch
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Mix of open and closed prompts; some threads closed to first come first serve and/or contain a few different prompts. Want something specific but don't see it here? Hit me up on discord/plurk/PM/the astral plane, and we can figure something out (or just toss me a wildcard starter if that suits your fancy; I'm pretty flexible). Action brackets aokay if you prefer it over prose.

[see comments below for character specific starters]

Comments

[hornswoggle]

There is a moment's pause. Whatever John had meant to say is superseded by the question Flint greets him with. The suggestion of it passes across his face, flickers in his eyes before he moves into the room and begins dragging a chair towards the fire.

"It proceeds without issue, in spite of the continued complaints about everything from the weather to Kirkwall's continued rationing," John answers smoothly, as his eyes take in the open trunk, the spiced wine, and then linger on Flint's hands. The mess of his knuckles is a tell. The sight is not unfamiliar, but John finds he cannot assume a cause for it. A question forms; John feels the shape of it, but as is fast becoming the norm, he is slow to find the words to put it to.

"I expect it'll be finished by the time you return from the frozen tundra, likely before," he continues, easing into the chair.

A second year wintering this far South is taking it's toll. John has some terrible inclination to suggest they board the Walrus and simply leave. It is acknowledged and set aside; it's old habit now. The impulse finds no purchase, but it persists.

"Is your presence on this venture petty punishment, or are you looking forward to sorting out the troubles of mountain villages?"

John assumes the answer: petty punishment. The fractures within the department are well known to him, would be well known if John had not taken up his own role within the structure.

[katabasis]

The look Flint gives him is answer enough - some combination of long suffering and bone dry humor. "The point was made that, given the variety of work to hand, it might be best to oversee it directly."

The wool shirt is tucked in neatly to pad between the trunk's wall and a small stack of books already in residence; the cup at his heel is shifted onto the hearthstone and refreshed from the pitcher, then passed to Silver.

"I expect you'll have the particulars of your theater troupe whipped into order by then as well."

[hornswoggle]

"I suspect I'm going to be disappointed by that venture," John admits. The cup is warm from the combination of Flint's palm and the sputtering fire. John fits his palm into the space Flint's hand had been as he eyes the trunk's contents. "But that's no reason not to try."

At the least, it would be an interesting diversion. As far as opening salvos go within a position, John's sure he can do worse.

"Would you like me to accompany you?"

[katabasis]

A fresh shirt has been fetched from the dwindling pile meant for the trunk. He is already in the process of folding it - turning in sleeves across his knee.

"I told Warden von Skraedder that, should anything happen here while we're away, you'd be able to assist in taking control of the situation. There's no reason we should both freeze to death."

All this said easily and without looking up, the rings on his battered hand catching in the orange fire light as he goes unhurried about the business of folding and finding some space to pad with the shirt.

[hornswoggle]

"I see."

The reasoning is sound. John finds no reason to object other than his awareness of the fissure between them that has refused to vanish over time. Yes, one of them should be on hand to represent their interest. Yes, it is better John stay. There are many reasons for it beyond simply their most immediate interests. The ship is here. John is less likely to be useful in the snow.

But still, he absorbs that information and finds himself unsatisfied. There's nothing to do for it. John drinks his wine and watches the comforting gleam of rings on Flint's fingers. His own contribution sits there, wrought of carefully chosen stone and silver, blessed with blood and fire. (John's own blood; what is a few more drops set against all that he's already spilled on Flint's behalf?)

"Should I refrain from asking what happened to your hands?" John asks finally, finding no reason to argue for his presence on this trip and veering instead towards a more obviously sensitive topic.

[katabasis]

He has turned his attention to the arrangement of a traveling writing case, checking first that its contents are secure and then that the box has ample padding surrounding it in the chest. The judicious addition of a rolled pair of socks sees one of the case's corners safely buffered, and there is no pause before he answers.

"A difference of opinion.”

Now there is the hesitation. Or maybe it is merely a moment of distraction consumed by the question of where and how best to pack a series of papers. Eventually he adds, "I'm fairly confident Rutyer will survive."

[hornswoggle]

"Shame," is John's first, flippant reply. There's perhaps some truth in it: replacing opposition with more pliable candidates would be easier than trying to maneuver the present department heads. But the broader implications of such a clash stick in John's mind. The brunt of the fallout between the department heads has fallen to Flint. John knows this, and has been at a loss as to how to repair it. The idea that things have somehow become worse—

"What opinion warranted blows?"

[katabasis]

It's the question he should have some ready answer for. But he finds when he turns to reach for it, what waits there is jumbled, unsorted. So instead what he says is, "The world, and his place in it," as if that means anything.

And then he hums dismissively, packing away papers and folding in a woolen undercoat over the whole assortment. It's not a satisfying answer; it is unpleasantly partial. He tries adding, "I'd be shocked if I were the first person to throw a punch at him. It's an act of grace the man isn't walking around with one constant blackened eye."

[hornswoggle]

There's a noncommittal hum from John in answer as he considers these two statements. Neither satisfy. John has to try to glean from them what he should be most concerned with, and that's difficult in their present state.

"Should we be expecting reprisals?" is what he finally settles on. If there were a moment to weaken Flint's position further, it may very well be when he's away and isolated.

Please keep that ring on, he'd like to say. But calling attention to it seems like a foolish thing to do. If Flint hasn't divined it's purpose, then it's best for everyone that the ring is left alone to quietly do it's work while John quietly tries to fortify Flint's position here. Not so long ago, it was a given that John would have done this. Now, working on Flint's behalf seems fraught again for much more complicated reasons than him thinking John was an idiot.

[katabasis]

"I doubt it will be at all relevant to us," he says, and that is not a lie.

In order: a series of socks, a knife in its sheath, a chartbook which fits nowhere except on the top of the pile inside the chest. And then he is finished; Flint closes and secures the battered trunk, then reaches out to take the cup from Silver.

"I plan to make an offer to the mages."

[hornswoggle]

There is a moment of contact: Flint's fingers grazing his own as John relinquishes the cup. It does not distract from what Flint has spoken aloud. John's expression sharpens. He leans forward slightly, though a moment later he becomes aware of their positions in the room, that the space between them will not close neatly as it should.

"Offering them what, exactly?"

John can guess. At this point, he is more acutely aware than ever of what mages may want and their own unique position to at least offer to assist them in their quest to obtain it.

[katabasis]

"A partnership. They have no fast friends among the division heads - for all that the Provost is a Rifter, I get the distinct sense he would prefer to make the distinction between the two more clear to the Chantry, not leverage the fact that it isn't. It helps them, and secures our place here. More importantly," he says, taking a drink from the cup. The spiced wine is heavy, but the warmth is the point more than the taste is. "An alliance with Southern Mages makes for a good spear point by which we can secure our place while this war is happening instead of hoping the Divine March stops at Minrathous."

He offers the cup back, hand warm from its shape.

"What we helped them take from the Circles. That capital might be used now for something which benefits us both were we to find something we agreed on."

[hornswoggle]

"It's a good offer," John says slowly, receiving back the cup in the same breath as he processes this plan. "I believe we have friendly relations among enough of them that even were we met with skepticism, they would make an argument on our behalf."

Inevitably, John feels the cinch of a noose, the clutch of the trap he's caught himself in. There is the pressure of knowing an advantage and refusing to press it.

He continues on, pressing past the sensation.

"To which of them will you make your offer?"