faderift | [OPEN]

I. base operations

The (Unofficial) Official Assistant to the Seneschal is determined to be a proper, useful assistant and thus Wysteria has made it her business to stick her nose into everyone else's. Perhaps you've been assigned a menial task - carrying important boxes up ten flights of stairs, draining and scrubbing the baths - in desperate need of being overseen, or there is very important shopping to be done on Riftwatch's behalf which requires Miss Poppell's most discerning eye.

Just don't try to file your latest expense report or acquisitions request with her. There's a growing pile - tower? mountain? - of paperwork in her little corner of the world, and it's almost certainly to be stuffed somewhere around the base of it.

II. research division (closed to whoever gets here first)

From the far side of the workroom comes a fantastic BANG!, followed by a mortified squawk and the sudden smell of burning: paper turning rapidly to ash and singed hair and the strangely musky smell of scorched leather. Wysteria, in her heavy leather work gloves and apron, staggers backward from the plume of smoke billowing from the metal bowl riveted to the table before her. She is coughing and spluttering and only slightly on fire at her very edges.

There's a bucket of water beside the bench, but she pauses briefly to smother her burning sleeve prior to dumping it all over the detritus of the work table. And then whatever was in the bowl BANGS! again, tongues of fire leaping from up through the column of smoke.

"Ack!"

And then the fire (or some burning bit of ash) leaps to the bundle of paper at the edge of the table.

"ACK!"

III. wildcard

Edited 2020-01-09 01:57 (UTC)

I. $$$

There are benefits to receiving a regular stipend, to sleeping in a bed provided to him, and to having the option of at least two hot meals served to him daily. A sensible man (and what else is he is not that?) might every now and again look up and realize he has over time acquired a not inconsiderable bit of a money lying about in the interim. For Marcoulf, that moment of looking up tends to occur roughly once every six months. Consequently, roughly once every six months, arrives the itch to spend that money.

He makes the rounds in no particular order: there is a millinery in Hightown where a half dozen hats might be appraised, tried on, and fussed over; there is a cobbler in some narrow back alley with a dab hand at resoling a favorite pair of boots; a tailor, and a side street market which specializes in imported spirits and dry good and pins and whatever other brickabrack someone with a little spending money might find themselves drawn to.

And then there are the livestock yards with their array of horseflesh - cart horses, and palfrey mares bred for fine ladies, and solid little packing animals, and cobbs of every shape and size. Horses don't stay long in Kirkwall; the majority of them are coming or going, bound for more profitable horse markets elsewhere. And while he may not be in the market for buying himself - he and the roan mare kept in Riftwatch's stables, eating Riftwatch's hay, being shod with Riftwatch's iron have an understanding -, there is a sort of pleasure to be gleaned from the atmosphere of the whole business. Anyway it doesn't hurt to keep an eye out. Riftwatch needs horses as much as any other make-do fighting force might. Nevermind that keeping an eye out here mostly amounts to loitering at the fringe of the auction yard where the horses might be put through their paces, or surreptitiously petting a series of soft velvet horses noses.

II. uninvited guests (closed to whoever gets here first)

He is determined that the big gray griffon should not be sour about returning to the eyrie when taken from it, and that means taking a series of jaunts away from Kirkwall for a day or two at a time, camping in whatever back wood or mountaintop is convenient, and then wandering back to the Gallows once the hen has stopped stamping and fussing and chewing on things to express her disinterest with being away from the comforts of home.

The weather is glum. The nights are bitter cold. And while danger is unlikely - how much trouble can one really find in the middle of nowhere? -, the griffon is enough of an asset that the work can't simply be done alone. It requires a partner on the off chance that something goes wrong.

Case in point: a bear, freakishly early to rise from its winter hibernation, stumbles into camp just as they (griffon, Marcoulf, and their plus one) have begun to get comfortable. The smell of the cook fire in the stale winter might have something to do with it, but mostly it's just awful luck. Marcoulf, sitting on his heels, looks up from the task of scraping the thing soup from the bottom of the pot. His hand stops. He blinks at the bear. The bear blinks back.

III. wildcard

I. office hours

--is a phrase which evidently carries very little meaning to the mind of Commander Flint. While it's true that are a few hours in the day where he might be found in the Division office working through paperwork, reading reports, handing out order, or humming and hawing over the series of maps sprawled over the large work table he'd had hauled up for this expressly purpose, it is equally likely to find Flint on the Riftwatch docks overseeing the work there. It's winter and the miscellaneous small craft in the organization's piecemeal fleet require hauling out and refinishing, and given the recent news out of Val Chevin, it is in everyone's interest to see that everything that can be done to make the larger craft fit to fight through what remains of winter has been.

Both haunts are to be expected, as is his sometimes presence (as Captain, not Commander) in whatever sketchy sailor's pub the Walrus crew has taken over this month. What may be less explicable are his occasional appearances in Hightown, leaving the house of a wealthy noblewoman, or his returning late to the Riftwatch stables one night dressed all in black, his mount steaming with exertion in the cold air.

II. kirkwall (closed to whoever gets here first)

The crews responsible for the brawl on the Kirkwall quay may have been slapped down either by the Guard or by whatever authority their respective masters had, but the sentiment (No Vints) is evidently ubiquitous enough and Flint conspicuous enough in his relation to the place that late one evening it warrants the sudden appearance of three unpleasant strangers at the bottom of a narrow back alley stairwell as he is in the process of descending it.

Flint pauses midway to assess the trio waiting at the bottom. He then turns, meaning to simply make his way back the way he'd come, only to find a fourth figure at the top of the stairs.

Ah.

III. wildcard

I. card night (one thread please, no turn order; feel free to threadjack as you feel compelled)

Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's the depressing state of affairs over in Kirkwall with all those sick and dying leeching out into the air. Maybe it's all the doom and gloom from the northern territories having leaked all the way here like molasses slowly moving downhill.

Or maybe it's just an off night. Either way, the air about Fitcher's card table these last few weeks has been decidedly a little more gloomy that she'd prefer. Which is why tonight she's brought no less than three bottles of wine and an exquisitely battered viola along with the usual deck of cards.

"Look at all of you." Thunk go the bottles as they're deposited at the center of the table. "Grim specters, one and all. Is this what the business in Nevarra looked like up close?" She sets her heel up on on the bench and the viola across her knee. "Don't mind me. Someone deal while I see if this dreary old thing can be tuned."

II. lowtown tavern (closed to whoever gets here first)

A sensible clerk - provided for in nearly every way by the organization for which she toils, and perfectly capable of wiling away the least pleasant weeks of winter warm and content in the Gallows has no reason to be in Lowtown this season. Not with all the sick around. And yet there Fitcher is, occupying some little table in one of the drearier public houses. She is in the company of a nondescript man with hair the color of forgettable. After a short interval, a purse is traded between them and the lad (is he younger or not? Hard to say) slides out of his chair, wishes her a good day, and takes his leave.

Fitcher tucks the purse into her coat, then fetches up her drink. Never let a drink someone else has purchased go to waste if it can be helped.

III. wildcard

There were endless rotas in the Chantry and war (wars plural) did little to change that. Or swapping yours out if you, say, another Sister or a Brother both happened to have something the other disliked and would rather have so you know, shopping was better. Shopping was out and about, meeting the people, speaking to them, hearing their worries and finding out what might be done.

This is a first here without Revered Mother Liliane watchful gaze or Sister Ariane's - loving, well-meant - hectoring.

Which leaves Iris not-marching (purposeful striding, something Ser Gauvain taught at length) with her list and a smile, all thick Orlesian fresh from Val Royeaux-- "Excuse me? If you could check this over, I was told you were the right lady to speak with and given how supplies have been then I'd have it checked if you could."

On some days, there is a real and palpable satisfaction with being stopped on the way to or from somewhere to review something, or to be asked some little question. Imagine if the Wysteria from Kalvad could see her now! What joy, that girl might have thought, to have some inkling of responsibility - to be trusted and relied upon by strangers simply because of one's reputation or title. On some days as she's getting ready for bed and slipping into her nightshirt, she talks to Ralston's little finger ring to say I told you so.

And then other days, such as this one, she is so dreadfully late for an appointment from someone she knows will never stop talking about it, that she actually freezes when addressed. Once that instant failure of fight or flight unwinds, she is left regarding the sister with the sick look of someone on the verge of drowning, and promptly snatches the list.

"This is all right. It's fine." A cursory examination, ending promptly. Wysteria folds the list over and is about to shove it straight back into Sister Whatever's hands, then turns it back around and unfolds it for a second look. "No, no. We will need twice that in molasses for our visitors from Antiva. Did the kitchens sign off on this? Of course they didn't. And I don't see soap on here at all. And has anyone told you to avoid that wretched master Gartel in Lowtown? We've stopped doing any business with him."

The bang does not surprise Solas as it might others - he is far too accustomed to the sound of magic in practice and people making events of themselves - but the smell of burning grabs his attention and he notes that he might wish to get involved. He's quick to push himself up and begin to make a move, slipping through the research base to track down the source of the problem.

His hand is raised, ready to offer some rather icy assistance (literally), considering it seems as though she does not have this well in hand, so to speak.

Maigc in his hand, he tilts his head, letting the frost sprinkle across the table in front of him, hopefully soothing some of the fire leaping to and fro.

"I hope you do not mind. I thought that you might like some help."

Edited 2020-01-16 23:11 (UTC)

They are less than half a block from the theater - hardly having escaped the flabberghast crowd of other patrons disgorged into the streets in the show's aftermath - when Fitcher starts to laugh out loud. It's a small sound at first, muffled sensibly behind her gloved fist. And then it is a significantly less small sound and significantly less muffled.

Bastien isn't prone to infection, but it's infectious nonetheless—not enough to make him laugh, too, but enough that his more shell-shocked (pardon the anachronism) forward gaze cracks and animates with several soundless, failed attempts to find and form the first word of an explanation for what has just happened to them.

Eventually he settles, ridiculous and self-aware, on, "It is a metaphor."

Oh. Oh where is-- is there anything for her to grab hold of? (Five Sisters if she included herself all bustling about their business and this is Ariane and Gaëlle, maybe a shade of Clara, not now, not now.) Iris swallows, fixes her smile in place. She left before. She was the one who said yes to going away where the fighting had been - still was sometimes, pockets of violence erupting without rhyme or reason - but this is more land and water than a few days on her feet or a horse, letters that might never reach either family.

People who have their own cares and petty squabbles to attend to that she isn't party to.

"The kitchens are far too busy feeding the place to go looking at papers, put on an apron or go." It had more bite with a Free Marcher accent instead of her thick Orlesian but the undercurrent of irritation creeps in because now more time is being wasted and people are going to be fed the wrong thing or not at all if it's not done right. "We have we stopped doing business with master Gartel? What's so wretched about him?"

Which prompts a fabulously undignified cackle from her. The sound carries, pleasantly loud in the narrow street. She doesn't bother to ask For what?; clearly Bastien has no option but to desperately clarify.

If there is any relief to be found in the smothering of the spreading fire, it certainly doesn't show in Wysteria's face. Instead, she hisses and hops from foot to foot, and promptly yanks her leather apron off to toss it promptly over the whole bench - soggy papers, bowl hissing smoke, ash, and all.

Wysteria slaps it all over, adding just smothering the mess to Solas' rather more elegant efforts.

"The fumes," she explains, as if that is any kind of explanation at all.

Edited 2020-01-20 23:31 (UTC)

"Well the kitchens can hardly expect to get what they need if they can't be bothered to ask for it properly." This said absently as Wysteria produces a pen from somewhere in the twist of her hair so she can mark up the list properly.

"As for Master Gartel, he shorted us terribly on our last two orders and has yet to make up the difference. He may insist that it was the warehouse responsible for all the sawdust, but we hardly have the time to inspect every ibdividual bag of flour as it's delivered. So best to avoid his business. The extra trouble isn't worth what seems like such a reasonable price. No, I would discuss the matter with— well, whomever his immediate competition is if you can locate them. Perhaps you can play them off one another for a proper bargain."

"Each, ah," he says.

Then he needs a moment. Not to organize the bullshit he's about to invent. Just to enjoy the laughing, like a song, in respectful silence.

"Each of les chats represents a period in Orlesian history, with Ancien Deutéronome as something akin to the Council of Heralds, deciding which facet of the Empire should triumph."

"Ah!" It's a singularly delighted gasp — a reaction fit for conjuring rabbits out of fancy hats or a particularly clever card trick. In essence, it is the only suitable response to such an ass pull.

"That certainly adds a rather shocking subtext to the choice of putting Rum Tre Tremper in a lion's mane."

"Truly," Bastien says, and if Rum Tre Tremper is the chat he was most interested in perhaps finding sometime later to buy a drink, he will keep that to himself. "But he is our period of greedy expansion, non? We want Ferelden, we want Nevarra, we want the Marches—in and out, in and out."

Somewhere behind them, in the street, other escaped members of the audience sing several lines of a song and burst into peals of laughter.

"So you see it makes perfect sense."

"Yes, I see it now. In fact, I should be quite sharp with you for not remarking on it during the production so I might have context for the thing." She shoots him a sidelong look, less cutting due to her grin. For a prodigious gambler, Madame Fitcher's poker face is rather poor. "But I suppose I can allow that there was hardly time or opportunity. And the silks were charming even without."

Charming. That's a word for the barely there, laced tight 'garments' the actors had been poured into.

"Maker. It's a shame Satinalia isn't for months yet."

Every now and then, there is a shrill hiss from one of the windows. The draft isn't so severe so as to require constant stoking of the fire to keep the Division apartment bearable, and it's only truly irritating on nights like this one when the wind is blowing especially hard, but the note it shrieks is gloomy and unpleasant. Flint has elected to ignore it entirely. Any conscious recognition of it might tug at some latent sailor's superstition, an inclination which he prefers to pretend doesn't exist either. There is no such thing as a good or bad omen, and that is true even for winter winds howling on the eve before setting out for the Vinmarks.

Flint sits near the fireplace regardless. He is in the process of tightly rolling and packing a series of wool garments into the chest at his feet. There is a pitcher set on the hearthstone to keep the contents - some mulled wine of indiscriminate quality - warm and the smell of the spice is strong in the room despite the air running through the room.

"How goes the refit?" is the question he asks the moment Silver arrives in the doorway. The Walrus men have been tasked with whipping the frigate into shape for the winter, for the inevitable action in the Waking Sea in light of the failure of the Val Chevin blockage. It's a good question to ask of her quartermaster.

(It's a better question to ask to keep conversation from straying to swollen knuckles or any indiscreet bruising. Someone has been engaged with inelegant work.)

That was, depending on perspective, exactly the right or exactly the wrong thing to say. He lights up, steps ahead of her to twist and walk backwards, talks with both hands.

"We must. You must promise me. Not the silks; I would die. But the masks."

"Not the silks? Then what good is it. Honestly, Monsieur Val Royeaux. Your lack of commitment is might almost be demoralizing were I a more delicate woman."

This all said breezily as she trails along behind (before) him.

"Which petichérie chat would you like to be?"

"Have you worked in many kitchens?" It almost comes out as any, sharper than she means it to because no she's not in Orlais, she's not in any of her homes. She's supposed to remember that, isn't she, around all these people who have all their own little squabbles to be getting on with.

A little sigh follows with a nod because yes, this she knows, this she remembers from being stood on empty crates to peek up over counters before the Chantry took her and even after because it's Orlais and no one is given to charity even if they should be. "Has anyone investigated this matter then? I realise that Riftwatch has many other matters to attend to but if he does it to Riftwatch who have duties such as," a gesture in place of words she's not ready to say, "Doesn't it stand to reason he'd do it to others as well who aren't in any position to argue with a man such as that? Who can't go bargaining?"

The first, she ignores in favor of making a few more notes in the margins of the list. It hardly matters where she's worked or in what capacity.

"I have no idea. It was made clear to the gentleman that until he settled the difference with us, Riftwatch would do no further business with him. That is really all I know. I believe it very likely that the rogue was relying on the fact that we take in such a large quantity all at once to hide his sins."

"And if I were to finish my errands and speak to him, that wouldn't be a problem? Kirkwall's Sisters have been, how do I say this politely--" Meaning how does she say it to someone who isn't part of the Chantry's inner workings because there's plenty she could say to Sister Sara for instance on the standards of the faith in Kirkwall but not to a stranger. "Absent in their duties without the guiding hand of a Revered Mother or Grand Cleric; so much chaos spread from here that the lack of it must still be keenly felt."

But you know. Reset the bone or cut that limb off. Move on with your life the way everyone else has to even if your mouth is full of blood and regrets. Though shoddy standards always seemed to be the Kirkwall way and that's going by the memory of a child raised on overheard stories about the place.

"Is there anyone who gives us good prices that I should be looking for? Anyone who might be encouraged to be charitable to the faith or less charitable? It's difficult to predict how someone reacts to the colour of your skirts now."

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.

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."

"I'm not aware of any particular preference, sympathetic or otherwise, to the faith among our typical circle of vendors. Though I can't say that it's ever come up, or that I've ever considered to ask." Wysteria pauses in her annotation to flash a rote, but bright, smile in her direction. "I'm sure you'll do quite well though. Not to worry, dear. But see that you refer to Madame Bailey for any question of fish or eels. I see here there is a dinner being planned that includes them, and she will give you a good price. Evidently we did her son some little favor some time back and she still feels warm to us."

With a slashing motion, Wysteria scratches one item from the list entirely and then surrenders it back to Iris.

"As for the other thing - you may of course do whatever you like with your free time. I can hardly stop you. But if you do fine yourself in conversation with the man, I would appreciate it if you would find some subtle way of telling him to get bent."

"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?"

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.

"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.

There's a moment - a tick of a handful of seconds - where it seems as though Solas isn't entirely sure what to do with himself. He's never seen someone react quite like this, but he finds a sort of devilish glee in it, something that makes a smile twitch onto his lips. Ah, he thinks to himself; Rifters. They are a marvel, are they not?

He leans on his staff, sparks of electricity above him prickling. He can almost hear the laughter.

"Yes, so I see." Head tilted, he does little else for a moment before - "Is there something more I can do to help you? What were you attempting?"

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."

"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?"

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."

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.

"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."

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.

"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."

"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?"

[OPEN]

wysteria

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bastien;

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I refuse to type 'wicked grace face'

silver;

coward!!!

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