WHO: Fitcher + Wysteria + Flint & You WHAT: Catch-all WHEN: Firstfall-ish WHERE: Kirkwall and stuff. NOTES: Will update if necessary. Feel free to grab me if you want a specific starter/wildcard me, baby.
That's hardly irregular. They have a talent for it. What is uncommon is that as they'd gone over planning the details of this ostensibly joint ventures between the two divisions and had reached that point they regularly do - the one in which Flint bristles, and Byerly presses, and Flint gets sharp (or the exact order only with the roles reversed) -, Flint had instead knocked back his glass of whiskey and calmly as if remarking on the weather had said, 'I'll fight you for it.'
The small courtyard in which they find themselves is not, strictly speaking, empty save for them. Being one of the faster ways out of doors from a higher floor by a narrow back stairwell means they are likely to have some kind of small audience either coming or going (or gawking). But it's quiet, and private enough, and there is a low retaining wall for a struggling hedgerow that makes for a good resting place for the bottle and cups that have come down with them.
[ There are certain rules that Byerly, historically, has tried to follow. One of the prominent ones is: no dueling when drunk. And if one is to duel when drunk, one certainly should not be using live steel. And if the two preceding rules are broken, then they must be broken with someone whom one trusts utterly and completely.
By certainly doesn't trust Flint. And he is, if not drunk, then tipsy. And in his mind, the thought is resounding: this would be a perfect way to dispatch a fellow who knows rather too many of your secrets (a thought he has, very likely, because a few years hence he'd orchestrated just such a death - not on his behalf, nor to protect his own secrets, nor by his own hand, but on behalf of the throne through an agent rather more deadly than he).
But here he is. And for some reason, as he hefts his blade, he's in dreadfully good spirits. Sometimes, you do a stupid thing in the name of fun. ]
If I survive that long. I suspect you shall butcher me by round two. Rutyer chops upon the ground. Did you know, I've never done one of these before? I've always prided myself on being sensibly craven.
[ When he lifts his sword, though, there is a certain assuredness. His feet are light on the ground, his height tensed and waiting. ]
You've no cause to be overly concerned, [he says, working his shoulder and elbow for a moment before falling into place across from Byerly.] I don't much care for pork.
[It is likely the tempering effects of the whiskey, or perhaps there is simply something satisfying about the imminent pleasure of choosing not to filet Byerly when an alternative has presented itself so readily; regardless, some flicker of humor moves at the corner of Flint's mouth behind the bristle of his beard in that squaring up moment of not-quite-stillness. There is something upright to his bearing even here—
He lunges, high and direct—a good tempered opening strike more fit to some fencing school master of a mind to educate an unruly pupil than a fearsome northern seas pirate. The first crack of steel rings like a bell in the courtyard.]
[The clash of steel on steel is so loud in the closed room.
With a majority of the furniture pushed to the margins of the room and the carpet rolled back, Flint and Gwenaëlle are at their liberty to thrust and parry to their heart's content around the quarters. Each ringing point of contact is punctuated by an attentive twitch from Hardie, the monstrously large dog playing at being an objective third party observer while sprawled across Mhavos' feet.
Twisting hard to bring up his blade in time to parry a particularly clever lunge, Flint pulls some face that must translate roughly to 'Fuck's sake' before his battering riposte cuts past Gwenaëlle's guard and draws the whole set short by the imminent threat to her shoulder.]
Mere stage and show, indeed. [He taps the flat on his blade against her arm.] You're overextending on the advance.
[Mhavos has taken off his boots so he can slowly retract his legs away from the giant canine beast attempting to cozy up to him. He's more interested in watching their fight, extending and retreating, fascinating.]
[The poem, he's read before, and neither loves nor hates it, though he ascribes the writer some significant talent.]
A false spring, fair weather cast over a sinful life. [Clang, clang, whining dog-] If one of you loses something, which medic would you prefer I call?
( gwenaëlle is severely tempted to point her sword at mhavos, but refrains and shows him only her teeth—she is relatively sure that flint wouldn't cut anything off her. she is positive that she hasn't got a snowball's chance in the fade of cutting anything off him. but it does beg the question, )
Which dipshits are still there? Do I know any of their names?
( it becomes clear, in time, why she and flint get along so well. it should probably also become worrying, but if people were going to waste their time worrying about all of the troubling things about either gwenaëlle or flint they would never get anything else done in a day. )
[Two hours into their meeting - they have fallen behind on a pile of work whose deadline has at some point moved from self-imposed (by one or both of them) to a real one - Flint's attention shifts beyond the immediate confines of Madame de Cedoux's office to the world outside her window. He realizes, with mute irritation, that the light is beginning to fail.
More irritating still, it is as if that small measure of understanding regarding the state of the universe beyond the papers between them becomes as a chink in some carefully donned armor plate. Within five minutes of glancing up, Flint finds himself moving to close half half of their work in progress. For all that running messages for the Orlesian Navy between hostile shipping on the Waking Sea may require a new set of codes and a revised signal book to suit, it's hardly as if they're racing to beat tonight's outgoing tide. An hour will not kill anything which was not already dead.]
( oftentimes, it does feel as if every moment is a moment potentially lost—she had set herself the task of doing better in this life, and at every turn she has thus far seemed to believe that that needs must mean doing everything. there is a moment where she looks up from a half-completed thought with faint and not feigned irritation, the sort he might find blankly looking back at him from a mirror some too-occupied days.
but he is right. this will not leave with the tide, and they have been making less and less progress, and his announcement lacks the emphasis of a closing door. she regards her own ink-stained hands, and the dimming light from her window that will soon require lit lamps to counteract, and sighs. )
I had better fetch a shawl, then.
( —not from far. there is a small assortment of shawls and wraps and a full cloak hanging in the corner of her office, most of which have probably at some point been carelessly discarded and then simply not taken back to her quarters. )
[Once she's wrapped against the murky late autumn air, it's not far to find their way out of doors either. A brief walk, a shorter staircase, and they find themselves climbing out into dusky early evening on the Gallows' middle battlements. The air cuts chill here, though the wall is high enough that if they trend toward to the inside the sea air cuts up up and overhead (considerably over, in her case). But the smell is distinctly crisp and sharpening thing: a forewarning of things to come. Winter on the Waking Sea is a strange creature even here, tucked among the narrow passages which have allowed Kirkwall to make itself into such a dominant trading force.
(If they were to look, the harbor mouth is a clear cut out shape in the gloaming. The Twins with their hideous sea chain however are largely invisible from where they walk now.)
His stride falls naturally short to accommodate her as they progress.]
Once the code is finalized, it will need to be communicated to the Orlesian force. Not work I'd trust to a raven.
[In a corner of the recently renovated (whether we are using the term according to the common parlance to refer to the repairs done, or making a tongue-in-cheek reference to the abomination related damage which made said repairs necessity) dining hall, a particular table has been staked out for the evening. This table is the meeting place for a certain weekly and highly exclusive card game hosted by the Most Esteemed Madame Fitcher.
An invitation is required to join the festivities, although rest assured that the lady and her fine company are open to bribery: bring along an offering of a decent bottle for sharing, a particularly fat purse, or an especially juicy bit of gossip and you're all but assured a seat at the table.
Fitcher herself may or may not be in attendance. Conversely, she is sometimes a solo player - working her way through an elaborate spread of solitaire alone at the table. Or she is late - arriving all fresh faced from being out in the chilling autumn weather and with the opening line of, 'Oh good, you've started without me. Pour me a glass, won't you?'
Sometimes the game is Wicked Grace. Sometimes it is Primero or Bassett or that nasty Antivan cheaters game, Hens & Foxes. What is true always true is that every week, someone is playing.]
Amos likes to gamble. His favorite game is soft G pachinko, or as the Belt calls it, pachinko. He also likes dice games, but cards are fine. He's only ever played card games that end in fist fights and the occasional homicide, but it seems unlikely here, which is novel.
"I got the rules," he says. He's wearing a cheaply made shirt, the sleeves are rolled up, revealing the shard in his elbow. He's an easy mark, or he looks like one.
Darktown has been amusing, in its way.
"What's the pot? Money?" He pulls out some bronze and silver coins, enjoying how antiquated it feels to hold physical money. It's like some kind of historical vid. The coins even clink as they hit each other, falling into a pile on the table.
Ellis is not so much an avid gambler as he is a graceful loser. Apparently content to be present at the table and enjoy the company while parting with a little of his money, he's not a regular by any means but this isn't his first appearance at Fitcher's table.
A nod to Amos, eyes settling on his elbow then flicking to the clatter of coins.
"Money. Sometimes collateral, if someone's feeling adventurous. I lost a decent knife that way."
Without any real heat to the admission. Yes, it was a good knife. No, he's not very concerned over it's fate. He taps a coin against the edge of the table absently as he speaks.
[The POP! of the confusion grenade bursting in the middle of the workshop is just loud enough that it might draw some unlucky passerby from outside the Research division workshops to stick their head in. Far more likely, however, is that whatever division members happen to be working in the same hour as Wysteria, will find themselves at the mercy of the noxious and disorienting fumes she's just inadvertently bombed the room with.
Wysteria herself, wearing a thick pair of elbow high leather gloves and a work apron over her general frippery, is in the middle of the explosion's cloud. Unhurt unless you count how she has yelped and fallen backwards off her stool and onto the floor (it is not that kind of grenade), but coughing, she is seemingly too baffled to discern exactly how best to untangle herself and escape her little experiment gone wrong.]
wow, it was so nice of everyone to leave this here for me
[Julius isn't in Research anymore, but he's not infrequently passing through, either to speak to people on Sashamiri business, or out of simple curiosity. His timing is unlucky today, as he's just passing the open door when the pop is followed by a wave of fumes and Wysteria's yelp.
Covering his mouth with a handkerchief is something, but it doesn't really make it much smarter to walk toward whatever went wrong.]
[The answer is, immediately speaking, rather unspecific. The series of coughing emanating from the cloud of discolored, bitter smoke which envelops the far side of the room could indeed mean anything, as might the clatter of the stool as somewhere in there, Wysteria finds a handhold on it - attempts to find her feet - and succeeds in simply turning it toppling over.
It's probably fine.
At the very least, there are no successive pops or bangs.]
[She is sitting on a step in one of the Gallows stairwells and cannot fully remember how she arrived there. It is, she thinks very loudly (sometimes one's thoughts are like that - very near and large behind the eyes), rather odd, but is pleased to find herself largely unconcerned.
No trouble. She will sit here for a moment and be perfectly comfortable until she recalls what she is doing and where she is going.
Sounds of footsteps either coming up the stairs or going down them dredges the point of her focus to the present (and away from a serious contemplation of the pattern of dust motes floating in the pale sunlight filtering through the narrow window above her). She scoots amiably to one side on the step so that the footsteps might pass, however cannot quite stop herself from asking—]
Pardon me. Would you tell me which part of the Gallows this is?
[Pausing on the stairs, Benedict meets her gaze with mild bewilderment; Wysteria has been with Riftwatch for some time, hasn't she?
He hesitates for quite a while before he answers, having to first ensure, by looking around and seeing no one else, that this isn't some kind of prank.]
[Ah, excellent. Not far from her room then. How lovely it would be to lie down for a time. The thought drifts vaguely about the air, diaphanous and rather like trying to catch smoke, and for a long moment she is distracted by the texture of it. What floor of the old mage tower are they nearest? Come to think of it, which floor is her room on—?
With a soft start, she realizes it has been some seconds since something was asked of her. What was it?]
Oh, [A laugh, attempting for dismissive rather than embarrassed.] Yes, yes of course. Quite all right. But thank you for asking. It's very kind of you.
There is theoretically some point during the course of the month where Wysteria is unaccompanied in the dining hall, perhaps enjoying a meal or minding her own business. Aleksei hasn't been watching specifically for it, but when the opportunity presents itself, he appears directly across from her, having occupied with the opposite seat with a wide grin.
This is an ambush.
"I did very much like your gift," he says, by way of greeting as he reaches to lift whatever is most easily snatched from the edge of her plate. "Did you make it yourself?"
The easy target for theft is a piece of toast, only moments ago smeared with a spoonful of apricot jam. Wysteria is too busy juggling her fork and the book she's had her nose buried in through breakfast to successfully intercept him.
"You."
As far as single word responses go, it's a fantastically poisonous indictment.
[Wysteria is wearing gloves this afternoon. They are sensible leather things fit for the handling of a grand variety of more caustic materials, though her responsibilities in this particular hour's work involves rather more passing instruments and containers upon request to Joselyn Smythe than it does pitting her fingers all over anything directly. Mostly, Wysteria is observing the work.
—While talking, because she simply cannot help herself.]
You recall of course the clippings which were taken during our trip to Bierstagg. I am most pleased to report that I've successfully induced them to germinate, or however you might describe it when fungi takes to a particular environment. I have been considering, given what we know of the effects of many of the growing things found in that place, whether it might be somehow adapted for Riftwatch's use in the war.
I can think of several practical applications immediately, ( is probably not something that would comfort anyone overhearing this conversation, or its context. joselyn, presently engaged in sensitive antidote work, should probably also consider not splitting quite so much of her attention to devote thought to those several applications,
but this is familiar territory. and they'll probably be fine. )
Particularly given what happened to Vanadi.
( the growths. she still sounds more interested than appalled, even if she had had some honest sympathy in amongst her very obvious interest in collecting samples. )
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FLINT;
a side courtyard, the gallows (byerly + ota rubberneckers);
That's hardly irregular. They have a talent for it. What is uncommon is that as they'd gone over planning the details of this ostensibly joint ventures between the two divisions and had reached that point they regularly do - the one in which Flint bristles, and Byerly presses, and Flint gets sharp (or the exact order only with the roles reversed) -, Flint had instead knocked back his glass of whiskey and calmly as if remarking on the weather had said, 'I'll fight you for it.'
The small courtyard in which they find themselves is not, strictly speaking, empty save for them. Being one of the faster ways out of doors from a higher floor by a narrow back stairwell means they are likely to have some kind of small audience either coming or going (or gawking). But it's quiet, and private enough, and there is a low retaining wall for a struggling hedgerow that makes for a good resting place for the bottle and cups that have come down with them.
Flint draws his sword, turning it in hand.]
Best of five?
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By certainly doesn't trust Flint. And he is, if not drunk, then tipsy. And in his mind, the thought is resounding: this would be a perfect way to dispatch a fellow who knows rather too many of your secrets (a thought he has, very likely, because a few years hence he'd orchestrated just such a death - not on his behalf, nor to protect his own secrets, nor by his own hand, but on behalf of the throne through an agent rather more deadly than he).
But here he is. And for some reason, as he hefts his blade, he's in dreadfully good spirits. Sometimes, you do a stupid thing in the name of fun. ]
If I survive that long. I suspect you shall butcher me by round two. Rutyer chops upon the ground. Did you know, I've never done one of these before? I've always prided myself on being sensibly craven.
[ When he lifts his sword, though, there is a certain assuredness. His feet are light on the ground, his height tensed and waiting. ]
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[It is likely the tempering effects of the whiskey, or perhaps there is simply something satisfying about the imminent pleasure of choosing not to filet Byerly when an alternative has presented itself so readily; regardless, some flicker of humor moves at the corner of Flint's mouth behind the bristle of his beard in that squaring up moment of not-quite-stillness. There is something upright to his bearing even here—
He lunges, high and direct—a good tempered opening strike more fit to some fencing school master of a mind to educate an unruly pupil than a fearsome northern seas pirate. The first crack of steel rings like a bell in the courtyard.]
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book club, the provost's apartments (gwen + mhavos);
With a majority of the furniture pushed to the margins of the room and the carpet rolled back, Flint and Gwenaëlle are at their liberty to thrust and parry to their heart's content around the quarters. Each ringing point of contact is punctuated by an attentive twitch from Hardie, the monstrously large dog playing at being an objective third party observer while sprawled across Mhavos' feet.
Twisting hard to bring up his blade in time to parry a particularly clever lunge, Flint pulls some face that must translate roughly to 'Fuck's sake' before his battering riposte cuts past Gwenaëlle's guard and draws the whole set short by the imminent threat to her shoulder.]
Mere stage and show, indeed. [He taps the flat on his blade against her arm.] You're overextending on the advance.
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[The poem, he's read before, and neither loves nor hates it, though he ascribes the writer some significant talent.]
A false spring, fair weather cast over a sinful life. [Clang, clang, whining dog-] If one of you loses something, which medic would you prefer I call?
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Which dipshits are still there? Do I know any of their names?
( it becomes clear, in time, why she and flint get along so well. it should probably also become worrying, but if people were going to waste their time worrying about all of the troubling things about either gwenaëlle or flint they would never get anything else done in a day. )
Dipshits aside. Let me try that again.
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the gallows (petrana);
More irritating still, it is as if that small measure of understanding regarding the state of the universe beyond the papers between them becomes as a chink in some carefully donned armor plate. Within five minutes of glancing up, Flint finds himself moving to close half half of their work in progress. For all that running messages for the Orlesian Navy between hostile shipping on the Waking Sea may require a new set of codes and a revised signal book to suit, it's hardly as if they're racing to beat tonight's outgoing tide. An hour will not kill anything which was not already dead.]
I could do with some fresh air.
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but he is right. this will not leave with the tide, and they have been making less and less progress, and his announcement lacks the emphasis of a closing door. she regards her own ink-stained hands, and the dimming light from her window that will soon require lit lamps to counteract, and sighs. )
I had better fetch a shawl, then.
( —not from far. there is a small assortment of shawls and wraps and a full cloak hanging in the corner of her office, most of which have probably at some point been carelessly discarded and then simply not taken back to her quarters. )
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(If they were to look, the harbor mouth is a clear cut out shape in the gloaming. The Twins with their hideous sea chain however are largely invisible from where they walk now.)
His stride falls naturally short to accommodate her as they progress.]
Once the code is finalized, it will need to be communicated to the Orlesian force. Not work I'd trust to a raven.
[They both know this.]
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cw: discussion of abortion, misogyny, abuse.
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The weekly card game, the gallows (ota, max 4 threads, no turn order, threadjack at will);
An invitation is required to join the festivities, although rest assured that the lady and her fine company are open to bribery: bring along an offering of a decent bottle for sharing, a particularly fat purse, or an especially juicy bit of gossip and you're all but assured a seat at the table.
Fitcher herself may or may not be in attendance. Conversely, she is sometimes a solo player - working her way through an elaborate spread of solitaire alone at the table. Or she is late - arriving all fresh faced from being out in the chilling autumn weather and with the opening line of, 'Oh good, you've started without me. Pour me a glass, won't you?'
Sometimes the game is Wicked Grace. Sometimes it is Primero or Bassett or that nasty Antivan cheaters game, Hens & Foxes. What is true always true is that every week, someone is playing.]
ota, threadjacking welcome.
"I got the rules," he says. He's wearing a cheaply made shirt, the sleeves are rolled up, revealing the shard in his elbow. He's an easy mark, or he looks like one.
Darktown has been amusing, in its way.
"What's the pot? Money?" He pulls out some bronze and silver coins, enjoying how antiquated it feels to hold physical money. It's like some kind of historical vid. The coins even clink as they hit each other, falling into a pile on the table.
Fucking hilarious.
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A nod to Amos, eyes settling on his elbow then flicking to the clatter of coins.
"Money. Sometimes collateral, if someone's feeling adventurous. I lost a decent knife that way."
Without any real heat to the admission. Yes, it was a good knife. No, he's not very concerned over it's fate. He taps a coin against the edge of the table absently as he speaks.
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threadjax
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WYSTERIA;
research workshop, the gallows (ota, one thread);
Wysteria herself, wearing a thick pair of elbow high leather gloves and a work apron over her general frippery, is in the middle of the explosion's cloud. Unhurt unless you count how she has yelped and fallen backwards off her stool and onto the floor (it is not that kind of grenade), but coughing, she is seemingly too baffled to discern exactly how best to untangle herself and escape her little experiment gone wrong.]
wow, it was so nice of everyone to leave this here for me
Covering his mouth with a handkerchief is something, but it doesn't really make it much smarter to walk toward whatever went wrong.]
Hello? Is anyone hurt in there?
waiting just for you~
It's probably fine.
At the very least, there are no successive pops or bangs.]
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a stairwell, the gallows (ota);
No trouble. She will sit here for a moment and be perfectly comfortable until she recalls what she is doing and where she is going.
Sounds of footsteps either coming up the stairs or going down them dredges the point of her focus to the present (and away from a serious contemplation of the pattern of dust motes floating in the pale sunlight filtering through the narrow window above her). She scoots amiably to one side on the step so that the footsteps might pass, however cannot quite stop herself from asking—]
Pardon me. Would you tell me which part of the Gallows this is?
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He hesitates for quite a while before he answers, having to first ensure, by looking around and seeing no one else, that this isn't some kind of prank.]
...the old mage tower.
[He narrows his eyes.]
Are you all right?
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With a soft start, she realizes it has been some seconds since something was asked of her. What was it?]
Oh, [A laugh, attempting for dismissive rather than embarrassed.] Yes, yes of course. Quite all right. But thank you for asking. It's very kind of you.
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This is an ambush.
"I did very much like your gift," he says, by way of greeting as he reaches to lift whatever is most easily snatched from the edge of her plate. "Did you make it yourself?"
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"You."
As far as single word responses go, it's a fantastically poisonous indictment.
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r&d, the gallows (joselyn);
—While talking, because she simply cannot help herself.]
You recall of course the clippings which were taken during our trip to Bierstagg. I am most pleased to report that I've successfully induced them to germinate, or however you might describe it when fungi takes to a particular environment. I have been considering, given what we know of the effects of many of the growing things found in that place, whether it might be somehow adapted for Riftwatch's use in the war.
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but this is familiar territory. and they'll probably be fine. )
Particularly given what happened to Vanadi.
( the growths. she still sounds more interested than appalled, even if she had had some honest sympathy in amongst her very obvious interest in collecting samples. )
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