[open]

[heirring]

WHO: Flint, Wysteria, Miriam, Cassius & You
WHAT: Catch-All
WHEN: Post-dreams, nebulously Guardian-ish
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Warnings (if any) in subject lines.

((OOC NOTE: Anything in bold is closed to one thread, though group threads a-okay.
Feel free to turn this into action brackets if The Spirit Moves You.
Wildcards welcome, bespoke starters available upon request.))

Comments

flint;

[katabasis]

BUSINESS

Time is short. This much is a constant.

And so while it isn't impossible to find Flint at work in the division office, for inevitably that is a function of his role, it is rare to be at one's leisure there. The door is locked due to some previously scheduled meeting. Or he is away for the afternoon and the office has been left in Matthias' care. Or he is in the middle of some pressing work, and the greeting he gives is nearer to 'State your business' than it is a cordial welcome and an invitation to sit in the spare chair before the heavy walnut desk.

But luck (or a particular brand of industry) may catch him leaving early one afternoon. Flint pauses, grudgingly puts his arm the rest of the way into his coat, then pulls and locks the office shut behind him.

"You have from here to the ferry."

For there is work removed from the island to tend to as well.

One of the mercantile ships under Riftwatch's command has been anchored in close at the end of the Kirkwall quay, and is in the agonizing process of being heeled over to scrape and re-tar her hull. It's a touchy thing, this business of tipping the great big ship onto its side without ruining the dockyard or the ship or both. And while there's a master of works in the yard shouting orders in regimented rhythm to guide the hands through the ship's cranking over, Flint too is there at the fringe overseeing the work with some uncharacteristic pinch of anxiety stark in his face.

Which is a different entirely breed of misery from the flat expression he adopts when discovered in the study of a certain Hightown estate. Oskar Lorenz may be a well to do tradesman, but he certainly throws Wintersend parties like a lord. Is it any wonder that someone with a notoriously reserved disposition might desire some respite from the music and conversation?

from here to the ferry

[venenifer]

"I wanted to introduce myself, Commander," says the elf who approaches from the side, all but scurrying to keep up despite his straight posture and serious expression.
"Brother Gideon. I work in the infirmary, and as a field medic, which puts me in your division."

He doesn't expect a handshake, and doesn't offer.

[katabasis]

Which is for the best, given that his expectations appear likely to be fulfilled. Flint doesn't slow and he certainly doesn't pivot toward the healer hurrying along beside him. Instead, he secures the ledger under his arm slightly higher. There is no break in his stride.

"All right."

What a promising welcome.

[venenifer]

Slowing to a stop, Gideon waits until the Commander is several paces away when he adds, raising his voice slightly,

"I thought I might harvest some healthy organs for the black market, while I'm here."

[katabasis]

In answer, volume pitched in deference to the (still widening) distance:

"I believe a full compliment of empty jars may be found in the Research division workshops if you have failed to bring your own."

[venenifer]

In the Study

[truthtied]

Really, it's not so different from any number of functions she attended over the years as Ambassador. Be gracious, be graceful. Be firm when someone with more presumption than sense tries to push boundaries. It does all become a bit much after a point, even for her and she excuses herself to take a bit of air.

It's a little disappointing to find she's not alone. She defaults to deference, the hierarchy of the place still a bit slippery, "Pardon me, Ser. I hadn't realized this room was occupied."

[katabasis]

The man in the study is built all broad, square and solid in the way that a certain age of aging men as sometimes prone to. With the shaved close crop of his hair and the weather beaten quality of his face, the exceptionally dark coat and the half unbuttoned mismatched waistcoat beneath it, the black shirt with what from a distance resembles some delicate pale floral pattern at the collar and up close resolves into a series of embroidered skulls, he cuts a strangely rakish and almost surreally easily stereotyped figure there in the muffled study of Lorenz' Hightown estate. It is rather like walking through a door in a nice house and being surprised by a thief dressed all in black. Or like walking through a door in a nice house and discovering a storybook pirate.

(It's the second on. It's amazing what jumped up Kirkwall elite will allow any figure with a little romance to get away with; he's been allowed to keep his sword and belt knife.)

"Think nothing of it."

He closes the book in his hands and places it back up onto the shelf.

[truthtied]

They are two diametrically opposed figures as she steps fully into the room, her own attire the loose flow of a Rivain gown, dark hair pulled up in loose black curls. It's similar to the chitons she wore on Themyscira and she moves with the confidence and grace a familiar garment brings. The belt of (very normal, unremarkable and absolutely not faintly glowing) gold rope at the waist and the silver bracelets on her wrists have so far passed as the sort of eccentricity that can be forgiven of a mysterious newcomer from the much rumored Riftwatch. She offers the man a small bow and a smile.

"It's heartening to know I'm not the only one who could use a moment away from the festivities. Our host has been very generous in his preparations." Which is perhaps more charitable a description than being in a ballroom full of incredibly drunk Kirkwall elite is obnoxious deserves.

on the way to the ferry

[staysail]

"Privateering," is what Darras offers instead of a word of greeting.

He doesn't easily slot into the role of a subordinate. That's the trouble with joining up with a structured organization after years of captaining on your own, to say nothing of a lifetime spent disdaining organizations. And while Flint can't want (nor should he expect) a bootlicker, there remains a process to all of this, one that does not allow Darras to sail away without saying a word to anyone.

He tends to walk at a slower pace, and to keep up this afternoon he has to quicken his step--which Darras manages to do casually, with a little smile to himself.

"I never did get a final word on Riftwatch's position on it, as a practice. But here I'm thinking, if someone were to come by some information that would lead to a great deal of gold making their way into the coffers, surely that could only be looked upon as a kindness."

puts thumb over timestamp......... but no pressure either

[katabasis]

"Riftwatch's position is the one shared by every civilized nation on the continent. Which is to say, I believe it requires the Viscount's signature on a piece of paper saying what you can and can't haul back to Riftwatch's coffers in an effort to see that the man in question receives his due without embarrassment."

Given the spontaneity of the subject, it is a remarkably ready answer. Flint doesn't even have to shorten his stride to give it much less fix Darras with something so maladroit as a sidelong glance. But afterward, before they have fully traversed the length of the corridor and passed beyond it into the stairwell--

Well, afterward he does turn his head to look.

"How much and where from?"

i know no kings or timestamps

[staysail]

Darras had kept pace, nodding at the practicality of the response. Yes, a signature on a piece of paper. A limitation on what might be claimed. A game of politics. All very sensible. They're both of them sensible men.

When Flint's attention comes to him, Darras permits himself just a little grin. They're both of them pragmatic men.

"The Amaranthine. There's a cluster of islands. 'How much' varies in every telling of the tale, but I have it in good authority that it would be enough to give a cut to the Viscount for that signature, and still have enough leftover for Riftwatch to throw a very merry Satinalia in Cloudreach. Or however we saw fit to use it. If we were getting in the business of privateering."

[katabasis]

If they were getting into the business of privateering, having the funds with which to bribe the Viscount, reassure ruffled Antivan feathers and anything between the two would certainly go some distance to smooth the entry into such a business.

"I trust the persons who banked on these islands in the first place are no longer in the position to miss the reserve should it disappear."

Or that whatever Darras has planned conveniently ducks being easily pegged as responsible for the loss. The man is hardly unpracticed at this.

[staysail]

"Hard to miss anything other than your life when your head's off."

And there's no arguing with that. Or coming back from that, either. Their footsteps on the stairwell echo, the unforgiving stone of the Gallows bouncing the sound back and forth between the walls. It would make for a good cover if anyone were discussing piracy, but for a conversation on honest privateering, it's just noise.

Darras, an honest man, does capitulate one important bit of information: "We may have a bit of a race to get to it first." Not problematic enough to be called a snag, per se. Just information. "We'd need to head to Llomerryn first, and then from there a straight sail provided the weather holds. But we could manage it--so long as Riftwatch is officially in support."