faderift | [closed] if you're here and I'm here then who's flying the plane

Entry tags:

james flint,
yseult

[closed] if you're here and I'm here then who's flying the plane

WHO: Flint & Yseult
WHAT: Trust exercises
WHEN: Immediately pre-hasmal invasion
WHERE: Near Hasmal
NOTES: will include content warning in subject lines if applicable

It's almost guaranteed that their contact has utilized the flow of refugees across the border and toward Hasmal as a cover to pass into the South, though they aren't meant to meet them in that. Doubtless every breed of intelligencier currently peddles their trade there, for if an agent of one secret network might slip in that direction then why not agents of all?

Rather, after crossing the broad width of the Minanter on one of the point-nosed ferries (in the company of a pilot with a near supernatural skill for weaseling extra coin out of pocket, but who tactfully neglects to intervene in the debate his passengers are engaged in), they hire a pair of horses and turn west toward what is allegedly an all but forgotten trading post by the name of Drake's Landing which is said to boast such luxuries as a nearly empty inn and the cheapest drink in the political tri-corner.

At some point—perhaps after the fourth or fifth narrow bridge that they have to coax the horses across, for the landscape is threaded through with twisting offshoots of the Minanter—Flint remarks, "If we come this way again, it would be faster to row in."

Maybe that's how the Venatori beat them to the Landing. Or maybe the ferry pilot had a raven in the little cabin at the back of his boat who had carried word of a certain notable captain of Riftwatch swiftly North.

Regardless—

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The guards make him attempt it, first. If he doesn't want to walk back to his cell he can just return to hanging there, it's no skin off their knees. (They both laugh harder at that than it deserves.) But after several attempts, or crawling or wailing or whatever ensues, they do get bored and drag Flint, low enough to ensure that feet bump along the floor to whole way, back to the storeroom, and drop him unceremoniously.

Yseult takes in the state of him and shifts as the door closes to offer a hand in rearranging himself upright or prone or whichever of his options seems least unappealing at the moment. There isn't really anything else she can do, short of assisting him into unconsciousness, and she doesn't pretend otherwise. Doesn't ask, either, what they did or what he told them after they did it. (If he's at all inclined to say, she assumes he will.)

There's no palpable relief to be derived from the impromptu reintroduction to the stone floor. Is it much better than being strung up, or dredged along the corridor? Logically, it must be; but the gradations of the thing are fine enough that it seems nonsensical to attempt to rank them. So for a time, Flint lays on the cool floor in simple unexamined pain. He sweats through his shirt and so is gray from all the delicate dust on the storeroom's floor when he makes some grunting effort to—

No, never mind it. He's not sitting up. The floor suits perfectly well.

What he is eventually inclined to say from there is, "We need to find out where we are."

Yseult returns her hands to her lap as Flint elects to remain where he is. Speaking of--

"Yes, I've been thinking about that." And perfectly happy to change the subject to something more her strong suit than comfort. "It's too large and dry for Drake's Landing, and given our state when we first woke I don't think they'd kept us unconscious more than half a day or so, a day at most. And they're too unsettled here for Tevinter, they haven't been here long. But they're not going to hold this many prisoners on the front lines, it must still be somewhere they feel relatively secure."

Which all adds up to...??? She runs out of track rather abruptly, and disguises it behind a gesture Flint can't see anyway. "That must narrow it down. But I'm not sure to what. Somewhere in the mountains? Antiva?"

He closes his eyes, lapsing into the kind of labored silence which is more rattle than quiet. It is a relief to let her direct the turn of the inquiry—to let Yseult organize some part of the thoughts churning around in the back of his mind into enough of an order to suggestion reason and logic. Dry, large, a day's travel. A compliment of soldiers to hand, and a half expressed anxiety over Riftwatch meddling with something.

"Solas is too far overland," sounds like agreement. "Nevarra City," like a suggestion. It stretches believability, but with a fair wind and a swift boat on the Minanter—

"With the undead?" sounds like a dismissal of that suggestion, no attempt to soften it in deference to his condition.

"We can't be too far north of the river, it's not that dry down here. And no one's tracked in any sand. The first room we were in there was a symbol on the wine casks, three crossed keys. I can't place it." The niggling frustration of that adds a little edge to her tone that won't require explanation.

"I could ask for something. Sweets, fruit, something an army doesn't stock. See how quickly they can get it to dangle in front of me."

If there is a justification for Nevarra City waiting behind his teeth, it's forgotten in favor of—

"Three. You're certain?"

"Yes." She could draw it in the dust of the floor, but he'd have to sit up to see. She doesn't move. "You know it?"

He starts to lift his hand driven by the impulse to press against the bridge of his nose or work free some of the tension held sharp across the span of his forehead and is drawn short by the shift of the chain between his wrists. It occurs to him in that moment that he's been dumped onto the floor rather than reshackled to the heavy racks built into the store room's smooth stone wall. If he arranged to get his feet under him—

What? He might hobble free of this room? And then what?

"They belong to a string of trading partners along the Minanter. I don't recall the names." Rare finds in the Nocen and virtually meaningless by the time they might have travelled so far North. But.

"As cargo passes through each house, it's marked with a new key. Nevarra, Hasmal, Starkhaven—" After only a moment of struggling after the fourth, Flint makes a small noise of frustration and settles for, "Ansburg, let's say. You said it yourself; Nevarra City is in no position to trade. The only place to fetch a third key is Hasmal or Ansburg."

There are finer points to this. How a cask that had made its way to Hasmal might travel anywhere from that point, including east again. There, his rationale gets fuzzy and aimless. It's true that they could lie just west of Hasmal. But what the fuck would Venatori be doing there? Beyond what they'd already demonstrated in Drake's Landing.

"That doesn't mean where it was stamped is where its journey ended," is not said as sharply as the reminder about the corpses ruling Nevarra City, "But Hasmal fits with the general region we've in mind."

She lapses into silence for the stretch of a minute or two, forgetting perhaps that some portion of this exercise was intended as distraction. "So either we are in Hasmal itself or near enough to make no difference," she says when she's put her thoughts silently in order, "Or we are along the river to the west, or we are in the country to its north in some isolated place between the Imperial Highway and the Hundred Pillars. Our arrival in Drake's Landing concerned them, and if they were working on the border or in the Pillars, they could easily take prisoners to Solas. So along the river, or in Hasmal. There have been no reports suggesting activity in the area large enough to need a facility like this. But Hasmal has been distracted of late."

"Hasmal has been overrun by Tevinter as of late, you mean. Refugees make convenient cover for the Venatori to enter the city, or," he allows. "Near enough to make no difference, and find friends there."

There, he says, a thimble of reservation held in check. It's reasonable. It's also one of four reasonable arguments he can muster while laid flat.

(Her point regarding the lack of sand is a better one than the dead, he thinks; and it's true that at least the ache in his shoulders is less evident in the face of semantics.)

"Hasmal is convenient if they mean to take Nevarra. With the March looking toward Perendale, the bulk of any resistance there and in Hunter Fell, and an easy way across the border and to the river—they might sweep the unguarded length of the Minanter behind Van Markham and Pentaghast's backs."

This time Yseult makes a considering sound to signal her intention to think that over before she quiets, apparently still disinclined to work through thoughts out loud.

"With Nevarra City empty, they could be at least halfway to Cumberland before they met any real resistance. Hold both the Highway and the river at the great crossing. The troops at Perendale and Val Chevin discourage or slow any potential counter-attack from the west. What need is there for Hasmal?"

"Supply is a possibility. With Hasmal in hand, goods from Antiva might skirt the Pillars."

Bodies are easy to move; seeing them kept would be another matter with Val Chevin isolated. What does he recall of overland trade out of Antiva? Is there some minor route which slithers along the foothills already waiting to be exploited? He wills himself to picture that great map in the Gallows' central tower, unsatisfied with the strung together shape of the speculation.

"Or they mean to cut off aid that might come most easily by way of the Minanter to Nevarra," is as much of a stretch. Why would the Marches concern themselves with that business now if they haven't already? Why bait them at all by nibbling at their edge? Why give up Ghislain? Why hold Val Chevin.

"Or they're looking to divide the March further. They've successfully split the force once already."

An unconvinced hum is the response to his first few thoughts, Yseult occupied more with sitting up onto her knees to scratch the outline of a map into the dirt with a splinter, sketching out relative distances with the length of her thumb. She hovers over it, a maker minus the all-important omniscience.

The timbre of that thoughtful sound changes at his last suggestion, head angling as if she might find some new dimension of the map to consider. "Looking east from Hasmal, Tantervale could be stubborn but has no great force, and it sent men to the March with Prince Vael. Orlais would at best hesitate before sending its forces so far abroad. They might think they could take Starkhaven before serious opposition arrived. Is control of the river worth creating new enemies?"

"Yes," is his instant answer. It requires no consideration whatsoever.

With a soft rasp of metal (and a low growl of discomfort), he shifts then toward his side. Toward getting an elbow under him, toward not lying prone on the ground where he is largely aware of the length of his spine and little else. It's a slow process of rearrangement punctuated by the low 'ha' and hiss of whatever various pressures are exerted on his knees. He should shift himself to the wall. Something to lean back against would be preferable, but the prospect of dredging himself the few inches to the stretch of empty cask racks at Yseult's shoulder to accomplish it is discouraging enough to warrant some delay. Instead he leans forward, rounded shoulders and dust streaked, and examines the shallow grooves of her map in the low gloss of the lamp light.

"Orlais can only support the Exalted March for so long. With the river and Val Chevin in their control, Tevinter would force all other supply bound for it to come overland through southern Orlais or Nevarra. To say nothing of the fact that Cumberland and Val Royeaux are perfectly respectable ports both. Which means," warrants a sidelong look in her direction. "They're outrageously expensive for the landing of cargo."

Has the Divine considered the tactical advantages of piracy and smuggling?

She watches only for a moment, out of the corner of a low-lidded eye, as Flint hauls himself into a different position. She could help him--would--but elects not to raise it as he seems to have a serviceable pose in mind for now, turning her focus politely back to the map.

"That would mean increasing naval operations in the Waking Sea," is not disagreement. "Putting Val Chevin to use at last? But it could draw out Hercinia, Ostwick, maybe Wycome." She taps each Marcher capital as she names it. "There is some precedent for naval alliance there, against the Amaranthine pirates. Antiva would not be best pleased by so much disruption in trade."

"Do we really think increased presence there would induce Hercinia, Ostwick and maybe Wycome to be aggressive enough to jeopardize their relationship to Antiva? With the Minanter indisposed, any Marches port city stands to make a tidy profit when trade is rerouted. Dangers be damned."

In an hour, his shoulders may be recovered enough to use the empty storage racks to pull himself up to standing. Maybe the hook on which the lantern is suspended can be worked free from the ceiling. It might be fit to split a chain with. And then?

"And even if they did, would the loss to Antiva be significant enough to outweigh the danger they will have committed themselves to by having Tevinter forces on all sides save the one which the Qun occupies?"

In this hypothetical, Rivain should be concerned.

The crease of a frown forms between Yseult's brows, but whether that's a product of disagreement or simple dislike of the picture he paints is difficult to say. Whatever it is she sits with it for a minute before sitting back and scuffing a foot over the map, scraping it away.

"Hasmal, then." She sits back against the rack, and brushes hands clean before folding them in her lap. "Not a difficult journey to Kirkwall, if we can get free." If they have functioning limbs when they do. "We'll have to bide our time. It's unlikely we'll get more than one or two chances before they separate us or kill me." She picks dirt out from under a nail, worrying the edge back and forth until it's clean. "We should discuss what we can afford to give them in the meantime, should it become necessary."

Edited 2021-08-23 21:31 (UTC)

He watches the mute scrape of her fingernails. It's an absent form of observation—looking because the action is there before his eye rather than because there is anything particularly compelling about Yseult picking the dirt from under her nails.

But also: "The longer we wait, the less likely we are to get very far."

He looks at her and doesn't gesture to the mangled state of his knees or the raw dark shapes a hot knife leaves on skin. Surely he doesn't really have to.

That there's any action at all is unusual. Yseult in her office, in the map room around the big table, is preternaturally still, uncannily devoid of the small fidgets that move most people. Picking at a nail there would be deliberate, calculated to signal her boredom. Now, harder to say. The dirt was there and now it isn't. The look she casts him is more familiar in its dryness. He already can't walk.

"All the more reason to avoid a fight, or wandering the halls. At minimum, we'll need something to pick the locks. Or a key, but Fidan is careful with hers and I have yet to see another. If they'd feed us anything with bones, that would do. Are you avoiding my suggestion because you think it unnecessary?"

Here, an equally familiar retort in the form of the flat look he gives her in return.

"Are you interrogating me because you think I need the practice?"

Actually-- "Have you had any?"

"We've both spoken to Byerly Rutyer. Help me," precedes the offer of his hand. He needs to leverage against something more than just his own weight in order to shuffles to join her with his back to the empty wine racks.

The ragged sound which punctuates the necessary shift of heels and calves and knees is something between a croak and a hiss. When he has finally re-oriented himself under the watchful eye of the lamp, it takes a series of miniscule hissing adjustments before Flint's anything like satisfied with how his limbs lie.

Fuck this actually.

"I should leave you to manage on your own for suggesting Rutyer's better practice than I am." She doesn't.

She also doesn't leave it. Once he's settled and had a moment, but before the acute pain of that rearrangement is likely to have faded back into duller persistent misery, she says: "Eventually, everyone breaks. It would be a mistake for us to leave the decision about what we would rather die than give them to that moment."

He's the more insufferably relentless of the two, he might have suggested. But even Byerly Rutyer would have allowed him a few minutes of abject suffering before pressing after him with all the temerity of a finger on a bruise. So maybe not.

"Then by all means." Maker, he is exhausted. "Lead on."

He can consider that an object lesson. Yseult folds her hands in her lap, fingers laced.

"Old information first, like our dead contacts in Perendale. Information about Riftwatch they could learn with a few weeks of decent surveillance. Names, numbers, organization, donors. Then agents and operations in areas we control. Kirkwall and Ferelden, southern Orlais, contacts in the March and the Chantry. People they'll struggle to get to. Then those in quiet places, working up to the higher value agents. They cannot have our contacts in Tevinter or the Anderfels, the location of the eluvians, or Research's project."

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