faderift | (no subject)

"Edgard, I say this with all the love in my heart," Barrow says lazily, leaning on the railing with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, "please draw a griffon."

From the margins of this exchange, there sounds a distinctly dismissive sniff the source of which can only by the Seneschal who has made a seat out of one of the nearby hatch covers on deck. He has a folio of papers open on one knee and is actively noting down a series of notes to correspond with their very recent survey of the ship. They have only just finished their tour; between it and the report provided by the Forces division office about the ship's overall repair, condition, and so on and so forth, there is quite a list accumulating before him.

"Charming as I'm sure your artist impressions must be, griffons are the symbols of the Anderfels. I suggest that we stay far away from presenting our business partner with a symbol that recalls what is meant to be a mutual enemy. Consider a horse. Or a fish. Or a harming combination of the two?"

Cassius writes down and underlines green in his notes. From the papers provided by the dockyard, it is the cheaper of the two pigments available to them.

Edgard sits for a moment considering the Seneschal buried behind his notes. He gives a sharp stern nod and walks over to him. He looms for a moment, he likes to think threateningly, but it only works sometimes.

Then, very quickly he swipes one of the papers in the folio along with the writing implement Cassius is using. He quickly draws something on it.

"Like this?" He says. He presents his drawing to the two men, first Cassius where he keeps a stern face and then to Barrow to whom he grins widely.

Barrow's face is serious, contemplative, like a collector's at an art gallery. He takes the drawing and looks it over from top to bottom, then hands it back with a nod.

"Fine work," he decides.

Hey now that was his— Cassius lowers his hand with a sigh and crosses once wrist over another as Edgard scratches out his ninety second masterpiece. He has settled fully into this position of relative repose by the time the results are turned his direction.

"Yes, yes. Congratulations, we're all very funny here." He wiggles his fingers toward Edgard. "My pencil, if you please."

Edgard puts a hand on his chest, clearly greatly insulted.

"This is exactly what you asked for." He gruffs at him.

"Think you can do better then, fine, here you go." He pelts the pencil back at those extremely annoying wiggly fingers.

"Barrow liked it." He adds defensively. He looks at Barrow and nods, a good man! A man of taste!

Barrow nods sagely, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he exhales.
"Beggars can't be choosers," he informs Cassius.

Cassius shouldn't catch the pencil. It would be extremely annoying if he did—people who look and act like him aren't meant to be dexterous on top of everything else; that's just insulting to everyone's sensibilities. And yet: yoink. Somehow, the pencil contrives to gravitate straight into his hand. He spins it reflexively between his fingers and brings it back to his little sheaf of papers to make some new note. Presumably that note is not 'Edgard Lastname is Riftwatch's best artist and we should give him a condemnation for it,' but who can say.

"—is precisely not what our decorating choices should imply to this ship's new owner. Much though I appreciate your enthusiasm, Edgard. In fact, I recommend that you convey your design to the ship's carpenter. I assume we have one. That woman they have for the current masthead looks like she wishes she were dead and is unremarkable besides. Your seahorse is likely more impressive in three dimensions."

He has continued to make notes while talking, and here finally tucks the pencil behind his ear. He tears the piece of parchment before him in two even halves and hands one to each of them.

"If you would, gentlemen."

Each side of the list has a neat list of duties written on it. The first, Edgard's, reads:

- Consult with carpenter regarding masthead
- Takes measurements of rail, various trim and so forth for painting
- Tally all bronze deck fittings for polishing/organize polishing thereof

And for Barrow—

- Recruit two seamstresses
- Purchase paint (green), per recorded measurements
- Hire 6-10 children (ages 10-13)

"It's a Merhorse." Edgard says automatically. "Seahorse is something else I think."

Edgard has a vague memory of seeing something once in a jar that a merchant called a seahorse and it looked nothing like what Edgard drew. But, he's contended that his drawing will have life somewhere.

Edgard grabs his list, frowns a little, shrugs and nods. Measuring is going to be difficult for him, but he'll manage. He then looks up at Cassius.

"Where's your list?"

Edgard is willing to do work so long as everyone does their fair share. He tries to squint at Barrow's list, to see if Barrow got any duties that look more fun than his.

Barrow idly reads over the list, exhaling a puff of smoke down at it, apparently unimpressed by his duties-- except for one, anyway.

"We talking seamstresses, mate? Or 'seamstresses'?" He waggles his eyebrows at Cassius. One of these options will make the job a lot more fun, anyway.

"My list is in my head," is the smooth as silk reply. What remains of the sheaf of papers is folded over once and then tucked succinctly inside his robes. "And I would prefer these ladies be professionals with a needle and thread, but as to the exact nature of their profession— I've little preference. But Riftwatch's coffers will only be paying for their stitching."

For the record.

"Now, I suggest that we all attend to our business and reconvene here tomorrow afternoon. Agreed?"

"No." Edgard says pointedly. He folds his arms over his chest.

"Recite it."

The list in his head, presumably. He raises his head up in defiance.

"And I want to help Barrow with the seamstresses."

"Well I haven't got time for that," Barrow says fondly, patting Edgard on the shoulder as he turns to go-- the less he has to listen to Cassius, likely the better-- but there's no reason to be a pill about it.

"Come along Edgard, we'll lose all our daylight."

"No, no. The man has a point."

Surprise, Barrow. You're going to be audience to Cassius' indisputable wits and charms for at least a few minutes more; he turns his attention to Edgard with a magnanimous tip of the temple.

"For my part, I'm going to requisition a great sum of money from Riftwatch's coffers with which to fund this little project of ours. There are a great deal of forms which require filling out for such a thing. Then, I will be endeavoring to locate a weaver or tradesman who will sell us some respectable yardage at wholesale to be worked by our favorite seamstresses. Preferably, all of this will be done in consultation with someone who has better taste than the three of us"—well, two of them; his taste is impeccable, but pretending at humility never ruined anyone—"Which means I will need to scour our contacts among Hightown for someone kind enough to lend their expertise."

If that scouring requires a certain number of hours draped across some esteemed ladyship's chaise sofa or schmoozing over little glasses of sherry and trays of finger foods, then he will simply have to endure these impositions for the good of the work.

"But by all means. Two men to recruit a cadre of seamstresses must be better than one."

Edgard listens quietly to this and slowly lowers his arms that were folded over his chest. The man has clearly thought this through. This is unexpected.

Edgard furrows his brow and looks at Barrow and then back at Cassius and then says something no one was expecting.

"You're alright, Cassius." He gives him a gruff little nod.

He turns to Barrow. "Shall we?"