[closed]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria, Cassius, Flint & Various
WHAT: Catch-all for fantasy August....which is just August
WHEN: August
WHERE: Kirkwall/The Surrounding Free Marches/misc
NOTES: Content warnings in subject lines; holler at me if you want a bespoke starter, otherwise feel free to drop me a start for whatever your heart desires.

Comments

[katabasis]

He receives some low noise in reply. It's at one grunting placeholder for something more eloquent or less pained and the sound of relief in being awarded the opportunity to surrendering responsibility of the garment's management to some other set of hands. Even so, it seems like delicate work to extract the man from the dark fabric. The effort of raising his arms high enough to affect the successful removal tugs at something unpleasant, and when the fabric is finally stripped from him he breathes out in a hiss. Absently presses a hand to support his left shoulder. Remains bent faintly forward in that low comfortable chair—not quite resting his brow against Silver's hip, but near enough to it that the sentiment lingers like cologne in the air.

"You and I should see to it," he says after some sluggish delay. There is dirt and grime beneath the shirt, but if bruises were among his souvenirs from Hasmal then it has been more than long enough for them to fade into obscurity. "The only other person who might speak intelligently on the issue is Darras, but I somehow doubt he'll find the idea of making for Orlais very appealing at present."

He has a wife to make comfortable.

[hornswoggle]

Here is some formless sort of story, some pain that illustrates what might have passed in the weeks of Flint's absence. John's palm comes down lightly over that same shoulder, the heel of his hand over Flint's fingers, as he chuckles at the implication: John Silver, speaking intelligently on any issue involving seamanship.

There is a space between them. John shifts forward to narrow it, realigning his balance on the crutch so as to make some silent offer as his hand warms against Flint's skin.

"Alright," is a foregone conclusion. Of course John would agree, even if the proposition didn't soothe some itchy, anxious held-over emotion. (John had suggested he go to Hasmal.) Yes, they will go to Orlais. His thumb sets against the hard line of Flint's collarbone. "Though we might consider holding our plans to ride out until you've washed off the evidence of your last errand."

[katabasis]

His hmm of acknowledgement is a low and rumbling thing. Not a laugh—he has been reminded of the prickling pain in his joints and it's enough to mitigate a more full sense of humor—but certainly cousin to it as he allows his brow to come to rest against John Silver's hip.

Yes. Well.

The line of his shoulder is rounded. Silver's palm is a warm, square shape. The close hewn edge of Flint's hair at the nape of his neck has grown to a prickling bristle. It takes a moment, but after some quiet interim Flint's hand raises to set there at Silver's waist. Between it and the line of his forearm slung across the chair's arm, it isn't impossible to lever himself up and out of the chair.

"A week," he says, aching as he rises, and means more like two or three or however long it takes to see things here returned to order. "And then we make for Orlais."

Once upright: he looses the waist of his trousers further.

[hornswoggle]

In the span of time between Flint's forehead settling at his hip and the disruption of that contact, John lets out a long-held breath. (A breath drawn in over six weeks ago, remaining caught there in his chest until now.) Had Flint remained, John's hand might have moved. As it is, his exploration is limited to a steady movement of his thumb at Flint's collarbone, easily drawn to a close at the upward motion.

John's hand comes there, to his elbow, first as he rises, then shifting along with the work of Flint's hands at the laces, over the flex of muscle at his forearm.

"A week," John choruses, meaning behind it clear to the point where no protest need be made on account of the extent of injury John has yet to fully understand. "Not by carriage, this time."