WHO: Fitcher, Flint, Wysteria, Cassius & Co WHAT: Ye olde catch all WHEN: Now-ish WHERE: Various NOTES: Don't have anything open, but feel free to snag me OOCly if you want to do anything and I'm happy to slap something together.
The answering hum of agreement comes after John breaks the first chit, shakes his head over the contents.
"That's one way to turn a profit," has no heat behind it. And for all John's light proposals as to winnings, he does not care so very much whether they leave this place with coin or no.
Instead, working the seal off a second chit, John leans back in his chair to watch Flint from across the table.
"Do you suppose we've enough coin to beg a room for the night?" John asks, mock-serious.
Below them, a pitched shout of Your next question, which brothel did Lady Marielle conceal herself in during the fifth installment of—
"Doubtful," is hummed across the lip of his cup. It's more concise than noting that the rooms, if they even exist, probably stink of butchery regardless of how thoroughly they've been whitewashed or how clean the sheets are.
He drinks down a measure of the wine, vaguely aware that he is anticipating it's effect in addition to the faint buzz humming just there at the tips of his fingers, the restless clip of his thoughts lulled to a more modest pace between it and the familiarity of the company to hand. Maybe they'll split another bottle and linger for a further hour or two before rolling back down to fetch seats on the last ferry to the Gallows.
"Surely by now you've a short list of innkeepers and madames who owe you a favor should our fortunes fail to change."
"I can think of several," is hardly a surprising answer. "Though I think we might wait until the new year to prevail upon Veikko at the Fennec's Paw. He's yet to hire a competent laborer to patch that roof and I don't favor waking up half-frozen."
The second seal cracks apart under gentle pressure. John tips it towards the candle, hums over the contents.
"Remind me, is it partial winnings for three dragons and a Chantry sun?" John asks, turning the slip around on the table. "Or is that only a copper's worth of congratulations?"
The real question is whether or not they care to risk a return to the Gallows and discovering whatever fresh cacophony has run its course in their time spent off the island. John has yet to invoke the possibility, but it lurks at the corners of the conversation, as his thumb drums at the smooth-worn handle of his mug.
"There's a key here somewhere," precedes the shifting of the various detritus they've collected over the course of dinner between them. He hadn't paid much attention to the rules or odds of the game, only that the buy in had been spectacularly cheap and the act of tearing paper as the city is plunging into a shortage of it cheerfully wasteful.
(The chits must have all been printed weeks ago.)
No shuffling uncovers the little guide, however. All signs point to it having stuck to the bottom of a since whisked away plate or cup.
Giving up said key for lost, John surmises, "We might hold out hope for some small victory," and sets the chit in question off to one side.
Not that it's a particularly secure place, as they've demonstrated.
"Speaking of, I had a hog properly roasted for the men, and an extra case of rum sent aboard."
Which may lead to some form of chaos aboard the Walrus but John can only assume it'll be a far more contained than anything that's gone on in the Gallows. At least the crew can limit themselves to minor property damage and some brawling when they attempt any kind of revelry.
"You're spoiling them," might more easily be an assessment of Silver's care for a particularly beloved dog or an unruly child more so than for two dozen able bodied men on a ship anchored in the Kirkwall harbor. And yet—
It takes very little effort to drain his cup. And then (counter-intuitively), more soberly: "How are they? The men."
It's no secret that his duties with Riftwatch have all but ripped him away from the day-to-day management of the Walrus and her crew. In some respect, it must be a relief to those men who understand it to be their home. But in another, it has all but a designed breeding ground for resentment. They've been plucked from one life of dangerous monotony that they'd at least chosen, and thrust into another by forces that must at this point seem very like coincidence or ill-fate with no whiff of the end they'd once been promised in sight. And here is one of the men who orchestrated it all, locked away in some island tower. That the Walrus hasn't disappeared unexpectedly in the night is a small miracle, entirely attributable to the man across from him.
John is aware of the contents of Flint's desk, items requiring his attention piling high enough that even halved still far outnumber what any man could work through in the course of a day. And it is, admittedly, tricky to frame the business of a Division Head in ways that impress and inspire the crew.
Hence, the pig. And the rum. And—
"The profiteering is the best thing we've done for them," John relates. "It makes it far easier to involve them in any other manner of business we need the ship for."
Perhaps it doesn't need to be said that Nascere's erasure helps. Perhaps they might take themselves to Llomerryn, and start fresh. But they had long years to establish themselves in Kirkwall now. Circumstances have shaken out in such a way that there is more here to abandon than just their ship.
If John reminds them of this from time to time in the winding weave of a story, well.
"Emlyn gives them a discount. They've some measure of connection in Lowtown. I believe it is enough to satisfy them, so long as we keep them at their preferred work."
It doesn't sound like a question, but it is. Or it's a word of caution—the specter of words spoken a lifetime ago by the likes of Charles Vane who'd asked what the fuck they were doing here, in Kirkwall, with the accusatory tenor of someone under the impression that he'd identified a waste of time. Eventually, Flint is certain (even in this jovial, lamp-lit atmosphere), that they will arrive at some crossroads where the men's loyalty is required and he would prefer them to follow rather than ask themselves whether they might be more satisfied simply working out of the Kirkwall harbor under the Viscount's nose rather than chasing whatever object Flint (Silver) puts before them.
Between his fingers, Flint tears open another chit. This one, with its simple depiction of a tankard, is more easily deciphered; they've earned a drink on the house.
"Comfortable enough that they aren't tempted to find better lodging to the north."
Which is the very fine line John has been threading for years now: to convince them Kirkwall is a fair place to spend time when not at work on the water. Emlyn has been obliging in sweetening all John's persuasion with some reliable, tangible benefit.
"But the winter gives them more than enough to complain about."
Though there is always some grievance. John could spin them out right now if they cared to spend the night hearing of the men's many sufferings. Instead, he drains his cup.
"Well done," and then, "How many more do you have in that stockpile?"
Key or no key, they've a paltry sum of winnings amassed between them. Flint turns the winning chit over between his fingers. The image of the tankard rotates—spins up and then over out of sight, then rises again. The cheap cardstock is rumpled from the stress, warped from some spot or other of moisture on the table.
"Are they satisfied enough, do you think, not to run were we to pay Llomerryn a visit?"
A question presents itself immediately: Llomerryn, when, what shall they—
But that's not what John has been asked, so he lets that line of inquiry spin out, trusting an answer in due time as he considers the state of their crew.
"We might lose one or two," John says, fingers questing across the table to find a scattered piece of coin they'd used earlier to scratch wax from one of the earlier cards. John now scratches it against the tabletop, expression thoughtful. "Our odds will be better if you give me some time to arrange a few very good nights."
Surely there is no need for particular details. They are both aware of the existence of the Blooming Rose, and John has by now met the right people to acquire discounts and liquor, everything necessary to assemble a very satisfying evening to see the men off.
Though, that being said, John adds, "They have been putting down roots here. And recruiting out of Kirkwall has helped with that."
Which leads to John's look, expectant, carrying the question over: When?
Even now, there must be rare instances in which the exact trajectory of Flint's thoughts obscure themselves from the man who now sits across from him. Or maybe Flint's mind is fully opaque only only in rare instances such as this one, where he has yet to fully reach a resolution and is speaking on the half formed rather than the carefully measured. Before he answers that unspoken question, the wrinkled chit is turned a few more cycles between his fingertips. A dual roar of triumph and outrage rises from the nearby tables—scores have been tallied. One of the groups has taken their prize.
"The concerns of the Orlesian navy will by with the Waking Sea, and in rebuilding their grip on it now that Val Chevin is back in their hands." This is not an answer to the question of When. "But it seems clear to me that something must be done to the secure the Amaranthine and the mouth of the Minanter, lest Tevinter use their toe-hold there. Were they allowed to throttle the flow of trade past Brandel's Reach, it could be disastrous. Llomerryn is well positioned to discourage that if we can find the right words to convince them of that fact."
The scrape of coin against stained wood is utterly lost by the clash of voices from below them. John's interest is brief but incisive, leaving Flint's face to sweep over the assembly below, mark the fortunate and unfortunate parties, and realign to the matter at hand.
So.
"I've been considering that we might find our proposal to the crew to be as effective there as it was here."
Profit. Can they anoint all of Llomerryn privateers? Perhaps. Regardless, John considers less if they can convince enough of Llomerryn to follow their example and more when, which leads him to the obvious question of—
"We might consider who of ours we could station there," follows that thought, because they all benefit from having someone close at hand to pose reminders. "Someone we can spare, but capable of saying all the right things when it becomes necessary. You and I will not be able to keep hold of things that far north as securely as we'd like with things as they are now."
Does Llomerryn give a single fuck about the legitimacy afforded by a privateer's license? Doubtful. Or at the very least, only the weakest of the crews would (Flint pointedly ignores the direction the reversal of that logic takes, and what it might say about the nationless ship in the harbor allegedly under this command). Yet there must be something Llomerryn and whoever has taken charge of her does want, even if it's simply to continue being rich enough to spit in the eye of any nation who would think to leash the likes of that island or Estwatch.
Regardless, the suggestion of an envoy warrants the wrinkling of Flint's nose.
"And we might consider wishing for a unicorn while we're at it."
Three taps of the coin against the table, John's leg stretching further beneath as he slants a grin across the table.
Yes, well.
"I'll find someone," John assures. "Dooley, perhaps."
It will not be the same. But the fact remains: neither of them could be on hand to have those arguments. If they could be in several places at once, many things about their situation will be different.
"And we might want to start having some conversations here," follows after, a suggestion that comes with John's gaze cast down at the crowd below. "See what the talk is from those sailing in from Llomerryn, so we don't arrive without any sense of the geography."
We blurring between them; John will have those conversations. They'll dissect them together after.
Dooley. That name warrants a labored look, but whatever remark it must naturally precede is judiciously checked in favor of turning the chit a few more times between his fingers.
"If this is to be viable and not just seen as pirates recruiting pirates, it would benefit us to try folding in some of the merchant captains into the same service."
There's nothing quite like the stench of hungry tradesmen to legitimize an enterprise.
The expression John slants back is similarly put upon, colored with amusement. They have men who have followed them this far, and upended their lives in service, but the Walrus boasts only two great orators among its crew and both of them are seated at the table.
They must make do.
The look on John’s face turns thoughtful. The tapping of the coin grows rhythmic, settling into a groove as they turn this thing back and forth between them.
“We might start with those who conduct their business out of the ports in the Marches,” John suggests. “There’ll be resentment there for the disruption, and that’ll do half the work for us.”
Disruption. John’s voice bends over this word in grim humor. But he’s spent enough time hammering at Antiva to know that disruption is exactly what many view the rolling pressure of war as until it touches them directly.
"Conveniently," he says, for the time being laying aside the topic of who will play as their understudy (fucking Dooley; John may take that humor off his face and eat it). "We happen to be in such a harbor."
Who knows. Maybe they'll get lucky and find some Kirkwall barely-not-a-smuggler capable of stringing a few sentences together.
"I'll ask after what contacts we've to hand in Ostwick and Hercinia. Byerly and Yseult are bound to have a few on the hook."
The coin raps a muted trio of beats against the tabletop.
"And if they ask after the purpose?"
They had said, hadn't they? No masks, going forward. There had been humor in that as well, but this question carries genuine curiosity. How much will Yseult and Byerly be told of this? Stark is an outlier, and so far disinterested, removed from much of the business.
But Yseult and Byerly might make this very difficult. More difficult than deciding upon a proxy to set loose in Llomerryn.
"We've discussed the merits of privateers before now."
And had wrestled so strenuously over the semantics that the idea had been all but smothered in it's crib. But that was before, with Tevinter's sights on Val Chevin—not an ideal target, certainly, but one which might be choked out by raising the Kirkwall chain or some other drastic action if fundamentally necessary. With the reverse on the table—if Tevinter manages to throttle trade along the Minanter as well as on the Waking Sea, what means will they have to stop it?—surely they can be motivated to see the reason in urgency.
Flint pauses, the blank back of the wrinkled chit face up between his fingertips. Hoping to win anything of real value against the house in these games is pure foolishness.
"When we were in Hasmal, Yseult asked after Nascere. She wanted to know what we'd intended for it."
Not a topic John had been prepared to see raised between them. The tap of the coin ceases as John looks back at him, taking in the whole of his expression.
"Did you answer her?" is half a question. What John is asking after is the nature of the thing. How much of an answer did Yseult receive, and how much of it was rooted in truth?
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no subject
"That's one way to turn a profit," has no heat behind it. And for all John's light proposals as to winnings, he does not care so very much whether they leave this place with coin or no.
Instead, working the seal off a second chit, John leans back in his chair to watch Flint from across the table.
"Do you suppose we've enough coin to beg a room for the night?" John asks, mock-serious.
Below them, a pitched shout of Your next question, which brothel did Lady Marielle conceal herself in during the fifth installment of—
no subject
He drinks down a measure of the wine, vaguely aware that he is anticipating it's effect in addition to the faint buzz humming just there at the tips of his fingers, the restless clip of his thoughts lulled to a more modest pace between it and the familiarity of the company to hand. Maybe they'll split another bottle and linger for a further hour or two before rolling back down to fetch seats on the last ferry to the Gallows.
"Surely by now you've a short list of innkeepers and madames who owe you a favor should our fortunes fail to change."
no subject
The second seal cracks apart under gentle pressure. John tips it towards the candle, hums over the contents.
"Remind me, is it partial winnings for three dragons and a Chantry sun?" John asks, turning the slip around on the table. "Or is that only a copper's worth of congratulations?"
The real question is whether or not they care to risk a return to the Gallows and discovering whatever fresh cacophony has run its course in their time spent off the island. John has yet to invoke the possibility, but it lurks at the corners of the conversation, as his thumb drums at the smooth-worn handle of his mug.
no subject
(The chits must have all been printed weeks ago.)
No shuffling uncovers the little guide, however. All signs point to it having stuck to the bottom of a since whisked away plate or cup.
no subject
Not that it's a particularly secure place, as they've demonstrated.
"Speaking of, I had a hog properly roasted for the men, and an extra case of rum sent aboard."
Which may lead to some form of chaos aboard the Walrus but John can only assume it'll be a far more contained than anything that's gone on in the Gallows. At least the crew can limit themselves to minor property damage and some brawling when they attempt any kind of revelry.
no subject
It takes very little effort to drain his cup. And then (counter-intuitively), more soberly: "How are they? The men."
It's no secret that his duties with Riftwatch have all but ripped him away from the day-to-day management of the Walrus and her crew. In some respect, it must be a relief to those men who understand it to be their home. But in another, it has all but a designed breeding ground for resentment. They've been plucked from one life of dangerous monotony that they'd at least chosen, and thrust into another by forces that must at this point seem very like coincidence or ill-fate with no whiff of the end they'd once been promised in sight. And here is one of the men who orchestrated it all, locked away in some island tower. That the Walrus hasn't disappeared unexpectedly in the night is a small miracle, entirely attributable to the man across from him.
no subject
John is aware of the contents of Flint's desk, items requiring his attention piling high enough that even halved still far outnumber what any man could work through in the course of a day. And it is, admittedly, tricky to frame the business of a Division Head in ways that impress and inspire the crew.
Hence, the pig. And the rum. And—
"The profiteering is the best thing we've done for them," John relates. "It makes it far easier to involve them in any other manner of business we need the ship for."
Perhaps it doesn't need to be said that Nascere's erasure helps. Perhaps they might take themselves to Llomerryn, and start fresh. But they had long years to establish themselves in Kirkwall now. Circumstances have shaken out in such a way that there is more here to abandon than just their ship.
If John reminds them of this from time to time in the winding weave of a story, well.
"Emlyn gives them a discount. They've some measure of connection in Lowtown. I believe it is enough to satisfy them, so long as we keep them at their preferred work."
no subject
It doesn't sound like a question, but it is. Or it's a word of caution—the specter of words spoken a lifetime ago by the likes of Charles Vane who'd asked what the fuck they were doing here, in Kirkwall, with the accusatory tenor of someone under the impression that he'd identified a waste of time. Eventually, Flint is certain (even in this jovial, lamp-lit atmosphere), that they will arrive at some crossroads where the men's loyalty is required and he would prefer them to follow rather than ask themselves whether they might be more satisfied simply working out of the Kirkwall harbor under the Viscount's nose rather than chasing whatever object Flint (Silver) puts before them.
Between his fingers, Flint tears open another chit. This one, with its simple depiction of a tankard, is more easily deciphered; they've earned a drink on the house.
no subject
Which is the very fine line John has been threading for years now: to convince them Kirkwall is a fair place to spend time when not at work on the water. Emlyn has been obliging in sweetening all John's persuasion with some reliable, tangible benefit.
"But the winter gives them more than enough to complain about."
Though there is always some grievance. John could spin them out right now if they cared to spend the night hearing of the men's many sufferings. Instead, he drains his cup.
"Well done," and then, "How many more do you have in that stockpile?"
no subject
Key or no key, they've a paltry sum of winnings amassed between them. Flint turns the winning chit over between his fingers. The image of the tankard rotates—spins up and then over out of sight, then rises again. The cheap cardstock is rumpled from the stress, warped from some spot or other of moisture on the table.
"Are they satisfied enough, do you think, not to run were we to pay Llomerryn a visit?"
no subject
But that's not what John has been asked, so he lets that line of inquiry spin out, trusting an answer in due time as he considers the state of their crew.
"We might lose one or two," John says, fingers questing across the table to find a scattered piece of coin they'd used earlier to scratch wax from one of the earlier cards. John now scratches it against the tabletop, expression thoughtful. "Our odds will be better if you give me some time to arrange a few very good nights."
Surely there is no need for particular details. They are both aware of the existence of the Blooming Rose, and John has by now met the right people to acquire discounts and liquor, everything necessary to assemble a very satisfying evening to see the men off.
Though, that being said, John adds, "They have been putting down roots here. And recruiting out of Kirkwall has helped with that."
Which leads to John's look, expectant, carrying the question over: When?
no subject
"The concerns of the Orlesian navy will by with the Waking Sea, and in rebuilding their grip on it now that Val Chevin is back in their hands." This is not an answer to the question of When. "But it seems clear to me that something must be done to the secure the Amaranthine and the mouth of the Minanter, lest Tevinter use their toe-hold there. Were they allowed to throttle the flow of trade past Brandel's Reach, it could be disastrous. Llomerryn is well positioned to discourage that if we can find the right words to convince them of that fact."
So.
"Sooner rather than later."
no subject
So.
"I've been considering that we might find our proposal to the crew to be as effective there as it was here."
Profit. Can they anoint all of Llomerryn privateers? Perhaps. Regardless, John considers less if they can convince enough of Llomerryn to follow their example and more when, which leads him to the obvious question of—
"We might consider who of ours we could station there," follows that thought, because they all benefit from having someone close at hand to pose reminders. "Someone we can spare, but capable of saying all the right things when it becomes necessary. You and I will not be able to keep hold of things that far north as securely as we'd like with things as they are now."
no subject
Regardless, the suggestion of an envoy warrants the wrinkling of Flint's nose.
"And we might consider wishing for a unicorn while we're at it."
no subject
Yes, well.
"I'll find someone," John assures. "Dooley, perhaps."
It will not be the same. But the fact remains: neither of them could be on hand to have those arguments. If they could be in several places at once, many things about their situation will be different.
"And we might want to start having some conversations here," follows after, a suggestion that comes with John's gaze cast down at the crowd below. "See what the talk is from those sailing in from Llomerryn, so we don't arrive without any sense of the geography."
We blurring between them; John will have those conversations. They'll dissect them together after.
no subject
"If this is to be viable and not just seen as pirates recruiting pirates, it would benefit us to try folding in some of the merchant captains into the same service."
There's nothing quite like the stench of hungry tradesmen to legitimize an enterprise.
no subject
They must make do.
The look on John’s face turns thoughtful. The tapping of the coin grows rhythmic, settling into a groove as they turn this thing back and forth between them.
“We might start with those who conduct their business out of the ports in the Marches,” John suggests. “There’ll be resentment there for the disruption, and that’ll do half the work for us.”
Disruption. John’s voice bends over this word in grim humor. But he’s spent enough time hammering at Antiva to know that disruption is exactly what many view the rolling pressure of war as until it touches them directly.
no subject
Who knows. Maybe they'll get lucky and find some Kirkwall barely-not-a-smuggler capable of stringing a few sentences together.
"I'll ask after what contacts we've to hand in Ostwick and Hercinia. Byerly and Yseult are bound to have a few on the hook."
no subject
"And if they ask after the purpose?"
They had said, hadn't they? No masks, going forward. There had been humor in that as well, but this question carries genuine curiosity. How much will Yseult and Byerly be told of this? Stark is an outlier, and so far disinterested, removed from much of the business.
But Yseult and Byerly might make this very difficult. More difficult than deciding upon a proxy to set loose in Llomerryn.
no subject
And had wrestled so strenuously over the semantics that the idea had been all but smothered in it's crib. But that was before, with Tevinter's sights on Val Chevin—not an ideal target, certainly, but one which might be choked out by raising the Kirkwall chain or some other drastic action if fundamentally necessary. With the reverse on the table—if Tevinter manages to throttle trade along the Minanter as well as on the Waking Sea, what means will they have to stop it?—surely they can be motivated to see the reason in urgency.
Flint pauses, the blank back of the wrinkled chit face up between his fingertips. Hoping to win anything of real value against the house in these games is pure foolishness.
"When we were in Hasmal, Yseult asked after Nascere. She wanted to know what we'd intended for it."
no subject
"Did you answer her?" is half a question. What John is asking after is the nature of the thing. How much of an answer did Yseult receive, and how much of it was rooted in truth?