Two thirds of the room are shouting. It's a cacophonous muddle that is impossible to assign to one side or another. John isn't pretending to himself that their welcome has been overwhelming warm, but outright hostility had seemed blissfully avoided.
It would be in their best interest to be sure it remains avoided. Beating Walten into the floorboards, deserved or otherwise, will not do that.
When he had fought Marcus (in a dream, yes, but John doesn't imagine reality differs greatly.) good sense had said to keep well out of arm's reach. Walton hadn't made that same calculation, and seems to be paying for it. John is loathe to wade in, but the decision is made for him. The fight can't continue if they plan to wedge their way into the good graces of either side.
"Marcus," is pitched to carry, punctuated by the hasty thud of John's crutch and the catch of his hand. Try to keep hold, bracing himself for what happens if Marcus tears free. "It's settled. You've made your point."
His arm is caught, and to his credit, there's no instinctive tearing away, just coiled strength snared and slow to unwind itself. Marcus' stare down at the man beneath him is wolfishly bright, but soon dulling, and he manages, just, to divert his attention in a glance up. It does not surprise him to note that John is alone in his attempt to break them up. Everyone else, keeping a distance. Anything could happen, when the brawl involves a mage.
Marcus opens his fist, knuckles greased in blood and fingers spreading in a signal that concurs: it's settled. Arm losing its tension. With his other, he sort of pettily shoves Walten back down into the ground by that matter of millimetres as he pushes himself to his feet, a breath of complaint as new bruises twinge.
Then, another voice, snapping, "Get him out of here."
Instinct has Marcus tense, looking towards the source in immediate defense—but it becomes plain soon enough that the 'him' is not Marcus, but Walten, as a woman with grey threaded through her hair and a nose that's been broken sometime in her life pushes forward, directing some others to go about scraping Walten off the floor. Walten, who comes alive in time to growl his complaints as he's directed out of the tavern.
She gives a short sigh, and squares around at the two Riftwatch agents. "Well," she says. "Where were we?"
Apart from Marcus, no one in this room is aware that John is a fair match for Marcus in a fight.
Hopefully there is something reassuring in that lack of knowledge. If John (a cripple, comes the bitter, ghostly murmur.) steps in without fear, then it must signal something promising about Marcus.
For his part, John is relieved not to have been obliged to hop desperately to keep his balance, or worse, fall. It means he can meet this question head on, without a beat to gather his composure.
"Supplies," John reminds. "And the assistance of our people in training yours, as well as building the fortifications you'll need to even the odds."
The lack of obvious leader has been hampering this discussion. But John has hope in this continuation of earlier debate.
"Enchanter Rowntree can assist with the latter, and I'll see to the former."
Enchanter Rowntree does not lend his voice to Silver's reminders, enduring in silence the skeptical glance flickered his way. Whatever it is she sees there, or decides in spite of it, seems to cause that doubt to dissipate on its own, and she looks back to John Silver, nodding her head once.
"We can work with that."
The town hall style gathering shrinks slightly, with both men offered a seat at a table along with the woman, a Free Marcher named Kyri, and a looming presence of a couple of the other refugees presiding over the negotiation. Some ale is poured, the crowd thins, although an audience still exists as a less volatile circle of interest scattered through the tavern.
They are told of a Brother Jaimen who lives above the shrine, who knows best the needs of the village. He is invited and summoned there, slightly sleep-befuddled and wary as he joins the conversation, but sharp enough to cotton onto the matter at hand. It is agreed, as the evening hours slip later and later, that Kyri can keep her people in line in return of Riftwatch's support, and offer the village protection in exchange of refuge. Jaimen will manage the supply itself, ensuring fair distribution, and the honouring of deals.
The news will be disseminated amongst the village and the camps tomorrow morning.
Throughout this stage of the negotiations, Marcus remains quiet, sensing a way forward and opting to entrust John in its navigation. There is ale, which he drinks, and he offers agreeing sounds and nods at the correct moments.
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no subject
It would be in their best interest to be sure it remains avoided. Beating Walten into the floorboards, deserved or otherwise, will not do that.
When he had fought Marcus (in a dream, yes, but John doesn't imagine reality differs greatly.) good sense had said to keep well out of arm's reach. Walton hadn't made that same calculation, and seems to be paying for it. John is loathe to wade in, but the decision is made for him. The fight can't continue if they plan to wedge their way into the good graces of either side.
"Marcus," is pitched to carry, punctuated by the hasty thud of John's crutch and the catch of his hand. Try to keep hold, bracing himself for what happens if Marcus tears free. "It's settled. You've made your point."
no subject
Marcus opens his fist, knuckles greased in blood and fingers spreading in a signal that concurs: it's settled. Arm losing its tension. With his other, he sort of pettily shoves Walten back down into the ground by that matter of millimetres as he pushes himself to his feet, a breath of complaint as new bruises twinge.
Then, another voice, snapping, "Get him out of here."
Instinct has Marcus tense, looking towards the source in immediate defense—but it becomes plain soon enough that the 'him' is not Marcus, but Walten, as a woman with grey threaded through her hair and a nose that's been broken sometime in her life pushes forward, directing some others to go about scraping Walten off the floor. Walten, who comes alive in time to growl his complaints as he's directed out of the tavern.
She gives a short sigh, and squares around at the two Riftwatch agents. "Well," she says. "Where were we?"
no subject
Hopefully there is something reassuring in that lack of knowledge. If John (a cripple, comes the bitter, ghostly murmur.) steps in without fear, then it must signal something promising about Marcus.
For his part, John is relieved not to have been obliged to hop desperately to keep his balance, or worse, fall. It means he can meet this question head on, without a beat to gather his composure.
"Supplies," John reminds. "And the assistance of our people in training yours, as well as building the fortifications you'll need to even the odds."
The lack of obvious leader has been hampering this discussion. But John has hope in this continuation of earlier debate.
"Enchanter Rowntree can assist with the latter, and I'll see to the former."
no subject
"We can work with that."
The town hall style gathering shrinks slightly, with both men offered a seat at a table along with the woman, a Free Marcher named Kyri, and a looming presence of a couple of the other refugees presiding over the negotiation. Some ale is poured, the crowd thins, although an audience still exists as a less volatile circle of interest scattered through the tavern.
They are told of a Brother Jaimen who lives above the shrine, who knows best the needs of the village. He is invited and summoned there, slightly sleep-befuddled and wary as he joins the conversation, but sharp enough to cotton onto the matter at hand. It is agreed, as the evening hours slip later and later, that Kyri can keep her people in line in return of Riftwatch's support, and offer the village protection in exchange of refuge. Jaimen will manage the supply itself, ensuring fair distribution, and the honouring of deals.
The news will be disseminated amongst the village and the camps tomorrow morning.
Throughout this stage of the negotiations, Marcus remains quiet, sensing a way forward and opting to entrust John in its navigation. There is ale, which he drinks, and he offers agreeing sounds and nods at the correct moments.