[OPEN]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria, Flint, & YOU
WHAT: Catch-all
WHEN: Fantasy!March
WHERE: Kirkwall/the Gallows
NOTES: Predominantly wrap-up/endcap threads for Wysteria and Flint before they ride off into the sunset. If you want something bespoke, feel free to wildcard me or reach out for a starter. Wysteria's impending departure is known, Flint's definitely isn't.

Comments

flint | ota

[katabasis]

THE ROOKERY.

The griffon eyrie isn't the only place in the Gallows peppered with feathers and down. Stuffed full of grim colored birds waiting to do their business of carrying messages to and from the island fortress, the various croaks and barks of the ravens fill the rookery with the more or less the same enthusiasm as their larger, arguably less rowdy counterparts a few floors above. They're funny animals, easily as particular as the griffons are, and somewhat known for playing intractable despite being perfectly well acquainted with their work.

Case in point: presently, one of the ravens who knows the way to Antiva City is doing her best to evade capture. Rather than come down to nibble at the jerky Flint has in one hand, she's flitting from perch to perch with a swoop and a cheeky bristling of the feathers at the crown of her dark head.

"You shit," Flint grumbles, waving off another bird who's come to investigate. Would he consider sending his very important letter to, say, Denerim instead?

THE TRAINING YARD.

The weekly Forces division meeting has historically been led by the division's assistant, or perhaps Barrow, or literally anyone except for Flint. But in light of no longer retaining an assistant for the office, and presumably Barrow being very engaged elsewhere, the task seems to have actually fallen to Flint this week.

The meeting itself is short and unremarkable, including a spare summary of reports of enemy movements in the Free Marches, relevant intelligence conveyed from the Exalted March and various allied forces, and the usual issuing of assignments and duty rotas. In summary: it's nothing special, save for the fact that afterwards Flint is easily accessible without having to climb eight flights of stairs or first make an appointment to talk to him.

Which probably explains why he's making every effort to quickly leave the training yard.

THE FERRY LANDING. (closed to whoever gets there first)

It's late. The last ferry had left an hour ago, yet here is a dinghy bumping up onto the Gallows landing. A figure is spat out from the boat, clambering heavily from the little vessel as it bobs and weaves against the dock's edge. Then, given only the briefest exchange with the two men at oars, the little boat wheels around and speeds away across the inky black water of the harbor. The light from the lantern in its bow is briskly swallowed by the night, leaving Flint to work his way up the ferry landing in the blotted moonlight.

WILDCARD.

[Flint will be spending his month in the exact same way he usually does. Find him in the Forces Division office, taking suspect meetings with various scoundrels in Kirkwall public houses, or taking a griffon out for Important Business. Hit me up with anything/shoot me a pm or disco message if you want something bespoke.]

the ferry landing.

[elegiaque]

It isn't completely unusual to see Gwenaëlle out near the ferry's landing at this hour, for the simple fact that La Souveraineté's mooring is not so far away from it, regardless of what hour she might or might not have traversed the harbour herself. In this instance it is clearly a personal errand rather than evidence of particular overwork— Flint will hear her before he sees her, a steady stream of scolding Orlesian that she doesn't expect to be heard by anyone except the lykoi cat presently swaddled in her rolled up skirts to prevent a secondary, even more irritating escape.

At this hour, she isn't expecting to see anyone else; the last ferry has been and gone, so it's most times a safe assumption anyone down here is moving towards her boat and not anywhere else, but she isn't expecting anyone. Isn't expecting him, and stops,

the abrupt cut off to her muttering making clear that she's seen him, in case he had it in mind to slip by.

“—what sort of time do you call this, then?” is an implied question wearing the clothes of a joke.

[katabasis]

He's moving slowly, but there's little reason not to at this hour. It is, as Gwenaelle's halfway joke has already underscored, extremely late, and presumably the man has had a long day first in the Gallows followed by whatever errands have kept him so long in Kirkwall. In any case, it is no great imposition for an already lagging stride to be drawn up entirely.

The moonlight is half effective at best where it peers through the towers and across the heavy fortified wall of the Gallows. It paints them both in uneven shadows, and Flint at least suffers for it. He looks tired, as if he has been frowning for a number of hours or is presently failing to fend off a headache.

"One for spoiling desertions, evidently." If the captive squirming around in the bundle of her skirts is any indication.

They're both hilarious.

[elegiaque]

Sensing stillness (and therefore opportunity), Small Yngvi makes a renewed effort to free himself from present imprisonment; Gwenaëlle tightens her grip around the fabric she's bundled him into like her skirts are a sack, still holding it far enough out from her knees to prevent easy swiping. It's not the most dignified for either party involved.

“Small Yngvi would sell us to the Venatori for a fish and a cuddle,” she concedes, “though I assume you're more expensive.”

She hesitates, teetering on not pressing him, then — as ever, reaching for the prospect of a useful task — settles on, “Do you need...? Tea or a remedy.” He looks sort of like shit, in an ordinary sort of way that maybe tea laced with pain relief could address, though he does also look as if he might become part of the furniture if he were to sit down long enough to drink it. Still.

Her gaze drifts over his shoulder, into the darkness where the boat had gone.

[katabasis]

(continued here)

the rookery.

[ipseite]

Although she does not always handle the matter of her own mail her own self — what is the point of having two strapping gentlemen with much longer legs if not to send them on any number of errands they can achieve handsomely and be rewarded for — from time to time perhaps they are not at once to hand, or she has sat cooped up in her office for hours and all of those stairs sound refreshing,

though they feel less so, at the top. Petrana takes a pause in the doorway from said stairs into the rookery, and thus can fully appreciate the scene that she finds there.

“You are endearing yourself no end to that bird, James,” she says, mild, by way of light greeting.

[katabasis]

This, surely as intended, prompts the turning of his head, a palpable pause in which Flint can be seen considering his present indignities with some measure of resolved exasperation, and a cool smart remark. Or the first two, at least. The third one is interrupted by the Denerim raven hopping down from its perch to his upper arm, clawing it's way up his sleeve like a fat cat waddling from bicep to shoulder where it perches more confidently. It releases a demanding Croak!, as if to remind Flint that they were having a conversation first before some woman rudely interrupted them.

So, with a modicum more labor:

"I've some suspicion they imagine they've been neglected."

(Stop nibbling at his earring, you fuck—)

[ipseite]

Observing these developments, Petrana does not very successfully conceal her amusement, her own intended purpose here neatly clasped in one hand—

“It is terribly confident in your ability to right that wrong,” she says, in the same way, trying and failing not to smile. “Most bold. Is it this one in particular you've need of persuading?”

[katabasis]

(continued here)

we love office settings.

[luaithre]

One day, you're beating a demon to death in a half-empty sideroom, ducking swiping claws or gouts of ichor; the next, you're sat at a desk discussing protocol about the future prevention of this occurrence. Such is employment at Riftwatch.

It's been enough time for everyone to get a fair night's sleep, and there are loose pages in front of Marcus, including half-written report on one of their problems. "I'd had the thought the rifter," and he means Tav, the current topic of conversation, "might only be as dangerous as an addled man with little in the way of killing ability or, even, magic. But he's taken to—"

What's a good word for 'fucking with people', asks the searching look steered past Flint's head.

"—manipulation," that's the one. "Trying to bait those guarding him, trying to collect sympathy. If everything he says is a lie, he's still a disturbance."

[katabasis]

(continued here)