therookery | news post (crystal)

Entry tags:

news post (crystal)

FORM: Crystalllll
SENDER: Byerly Rutyer
RECIPIENT: every....one.....
WHAT: Byerly demanded the right to read the news, and I am sorry
WHEN: The moment this smacks your eyes
WHERE: Everywhere
NOTES: Smutty talk and cursing

Hear ye, hear ye. Bend your ear, fair maids and lads, and all you dissolute dung-heaps who have forsaken your virtue, shame on all of you, for most of you aren't even wed. Don't you know that humping should be only in the service of procreation? Blush, dear slatterns.

[ Oh, Maker, it's this guy. And he sounds happy. Indeed, he's cheerily clearing his throat, and saying - ]

It is I, Byerly Rutyer, here to read you the news of the world. Anyone who tunes me out is, therefore, going to be ill-informed and a disgrace. Your civic duty is to heed me.

First, the news from Nevarra! Oh, this is marvelous. It seems that the King is truly like a piece of cheese left out in cold weather - you know what I'm talking about - you come back after two months and somehow when you cut away the rind it's still edible. What I mean to say is that he's still alive. Rumor on the street is that he died months ago and has been puppeted by those horrifying Nevarran necromancers. What do they call them? Moriteasers? Anyway.

Now, the fair land of Orlais. I have good news and bad news there. First, the bad news: still full of Orlesians. Second, the good - ah, no, sorry, this is actually also bad news. Welcome to the Inquisition, newcomers, it is always thus. It turns out the peasants are revolting - [ A pause, and then - ] Oh, really, someone was supposed to say "what else is new." You're all useless. So - the peasants are revolting - lightly revolting - because as it turns out someone has gotten in their heads and made them forget that their duty is to die on behalf of their betters. Hideous. Was it one of you? You're all bloody halfway to being social revolutionaries yourselves. In any case. In Montsimmard and Verchiel, there have been riots, because the peasants are displeased with the way that they're being arrested when they refuse to fight. They're not being hanged. So touchy. They're also displeased because they're being compensated less when their possessions are seized for the war efforts. Honestly, what value material wealth? Why can't people like that let it go? Why do things matter so much to them?

And now Tevinter. Good news and bad news. Good news, the Tevinters have their own country, and none of us are ever obligated to go there, praise the Maker. Bad news - oh, no, actually this is rather good news. Don't get used to it, newcomers; the Inquisition is rarely thus. The anti-Venatori sorts are refusing to engage with the Venatori, since they suspect the Venatori may have murdered one of their cohort...which is such base slander, honestly, could you imagine a Venatori ever doing something like that? Such sweet, honest folks. The Venatori cry - [ In a bad Tevinter accent mixed with a generic stage-play villain voice: ] "You wretches! You merely wish to delay us in our path to executing our dastardly plan!" To which the others cry - [ Again a Tevinter accent, though this time resonant and heroic - ] "Get fucked!" Vote will happen in Firstfall. We all hold our breath in antici...

[ Loooooong pause. ]

Antiva! Oh, finally, some news that actually matters. Fashion, my dears, we're talking fashion. The look of the season, this season, is black ribbons and teardrop-shaped pearls. Why? Oh, my darlings, in tribute to us. They're weeping symbolically. Not, of course, sending any assistance or resources, but oh, they weep! And also spend. And also turn glorious profit. Turns out certain merchant princes with pearl interests and black-silk interests have been particularly vociferous in reminding their citizens that they should express their sympathies. So if you want to line your pockets, dear ones, ship your black ribbons off to Antiva before Satinalia's end. And be comforted, knowing that they care just enough for it to set a fashion trend.

[ A clap of his hands. ]

Have you news to share? Information for the rank gossip-mongers? We're hungry for it. Oh, feed us. Feed us, please.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Do you think my desire is to make myself matter, my captain? Why on earth would I want that?

You're certainly going to great lengths [literally] to make yourself relevant.

[ That's - uncomfortably perceptive. It's not exactly relevance he wants, per se, but - prominence, yes; the ability to be thought of as a natural part of the Inquisition. The ability to go unquestioned. And the ability to be seen as rather pathetic, a joker and a fool but nothing more than that - the ability to be perceived not as a threat at all. Is Flint picking up on that? Or is he simply casting barbs in the hopes they'll land? ]

Well.

[ He lets out a heavy, jovial sigh, a touche sort of noise. ]

A man does have to eat. The Inquisition is not in the business of feeding those who refuse to pull their weight, no? Aside from all those refugees, I suppose. And I'd sooner not be one of them. They do reek.

[Maybe if he hadn't seen all that flash of attentiveness behind Byerly's easy grin or if he hadn't almost stepped straight into the edge of whatever metaphorical knife Byerly has hiding near his side, he'd have no reason to pivot so. Or maybe he's paranoid. Or maybe he's giving the man too much credit based entirely on a sense of familiarity that doesn't actually exist. Regardless, he can't shake the feeling of a feint in progress even if he can't see the direction.

Diplomacy, he'd said. And as the Inquisition can hardly be called discretionary when it comes to recruitment--]

I'd be surprised if you hadn't already found some other way of pulling your weight, Rutyer. 'Tugging on legs', wasn't it?

[Someone must be doing it on the Inquisition's behalf.]

Edited 2018-10-16 23:57 (UTC)

[ Making a great show of being puzzled - ]

Tugging on legs...No, that's not what I tug. And I only sometimes get paid - oh. Oh, yes, I remember now.

[ Brightly - ]

Alas, that's not something that pays, either.

Doesn't it? [Flatly--] Strange. You should consider a different employer.

Any suggestions?

I'm afraid no one suitable comes to mind.

No? Well - what about you? It sounds like you need a little more information yourselves, dear completely-legitimate-sailors.

The ship has a poor track record of vetting hands by sending crystal.

Well, I'd invite you to try my hands for yourself.

You'd have to find your way out to the middle of the harbor first, Mr Rutyer.

I can row a longboat. Well, me and another, but - I'm capable.

I trust you know the ship in question.

It came to me once in a dream.

Make arrangements then.

[ There's no more response coming from his end. Instead, one days later, Byerly shows up on-board. No announcement, no by-your-leave, nothing - just a fop in a doublet and breeches, clean-shaven, sword at his belt a light fencing foil, yet even so looking as comfortable on the deck of this ship surrounded by brigands as he'd looked in the bath. He calls out, hailing a nearby crewman - ]

Ho! Captain Flint. Where is he?

[From the prompt way Byerly is received over the side, someone must have given word that a boat might be en route, but there's no quick answer from the crew. Instead, it comes from the man himself as he makes his way down the step from the stern deck in the failing light. There's a book under his arm, a spyglass in hand.]

This way, Messr Rutyer.

[With a careless tip of the head, Flint makes his way to the cabin, pausing only briefly to say some low thing to one of the Walrus men lingering there at the wheel. He holds the door for Byerly to pass through it, shoulder against the dense oak frame.]

How was the row?

[A flat, humorless question. He smiles, unblinking, mouth curving behind the prickle of his whiskers.]

Utterly dreadful.

[ By smiles back, toothy and wry. He doesn't work quite as hard to keep up the foppish clownishness when it's just him and Flint. Flint's questions have been pointed enough that By knows he's not buying the act any longer. So what will be the harm? It's not as though Flint is about to chat about Byerly's trustworthiness (or lack thereof) to the rest of the Inquisition - just his crewmates, if them. And perhaps Flint will get overconfident if he thinks he's cracked By entirely. ]

My arms ache so dreadfully. And it took so long. But at least I had a bit of time to think.

You don't say. [It doesn't sound like a question, but it's an invitation regardless. 'About what?' it asks as they cross into comparative low light of the cabin. A lamp hangs overhead, swinging faintly in mimicry of the sway of the ship at anchor.

Flint pulls the door shut behind them. There's a bolt; he slides it, then crosses the room to restore the book to its place on a well populated shelf.]

Just so.

[ By flops into the chair sitting at an angle from the desk. His flop is such that his knife in its hidden sheath ends up resting right under his hand - though subtly so; the pose does not, he thinks, draw attention to the nearness of the weapon. This is the problem with being a curious man: you end up bolted into a room with a man far deadlier than you, asking dangerous questions. Really a bad position. Ah, well; what's life without spice? ]

First, I thought to myself - thank the Maker they didn't accept me into the Navy. I applied, you know. As a young man. The Ferelden Navy, obviously. But I became too drunk on the day that I was to be interviewed, and so, instead - [ A click of his tongue. ] I ended up as I did. A professional gossip-monger. It is amazing, what people will pay for gossip, sometimes.

Yet it doesn't currently.

[He's all comfortable swagger as he makes his way to the far side of the desk. The spyglass is jammed between a stack of charts and a compass to keep it from rolling. Without sitting there in the waiting high backed chair, Flint fetches up the bottle and uncorks it with a low hollow pop. He doses both glasses with a tar dark liquor, cinnamon and cane sugar and strong enough that the smell alone might strip paint.

Flint doesn't bother to replace the cork.]

Any second thoughts?

[Byerly had led with 'First--.]

Edited (Hands cmon) 2018-10-18 11:39 (UTC)

Who says it doesn't?

[ He takes up the glass, curling it into his hand, lifting it to his nose and inhaling deeply. It's a near-heavenly smell, the vapors rippling off the top of it almost enough to go to his head without the liquor passing his lips. By thinks of his great-grandfather Pierre the Bloody, an artist of the Ferelden resistance, who'd liked to peel Orlesian faces and tan that skin into masks. Ironic, see. By hadn't known Pierre - the man had been heroically hacked to bits by some chevaliers well before By's birth - but there were certain family lessons attributed to him. For example: when in meetings with your allies, serve tea. When in meetings with your enemies, serve wine.

He wonders if Flint would have gotten on with Pierre. ]

My second thought was of you. Reflecting on your desires. Is there anything you want besides your island back?

[It's either the right question or the wrong one; Flint moves to take the high backed chair, twitching back the long edge of his coat so he can settle there in the easy sway of the cabin.]

I'll tell you what I told Commander Coupe, then. [A selective club, clearly.] That my interest is in winning this war we're all supposedly meant to be fighting.

[Ting. The tap of a ring against the glass.] You clearly consider yourself educated, Messr Rutyer. We both must know that if all I wanted was the force to retake an island, I could have gone to Llomerryn for it.

I consider myself an ignorant fool in all matters, Captain Flint.

[ He toasts with all appearances of sincerity, wets his lips on the liquor, and sets the glass down again. ]

But very well, then. Have you desires aside from the unconditional, shining victory of this glorious Inquisition, the purification of the Andrastean faith, the defeat of the Old God-worshipping heathens, et cetera?

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