news post (crystal)

[bouchonne]

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.

Comments

[bouchonne]

It came to me once in a dream.

[katabasis]

Make arrangements then.

[bouchonne]

[ 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?

[katabasis]

[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.]

[bouchonne]

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.

[katabasis]

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.]

[bouchonne]

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.

[katabasis]

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--.]

[bouchonne]

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?

[katabasis]

[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.

[bouchonne]

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?

[katabasis]

[There's no glass raised in return, but the lines of his face go all crooked and edge-keen and dark eyed - a flicker of sharpened humor that's not really good but isn't really anything else either. It's the satisfaction of a man in his own territory, ready to exercise the right to refuse.]

Before I answer - what do you think you're going to get from any of this, Rutyer? I might appreciate the effort more if I knew what end it was driving toward.

[bouchonne]

[ By arches his eyebrows and gives a simple, straightforward answer. ]

Money.

[katabasis]

[Ting. Ting. Flint's expression remains fixed.]

What makes you worth the coin?

[bouchonne]

[ Another shaded smile over the liquor. ]

Dear Captain, by this point, I shouldn't have to answer that question for you.

[ Which does sound ever so confident and smooth. ]

[katabasis]

[He's worth it because has has a penchant for being exactly the right brand of nauseatingly irritating to induce a series of irritated corrections. An inspiration for being pedantic to the point of incrimination.

Flint studies him with a low, long look. He takes a sip of his drink, the shadow of his hand casting long across his face.]

I can't pay you. You'd realize it almost immediately, which is obviously the only reason I'm telling you now. But if you're useful like I think you could be, I can figure out how to make it worth your while.

[He is absolutely, fundamentally certain.]

[bouchonne]

[ Ah. That information in and of itself makes this trip worthwhile. Assuming it's true, of course. And assuming that Flint will let him leave here alive. - Which he almost certainly will; By expects that Flint doesn't play with his food before eating it. But still.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, watching Flint from hooded eyes. ]

Oh, I've no doubt. Coin is, generally speaking, not my preferred currency. A whisper in the ear is better by far.

[katabasis]

[A pause. He fetches up the bottle and reaches to top off Byerly's glass. Study uninterrupted and heavy for it.]

The Inqusition has a number of mercantile connections. Would you be comfortable in their company?

[bouchonne]

I'm comfortable in all sorts of company.

[ He smiles, and picks up the glass again - holding it, to make it harder for Flint to top off. The challenge is to seem to be drinking it without actually drinking it - which is easy to do under most circumstances, particularly since he's quite good at getting his companions drunk. But it's less straightforward with a sober man - never mind one with such hawkish eyes. ]

I've spent many a day amongst sailors. And bandits, and river pirates - a less romantic breed than you sea pirates, but still charming. Am I to understand that your interest lies in a bit of...information-gathering?

[katabasis]

[The pretense of the bottle is abandoned.]

My interest lies in seeing the Inquisition's naval forces brought to a point of effectiveness. It has an assortment of boats and two trade vessels sitting useless, unmanned and rotting in the harbor. I'd like to acquire business interested in their use - not as a partner to buy share, but parties who would pay coin for the hold space and shipment guarantees. That revenue will be used to hire on hands and the runs to train them, so that when the time comes we can actually use those ships for something other than for blockading the harbor. Any additional revenue directly benefits the Inquisition's coffers.

[He takes a drink and settles back in the depth of the chair - elbows hooked on the carved arms, the base on the glass set comfortably against the heavy studded belt at his middle.]

I trust you can find a way to make a profit on the side of all that.

[bouchonne]

[ Could he? Well - perhaps. Depending on the trade routes. He doesn't have any idea about the ins and outs of which-bannorn-needs-what and how much Orlais fucks them over in import-export taxes, but he imagines it would benefit Ferelden to have a few new trade routes established. It's certainly not his primary purpose here, acting as some sort of economic developer, but it wouldn't go amiss, surely.

But. ]

I hope you're not mistaking my skill set, dear Captain. I can bring back information and rumors, most certainly. But I don't have the expertise to know good opportunities from bad ones. And I certainly could not negotiate anything on the Inquisition's behalf. It may shock you to learn this, but when people look at me, they don't tend to see me as a serious man.

[katabasis]

I don't need you to negotiate anything. I need a presence who will be reasonably welcome in that company, where mine is most certainly not. All I require from you is to do exactly what you're doing here - asking questions and making no promises. Bring whatever you hear to me and arrangements will be made for someone more legitimate than either of us do the business on the face.

Any information beyond this scope you might happen across would of course be yours to do with what you please.

[His spare hand has drifted high to tug absently at edge of his mustache - a clearly habitual evaluating motion. ]

Think you can manage that?

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly's look at Flint, in response to that question, is surpassingly haughty. ]

Of course I can manage it.

[ A dismissive gesture of his free hand. ]

But you essentially offer me no compensation for this. I am using my abilities in your service, but no service is given to me in return. Do I strike you as a charitable man, Captain?

[katabasis]

[In the swaying lamp light, the shadow cast by his hand over the lower half of his face lengthens and shortens in turn. Somewhere in there Flint's expression has slid sideways toward satisfaction - with the answer, but most especially with the earned leeway that affords the question:]

What do you want from me?

[bouchonne]

[ And a smile in return, satisfied. ]

Do you anticipate, perhaps, having some influence over trading routes in the future? Perhaps by disrupting them.