The image it conjures is the man in question crashing dramatically from one anonymously well appointed room to another, pursued by a faceless assassin brandishing an endless series of knives narrowly missing Hounsford to be thrust into sideboards and doorjambs and repelled by silver platters as shields, with Riftwatch's agents following at their heels as ladies in silk shriek behind their fans.
"I wasn't aware you'd be attending a wedding." There's a bottle in the lower drawer of his desk; he retrieves it. "It wasn't two more of ours being married, was it?"
He pauses, midway through the act of uncorking the bottle, and does not laugh though the look that crosses his face more or less substitutes for one - a smile flashing on then off again, eyebrows climbing.
"Ah." What a diplomatic sound it is, benevolent and too instantly familiar. One of those. "Any casualties?"
John's entire expression lifts, brightening in immediate interest as he clocks Flint's tone. The impending question is telegraphed, even as John folds his hands over each other on his crutch.
"One of the Averesch twins looked murderous for most of the evening," John relates. "And he wasn't the only objector, but most everyone suffered through it admirably."
Declining to include himself definitively in this summation of events.
"Have some experience with these sorts of events, do you?"
Maybe, says his face. A cup is produced from under a discarded stack of reports.
"Someone should let Bastien and Lady Alexandrie know how successful their training regimen has proven to be," he says while searching for a second. A series of drawers near to hand are opened, then closed, followed by a pause in which the room is surveyed and the second cup is finally discarded as a lost cause. He settles on filling the former, setting it across the desk before Silver.
"For a time I was in the service alongside an officer with a knack for finding party invitations while at liberty. I believe you're acquainted with the practice of keeping strange company even when other options are made available."
John chuckles, tips his the cup towards Flint in a minor salute before taking a sip.
Is the huff of amusement at John's association with the Walrus crew, or whatever came before that? The long stretch of unexplored history that lays beyond the moment he'd been pulled from the hold of a doomed ship?
"And to think, we wasted your expertise by allowing you to remain here."
John's head tilts as he speaks, considering. Trying to picture this younger version of Flint at such a party. It's not the first time he's tried to distill what he knows of Flint into some clear vision, and come up short.
"I guarantee that, were he here, said aforementioned officer would swear otherwise."
He hadn't been good company. When one is dragging a friend along to parties, it's under the assumption that you're to be supported in some fashion - not made to dredge the poor bastard along, or (worse) abandoned outright.
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"I wasn't aware you'd be attending a wedding." There's a bottle in the lower drawer of his desk; he retrieves it. "It wasn't two more of ours being married, was it?"
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Oh, was that a joke? Surprise, it was very nearly commentary on the actual evening's version of parlor games.
"Hounsford keeps interesting company, I'll say that."
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"Ah." What a diplomatic sound it is, benevolent and too instantly familiar. One of those. "Any casualties?"
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"One of the Averesch twins looked murderous for most of the evening," John relates. "And he wasn't the only objector, but most everyone suffered through it admirably."
Declining to include himself definitively in this summation of events.
"Have some experience with these sorts of events, do you?"
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"Someone should let Bastien and Lady Alexandrie know how successful their training regimen has proven to be," he says while searching for a second. A series of drawers near to hand are opened, then closed, followed by a pause in which the room is surveyed and the second cup is finally discarded as a lost cause. He settles on filling the former, setting it across the desk before Silver.
"For a time I was in the service alongside an officer with a knack for finding party invitations while at liberty. I believe you're acquainted with the practice of keeping strange company even when other options are made available."
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Is the huff of amusement at John's association with the Walrus crew, or whatever came before that? The long stretch of unexplored history that lays beyond the moment he'd been pulled from the hold of a doomed ship?
"And to think, we wasted your expertise by allowing you to remain here."
John's head tilts as he speaks, considering. Trying to picture this younger version of Flint at such a party. It's not the first time he's tried to distill what he knows of Flint into some clear vision, and come up short.
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He hadn't been good company. When one is dragging a friend along to parties, it's under the assumption that you're to be supported in some fashion - not made to dredge the poor bastard along, or (worse) abandoned outright.
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But what he settles on:
"It was hard to be a disaster. By comparison, you may have been one of the more charming prospects."
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As if either of them is somehow excluded from the shade of that particular assessment.
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"I did hear a few things that may be useful, but idle gossip from Ostwick isn't necessarily going to help us in our current ventures."