Should Commander Flint be sitting at his desk, with an ear to the hallway rather than all attention fixed upon the work occupying his desk, he might hear the susurration of sound on the opposite side of the doorway. A murmur’s worth of conversation, perhaps conducted with a hand upon the heavy brass handle, conducted in the span of a minute and punctuated with a soft tread of steps receding farther on.
There is first a slight rasp of turning, pausing for a breath, perhaps to rearrange the order of entrants. And then the whole heavy door swings inward on its hinges.
Derrica enters first. Marcus is left to close the thing behind them, and latch it against interlopers. Derrica’s fingers are at the clasp of heavy travelers cloak, assured at least of their welcome as she greets, “Commander, we urgently need to speak with you.”
Marcus closes the door. Latches it, for good measure.
He is also dressed for (or rather, from) travel, his own cloak still damp at the hems and spotted with specks of earth from riding, kicked up from hooves. Urgency, as mentioned, conveyed in a sort of undercurrent of energy, a quick sweep of a look across Flint's desk as if he could tell from here if anything in front of the Commander might be important enough to earn their dismissal.
Decides, from here, that there isn't, but doesn't echo Derrica, only expectantly angles for one of the chairs by the desk.
There is just the one empty chair on that near side of the desk. If Coupe had kept two there, then Flint had pointedly sent the spare away when he'd taken up the room. Were it not for the frequency of company he is willing to permit a chair, he might have sent the second one away with it. Reports are generally delivered more expeditiously when the person (or persons) giving them are required to stand.
But there is the chair. Having that morning neglected to stack of papers (or his coat, or a sword, or—) on it to act as a ward, there's little in the way to intercept Marcus.
Flint, behind his desk, sets his pen down. A glance is passed in the direction of Matthias's empty desk, and then to the door, and then at last the point of his attention wheels back to Derrica and Rowntree, and their speckled traveling gear.
Marcus might easily lay claim to the chair. Derrica doesn't seem inclined to sit. Having undone that single heavy clasp, she shifts her stave from left hand to right, gathering herself. In the room, door latched, and Flint's attention upon them, she seems to just now consider what they might say to him.
"We've had a meeting with Grand Enchanter Fiona," is where Derrica apparently believes it appropriate to start. She has gravitated to the space before Flint's desk, so far as she can go without leaving Marcus' sphere. "Regarding Starkhaven."
Marcus sits. He gets accused of looming a lot, due to all the looming, and this seems a means of mitigating it.
It is assumptive of space, in a characteristic kind of way—the thump of a battle staff laid down, the tip forwards rather than back into his seat. A glance to Derrica as she speaks, then back to Flint. His instinct is to deliver their report expeditiously, standing or no.
"We put to her the notion of rallying the rebels and bringing them to Starkhaven's defense. She's interested, provided we can assist her in the manoeuvring."
A line shifts in Flint's face. It isn't a subtle rearrangement. For all that the semantics which work themselves out inside his head may on occasion be inscrutable, he's not so illegible as all that. The transfiguration of latent annoyance (he had been in the middle of something, actually; the half written letter under his hand is testament to that) to piqued interest is plain enough.
So too is the low check of vigilance. Like a hand steady on a line coming under pressure—
"What does she imagine this assistance looks like?"
Interest is promising. Some of the tension in Derrica's stance eases by a degree, even as she looks away from Flint to Marcus.
"We would lead on that," she answers, a little prompting. It is not technically a question, except for the yielding quality to the statement, leaving room for input. "We know best what resources we might offer, and I don't think she expects anything more than what we are already equipped for."
Marcus' focus is forward, keen to read whatever is transmitted. Optimistic signs are absorbed without change in his own manner, the thrum of his energy kept low beneath the surface, but present.
He nods once to Derrica's words.
"There were no commitments made by us or requests from her to bolster their numbers with our own," Marcus says. "But we can offer intelligence and support. We've monitored Imperium presence in the Free Marches since their invasion. We can guide their path, inform their actions."
But 'manoeuvring' has other meanings, and so he adds, "This, along with Riftwatch's ability to see her and Vael in a room, and securing his cooperation."
What leverage does Riftwatch have, really, to get anyone into a room with Sebastien Vael? —Is a passing thought that floats up and is dispersed as quickly as it first formed. Some, is the rational answer. More, should their leverage come in concert with a successful push against a siege force. All this before the matter of them having one of Vael's (in)famous companions among their number, should they take the contents of Tethras's Tale of the Champion at face value.
But:
"You put this notion to her," he echoes back. There's a note of expectation in it and in the point of Flint's attention as it shifts in Derrica's direction. "To what end?"
More, he assumes, than just liberating Starkhaven.
('Just.' As if that single thing weren't a challenge all on its own merit.)
It is still disorienting to feel expectant attention upon her.
There is one answer to this question. Derrica doesn't hesitate over whether or not to give it, only over the choosing of the words she uses to do so.
"To see the rebel mages recognized in southern Thedas, in a way they haven't been in their support of the Inquisition," because it was so easy to ignore them and the work they have and continue to do while they walked alongside the ranks of the Chantry's people.
Is it possible that a push by some number of rebel mages could make a dent in the force drawn around the base of Starkhaven? Riftwatch's intelligence might see them delivered expeditiously into the wolf's teeth, but what then? The Imperium body in the Marches isn't exactly a conservative number.
Flint's study of Derrica is measuring. Skepticism prickles in slowly at the corners of his mouth, in the lay of his brow, in the stillness of his hand with its rings on the surface of the desk between them. The slow sideways slide of a glance to take in Marcus is perfunctory at best.
"That's a considerable gamble to risk on the strength of Vael's word."
There is some quiet, uncertain part of her that wants to look to Marcus as well.
But she refrains. When Marcus does not interject, she replies, "I don't believe he's in a position where he can turn down an offer of help."
And his word after the fact will carry weight because of who he is, his reputation looming large among all the people that may not have entertained the plight of mages in Thedas otherwise. That is the goal, the thing they must acquire.
"They've been calling for aid for a long time," is quiet from where Marcus sits at Derrica's side, an undercurrent of emphasis to her point. "To no answer. The rebel mages can succeed where the Exalted March continues to fail. At least in this thing."
Perhaps more, and then with a prince inclined towards gratitude.
Marcus, for all that his dealings tend to resemble metaphors about hammers and nails, is certainly not ignorant about the meanings implicit in this thing they are speaking about. It is, in fact, everything.
Though it's been years, it doesn't feel like such a long time ago when he had, himself, broken from the larger rebel force when it seemed that their momentum and power and ability would become the property of the Chantry once more, once it was rebuilt. That their cause, that had cost them so much, would be devoured by this other, greater threat.
At the time, there was much to doubt about what had become of them all under Fiona's command. Their strength, however, was never in question.
So Marcus says, "Yes," and it's an understated response that nevertheless has a depth of feelings beneath it. Conviction, chief among them.
Yes, he says, and the way Flint absorbs it is similar to a mercantile tradesman placing a coin on a scale to test it's metal.
His hand, flat on the surface of the heavy desk between them, shifts one—an absent flick, a forefinger tapping, the gleam of a ring in the watery winter daylight. There is a draft eking it's way through some crack in a window frame at his back. The candle near to hand, it's little licking flame best utilized for the melting of sealing wax, gutters every now and again as if in response to an animal breathing. It's cold. The fire in the slightly too distant hearth warrants stoking.
Marcus meets Derrica's glance, gives a shake of his head.
"She has no cause to," is something he seems certain of too. "Not at this stage."
If Marcus has any intuitive ability to read people, Flint is particularly difficult. His intent focus on the Commander is a measure, and not unlike his regard of Fiona, not very long ago at all. It primarily dictates whether he stay silent or push further, and whatever he sees has him decide to speak again rather than await another question for either himself or Derrica to field.
A subtle creak of the chair, posture adjusted.
"But she was adamant on collaboration with Vael before anything else. Assuming Julius can corral the Ambassador into cooperation," is spoken with a tone of confidence that probably is weighted more towards Julius than Byerly Rutyer, "the only thing first is to see her safely to Starkhaven for negotiation. But it would be a better use of time to assume Vael's willing, and begin making preparations."
Here, a low and formless flicker of irritation—briefly there and gone again in the space of it would be a better use of time. Maybe mention of Rutyer is the inspiration. Maybe Marcus cutting out from under Flint's assembly of questions is. Regardless, the pinch in his brow lingers after the sharper edges of annoyance have subsided. There's something in this he disapproves of. That much is clear even as some last tap of the thumb on the desk serves as a punctuation mark, and what he says is—
"Then I suppose it's a good thing you've so much of this worked out already. That should save us all some time."
It's agreement, but not as whole-hearted as Derrica would have liked to hear. She is quiet for a moment, letting the words settle before saying, "If we travel by griffon, we can get her to Vael quickly."
Here, the way forward. As if Byerly Rutyer is a given rather than a potential roadblock.
"We could propose some means of providing the rebel mages the assistance they asked for, in the meantime," is very cautiously stated. Is this overstepping?
Is it late to fret about overstepping, at this late stage?
These small, fine cues that transmit irritation and disapproval are noted, and waited to be voiced, but matched with what Flint says instead—
Slight impatience, in the breath out from Marcus.
An awareness of Derrica, maybe, that has him not say the first thing that springs instinctive. He looks down and aside in a gesture of listening to her, a vague nod at the notion of spiriting Fiona about on griffonback (she must be used to it by now) then back to Flint, some manner of internal bridling taking place.
Which means that when he asks Flint, directly — "What is it?" — it was the diplomatic option.
The cant of Flint's temple as his focus shifts to Marcus is decidedly less than favorable. Oh, now is when he's invited to have an opinion?
At the center of all the messy edges of this—
how many rebels can be raised, exactly? How quickly can they be moved, and what number of their contingent will come from out of the Inquisition itself? If all goes well and they succeed in a break of the siege, how are they to control the directions in which the enemy force heretofore encamped may scatter in? What will the quality of Vael's assurances be once his most pressing concerns are resolved? And if it goes poorly, what's to stop this from being characterized as a sort of mass defection? To say nothing of the semantics of casualties
—there lies a simple and neatly tied knot: there is no tactical reason to refuse any offer to liberate Starkhaven, and there is no way to object without undermining the tentative scaffolding of this relationship between certain elements Riftwatch and the rebels.
Fucking Petrana de Cedoux. He doesn't require the attachment of her name to sense her fingerprint on this.
"I think that's lost most of its relevance, don't you?"
Is a hypothetical question, given how brusquely Flint moves on to, "I doubt there will be any obstacle to providing the rebels with the means required to reach Starkhaven unimpeded, or with seeing Fiona hurried ahead. What measure of support we can lend in the assault itself will depend entirely on the plan she may broker with Vael, though our lean numbers mean we can move faster than a column of rebels can. I would suggest "—is tart; some perspective may be valuable yet—"that if you haven't spoken to Rutyer already that you remind him we have one of Vael's past associates among our number. He may be able to lend some weight to the proceedings."
A pause, clipped. "You do plan on approaching the other division heads."
Isn't really a question. Maker strike him if he has to knock on Yseult's door and describe any of this to her as if it's the first he's heard of it.
Situated in the space between them, Derrica is alert to that breath from Marcus, the tension pulling tight in the room. The step she takes is very minor, mistaken maybe as necessary as she hooks her stave into place on her back. Surely only coincidentally sets her just a step into Marcus' space, a little closer should she need to caution him discreetly.
"Yes," is immediate, though Derrica isn't certain it will come as reassurance to know that he is not the only one they have snared.
It is a snare. She knows that they are forcing Riftwatch's hand. And that she will never know whether Commander Flint would have agreed, had they come to him before they went. The urge to apologize is tamped down in favor of a more complete answer:
"Madame de Cedoux and Enchanter Julius are meeting with them to explain what's transpired."
Unfavourable looks are met squarely and frowning, a flicker of dissatisfaction for rhetorical questions dismissing his more direct one, but quiet and listening for the rest. He is only aware of Derrica's movement in that he is aware of Derrica, not so attuned as to guess her intention.
Does, now, reflect on how it sounds—Madame de Cedoux and Enchanter Julius—but what does it matter, when in handling something as necessary as this, they were the most trusted and capable people to be so deployed?
In his opinion.
No appending to Derrica's answer, this time, impatience reined tighter.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
+ marcus
There is first a slight rasp of turning, pausing for a breath, perhaps to rearrange the order of entrants. And then the whole heavy door swings inward on its hinges.
Derrica enters first. Marcus is left to close the thing behind them, and latch it against interlopers. Derrica’s fingers are at the clasp of heavy travelers cloak, assured at least of their welcome as she greets, “Commander, we urgently need to speak with you.”
no subject
He is also dressed for (or rather, from) travel, his own cloak still damp at the hems and spotted with specks of earth from riding, kicked up from hooves. Urgency, as mentioned, conveyed in a sort of undercurrent of energy, a quick sweep of a look across Flint's desk as if he could tell from here if anything in front of the Commander might be important enough to earn their dismissal.
Decides, from here, that there isn't, but doesn't echo Derrica, only expectantly angles for one of the chairs by the desk.
no subject
But there is the chair. Having that morning neglected to stack of papers (or his coat, or a sword, or—) on it to act as a ward, there's little in the way to intercept Marcus.
Flint, behind his desk, sets his pen down. A glance is passed in the direction of Matthias's empty desk, and then to the door, and then at last the point of his attention wheels back to Derrica and Rowntree, and their speckled traveling gear.
"Go on."
no subject
"We've had a meeting with Grand Enchanter Fiona," is where Derrica apparently believes it appropriate to start. She has gravitated to the space before Flint's desk, so far as she can go without leaving Marcus' sphere. "Regarding Starkhaven."
no subject
It is assumptive of space, in a characteristic kind of way—the thump of a battle staff laid down, the tip forwards rather than back into his seat. A glance to Derrica as she speaks, then back to Flint. His instinct is to deliver their report expeditiously, standing or no.
"We put to her the notion of rallying the rebels and bringing them to Starkhaven's defense. She's interested, provided we can assist her in the manoeuvring."
no subject
So too is the low check of vigilance. Like a hand steady on a line coming under pressure—
"What does she imagine this assistance looks like?"
no subject
"We would lead on that," she answers, a little prompting. It is not technically a question, except for the yielding quality to the statement, leaving room for input. "We know best what resources we might offer, and I don't think she expects anything more than what we are already equipped for."
no subject
He nods once to Derrica's words.
"There were no commitments made by us or requests from her to bolster their numbers with our own," Marcus says. "But we can offer intelligence and support. We've monitored Imperium presence in the Free Marches since their invasion. We can guide their path, inform their actions."
But 'manoeuvring' has other meanings, and so he adds, "This, along with Riftwatch's ability to see her and Vael in a room, and securing his cooperation."
no subject
But:
"You put this notion to her," he echoes back. There's a note of expectation in it and in the point of Flint's attention as it shifts in Derrica's direction. "To what end?"
More, he assumes, than just liberating Starkhaven.
('Just.' As if that single thing weren't a challenge all on its own merit.)
no subject
There is one answer to this question. Derrica doesn't hesitate over whether or not to give it, only over the choosing of the words she uses to do so.
"To see the rebel mages recognized in southern Thedas, in a way they haven't been in their support of the Inquisition," because it was so easy to ignore them and the work they have and continue to do while they walked alongside the ranks of the Chantry's people.
no subject
Watches Flint, instead, with only some minor adjustment in the language of his posture. A subtle straightening and squaring, and unbreaking focus.
no subject
Flint's study of Derrica is measuring. Skepticism prickles in slowly at the corners of his mouth, in the lay of his brow, in the stillness of his hand with its rings on the surface of the desk between them. The slow sideways slide of a glance to take in Marcus is perfunctory at best.
"That's a considerable gamble to risk on the strength of Vael's word."
no subject
But she refrains. When Marcus does not interject, she replies, "I don't believe he's in a position where he can turn down an offer of help."
And his word after the fact will carry weight because of who he is, his reputation looming large among all the people that may not have entertained the plight of mages in Thedas otherwise. That is the goal, the thing they must acquire.
no subject
Perhaps more, and then with a prince inclined towards gratitude.
Marcus, for all that his dealings tend to resemble metaphors about hammers and nails, is certainly not ignorant about the meanings implicit in this thing they are speaking about. It is, in fact, everything.
no subject
"And you believe the rebels are strong enough to actually see this accomplished?" he asks. This is not a metaphorical question.
(What is an acceptable margin of loss to those mages at this stage?)
no subject
At the time, there was much to doubt about what had become of them all under Fiona's command. Their strength, however, was never in question.
So Marcus says, "Yes," and it's an understated response that nevertheless has a depth of feelings beneath it. Conviction, chief among them.
no subject
His hand, flat on the surface of the heavy desk between them, shifts one—an absent flick, a forefinger tapping, the gleam of a ring in the watery winter daylight. There is a draft eking it's way through some crack in a window frame at his back. The candle near to hand, it's little licking flame best utilized for the melting of sealing wax, gutters every now and again as if in response to an animal breathing. It's cold. The fire in the slightly too distant hearth warrants stoking.
"What does the Inquisition know of this?"
no subject
To Derrica, this seems unlikely. She admits the possibility, but without any expectation that they might need to account for it.
But she looks to Marcus afterwards, in some further concession. He would know better than she would.
no subject
"She has no cause to," is something he seems certain of too. "Not at this stage."
If Marcus has any intuitive ability to read people, Flint is particularly difficult. His intent focus on the Commander is a measure, and not unlike his regard of Fiona, not very long ago at all. It primarily dictates whether he stay silent or push further, and whatever he sees has him decide to speak again rather than await another question for either himself or Derrica to field.
A subtle creak of the chair, posture adjusted.
"But she was adamant on collaboration with Vael before anything else. Assuming Julius can corral the Ambassador into cooperation," is spoken with a tone of confidence that probably is weighted more towards Julius than Byerly Rutyer, "the only thing first is to see her safely to Starkhaven for negotiation. But it would be a better use of time to assume Vael's willing, and begin making preparations."
no subject
"Then I suppose it's a good thing you've so much of this worked out already. That should save us all some time."
no subject
Here, the way forward. As if Byerly Rutyer is a given rather than a potential roadblock.
"We could propose some means of providing the rebel mages the assistance they asked for, in the meantime," is very cautiously stated. Is this overstepping?
Is it late to fret about overstepping, at this late stage?
no subject
Slight impatience, in the breath out from Marcus.
An awareness of Derrica, maybe, that has him not say the first thing that springs instinctive. He looks down and aside in a gesture of listening to her, a vague nod at the notion of spiriting Fiona about on griffonback (she must be used to it by now) then back to Flint, some manner of internal bridling taking place.
Which means that when he asks Flint, directly — "What is it?" — it was the diplomatic option.
no subject
At the center of all the messy edges of this—
how many rebels can be raised, exactly? How quickly can they be moved, and what number of their contingent will come from out of the Inquisition itself? If all goes well and they succeed in a break of the siege, how are they to control the directions in which the enemy force heretofore encamped may scatter in? What will the quality of Vael's assurances be once his most pressing concerns are resolved? And if it goes poorly, what's to stop this from being characterized as a sort of mass defection? To say nothing of the semantics of casualties
—there lies a simple and neatly tied knot: there is no tactical reason to refuse any offer to liberate Starkhaven, and there is no way to object without undermining the tentative scaffolding of this relationship between certain elements Riftwatch and the rebels.
Fucking Petrana de Cedoux. He doesn't require the attachment of her name to sense her fingerprint on this.
"I think that's lost most of its relevance, don't you?"
Is a hypothetical question, given how brusquely Flint moves on to, "I doubt there will be any obstacle to providing the rebels with the means required to reach Starkhaven unimpeded, or with seeing Fiona hurried ahead. What measure of support we can lend in the assault itself will depend entirely on the plan she may broker with Vael, though our lean numbers mean we can move faster than a column of rebels can. I would suggest "—is tart; some perspective may be valuable yet—"that if you haven't spoken to Rutyer already that you remind him we have one of Vael's past associates among our number. He may be able to lend some weight to the proceedings."
A pause, clipped. "You do plan on approaching the other division heads."
Isn't really a question. Maker strike him if he has to knock on Yseult's door and describe any of this to her as if it's the first he's heard of it.
no subject
"Yes," is immediate, though Derrica isn't certain it will come as reassurance to know that he is not the only one they have snared.
It is a snare. She knows that they are forcing Riftwatch's hand. And that she will never know whether Commander Flint would have agreed, had they come to him before they went. The urge to apologize is tamped down in favor of a more complete answer:
"Madame de Cedoux and Enchanter Julius are meeting with them to explain what's transpired."
no subject
Does, now, reflect on how it sounds—Madame de Cedoux and Enchanter Julius—but what does it matter, when in handling something as necessary as this, they were the most trusted and capable people to be so deployed?
In his opinion.
No appending to Derrica's answer, this time, impatience reined tighter.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
slaps a bow on this unless someone has more to say