Even if he didn't have Barrow's full attention before, Flint certainly has it now, in a sort of hangdog way as Barrow cures his cough by way of more warm ale. If nothing else, it covers up the lapse in dignity. Or is supposed to.
"What's the solution, then?" he says, clearing his throat once more as he sets his mug down, composure regained, "let them all learn the hard way when we're overrun and have done nothing to stop it? Have Rowntree terrify them into submission? Fake an attack on the Gallows?"
"Hope and pray Tevinter doesn't get this far is a good place to start."
It's bone dry, but there's something like a snip of humor lurking very low behind the eyes. He's being serious; but also, he realizes it's a shitheel kind of answer to a perfectly legitimate point.
So, less so:
"You can't make them smart. You can only make them ready. So forget trying to get anyone to take it seriously. Make a game of it, if you have to. If they don't find defending themselves from the Venatori compelling, put them in competition with one another instead.
"Frankly," he says, nipping a drink from his cup. "Having everyone in the company lying awake in their beds at night contemplating the semantics of being overrun will only exhaust the company. Better to do that thinking for them."
A significant look and a tilt of the cup in Barrow's direction almost looks like affirmation. Being the most concerned person in the room is a sign he's doing his job.
Flint's look toward Barrow is the thing that stops him spiraling as he looks hopelessly out at the dingy room, letting the Commander's words sink in. This is, he grudgingly acknowledges, precisely the reason he has never sought out a leadership position before. Who the fuck is going to listen to him, anyway.
But Flint is acknowledging him, he sees that. And he gives a reluctant nod in return, raising his mug with a sarcasm imbued in the motion, as if he knows how foolish this all is but is doing it anyway.
"I'll have a think on it," he murmurs, "thanks, Commander." He means it.
Presumably Flint's low Mm hummed across the lip of his cup stands in for 'You're welcome.' It is only half swallowed by his taking a nip of lukewarm ale. For just the barest moment afterward, it seems as if silence might lapse in over their corner of this crowded public house—this exchange already being somewhat more substantial than a simple question might have called for.
But:
"If you run into trouble, we can discuss it. It's not work that comes naturally to all men."
Barrow is fully resigned to the conversation being over, so it's a pleasant surprise when Flint speaks up again-- and it yields a touched, perhaps even flattered smile that quickly turns self-effacing.
"'s not that it doesn't come natural, Commander," he intones with a shrug and a sip from his own ale, "or-- well, not that it does, either. The trouble lies in half the company still seeming to think I'm out to lock them out, or turn them over to the Chantry."
This elicits a snort from the man across the table—a certain curling of the lip and a wrinkling of the nose. It is a brief, but blatant flash of something very like impatience and shockingly candid in its shape for a man who is so thoroughly opaque for so many hours of the day.
He raises his cup, saying,
"Unfortunately, there would seem to be little means by which to cross that particular gap."
And takes a brisk sip of lukewarm ale. This southern mage business is a shit show.
Although Barrow's face remains pleasantly impassive, the Commander's reaction is carefully filed away to be considered more deeply later. It's not that it's rare to find someone with such an view, especially among the native Thedosians, but for Flint to be demonstrating a genuine opinion at all is novel in itself.
"Dunno," Barrow muses, after letting the silence draw between them for a while, "maybe someday." He sips at his own ale, his gaze drifting over the muggy tavern, "...and in the meantime, maybe I'll tell them the most devoted students can vote on who to launch into the harbor."
"Small pleasures," sounds vaguely like approval. Sure. That would probably do it too.
To a similar end, Flint drains what remains of his cup's contents and sets the tankard aside. The point of his attention swivels back toward the door, searching out the latest individual to have come through it for the purpose of sussing out how soaking wet they are.
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thereneverwas) wrote2018-01-29 02:21 pm
I've never done anything wrong in my life
"What's the solution, then?" he says, clearing his throat once more as he sets his mug down, composure regained, "let them all learn the hard way when we're overrun and have done nothing to stop it? Have Rowntree terrify them into submission? Fake an attack on the Gallows?"
no subject
It's bone dry, but there's something like a snip of humor lurking very low behind the eyes. He's being serious; but also, he realizes it's a shitheel kind of answer to a perfectly legitimate point.
So, less so:
"You can't make them smart. You can only make them ready. So forget trying to get anyone to take it seriously. Make a game of it, if you have to. If they don't find defending themselves from the Venatori compelling, put them in competition with one another instead.
"Frankly," he says, nipping a drink from his cup. "Having everyone in the company lying awake in their beds at night contemplating the semantics of being overrun will only exhaust the company. Better to do that thinking for them."
A significant look and a tilt of the cup in Barrow's direction almost looks like affirmation. Being the most concerned person in the room is a sign he's doing his job.
no subject
But Flint is acknowledging him, he sees that. And he gives a reluctant nod in return, raising his mug with a sarcasm imbued in the motion, as if he knows how foolish this all is but is doing it anyway.
"I'll have a think on it," he murmurs, "thanks, Commander." He means it.
no subject
But:
"If you run into trouble, we can discuss it. It's not work that comes naturally to all men."
no subject
"'s not that it doesn't come natural, Commander," he intones with a shrug and a sip from his own ale, "or-- well, not that it does, either. The trouble lies in half the company still seeming to think I'm out to lock them out, or turn them over to the Chantry."
no subject
He raises his cup, saying,
"Unfortunately, there would seem to be little means by which to cross that particular gap."
And takes a brisk sip of lukewarm ale. This southern mage business is a shit show.
no subject
"Dunno," Barrow muses, after letting the silence draw between them for a while, "maybe someday." He sips at his own ale, his gaze drifting over the muggy tavern, "...and in the meantime, maybe I'll tell them the most devoted students can vote on who to launch into the harbor."
no subject
To a similar end, Flint drains what remains of his cup's contents and sets the tankard aside. The point of his attention swivels back toward the door, searching out the latest individual to have come through it for the purpose of sussing out how soaking wet they are.