Flint doesn't laugh. As rumor would have it, it's possible that the concept is entirely foreign to him. But he does breath in a short, punctuating noise that falls somewhere between a grunt of assent and a scoff of disdain and maybe that's close enough to count if one is determined to find any shred of humor in the man. Barrow isn't wrong, seems to be the general sentiment. Indeed if Flint is at all surprised by the assessment, it seems to have more to do with the fact that it's been said aloud than it does with the facts of the thing.
He has himself another pull of warm ale, and then sets the cup aside.
"Riftwatch's ranks have shrunk considerably. The smaller our numbers, the more isolated we become from the heart of the conflict. I've little doubt that Granitefell has the look of bad luck, not inevitability."
Flint's reaction yields the tiniest of smirks from Barrow, in a sort of commiserating way rather than anything actually being funny. He's mid-drink when Granitefell is invoked, and although his recovery is quick, there's a little cough that emanates from behind the tankard, which is swiftly pulled away, and Barrow's resulting posture is tense.
"Bad luck," he repeats hoarsely, still clearing the ale from his windpipe.
Flint gives him a level look. His forefingers shifts away from the cup, a shrugging gesture reduced to the movement of a single digit.
"Obviously certain individuals may feel differently." Like maybe certain Fereldan ex-Templars who narrowly avoided being corpses by a freak conjuration of blood magic. "To say nothing of the fact that the broad perception of the thing has little bearing on the reality of it. But if the bulk of the company were truly concerned for their security, Yseult and I would presently be discussing how to challenge the impulse toward desertion."
(Which he knows because they did.)
"I'm not surprised you found them difficult to motivate."
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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timeasmymeasure
me clocking my 100 typos: jesus the era of phone tagging is truly over
Date: 2023-11-28 06:14 am (UTC)He has himself another pull of warm ale, and then sets the cup aside.
"Riftwatch's ranks have shrunk considerably. The smaller our numbers, the more isolated we become from the heart of the conflict. I've little doubt that Granitefell has the look of bad luck, not inevitability."
the phone taggon' age
Date: 2023-11-29 07:59 pm (UTC)He's mid-drink when Granitefell is invoked, and although his recovery is quick, there's a little cough that emanates from behind the tankard, which is swiftly pulled away, and Barrow's resulting posture is tense.
"Bad luck," he repeats hoarsely, still clearing the ale from his windpipe.
gdi cami
Date: 2023-12-01 06:03 am (UTC)"Obviously certain individuals may feel differently." Like maybe certain Fereldan ex-Templars who narrowly avoided being corpses by a freak conjuration of blood magic. "To say nothing of the fact that the broad perception of the thing has little bearing on the reality of it. But if the bulk of the company were truly concerned for their security, Yseult and I would presently be discussing how to challenge the impulse toward desertion."
(Which he knows because they did.)
"I'm not surprised you found them difficult to motivate."
I've never done anything wrong in my life
Date: 2023-12-01 06:14 am (UTC)"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
Date: 2023-12-09 04:57 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2023-12-15 10:26 pm (UTC)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
Date: 2023-12-16 06:44 am (UTC)But:
"If you run into trouble, we can discuss it. It's not work that comes naturally to all men."
no subject
Date: 2023-12-17 04:56 am (UTC)"'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
Date: 2024-01-05 05:37 am (UTC)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
Date: 2024-01-07 06:04 am (UTC)"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
Date: 2024-01-20 01:38 am (UTC)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.