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[There is a considering beat. Or at least an intervening one taken up by a pull of smoke and the rearrangement of which leg he has thrown farthest out in front of him.]
Not the relationship. The pair of you hold it too quietly. But I'm afraid from that point, the inconsistencies begin. I see only three options. That he is either more dull or more honorable than he lets on, that you are rather less strictly professional than you'd have people believe, or that--
[A pause. It lengthens, as the thought which has only just occurred to him is turned slowly over.]
Not the relationship. The pair of you hold it too quietly. But I'm afraid from that point, the inconsistencies begin. I see only three options. That he is either more dull or more honorable than he lets on, that you are rather less strictly professional than you'd have people believe, or that--
[A pause. It lengthens, as the thought which has only just occurred to him is turned slowly over.]
[What brings a woman with a hand for intelligence work and her southern pirate husband - by his own account, some kind of captain - to Kirkwall so immediately on the heels of the powers in Llomerryn being forced over? When, he knows for a fact, those dead men left behind posts and a dozen hungry crews eager to scrap over them. It is a thought colored by Yseult on the Kirkwall docks and the impression she'd first given as a woman willing to sell Amaranthine rumor, and by the memory of two tables down, blood flows from a ghost's forehead, cascading off his carefully-waxed mustache to splatter down his front. He reels back a step as another blow crushes his nose, and lashes out half-blind with the dirk in his fist.
It's an easy line to draw. It so easy that he doesn't trust the details. That doesn't change the point which is: Or that, Flint thinks, both you and he had some reason to run to Kirkwall more personal than just the lengthening cast of a corrupt magister's shadow.
He rouses, exhaling smoke then clearing it with a dismissive wave of his hand.]
Forgive me. I don’t recall. [He lies.]
It's an easy line to draw. It so easy that he doesn't trust the details. That doesn't change the point which is: Or that, Flint thinks, both you and he had some reason to run to Kirkwall more personal than just the lengthening cast of a corrupt magister's shadow.
He rouses, exhaling smoke then clearing it with a dismissive wave of his hand.]
Forgive me. I don’t recall. [He lies.]
[A short delay, in which he either considers her there or quickly mentally calculates whether the broken window frame could be coaxed far enough open to throw himself from it and decides it'd be too much work to squeeze himself through.]
Why is he here?
Why is he here?
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