![](http://cobalt-company.wdfiles.com/local--resized-images/writing:2024-03-22-casual-guy-with-casual-extensive-kvaldir/style="margin:/medium.jpg) |
| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Siamus returns to the Shadow Vault to debrief with the Sunstrikes on the Onslaught Mission, and to invite them for another party to decimate another island of those up to no good. The Sunstrikes are happy to ravage the land on behalf of the Fallon Fleet…another time. 5555 words. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: Death Knight PR
The wooden table and chairs where Syarra and Roper wait in the Shadow Vault are undamaged today. That means they've been replaced sometime during the Scarlet Onslaught mission, and likely not by the death knights. In any case, they're set up in a corner that's away from prying eyes but within shouting distance of others, perhaps a nod to their guest's feeling of safety.
On the table, Syarra has prepared… hospitality. A fine bottle of whiskey from Dalaran and three glasses, though two of them are entirely unnecessary. And to go with the whiskey, a plate of sugar cookies. It's clear they're also from Dalaran, as they aren't burned or raw. Syarra's baking ability has plateaued a bit since their Borean Tundra days.
Syarra sits motionless, and this time she's wearing casual clothing rather than saronite armor. Black pants, boots, and a dark purple long-sleeved blouse, with her hair still bound back in a loose braid.
Roper is in similar attire, a black turtleneck, black silk gloves, and perfectly tailored black mageweave slacks, his hair styled up and away from his face. If not for the horrifying gray of his face, he would look like any guy you could find just about anywhere in Azeroth.
At the moment though, he's clearly been waiting for longer than thirty seconds, because he's already tipped back his chair onto one leg, his left hand rapidly tapping on his left leg as his right hand walks a silver coin back and forth along his knuckles. He's watching the entrance of the Shadow Vault with an unblinking stare.
The cold, shadowed Icecrown sky makes a moody backdrop beyond the high-vaulted entrance; it's very Vibes. The man approaching from that direction, however, appears not to have received the Vibes Memo: Siamus is dressed in crisp Alliance blue and gold, and as he enters the Shadow Vault he removes his hat courteously.
He pauses to sweep the cavernous space with a look, seeming to take no note of the various species of side-eye he is getting from several of the Vault's denizens. When he spots Roper and Syarra, he inclines his head to them in a — perhaps ironic? — bow, and heads in their direction.
At the table, he puts his hand on the back of a chair but pauses before sitting to acknowledge them courteously again. "Mrs. Sunstrike. Sunstrike. I hope ye've no' been waiting long."
Syarra nods in greeting, and gestures at the food and whiskey. She doesn't smile, but nor does she look unhappy as she says, "Please, sit. We have prepared refreshments. To celebrate a successful mission."
There's less of an echo in her voice today, and the blue fire in her eyes is bright.
Roper taps his chair down, and sets his left hand on the table; the tapping stops for the moment. His right hand keeps up the coin walk in an idle way, almost lazily moving it across now that Siamus has arrived.
"Hey." It's the standard greeting, uttered without the echo, and his softer rasping lowborn Stormwind accent on display. He seems more relaxed in his movements, the deceptive alive-human-like behavior stronger, like he's been well sated at a meal and now he's ready for after-meal drinking and chatting with the guys.
"That's most thoughtful of ye," Siamus tells Syarra, flicking a glance across the items on the table. He arches an eyebrow; it seems more an involuntary reaction than a comment on anything.
Courteously, he draws out the chair and sits down, setting his hat on the table to his right. "I trust you're both well?" He pauses, and a faint, rueful smile appears briefly. "As well as usual?"
"Peachy," Roper answers. They're more like, gray than peachy, but maybe…peaches gone bad?
"Yes," Syarra says, then considers. "Perhaps a touch more than usual. The Scarlets have been eradicated from the island." Maybe those are unconnected statements. One could hope. "And you? I trust you're… well?'
"Quite well, thank ye. The mission was a great success — as I don't need to tell either of ye, surely. I appreciate the cooperation."
Roper flips the coin, and catches it. "You throw a good party. Mission objectives achieved, no one left passed out on the floor, and no one blown up into fucking confetti who wasn't supposed to be." That's the definition of a win.
"That is," Siamus agrees solemnly, "how we define a win, aye."
"And our people performed well, by your standards," Syarra says, equally solemnly. "I trust no one was horrified that should not have been?"
There is a faint flicker-smile. "I believe all horror was reserved to appropriate parties." He settles back more comfortably in his chair. "There may have been some… reservations when we crossed into your handiwork, but ye tidied the place to my own satisfaction, and I've heard no complaint."
"We know how to keep it neat. We may be monsters, but we're civilized monsters. We don't ever use the salad fork for the main entree, never mix up the demitasse spoon with the desert spoon, wouldn't dream of using a fish knife on a piece of meat. And we always wipe our fucking mouths." Roper's cold lopsided smile makes an appearance, and he turns his left hand up. "The ones that can't get to eat out back with the fucking pigs until they learn their manners."
Siamus nods mildly. He taps the side of his thumb idly on the table, watches it for a moment, and then looks up again, still mild. "And how is that… etiquette training proceeding? Ye had some difficulty in advance of the operation. I know ye handled it, and the mission itself went off without a fault, but I wonder what I — or, say, another Alliance commander — might encounter in the future, in dealings wi' the Ebon Blade. Particularly if he lacked such gracious personal contacts as yourselves."
"I think it's important that such a Commander should acquire gracious contacts," Syarra says, raising her eyebrow. "We handle our own, but you cannot simply approach any Ebon Blade. Any more than I could approach any Stormwind citizen and expect a friendly welcome."
"Naturally," Siamus agrees. "I'd certainly no' suggest it, and I should hope none of my colleagues would be foolish enough. But obviously the pair of ye can't make yourselves available at all times for all Alliance operations, so how do ye propose we form other such contacts? Will ye… provide a roster? Will we need to undertake training for personnel on both sides? Are there others of your Ebons who have expressed willingness to liaise with Alliance commanders?"
"Yeah, I got names if you want the lists. Some are on there because they've managed to work with the living, and I have proof, like Stefan Vadu, Munch, Jayde, Sliver, and Lankral. Some are on there because they're stable enough that you can toss them into a group with people like Sir Atley or Westwind, and they won't respond to any provocation, like Forge, Theris, and Vaelen, but they'll never go out of their way to work with them. I've also got your other list, of names to avoid, or send someone with a strong stomach and no itchy trigger fingers, like Bloodrose Datura or Corduin. The list of those to under no circumstances send the living to work with has no names on it." There's that smile again. There's an unsaid not anymore.
"We've been working on that training with the Argent Crusade, part of Mograine and Fordring's own pact, and part of an initiative run by a paladin and priest duo, Vond Satterly and Etone Greenote. Get both sides better used to cooperating, and neither fucking scaring or running scared." Roper shrugs. "The real trick is getting us out of training and into the field. We can play at imaginary tea parties all day, but if no one's gonna take us out to high tea, then some of us are gonna end up dumpster diving."
Siamus has tilted his head, his gaze sharpening at something Roper said early on. "Theris?" he asks now. "Lysander?"
"That's the one. He's still in Duskwood, working Darkshire. Keeps to himself, stays tidy," Roper says. "Someone's gotta prove that we're not only useful here in Northrend, because someday this war is gonna end, and we'll still need our party invites."
Syarra nods. "We have worked with him before, in the Plaguelands, as well." She pauses, then adds, "You do not need to shroud us with fog, not always. On the island, we were to sow terror. That is not… obligatory. I can still fight in a way that will not disturb my allies, many of us can. Most of us were skilled before we died. Do not take the death itself as a comment on our capabilities. Everyone dies, eventually."
Siamus smiles faintly at Syarra. "To be clear, the fog wasn't purely to conceal ye from squeamish eyes. My lads don't come in numbers like an infantry company might, and we'll often make use of diversionary tactics and surprise. There would have been a fog with us whether ye came or no. But it did afford… a certain leeway for this first operation together. In case things had gotten… untidy. Aye?"
Roper flips the coin, catches it between two fingers out of the air, as his left hand taps once slowly on the table. "Mourn can get a little untidy in the moment, like a toddler with a meal they get all over their fucking face, but he never mixes up friend or foe no matter how deep he goes into the battlemania. And I'd say anyone who would clutch their pearls at the sight of blood on a man shouldn't fucking be there, but I also know that we're always held to different standards. The living relishing a kill, and people shrug and look away. We look like we're having too much fun, and suddenly it's all where did I leave my pitchfork?"
"We cannot help what we are," Syarra says, staring at Siamus. "But we can control what we choose to do."
Siamus nods amiably and spreads his hands. "As I told ye — my lads are marines, they weren't coming to a fucking tea party." His tone is no less courteous, no less gentlemanly than before, but he uses the profanity with a casual ease that suggests it is not foreign to him (unlike, say, 'guy'), so we do in fact speak the same language here.
"And I had to explain to a pair of mercs I brought in on my side that we abide by the Alliance rules of engagement, so I'm well aware there can be… unseemly degrees on both sides. I'm no' making claims as to how justified the standards are or no. But I'd not have asked ye to tidy up after yourselves if I didn't think ye could do it, and I make no judgements of what ye are. I'm looking to — as ye say — what ye choose to do. What ye can do."
"And we brought ours that know how to do it, and who would get shit done. That's always the trick. Gather your information, build the mission knowing what should happen before it fucking happens. I'll send you the lists of names to pass on, and if you've got any specifics you want a dossier on, just say the word." Roper's an obliging spy like that. "And you got any more parties to throw, it's an open offer that we'll RVSP, keep our plus ones to the well behaved, and we'll follow mission parameters."
"I don't know any other way to allay your concerns beyond time and familiarity," Syarra adds, then considers for a moment. "Though as evidence for what a death knight can choose to do, I could point to my little sister. I am quite certain she is the most provoking person I have ever met, and she remains unharmed after knowing us in this form for over a year."
Oh, there is a little flash of smile there at the mention of Aze, an actual smile, a slightly wolfish gleam. It is tucked away smoothly behind Courtesy again. "Aye, Miss Sunstrike did speak well of ye. I expected she would, as your sister, but she struck me in earnest for the most part. And please understand that you and I are in agreement as to your first point: time and familiarity are what's required, on both our parts.
"Understand, in case it's not come across, that I have no complaints about your performance at Onslaught Harbor, or the outcome of the operation. The only reservation I expressed was for a broader working relationship between our two groups, and time and familiarity are the only remedies I know of. Well — time, familiarity, and that roster, if ye'd provide it." Siamus turns his attention to Roper and nods.
Information. It's what he does. Speaking of who they were before they died. Roper tucks the coin away. "You'll have it by tomorrow."
"I'm obliged to ye." Siamus sits back. "And have ye reservations to discuss wi' me, or questions from your part of it?"
He has neither touched nor — since that first moment — glanced at the Refreshments, as his hosts have made no move toward them. (Not that they would, but one is still constrained by the laws of Gentlemanliness.)
Roper is neither constrained by the Laws of Gentlemanliness or a Gentleman. Sorry, Siamus. Syarra is the hostess of this duo.
"Just the one, and it's more of a caution that I mentioned back there. Mal'Ganis. He said he'd end the Lich King, not the Scourge. There's something about that feels off. Maybe it's just revenge, pure and simple. Or maybe there's something about Arthas that's getting in the way of their goals, and they want him gone for that. And I'm not saying we stop what we're doing, because we are going to destroy Arthas." A touch of the echo reverberates around them. "Just that any time we ever find ourselves on the same side as the fucking Burning Legion, we should be asking why, and make sure we know the answer so we can fucking stop them from winning what they want before we pull the fucking lever."
"We can think about how to obtain that information," Syarra says, considering. "It may be the warlocks might obtain some insight from their demons."
Roper turns a genuine, real, crooked smile on Syarra, and for a brief moment, you can see the actual man in the monster. That's his girl, always thinking of how to get him pretty information treats.
Siamus nods again. "I'm not inclined to take the word of a dreadlord as worth the time he took to speak it — I don't believe a demon opens its mouth but to sow deceit. But nor am I inclined to overlook that sort of… potential obstacle on our way to our goals. We have resources — including warlocks — to pursue the question."
Roper turns that smile onto Siamus. It's growing cold already, but it's there. "That's what I like to hear."
There's the faintest hint of a smile on Syarra's face, just for a moment, as she looks at Roper.
Then she turns to the neglected refreshments and looks up at Siamus. Her brow creases with authentic confusion.
"Do you not like whiskey? Or is it the wrong kind?" She asks, with the air of someone who might have been given faulty information from a very trying source. "I thought the cookies were simple enough as to be inoffensive. I did not touch them myself, if that is your concern, except to place them here."
Siamus raises his eyebrows, a fleeting moment of genuine startlement. Oh, no, a conflict of Manners.
But not offending one's host trumps gentlemanly restraint, and so Siamus sits up almost immediately, apologetically, and smiles at Syarra again. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sunstrike, I was distracted by the talk. I do enjoy whiskey, and it was thoughtful of ye to arrange it."
He reaches for the bottle and a glass, and eyes the cookies. "I confess I'm not a man for sweets, myself, but I'm obliged to ye for thinking of it." Once he has poured himself a modest drink and set the bottle down, he salutes Syarra respectfully with his glass and reaches for a (1) cookie.
Whiskey and sugar cookies. Mmm.
Syarra smiles faintly, a quick flicker of her lips that's gone before anyone can judge whether it's a representation of any genuine feeling.
"My apologies. I will remember that, for next time," she says seriously. Siamus may be getting fish next time. "We may not have long before the Lich King is dead, so it would be good to learn what we can in the time that remains."
Speaking of things to learn. "Would you eat something if you knew one of us made it?" Roper asks. "I can cook, but I'd hate to waste my fucking time if there'd be no point."
Siamus arrests the whiskey glass partway to his lips and lowers it to consider the question seriously. It doesn't look like a question that bothers him especially, just one he's never considered before. "I… suppose I would, aye." Because Manners. "It just seems like it would be a strange lot of trouble for ye to go to, considering it's — not presently relevant to ye."
"I used to like doing it. Cooking. It was a thing I did for fun. Liked learning new recipes, things that were hard to make," Roper says, but there's a dismissive edge to his voice. "Sometimes I can get an echo of it, even if I can't taste it the same way." The food or the enjoyment? Maybe both.
"And we do it for guests," Syarra says, in further explanation. "We have had houseguests before, and the living do need to eat regularly. We would be poor hosts to not accomodate."
"I've found ye to be gracious hosts, myself," Siamus says, and eats his single cookie. His manner is all reluctant, formal courtesy, but that cookie disappears fast.
An interesting bit of information. "Likewise," Roper says, as he leans forward to snatch a cookie up, and studies it, weighing it on his fingertips like he's checking to see if it's a faulty coin. Whatever he determines, he bites into it, chewing impatiently as if he eats it faster, maybe he'll taste it with the lingering remnants of the slaughter earlier.
Scarlet Onslaught pain and sugar cookie. Mmm.
Syarra glances at Roper and then back at Siamus. Aha, that was probably the cue she missed for signaling the living person to eat and drink.
"That, I hope, will be borne out as true, by time and familiarity," Syarra says, nodding seriously. "Are there any other offensives coming up soon where our expertise may be useful?"
Siamus sips his drink and considers the death knights over the rim of his glass, his dark gaze glittering. When he lowers it, he says casually, "Nothing official."
Roper flicks his cookie back behind him towards one of the gargoyles, and a geist leaps from the shadows to land on it. The geist might be disappointed to find out it's a cookie, judging by the mmphmmnn sounds it makes.
"Oh, yeah?" Roper drawls. "Something unofficial then, that you might want some unofficial people for?"
Syarra's gaze at Siamus sharpens, a hint of eagerness coming into her manner.
Siamus lowers his drink, rests his wrist on the table, and tilts his head as if thoughtfully — as if something is just now occurring to him, gosh. "The last time I was in the Icecrown sea," he says to neither death knight in particular, "I lost two ships and twenty-six men to the kvaldir. They've… an isle, a stronghold of their own. Somewhere up in the northern fogs."
He turns the whiskey glass absently on the table, and says in that same thoughtful, bland way, "I mean to have as many of their heads as it will take to pay back every drop of my men's blood, every nail and every inch of canvas they stole from us."
He picks the glass up. "Unofficially," he says, and has another drink.
"Storing heads might be difficult," Syarra says, giving the thought due consideration. "If they're anything like the ones on the shore, they dissolve into… seaweed when you let them die. I could…" she glances at Siamus, and then decides to take this conversation in a less gory and horrifying direction. "We have considerable experience fighting them on behalf of the Tuskarr. Perhaps the stronghold is what we need. Exterminate the nest instead of crushing each individual ant."
Roper will follow up on the possibilities for heads later. Go on and tell him those sweet terrible nothings, baby.
"I speak of having their heads metaphorically," Siamus assures Syarra gravely. "Once they've been struck from the necks, my purpose for them ends. And I very much agree that it's the whole nest that wants… crushing." He says that last word in way too husky-sexy a fashion for the particular context. Or maybe lots of people get turned on by the thought of bloodily exterminating a whole populace of murderous supernatural sea-giants.
Look, Siamus is at the right table for that particular context. Roper leans forward with a dark grin. "So far, they've proven to be fucking endless. No fatigue, no true death. But, as long as they keep coming, we can keep going. If there's something on that island that's keeping them from dying forever, we can find it."
Siamus nods at Roper. "I want it," he says, his voice soft and cold. "I want to end them."
Syarra smiles at the way Siamus's voice changes, an odd, cold smile. She understands the appeal of that kind of mass violence, truly and honestly, even if there's no real vengeance in it for her. She nods. We're all in agreement here.
"I've no use for their heads or any part of them once they're dead, either," Syarra says, her voice gaining a little animation with the topic. "But I would be pleased to see them all die."
"You got a time and place?" Roper asks, that focus on the mission plan back, the drawl gone.
"The 26th," Siamus says. He did not, apparently, need time to think. In fact, now that they're on the subject… He shifts to unbutton his coat one-handed, and again takes a folded paper from an inside pocket. He lays this on the table before Roper, but leaves it to the other man to unfold this time; he's busy drinking whiskey.
The paper is another map, the same careful hand-drawn and -notated style as the last. The southern edge of the map is the northern coastal cliffs of Icecrown, but these are much farther to the east of the Onslaught base.
Syarra looks over at the paper, but waits for Roper to take the map.
Roper unfolds the map in swift, impatient motions, holding it in place with his black silk gloved fingers, inspecting the information on it with bright eyes. He traces a line along the edge of the Icecrown like a lover stroking a blade of a finger along a beloved's portrait, a cold edged smile curling up his lips, before he starts moving it along to where the map reveals more information on where they're headed.
"There," says Siamus, and leans forward to indicate, "is where this place is, and there well east of it is — I have it on authority — a new ground the Argent Crusade is taking for a stronghold. If ye follow a course north from there, almost as the crow flies, ye'll find the fogbank, and somewhere in the fogbank…" He taps a location marked by coordinates in the center of a crosshatched region of the sea. "There, I believe, is our target."
"That fucking mist of theirs is something else," Roper remarks, almost idly. "We've dealt with it a few times. The way the living talk about it, it's all cold and dead inside, but." He shrugs, a single lift and fall of his left shoulder, and clicks his tongue against his teeth. "So are we. We can last a lot longer in it, but we've got no extra edge on it beyond that."
"As the crow flies," Syarra murmurs, looking over the map. "We'll likely need to fly in."
"It is," Siamus says. "Dead inside. The sea's mad in there. I'm no' taking in my whole complement, I'll no' risk the Blanche. It'll be my smallest and fastest lasses, and we'll be moving fast to try to slip their notice and make straight for the isle. If we had aerial cover in the fog, in case one of their galleys crosses us by surprise…."
Roper leans forward, moving his tongue along his teeth. "You've also got 'overland' over the water." He gestures between Syarra and himself, his eyes on the map. "We can get ice under people, horses, whatever, and control it, maintain it even for a hard gallop. Harder to spot than a whole fucking ship, and we could flank even a galley, get right on their asses. With Mourn or another, we could probably get fifteen, twenty people over the water like that." He looks up at Siamus, and rotates his wrist. "Another thing we've done is that some of these fuckers carry special horns on them. They carry sound like nothing else, and will summon the heads of their forces. We use something like that, we could pull 'em right where you want 'em, assuming we can find one of the horns."
Syarra nods, still staring at the map. "If your men will trust us enough to gallop over water at our word, that would work. We will need to get to the island. We have no ships here. We can fly or ride without tiring, but that would be slower over long distances."
"We're not equipped," Siamus says, "to gallop over water ourselves. We're ships, not horses, and we've not got horses. We can't transport them aboard for an indeterminate length at sea; it's not good for them. We'd be going afoot on the ice, else we sail. But if yours rode ahead of us, or with us, perhaps —"
"Afoot works as well, as long as they're surefooted," Syarra nods. "Our… horses… do not require care. Then we would sail close, slip in on foot, perhaps, to catch the kvaldir off-guard?"
Roper tips his head a little to the side. "Or take anything that gets too close to the ship if we bump into a patrol in that fucking mist."
Siamus nods thoughtfully. "If we get the ships in close enough, we can take the last piece of it afoot for surprise, assuming we keep the galleys off us on the way." He looks up at them, surveys Roper and then Syarra. "It's a plan, then?"
"I think so," Syarra says, looking up from the map. "Where shall we meet you?"
Roper, on the other hand, looks back to the map, waiting for the answer, a silken finger gliding along the edge of the coast thoughtfully.
"We'll be coming straight along the coast, as close to the cliffs as we can; I don't want to chance that fog bank too soon. When we're at the foot here" — he reaches out to touch a mark along the cliffs, right at the edge of where he'd said the Argents would be establishing themselves — "we'll come about and make straight north. Ye can meet us there."
"You'll be able to come close enough to shore there that we can come aboard?" Syarra asks, watching Siamus. "Close enough at least that we can ride to you."
"If ye've wings, aye, ye can ride down to us. The cliffs are sheer the whole way along Icecrown, there's no landing. Ye saw it yourselves yesterday."
Syarra nods, satisfied. "We can make sure that we'll 'have wings'."
"Good. Then we're settled." Siamus looks between the two again.
"Yeah. Get in, destroy them all, get out. Simple." Roper swipes up the map, folding it back up, and it disappears into a bag. The smile on his face is as cold and dead eyed as a kvaldir fog. "I do love a simple mission."
Siamus tips back the last of his whiskey and sets the glass down. "I'm pleased to hear. I'll look forward to working wi' the pair of ye again."
He pauses. "Was Morningdew with ye at Onslaught Harbor?"
Roper's right brow raises in a high arch. "Yeah. He was handling some of the whole blood and terror. He's just kind of a messy eater, and took off to rinse off. Why?"
"When Miss Westwind and I were alone later, she asked whether he'd been there. I wasn't sure, and told her so." He smiles faintly. "I also told her I'd ask ye, but she said she wouldn't trust any answer ye gave." Ha ha, what a funny, prickly little 'guy.'
"He was there, as if she'd listen to me, either," Syarra says dismissively. "I can't imagine why she finds Mourn more trustworthy than either of us."
Roper sits back, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes so hard that he almost hurts something. "Fuck's sake. Those two deserve each other," Roper says, as dismissive as his wife. "Westwind gonna be with you on this one?"
"No," says Siamus. "This one's not her business. She's gone home for a spell, and then she'll be rejoining her Cobalt team, I expect. She came to the Onslaught because that was her business, insofar as her uncle was — or seemed to be — involved."
"That's likely for the best," Syarra says, then frowns. "If she insists on sticking with Mourn, she'll have to get used to the rest of us at some point. That's Mourn's affair, though, not mine. "
She shakes her head, then her gaze falls on the snacks again. "Would you like to take back the cookies and the drink? I know now you don't favor sweets, but perhaps others will."
Siamus eyes the cookies a little despondently. He inclines his head to Syarra. "That's very kind of ye. I'd be glad to, and thank ye." He draws the whiskey bottle toward himself and then contemplates the plate of cookies again. How to… transport cookies? Vice Admiral fill pockets?
As he considers the problem, he says offhand, "I will be frank wi' the both of ye, I'm not sure how… wholesome the affair is for either of them. Though far be it from me to meddle."
I mean, that was a little bit meddley right there, Siamus.
"I will happily carve through endless legions of kvaldir until I'm leaking seawater out of every face hole, spend days unsleeping doing nothing but be a bulwark to break a tidal wave of never ceasing Scourge until even I can smell them, and sit through an entire cackling speech of a lich on how their evil plan has come to fruition without interrupting, but I've got fucking limits, and dealing with those two and their whatever that fucking relationship is about is two leagues past that limit," Roper drawls, watching for a moment before he reaches into a bag and pulls out another smaller bag. This one seems to be made of dark red mageweave, empty, and labeled in prim embroidery NOPE. He tosses it onto the table where it lands with a soft muted plop.
"For the cookies," he explains. "Lady Cressidha's make. Empty, and lightly enchanted. She calls it a 'nope bag' for shit you don't want to touch. I haven't used it."
Siamus reaches for it, his brows arched. "I should hope not," he says. "I am reluctant to think what ye might not want to touch. And thank ye kindly, I'm obliged again."
Syarra exhales, just barely audibly, in something that might possibly be considered a laugh.
"In any case, Mourn is an ally, and I trust he will remain so." Syarra says mildly. "Whatever Westwind is, she isn't an enemy."
"Aye, Morningdew's an ally," Siamus agrees affably, tipping the cookies from the plate into the 'nope bag.' "I've no cause as yet to think him otherwise. Westwind is… family, of a sort." He says this last bit mildly, like maybe it's not even actually a warning, as he closes the 'nope bag' up. "She's mine, and if she needs managing, I'll manage her, ye may be assured. I'm pleased to know how carefully ye've handled her thus far. Speaks well."
"She's not our problem, and we have no intention of making her one. Lots of living aren't ever gonna get beyond neutral, held back by the law or a managing hand of one. Doesn't bother us, long as it holds. The death threats from her only make us uncomfortable because we can't figure out how to tell her to stop flirting with us," Roper drawls, tipping back in his chair, his arms still folded across his chest.
Siamus tips his head again, wearing the faint, sardonic smile. "As ye say. If there's anything else…?" He looks politely between the pair once more.
Syarra shakes her head slowly. "Nothing that I can think of. I will look forward to our next mission."