Day 022: What Can Be Done
Summary: Arlin and Britt briefly discuss the current state of affairs involving the impending war between Trikru and Skaikru.
Date: 2016 Jun 13
Related: Buzzkills (Sonia has an offer for the Delinqients) and 7 for 700 (the offer is delivered)
Arlin Britt 


Campsite
Somewhere close enough to the Delinquent camp, but not too close.
Day 22

Dusk has fallen, dropping a scattering of stars that will grow brighter as the sky darkens. Arlin gathered more water for the canteens and collected some wood for the fire he's not yet started in the small pit he built with some found stones. Sitting on the ground, he sings to himself, low in tone and volume, while he preps some sticks to roast whatever will be supper.

After taking care of various other camp chores (including taking care of the horse, since God knows Arlin would've wanted no part of that), Britt flops down onto the ground near the fire pit. Breathing out a heavy sigh, she mumbles, "Riding all over creation every day is a young one's game." She's too old for this shit, yo. Grousing aside, she eyes Arlin with an undercurrent of concern in her gaze.

A soft grunt of amusement is the initial reply, accompanied by an equally amused quirk of lips. "I never was that young." Ffft. Ffft. Ffft. Arlin continues to whittle away at the top of the stick, forming a sharp point. The hand he sliced at the Skaikru camp has been tended to, throughly cleaned and poulticed, and neatly bandaged. As for his mood, it's somewhat subdued. After a moment, hazel eyes flick over to Britt, his concern for her well-being more pronounced than what she levels at him. "How's your knee?"

Britt makes a soft scoffing noise. "Old man," she teases. The question causes her to rub the offending knee lightly. "It doesn't like horses any more than you do." The light quip is accompanied by a shake of her head. "It'll keep. How's your hand? That was quite a show you put on for the Skaikru."

"Yet another reason why your knee and I get along." Indeed, the medic is obviously pleased with his stupid quip. #TeamHorseHate4Ever. "You want somethin' for the soreness?" The humor dies down as he slides into caretaker mode. At least until Britt makes further comment.

For all that his emotions emphatically cross his face, Arlin's actually quite prone to microexpressions. A bob at the throat, a tick of clenched jaw, a gaze the flicks aside in small measure. Little hints of whatever ails him roiling under a surface that strives to maintain an invulnerable front — all which is laid bare when his temper reaches a boiling point. In this moment, though, he holds his proverbial cards close to his chest as he fully turns his attention to the task at hand. Ffft. Ffft. Ffft. "If you say so." His tone is the kind of dismissive that holds an undertone of defensive, wisecracking bravado as befits someone not interested in discussing his feelings.

"Sure. Thanks." Britt is not too proud to decline whatever concoction Arlin has in mind. Her eyes narrow just slightly for a moment at his response, not believing the invulnerability for a second. But she doesn't press, instead letting out a soft sigh. "Well." Changing topics awkwardly. "I suppose we'll see what they say tomorrow."

There's a hmmph. "Won't be nothin' more than finalizing what we already know." Finishing up the point of the stick, Arlin sets it aside and re-sheaths the Sarge. Not such and old man, after all, he rises to his feet without any semblance of arches of pains beyond what is expected for an athletic 25-year-old who's spent several hours on horseback. Heavy footsteps take him clompy-stomp to his satchel, which he retrieves and starts rummaging through, plucking a few items before setting the bag down and clompy-stomping over to the archer. "Chew this," he instructs, handing Britt some kind of root. "I'll put on the kettle." After he starts the fire.

Britt takes the root with a mumbled thanks, and begins chewing on it. "How do you mean, what we already know?" He lost her a little on that one. She sighs. "Do you think there is anything more for us to do?"

It doesn't take long for the flint to spark and the flame to catch and the fire to be stoked into something functional.

"You really think they'll say yes?" Arlin asks in tone that's somewhere between ribbing and incredulous, while he goes about prepping one of his medicinal teas. "I wouldn't." Which should be unsurprising with his family history. Peering up at Britt, he asks, "Would you?"

"Oh," Britt had apparently misunderstood what he was talking about. Blame it on lack of sleep. "Tuan seems pretty certain they won't. I don't pretend to understand them. But me?" She doesn't answer at first, instead nibbling on the root a little more with a contemplative frown. "Yes. To stop a war, to perhaps save the others. I would." She shrugs. "We could take one of them to the Heda, but I don't know what good it would do."

It's a thoughtful sound, soft and somewhere between a grunt and a hmm, in response to Britt's willingness to sacrifice. Setting the kettle, Arlin snarks, "First we'd need them to pick a steheda for their camp." The subtext is 'good luck with that'.

"Do we?" Britt challenges mildly. "Their ways are different than ours. Their situation is strange, being apart from their Ark. Someone who could speak for them need not be a steheda." She shrugs. "But what could they say that we haven't already reported? They cannot speak for the Ark."

"No, they can't," the medic agrees, stepping away from the fire to go back to prepping supper, "but they also can't collectively speak for their village." Ergo, his good luck comment. "If you wanna waste the heda's time by bringing her someone lacking authority, just know that I'll sing 'Moon River' at your funeral, if you want." Such a good friend, Arlin is.

Britt shoots him a friendly glare. "Thanks." Sarcasm, much? She sighs, though, knowing he's right. "I fear there would be no swaying Indra either. Damn it. I wish there were something more to be done." She takes her frustration out on the little root.

Arlin may not see the glare, but he surely senses it if his smug expression is any indication. "Hey, that's what friends are for." To the rest, he peers up from what he's doing and says, "Right about now, all there's to do is for you to chew that root," he upticks his chin, "drink that tea," still brewing and also indicated with a tilt of his head, "and get some rest." And then he smiles such a smile of incorrigible flirtation. "Well, I can think of something else we can do."

Britt continues to chew her root like a good little patient, though her somber expression shows that her mind is still very much on the situation with the Skaikru. So much so that his latter comment only gets the briefest of smirks and the usual eyeroll. "You are hopeless." Then, in wry amusement. "Perhaps you should go back to Sonia's camp. Use your wiles to persuade her."

"Maybe I will," Arlin replies, smug as smug can be before seeing to supper and the pouring of tea.

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