“I need you to be a voice of reason, Cynric. I,” Brynjolf paused, swallowing, “may let my emotions get away from me with this one. I want revenge but that may do more harm than good to the Guild. I need you to remind me of what’s important…to the Guild, not just to me.”
Cynric shook his head, a tired smile on his lips. “In other words, you want me to be a cold-hearted, clear-headed bastard.” He took another gulp of mead. “You forget, Bryn, she’s my friend too.” The Breton leaned back, allowing his dark eyes to track around the interior of the cottage. As homes went, Breezeholme wasn’t a bad one. “But I see your point. You’ve nearly lost your wife and you’ve lost a son. You’re operating on instinct—rage—grief—those things aren’t good for business.”
Brynjolf nodded, taking a swig of the mead, its sweetness like lead against the tight burn in his throat. “Aye. And you’ve had the most time in the Guild other than myself, Delvin and Vex. So you’ll do it?”
Cynric let out a slow breath. “I will. But this does demand a response from us. From the Guild. Katrin would expect us to safeguard ourselves and to prepare countermeasures.”
Brynjolf raked a hand through his rusty mane. “Agreed. And those are being set and carried out as we speak. But I’ll still need a check on my own impulses,” admitted the redhead, taking a sip of his mead.
Cynric reached out, his hand falling on Brynjolf’s shoulder as he met his green gaze. “You’re one of my oldest friends, Bryn. I’ll watch your back. Now, take your own advice and get some sleep.”
Brynjolf allowed a tight nod and rose from the table, his bootsteps heavy on the staircase to the second floor. It was long minutes before Cynric moved from the table in search of his own place to lie down. Soon the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the hearth.
Re: Any - Avenging the Dragonborn/etc. "Mostly Dead" (3d/?) F!DB/Others
Cynric shook his head, a tired smile on his lips. “In other words, you want me to be a cold-hearted, clear-headed bastard.” He took another gulp of mead. “You forget, Bryn, she’s my friend too.” The Breton leaned back, allowing his dark eyes to track around the interior of the cottage. As homes went, Breezeholme wasn’t a bad one. “But I see your point. You’ve nearly lost your wife and you’ve lost a son. You’re operating on instinct—rage—grief—those things aren’t good for business.”
Brynjolf nodded, taking a swig of the mead, its sweetness like lead against the tight burn in his throat. “Aye. And you’ve had the most time in the Guild other than myself, Delvin and Vex. So you’ll do it?”
Cynric let out a slow breath. “I will. But this does demand a response from us. From the Guild. Katrin would expect us to safeguard ourselves and to prepare countermeasures.”
Brynjolf raked a hand through his rusty mane. “Agreed. And those are being set and carried out as we speak. But I’ll still need a check on my own impulses,” admitted the redhead, taking a sip of his mead.
Cynric reached out, his hand falling on Brynjolf’s shoulder as he met his green gaze. “You’re one of my oldest friends, Bryn. I’ll watch your back. Now, take your own advice and get some sleep.”
Brynjolf allowed a tight nod and rose from the table, his bootsteps heavy on the staircase to the second floor. It was long minutes before Cynric moved from the table in search of his own place to lie down. Soon the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the hearth.