faderift | VIII. CLOSED.

WHO: Dorian Pavus and Benevenuta Thevenet
WHAT: A trip to Nevarra, on the hunt for some missing research.
WHEN: Presently.
WHERE: Borders of Cumberland, Nevarra.
NOTES: TBA.

[ Horse hooves step almost tenderly amidst the debris of fall weather. It's warmer here up north than it is down south, inevitably, but every now and then, a southern wind -- sliding from the Frostbacks and sailing over the Waking Sea -- slices through trees that have still retained their vibrancy and cuts at their fine clothes as Dorian and Benevenuta navigate their mounts onto the estate grounds.

The Calahain winter estate is an imposing figure of grey stone and fine architecture, columns and statues and doors that reach for the heavens. Its windows are dark.

Dressed for the occasion of formal Inquisition business, their travel cargo secured half a day's ride behind them under an Inquisition banner, Dorian leads his horse right onto the path that veins towards the front entrance courtyard despite that likely, the stables are elsewhere, but no one has come to collect them despite the fact that they were expected. He leads them at a trot beneath the archway of interlocking autumn branches. ]

I've ridden into many an ominous scenario since joining the Inquisition, [ Dorian says, as edged and cheery as ever, mock-reassuring ] and really, this hardly ranks.

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You will insist on jinxing us.

( --too sedately to be in earnest, but she's getting in early. if anything goes horribly awry and they end up in a dungeon somewhere about to be sacrificed (...which seems unlikely), she's reserving the right to remember this precise exchange and hold him personally responsible. they can laugh about it while they kill their captors and flee, it'll be great.

you know, if any of that were happening. what's happening now is her gaze settling in those dark windows, lips pursed. )

Still, they might have set out a welcome mat.

[ Dorian's laugh is mild, dry, easily accepting of that responsibility. He is also armed, of course, his staff of serpentstone strapped to his back at a comfortable angle and he is noticing its weight as they ease into the courtyard. The sound of running fountains create a gentle ambience to the otherwise suffocating quiet.

He draws his horse to a halt, without yet getting out of the saddle, his eye immediately going to where the front doors have been thrown open. Dry leaves toss fitfully at its mouth. ]

In the spirit of diplomacy, [ he replies, agrees, on a delay, his voice hiked down quieter out of its customary projection.

Only a mild hesitation, before Dorian swings himself out of his saddle. ]

( there is a possibility that, rather than ominous, this is just going to be very, very dull. benevenuta would not mind overmuch, she thinks, although when she follows him down she looses her staff - ostensibly, and the way she often handled it before skyhold, for the matter of balance.

the knife hercules gave her is another familiar weight, hidden under folds of fabric. their hosts do not seem to take great care with security, presently. it seems prudent to know where everything is. )

I feel slightly overdressed for the occasion, dear.

That's certainly never true,

[ says the man who has a cat-eye on by brunch.

Horses tied off, where they nose restlessly at the dense grass growing in controlled thatches around the courtyard, Dorian moves to lead the way inside.

It's gloomier in than it is outside, with all candles out, and all hearths empty. Although there isn't any particular sign of struggle, there is the distinct feeling that the Veil has been thinned, the sort of sensation one receives when passing through a site of dense magic-use. Recent, at that.

Dorian doesn't have to say this out loud. The benefits of going mage only.

Almost casually, he reaches back to heft his staff into hand, its length following the line of his upperarm where he holds it in idle readiness. Serpenstone and black wood gleams where sunlight cuts through the tall windows as he picks a direction. ]

( dorian has probably done benevenuta's cat-eye once or twice. she does not pursue even a joking argument that lady sternum is never going to win, and -

her shoulders shift, following him. ah.

it's not going to be dull. it wasn't very likely; they were expected. one tends to at least light a lamp, when one expects guests. )

Perhaps,

( she doesn't think, )

they're merely very casual with their neighbours.

My understanding of Nevarran hospitality must be woefully outdated.

[ It could still be dull, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Hard to say if Dorian's unholstering of his staff is an indication of expectation or simply habit, at this point. He uses the blunt end of it to push open a door ahead of him.

More grey light, more stillness, but here, a wall of bookshelves that's been abused with a remarkably neat scorch trail, burning through paper, leather, and robust wooden shelving all.

Upstairs, a door slams. ]

( benevenuta looks up, sharply, at the slam of the door. maybe it was the wind. you never know. there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. maybe it's a servant, hiding, concerned that whatever did this has returned, and they'll be able to get that reasonable explanation from a person and not pieced together from trace amounts of magic and the state of the place.

or, you know, there are alternatives. she spares a moment to be genuinely miffed about the state of the bookshelves, and to commit to memory which shelf and titles were so abused on the off-chance it is in itself significant. it might just have been for dramatic effect, but when they are looking for information and books are being burned, one sort of sits up straight. )

I would be very unhappy with a guest who treated my home thus. Shall we?

[ Dorian also scans what can be made of the spines of books even as that jarring crack in the silence has him go still, listening. There are spaces where they are books missing, but likewise, many of them have fallen to the floor, singed, discarded. He reaches out with the toe of his boot to flip over a cover, but ultimately abandons it in pursuit of the noise on Benevenuta's word. This seems more like a show library than the priceless artefacts they're after.

Upstairs, and one door shouldered open later, the sitting room of cluttered furniture remains innocently still. Dorian huffs impatiently-- ]

Time we were properly greeted, don't you think?

[ --and hefts his staff.

Heavy wood cuts through the air, and the chandelier swings beneath the force of a spell that sends dark clouds of grey and purple out into the room, terror made manifest and seeping into every dark corner of the room until, in a panic, something moves. The first being a large rat, rocketing across the wooden floor. The second being a thud from beneath a covered table, shivering candle sticks and a lily-filled vase, as a small figure -- elven, plainly dressed, a servant-wear -- tumbles out into the open, stupid with fear.

A finishing flourish from Dorian quickly dispels his own casting. A sideways glance to his companion.

Tada. ]

( benevenuta's lips purse for a moment, and her answering look speaks volumes on how quick she hopes his reflexes are if she's about to make a terrible error in judgment -

as she slides her hand down her staff, taking her skirts in her other hand to move them out of the way (and, discreetly, move her hand nearer to the blade hidden in them, just in case) as she kneels just within arm's reach of the frightened elf. she is, perhaps, uncharitably suspicious - but such suspicion keeps people alive. and she looks calm enough, reassuring, gentle; )

Here, now, we didn't mean to frighten. We'll not harm you.

( like, probably. )

We are come from the Inquisition - your masters had word of us. Whatever has happened here?

[ The elf, to her credit, is calming down now that terror isn't magically gripping her heart -- run off panic is still evident in her eyes, the way she's jammed her back up against a supporting pillar, hands white knuckled in her skirts. Behind Benevenuta, Dorian approaches, but maintains his distance, stopping particularly when the elf glances his way with sharper caution.

Then back to Benevenuta, her words and her accent both doing something to soothe nerves. When the elf speaks, it's with a like lilt. ]

The Inquisition, [ she agrees, mousily. ] I mean. Yes, my lady. There was-- there were--

[ Uncertain, before stammering out; ]

--mages. They forced their way in. And after, the masters left.

( this is going to be a problem.

benevenuta doesn't actually take her hand away from her hidden knife, but she smiles with kindness, her edges softened for the purpose of softening, her patience absolute. )

What did you see of these mages?

( what they were wearing, what they were carrying. what they wanted - they can guess. )

VIII. CLOSED.

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