VIII. CLOSED.

[liberalum]

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.

Comments

[liberalum]

My understanding of Nevarran hospitality must be woefully outdated.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. ]

[ungovernable]

( 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?

[liberalum]

[ 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. ]

[ungovernable]

( 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?

[liberalum]

[ 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.

[ungovernable]

( 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. )