A FOOL'S ERRAND | Closed.

[limier]

WHO: Wren Coupe + Malcolm Reed, Ioane, Inessa Serra, Simon Ashlock, Cade Harriman, Anders + NPCs
WHAT: The Inquisition has word that a handful of Red Templars may have broken from Corypheus' control. A team has been sent to investigate, and decide upon a course of action.
WHEN: Forward-dated to the end of the month.
WHERE: The Free Marches
NOTES: OOC Post; Violence, body horror, language. Will edit if stuff comes up.

Pieces will be edited in as we go!

Contents;

• Arrival
• Confronting Ser Hayes
•  

Previous Conversations;

• Taashaath
• Malcolm - 1, 2, 3
• Norrington - 1, 2
• Samson
• Anders

 

Comments

[tactical_alert]

[It's not a bad idea. In fact, it's a very good idea. Better than just to go 'hey, what are those for?' given how skittish these people are. He gives a nod. Time to put on some airs.]

Meantime, did you hear that boy running about, talking about monsters? I'd normally consider it childish fantasy, but in a place like this...

[limier]

A rangy cat rubs against the open doorway, tail coiling up to meet the sun. A rangy girl steps into view behind it, calloused fingers brushing the frame. She can't be more than fifteen.

"Folks said you all been coming around." Dark, deep-set eyes shift languid between the two; if she's at all alarmed by their appearance on her doorstep, she hides it well. "Stopping through, or staying? Because we got room,"

There's a faint, hopeful note to that: It's pretty clear she doesn't expect them to stay for free.

[poleaxe]

It tells Ioane a few things. They're wanting for coin, which is the most important. Second, they want it enough to take in travelers they don't bloody know.

Ioane puts a plan together fast. Here's hoping Ser Reed can play along with no damn coordination between the two. She's never been much good at teamwork, Ioane reflects, but then, she's never had a reason to be. "Thinkin' about it, like," Ioane says, shrugging her shoulders. She can play the mouthy servant with confidence, enough that she forgets, for a moment, that it's not a lie. "But I been hearing summat about haunted cellars. Ain't interested in gettin' cursed, us."

[tactical_alert]

"Don't be rude," he snaps, playing his part. "Haunted cellars, next you'll believe the children telling fairytales about monsters."

With a short shake of his head, he steps between the girl and Ioane, taking charge. "I apologize; we enjoy a good story, she just lets them go to her head. Stopping for now, though if my colleagues don't figure out what they want to do, we'll lose daylight enough to need to stay." He adds a little smile. "Should that happen, this will be the first place we come asking, thank you. Though, I do wonder, have you got anything to trade? A friend of mine is getting married, and I'd love to pick up a gift for him and his bride. These glass baubles," with a motion to the one hanging, "that I've seen around, they're downright charming. Do you make them here in town?"

[limier]

Her eyebrows lift faintly — an expression meant for Ioane to catch, though it's difficult to say which of the two are its subject.

"No curses here, Serahs," She makes the sign against evil over her chest. "We walk in the Maker's word."

The phrase drones with the frequency of routine (of a young woman's boredom with it), but the look she turns upon Malcolm betrays a new attention.

"Not no longer," The forests show some depredation, but nothing on the scale of a glassworks. "Been since the Duke came in. Twenty years, I figure."

"Got kittens," She offers, as though that's at all the same. "Fine ladies love kittens."

This is a wild-ass guess.

[poleaxe]

Ioane is keenly conversant in the secret language spoken behind the backs of authoritative men. Standing behind Ser Reed as she is, she's got liberty to roll her eyes. More than anything, she hopes the gesture conveys some brotherhood (sisterhood?) between her and the other peasant. You trade on what you can.

For Ioane's part, she's not sure if Ser Reed's little speech is put on or not. It could be genuine. Some men like to blather. But it's doing good work for now, and that's all that matters. She'll decide later whether or not to be annoyed. For now, she has a role to play-- mouthy servant isn't exactly a hard part to nail.

Maybe they're both playing to their strengths, her and Reed. She hadn't thought of that.

"Oh, that's what everybody always said, and the next you know, some beast's crawled out from under your bed..." Ioane says, arms crossed over her chest in a display of annoyance that's less calculated than it ought to be. The problem, probably, with playing a role that's just a louder version of who you actually are. Convincing, but easy to get tied up in (did he really mean that? Does he really think things go to her head? Oughtn't he?).

[tactical_alert]

"A shame. Twenty years, you say? Would fetch a fine price if you were willing to part with it." He looks wistful. "Less upkeep than a kitten, of course. I'm afraid I'll pass."

He stiffens at Ioane's mouthiness. "Under the bed? You're going to give the poor girl nightmares. Your place is to stand there and do as I say, not put the fear of demons and Venatori and Red Templars and all the other nasties in this world under this girl's bed. Honestly." Was the name drop a little too obvious? But besides demons, the Venatori and the Templars are forces to watch out for, even if perhaps that news hasn't reached this little podunk town.

A sigh, refocused momentarily on the girl. "What else have you around here? You must not get many weary travelers for your size, not even a proper chantry, but you must make ends meet in some way."

[limier]

The edge of her mouth twitches briefly aside at Ioane, her head tips in consideration. She makes no gesture this time for mention of demons or templars —

"Can't sell it, Serah, my apologies."

She sounds reluctant, at that; a glance back inside, and out again, briefly torn. Her fingers tap on the edge of the doorway, finally shuffle down to bury themselves in her apron.

"We got a Chantry," Her voice is low, the glance she shoots (past the pair, to the street beyond) is wary. "Nice spot for a wedding. Could be I remember where."

[poleaxe]

Ioane, at least, spots the hesitance from a mile away. She'd wager this one wants to sell, but figures she can't. Best settle on an angle, and plumb it. Since Ser Reed's already set her up as mouthy and stupid, Ioane takes the bait-- "M'lord can afford it," she says, sounding faintly offended, as though the girl implied otherwise. "Mighty fine trinket like that, plenty worth your while."

[tactical_alert]

He looks as if he might (fake) admonish her again, but there's something else at play he can work with, here. He considers the girl.

"Could be I might spare some coin for whatever you have to offer." Not the trinket so much as the chantry. He's by no means rich, but he's also by no means poor, either. If it takes some coin to get any further information at all, be it of glass or the remains of a chantry...or anything else that could be of use.

[limier]

"Said it’s not for sale." She snaps at Ioane. "You trying to get me in the shit?"

She shrinks back in the doorway, expression flushes red.

"Begging your pardon, Serah." She adds, hurried. A small frown. "Why don’t you both come inside."

She wasn’t lying about this much: They’ve room. That’s about all they do have — anything of value's been stripped clean. If there was furniture, it's been sold. A small pile of blankets, a pot. There’s no sign anyone else lives here but the girl.

Her demeanour shifts as soon as they’re within, arms crossing hard and defensive. Her eyes narrow.

"You looking for her then, or what?"

Which her, she doesn't’ say.