[CLOSED] Smoke & Mirrors: Kirkwall

[minrathousian]

WHO: CLOSED to those who signed up.
WHAT: Inquisition personnel work to identify Venatori agents who have infiltrated the Inquisition in Kirkwall.
WHEN: Early November.
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Violence, murder.

In Kirkwall, the threat to the Inquisition is more covert:  four Venatori agents have infiltrated the Inquisition's base of operations in the Free Marches, and have insinuated themselves well into the workings of the organization. Perhaps they have made befriended you, or established themselves as a quiet loner who prefers only to focus on their work, with little interest in socializing. Actionable intelligence suggests that they will take advantage of the Inquisition's reduced numbers in Kirkwall to attempt to seize valuable information. The trouble now is identifying just who the infiltrators are--and stopping them before they access vital information, or create further havoc.

Comments

[venaterribles]

Just how far up the family tree does this cooperation extend? A question to be put to him at a later date, with knife or blood magic as suits her masters.

"I'm afraid that's an inquiry a bit above my paygrade." She steps forward to examine his shackles, making a show of ensuring that they're still fastened correctly (and masking well how the magic-negating effects of the lyrium-inscribed runes affect her), then plants a hand on his shoulder and steers him towards the cell door. "Someone at Skyhold may now. I'll ask around, once we get there."

[altusimperius]

Whoever this is, at the very least she's being civil to him, and that's all Benedict can really ask from an exchange with anyone in the Inquisition. He allows himself to be directed, his heart beginning to race with hope at the thought that this may finally end, that he may get to be a person again.

cheers love!

[faithlikeaseed]

There hadn't been much time left for planning how they'd deal with the infiltrator if they found her--when they found her--when all was said and done. They'd done the best they could with what they had, agreeing between them to split up--Simon to the dungeons, Myr to the docks as the only way out of the Gallows--and hope whatever "Guardswoman Hendon" intended by visiting the prisoners, she hadn't already gotten away with it.

"Don't suppose you've got sight of anything suspicious yet," Myr remarks to his crystal in an undertone as he sketches out a glyph of paralysis. There's only so many ways one can come at the docks, and if he stretches, he can put glyphs on all of them. At least, that's the theory; he's only covered a third of the possible approaches and hasn't activated any of them yet (the fact there's other Inquisition personnel loitering about watching him and muttering as he casts makes him leery of doing so a moment too soon), and already he's feeling the strain of keeping so much of his mana committed. If he only knew where trouble was liable to show up from--

Well. No worrying about that now; hopefully Simon will see something (and say something) in good enough time he can act on it. If not, there's always plan B.

[paladingus]

"Not yet, but it's early," he murmurs back, following his old familiar shortcut to the dungeons with strides as long as he can take--if nothing else, that's one good reason for him to be the one trying to cut off any funny business before it can start. He can cover enough ground in a step that he might as well be on horseback. He's spent enough time down here, bored enough to count the cracks in the floor, that any small detail amiss will catch his notice--

--like, for example, a wide-open cell door. Even Simon couldn't miss that.

It's fortunate that his crystal is already activated; it's a matter of a moment to hiss a status update even as he reaches for his sword. "She's got to be on the move. Tell me you're ready--"

[venaterribles]

She is on the move--en route to the docks, for it seems that Guardswoman Hendon, or someone pretending to be her, has managed to elude too much rigorous questioning as she escorts her shackled Venatori prisoner through the Gallows and towards the ferry terminal.

What gives her away, in this moment, is probably not her unremarkable appearance, but the prisoner she leads behind her: Benedict Artemaeus, who still appears shackled.

[altusimperius]

Bene is going along agreeably enough, showing no sign of resistance or even really worry. As far as he knows, this is sanctioned, it's good news for him, and the nightmare will be over soon.

[faithlikeaseed]

"Working on it--what was she up to down there?" The question trails off into a quiet obscenity as the glyph he's working fails to set, drawn too quickly. He recasts it slower, with more care, before hastening on to the next--hopefully last--location he'd chosen, the quiet chime of locator glyphs following him. (One winks out as he goes by, mana overdrawn.)

Some small part of him remarks on the futility of the exercise--she might well be away already, she might--

It's the sound of shackles that catches his attention. There's a sound that wouldn't be so far out of the ordinary when the place was Tevinter-held--but the Inquisition hasn't got any slaves nor even many prisoners, and they're not in the habit of parading them about for all and sundry to see... He halts in place, listening hard, before starting off again in the direction of the noise--with murmured apologies as he cuts against the flow of the crowd--and draws a careful breath, reaching again for his crystal.

"--Forget that, get up here as fast as you can, ser." And pray the Maker somebody's not dead by the time you do, but it won't help to say that.

Closer, closer-- "Messere Artemaeus?" Myr calls, all innocent puzzlement. (He'll try the magister's name next, if there's no response.)

[paladingus]

"Snatching the prisoner out from under our noses, that's what--" Templar armor is not ideal for running in, designed for planting oneself and standing one's ground and calling upon the Maker's fire, not giving chase to mages or infiltrators or anyone else. But there's nothing for it, and Simon bolts from the dungeons as fast as he can force himself to go.

The way to the docks is a straightforward enough path and he knows perfectly well how to get there, but the locator glyphs are a small blessing nonetheless, ensuring that he can follow Myr's exact path and catch up with him precisely where he needs to. And that quiet, urgent request comes none too soon. (Ser, Myr had called him again, a return to form he thought they'd left behind, but it barely registers in the moment. It's something to think about much later.)

He can hear Myr's tentative question via the crystal, if not in person yet, but he's close enough now that it's worth drawing his sword and having it at the ready. He can see the glyphs Myr's left, one, two--

It's a matter of half a minute before he's passed them, and only then does he slow to a stop before he's close enough to be heard, drawing his sword and catching his breath simultaneously and edging out around a corner to gauge where Myr and their quarry are.

[minrathousian]

Hendon has stopped, but hasn't loosened her grip on Benedict's shackles. She gives the impression of perplexed indifference as she turns to look towards Myr; around them, no one seems to particularly realize anything is amiss. Inside, her pulse races, but she holds her ground. For now.

"Why are you addressing this prisoner?" she asks of Myr, once he's near enough for her not to have to raise her voice to speak to him.

Perhaps there's time to keep this calm, to talk her way out of it.

[altusimperius]

Though not that concerned by Myr, Simon's appearance is enough to put Benedict on his guard, and he keeps a wary eye on him as he steps back toward Hendon.
"We're going to Skyhold," he explains to the elf, his voice full of innocent certainty.

[faithlikeaseed]

Though their ultimate goals couldn't be further apart, right now, Myr's on exactly the same page with "Hendon": Keep this conversation going amiably.

He's not so obvious as to breathe out in a sigh of relief when both the guardswoman and her prisoner answer, but all the same it's a weight off his shoulders to not have triggered some sort of violent eruption from the infiltrator. Careful to maintain his air of harmlessness--keeping his free hand well in sight--he draws a little closer to the pair. (Inwardly he dissolves his hold on all but one of the paralysis glyphs, freeing the committed mana. They won't be useful.)

"I was simply surprised to hear him out and about--I wasn't aware he was being transferred. Skyhold!" That last to Benedict, with a wry smile. "Hope they're providing you with warmer clothes than you came with; it'll be freezing up there in the Frostbacks."

He pauses a moment, as if for thought, then shifts his attention back to Hendon with a querulous look on his face. "But--the usual procedure for moving the prisoners includes a templar escort, doesn't it? And I'd thought I knew all the templars stationed here in the Gallows--forgive me for not recognizing your voice, ser...?" She isn't a templar, of course; this close, the conspicuous lack of ozone scent gives it away. But if he can play for a little more time in his apparent confusion--time enough for an actual templar to intervene...

[paladingus]

Myr's plan is a good one, quick-witted and well-acted, and Simon's only paralyzing, panicked thought for a moment is I'm going to bollocks this up massively if I try to play along.

He's never been good at improvising, he thinks, nor lying to anyone's face even in the service of subterfuge, but when push comes to shove, he can do it--and push is very much at shove right now. Swallowing hard to calm his nerves, he sheathes his sword again and steps out from around the corner, walking at as businesslike a pace as he can.

CW blood

[minrathousian]

It is indeed a great pantomime, and one that Hendon seems willing to play along with, as long as she is still able to take slow, careful steps towards the docks, towards a boat that has been moored there expressly for the purpose she's come so close to achieving. She coaxes Benedict along, expression benign, relaxed--

"But--the usual procedure for moving the prisoners includes a templar escort, doesn't it? And I'd thought I knew all the templars stationed here in the Gallows--forgive me for not recognizing your voice, ser...?"

"Hendon," she responds instinctively, but her voice has gone flat, neutral. She recognizes the face of the Templar who steps into view; she's learned all of their faces. "And I'm not a Templar."

There's no easy way out; and orders are orders;

The movement is casual at first, but becomes swift and fluid; her hand slips casually to her belt--then, a knife unsheathed, she brings it up to Benedict's throat, makes to slash across the exposed flesh but just misses the desired artery, leaving a laceration that bleeds messily but doesn't send the desired gouts of blood spurting--venhedis.

She shoves the bloodied mage towards Myr and makes to bolt away from all of them, blind mage, bleeding victim, and Templar alike, and just grazes the edge of Myr's glyph in the process. It has the desired result.

[altusimperius]

How silly then that Benedict is more afraid of Simon than he is of anyone else; he's about to say something along the lines of 'no, not him', but his words die as they turn to a sound that's half-gasp, half-scream. He's only ever had the mildest wounds, including but not limited to the one that distressed him so when he was in the garden with Kostos, but at least this one seems to cross the threshold away from Unreasonable Panic into Fully Reasonable Panic.
He's thrust toward Myr and stumbles into him, dropping to his knees and fumbling to press the flat of his hand against the wound, panting with such terrified fervor that he may hyperventilate in addition to bleeding out. Periodically a whimper escapes Benedict, the sound of someone who very much does not want these to be his last moments yet suspects that they will be.

[faithlikeaseed]

The hiss of a knife from its sheath and the sudden sharp smell of blood--

Myr's braced for an assault--though not expecting this one--and having an injured Vint shoved literally into his arms disorients him only briefly. He drops his staff and slides to the ground after Benedict, laying a hand on the larger man's shoulder (blood running over his fingers) and giving it a peremptory shove. "Lie down," he orders, "and get your hands on it--Ashlock!"

Too many things to think about to put into words what needs to be done; he jerks his head in the direction of the sprung glyph and the trapped infiltrator. Go get her, while he's digging through his satchel for wad of cloth and a lyrium potion. The former goes to the wound--"Get this over it and press down, come on, you can do this, you've got it, you'll pull through,"--as he works to guide Benedict's hands with his own to put proper pressure on the injury.

[paladingus]

As far as Simon has present reason to believe, having only caught a glimpse of that flash of blade and surge of blood before his gaze locked onto the fleeing infiltrator, Benedict is a lost cause. He would have few regrets about this even had he time for them, but he's already taken off after 'Hendon' before Myr can tell him to give chase, with strides as long as his armor will allow--

Were it not for the last remaining glyph, he couldn't have been completely sure of overtaking her. But she stops short without warning, and even his vague awareness of the glyph's presence doesn't keep him from nearly overbalancing as he halts with her.

"Drop the knife," he commands, unsheathing his sword again. What magic she might bring to bear, he isn't sure, and he waits with coiled muscles and pounding blood to silence her at a moment's notice--but she certainly hadn't needed magic to lay the prisoner out, and Simon's not about to risk a blade in the eye.

[minrathousian]

The look that 'Hendon' fires at Simon out of the corner of her eyes is full of loathing, but also fear; whoever this infiltrator is, she knows to dread the approach of a Southern Templar. But now, whatever her fate may be, she is incapable of escaping from it. She closes her eyes and swallows, unable to move without great difficulty, but forces her fingers to uncurl from around her knife.

It drops to the ground, blade red with Benedict's blood.

[altusimperius]

Too distraught to do anything but obey, Benedict does exactly as Myr instructs, lying down, pressing against the wound, taking the cloth; and already he's starting to feel dizzy, cold, like the world is swimming and the only thing keeping him where he is is the sharp flare of pain at his neck.

[faithlikeaseed]

Shock has its uses.

Keeping one hand on the cloth--what he's learned of Benedict doesn't lead him to believe the younger man's much used to major trauma--Myr takes up the phial with the other, popping the cork and downing the contents in one practiced motion. (He hasn't practiced; adrenaline makes everything keener.)

Ordinarily he'd use a diagnostic spell first--but that's a waste of time with the burn of lyrium in his veins and the certain knowledge the wound's well beyond his meager ability to heal, and they haven't time to waste. Raw power will have to do where finesse and natural talent are lacking; there's little grace in the way he reaches into the Fade now, wrenching at creation's energies to force blood to clot and a scab to form. It isn't clean or elegant or complete--and itches like hell as damaged nerves reach for their severed ends--but it stops the bleeding. At least it stops the bleeding.

(Getting bits of cloth out of that pretty new scab can be a better healer's problem.)