[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

[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.)