faderift | Catching a killer [closed]

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Catching a killer [closed]

WHO: Melys, Marisol, Iorveth, and Beleth
WHAT: Ostwick is having issues with a murderer and has asked the Inquisition to help. Which they do, for better or worse.
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Ostwick
NOTES: Killing, fake marriage plots, Melys,

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If nothing else positive can be said about the trip to Ostwick, at least it is being done in style. Due to the nature of the roles they'll be taking on, it wouldn't do to look grizzled and road-worn, so they are swept off to Ostwick in a fine carriage. Beleth still feels incredibly awkward, but at least she can be comfortable while being awkward.

"The story is," She's explaining to them, subtly adjusting the plain dress she's wearing. "I am Marisol's maid, and we're close enough that when we ended up getting married around the same time, we decided to take our new spouses," She gestures at Melys and Iorveth here, trying very hard to keep poised, "And go off to celebrate together. We'll be arriving at The Golden Nug--" Here, she does crack, and gives a little snort, before moving on. "--One of the nicer inns in Ostwick. The killer hasn't been sticking to one inn, but all of the ones hit are in the same area, and all are high class establishments."

Right, killer. Focus on that. "When we get there, we're going to need to talk to people--In pairs, if we can. I want to try questioning everyone and getting information, but it's also important that we're seen, and heard." The point is, after all, to become a target.

"I'd encourage everyone to use our time traveling to think about who you're posing as, try to come up with details and facts you can work into talking to people, to make it seem more authentic--but let us know, so we're all on the same page. For instance: I have vallaslin because I used to belong to a Dalish clan, but I was converted by a traveling Sister, and abandoned my clan to become a good Andrastian." At least here, Beleth is allowed to make a face about it. Her vallaslin is incredibly important to her, but sometimes, she wishes she could just make it vanish while she works.

The Golden Nug is just as high class as Beleth had said it was. Servants come to help Melys and Marisol down from the carriage, and help with whatever luggage the elves can't carry alone (Beleth takes pains to make sure Iorveth only has to carry theirs).

All four of them are then shown to their rooms--there's two of them, further apart than Beleth would like, but there's little to be done about it. Melys and Marisol get one of the nicer rooms, while Beleth and Iorveth are given rooms specifically for traveling servants. Still, it being the kind of place it is, even that room isn't too bad.

Once they're settled in, it's time to speak to the other guests, see what they can learn, and hopefully, get the attention of a serial killer.

Unpacking had been quick and painless, because Beleth hadn't bothered. Once the door is closed and they're alone, Beleth makes a scoffing sound and drops her luggage with a dull thunk. It is then unceremoniously shoved under the bed. If they end up staying here for longer than she's hoping, she'll worry about unpacking. Hopefully, it won't be an issue.

"We should get going," She turns to glance at Iorveth, idly fidgeting with the sleeve of her dress. "I--Um. By the way. I wanted to thank you, for helping me with this. I know this isn't a lot of fun, but....." She glances off to the side, lips twisting. "...I think I'd have died if it were just them and me." Of murder, suicide, or unforeseen circumstances is left up to the imagination.

"And, ah. Sorry that you're stuck with. You know. Me." Vague hand gesture at all of her. "As a fake partner." That is to say, sorry you have to pretend to be attracted to a garbage fire shaped like an elf.

This is not a mission he'd have chosen for himself, but here Iorveth is, half crushing himself into the corner of the carriage, on Beleth's side rather than that of either of the human women, looking more like a prisoner than a willing participant. Arms crossed over his chest, still deck out in his combat gear; swords, daggers, bows, chainmail, kill trophy badges and all.

But, a mission is a mission, and he wasn't about to complain about the first one Beleth issued him. He's been too spoiled by being in command, but he remembers what it was to be new to a unit. At least, while he might look uncomfortable as all hell, he isn't voicing it. Much. Beleth gets all of her explanation out, before he utters just a single word.

"Maid."

Said with a pointed look at Beleth. Yes, he knows the cover fits them well, considering the make up of their investigation team, he knows it's a solid plan and the only one likely to let them pass as inconspicuous, but that doesn't mean he has to be thrilled out it. The word and look alone should tell Beleth his feelings on it. As it slowly occurs to him that he'll have to change out of what he has. A lot. And try to hide the rest of his ugly scar.

It's late into the night, Beleth curled up in the bed (after a great deal of arguing and flailing), and Iorveth on the floor. Beleth seems to be peacefully sleeping, and the night appears calm and pleasant. But it doesn't stay that way.

The sound is nearly silent, at first. A suggestion of sound, but one that continues with regularity. With each repetition it grows just slightly louder, a whisper of noise that could easily be explained away by any number of things. But as it progresses, it can finally be identified--the sound of a window being opened.

And if anyone opened their eye(s), they'd see the window being slowly pushed open, but that's not nearly as dramatic.

Someone slips through the window, still nearly silent. They're covered in dark clothing, but two things are very apparent. First, that is definitely a dagger in their hand. Second, the person and that dagger are making their way directly to the bed.

There are no open windows to signal this room's intruder. The person is painstaking patient, and however long it takes Melys and Marisol to...wind down for the night, they are willing to wait. This time, it's the door that allows them in, and whoever opens it knows how to oil hinges, and turn handles without a sound.

The process is painfully slow. The door opening, the figure slipping into the room, and closing it behind them. Each step is thought out, prepared for, and tested before continuing. But eventually, they're in the room.

While this figure is also armed, they don't approach the bed. Not yet, at least. Instead, they stay where they are, and while it's too dark to see the person's face, it's easy to tell that they are watching Marisol and Melys.

Iorveth himself pretty much only carries what's directly on his person, the most of it having been shoved into a single pack when he'd been made to change into something that screams Extremist Rebel Leader a little less, and instead gently whispers poor sad gutter elf. He might even start to blend into the crowds here, if only he were a little less freaking tall. When Beleth begins, Iorveth's mouth is half open, about to tell her no thanks is needed, and he's happy to keep her from committing undue homicide, but the last part comes as bizarre to him, enough he's quiet, and confused, for a brief moment.

"Why would you apologize for that?" Being stuck with her, as if it's some hardship? Iorveth's head tilts at her, bafflement there on his features. It's been a long ass time since he had anything remotely romantic, or fake romantic, in his life, but he can read self-deprecation when he sees it. Which seems utterly absurd to him - Beleth is a proud, skilled, and intelligent warrior and commander. She's had his respect since he'd first arrived, as well as that of her entire division. The thought ends with a short laugh, waving a dismissive hand to the entire idea of it. "Nonsense. There's no one else I'd rather be fake married to."

Seriously, because he'd probably have murdered anyone else by this point, and conversation with Beleth is always an interesting and engaging thing.

"Besides Thranduil, that is."

Which is clearly a joke. (But for real, that man is offensively pretty.)

"Takes all sorts, I reckon. 'M Fereldan," Melys offers, as though this is elabourate cover and not the natural byproduct of sounding like she gargles mud. She hooks her arm through Marisol's, leans back (if you squint it looks near enough coincidence, the way she’s pointed away from Beleth) to bat her lashes. Her face screws up half-moonsick: "Headed North when the Blight came, been a long stretch of years — Maker rest 'em — and took me this long t’get find a bride gone down the map instead."

Okay, maybe it’s more of a leer. But a moment later she tears herself from the sight of Marisol’s, uh, eyes to fix a far more level stare between the pair across. When she speaks again, it’s,

"I was a mercenary, until I came into a bit of money. I don't talk about either. Lets some mystique seep in."

Weird.

Edited 2018-04-19 03:39 (UTC)

"Beloved maid, whom I hold in the very highest regard." And, with just a touch of dramatic flair, she lays her hand over Melys' own, "though not so beloved as my dear wife."

A look back to Beleth. "Do we know if they have been selecting their targets with any particular criteria beyond their being newlyweds? For example..." She hums, thinking, "the particularly devout, or those who might be considered less than orthodox Andrastian's? Or some other theme between them? We might be able to hone our story to make us better fitting targets." She gestures to Iorveth, "for example, perhaps your dear husband - Stefan? Luca? Olivier? - could have introduced me to the wonders of the Canticle of Shartan, and perhaps I have been vocally advocating it. Or, perhaps my dear wife and I have heated debates over just how severely we feel mages should be treated for the audacity of their existence."

A little gesture - it's just an idea, and one she is happy to collaborate on or adjust, rather than cling to with a death grip. It may not even be relevant.

"I suggest that we wed despite some protest from my family. You're Fereldan, it wouldn't be believable if an Antivan did not protest." Although, after a moment of consideration, she clears her throat. When next she speaks, her Nevarran accent is on point, as she addresses Beleth instead of Melys. "Unless you'd sooner I not be Antivan for the sake of the mission?"

Marisol, for her part, is too heavily asleep to be much use. She would normally like to think of herself as very alert, very perceptive, and generally speaking she is both of those things. Tonight (this morning? it's hard to tell in such darkness) it's possible that she has been a little compromised by exhaustion. She lays on her stomach, one hand idly resting on Melys' hip, the other beneath her pillow.

On the plus side, that hand is holding a dagger, but that doesn't negate how very asleep she is.

Sleeping in trees or on the forest floor for the last hundred years has thankfully left Iorveth a light sleeper. While he doesn't wake at the beginning of the noise, the persistence of it starts to rouse him, especially once the window cracks completely open and a body starts to pass through.

His eye doesn't open more than a tiny slit to see the shape of the invader through, and he waits, still as the dead, until he can feel the floor boards near where he's laid shift with the weight.

Of course he's sleeping with a dagger in his hand. You really do not know Iorveth if you're surprised by that, and that's the blade that strikes out like a viper, sinking into the shadow's Achilles tendon before ripping outward.

"Beleth!" He calls out, as he rolls up to try getting a grip on the murderer's leg and bring them down, the other reaching for the arm holding the knife still.

Beleth can only offer Iorveth a helpless shrug. Yes, a maid, she knows, but it's the easiest explanation for an elf traveling with a human, and Marisol can easily handle looking the part of a woman who can afford it. Melys speaks, and while it isn't...the most detailed background, it'll work for now. Marisol, however, brings up several interesting points.

"They don't seem to discriminate about race, both humans and elves have been targeted, and one pair of dwarves. Everyone selected was either wealthy, or employed by the wealthy, since they were all at high-end inns. I'm not sure if that kind of arguing would make us more of a target, but it would get us more attention." A small glance to Iorveth, assessing him. "Luca? Luca would work. He could be an advocate of the Canticles, and other things that uplift elves. And I..." Pause. "Bree. Bree will try to keep him from getting a mob after him, as she is a good Andrastian."

Beleth can't help but duck her head bashfully, though there's an obviously pleased smile on her face--one that follows up with a delighted laugh, when he mentions Thranduil. "I have to agree with you on that, and if you decide to change to being fake married to him instead, I assure you I won't hold it against you."

He would, in truth, be more preferable than Gwenaelle. If only, if only.

Years of terrible self-confidence has taught Beleth better than to try to explain any of her various flaws, or why she takes such a dim view of herself. It only looks like she's fishing for compliments, and she doesn't want Iorveth to feel compelled to try to assuage her. It's always far easier to turn it back to the other person.

"But for what it's worth, I feel similarly. I could ask for no finer fake husband. Perhaps my mother would even get off my back." That was an idea, actually. Arlathvhen was ever nearing, and her mother had only gotten worse in dropping hints. But! They weren't here for her issues.

She opens the door, glancing around to see if there's anyone in the hall. "I think our best bet would be to go to where the servants gather." Both because servants would be more likely to talk to them, and because it's probably a bad idea to let Iorveth near any nobles.

It's not her name being called that rouses Beleth, who was deeply enough asleep to go unperturbed at an entire parade going through the room. The figure, however, lets out a sharp, pained scream when Iorveth strikes, completely unprepared for an elf to be armed, or to be trained in using it.

It's the scream that rouses her--training makes her sit up immediately, the dagger that had been under her pillow now in her hand. But even training can't clear the sleep-fog from her head, and without an immediate danger to her person, she just stares at the two figures fighting with a dull surprise.

The figure falls to the floor with a heavy thud, but now that they're aware of Iorveth, even in pain they manage to swipe at Iorveth with their own dagger, their uninjured leg trying to kick out. "What the fuck--Who gave you a dagger?" He--for the voice is distinctly masculine--snarls, managing to be indignant even while wrestling on the ground.

Beleth, at this point, has managed to puzzle out that something is up, and has her own wrestling match with the blankets. "Just--wait, just a--I'm up--" And then, the dull thud of Beleth hitting the ground can be heard. Truly, a scoutmaster of renown.

Iorveth's eyes pass from each speaker in turn, watching them and taking in the stories they weave for their covers, trying to put something together in his head with what little he knows about Thedas, it's religions and the cultures of its races. In the end, he's utterly at a loss, only having been here a handful of weeks. He's read through history books, yes, but that doesn't prepare him well enough to create a person in his head that fits in here.

Thankfully, the others seem to have that part covered for him. When Beleth glances to him, considering the name, he gives her a nod. Luca seems well enough. The story she weaves seems simple enough, and yet, it's not one he'd be able to keep up in a long conversation. Thus -

"Best you interrupt me quickly should I get into a debate, as I'll likely get two sentences in before I run out of facts I know of the Chant." Or the Canticles, or Andraste, or the Maker, or anything else specific to Thedas.

Tugging at the corner of his neckline, it points out the large tattoo of branches and leaves that crawls along his shoulder and up the side of his neck. Not something easy to hide, which is why he's asking about it. "Would this be suspicious for a city elf?"

As he steps towards the door, Iorveth lets out a short laugh, voice hushed a moment as he replies. "Given he's even less likely to pass as a servant than either of us, I think it best Thranduil stay in his cozy office instead."

Stepping out into the halls of the inn, he remembers to make sure they keep up the appearance of newly-weds, and reaches over to tuck an arm behind her back, hand resting on her hip as they walk in tandem. Young couples are always obnoxiously affectionate in public like that. Though, it does leave them close enough for him to whisper through the rest of their conversation.

"Oh? And your mother wouldn't find it alarming that her daughter's brought home a one-eyed terrorist old enough to be her great-grandfather?"

One hundred twenty-seven, Beleth. Not to mention the rifter part, or the not being Dalish at all part (though, he thinks he could pass for one fairly easily if he tried).

If Iorveth weren't busy trying to wrestle a knife away from a serial-killer, he might have laughed his fucking ass off at the elegant fall Beleth takes from the bed as she tries to get her wits together. Maybe she should've slept on the floor while he take the expensive comfy bed, keep her a little more awake while they wait to be murdered.

But he is busy, so Beleth's tumble goes unmocked (for now), as Iorveth's much more occupied trying to catch the leg still kicking at him, before he can draw the dagger still in his hand against some important tendons and ligaments at the back of his knee.

"The dead human I claimed it off as trophy, varh'he." Iorveth snarls, blocking the hand that swings the knife at him, trying to grab hold a tight hold of it. "I'll be glad to collect yours as well."

If he's able to capture that arm, he'll start to twist and twist and twist until the fingers release the blade. Soon as he's able, the man's palm will be shoves to the floor, and a dagger (either one now free, probably Iorveth's own) will be punched through his hand and into the floor below to pin him.

Edited 2018-04-22 05:34 (UTC)

"I can be counted on for interruptions and unnecessary explanations," Marisol offers, her smile self-aware and rather playful, even as she slouches against Melys. Better they practice being comfortable with one another now, than have to figure it out later.

With an idle flick of her wrist, she continues, "And truthfully, most nobles are so ignorant, unconcerned with or bewildered by elves that they'd probably brush it off as alienage nonsense." A tilt of her head. "Most humans, for that matter."

Her own limited interest in elves tended to extend to are they a mage? and, if yes, they were categorised as one of her people. Other elves are... other elves. Not people she specifically looks to degrade, but not people she feels especially sorry for, either. She has enough to worry about with mages; her focus cannot be derailed for all causes, even if that thought would likely make Nikos despair at how thoroughly she'd missed the point of his many letters.

Edited 2018-04-22 06:09 (UTC)

“He’s done it before,” Beleth points out, leaning against Iorveth in what might look like affection to an outsider, but gave her a chance to keep whispering. “Though I believe he was acting more like....ah, what is the word. Eye candy.” Cassandra and her boy toy pretty elf. A rumor that the Seeker will never live down, bless.

She leads him towards the room where servants gather, either visiting with their masters, or on break from their duties at the inn. There’s a pause before they enter, as Beleth snickers at Iorveth’s words, then considers them. “Well, she would probably like you better than if I brought Twisted Fate.” Whatever that means, Beleth doesn’t elaborate. In fact, she steps into the room then, possibly to avoid any requests to do so.

Some servants for the inn are lounging at a table, chatting idly about the day’s work, and which customers had irritated them the most. Beleth takes a seat with them, smiling charmingly at them. “Would you mind if me and my man sit here? We’ve the rest of the night off. My lady has her new wife, so I doubt they’ll want me around, if you know what I mean.” Here, she glances at Iorveth, and flashes him a grin and a wink entirely unlike her usual mannerisms.

Beleth is distantly glad that whatever mockery will ensue for her graceful rise from bed will have to wait. It’s embarrassing enough as it is, right in the moment.

Even the would-be killer is too preoccupied by Iorveth to take notice of the second occupant of the room, trying to struggle to keep hold of his dagger. A loud curse follows the sound of it dropping, and several more insults about armed elves follow, only cut short by the scream of pain when his hand is pinned to the floor by Iorveth’s dagger.

By now, Beleth has managed to gather enough of her senses to actually come help. The arm of the attacker that hasn’t been daggered to the floor gets a knee pressed into it as she slides over, and grabs the fallen dagger, handing it to Iorveth. The attacker struggles under the two of them, and settles for hissing threats of what he’ll do once he’s free, which start out unpleasant, and get worse, until Beleth grabs his chin, pressing her thumb into the flesh under the jaw.

“We should probably interrogate him, but killing him would satisfy the contract, I believe.”

"Has he? I'm sorry I missed that show." Iorveth snorts, smirking at the thought of someone so regal as Thranduil playing at courtesan. Someone must have been very rich to believably afford him. Were it anyone else, Iorveth might have thought it insulting, but Thranduil seems to have enough pride and dignified grace in him to not be troubled by it in the least.

Just before they take seats at the table with the other servants, Iorveth leans in to whisper against her ear, like telling her sweet nothings, smile on his lips and a laugh in his tone. "Twisted Fate? Did a mother actually name her child that somewhere in this world?"

Back to the task at hand - playing the role of love-sick newly weds, beaming a cheerful smile at the other servants, amazing that he still remembers how to be charming, really, but look at him go.

"Not that we've minded the time alone on a free honeymoon." Iorveth chuckles, leaning over to press an adoring, husbandly kiss to Beleth's cheek, before turning back to the others, side leaned close to hers. "Fancy place here, isn't it? Never thought I'd see the inside of it."

It's good Beleth leaves the option of simply killing him as one they'd seemingly have no concern about going with. Interrogation is no good if the prisoner doesn't fully believe they'll die as consequence.

"I suppose. Perhaps, if he can tell us something valuable, we can hand him to local authorities, rather than manage our own execution." Iorveth speaks, in the low, rough voice of a soldier with no scruples about murder, and no lack of experience in the art of it, eyes remaining on the criminal trapped under him. "Which, I promise you, will not be nearly so humane. Especially after such flattering comments on my people."

You've pissed him off, good job. Pulling up the dagger that'd been dropped, the point of it comes to rest against the man's throat, Iorveth leaning in to snarl over him.

"For every lie you tell, I'll claim a finger. Best hope you're convincing."

With that, he leaves Beleth to ask the questions, Iorveth taking up the role of executioner, if needed.

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Catching a killer [closed]

Along the Way

Investigation

Iorveth and Beleth

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Incident in the Night: Beleth & Iorveth

Incident in the Night: Marisol & Melys

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rolled a god damn 2

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also rolled a 2 rifp

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