faderift | ( OPEN )

( from here )

[ It helps that picking people out of a crowd is part of his job. It still takes a second look, and it's more the impression that she's waiting than any big tell that gives her away. People don't spend a lot of time idling around the docks unless they have a reason to, or they've got nowhere else to go; she looks wary, not desperate.

Caspar's careful to make eye contact before approaching, and when he does he ducks his head slightly, polite, offering a hand along with a smile. ]

You must be Kitty.

[ A question, but he sounds confident. It isn't that he knows, but he's sure enough. He isn't the type to care much if he got it wrong, anyway. ]

Yeah.

[ Kitty takes a moment to size him up. He's got looks that match that charm of his, no doubt about it - pretty eyes, broad shoulders, a strong nose. Really good beard. Handsome, definitely. Handsome can be good, sometimes - really attractive people can sometimes float through life, getting what they want, never having to scrap for it in any real way. Sometimes you can take advantage of someone pretty in a way that you can't for someone a bit uglier. But then again, there are also beautiful people who are aware of how lovely they are, and who exploit their looks and charm, using them to entrap and ensnare...

Oh. She realizes, belatedly, that he's offering his hand to her. She's not well accustomed to shaking hands, and so she takes it with an awkward little wrinkle of her nose. ]

You're Caspar. Thanks for getting me tea. I still haven't got much money.

[ Just letting him know that there's no point to leading her into a blind alley and robbing her, if that's his intent. ]

[ His smile turns sympathetic as he gives her hand a light, formal squeeze before letting go. There are some women who enjoy over-the-top etiquette, bowing and kissing hands; he doesn't know her well enough to guess where she stands, but if a handshake's too much, he's assuming she won't miss it. ]

My pleasure. [ He's 1000% paying with Nikos' money. He tips his head towards one of the small boats that's been left docked nearby, stepping past her to start at the rope keeping it steady. It isn't one of the Inquisition's, though there's no real way of knowing. Nothing against the ferries; boats just happen to be great spots for private conversation, which is sort of useful in certain trades. ] Would you like a hand?

[ The rope hits the bottom of the small dinghy with a heavy thud. He steps one foot in to keep it even, keeping balance with one hand on the dock's post. ] And don't worry— the rowing's also on me.

[ Kitty doesn't swim. It'd be a neat means of execution, wouldn't it, going out there and upsetting the boat and letting her drown - but Caspar's got no reason to want her dead, and he doesn't know that she doesn't swim. The likelihood of that being his intent is vanishingly slim. (Even so, she can't help the little frisson of nervousness that goes through her - that little jitter of mistrust. Never trust a smooth-talker.) ]

It's all right.

[ She steps lightly and agilely, with a cat burglar's grace, into the boat, scarcely jarring it in the water at all. She sits primly down on the seat, ankles tucked under her, casting a rather skeptical glance at the water. Then she says - ]

You are quite well-turned out, actually. I'd take fashion tips from you, if it came to it.

[ Caspar smiles as she hops gracefully into the boat, impressed. As soon as she's comfortable (or acting comfortable, anyway), he gives the boat a smooth push, taking a seat across from her and arranging the paddles. He only seems a bit distracted, busy using an oar to push off the docks. ]

Ah— thank you. But see, if you dress like me, people will take you for Antivan. Until they hear your accent, of course.

[ If she had any experience with the accents here, she'd be able to peg his as mismatched, too; somewhere between Nevarran and Antivan, or Greek with a slightly softer, "romantic" lilt. ]

Antivans are very fond of their leather.

[ Same, though. ]

[ that's kinky caspar ]

Would that be a bad thing? Being taken for an Antivan?

[ There's a lot she doesn't know about the world. She does know already a few basic facts - Tevinter, rotten; Orlais, pompous - but Antiva is still unknown. ]

[ he tries ]

Not necessarily. Antiva is... [ Problematic, in the 'run by corrupt merchants' way. There's a short pause as he considers his words. ] Wealthy, secure. Often feared, if not respected. But their expectations for women are somewhat...

[ What was her word? ]

Frilly.

[ So maybe they wouldn't take her for Antivan if she was covered in leather, actually. An Antivan assassin, maybe. ]

[ A skeptical grunt. ]

Well, then if I dressed like you, they wouldn't mistake me for that, would they. Since you're only sort of frilly.

[ Definitely too much of a dandy, but not offensively so. ]

[ Kitty you have no idea

He grins, clearly not offended. ]

True. They'd simply take you for someone who does not understand how to wear Antivan dress correctly, which would be correct.

[ They're well on their way across the water, now, passing a half-empty ferry as it drifts the opposite way. Caspar spares its passengers a glance, giving them a casual once-over as he continues. ]

It's also true that you could wear whatever you'd like, so long as you find it at a local shop. Kirkwall's standards for "appropriate" are low, these days. [ Too many refugees, people from all over. You wear what you can find and what you can afford. ] A bit of advice on how to wear what you settle on may be useful.

[ She quirks her brows at him incredulously. What, exactly, is his opinion of Rifters? Not exactly offended, but bordering on it: ]

No offense, but I'm pretty sure I know how to wear clothes.

[ His smile turns apologetic, but his voice is distinctly amused. ]

Of course. What I mean is that function and fashion are two very different things — and fashion is rarely dictated by common sense, unfortunately. How to loop your spare belt, how to wear your collar, whether it's appropriate to wear your gloves indoors. If you intend to blend in, it would help to have a sense of these things.

[ She briefly contemplates getting prickly, but then he clarifies that this isn't vanity; this is if you intend to blend in. And he is right about that, she has to admit. There's a lot more than just clothes involved in looking like a local. In London, she could pick easy marks not by what they wore, but how they moved, where they kept their wallets, whether they paid with cash or had an account.

So she pushes her hair from her face. ]

And who could I blend in with? Who could I seem to be? Ferelden, right?

It would suit your accent, yes.

[ It's fair, wanting to blend in to avoid conflict or tiresome questions. Her insistence seems a bit more focused than that, though. There's a difference between laying low and considering a fake identity entirely. ]

What were you before you came here?

[ Just a helpful question to workshop a cover and absolutely not prying. ]

Edited 2018-08-11 20:49 (UTC)

[ And Kitty hesitates a moment, weighing her potential answers, before settling on a plain: ]

English, not that that means anything to you. A commoner. Given what I've seen of this place, I expect that term's a more familiar one.

[ Very plain, though he gets the impulse. ]

Familiar, yes. Not particularly illuminating. Does "English" mean cities, farms? I assume you worked?

[ There's nothing pointed about the comment. If she was a commoner, then she wasn't sitting idle. ]

Cities. I was - a shopgirl, myself. Though a lot of people like me went into factories.

[ A hesitation. ]

D'you know what a factory is? Where people manufacture things?

I do.

[ He doesn't mind the question. He'll likely ask her obvious questions in the future, if he hasn't already. ]

Though I have not seen many, myself. I have certainly never worked in one.

[ They're nearing the other side of the water already, just a few more strokes before he'll have to pause and dock. In the meantime— ] What sort of shop?

[ She arches her eyebrow, just a little, at I've never worked in one. Really. You don't say. Ever so hard to tell. But she's being sweet, and so she doesn't vocalize her wryness; instead, she just responds: ]

An art shop. Not the sort that sold paintings, but the sort that sold supplies. Brushes and the like. So if you're ever in need of anyone to keep ledgers or sort paintbrushes by bristle type, I'm your girl.

[ Hey he could've worked in a fancy factory, you don't know. He smiles slightly at the mention of art, though there's an edge of harmless mischief in it. Self-deprecating, mostly. He hasn't had much time for painting the past few years. The past ten or so, more like, but he'd enjoyed it in another life. ]

But do you know how to use them? That seems like a far better use of one's time than sorting them.

[ A little huff of a laugh through her nose. ]

I don't know about that. Sorting them earned me a wage. No one would pay for the sorts of things I paint. What about you?

Someone, I'm sure. Rich fools buy all sorts of abstractions in the name of art.

[ A short pause as he brings the boat along the dock, then reaches for the post and tie as he continues. ]

I knew how to use them once, yes. Now I'm afraid I only use them to write gossip.

[ He means very important spy letters. ]

[ A little teasing: ]

Paintbrushes? You know that pens might serve you better.

You truly are knowledgeable. I hope they paid you decent wages.

[ Doubtful. And not to bring this back to serious topics, but also totally to bring this back to serious topics in a way that's meant to be very casual and not prying — that's why it's coming up now, like a curious afterthought, not directly. ]

When you said people like you, did you mean other commoners?

Hm?

[ She tries to remember when she'd said "people like me." ]

Oh - going into factories, you mean? Yeah. [ She tries not to let the bitterness enter her voice, to just be neutral - ] It was dangerous work. Thankless. So, yeah, we took the brunt of it.

[ Kostos would be hard pressed to explain what he and Nikos are in a fight about, specifically. It's even possible that they aren't in a fight at all, that the feeling that they're fighting is in fact just the feeling that comes, by default, with the two of them being brothers. But whatever it is, they aren't speaking. Not not-speaking at all, but not speaking very often or without reason, so from a third-person omniscient perspective it is entirely reasonable for Kostos not to have been introduced to the big brown eyes and beard he's currently bowling into as he comes around a twist on the spiral stairs.

He doesn't fall. One hand goes on the stone wall, the other grabs for a fistful of cloth at Caspar's shoulder in an attempt to make sure this doesn't become a crime scene. But that means there are no hands left for his load of books and papers, which rain down the stairs ahead of him, and a rolled map, which continues to roll until it's out of sight around the curve of the stairs. ]

Fuck, [ Kostos says, with feeling, and glares at Caspar like this is his fault—and then a little less like it's his fault, once he registers what a nice face it is he's scowling at.

He'll regret this later. ]

Edited (brackets) 2018-07-18 00:44 (UTC)

[ Spies are supposed to be a little more agile than this, probably, but it's to his credit that he catches some of his weight with a palm against the wall and a heel hitting a lower step, hard. The rest of it's caught by the hand at his shoulder, and Caspar mirrors the gesture without much thought, twisting the fabric at Kostos' upper arm to stay steady.

There's a dramatic and ostensibly comedic pause as the books and papers pepper the stairway. Then fuck at the very tail end of the last page fluttering to the ground, and then an entire split second during which Caspar does not realize whom he's speaking to. ]

If you— [ Two words, accompanied by a slight grin and a certain look that's fairly unmistakable, but all of those things stop abruptly. Caspar's brow furrows, eyes narrowing. ]

You're Kostos?

[ There's a very, very subtle eureka hint to his voice. ]

[ He's Kostos, and he lets go of Caspar's shoulder so he can convey as much with a measured one-hand flourish, a bow without a bow, topped with the sort of flat but not entirely humorless expression that can turn a silent gesture into sarcasm.

There are plausible explanations beyond the actual explanation for the recognition. Someone might have described him, pointed him out across a courtyard. But they definitely haven't met. He would remember. And he at another time could say that—we haven't met, I would remember—with some dark off-brand charm, but not even Caspar's face can recover his mood that thoroughly, given the scatter of papers down the stairs behind him.

Instead: ]

Who are you?

[ Nikos isn't exactly the sharing type, and he's definitely not the sharing type when it comes to the topic of family. There have been rants, of course, curt and dark comments to shut down the subject. The powerful implication that Caspar is best left in one corner, and all blood relations left in entirely another corner.

Implications that Caspar had brazenly ignored by showing up here. Still, shockingly, his consideration for Nikos' feelings (threats? maybe threats) makes him hesitate, an uncharacteristic deer-in-the-headlights pause as he rethinks the obvious answer and instead goes for: ]

I know your brother.

[ Suitably vague. But Kostos knows his name, of course, and you can only get so far in introductions without giving that out. A fake one would be temporarily entertaining, but also disastrously short lived. ]

My condolences.

[ His tone is clipped and sincerely irritated, not a dry mask over transparent affection. Whatever fondness he has for his brother—or whatever willingness to take a knife for him, fondness being entirely superfluous to that sentiment—is buried deeper than that, somewhere strangers in stairwells won't see, no matter how pretty their eyes.

Kostos sidesteps to move around him, to bend and begin gathering sheets of notes and rolled scrolls, but don't mistake that for dismissal. Between the first and second bit of paper, it occurs to him that being able to tell the difference between the two of them so quickly means it's unlikely someone knows his brother only in passing.

He doesn't look up. ]

How?

[ He can't hide the small smile the initial remark gets, though he ducks out of view slightly in order to help gather the papers and scrolls. He's careful not to look at them, or to give the impression that he might be — he doubts there are any vital secrets scattered in them, but it'd be rude to pry.

He pauses to hand a tidy bundle of scrolls off to Kostos at the question, and there's a very quick second of thinking, then rethinking; again, there's no point in lying. It isn't particularly convenient, but it's inevitable, and if he's being completely honest — well, Nikos wasn't going to introduce them. They may as well meet like this. ]

My name is Caspar.

[ It's very simple and, admittedly, very self-important. The thing is, Nikos being cagey about family means that he doesn't know exactly what Kostos knows. Wouldn't want to overshare in the introduction. ]

[ What he knows isn’t much. Not as much as he acts like he knows. And what he guesses—what he built out of sparing details and allusions in letters from his family, when they knew correspondence sent to a Circle would hardly be confidential, when his mother reported that Nikos seemed very fond of his new friend Caspar but made no evaluation of Caspar’s feelings on the matter—falls short of accurate.

In particular, in the story he’s imagined for the last ten years, Caspar has perhaps a larger share of the blame (or the credit) than he deserves, for dragging Kostos’ foolish, smitten, reckless brother into ruining them all. But he imagined it for a very long time, while he was staring at the shitty walls in his shitty new home in shitty Ghislain. It’s gotten lodged pretty solidly into his head. It won’t budge easily.

His hands still on the papers. When he raises his eyes, that mustache is suddenly more villainous than charming. ]

What the fuck are you doing here?

[ Welcome to the Inquisition? ]

[ That's what he knows, then. Caspar's demeanor doesn't entirely shift; he doesn't seem offended or defensive, and he doesn't seem at all meek. Slightly more focused and careful and yet, somehow, never quite dropping the impression that he's entirely at ease. ]

I am here to work with the Inquisition.

[ Obviously. The delivery's straightforward, perhaps a little patronizing by association. After a moment to consider, ]

And I am here to see your brother.

[ He's got no interest in dancing around the issue. Not that it seems like an option. ]

I’m sure you are.

[ Kostos gathers up the paper beneath his hands with more haste, stands, and shuffles what he’s holding around in his arms so he can clasp it to his chest and extend a hand for what Caspar’s gathering, too. None of it looks at ease—crisp, but agitated, the sullen angle of his jaw a compromise between a natural compulsion to look down and a learned refusal not to. ]

And what is he doing here?

[ He doesn’t expect an answer—not now from Caspar, not later when he’ll ask the exact same question of Nikos—and he could guess that, if he did get one, it would be the same as his, as Nell’s, as Marisol’s, as anyone’s. The world is falling apart, and the Inquisition is the best position from which to try to influence what crumbles away, what is restored, what is built new. But he asks anyway, so they know he’s paying attention.

The hypocrisy is fair game for insult and discussion, but it’s also rooted deeper than whatever rationalization he might offer. Never mind what’s fair and reasonable on the larger scale. His stupid doomed cause didn’t get stupid Nikos or his stupid handsome friend thrown out of their stupid country. ]

He's your brother. Have you not asked him?

[ Ask a stupid question. It's returned plainly, eye contact a bit too direct to make it anything other than pointed; he knows that the two of them don't talk, or that even if they do, they hardly communicate. He's got no intention of ferrying messages or grudges between the two of them.

Well, he's got no intention of bringing Kostos' grudges to Nikos. He doesn't actually have a problem with bringing Nikos' to Kostos, outside of perhaps getting yelled at by Nikos for meddling.

Caspar hands off the papers after a measured beat, taking a moment to consider Kostos and his glare and his hostility. He understands, on some level. He knows how the story appears from certain angles; particularly angles that do not give Nikos enough credit. ]

Will this be a problem? Professionally.

[ Important qualifier. ]

No.

[ That might be more convincing if he ungrit his teeth slightly more to say it. If, overall, he sounded less like a man parroting what he was required to say while plotting mutiny beneath it. Despite all of that, though, he does mean it. He works with Templars, with Orlesians, with mages who are now enjoying freedom they didn't bother helping the rest fight for. And he's only ever hit one of them in the head with a well-aimed sweet roll.

The gritting of his teeth comes more from the first question, and from several possible answers, all barely stoppered in his throat: he hasn't asked Nikos so directly, brothers means nothing and he barely knows him, he had thought Perakis' absence warranted giving Nikos the benefit of the doubt.

But after that syllable and a breath, he unsticks his jaw. ]

Not until you give me a reason for it to be.

[ Please. He'd sort of like one. ]

Then it will not be a problem.

[ Not a guarantee, of course, but he's got no current plans to rock that particular boat. He has very little plans at all, where Kostos is concerned; he might have been fine with never meeting him. There are no problems here that he can fix, and it's frankly none of his business until Nikos says it is.

Which he has not. He's done the opposite, very enthusiastically. Caspar smiles slightly, mostly polite and only barely amused, and then ducks his head in a casual bow. ]

But I already owe you an apology— I've interrupted your errands. I'll leave you to it.

Edited 2018-11-03 23:36 (UTC)

[ Errands, in Kostos' current bristled state, only doesn't bristle him further because he's hit his bristle limit.

Instead it will sustain for a few extra minutes, after Caspar leaves, his present bristle level—a level that means he doesn't play at niceties even to his already-limited standard extent, doesn't offer a grudging thank you or a pointed please to the man's apology and impending departure. He only glares at him. (He has more things in common with Nikos than either of them would like, probably, and one of them is a disinclination to play along with anything for the sake of making people comfortable.)

Errands.

Fuck him. ]

( OPEN )

for kitty (cont).

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don't get into boats with strangers woW KITTY (but also do so we can thread ig)

DON'T INVITE STRANGE GIRLS WITH KNIVES INTO THE BOAT WITH YOU, CASPAR

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here a year later w/lots of regret

with our powers combined1!

cries

dries your tears

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twirls mustache

evil!!!!

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