faderift | Where's Waldon?

[If you want any threads on the way]

“Please help us find our son” is challenging enough. “Please help our son” after he’s been missing for some time, with only rumors suggesting he’s somewhere in Wycome, is even more challenging. But a pair of parents, pairents if you will, actually want to find their mage child so Kian’s calling for help.

He waits at an inn called The Rampant Fishmonger, trying not to make guesses about the name, and trying not to fiddle his thumbs anxiously. Taking the network public was definitely not his idea but he's here and wearing the agreed-upon green cloak at a table not too far from the door.

Gareth, eternally looking like a poor, underfed peasant, fits in well enough in a shitty inn with a dubious name. He doesn't carry a staff, or anything else that would mark him as a mage, and draws little attention as he steps into the inn, glancing around for the person they're looking for.

His eyes fall on the green cloak, and he turns, glancing to his two companions as he makes his way over and takes a seat. "Hey, you the friend we're looking for? Because we're looking for a fri--Oh." It's only now that he squints at the contact, tilts his head, then widens his eyes.

"Rian? Maker's ass, you're alive. That's...what, three people confirmed? We're doing great. Is this what you do now? Sit in shady taverns and wait for shady people?"

Dull colours and sturdy indifference make for fine camouflage.

Not so fine that Isaac hasn't had his hackles pricked the journey over. The threat of outside attention little worries — they've survived this long, they're half-good at it — but the Rebellion's always known how to chew its own tail.

So it's a relief (hands slung into the pockets of his coat, smile easy) to find Gareth rushing into recognition. How fine, to find a friend alive. To find an acquaintance alive. To find any asshole in a green cloak alive, because it means they can finally sit down after that walk.

"Shady, really," Murmured. A glance back, waiting for the Dalish to catch up; Nahariel's no authority, but Gareth doesn't need to know that. He'd prefer to keep the day's bleeding to a minimum. "Drinks?"

It's an offer to the group. It's an excuse to excuse himself, if anyone's about to hug or burst into some reunion weeping. His eyes linger on Kian a moment, head tipped slightly aside,

Ah. Well.

Edited 2018-07-15 19:52 (UTC)

Nari looks a little shady, having a looped scarf pulled up over her head and tilting her chin so that her hair hangs a bit forward to obscure the lines of her vallaslin, but she'd thought one woman determinedly wearing a hood indoors would be far less likely to attract notice or stick in memory than a Dalish elf in the company of humans.

She'll finally join them, having slowed a bit to make sure they had no watchers or tails— can't be too careful— and take a seat at the table where she can keep an eye on the room. A nod for Issac, and a half-smile for their contact. "Drinks sound good."

Whether or not they will be good, given the tavern, is yet to be determined.

"Kian, actually," the young man says, squinting back at the other mage. Gallows, definitely, but names... "Garth? And yes, please, drinks would be nice."

He doesn't drink much as a rule. A drunk mage could be a danger to everyone around them and Kian prefers to only be a danger to select people, but he's fairly certain that nothing they serve here is all that potent. The third member of the party gets him leaning in a little so he can try to see her face... and then the lines on it tell him why she's hiding. She's no lurking Templar.

"Warming chairs is a satisfying career change, but it's... what's the saying? Thirsty work?" He gives them a wan half-smile before hastily adding: "It's not. I'm trying to be funny, since what we're here for isn't." What most of he does isn't. "Once we have the drinks I'll go into details? If you're ready."

It's his first briefing like this, and a little bit of nerves are showing on his pale face.

"Close enough!" Gareth responds, both to the mangling of Kian's name, and his own. Who cares about names, anyway. He slides into the seat across from Kian, a little looser, and a little calmer, now that he's pretty sure he hasn't stumbled into some kind of trap.

He turns to Isaac, eyes flashing over the other man's face, then gives a quick nod. "Nothing too strong for me, if you don't mind." For similar reasons to Kian. "Can you believe I'm back in the Gallows again? Wasn't my idea, of course, but it hasn't been too bad. They changed the place up, a bit. Took down all those creepy statues, put in a garden." He waves his hand around flippantly, trying to indicate that it really isn't A Big Deal.

Isaac, who doesn’t drink — or have any particular interest in dealing with a blacked-out blood mage — crinkles the edge of his mouth in agreement and vanishes to the counter.

When he reappears, it's with wine for new friends, heavily-watered wine for an old one. If he took time at the bar to tip half Nari's mug out into Kian's, that’s probably only an accident.

(Water, for himself. If a desert well can’t kill him, Wycome certainly won’t.)

"Hardly tore them down for our sake." The statues. Might remind the wrong people that they're in a Circle. "But I can’t say I’m sorry they're gone. What led the trail north?"

A long journey between the Marches and Orlais. Longer in the midst of a civil war.

Edited 2018-07-17 05:09 (UTC)

Half mug's about enough in any case.

Although she's certainly listening, Nahariel hasn't much to add to this particular conversation. She's not tasked with leading the group and has neither shared historical acquaintances with any of the men nor any real feelings on the Circles or the Gallows, tending to leave those to the Mages and Templars of her acquaintance. Thus, until she has tracking, hunting, or subterfuge to accomplish, or conversation veers in that direction for whatever reason, she'll be a silent partner.

"Thanks," he says when the unnamed mage comes back with the drinks. They don't need names, though. This whole working in the open thing might last, but it might not, and there's a reason they're still operating in separate cells.

Kian takes a sip, makes a face, but keeps holding the glass for small sips anyway. "Wine, it so happens." With his free hand he pulls out a bit of parchment and passes it over. "This is a copy of the letter he sent his parents, so that's where we started."

Hello, Father and Mother, it reads,

I hope this finds you alive. Maker only knows if you are or aren't. I might have known if you had sent any letters. As you did not, I can only assume that there's still no room for a mage in your family.

I'm out. I'll be staying out. If you want to pray about me, pray that I learned enough in the basements about making drinks to make my own way in this world.

Your firstborn, if that matters,
Waldon.

"That's not his hand," Kian says when they've had a few moments to read it, "but it's a copy made by one of mine that his parents say is close enough to be recognizable. Who knew forging notes from Enchanters would pay off?" The brief look on his face says that everyone should know that.

"What we've gathered is that he liked wine, wanted to deal in Antivan wine, but wanted to never be in Orlais again. Can't blame him." Gareth gets a glance and a shake of his head. "I wouldn't ever go back to Kirkwall. I don't know how you manage. But that's beside the point. Um." He takes another sip of his drink, getting a nice reminder of how unpleasant he finds it. "The man who bore the letter to Waldon's parents came from Ansburg, and my people have come across enough sources to say Waldon headed east from there. There are a couple watching the Antivan docks and no one has come through who matches his description in the past two weeks, so we're hopeful he's here."

But they haven't found him yet. And they've dedicated too much manpower to finding one mage when there are other pressing matters and they can perhaps try on the Inquisition's aid for size.

Gareth accepts the watered down drink with a murmur of thanks to Isaac, sipping it without complaint.

But now they're getting down to business, and he brushes aside the additional commentary about the Gallows off to the side with a wave of his hand. No, it wasn't for them, and no, he wasn't there willingly, but neither of those have to do with the task at hand. The letter, as he reads it, draws a frown that deepens the further along Gareth gets.

He made his peace with his own family's utter desertion of him, just like many other mages had. But how could someone so intimately familiar with the situation not feel a twinge of pain?

"Huh. Plenty of kids I knew didn't get any letters from home." He glances at Kian, and can't quite recall if he was one of them. "It's just how it is. But these people you're helping, they changed their mind? Or--" He scowls again, lips pursed together. "--Did the letters just not reach him?"

He wouldn't put it past Templars. There were few things he would.

Isaac leans back in his chair, and studies the thing. How terribly passive-aggressive. It's just an easier time of it, to leave all that behind.

Must have written them, to know his hand. That, or the boy went to the Circle late enough to expect it wouldn't migrate. When there's a break in the flow of questions and answers he asks:

"Wine. Is the family moneyed?"

Is there reason that another would want to draw them out, to use an absent son for leverage? Mages aren't the only ones to fake their letters. Instinct to prod at the holes in a thing, however small and irrelevant. Better they not waltz into some bizarre trap.

Wine. Montsimmard had kept stock enough, he can't think the White Spire too different — not within the heart of Val Royeaux. That he doesn't expect it was fine, Antivan vintage is... somewhat less of a lead. Whatever. That's what they've brought a Dalish for, isn't it? Tracking.

Edited 2018-07-20 13:23 (UTC)

Generally the Dalish have a better time tracking outside cities than inside, where they have little to no experience and where tracks tend to be left in interactions with people— who for some reason are not all that forthcoming with the tattooed varietal of elf— rather than in footprints and other physical marks of passage.

"Do we know what he means by 'making drinks in the basements'?" asks Nari quietly, thinking out loud, "That sounds more craftsman than merchant. If he is keen on the latter, though, he'll need either a decent amount of money or a partner, and to make several other types of contacts we might be able to nose around."

Where's Waldon?

Travel There

Meeting with Kian

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