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[staysail]

WHO: Yseult, Darras, Beleth, Wren (eventually)
WHAT: a reunion, a heist gone wrong. as the saying goes, to catch a pirate you gotta have pretended to be a pirate for like almost a year and then also just be in the right place at the right time.
WHEN: nowish, but at night
WHERE: the Gallows, a tower
NOTES: none yet

There are now twenty-six doors between Darras and the sea.

He's kept count. Twenty-six, a curtain wall he's scaled, and some smaller walls as well. The arduous climb up the bloody craggy face of the cliff--that one was almost fun, with saltwater spitting up around him as the waves crashed against the rock far below. Far more Darras' style than creeping about inside a fortress, or whatever it is they'd call the Gallows.

And each obstacle he's overcome, each threshold he's crossed, each door that he closed carefully, soundlessly, behind him--well, it would be poetic, to say that each one has wound Darras tighter, increased his tension, over-tuned him until he was quivering like the string of a crossbow. Perhaps that's how he'll retell this, later, if in the moment of retelling the tension suits his narrative purpose.

In actuality, Darras is calm. Like a flea, he'd crawled up those sea cliffs. Like a flea, he moves now. Sure and he's no master thief, but he's done his share of thieving. Less like this, moving like smoke across stone floors and courtyards, skirting by Inquisition guards as best and as easily as he can. Dressed head-to-toe in darker colors, to blend him in--no tell-tale all black, that's like flashing a calling-card that says I AM HERE TO STEAL in sixty-foot block letters. Dark colors for concealment, but he walks like anyone else, so the few times he's been caught face-to-face with some Inquisition innocent walking back to their tower rooms or making some late-night visit to the kitchens, well then, he's looked just like--well, a man, out for a stroll. A man who favors dark colors, and who walks easily, if a little quietly, on account of Darras' new-bought and very quiet boots of supple leather that won't give him away with an errant squeak.

And he'd left his falchion behind on the Fancy in favor of two plain daggers, easily concealed to preserve that image. And a lockpick, of course, which he slips into his hand now that he's face-to-face with the twenty-seventh door.

He makes quick work of it, slips in to the little antechamber beyond. The Inquisition, as he's heard it, is a humble cadre. Easy to believe, what with this contingent squatting in the Gallows here at Kirkwall. Darras has clapped eyes on it before, in passing. And of all the times he's put in at Kirkwall, or sailed on by, Darras has never much fancied darkening these particular doorsteps.

But the Inquisition has got something he wants, so he's here, with the Fancy lying some ways up the Wounded Coast, waiting for him to return with that single bit of treasure he's promised his crew.

Now, the Inquisition has precious little treasure to recommend it. Runs clean, lean, no great stockpiles of gems and gold left lying about to be thieved up. Luckily (and isn't he nearly always a man of luck), Darras wants precious little treasure.

In the antechamber, there's a short flight of stairs--four, shallow risers; Darras takes them in two strides--and then the narrow notched doorway to the room proper, just beyond. Larger than the antechamber, but that's easy enough to accomplish. High ceiling, and four windows cut high on the wall. Through two of those windows, there's streaming in these shafts of pale moonlight. This part of the tale will require little embellishment.

And here's four chests, big strong ones with hefty locks. Darras passes right by them, bound instead for the smaller chests set out on the table pushed up against the western wall. There's a ledger book beside them, a stack of older ledgers just behind. Quill, ink, all closed up and put away neat. Darras wastes little time. He counts the small chests: six, of varying sizes. Two painted red, the rest plain wood. The smaller of the red is what he goes for, snaps it up and stuff it in the sack he's carrying at his side. He's got the sack lashed to his belt with a bit of rope, for security, and when he shoves aside his coat to get at it, the belt buckle flashes gold in the moonlight.

Garish, Yseult had once called it. Proper for a pirate. Darras doesn't think of her, until he turns around to go back through those twenty-seven doors and all those walls and corridors and courtyards. He turns around and there's her ghost standing there.

He doesn't yell out. He doesn't say anything. He freezes, dead.

Comments

[arlathvhen]

Darras does not seem impressed by their security. The only thing he seems to be is irritated, and surprisingly, not by the two women holding weapons to him. But that doesn't mean that Yseult isn't telling the truth, maybe he's mad about something else. Maybe she was making fun of that stupid buckle.

And Yseult herself has only given Beleth reason to trust her. Once again: Why would she send the note, if she had malicious intentions?

But there's also Darras to consider, and Beleth turns back to him, purple eyes shining in the light of her bow as she studies him intently. Whatever his intentions, the undeniable proof was that he had successfully broken into the Gallows, and this secure room. And that made him valuable. And if his intentions were anything but pure, that made him trapped.

"I agree with Commander Coupe, and perhaps consider adjusting the time to a more reasonable hour. But what you've done is very impressive." She strides across the room, over to Darras, holding out a hand. The smile is polite, but with an underlay of I am really tired and half-dressed and I want to go back to bed more than I want to deal with you. "Welcome to the Inquisition, Ser...?"

[staysail]

"Darras," says Darras, "and no ser, but bless you for the courtesy, Scoutmaster. D'you think your friend there would be all right with me putting my hands down, so I can accept this handshake?"

The sword is gone now, some of the more overt tension done with, but he's still got to ask.

Regardless of a real answer from any of the assembled, he drops his hands with the air of a man brushing the dust off, there, that's over with, fallen into an act of charming helpful erstwhile thief-turned-thief-catcher, if not quite following Yseult's lead. All of this puts him in a place to accepts Beleth's handshake, with jaunty ease. The rope from the sack is still tied to his belt, its cut ends hanging. That puts him in mind that he still wants that chest, and maybe that fine glowing bow, while he's at it. For his trouble, like.

"Wish I could say it's a pleasure and all, but I'm a bit preoccupied with the thought of consequence dangling over my head. I'm not interested in charades. If it helps, the next time I soft rob your fine old Gallows, I'll send a letter of my own first. Give you Inquisitional types a chance to buff the armor of your guards there, get a proper night's rest, a bit of breakfast... We can manage that courtesy, eh, Yseult?"

[limier]

"No doubt, you will wish the same upon your rounds." Wren drags hand over jaw, jerks a head to the guard. "Mersault will see you fitted for a uniform. Report with Mme. Yseult."

At least, be named as her responsibility, should anyone take a mind to slip out.

"I imagine she may find my office." She steps for the door, pauses to add: "We might save your pay for you, a time. The illusion of conscription. But I leave this to the Scoutmaster's discretion."

[hassaran]

"He is likely more suited to Forces than Scouting," Yseult suggests, speaking up after a few quiet moments watching this transpire. "I will vouch for him, of course, but no need for him to remain under my command when he might be of more use elsewhere. He is a good thief, but a better fighter."

She is quiet another moment, thoughtful, and then adds, "It may be best if he is not seen outside the Gallows for a time, as well. To add to the illusion of conscription, and suggest to those less-informed that he may even have been imprisoned or killed."

[limier]

"Very well." A gesture that other circumstances might find curt, instead sort of just... meanders toward the wall. "Will the absence of word court trouble?"

Does anyone care enough to come looking for him, with less pure intentions than these?

[staysail]

"He'd like to say again that Hercinia's got nothing to do with him, so no one of that country will be waiting on word of him," Darras says, loudly. "As he's here and can answer for himself, and all. Not Hercinia, and not anywhere else, either--"

Except his ship, except the second he's clear of this, he'll be out the door and back aboard the Fancy, sailing away from all of this. Away from Kirkwall, from the Gallows--away from the Inquisition and their poor treasure store, their scoutmasters and commanders and half-asleep guardsmen--away from Yseult, which he both wants and does not want, a constant shifting that's left him feeling wrong-footed, like a man trying to hold his balance in a strong tide.

"A man without attachments or masters, free to be choosing what he wants and where he wants t' go. So what's this about not being let outside of the Gallows? Sounds suspiciously like imprisonment. I know what she's like," he adds to Beleth, though the jerk of his chin indicates he's talking about Yseult. "Cold like the Frozen Seas. What about her, though? The one with the sword. She always like this?"

[arlathvhen]

He can pry the bow out of her cold, dead hands, which is probably not an invitation that she should voice, lest he take her up on it.

She gives his hand a good, firm shake, and then withdraws it, listening to suggestions from both Yseult and Wren. And speaking of--"Commander Coupe is the head of the Forces Division. She takes her responsibility to keep us safe seriously, and does a commendable job of it." Which is a yes, she's always like that.

"I will leave whether you wish to work for her or myself up to your discretion, but I think that you--" And here, she turns to Wren and Yseult, "both had good ideas. We'll keep him here without pay for now, and ease him into his new responsibilities. It wouldn't be the first time we've conscripted somebody who had attempted to steal from us, so there will be a precedent for them to believe."

[staysail]

It's wildness, not panic, that is written across Darras' face when he whips his gaze over to Yseult. He doesn't panic easily. In a fight, in a tight spot, he knows what he will do, what he will have to do, what he is willing to do and what he can forgive himself for doing after it's done. What Yseult will forgive him for is a much shorter list, and as to what she would do--

Well, once Darras could have said, with reasonable authority, what Yseult would do. Now he doesn't know. Like that sinking pitch, when you step forward thinking there's a step there and your foot comes down on only air.

What he would say, if it were only the two of them, is that she had better help him, and not make this worse. Darras can make it perfectly worse all on his own, with no help from anyone. Case and point, he turns that look on Beleth instead.

"Maybe you didn't hear her. I wasn't attempting to steal." Not strictly a lie: he was getting away with it, so it was better than an attempt. "And I'm not here to be conscripted by any of you, for any reason. Not here to join up, not here for anything, other than--"

What exactly was Yseult's lie? Besides stupid, made-up, transparent--but when he looks back at her again, that's where he sees his first reason to stay. Soft, sentimental, foolish, when she's made clear how she feels about him and his kind. He can't help it.

"It was a test," Darras finishes. It's somewhat delayed, as he was busy sorting through Yseult a little. And what would she say, if she were talking now? She'd lie. She'd buy time. All right. "Now, if you want to be discussing this in the morning, after everyone's had a bit more rest, feeling a bit more reasonable, thinking sensibly--I'd be amendable."

Amendable, and gone. Yseult will surely know that. The rest of them won't, and he'll be well gone before they've worked him out.

"Put guards on me if you like. Your commander can spare the one half-asleep back there, yeah? He doesn't look like he's doing much."

[hassaran]

Yseult does not know how the fuck to fix this situation, for all that she is doing her best to pretend that (i) she does, and moreover (ii) there is nothing to fix to begin with. Darras looks to her, something unsettled and dangerous in his eyes, but she's not quick enough to stop him talking--not that she could anyway, that's been clear enough tonight, even if he's finally now circling back to agree with some part of her story.

It requires substantial effort to resist the urge to sigh, but she holds out at least until he is finished, shaking her head as if as exasperated by this as Beleth and Coupe must be, maybe more. "Clearly we need to discuss again the terms I laid out when you agreed to do this job," she says to Darras, "But maybe it would be best to leave that til morning. I think we are none of us at our best just now. Commander, Scoutmaster, I apologize for all the confusion. I'll have a word with Darras and see if we can't clear things up, and we'll report to--" she glances between them, questioning, "--one of your offices? in the morning to finalize things. If that's agreeable to you both?"

[limier]

"Of course." A gesture to the guard, who steps back into the room. "Meursault will accompany you both. It would be a pity to ruin the illusion."

Since he's clearly not being conscripted. Meursault, for his part, looks about to protest — he's nearly off his shift, already bristling for Darras' words — stops, grudgingly echoes:

"'Course." It'll be no particular difficulty to see he stays outside a door; provided they're quiet, conversation might continue in confidence. "After you, Serah."