faderift | [closed] player plot: the making of a villain

[ a top-level for all your pre-mission needs. ]

[ Time is not on Max's side tonight. If it was, perhaps she could have come up with a more discreet strategy. Find a source to pay off who wouldn't accept the same coin from the Venatori in turn. Install a spy of her own who could relay information to her in Kirkwall without risking the Inquisition's reputation during its stay. A thousand other, tidier options that would be preferable if she were not already here in Minrathous. If she were not alone. If her allies were not all men who would be hanged for setting foot on Tevene soil. If she were not haunting the docks every day on the slim hope of news that Jack and Anne still live.

Time is precious. And so, she must rely on the only people in this city she already knows are not Venatori: the Inquisition.

Of the Tevinter natives in their party, Loki of House Asgard strikes her as the kind of person who knows people. Specifically, the type of person who knows the parts of high society where she imagines Woodes Rogers must have found his footing — and his wife. Even a straight-laced military hero does not earn appointment to the governorship of Nascere without someone's favor.

After dinner with the Archon, then, when dance and wine have had time to lighten the spirits, and the glittering maze of politics has had time to distract those whose spirits are not so easily lightened, Max slides into a seat beside him in the ballroom. ]

The finest halls in all of Kirkwall will seem no better than stables compared to this, no? [ She smiles easily, the edge of a laugh, and lifts her glass in a faux toast to their surroundings. ] And how are you finding it to be home again, my lord?

[Loki has found it somewhat troublesome to be among the entourage. On the one hand, the presence of southerners is a novelty and because it is novel, his knowledge of them and the Inquisition has opened doors for him that he might've had to otherwise force. On the other hand, the members of the Inquisition have taken to seeking him out as a sort of social interpreter during their time in the Capitol.

He is uncertain if he appreciates it--but he takes a long look at the woman alongside him and decides, perhaps, he is not terribly inconvenienced.]

It is rather satisfying, not unlike coming in from the cold. Unfortunately, now I must remind myself where the fires are located so that I can avoid being inadvertently burned.

[He has not met this woman. That is not terribly unusual...but there are not very many well-bred ladies in Kirkwall. He knows, he's counted.

He lifts his glass in answer to her toast and takes an idle, almost bored sip.]

Strange that we have not met before this--Loki of House Asgard.

Max, of Nascere. [ No house. No rank. Not even truly from Nascere, nor Tevene at all if her accent is anything to go by. And yet, she comports herself as if none of those things are sufficient to stand in her way. Sometimes the truth is as interesting as any fiction — and she would like to interest him. ] Not so strange, I think. I had only just arrived in Kirkwall before the Inquisition turned us northward again.

But it has been some time since I have been back to Minrathous. [ the words are a note wistful, the shadow of a secret held just out of view. ] It is not so unwelcome, to see again the things one once loved — even at the risk of getting a little singed.

Hmmm, and you love Minrathous?

[He would not have taken her for a mage but, in truth, mages outside of Tevinter baffle him a bit. They are hard to identify and harder still to identify with--but if she is not a mage, then there are more questions about her being back in Minrathous. Questions about her wistfulness.

Color him curious.]

Tell me, did you come for the diplomacy? I know many came because the thought of seeing the forbidden Capitol of the evil empire is, for lack of a better word, alluring...but if you know it already?

Nostalgia, perhaps, brings you back? It is a very long walk for nostalgia's sake.

I am not so sentimental, [ she says, in that tone that says she might well be, but at least won't be admitting it. There's sentimental, and then there's walking all the way to Tevinter for a social call. ] Our mission here is important. Success could change all of our fortunes.

[ ...That said. She takes a sip of her wine. ]

But there are those here who were dear to me, when last I was here, who I might wish to see again. [ A slight, sad shrug. ] Unfortunately, it seems she was not graced with an invitation tonight.

[ Compared to the Archon's palace, the Rogers estate is nearly a modest affair — but only nearly. In time-stained stone it rises from a winding road in one of Minrathous's better (but not best) districts, wearing its age like a badge of honor instead of a sign of decay. Black pillars stretch from the earth itself into pointed arches framing yellowed windows. Three stories, as many wings, a dozen rooms at the very least. A frieze above one door is worn nearly smooth. Whether or not this house has truly been in this family for a thousand years, there's no mistaking the narrative.

Max's instructions had been clear on several respects. Secrecy is paramount. No one and nothing is to be harmed, and least of all the Inquisition's reputation. If the tightly contained venom with which she speaks of this man is any indication, their success tonight matters to her in more ways than she is willing to say aloud — and yet they are to abandon the effort altogether at the first risk of exposure. If the Inquisition fails to make an ally of Tevinter, it will not be because of them.

Caution, then, is in everyone's best interest as they make their approach. Ahead, torchlight illuminates a woman in an elegant cloak — the lady of the house, boarding a sedan chair and disappearing with her footmen into the night.

Best move swiftly, and tread lightly. Though it's no fortress, magic barriers shimmer across the ground-level stones, and more conventional locks protect the upper story windows. The steady clop-clop of a city guardsmen's horse echoes in the distance. At basement level, a servant's lamp glows with a drowsy light. ]

[Nikos shoves his flask firmly into place at his belt, more to check its security than anything else. The flask contains the very last of the rum that he brought with him from Kirkwall. He'll have finished it by the end of the night. That knowledge hangs over the scene like a black cloud.

His knives are in place, too. Finely-made, Antivan, well-used. Right at his belt, where they ought to be, and he doesn't need to check those. By all account, he should not have cause to use them tonight. Still--Maker forgive him--Nikos was born a skeptic. And experience has greatly increased the stores of his skepticism. If he doesn't need his knives before the night is up, he'll buy himself a drink.

If he does end up needing his knives, he'll buy himself a drink anyways.

The sedan chair turns the corner and moves out of sight. The tread of the footmen's boots go with it, fading away, leaving behind just the distant sound of the guardsman's horse. Nikos glares at the humble opulence of the house before them.

In a low tone--]

The guard's next patrol of this area won't be for another twenty. I studied the route. He pauses for a piss in the same spot every night, rounds that corner, there.

[He nods, a quick spare jerk of his chin, for everyone's benefit.]

I've certainly had my fill of standing here like a simpleton, but if we're taking volunteers to cross that barrier-- [you know, the shimmering magical one, so obvious he's not going to point it out for everyone's benefit] --I call not it.

Because I'm it.

[ Kitty's demeanor is confident. Not cocky: she's not smirking, not smug. But she knows what to do. How many times, after all, has she stood outside a house like this, one shielded by nothing more than the arrogant belief in the infallibility of magic? How many times has she slipped past a barrier just like this one, her resilience allowing her to move through it with no more trouble than a needle going through water? How many artefacts has she made away with over the years? But this time, she's not working for anyone's greed. This time, she's not going to be lining anyone's pockets. This time, she's going to be extracting intelligence, and intelligence for a purpose. No blind action, this. She's going to be doing good.

Briskly, she winds her hair up into a bun atop her head, pinning it in place. Then she steps into the long skirt she'd brought with her, shimmies into the tunic in the Rogers family livery, covering up her dark thief's garb with quick efficiency. With a moment's work, she looks the part of a Tevinter servant girl. Then she turns to the others, saying firmly - ]

I'll pass through. It'll take me three minutes to get from the front door to that window there -

[ She points at a high window that juts slightly over the magical barrier below. The rope ladder, thrown from there, will be outside the barrier's perimeter. ]

I'll throw down the ladder, you'll use it to get inside, and then I'll get the hell out of there. [ Because the others might have plausible deniability regarding their Inquisition affiliation, but she - with her anchor-shard - does not. In, out, and then off into the night for her. ] And you'll be subtle and clever and get the good stuff.

[ The rope ladder is tied up in a bundle that looks just like a parcel from the market. She picks it up, lifts her eyebrows, and then sets off assuredly towards the house. ]

[ It's interesting for Hanzo to work with other people than to work alone. He's used to simply moving around a place, climbing in alone, drawing his bow and leaving the mark of an arrow through the head, usually at range. He doesn't like getting too close when it comes to assassinations, especially not when he's on home soil, but given the nature of what they're doing... He doesn't think he can complain too much. It's a job, and it's a means to prove his worth, which is just as important to him.

Proving himself to the Inquisition, proving himself as valuable, as useful...

He's already prepared for the mission, at least. His hair is tied back with a simple black ribbon, his clothes are dark, his shoulder is bare. Now isn't the time to worry about people seeing his detailed tattoo, not when he's drawing Storm Bow and checking it over before he slips it back over his shoulders. ]

I could climb the walls to keep watch. [ It's an easy enough thing to offer, and he's capable of scrambling up any surface that lies in front of him. He does worry a little for the magic barrier, given the spirits housed in his bow, but... It's more important that they have someone on point, keeping track, being stealthy and careful. ]

If that is acceptable then I can act as watch for the mission. If necessary I can use my bow at range - if you set up a signal I will listen for it.

Get to it, then.

[Loki snaps a bit waspishly in the direction of Kitty and Hanzo. If he'd had his preference they would have moved before the sedan meandered off into the night, but these people felt the need to banter on the doorstep of the man they were here to rob and subsequently expose. The barriers and locks were surely problems, likely formidable and definitely time-consuming to deal with, but they didn't worry him. No, he was far more concerned with the possibility of a random slave passing by.

Normally, he would be all for simply killing them and disposing of the body, but they were supposed to execute this mission without being noticed.]

We've enough rooms to search in this eyesore before she returns.

[Loki is not clad especially for this mission; all of his clothing is some shade of black. Tonight, in deference to stealth, he elected to leave his gold and green accents behind. In the darkness, his pale face and hands stand out, but there is little he is willing to do about that.]

Go. [He gestures to Kitty and the window with one hand.]

[ Kitty hears the Tevinter-accented sneering, and barely manages to stop herself turning around to say something to him. Hanzo is useful, no question of that, steady and clear-headed. (His offer to keep watch earns a firm nod from her as she goes.) Nikos has discretion and wits, and even if he's frustratingly mopey it's clear he knows how to handle himself. Loki, though? If his pasty skin doesn't get them caught, glowing like a torch in the moonlight (honestly, hasn't he ever heard of camouflage before before?) then his utterly unnecessary talk and self-importance will. If he doesn't stab them in the back, which she's honestly not sure he won't.

But she's not here to think about him, even as her insides churn with anger. She's here to do the job. So she'll do the job.

She makes her way past the barrier without much trouble. It's like a barrier back home: her resilience disrupts the magic in some way she still doesn't understand, so that what ought to be a solid wall gives her no more resistance than dipping her hand in water. She steps through easily, adjusts her bundle, then steps into the house. Soon as she's inside, she moves like any other servant: steps purposeful, eyes steady, following the route she'd figured out from the plans of the home. Up one staircase, down a hallway, up another, into the tower room; other servants pass her in the halls, but they don't question her for a moment. God, she loves large households with rich bastards who think they're safe as long as they've got the very best in magical protection.

The lock on the window requires a key, she finds, which is a little bit of a surprise; she'd thought it'd be a latch. It doesn't pose any trouble, though. She picks the lock easily enough, and the lock pops open. And so, four minutes after she'd entered the house, the window is open and the rope ladder thrown down to the others below, so they can climb up and bypass that barrier altogether.

It always does feel good to be good at something. ]

[As Kitty goes on to slip past barriers and massages locks, clearing the way for their volunteer watchman, Nikos busies himself with alternating which of his fingers he is twisting. Index, then middle, then ring, and then reverse, ring, middle, index, sharp enough to twinge mild pain up his hand. Anything to keep him from kicking the Vint. To say that he is predisposed toward disliking the man isn't the half of it. The Tevinter Imperium sucks nug ass.

He didn't pick this team. That was Max, the mastermind of the whole thing, stood with them in their impatient little group. Max saw fit to include the Vint, who will no doubt prove to be useful, or else he would not be here. Use could be anything--say, a body on which to pin the whole thing should they fail and be caught, only this one seems the sort to slither off and save himself, which, all right, so would Nikos, if it came to it. But still, but even so: Nikos keeps twisting his fingers to keep himself distracted, ignoring the very real urge to drain his flask and get a little extra numbness.

It is blessedly not long before the window pops open, with blessed quiet. The toss of the ladder makes a soft phud, and Nikos twists sharply at his thumb, and waits.

No household slave come to investigate. No guardsman. Nothing. The sound has disappeared into the night. Good.]

The signal will be the Vint, [he says, quiet and dry, to Hanzo--who he does not mind, incidentally; who has demonstrated some usefulness already--] saying something charitable. You'll recognize it for a signal because it will be vastly out of character.

[Like he has any room to talk. But still. Ignoring everyone else, Nikos does shoot a brief look at Max, before sulking his way forward toward the rope ladder.]

[ Max is a quieter presence, never having been the sort of authority that need insist upon its own importance, and tonight having no interest in standing in the way of any of their areas of expertise. She can move quietly, dress in the simplest men's servant garb like donning an old skin, but she is no rogue by trade, and each of them is here for skills that exceed her own.

Granted, she would rather Loki were not here at all, but she's well aware that sentiment needs no encouragement in present company, particularly not when the prospect of dismissing him now carries as much risk he will stab them in the back all the swifter. None of which she chooses to explain to Nikos, and instead answers his look with an idle, ] If you should suddenly acquire the ability to wield magic yourself, Monsieur, do inform me.

[ Until that time, chances are they'll need a mage to access something in this mage's home, Kitty's rather impressive talent notwithstanding. She's never seen anything quite like that. There's hardly time to gawk, but she wonders if next time she might take Kitty and leave the rest of them behind.

Hanzo is all right, though. ]

The signal will be a whistle, [ Surely any of them can manage that, loud enough to carry out here, ] And you will take care where you shoot.

[ A murder would gather more attention than she'd like, and she's not so eager to end any lives tonight. At least, not any of the lives here. But she nods assent to Hanzo, trusting his judgment, as she moves toward the rope ladder herself. ]

[ The Vint. It's lazy and does little to offend Hanzo or cause him any moment of pause or concern; he's used to far worse commentary on his people from his travels throughout Thedas. People dislike those from Tevinter and he knows it would be even worse if they knew the truth of his background and history - admitting to being a scout is better than admitting to being a Magister. It's easy enough to shrug off because he truly doesn't care; his pride has long since been broken on that account.

It's not directed at him, at least for now. He has done nothing to offend, other than existing.

If you should suddenly acquire the ability to wield magic yourself, Monsieur, do inform me. Hanzo's arm flexes and his fingers twist; oh, but if he could, if he dared -

But Loki knows that, doesn't he? Loki knows. Hanzo twitches, but says nothing.

Nodding his head, he glances up, scouting out places for him to keep watch, preparing for a climb and for a long wait. ]

A whistle is acceptable. [ As though he has anything like a choice. ] Go. When you are ready I will get into position. I will watch over you.

[ Kitty waits at the top of the ladder. She's laid her skirt out on the floor under the window so that the cloth will muffle any footsteps as they clamber inside. And as they ascend, she grasps their hands (even the hands of people who are the worst) to help them inside quickly and smoothly.

Once everyone's in, she whispers - ]

I think someone broke something in the downstairs parlor, so a few of the servants are cleaning in there, so avoid that room. Otherwise, everything looks to be normal.

[Loki's dry and impatient expression twists to something a bit closer to open offense as the remainder of the team moves past and up the rope. He is the last up, apart from Hanzo who will remain behind, and he shoots the man a confused look as he passes. The fact that Loki is the only Tevene mage suffering any ire is more than a bit telling.

Still, Loki is clever enough that he says nothing--they can speak later, assuming nothing goes terribly awry while they rob this woman and her churl of a husband.

Loki moves up the ladder last and drops into the tower room after the group. He does not, however, resist the urge to wipe his hands off after Kitty has helped him in.

The interior of the house is...much as he had expected but, since he is not given to being a chatty idiot while in active danger, he refrains from comment. Instead, he reaches behind them and casts a quick spell to disguise the ladder in the darkness. Rolling it up would cause a commotion and leaving a viable exit was worth the risk.]

Wonderful. Let us be quick about this, then--even an incompetent servant is quick to clean up messes.

[ From the inside, it's a commanding sort of home, black stone beams arching stark against white, like a temple to the nobility of Tevene aesthetics. But for all the ostentation inherent its scale, there is a certain asceticism to it, too, its furnishings practical and its space efficiently partitioned, if not necessarily used.

The room they've climbed up into is a finely furnished bedroom. On one wall is a painting of a mage stepping up over the fog of a vast untouched landscape, on its side tables a few odds and ends, but it lacks the messy touches of personality that would usually indicate anyone currently lives there. A guest room, then, and not one often used, if the thin layer of dust that coats most its surfaces is any indication. Beneath that, on the top of a low dresser, a pair of semicircular scuffs mark the place where the bases of some decorative statuary or other once sat, but for some time have not. The rug, too, covers a few inches less on one side than the shadow left by its predecessor. Cycles of change and stagnation, written out across wood and stone.

At the very least, it will make for a well-sheltered escape route. Out in the hall beyond it, there are a number of more promising options for where a Venatori mage might keep his secrets. ]

(( feel free to jump on any or all of the prompts below and get some GMing and/or a Max! ))

[ A number of the rooms on this floor are the same way, well-furnished and purposeful but not places anyone currently spends very much time. But for their purposes tonight, disuse does not necessarily mean useless. Rogers himself has not lived here for some time, after all. Some of his things may no longer be out in the open.

—Or any of them, one might imagine, upon opening the door to one particularly large storage closet off the main hallway. Empty, it would be as big as some of their single rooms back at the Gallows; filled as it is, there's barely room for two people to stand without jostling elbows.

All manner of things are collected inside — chairs, chests, the frame of a finely carved bed big enough for two, broken down and shoved to the very back of the space. A portrait nearer to the door leans nearly shoulder-height, propped to face the wall with its subject hidden from view.

Boxes upon boxes fill the rest, haphazardly packed and more than anyone has time to sort through tonight, but they overflow with rolls of parchment, maps, and what looks to be the miscellanea from several desk drawers dumped unceremoniously into uncovered crates.

(Perhaps there hadn't been a window handy to toss it all out of at the time.)

If there was anything of value in the man's desk, it might well be here now. ]

[ By far the largest room in regular use on this level is the library, a stately floor-to-ceiling affair filled with neat leather-bound books on a fantastic range of subjects. History, philosophy, and naval magical theory predominate, but for anyone inclined to look closely, some may have seen more use than others, and more or less recently.

At one end of the room, a grand obsidian fireplace predominates. Beside it stands a stack of books unshelved, their identical red and brown spines forming a twisting gold-specked lattice. The covers of a few such books scatter the floor, gently caving in under the absence of their interior pages — the charred remnants of which can be found newly popped from the fireplace itself. A day or two old, at most.

Voyage Round the Known World, Woodes Rogers, read the spines. ]

[ Kitty, unsurprisingly, goes right for the books. She doesn't know much about the man who's their target; she likes Max, and trusts her to a certain extent (a woman succeeding on a pirate ship, surrounded by men, without a single hair out of place?), but it probably doesn't hurt to better understand what exactly they're doing here. Kitty never really has any desire to serve others' goals without understanding them.

So she searches the titles, mentally categorizes what he owns. Easy to tell which books get read, too; she reviews the books with cracked spines and the ones that look new. And then she goes over to the burned books, crouching down, lifting the spines and investigating them.

Odd. ]

[ Just off a the library is a study, a smaller room but by no means small. One wall is taken up completely with a map, the whole of Thedas rendered in lines of white on slate, with Tevinter naturally at its center. Miniature ships cling to its surface through some subtle sort of magic.

The desk itself is a massive old block, the wood pocked and scratched from a dozen masters. But one particular set of scratches is a little less dulled with age, and perhaps a little too neat. A loop, with a faint scribble inside it.

On its surface are a number of volumes — ledgers, to be specific, neat columns of black and red bearing substantially more red. Stacks of neatly organized correspondence, clean white paper, a wax pot, the Rogers' seal, all sit fresh and dust-free. ]

[Nikos is a shadow behind the desk. Hunched a little, he stands there, running his fingertips over its surface. By now he has slipped on his gloves. Soft, supple, a thin dark leather still allowing for him to feel nuances and nicks, the little tells that he seeks.

The ledgers are burning for attention. The letters, stuffed full of details. Even the most minor of lines in either could be valuable.

The desk, first. Hidden drawers are a given. And this house--locked, protected, hushed, guarded--feels like a puzzle in of itself. It will contain other smaller puzzles.

His fingertips scud over the scratches, feeling blind. He used to play a game (or he called it a game, anyways) with his sister, where he would write crude words on her back with his fingertip and make her spell them out loud. Piss, fuck, shit, cunt. She hated it. This is like the reverse of that game. Feeling for shapes, latches, scars like runic tells.

When his finger slips over the loop, he misses it at first. A burr, it catches, and Nikos doubles back. A loop, a faint scribble. He crouches, trying to see it in the dark.]

Mm.

[A soft sound. Subtext: The fuck are you. He's not stupid or clumsy enough to be talking right now.]

[ These sorts of marks, they are not a precise language. Sometimes a loop is simply a loop, the spot where the arm of a chair jolted too roughly against the wood. Sometimes a scribble is nothing more than the anxious scratching of some now-grown child. Marks left quickly, like these. Aged, like these. But not two strokes of the same age, left at the same time. Not in the unsteady swipe of a nail head in held in tight fingers. Not like these.

These are the sort of thing one sees in noblemen's houses from time to time, and not only in Tevinter. On the sides of lacquered tables in Halamshiral's gleaming halls. Even in Nevarra or the homes of Antiva City's most wealthy, wherever there are servants for whom the ability to read and write is an inconsistent privilege, and the need to provide clandestine warning ever-present, there are marks like these.

Though they're different in every city, a few elements might translate in this one. A circle, for a flawless facade. A sharp, piercing switchback within, for a turbulent interior. A master who is not so serene as he seems. A danger well-disguised. A man whose kindness is the most terrible kind of trap.

(At Nikos's side, the floorboard gives a soft creak. Max, light on her feet and careful in her step until this moment, her caution slipping as she leans to see what it is that has caught his attention. Her eyes are very still in the dark.)

Perhaps, one question that remains is, of all the safer places to stand to carve such a warning, and all the simpler places for a servant to see it, why is it here? ]

[More accommodating in action than he is in conversation, Nikos leans slightly aside, to make room for Max to investigate what he's found. He was raised in a house where secret marks might have been made about him, in a Nevarran style. A jagged edge, for bites. A moon with a face, for sulks. He was never the wiser, but his work has made him wise, enough that he can guess at meanings. In a very quiet undertone,]

Knew him for an arsehole.

[They knew it, coming in; the slaves know it. The question of why here is the more important part now. Placement is as great a signifier as the meaning. Nikos frowns at the mark.]

Facedown on the desk and you'd see it. A bit too late by that point.

MAIN TAKEAWAYS

Woodes Rogers' wife Severina is real, real mad about her husband's recent affair and subsequent pursuit of an annulment
She's consequently using her family's greater social and financial capital to convince Rogers' debtors (from all the loans he took out to finance conquering Nascere) to call in his debts in as soon as their finances are legally separated, while he's still broke
The ledger they recovered theoretically documents who his debtors are, but deciphering them and figuring out which were far enough from Minrathous to still be potential allies (or who else might benefit from undercutting him) may take some time, and also Max probs had to burn this when she was caught, so what makes it back to Kirkwall will be limited to what she managed to memorize
They also discovered a hidden cache of letters written in code, which are a year or two old but definitely Venatori, and could prove to be a valuable source of information if any of it is legible after Nikos's dunk in the ocean.

CLOSET DISCOVERIES

Rogers' wife definitely just shoved all his things in there after the affair came to light
Including their marriage bed, a wedding portrait she knifed a bit, and all his pre-planning notes for taking over Nascere
The notes for Nascere include mention of his plan to offer the pirates (who surrendered to him) full pardons, what a nice guy
In his dumped-out desk drawers was a circular pendant with some magical residue
The fact that his wife just dumped it in there suggests she didn't know what it was for and therefore may not have been involved in his Venatori dealings (although who knows where her loyalties will lie now that Corypheus is Right There)

LIBRARY DISCOVERIES

Rogers' books give the overall impression of a learned man with an interest in the practical application of social theory, someone with a lot of pride in Tevinter and a perhaps remarkable amount of optimism for its future, once.
Their shared library includes a fair amount of adventure stories and Tevene poetry, showing less dust and the occasional comment in the margins in Severina's hand
Among the least recently touched books (so, Woodes', rather than his wife's) are some exploratory works on social change, none quite so radical as to offend polite company, but enough to suggest Rogers' Tevene pride didn't stem from an entirely uncritical view of the empire, but from a belief in its potential
Severina is using extra copies of his autobiography as kindling out of spite, and had written some snippy commentary in the margins of the copy she actually read. Particular attention is paid to the bullshit chapter about the death of Rogers's brother and subsequent pirate battle, though she questions more than clarifies its accuracy. There's a sense that Rogers changed after that event, or perhaps she simply saw a new side of him that she didn't want to be married to.

STUDY DISCOVERIES

Apart from the ledger discussed above, the desk contains a number of letters to (and a few from) the lady of the house, documenting her efforts to royally fuck over her husband's finances upon their separation
The warning symbol Nikos found carved in the side of the desk draws attention to a more neatly carved rivulet in the desktop, which, were one to drip a liquid into it, would cause the liquid to pool at a circular point in the shape of the pendant from the closet.
Applying the pendant and energizing it (with blood or regular magic) opens a secret compartment in the desk, containing the Venatori correspondence discussed above.
Apart from the letters, there is a very old book of maratime magic written in Tevene, unfortunately too fragile to steal, but which includes a creased-from-use chapter on the best ways to increase the speed and maneuverability of a ship through the application of blood magic to the hull. Directly. There are illustrations, you're welcome.

[closed] player plot: the making of a villain

preparations;

loki;

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under cover of night;

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a promising story;

the storage closet;

the library;

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the study;

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ooc notes wrap-up: the ex-lover of my ex-lover's lover is my friend??