[closed] player plot: the making of a villain

[ebeje]

WHO: Max, Kitty, Nikos, Loki, Hanzo
WHAT: Breaking and entering
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Minrathous
NOTES: Slavery cw, blood magic likely. Top-levels to be added as we go.

Comments

the study;

[ebeje]

[ 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. ]

[exsecutus]

[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.]

[ebeje]

[ 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? ]

[exsecutus]

[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.