![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(CLOSED) WEEKEND AT GERTRUDA'S
WHO: Bartimaeus, Myr, Athessa, Coupe
WHAT: A highly effective strike team travels to Tantervale to rescue an Inquisition spy on the verge of being discovered meddling in the Divine election.
WHEN: Early Cloudreach
WHERE: Tantervale
NOTES: Hijinks abound.
WHAT: A highly effective strike team travels to Tantervale to rescue an Inquisition spy on the verge of being discovered meddling in the Divine election.
WHEN: Early Cloudreach
WHERE: Tantervale
NOTES: Hijinks abound.
As many things do, it had all started with a pentacle drawn on a cold stone floor and a charge: 'Go directly to Tantervale. Once there, locate and recover sensitive intelligence concerning the Divine election candidates in Gertruda's possession. Don't let anyone know who or what you are, and most importantly of all: don't get caught.'
And so, cunning and powerful djinni that he was, Bartimaeus had done just that.
Mostly.
—Let's call it a work in progress, shall we?
The first sign of something going rotten in Tantervale had taken the form of a breezy sending crystal message to a particular leader of the Chantry Relations project1. It had said in cool, devastatingly unconcerned tones something along the lines of, 'Hey there, friend. You don't know me, but I think I may have something that might interest you. Or, rather, I may be somewhere that you might have a strong interest in removing me from.'
From there, one thing had led fairly naturally to another. On the one side, a hasty gathering of deeply unlikely forces, a very swift exit from Kirkwall on the speediest horses, and some general strategizing while en route. On the other, a swiftly melting spirit in the form of a little old lady begging off as being under the weather, bundled in a lavish duvet and wearing a stout pair of winter gloves to keep the chill out of his old lady fingers, being forced to dump cup after endless cup of 'restorative tea' off a Tantervale balcony the moment his attendants had left the room. It's a tough life, folks.
All fine and dandy really until one Sister, placing yet another tray across his knees had said, "It's a good thing you've seen fit to return from your tour of the Marches so early, Mother. We've just received word Ostwick's Teryn's sent their daughter along to meet with you and that her boat will be arriving from along the Minanter tomorrow. I believe she would be very pleased to see you leading the Chant the afternoon following."
Which brings us to right this instant: a fine late afternoon in the Tantervale Chantry, its main hall resplendent with dappled colored light as cast through the innumerable panes of a great stained glass window. It's not quite the moment of no return—from the general milling about happening in the hall below, Bartimaeus bets he has about, oh, two minutes before he'll be expected to descend the lovely staircase to the dais and get on with sticking his foot in his mouth—, but boy. It's awfully close.
1. What did you expect? For him to call Nathaniel? Fat chance - the boy was about as useful in cleaning up a mess as a sodden paper towel. To message Kitty Jones, maybe? And risk giving her even an ounce of satisfaction? HA!
no subject
Beyond that, the details blur. There's a problem, and it's there — in a dire and physical sense, and if she's certain they all have a word or two to exchange about the merits of impersonating a Grand Cleric —
Well. Still better that a bloody rifter's not caught at it.
It's a lovely gathering, really. The scenery is grand, and the guests either well-bred, or well-mannered enough to tolerate Gertruda's pet impoverished masses left gathered out front. There are smaller shrines in Tantervale, and Sisters to shuffle crowds for greatest effect. That some particularly cute orphans are now being allowed in to charm the Teryn's daughter,
Well it's a bustle, isn't it? Causes a stir. Enough that even good intentions and tiny hands can send one slipping off balance. Coupe staggers against a wall, letter in hand (a profession of the Inquisition's neutrality), and it's enough to cover the motion of something else rolling free. Discreetly, she kicks the bell into the thick of the crowd,
Less discreetly, its enchantment begins shrieking.
plz let me know if this is garbage
And that's the fact that when you disguise yourself as a servant, you have to do all the servanty garbage that servants do, just to blend in. Somehow, that hadn't occurred to Athessa--whose current alias is Alathin, a scrappy orphan who will do anything to prove that despite her unfortunate origin story, is a diamond in the rough destined for greatness--
Buuuut right now Alathin is holding a parasol over some random noble's head, shading them from the sun because apparently the light of Andraste is just too bright for their delicate crepe paper skin.
It's an ear-splitting relief when the shrieking starts and Athessa can use the distraction as an excuse to ditch the parasol and try to get closer to Gertruda.
"OH NO," She yells, "DO YOU THINK IT'S FOUL PLAY??" That should get the Chantry-goers freaking out a bit.
How cool would it be if she could get away with tackling the old lady the way personal guards do. They do that, right? To protect them from attacks?
It sounds like something they'd do, anyway.
if it is garbage then i'm the raccoon delighting over it,
Thank the Maker it did, as he has been every scrambling step of their way here. Call it method acting: It's a fervent piety suited to the wide-eyed Lay Brother he's impersonating, a truly hideous specimen of shapeless hat pulled down to hide his ears. (He's broad enough for a shem at least.)
Little Brother "Myron" gravitated to the nearest knot of Chantryfolk immediately, hovering around the dais with a bumpkin's simple awe shining from his face. Had been so overcome with the moment and all that he'd had to stop and pray at least twice on the way there, buying time to trace out a couple of hidden glyphs with a toe. Then it's only a matter of waiting--
No need to feign surprise when the screamer goes off because it does nearly jolt him out of his skin; what's more artful is the way he stumbles into the Sister next to him, elbowing her and the elder cleric she's supporting right into one of the glyphs. Paralysis catches at their feet, setting the stage for a fall.
"THEY'VE GOT THE REVERED MOTHER!"
There hadn't been an opportunity to call ahead and give their imperiled--ahem--agent any instructions on what to expect; hopefully, Bartimaeus will recognize Myr's voice and the intended rescue with it.
If not, well, this is probably going to come off as an extremely strange assassination attempt.
no subject
Not that he's complaining. Seconds ago, Bartimaeus had strongly been considering the pros and cons of throwing himself down the stairs and posing broken-necked at the bottom. This - the abrupt rising shriek and shouting, the recoil of confusion that passes through the cathedral - is practically a relief. He'd rather not dash himself on the polished floor if he can avoid it.
Which is more or less the last thought that passes through his mind before the Sister at his elbow drags him into the activated glyph, all his limbs lock up, and he topples over in a flurry of flapping vestments. The grand hat is ejected fabulously from his head. He collapses onto a lock-jawed fwhump onto what must surely be the the pointiest parts of the Sister who'd tried to wrench the Reverend Mother safely behind her.
no subject
Athessa, being small and quick and a highly ignorable elf, slips back through the crowd to pop up several feet away, hair in a different arrangement and a noble's pinched cloak on her shoulders. See? Like she's a different person. She adopts a--well, it's a bad accent, over-acted and spoken in a deeper register than her vocal chords can truly manage, but nobody's paying attention to authenticity amid the chaos.
"GET THESE PEOPLE OUTTA HERE!" She bellows, evoking any of the city watch she's run afoul of in the past.
Another scurry, scamper, and deft acquisition of another article of clothing and she's on the other side of the crowd, wailing like an offended dandy.
"IT MUST BE DEMONS! THAT FELL SCREECH! O, ANDRASTE SAVE US!"
And then, in her normal voice, she responds to her own play acting: "YOU GOTTA GO, MAN!"
The last article of clothing she adopts to change her guise is the grand hat that was once on the Reverend Mother, which she tugs down over her ears. She looks ridiculous but at least she doesn't look like a servant anymore, and she bustles over to the downed demon-in-elder's-vestments. Time to shift this old biddy while the distraction is at its peak.
no subject
Bartimaeus, flat on his face, sees none of this. He hears rather a lot of it - a bang, a heavy clang of something falling and striking hard against the marble floor, the rise and fall of a confused wail and a great stamping and shuffling of feet. But his vision is limited to this very lovely patch of carpet up until he's rolled physically over off the similarly paralyzed Chantry Sister.
"That's my hat," he tries to say. His locked jaw turns it into: "Thrmrmgrht.'
It also transforms the subsequent warning sound he tries to make into a similarly unintelligible grunt, and so there's very little warning as a white-faced Chantry Sister bearing a long standing candelabra like a spear comes sprinting toward Athessa, shrieking, "Get away from her!"
no subject
Myr's double-take as Gertruda--or her reasonable facsimile--goes over is truly comical; and then he's swept away from "her" by a mob of panicked Sisters. Fighting back through them's the work of long seconds and thrown elbows (each one with an apology to the Sister catching it; Maker forgive him his part in this insanity) until--
He doesn't fade step to throw himself between the charging Sister and Athessa, but one might be forgiven for thinking he did, so quick is he across that gap to make a precarious grab for the candelabra. Use her own momentum against her, shove it toward the floor...
"Sister, stop! She's only trying to help!"
no subject
"We need to get her to safety, not spear her with a giant candlestick!" Shuffle, shuffle. That's her dragging the old lady back a few steps, hoisting as much as she can with each effort. "Maybe--Maybe you should be the one getting away, huh?!"
no subject
Someone (one of the guards, having sheathed his sword again in a panic) has taken hold of his wrinkly, elderly woman ankles with copious, stuttering apologies: "Here, let me help carry her. Reverend Mother, please forgive the intrusion-- Would it be simpler to just have me carry her?"
Which is happening more or less concurrently with Myr disarming the candelabra wielding young woman, who snaps back at him with a half shriek, half shouting: "Well don't you just stand there then! Help them carry her!"
no subject
He is really not cut out for this.
Not if his first instinct is to go over there and reassure her there's no reason whatever to panic, the real Gertruda's just fine wherever she is and this one's not even permanently damaged, really--
Right, no time for that. "Of--of course, I've got her--ser," to the guard, "let me, if you would, in case you've need of your sword,"
Having said he reaches to take Bartruda's ankles, muttering something under his breath that might be a prayer or an apology for touching the person of a Grand Cleric in such a scandalous way.
(Or it might be a dispel, timed to go off the instant they get their target down off the dais.)
no subject
Snapped. The trouble with pretending to go down in a crowd is going down in a crowd. Through a long career of stabbings, slicings, shots, burns and sundry, there remains little as immediately painfully poignant as a stubbed toe. Or ten of them. By the time Coupe limps up from the center of the crowd (those first screams silenced beneath the roiling chapel), there's no particular need to fake her disarray — or the fury above it.
"Your sword." A hand thrust expectantly and uncomfortably near his waist. Having absolutely no authority here doesn't mean she isn't prepared to be a huge cunt about it. To the Sister, urgent: "Get Her Grace to the confessionals."
If there are any. Marchers. Determined to complicate quietly braining members of the clergy.
no subject
The Sister, however, seems perfectly sensible. She goes so far as to take that spear-like candelabra back up, though for moment she's brandishing it ahead of them rather than at anyone in particular. "No. We'll take the east passage. You," she snaps to the unarmed Guardsman, "collect Sister Margryte. Quick as you can. The rest of you follow me."
And then she's off, using the overgrown candlestick to beat her way toward an ornate painting of Andraste, halod by fire in all the usual ways, at the back of the dais.
Meanwhile, Bartimaeus hangs there as stiff as a rail between Athessa and Myr. He remains that way until they cross the threshold of the passage evidently hidden behind the painting, at which point all his limbs go impressively limp. Quite literally. For a second there as the paralysis wears thin and disappears, there's a bizarre soggy quality to the old woman as if she had been trying so hard to be less rigid and how now overdone it entirely, ankles and armpits distressingly mushy.
And then something reasserts itself, and it's as if it were merely a trick of the changing temperature between the main hall and this narrow little corridor or-- ...something. Either way, the old woman between Myr and Athessa raises a shaky arm as she's dredged along behind the armpits. Her gloved fingers wrap first into a weak fist, and then at long last resolves into a thumbs up.
Nice job, everyone.
"Ooh," says the old Reverend Mother in a quavering voice. "My head."
no subject
Despite the unusually fluid episode that the old woman had before regaining her structure, Athessa keeps her lips thinned, half with the effort of moving dead weight, and half with a dose of internal panic about where the hell is Myr and who the fuck is that.
And as soon as she can without being too obvious, she's making significant head gestures and trying to pioneer an eyebrow-centric sign language in Coupe's general direction.
We need to lose these jerks!