(CLOSED) WEEKEND AT GERTRUDA'S

[reshapes]

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.

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!

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[reshapes]

Maybe if the Guardsman were a Templar proper, this wouldn't happen. But even here in pious old Tantervale, the world is changing, and so the sword surrendered to Coupe's possession at once with a marked flash of relief on the man's face. Lucky for everyone that quick on his feet evidently doesn't translate to knowing what to do once he gets where he's going.

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."

[sulahnan]

Except Myr isn't the one with a hold of Bartruda's legs anymore.

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!