shocking art supply and craft | OTA

[wythersake]

WHO: Isaac, Byerly, Leander, Javel, Yngvi + Open if ya wouldn't snitch
WHAT: Breaking stuff FOR THE DIVINE
WHEN: This monthish
WHERE: Kirkwall, Tantervale
NOTES: the butt's on the front. ooc planning/info here

Comments

[filthydipper]

Yngvi of course put on knuckle dusters the instant this was suggested since there were a great many indignities inflicted upon Kirkwall but were any so ugly as this? (No. Not really, no. Not in the esteemed opinin of a native at any rate.) Alas, since he's not a stout dwarf by anyone's measure, he'd be less useful clambering up as much as he might like so instead he's below, hoisting more than anyone would expect - or want - from his coat.

"I've got traps, if someone wants to give a hand with getting the ropes in while I set it--" Or, since he's offering there are also some more alarming options.

Artificers tend to have spike traps that he could set off. Or mines. Which is more than the Champion deserves but no one needs dwarven ramblings on the subject.

[wythersake]

Isaac pushes a breath through his teeth. It's a bleak day when the three of them are relying on his mass — where's the Avvar when you need her? But Leander's already moving, and it's a miracle they haven't run afoul of the guard or citizenry just yet, and so he braces against the statue; gestures for Leander. Get on with it.

(The dog sounds closer.)

"Can they give us some distance?" To Yngvi, "I'm not digging caltrops out of anyone tonight."

Ideally. But they could use something to deal with oncoming trouble.

[sarcophage]

"No looking up my skirt, now," he murmurs, laying both his hands on Isaac, closer to his collar than necessary, suggesting the preamble to an embrace before it becomes something more ordinary. "And try not to drop me."

Briefly, Lea's hand is heavy on Isaac's shoulder; somewhat less briefly, Lea's boot is heavy in his hands. Not quite heavy enough to make light work of this caper, but at least no one will herniate anything in the process—
"Steady—"
Well. Probably they won't.

There: up he goes. He wastes a second or two looking for the next handhold, not as quick as a sailor would be—some of those fellows climb like monkeys, with absurd arms, have you seen them—and the last push for the shoulders involves a bit of precarious clinging and slithering, but he does make it in the end. And it'll be their end if he doesn't get on with it, so on he gets.

"Sorry about this, darling." No he isn't, but it's the polite thing to say when one is hugging a very large lady's helmet with one's legs, crotch against the faceplate. Once in position, he leans to have a look down at clever Yngvi and his clever implements, and grins, bright-eyed and breathless from the climb. "Are we ready?"

[filthydipper]

It takes a lot to keep him from parroting back sarcastically since he did get to come along on this venture, instead nodding as he starts setting everything out that might be required.

"Isaac I'll dig the caltrops out of your arse. Little mage boy you're on your own." There's only so far he's willing to go for this, it'll be sacrifice enough for Isaac. Honestly in his opinion some caltrops to the backside could sell this an act of vandalism if they got caught, honestly, guardsmen serah, you just missed them, we did our best to repair Hawke's stately bosom. A little tasteful caltrops to the buttocks goes a long way but that is the ways of the Carta not known to most folk.

So Yngvi sets traps, looks up, wonders if there'd be something to it if Leander fell, if a mage fell breaking part of the Champion here in her city or something as he gets the pieces together and chooses just the right mine.

"Ready! Just blame it on us," meaning the Carta, "if it goes tits up!"

(Unless she goes tits up, which is the plan he's assuming.)