WHO: Nikos & Kostos WHAT: Two bros admitting they care, five feet apart because they're not fucking babies. WHEN: Sometime earlier in Bloomingtide. WHERE: Antiva. NOTES: Other stuff might get stuck in here too.
[ He should return the compliment. It was good work, neat and quick, and would still have been good work without his help. But his attention is partly on the house, partly on the dark seep of blood from the cut throat of the man on the ground and the wet sound of the thrown knife’s extraction, and by the time he’s blinked the hollowness out of his eyes the moment has passed in silence and there’s no getting it back. ]
They’re coming down.
[ He’s too close to the house now to see the all of the second-floor windows, but one of the wisps isn’t, drifting up above their heads, so he knows. The fires from bedside lanterns and stoked fires have turned into fires in the hallway braziers, glowing dim and static, and someone inside calls a name from a distance that could stand to be longer. Gabriele. The cut throat or the punctured forehead?
Kostos draws two more wisps across the Veil and jerks his head toward the upper window. There’s no going up the stairs, now, and the best information they have says it’s up there, on display beneath a portrait. ]
But that's not reasonable. And Nikos isn't psychopathic. He enjoys his work for the cause; he enjoys swift justice, clearing the way for change. He doesn't get off on it. Or not exactly, anyways. It's complicated, and nothing he'd put into word, and also not any of Kostos' business, or any of his interest.
So. Nikos gives one last wipe of his knife against the dead guard's tunic and flips it around again, shoves it back to his belt. He's less assured when he looks to the window, but the tell of that uncertainty is a small thing, and probably nothing Kostos--over half their lives a stranger--could read besides.]
Can you make the window? [Neither a yes or a no. The voice from inside repeats the name again, Gabriele, demands a report. Not time to fuck around.] Either give me a boost or get up there and give me a hand up.
[ Maybe he could make it. In less dire circumstances he'd try it just to try to prove he could, then sit on the edge and be smug about it for a while if Nikos couldn't follow him. But he's moving beneath the ledge and window in question instead, linking his hands to provide a step up, shaking his head. ]
I can keep them down here.
[ Strong barriers. A stream of wisps, short the several he's planning to send after Nikos to watch his back. When he puts his mind to it, it takes a lot of work for anyone to be able to touch him at all—assuming there are no other mages, no Templars, no magebane—
[Nikos grunts, first. Fine. But he has to register, for the record--]
If this is you being some noble fucking martyr--
[Don't. Grumbled, it sounds more like a complaint than any concern. And it is a complaint. But he's being dramatic, and Kostos is actually being helpful so, fine, yes--he puts one foot in Kostos' cupped hands, gets his fingertips on the edge of the windowsill--
It takes effort. He's not exactly built, except in the area of his gut. The wall-scrabbling is ungainly but minimal--and he steps at one point on Kostos' head, which he chooses to take as a kind of insult instead of a clumsy mistake--and eventually he gets an arm over the windowsill, and then he can haul himself up, properly, brace feet against the side of the wall and vault over.
Clumsy. But out of Kostos' view, and like the professional he fucking is, he shrinks against the wall and holds very still once he's gotten himself to rights. His hand on his knife, his eyes playing about the room. The unearthly light of his brother's wisps light up the room as they rise over the windowsill. Nikos glares at them. It's an appreciative glare.
No one is in the room. He shoves himself to his feet and moves toward the nearest piece of furniture: a desk.]
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They’re coming down.
[ He’s too close to the house now to see the all of the second-floor windows, but one of the wisps isn’t, drifting up above their heads, so he knows. The fires from bedside lanterns and stoked fires have turned into fires in the hallway braziers, glowing dim and static, and someone inside calls a name from a distance that could stand to be longer. Gabriele. The cut throat or the punctured forehead?
Kostos draws two more wisps across the Veil and jerks his head toward the upper window. There’s no going up the stairs, now, and the best information they have says it’s up there, on display beneath a portrait. ]
Can you make the window?
no subject
[So like, let them come down.
But that's not reasonable. And Nikos isn't psychopathic. He enjoys his work for the cause; he enjoys swift justice, clearing the way for change. He doesn't get off on it. Or not exactly, anyways. It's complicated, and nothing he'd put into word, and also not any of Kostos' business, or any of his interest.
So. Nikos gives one last wipe of his knife against the dead guard's tunic and flips it around again, shoves it back to his belt. He's less assured when he looks to the window, but the tell of that uncertainty is a small thing, and probably nothing Kostos--over half their lives a stranger--could read besides.]
Can you make the window? [Neither a yes or a no. The voice from inside repeats the name again, Gabriele, demands a report. Not time to fuck around.] Either give me a boost or get up there and give me a hand up.
no subject
I can keep them down here.
[ Strong barriers. A stream of wisps, short the several he's planning to send after Nikos to watch his back. When he puts his mind to it, it takes a lot of work for anyone to be able to touch him at all—assuming there are no other mages, no Templars, no magebane—
He's pretty sure it will be fine. ]
no subject
If this is you being some noble fucking martyr--
[Don't. Grumbled, it sounds more like a complaint than any concern. And it is a complaint. But he's being dramatic, and Kostos is actually being helpful so, fine, yes--he puts one foot in Kostos' cupped hands, gets his fingertips on the edge of the windowsill--
It takes effort. He's not exactly built, except in the area of his gut. The wall-scrabbling is ungainly but minimal--and he steps at one point on Kostos' head, which he chooses to take as a kind of insult instead of a clumsy mistake--and eventually he gets an arm over the windowsill, and then he can haul himself up, properly, brace feet against the side of the wall and vault over.
Clumsy. But out of Kostos' view, and like the professional he fucking is, he shrinks against the wall and holds very still once he's gotten himself to rights. His hand on his knife, his eyes playing about the room. The unearthly light of his brother's wisps light up the room as they rise over the windowsill. Nikos glares at them. It's an appreciative glare.
No one is in the room. He shoves himself to his feet and moves toward the nearest piece of furniture: a desk.]