faderift | [CLOSED] THE MINANTER JOB

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[CLOSED] THE MINANTER JOB

WHO: Yseult, Flint, Darras, Kostos, Adalia & Six
WHAT: A riverboat raid goes exactly as planned.
WHEN: (Backdated to) End of Justinian
WHERE: The Odovacar, a sprawling floating casino somewhere on the Minanter.
NOTES: Hijinks ensue.

"We've traced the source of the funding to the Odovacar, the personal boat of Cassir Odell, a Nevarran merchant growing in prominence. The Odovacar plies the Minanter - never more than two days from the border of Nevarran-Marches border, entertaining prominent guests around its gambling tables. I've twice heard mention of a Venatori sword being in Odell's employ. They must have some hand in managing the accounts, and may know something of the many ends toward which the coin travels."

The plan born of the report is simple enough. A small team of combatants will take a light craft along the Minanter, locate the merchant's yacht, then board and capture her under cover of night. The ship's hold shall be emptied of its funds, the Venatori "sword" sheathed and surrendered into the raiders' custody, and then they will all be on their way. With the right arrangement of fighters, it's easily and quietly done. It should take no more than six to capture the kind of boat used for day cruising by a merchant of middling reputation from a country currently arrested by the very real likelihood of a civil war.

Unfortunately, the Odovacar is not that boat.

'Boat' is, in fact, maybe a misnomer altogether. The craft that the team finds meandering down the Minanter is more sprawling floating island than it is any kind of ship. Its two visible stepped decks are festooned with live greenery and winding slate paths leading between the small village worth of brightly colored open air canopies under which gambling games of every assortment are being played by the light of great burning braziers and more delicate, intimate torches. There are no less than two full compliments of musicians flocking about, and every breed and variety of Thedas' wealthy and prominent meander between the tables. On the upper deck, a full score of men and women labor under the broad swath of canvas required to manage the boat as it creeps slowly along the Minanter; who knows what lies beneath the absurd monstrosity’s waterline.

So much for simple.

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There's nothing pleasant about stuffing six people, their gear, and a sail rig in a piragua, but the boat had been chosen for the inconspicuous image it paints more than for its leg room. With its long narrow hull and attached ballast board, the little boat could be one of a dozen day fishing vessels which buzz constantly along the Minanter's banks or run the lightest trade from out of small riverside hamlets and into larger townships.

Where the terrain allows, the boat is beached at night for some good old fashioned riverside camping. Where it doesn't, our industrious would-be raiders are stuck trying to eat, sleep, and avoid elbowing each other aboard what is essentially an oversized canoe.

Someone spots the sails first. From a distance in the failing light, it seems the boat must be coming around and that they must be seeing the Odovacar in profile. How lucky: it means to beat its way back up river. The piragua won't even have to work to meet it - they can simply let the current carry them down.

Only the distance doesn't seem to be closing as it should. After a few minutes where maybe only the sailors in the piragua know something isn't quite right, Flint surrenders the working of the rig entirely to Darras and picks his way forward over and between the rest of the boat's occupants to crouch in the bow with a spyglass pressed to his eye.

When the glass is eventually lowered, Flint remains there a few minutes longer seeming to evaluate the course of the river and in actuality thinking, Fuck very loudly.

He climbs back to midships and hands Yseult the glass.

"We have a problem."

Yseult is standing alongside the mast, squinting at the yacht up ahead, its sails catching the last scraps of red-grey sunlight. It's difficult to make out much with just the increasingly-pointless shade of her hand to assist, but something does feel off.

Still, she is not prepared for what she finds when she takes the glass from Flint and has a look. Literally, none of them are.

"More than one," she replies, "That is not what the report described. Is that a garden?"

Kostos—who does not know the first thing about sailing, but does enjoy being on the water enough that he's in an arguably good mood, sort of, if you squint and measure everything relatively—lifts his head to frown at them, then to squint glasslessly into the distance.

He can't tell what's going on, and he doesn't ask. But he does lower a hand over the edge to sweep the wisp he'd been letting float over the river back into the boat.

Six knows more about sailing than she might have been willing to admit; her father had been a sailor and had taught her a great deal in his more sober moments. She takes advantage of that now, checking on things and moving around, doing what she can - and keeping her armour off, at least for a little bit.

When she hears the shout she frowns, coming down and moving to stand beside her peers.

"Do I need my armour?"

"To fight plants?"

It is, after all, a floating garden. Darras, minding the rig, still doing what he's here to do (or partways what he's here to do, at least), has let that work carry him along toward the midship as well, so that he's not left out of this conversation.

He points, toward the fore of the curious yacht. Their little piragua is getting near enough that the bloom of green life is beginning to stand out clearer, a streak of vibrant color like a banner, even without the benefit of a spyglass. The peaks and folds of the canopies thrust up between the festoons like bright mountains.

"Think that might actually be a tree just there. Or a pole decorated with garland meant to look like a tree. I'm not equipped to fight either one. Have we got a backup plan?"

"It's a tree," Yseult confirms, "And no, armor won't do us any good here." She lowers the glass and hands it back to Darras rather than immediately back to Flint, lips pressed thin. "We can't assault a ship that large. Not directly."

A backup plan is indeed in order, and she looks around at their little crew, taking stock. That part doesn't take long.

"We aren't best-equipped for stealth," she says, "But we know the target and the gold are here tonight. There's no way to know if we'll get another opportunity."

There's no conceivable way that the Odovacar is the product of a single Nevarran merchant, however eccentric. But figuring out the whys and hows of who's behind the sprawling day cruiser will have to wait until everyone's appropriately dressed. Beg, borrow, or steal - just ditch the armor and bracer of daggers and do your best to blend in.

From there, it's time to get the lay of the land. Better put those etiquette lessons to work.

The bundle makes a tell-tale thump when it hits the deck of the piragua, and then a faint jingle as it slumps slightly onto its side. Darras, whistling cheerfully, crouches to undo the knot. Once that's been let free, the bundle falls open, and the source of its weight and its full potential are both revealed at once.

Jewelry, an assortment of rings and necklaces and bracelets and bangles--at least one tiara, studded with rubies--five or so bejeweled brooches--strands of pearls slithering out of the folds of the bundle--nuggets of gold and silver without any apparent purpose--leather belts, belts of braided fabric in golds and purples--and a great deal of fabric which, when set upon and extracted from the rest, reveals itself to be tunics and gowns and baggy trousers, sashes and veils, ranging from the intricate and decadent silk and brocade and plush velvet, all the way down to the more modest crisp linen and fine-woven cotton. All of it lovely, all of it expensive. And probably stolen, and free now for the taking.

"If you've not got anything to wear," Darras says, to everyone at large, and spreads out a hand in invitation over the treasure-trove of pieces. "Voila is the word, innit. Maybe I'll be Orlesian for this escapade."

Very pleased with himself (which is an Orlesian trait, so there's one point for that choice), he shakes out a long bolt of burgundy silk, with an embroidered pattern of intricate knots and sunbursts picked throughout it, pink and lavender stitching. He holds it up to himself with a grin. Considers it, before soliciting for an opinion from whoever's come around to help themselves to the spoils.

"Think it's my color?"

"Don't even think about it." Yseult has added her (perhaps more carefully-chosen) haul to the pile, and is now rifling through the gowns available. "Your Orlesian accent is appalling. The fabric might do if we need you to stand out and look gauche, but we've no time to sew you up a new doublet anyway. Here, try that."

She tosses him a shirt, dark silk with metallic embroidery at collar and cuffs, and then holds up a gown, squinting in the dusk. "Is this...green?"

Darras, grinning, holds up the shirt to his chest and looks down at it. Upside-down, it's all right. With casual immodesty, he shucks off his own shirt and tugs this one on instead, to get a better idea of it.

"Who's this one belong to, then. It's a bit much, isn't it? Not an Orlesian, you've been quite clear on that. Er," as he squints over at her and the bundle of clothes she's got clutched in her hands, "it's a green... or greenish, at least, I'd say. Try it on. You look good in green, so if it looks good on you, there's your answer."

Odell is a gregarious man in his fifties, dressed in silks and brocade and clearly enjoying his recent and significant success. The small, dark haired woman in his shadow is significantly less outspoken and swaggering, but seems perfectly content with her place in the man's prodigious shadow.

At some point within earshot of Darras and Adalia, Odell loudly calls for a new bottle of wine for a table, then pauses to ask his shadow, "Judex, my dear, would you care for something?"

The Venatori agent is Cassir Odell’s right hand woman. You can try to abduct her from the boat however you can, just don't kill her - the information she has is no good to anyone if it dies with her. You'll also need to lift the vault key from her person and pass it off to your associates on the way out.

Unfortunately, nothing is easy. In addition to funneling funds to the Venatori, Judex has also been skimming some spare change of the Carta's share of the Odovacar's profits into her own pocket. A member of the Carta has been sent to clean up the loose end and deliver a stern message Odell to mind his end of the business with more care. Don't let the Venatori agent get murdered.

Edited 2019-07-01 18:07 (UTC)

Darras doesn't look around.

He's gone full Rivaini for this particular venture, leaned in to his country's stereotypes: long tunic, broad sash, soft trousers, all edged in gold. His jewelry is gold too, rings and necklaces and earrings that manage to catch the light, even half-hidden by the folds of the headwrap. It conceals how short his hair is now, a small mercy for personal vanity.

Whatever accent he might have had has normally been rumpled by all the other voices and languages he's been around for the more significant parts of his life, but accents are like a jacket. Put them on again, and they can change you. So here: he's Rivani again, even in his voice. Silk and and the smell of spice do the rest, the fine reddish powder he keeps in the big ring on his left hand is a particularly Rivani affectation, just one bejeweled token amid nearly twenty others that glimmer on his hands. They're distracting. He's distracting, but that's the way of it, and he leans back in his chair and strokes thoughtfully at his close-cropped beard, surveying the spread of the cards on the table before him.

Adalia is not at his table, but she's nearby. They'd entered the room separately, found each other, kept close but not too close, and arranged themselves with that same proximity to Odell and the slender agent they're here for. This seating is also the way of this particular venture. And Adalia will have heard that name, same as him, because they're both tuned toward it--and she'll have heard Judex's murmured response:

"Just some air, I think. The air here," and Darras is looking past the Venatori agent, picking at his teeth with the tip of his fingernail ring--the sort that fits over the first knuckle and covers the natural nail--so he catches her gesture, to the room at large and the blue haze of smoke that hangs, low, around the tables. "It has a thickness."

Odell chuckles, as if she has said something amusing, and waves off the servant, who makes for the bar. Judex pushes back her chair and makes pleasantries with the others.

Darras picks up the cards he'd set on the table and considers them. The hem of Judex's linen veil brushes against his shoulder as she slips past him. She continues on, away from the tables, weaving her way between their narrow avenues, and Darras begins to count backwards in his head, waiting for the right opportunity to stand and walk after her. Adalia is meant to follow Judex first. He doesn't dare risk a look around. She knows what she's here to do. She'll play her part.

Theft, when it must be done slowly and quietly, instead of in the blink of an eye or all at once and violently, is something like performing a magic trick. It involves one hand doing something very interesting to draw the eye, while the other does something very carefully as no one is looking. Unfortunately, the phrase 'one thing led to another' rarely has a place in really good parlor tricks and in this one it features very prominently. One thing led to another, one might say, about Kostos and Yseult inheriting the task that falls to them now.

The distraction needs to be loud and eye-catching, obviously, but it can't be anything that might get them thrown out--which means the simplest options (starting a brawl, lighting something on fire) are right out. It also can't blow their cover, since there's no telling how long they may need to keep it up, linger afterwards while the other teams finish their tasks, or switch gears to go assist. They'll need time to make their escape, which means avoiding drawing unnecessary suspicion along with the attention, so whatever outfits they've scrounged up will have to factored into the scene. They'll also need to figure out how to pass the vault key down the line to their associates after the vault.

The real challenge in all this comes when, in the middle of whatever they're doing, a portly Tevinter gentleman swears he recognizes Kostos as a cheater of cards and seducer of other men's wives, and Yseult as the one who tried to fob him off last time.

Edited 2019-07-01 18:06 (UTC)

There was another plan. A better plan. But, like so many good ideas, that plan is completely fucking ruined by people who can't mind their own fucking business.

—and by Kostos dropping the key.

But mostly by people who can't mind their own fucking business. A dropped key is not a disaster, itself, even along the walkway of the busy gambling deck, but when he touches Yseult's hand to alert her to stop and wait for him, and dips down onto one knee with the intent of gathering it up while pretending to tie his boot, someone gasps.

"How sweet," a voice says.

And then many other people are no longer minding their own fucking business, and Kostos—kneeling in front of an admittedly very pretty woman, with a very pretty view of the river glittering under the moon beyond them, dressed like someone with vague intentions of impressing people—gives them a look that skirts the border between furious and alarmed, then gives Yseult a look that's a little more on the alarmed side, while that other, better plan dissolves into impossibility.

It was a better plan. It's not that this scene wouldn't suit their purposes nicely, drawing the eye in a way that isn't about to get them tossed or draw much in the way of suspicion. But there are reasons they'd eliminated the ideas requiring faking a romance or Kostos speaking at any great length, and anything that might be difficult to draw out if stalling becomes necessary. But here they are, and Yseult looks back at Kostos down on one knee with a Look that is determined, and determinedly Not Alarmed, and then suddenly transforms into plausible shock. Eyes widen, her lips part, a hand rises to half-cover an audible gasp. There's nothing to do but go with this.

"Frederico!" she exclaims, voice pitched a little high, breathier but still pitched to carry, her accent unmistakably Starkhaven even on just that one word. "What are you-- are you--? But I thought we couldn't! Your father...."

Lock breakers they may not be, but there's more than one way to get through locked doors and past armed guards. Maker willing at least one of them involves the careful cracking of a few heads and creatively using the environment to make their way. Someone has to do the heavy lifting.

Once they're in possession of the vault key, finding the vault will require getting into the back cabins where all the staff operations and offices are. They'll have to get past a series of increasingly large and watchful guards and pick a couple of increasingly difficult locks (or getting past the doors some other way). Odell's office, when they finally reach it, will be easily identified both by the monumentally tasteless decor and the room off of it that's been wholly converted into a big dwarf-height vault with a complicated magic-resistant dwarven lock.

The problem? Once inside the vault, it becomes quickly apparent that there's way too much money in there for them to carry enough out to bankrupt the place, especially if they're trying to leave discreetly.

Edited 2019-07-01 18:04 (UTC)

Six isn't sure about the idea of breaking down doors, almost literally, and smashing heads together; it's not something she had been comfortable with at home and here she just feels like... Brute force. Too much, too dangerous, against the Oath she had made to defend. She feels uncomfortable with being the dangerous one, but she'll do it - because she has been asked to and because it feels right, something that she ought to do.

It doesn't take long for her to turn to look at Flint - and at least she knows him - and hesitate, suited up in her full armour with her greatsword on her back.

"I wish I had learned some spells for stealth," she sighs.

In direct counterpoint to her, Flint seems both perfectly comfortable with the concept of forcing his way deeper into the ship and fundamentally underdressed for it. He's wearing a coat of brocade picked with silver thread and buttons cast in the resemblance of delicate flowers, a pair of scandalously tight trousers that are absolutely a size too small in the thighs, and enough incidental glitz and shine to make a lady weep.

Very few guests on the barge have armored guards with them, but if theyre to pass Six in her plate off as one it required some effort on his part. Keeping her equipped for combat had seemed worth the trouble when they'd first gone in this direction. Now, as they stand with their backs to one of the bulkheads and prepare to make their way down further into the depths of the ship, he's beginning to rethink the arrangement. He can hardly lift his knee without a seam threatening to go.

"We won't need one. We do this exactly as discussed - I lead, you follow. If nothing I say works to get us past, then I'll play distraction so you're able to club the guard from behind. Understood?"

"I understand."

It doesn't mean she has to like it, however. She is used to being the strength, the muscle, the power, but there's a note of dissatisfaction that she cannot quite hide. Being a party guest has been something she has done before, of course; missions on Riftwatch's behalf, dressing as a Chantry Sister, dressing as everything that she truly isn't...

This is the same. She holds herself high, pushes herself together and walks forward. At least she trusts Flint - as much as she trusts anyone she does not know as well as she could, all things considered.

"I will do my best."

((ooc: This is a round robin thread in the style of a tracking shot from your favorite heist movie. The main character is the key and we all get to play it. Every player character in the log should touch the key at some point, eventually ending up in either Flint or Six's possession, however every step of the key's journey doesn't have to involve a player character.))

The key is slightly longer than the average forefinger and it is a brass so deep that it might as well be mahogany. Up until a moment ago, it lived in a pocket sewn in the breast pocket of Judex's tastefully embroidered doublet. Now, however…--

Something goes wrong, because of course it does. Did they really think they could shed their luck along with the Inquisition's name?

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[CLOSED] THE MINANTER JOB

CLOSE QUARTERS

THAT'S NO YACHT (group thread)

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no subject

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COSTUME CHANGE

ota with some costume pieces

ota with some costume pieces

no subject

TEAM CATCH-A-VENATORI (DARRAS & ADALIA)

no subject

TEAM DISTRACTION (KOSTOS & YSEULT)

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TEAM SAFE CRACKING (FLINT & SIX)

im SO LATE

literally impossible

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THE VAULT KEY

A HASTY RETREAT