closed | go home to your mother and tell her you're brilliant.

[murderbaby]

WHO: Mhavos, Mharcoulf, and Ahnna
WHAT: Mhavos bonds with new friends in healthy and exciting ways.
WHEN: August, nowish.
WHERE: The Gallows, and the outskirts of Kirkwall, respectively.
NOTES: Violence, possibly murder, probably not graphic. If anything else, will add, etc.

ANNA

Mhavos is up late. The candle by his desk is burning low, but he has another ready. It will be a long night, configuring sums and transcribing letters, but it's nothing he minds terribly. It's good, he's finding, to have work that feels... meaningful. Or at least, not meaningless.

Still, it's not absorbing, mentally. Mhavos notices the occasional noise of others wandering through the hallways, the sound of gulls outside. And the sound of... rustling fabric. There's a shadow near his window. He considers it carefully. How to act? Surprised? Prepared?

Normal clerks would normally be surprised. Normal clerks are also normally better at dying.

He snuffs out his candle, and picks up a spare broom, using it to unlatch the panes before ramming it into the metal grate. No glass is broken, only the window opens quickly, the metal hinges screeching.

And then Mhavos waits.

MARCOULF

Mhavos knows that this Marcoulf fellow an asset enough to be assigned this mission. This Marcoulf fellow likely knows the same. What Mhavos does not know is how to ride any sort beast, hoofed or no.

He climbs upon a very tired mule with an expression not unlike that of a cat that knows this bath is beneath its dignity. It's been tied to Marcoulf's horse, so Mhavos doesn't have to worry about the creature (named 'Bets', either for 'Betsy' or a lost game of cards, Mhavos has no idea) careening off, only staying on its back.

How droll.

They're going to the mansion of Georges D'Anjous, disgraced nobleman who decided to retire in a villa outside Kirkwall proper. He sells wine and does rather well for himself, by all accounts. He also may be involved in some unsavory practices that could be used as blackmail... or simply stopped. The details are fuzzy and unresolved. That is, presumably, why Mhavos is being sent with Marcoulf; neither of them is particularly high ranking or important, but it's a fine way to prove themselves.

Mhavos struggles to stay off the ground as Bets navigates a particularly unimpressive rock jutting from the road. He speaks to his companion in Orlesian, because there is precisely no reason not to. "I've- dammit. I've never been required to stay ahorse before. Amule? Shit."

He grips the reins for dear life.

Comments

[esquive]

They should have just walked there. They might have needed to leave yesterday, but at this rate arriving at the D'Anjous mansion covered in mud from the road and stinking of a camp cookfire would have been more dignified than the figure the clerk cuts on the little donkey. That there will be no mistaking them for anything but exactly what they are - two piss poor nobodies - and that they'll therefore find their way more reasily to the estate's back step is the barest consolation.

"Don't brace so on the headstall. How would you like to be dragged around by your nose in two different directions?" This, in the clipped and faintly irritated tones achievable only by the sort of person who knows too much about how to do a thing correctly and too little about explaining it to anyone who doesn't.

"Have mercy on her. Hold on to the saddle and let the lead do the rest."

[murderbaby]

"Right, right."

Mhavos doesn't appreciate the tone, but he is thankfully not so prideful that he'd ignore well-needed advice. He takes it, settling awkwardly on the back of the mule, but his position is more precarious from nerves than incorrect seating.

Thank the Maker for chevaliers. Or whatever this man is. A templar? Mhavos tilts his head, unsubtly studying him. It's what any clerk would do.

"Thank you," he says with a huff. "I daresay I'll be of more use once we get there. At least the journey back is downhill, so I may just throw myself in a sack and roll home."

He's joking, but his tone is entirely serious.

[esquive]

There is, for better or worse, very little worth the study under the brim of Marcoulf's felt hat. Sallow faced, wiry red beard, pin neat clothes that do nothing at all to make up for his narrowness - if not for the fine blade at his hip and the mare (who is no well bred animal, but is still clearly his), it would be easy to fix him. As it is, the lovely shape of how he speaks Orlesian and the scowling over having to manage the donkey suggests--

Well who knows what it suggests.

Marcoulf snorts. He allows the aninals to go go a few paces, and then says, "Nonsense. You'll either be an able rider by the time we come back, or you won't be able to hobble far enough to throw yourself anywhere."

He rides with his left hand only, presumably the better to use that sword at his right.

[murderbaby]

His bearing and tone suggest, to Mhavos' best damn guess: someone either naturally well spoken or well-read or simply accustomed to fine conversation; someone with little patience for his lessers, or novices, or elves; someone who does not enjoy company, or considers his company incompetent, or, again, elves.

It all amounts to the same. There's nothing Mhavos can do about it, so he blithely ignores it. Playing oblivious has rarely gone wrong for him. His grin at Marcoulf isn't effervescent, of course, but it's with the restrained politeness of someone who doesn't expect or foresee any reason not to be pleasant.

"An able rider of mules tied to," he cocks his head to the side, studying the beast under Marcoulf, "mares, or- are you implying I shall die?" Said with incredulous humor, carefully reproduced.

[esquive]

A blank look.

"Only if you plan to die of a sore ass."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos lets out a little sigh, like air escaping a tired balloon. "No, that would be the poor creature beneath me. I don't think she has much a fighting spirit."

Wordplay!

[esquive]

A short, sawing sound. If a little garden snake laughed, it might sound so.

"When we get along to the house, you must mind yourself. Have you done any business like this before?" Meaning the careful work they've been given, not the minding his manners. Mhavos is clearly practiced there, but Andraste help them both if he expects to be coddled through the rest.

[murderbaby]

"Yes, I know something of the art of listening," he says, voice canny. "You'll be in more trouble to me. People's eyes won't slide right over you."

Gingerly, he pets the mule's head. She doesn't seem to notice.

"We need to find out what clandestine nonsense surrounds that little villa. I'll ask the servants and listen to the flow of gossip. You'll-"

Tell him what to do? Presumptuous. "What are your plans?"

dw notifs......

[esquive]

"Ask after work. I have a letter of recommendation." He has no idea as to the specifics of its contents, but that's hardly uncommon. The paper is well made, and will see him at least into being left to wait in whatever font room the villa has until someone can attend to him. "I will either wander from that point, or find a window in need fo unlatching."

It's hardly a sophisticated plan, but Riftwatch hasn't exactly applied sophisticate individuals to the task now has it?

"Failing that, I will hold their attention as you eavesdrop." If there's a tendency toward sharpness in this (and there is), it's been blunted by the necessity of a year, of the Provost, of a half dozen evenings spent in Merrill's unremarkable company.

[murderbaby]

"Clever," Mhavos says, deferential. It's not on purpose, not quite. Or perhaps it's purposefully accidental. It's rote. He falls back into the motions without much thought.

"We can use the crystals, if we are careful," he says. "If you'd prefer some windows be unlatched from the inside."

Almost a compliment, assuming this man may need help breaking and entering. Or maybe it's condescension. One can never be sure how a human will take such things.

[esquive]

However it's meant - whether Mhavos intends for it to play one way or another - is unimportant. Marcould simply nods, collecting the suggestion as one might a small stone from the road. It isn't good or bad; it's just a rock. In theory, it can be thrown.

"If the master of the house refuses to see me or declines my hire, then we may as well. In any case, you will need to see his papers." Assuming the man's treachery is the kind that warrants writing down rather than, say, living in the villa's basement. "I will either get them, or fix where they are likely to be and try to draw eyes from that room so you can slip inside after them."

A pause in which he tugs on the donkey's lead with the toe of his boot. Hurry along, he says to her.

marcouldn't.

[murderbaby]

"You may work better as a distraction," Mhavos says dryly, "as you are less likely to be summarily killed for the ruckus."

Also, humans are big and oafish. It only makes sense. "Do we have reason to think they're not in his office ledger?"

the best typo ive ever made and thats saying something

[esquive]

"Maybe he is particular or paranoid." How should he know how anyone files things? Maybe the man keeps all his illicit business hidden behind a secret loose floorboard. That's what stories say people do when they've something to hide, isn't it?

"If it comes to it, I can make a scene. Say something over the crystal if you need one."

[notched]

It would be a lie to say that this was the first time she had been greeted unkindly at a locked door or window. The people of Yharnam had only grown increasingly unfriendly towards their once saviors in the night. The grate hits her, and it stings dully but there are worse fates that been hit with a window.

"Evening, map-maker," she calls faintly, shaking out her smarting hand.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos is surprised by this. The murderous whip-woman rides again. No, she hasn't any horses; her on a horse would be a terrifying thing. Some story to scare children.

He keeps fear from his voice. He's inside, with civilization and a perfectly respectable cover. She's outside, skulking about like some mage-begotten abomination, a corpse back from death.

Is that overly cruel? Likely so. But she did try to kill him.

"Can I help you?" He speaks with the sharpness of someone who does not think they can help, and does not wish to find out.

[notched]

Marcoulf would be very offended to hear any of the precious horses she helped him with be described as terrifying. The rest of it, however, is probably true. There were indeed children scared of her. Scared she'd take their mother or father in the night claiming their beasthood; sometimes it was true, sometimes it wasn't. It depended upon the politics of the city.

"I can go, if you like," she answers. Things were always easy and unconfined in this situation. Those who did not want to speak with her would not speak with her and she would go. It was, however, easy to make small talk in the dark, not really visible. Those who knew her to be very taciturn in the daylight might even be surprised by her candor in the dark, outside a window.

[murderbaby]

He squints, incredulous. He should tell her to go. He really should. He neither enjoys nor needs to tolerate her company, for any reason he can think of, at all.

And yet, he knows if she leaves without stating her piece, he'll end up lying in bed and refusing to sleep, waiting for her to reappear, a looming presence over his bed with a garrote or a knife or-

"What do you want?"

[notched]

What did she want? She never really has a good answer for that question, despite being asked it all the time. The answer probably involves some need to feel connected to something, which she fails to express in any way other than dysfunctional.

"I was nearby."

Excuses, excuses.

[murderbaby]

If a servant ever gave an answer like that, they'd be slapped for it. Mhavos has no idea why the thought rises to the top of his weary mind, except, perhaps, that it is weary.

"You seem lacking in better things to occupy your time," he says. His stance relaxes slightly, as though he's no longer intending to fight her off with a broomstick.

[notched]

"True enough," and she sounds quite unmoved by that admission, neither embarrassed nor contrite. "I'm a Hunter and there's nothing here to hunt."

So she was idly stalking him instead. She did it to just about everyone she met, although she didn't try tapping on all their windows. It depended on the night, her mood, her curiosity.

[murderbaby]

"So you intend to hunt me again." Forgive him for being an elf, but, well. He's a fucking elf.

There were always rumors of nobles who liked to hunt elves like deer, like rabbits. Mhavos never saw it for himself. He's unsure it happened except, perhaps, in the most depraved, remote villas. But it was a persistent rumor, a threat, an image that will never leave him.

[notched]

"You?" Genuine surprise. In her mind they'd established their little tiff had been a misunderstanding, although that was a kindly way to downplay her hunger to fight something. "No, I hunt beasts. Much larger ones than you."

[murderbaby]

Well, she doesn't consider elves beasts. How quaint.

"And you happened to be by my window? After attacking me, last we met? Your etiquette leaves something to be desired."

He's picturing her hunting wild boar. Just saying.

[notched]

"So the nuns always told me," voice high and airy and filled with disdain. She'd hated those nuns. It was part of what had driven her to join the Hunters, they were the opposite of the austerities of the Church. Rough, rowdy, and loose.

More importantly: "You didn't put up much of a fight."

And that was disappointing.

[murderbaby]

"I'm not a fighter," he says with a sort of placid conviction. "If you're searching for the reason why, you have it. Not everyone in this organization was forged by iron and blood."