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

[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."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos nods. "The servants likely know. Rich men never account for how much their servers see."

He turns to Marcoulf, studying him a moment. "Thank you for being so amenable." He wasn't expecting it. (His standards are very low.)

[esquive]

Out of everything, that is what startles a glare out of the man. It's a brief, flashing thing - some unwitting reflex that kicks in the half turn of his face toward Mhavos and then fades as attention is ultimately forced to train forward. Marcoulf sniffs.

"We are to work together. I can be sullen on the way back." But for good measure-- "Sit up straighter and hold the saddle from here, not so much with your knees."

This, with a demonstrative tap to the inside of his own thigh. Honestly, you people.

[murderbaby]

And Mhavos nods and follows instructions. He can appreciate the other man's sentiment-- the mission is of primary importance, don't let your personal feelings leak into it-- though he's slow to commend that.

When Mhavos was younger, the servant training him in letters made an offhand comment about certain types of mansions owned by the rich looking like extravagant cakes. Ever since, Mhavos has been unable to see them as anything else. This one is raspberry colored, with white swirls of wood framing every window and yawning archway, darker red and green paint spilling out into gilded edges. It looks delicious; unfortunately, people live in it.

The party has spread out onto the lawn, and Mhavos watches on his little donkey. He stops a moment, before they turn toward the stables, or be in hearing distance of anyone important.

"I'll be... Josmal." The name of the servant who compared houses to cakes; it seems apt. It's also a far more common Elven name than Mhavos Dalat. "Will you be going by a name?"