OTHER PEOPLE'S PROBLEMS.

[murderbaby]

WHO: Fitcher, Mhavos Dalat, Lino Nieri, Derrica, Leander, Laura Kint.
WHAT: Some rich dicks got dicked around.
WHEN: Early Kingsway.
WHERE: The Wounded Coast.
NOTES: Violence, probably. Will update if More Happens.

To Review,

• Mhavos recieves word from former employers, the wealthy d'Antret family, that their ship to Kirkwall has run ground on the wounded coast.
• He's stopped from throwing the letter in the fire by Fitcher, who bullies convinces him to assemble a search party.
• Lino Nieri, Derrica, Laura Kint and Leander end up volunteering.
• When the wreck is found, it's not all that wrecked; the ship is largely intact, just beached. The wealthy nobles are nowhere to be found.
• However, there are some supplies of tea, coffee and sugar, only lightly damaged. There's also a ledger indicating a d'Antret heirloom (a Dalish amulet) should be on the ship, but can't be found.
• Everyone outvotes Mhavos, and the party decides to try and find the missing nobles.
• They track them to a cave filled with bandits, planning to ransom the nobles back to Orlais for a lot of cash.
• The bandits aren't too difficult to defeat, and the nobles are... moderately grateful. And not giving up their amulet or any of the stuff still on the ship.
• ...Unless you feel like stealing it / cajoling them more? Only Time Will Tell.

Please feel free to make top levels at various points in the mission for maximum versatility.

Comments

(mostly) ota, threadjack away.

[murderbaby]

a. THE GALLOWS | closed to fitcher.

He's got mail, an appreciable novelty. He's rather pleased, until he recongizes the handwriting, and his face drops further as he reads the contents.

With a quiet swear, Mhavos crumples the paper up, stands, and begins walking to the nearest fire.

b. THE WRECKAGE.

The ship is surprisingly well preserved, Mhavos thinks, but then again, he's only seen illustrations of shipwrecks in books. Maybe that's always how it is. He couldn't care.

He hops deftly up the side of the ship, squirming through the rigging to inspect it. He finds the bodies of servants, unsurprising, and from the wounds-

"They were attacked," Mhavos calls. "But I don't see any dead d'Antret."

Stepping further into the hold, is that smell-... "But you may want to check the hold."

Mhavos, for his part, is not proud enough to grab some some of the coffee and sugar, placing the bricks in his coat pocket, before moving on.

c. STILL THE WRECKAGE.

Mhavos is sitting on the prow of the ship, leaning one shoulder on the face of the ship's figurehead. She's an elf, ethereally beautiful and lacking any clothing, arms outstretched with long hair expertly carved to seem as though flowing in the wind, the tattoos painted on her face a swirl of delicate red and gold.

Mhavos puts his elbow directly in her eye, and continues reading from the slightly soggy book in his lap.

"They had the family heirloom with them, the fools," he muses to no one. "An amulet they stole from the Dales generations back. It's said to make the wearer strong, or some such. Filigreed leaves. Gaudy."

d. THE CAVE.

The bandits despatched (largely dead), the d'Antret family emerges pouting and crying, their extravagant clothing wet and torn. One, the patriarch, sees Mhavos and reaches out to strike him; Mhavos sidesteps.

"We weren't here sooner because we had more pressing matters to attend to," Mhavos says, voice perfectly calm.

e. WILDCARD

Go for it, man.

ay

[unshut]

A week ago, standing anywhere near the great hearths and their fires would have been a distinctly unpleasant prospect. Today, plagued as it is by the season's end of spectacular downpours, there are worse places to be.

If her dripping state if any indication, Fitcher Fitcher has recently been to at least one of them. Her cloak has been hung on a hook and even now she is rubbing the matted braid of her dark hair with a cloth as her boots dry. Her outing must have been a pleasant one though or she is good at pretending otherwise, as she seems cheerful enough in her interception as Mhavos approaches.

"Why serah, now there is a face fit for gloomy weather. Surely the morning's work hasn't been so grim as all that."

[murderbaby]

"Bad news." He says, nodding pleasantly at Fitcher's arrival, and the puddle she brings along with her. Not a day goes by he isn't glad not to be a maidservant.

He still has the letter in his hand, still crumpling it. He sidesteps her slightly. "I hope your day has fared better."

And he could throw the paper from here and easily make it, but something stops him. Restraint? He's heard of it. So he hesitates.

[unshut]

Is she in his way? She can hardly tell. She certainly doesn't move to block him exactly, but there is a shift in the line of her arm and elbow as she pats her hair dry that suggests it regardless.

"It's been lovely. The rain makes everything Kirkwall smell less like everything in Kirkwall." A flashing smile. She tips her face, and somehow that curving expression becomes a little imploring without gentling whatsoever. "Not bad news of the personal sort, I hope?"

[murderbaby]

Accidental, surely. Mhavos stares more at the paper in his hand, anyway, as though it's growing in weight by the moment. "Worse," he grumbles, dramatic. "Impersonal."

He looks up to see her leaning in, and is reminded unexpectedly of a hawk. He can't for the life of him reason why.

the c the c the open c;

[sarcophage]

Leander, who happens to be nearest at the time, gives no one a shape—that is, a slim one dressed practically for travel, skirted jacket ending at his knees (smartly cut, of course), light pack and modest staff on his back.

"How gaudy?" He's already got his share of spoils tucked away—a few bricks each of coffee and tea, to be given as gifts, and just one of sugar for himself—and now he's looking up at the main mast, and all its complex business, like he's thinking of climbing it to have a closer look. "Where does it rank on the Orlesian gaudiness scale?"

[murderbaby]

If Mhavos jams his elbow harder into the naked elf statue's ear, he thinks, maybe it'll fall off-- oh, his boss is talking.

Mhavos clears his throat. "Are you familiar with Dalish designs?"

And then, something of a chuckle, "I'm not. But I hear they added the gold leaves inlaid with jade, to make it look..." He stares at the masthead figure, its unseeing wooden eyes staring out at the sand... "more elfique."

[sarcophage]

"Elfique... now there's a word." A word he enjoys, by the sound of it. "Do you think it ought to be restored? To its original state, that is. Before the theft."

He's not only interested in an answer, of course, but how Mhavos chooses to interpret the question.

[murderbaby]

"It's just Orlesian for 'elven'," Mhavos murmurs, shaking some sand out of the book. He still hasn't broken the masthead, which is a shame.

"I don't know that it can be restored. It's not as though anyone alive knows what it used to look like." He entirely forgets that one can ask Dalish elves.

d. folks can threadjack this if u please fyi

[tender]

Habit had carried Derrica halfway to the children already. It's second nature to check over the smallest first. She has bandages, and a bit of salve, and no one seems seriously hurt and—

And the sudden, violent motion towards Mhavos stops her in her tracks. Her eyes move between them, expression hardening.

"You should be thanking him."

Which is marginally politer than what had first come to mind.

[murderbaby]

Lord d'Antret does not thank anyone. Instead, he intones in a voice that would be more commanding if not for the obvious fatigue of the past few days-- "Do you know what we've been through?"

He doesn't seem to be talking to anyone in particular, but to the group as a whole. Still, Mhavos answers. "No," he says calmly.

Lord d'Antret shoots him a look that could wither grass. Mhavos weathers it expressionlessly. He turns away, murmuring curses in Orlesian.

Mhavos turns his head to Derrica, and provides one shrug. What else is there to say? The situation seems self-explanatory.

[tender]

The urge to put herself between them doesn't fade. It settles, supplants the urge to look over the children even if their father is—

None of the words that come to mind are flattering. It's not gracious, she knows. Sympathy is hard for her to muster in this moment. It's easy to be soft with the children, though she is extremely reluctant to turn her back on this man.

"Mhavos, can you help me with these bandages?"

Which is more or less just an excuse to keep him within arm's reach. The children have some scrapes, and maybe tending to those will diffuse the tension a little.

[murderbaby]

"Do you think that's-" Wise. But instead, Mhavos' voice is drowned out by the Lady d'Antret, rushing over in ruined skirts.

"Get that woman away from my children!" She yells in Mhavos' direction, and he sighs, expression dull, and turns to look at Derrica. She's an adult, she can do what she wants.

Mhavos suspects the family does not think him in charge, so much as a center-point of familiarity with which to caterwaul.

b.

[justashotaway]

Laura's already making a face as she climbs the side of the beached ship along with Mhavos. The scent only gets stronger when they are standing on the top of the boat. (The top of the boat? The deck, she thinks it is called a deck. This is her first experience of watercraft of any real significance, obviously something a great deal more capable than the raft that floats between the Gallows and Kirkwall.)

"Stay behind me," she warns him, because he is obviously going to accompany her as witness but--equally obviously--should not fight.

[murderbaby]

He acquiesces, but he's not quite sure why. "Is everything alright? You look frightful."

He means her expression. It's like she bit into a lemon.

[justashotaway]

"Something smells wrong," she answers. It is not...entirely unpleasant, Laura realizes, now that she's here, but there is still blood in the air.

When she jumps down into the hold, she's baffled. As suspected, someone has bled out on the wood, but it quickly becomes clear that there's no one lurking in the shadows--only a dry, musty scent coming from the numerous packages. "What is this?"

[murderbaby]

"Wrong?" Mhavos asks cautiously. She's clearly got a better nose than him; he doesn't smell anything off. "You mean rot? Or-"

And then she's poking around something else... "Their cargo. Let me see..." he wanders nearer, squinting in the half-light. "Ah, we're lucky they didn't take more damage. It's sugar."

ota.

[tender]

( i. | the wreck )

It's not a bad wreck. Derrica runs her hand across the side of the ship the way one would gentle a horse, appraising the damage before climbing up onto the deck.

"What are we going to do with the cargo?" She asks.

The lightness of her tone gives away her opinion on the matter: obviously they should be keeping it. And obviously they should deal with it before they track down the owners, who may have some opinions about who does what with their stores.

( ii. | roll a survival check )

"Can you tell how many are in there?"

The tracks lead to the cave, which makes things easy. Relatively easy, depending on how many are actually in the cave. Derrica peers inwards, listening to the muddle of voices that come floating out, before tacking on a follow up question—

"Do you think they realize we're here?"

( iii. | wildcard )

[ whatever you like, i'm down. ]

ii. rolled for the number of bandits on a d100

[imbroccata]

"They will if you keep talking," Lino says, sotto voce. He's kneeling to inspect the footprints more closely, noting the difference in step pattern, shoe size, and sole. There are several different impressions, at least four of which are definitely the bandits. One particularly deep set of footprints suggests either a very fat bandit or, based on the number of footprints that don't belong to the bandits, a bandit carrying someone else.

"No more than ten, if we're unlucky. I'd say closer to four."

[tender]

"How do you suggest we plan how to attack them if we don't talk?" Derrica asks. She drops her voice to match his volume, though she's taken to swinging the heavy head of her staff back and forth. Her eyes are bright with anticipation. So what if it's ten bandits? Between them, she thinks they'd have no trouble.

[imbroccata]

Lino digs the butt-end of his boar spear into the ground and levers himself to standing. An unnecessary but ingrained feint of bad knees.

"With hand signals." The delivery is deadpan, but he's not serious. Probably.

[tender]

Absently, Derrica draws the toe of her boot back and forth in the sand as she watches him push back to his feet. The knees are noted. There could be a poultice drifts through her thoughts before she directs her gaze from him back into the mouth of the cavern.

"It would be easier if we draw them out."

Fights in enclosed spaces with innocents make her nervous.

"Small number or not, we'd still be at a disadvantage."

i.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos is standing on the edge of the deck, leaning against the railing. He's holding the ledger book, flipping through the pages.

"You mean, the cargo stolen by bandits?" His voice is thick with irony.

[tender]

"We'll get it back," Derrica says, serene. Even the looming threat of bandits doesn't diminish her certainty that they'll end up in possession of both missing rich people and missing cargo.

He crouches to peer through the holes punched through the deck. There's some parcels there, and Derrica's interested, but she returns her attention to Mhavos anyway.

"Do you want to get them back?"

The people, more than the items. They'd come all this way, but that doesn't mean anything. Maybe he doesn't want to go through with this. There's nothing stopping them from leaving.

[murderbaby]

She didn't get the joke; oh, well. He can hardly count it against her. He knows he sometimes couches things too far in irony.

"That's why we're here, aren't we?"