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.

[unshut]

"Ah," she says in knowing tones. "An imposition."

With a last pat and twist, Fitcher unwinds the damp cloth from her hair and lays it plainly over her shoulder. "That's the trouble with signing on to outfits like this one. The moment rumor of it passes into certain quarters, every forgotten acquaintance suddenly finds some business in need of your attention."

The line of her arm has fallen. She says, practically as an afterthought, "I'm glad to hear it's nothing of value."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos wants to say a whole host of things, chielfly among them, they think I am of no value, so I shall return the favor. But that is something characters in novels say, and he's had too much spare time lately, and spent it reading. In reality... well, they are in reality.

He finishes crumpling the paper, and throws it in the direction of the nearest blaze.

"It really isn't."

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.

[sarcophage]

"Mmm, perhaps not—though it couldn't hurt to ask around. Merrill may have some insight." Though he's barely spoken to Merrill, he does respect her expertise.

As he picks his way toward the prow, mostly watching his feet, he says in polite Orlesian, "Please excuse me," and thinks Lady Alexandrie would be satisfied with his pronunciation. (And she should be; he's practised such niceties more than anything else.) "I'm still learning."

Abruptly, of the masthead: "Oh, dear, look at her."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos lets out the briefest of laughs. "You're quite excused," he replies, before switching back to Trade. "And if the thing can be retrieved, Merrill or whomever can do whatever they wish."

He looks over the masthead again, and lets out a despairing sigh. Very dryly, "they were obsessed with 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.

[tender]

"I'm a healer."

It's not untrue, though it certainly isn't the first identifier Derrica usually relies on.

"Please, we're all here to help you."

Also true on a technicality. Derrica had come for Mhavos' sake, and there's sugar and tea weighing down her bag. She's certainly prospered in ways that don't need to be shared with this family. Her eyes move from the children to the Lady d'Antret's face, and she steps back, flanking Mhavos.

She can't ask him discreetly if he'd rather strand them here for a few hours to reconsider their treatment of him. But she thinks about it very intensely.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos, with a calmness that could border on insult, slowly raises his hands, palms up. "She is a healer." And then, "Please. We are all here to help you."

The woman before him fumes.

He says, "would you like me to repeat it in en Orlesien?"

The Lady d'Antret lets out a groan of frustration, and points a finger directly at Mhavos' nose. Mhavos, clearly finding the situation obliquely, and perhaps depressingly, humorous, crosses his eyes to stare at her finger.

"You," Lady d'Antret says, "I always knew there was something wrong with you! The way my husband talked to you late at night! You're sick!"

Of all the things he could be accused of- he fights to keep a laugh down. It's not hard. He'll laugh later.

"And you!" She wheels on Derrica, turning toward her-- looking at her-- for the first time. Mhavos deftly steps between them, hands still up, but d'Antret speaks as though he is not there: "If my darlings report so much as a toothache-"

She's winding herself up for a real rant. Mhavos lets out a sigh.

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."

[justashotaway]

"I smelled him," she explains, tipping her head back towards the body. Everything else seems fine, at least for now. She's still listening for scuffles or creaks that might mean they aren't alone.

The word sugar makes the crates and barrels significantly more interesting, however. Laura's never actually had much experience with unused sugar--or flour, or any other basic ingredient--only occasionally with sweet things. And she has heard the complaints at the Gallows lately. "We need sugar."

[murderbaby]

They ought to move that body before it spoils the sugar. Perhaps Leander will do it; levitating a corpse seems preferable to dragging it about. He makes mental note to ask later.

"We do," Mhavos agrees. "You ought to take a few bricks. There's tea and coffee as well. Consider it..." He stares at the ship around him. "Plunder." And then lets out a quiet chuckle at his own joke.