faderift | closed // jump down on jump street

[party]

Laura has been to several parties in her life, at this point, but this is the first where her objective is conversation. Historically, she has been expected to murder, find other murderers, or sit quietly next to her procurer and wait for further instruction. She is not entirely prepared for crowded, smoky rooms filled with people who seem determined to drink and talk loudly, while somebody plays a hurdy-gurdy in the corner.

The fact that people wish to discuss things should aid their mission. Unfortunately, the fact that they are all drinking threatens to block their success.

"I did not come here to talk about rights for mages," she informs a boy a few years older than her, rolling her eyes over the pint of ale she's mostly holding for show. "Did you know Gaelan Van Markham?"

[grand theft grade report]

While Derrica and Tavin attempt to draw the dean as far from his office as possible--at least, that is what she assumes is occurring--Laura and Kaz find his office. That the door is locked is no surprise, but it is mildly annoying.

Laura's immediate solution to that is to make a claw appear, long and silvery-white in the dim corridor, so she can break the lock and force the door. This may not, in fact, be the wisest approach to the problem.

[other shit]

[We talked about a bunch of stuff, let's do whatever, wherever you want.]

Was he so young at salons? Was Demetra? (Younger, certainly younger but that's high society and making the introductions early obviously, have to get your foot in the door before it can be slammed shut in your face.) Lately he's managed to skip the bulk of them since he's been out in the field doing some sort of work, or his invitation "unfortunately missed me" (never lost, that would be unfair to the poor courier doing his or her level best to reach him in the line of duty.)

At least he knows how to make one glass last the length of three, eyes flitting Laura's way and some instinct of Orlesian boys at similar parties rising up as he just about stops himself tripping over a skirt on the way over.

"Ah my friend! Here I find you at last! And surely," he pauses a moment, probably can't call this boy fellow associate that'd be weird, "mages are a topic better left for our neighbours either side, all the trouble they've been having is a reminder not to spoil our evening."

Why say five words when fifty will clearly be the far better option? Anyway--

"But Gaelan," he leans in, conspiratory grin just for Laura, "rumours abound."

Laura decides, once Tavin has swooped in next to her, that she is grateful for it. He starts to talk, and it sounds exactly like the things other people have been saying: smooth, self-assured, ready for an argument. By comparison, Laura is two of those things at best when she attempts to speak, and smooth is not one of them.

So she falls silent and watches their target respond. Tavin can steer the conversation, and she will listen for what sounds true--and what does not. (She would try to sniff it out, but the smoke has deadened some of her sense of smell. It's vexing.)

He's a weedy young man, his teeth almost too big for his mouth, and he rolls his eyes dramatically. "Maker save us from talking more about Gaelan. If that brainless sod ends up ruling Nevarra, I'll move to Orlais."

Note to self: do not think of dear old Berto or he will slip up and commit a faux pas that won't be forgiven here by students with more ego than is good for anyone. Fragile at this age.

"Come now," a hand almost touches his arm, a casual little gesture with his glass, "he can't be all bad - he's here isn't he after all? Not in Orlais where you can buy your way in with mother and father's money. And...he's youth on his side. We've not had that in longer than even our parents have been alive, Andraste preserve us."

Look, sometimes your king is old. And useless. And should have died some time ago honestly if he had any decency.

"A Van Markham hardly needs coin to buy his way anywhere," the boy sniffs, taking on the beleaguered attitude of someone to whom the world has been extremely unfair. "Why bother, when he can simply say his name?"

Laura listens, aware that she must play an active role in this conversation if she wishes to report back that she found useful information. "What is brainless about him?"

"What isn't? Spent his whole life at the top of the world, comes down to the rest of us here at the university and expects everyone to lie down at his feet and tell him he's brilliant." He takes a long draw of his glass and adds, "He's the kind of shallow that doesn't care about anything that isn't about him. Like the fact that mages--"

They aren't likely to get more from him--she feels certain of that. Without a word, she turns and starts walking away from him, in search of someone else to discuss Van Markham with. Tavin, she assumes, will either follow or find something else to do; there is no value in continuing to entertain this particular boy.

About to say something about it that would probably see him thrown out because this is why Tavin, generally speaking, doesn't go back to teach anywhere because he doesn't miss this sort of student at all whatsoever, he's relieved at Laura stopping the words in his throat. They'd be a bit of a giveaway for someone trying to pass even as an older student.

It is on the tip of tongue, glass up at his mouth to mutter and you don't because Tavin was probably that boy too, and this one, in the fashion of any boy who has the standing to go to any university. Convinced of their own cleverness until cut down by someone more clever. Always a humbling and rude awakening. No one likes it too much but how one swallows it - or doesn't - tends to pave the way for how they mean to go on. Again, can't go about saying that so he drinks.

"Yes well it's been smashing we'll have to do this again sometime but if you want a little advice? Whining about someone isn't the way to get ahead or how to talk to girls, enjoy your night." And he's off, after Laura, needing something stronger if this is what tonight is going to be-- "He'd bore a Darkspawn to death, c'mon why don't we try that one over there, one of the girls, the girls always knew the gossip when I was at university."

(Tavin that's a huge generalisation and also you were that lanky embarrassment so maybe that's why they laughed at you.)

"Or we could lurk about at a group, have a listen then sidle on in if it's getting good, I mean, part of me did expect the man of the hour it's a party, all of them used to show up all the time before."

Laura does not know what girls in universities know, nor whether groups are better for finding the discussions they need--but Tavin seems confident. He has clearly done this before, if not under orders of espionage, and Laura is willing to trust his experience. Possibly, she can earn from it.

(At heart, too, she feels out of place when she is alone in this room. She knows how to silently accompany someone else at a gathering, even if the gathering itself--and the hold Tavin doesn't have over her--are entirely different. There is no way to end up adrift if she is standing at his side.)

"Yes," she agrees, glancing over at the girl he's pointed out. Whoever she is, Laura thinks she looks like she belongs here--though that might just be the fact that she is laughing at something, her eyes smiling along with her mouth. "Do we approach her or sidle?"

Here we see the male zoologist attempt to approach a female, a dangerous affair rife with risk. The female, you see, is younger than he, and though less travelled, she is in her territory and he is an outsider who runs the very real risk of maiming should he displease her.

The female will, if provoked, eviscerate him without remorse. The male has everything to lose and yet...he cannot retreat without making the attempt. This is why he does not approach alone.

Best to have back-up in this particular scenario.

"Last time I talked to girls this age at parties they'd call you a lurker," does he sound offended, maybe he does, he likes lurkers, they're actually very straightforward beasts and rather beautiful in their own way why should it be an insult in the first place shit wait he's getting distracted-- "or sweaty or something if you lurked. We'll say hello."

(Hi his name is Octavian Nestor Sokolov he was rubbish at talking to girls at parties when he was a student, maybe because the spectre of his mother loomed with plans for a wedding.)

"We were just saying," hi Laura he's going to take you down with him sorry, "how dull an affair this all is, accidentally talking to Mister Mages over there because that's exactly what you want to talk about at parties, isn't it?"

"Oh he's even worse in classes, we almost got him a box." Attention gained, a glance up and down but she could turn away at any moment.

Derrica, he at least knows from previous experience, is decent at holding conversation even if one is not particularly willing. She's a friendly sort, the type most would overlook the intelligence in due to the kindness, he thinks. As for Tavin, well, he doesn't know fully what to make of him yet. Of any of them, yet, really.

Perhaps aside from Laura, who's about as straightforward as a board to the face. He should be relieved at not having to see through a veil of secondary or tertiary motives, but there's something unnerving about someone who seems as they ought.

Making a low annoyed noise, he quietly regards the claw Laura's just made to appear. "Move over," he says, producing more refined and well used lockpicks for the task. This, at least, he knows as well as breathing.

Laura has not known Kaz long, but she has discerned several rules regarding him, chief among them being do not touch. So, while she does not follow his directive, she is careful not to brush up against him; doing so will only create greater risk for their operation.

"They will take longer," she points out, raising a brow. This is supposed to take as little time as possible, a matter of going in and out while trusting that Tavin and Derrica can distract the dean and his other administrators. Forcing the lock with a blade--the one coming from her fist--will be quick.

She doesn't move over but she does give way, which is good enough. Especially since she doesn't touch him, which is a small relief.

Starting in on the task, he slides one pick in and gives it a cursory twist, satisfied when he hears a tumbler start to give way. He finishes the turn and it slides away. There's another one above it that doesn't give to the first pick so he tries another from his set of them and luck smiles on them once again. Well, luck and skill. When one has picked enough locks, it's easy to guess what will do the job. The second pick finishes it out and the door clicks open, as smooth as soft butter. Kaz, for his part, raises an eyebrow at Laura as he pushes the door open a smidge, letting that speak for itself.

"Less for them to be suspect, the better."

"We are stealing from them," she points out, arms crossed. (The claw is gone again, naturally.) "They are going to suspect."

And by her mark, it does take longer to open the door--though less time than she suspects. Once it is open, she does not bother to respond, rising slightly from her crouch so she can push the door open just a little bit more. It is possible, she thinks, that there will be traps inside; if that is the case, she would prefer they sprang before they entered.

"It'll take them longer to work out if we don't ruin the damn lock."

The door is pushed further open, a neat bit of caution he thinks, and nothing springs out at them. No sound of traps triggering or wire snapping. Kaz puts a still cautious amount of pressure closer to the hinge, stifling the force of the swing as it opens further. Standing, he sets the butt of his cane down on the floor ahead of him, feeling out any loosened tiles or pressure points.

"Clear."

"We will be gone soon."

Nothing explodes. No scent of anyone besides a man currently away from the office, mixed up with leather and wood and paper and smoke, and no sounds besides those they make. Laura watches with approval as Kaz tests the flagstones, then ventures in. She assumes, rightly or wrongly, that any attempts to rig the office would be immediate, to protect the room as a whole; from here, if there are no tripwires, she suspects they will be fine.

It is a larger room than she expects, with shelves of books lining the walls and a dark, smooth desk in the center. And some kind of chest of drawers up against the back wall, the same sort of wood, and every book her eyes move over has a title she's never heard of before.

There is much to take in, and they do not have much time. Laura glances at Kaz. "Desk or...that." The cabinet. Chest. Drawers. Whatever.

"Better reason to leave with some lead time on that suspicion."

There are a lot of students, but it'll get sussed out sooner rather than later that it was them once they disappear from the rosters. People have seen their faces now, there'd be no getting around it. The only possible upside is if the Venatori see fit to depart right on their heels.

Whatever, he'll churn that out mentally once they have the documents in hand.

The room itself is neat, filled with the smell of paper and wood, with the faintest bit of wax from the snuffed out candles. Carefully, he follows Laura on a similar trajectory, considering the chest and the desk.

"He's organized. I don't think he'd want the records to be split up; cabinet first."

It is a lot of cabinet, a little taller than Laura herself (though that isn't difficult), but each individual drawer is quite large. They will only have to check four, it looks like.

She walks over to it and pulls the first brassy handle, tensing for the possibility of retribution. Nothing happens, however, except a smooth scrape of wood against wood as the drawer opens. The same is true of the second, and of the third. The fourth, however, is proof of the reason she tested all of them immediately. By that point, Laura is bent over; if not for the little feet at the corners of the cabinet, the last one would be at floor level.

"This one is locked." Promising. And since he will undoubtedly complain if she uses a claw, she gestures at it. Open that.

While Laura checks the drawers in the cabinet, he examines the dean’s desk. It’s tidy, as he expected, a neat stack of scrolls off to one side. Either work he would get to in the morning or things to be sent away. A piece of parchment sits off-center, the first draft of something in the works, though he doesn’t have time to read any of it because Laura is getting his attention again.

Turning, he stiffly lowers himself into a crouch to examine the lock on the drawer. He picks out one of the long picks, rolling it between his fingers for a moment before deciding against it and choosing another. There’s a rapid succession of changing picks, as he tests and retests, the tumblers remaining firmly in place. Finally, with a deft twist, the lock springs open, drawer sliding out a half inch when it releases. Quick fingers flip through the organizational tabs before he pulls a sheaf of papers out, wrapped in a thin leather folio to keep them together.

Wordlessly, he tops it towards Laura, indicating here’s our prize. Then, he shuts the drawer and re-locks it.

( i. salon )

Do you know who isn't really sure what a salon is and is now too afraid to ask?

If you guessed Derrica, you're right.

"How long do these go on?" She hisses, fingers tapping against the ornate cover of the book in her lap. A lot has been discussed that she certainly can't follow, and the opportunities for gossip have been fewer than she'd intended.

Even hissing about impatience, she forcibly keeps her expression placid and politely interested. There's a pair of students across the room who have been meeting her gaze with interest, and Derrica finds that promising, if not necessarily productive for their mission.

( ii. distract that dean )

Lying in wait at the end of the hallway is thankfully not as conspicuous as Derrica had assumed. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she digs an elbow into Tavin's ribs.

"He's coming."

She sounds very excited, something that will probably not hold up when they get into the actual conversation.

"Remember, we need to drag this out as long as we can."

If Tavin can be even half as long-winded as the students at the salon were, they'll be fine.

( iii. wildcard )

[ whatever u like ]

There's one thing that keeps Tavin from starting off with the salons in my day and it's not the matter at hand where there's a ruse to preserve, no, it's being made painfully aware that everyone here has to be younger than his sister.

"If I need to I can waffle about my terrible need for funding and oh, my grandfather you know," said in the voice of almost fond experience of someone who absolutely has not done that why would you think that. "Though they might know him here. Or there's plenty of papers to choose from: Blighted beasts, dragons, the mating habit of gurns and territorial behaviours displayed."

Who wouldn't want to fund that one Derrica.

Yet again, Derrica has the sense that she's outclassed here. What would it have been like to attend a school like this? She hadn't realized exactly how much she didn't know until now. It is troubling in the context of this mission specifically: how is she supposed to stall the dean?

Tavin, at least, seems to have a wealth of material to draw on. Derrica rocks back and forth on her toes, anxious, before grabbing his elbow.

"There."

At the tall, distinguished-looking gentleman sweeping toward them. Derrica gives Tavin a probably unnecessary nudge as she starts speaking.

"Excuse us, but we—we wondered if you had a moment?"

Somewhere (and it's in Miri's voice as some things often are) he has the idea that he's fucked up. Later. Later when they've gotten done with the charade. For now he doesn't quite jump but his back goes straight as it would have done in the student days; please, professor, look at him, look at how eager he is.

"It shouldn't take long at all," which is, of course, a blatant lie but this is how it goes as Tavin ploughs right on ahead, the anxious smile not at all an act. "It was about a small matter, embarrassing really and we know that strictly speaking these aren't your office hours but why put off 'til tomorrow what you can do today? That's not the Nevarran way at all, an Orlesian habit we can't have here in Markham."

(The Sokolov method: why say one word when you can say twenty without getting to the point at all.)

The dean stalls. There's a moment where he reminds Derrica of a cornered deer, and she instinctively steps slightly to the side to keep him from brushing past them down the hallway while Tavin speaks.

"Ah, well, if it will only take a moment," the dean says after a beat of awkward silence. Derrica smiles encouragingly, and refuses to give in to the urge to glance down the hallway to be sure nothing untoward is obvious from this angle.

"Of course, it's just a small question," Derrica assures him smoothly. "But I don't think we can stand the curiosity any longer, so we're just so grateful to you for making the time."

It occurs to Derrica that maybe she should have checked with Tavin as to what their question actually was, but oh well. The show must go on now.

If they'd had more time, Tavin really should've suggested they bring his grandfather in as a ringer because no one is better at being just the right element with any stuffy academic than Constantin who Tavin can only aspire to one day.

But it's just them and they're more than up to the task because Tavin would've just let him go. Probably. Waited for another day. And Tavin did at least bring a smattering of papers and journals because this is who he is and he grabs one, flipping through the pages with soft apologies because there are so many options available to him.

"Given the rifts that have opened up far and wide across Thedas, we were both hoping that you'd be able to help with anything you might have heard as a man in your position of behaviours in livestock." He's banking on the university's actual reputation even if he's never bothered much beyond making jokes, plus a bit of flattery even if the nervous smile isn't fake at all. "It's important of course for everyone to be able to get by and they can't do it if, for instance, the milk dries up in the cows."

The office is silent behind them. Derrica's taking that as encouragement. Their job is made ultimately easier by the lack of suspicious noise, though Derrica remains ready to fake either a coffee fit or a fainting spell.

"It's an expression," Derrica adds helpfully, staying planted in front of the dean and reaching down, over the top of the book, to point at the first diagram she sees. "See here, he has marked some of the more recent openings in relation to farmland."

There is an expectant pause while curiosity and confusion battle across the dean's face before his brow draws together and he bends closer to the book. One hand gropes at his lapel for his glasses.

"Livestock, you say," he begins. Derrica's face brightens. "I can't say as I have, but I also can't say anyone has asked the question. And that's where these things begin, isn't it?"

Derrica's finger retreats, but she darts a quick, encouraging look at Tavin.

Please let this man think the same of Tavin's handwriting as almost every other professor or tutor or anyone remotely involved in handling his first drafts ever has: the best teaching money can buy apparently can't stop a hand that wants to spiderwalk the ink over the page when thinking. Also in the way that students do - or Tavin did because he was not always sensible and had to see what he was doing for himself to make sure he was not, in fact, a complete idiot - the book is not entirely turned to the dean. It's that three-quarters profile.

Or something like that, mostly for Tavin and Derrica's benefit but enough to invite another onlooker.

Almost coy. Like oh look at my works, intriguing, no?

"I mean we can't all be the Anderfels can we? Incredible how they don't turn to leather in their summers, I've heard stories but that's neither here nor there. And yes, of course you're right but that's what years of wisdom begets you," he's rambling but this is par for the course, this is how he still gets money to go do things like look at bronto mating habits for instance. "Now, unfortunately most of the evidence is anecdotal which is, as my colleague can tell you...tricky. But rifts in a river? Spooky animals away from their body of water or, I mean, the long term impacts of those rifts when you have places like the Blackmarsh out by Amaranthine - there are claims to lands that stretch back generations, it gets downright hostile if those are challenged when driving your herds through them. What if a river were to change course? If the animals refuse to graze because a rage demon showed up and the predators became more vicious? This is just the beginning?"

By the way Derrica he has actually thought about this in complete detail this is partly why he came to Riftwatch let him catch you up later it'll be fun when he's not sweating anxiously.

He's familiar enough with the workings of a party– that's really what this type of thing was, wasn't it? A party dressed up in fancy terms and fancier clothing. The aim is all the same; networking and leisure wrapped up in one. Overstuffed merchers had taken to throwing similar events in their estates, all gossip and wealth in overabundance. Kaz is only familiar from hearsay.

And well, those handful of times he's snuck into said crowded estate to filch something. So maybe his knowledge is a bit tainted from being spent mostly hugging walls and sitting in rafters.

Still, his desire to sit and listen has been fairly well rewarded, even if he can't quite make heads or tails of some of the conversations. Being a foreigner puts a significant dint in his weeding out what's significant and what's idiotic. He's made his way around the room in a slow circle, getting a feel for the dimensions, the exits, and anything or anyone of importance. At the end of the circling is a familiar face and he silently puts up next to Derrica, eyes watchful even as he answers.

"Hours. They don't have anything better to do and they haven't drunk themselves stupid yet."

Hours.

Derrica has learned quickly that Kaz does not appreciate physical contact. The urge to sway despairingly against him, even to brush just their shoulders, is suppressed accordingly. Instead, the momentary dismay plays out across her face, ends in a soft sigh.

"The party will be better," she says, even though her only other experience with a Riftwatch mission-related party was a disaster of kissing games. "At least Tavin is having a good time?"

Unclear if Tavin is having a good time or not. Derrica had assumed out of all of them Tavin might take to this. He might have some clear understanding of what's being said.

The sigh, he feels, is certainly warranted. Not his reaction but he can understand it, how put out she must be at the possibility that this will go for much longer than anticipated. Just another strike against the merchers and their general uselessness.

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Maybe that’s pessimistic. Ok no, it definitely is. “It’ll be social climbing and people trying to get leverage while pretending that isn’t what they’re doing.”

“Either Tavin is having a good time or he’s very good at hiding how miserable he is.” He can’t decide which would be worse.

"I don't know him well enough to judge," Derrica admits. Her baseline impression of Tavin has been "edgy" so far. It isn't very helpful in judging his impression of anything, especially not in unfamiliar company.

"Kaz, I don't think we're getting anywhere with this," she adds, which is a swerve into more serious territory. "What if the party is like this too?"

There's always a chance this gathering moves away from intellectual snippishness to helpful gossip, but Derrica doubts it. So far, all the dick measuring has been around who knows which esoteric fact.

"Most people fall into one category or another." He too, doesn't know Tavin very well. But he does know people either thrive in situations like this or want to leave immediately. Himself, for example, tends not to like this type of thing.

"Then we find another way to get information." There's always a way. Just not all of them are neat or nice. And not all of them leave clean trails. "Apply enough pressure and people break eventually."

closed // jump down on jump street

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slinks in here ashamed

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god sorry life happened

i.

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