faderift | [closed] test flight

Entry tags:

[closed] test flight

WHO: Marcoulf, Nikos, Teren
WHAT: ostensibly subterfuge, in truth a lot of shitfighting
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: Perendale
NOTES: stupid

"I've got a lead," Teren says in a low voice, tugging off the middling-quality Orlesian mask she's taken to wearing in the guise of a wine merchant (it covers the scars on her eye, makes her less memorable). She shuts and latches the door behind her, enclosing them in one of their inn rooms where they can speak with some privacy.
They've been here for several days now, conducting their 'business', listening to surrounding conversations and gauging the state of affairs in Perendale. These are Teren's old stomping grounds, and she knows the gathering places where sound doesn't carry, the shady haunts where the respectable and loud-mouthed don't dare to go-- but with this in mind, it's all the more vital that she conceal her own identity.

"There's some sort of meeting happening tomorrow evening," Teren continues sinking down onto a stool and tugging off her terrible Orlesian boots, "if we're lucky, we'll meet some faces of the resistance."

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"I hope we can do better than luck."

The griffons don't like Nikos. Or rather, Nikos doesn't like the griffons, so he has decided that they don't like him back, perhaps more than he dislikes them, which makes the fault theirs. So he has happily stayed away from them, leaving their tending to, probably, Marcoulf. Better him to visit the beasts where they're sequestered. Better him to keep them quiet than Nikos.

Nevarra is arguably his country, and it's shit. Perendale is not his city, and it's shit. But no one looks twice at him in a crowd. And it's familiar shit, besides, so Nikos has managed to fit himself in, absorb himself in the news and the gossip and the sharp sour wine that no one outside of Nevarra manages to get right.

He's drinking it now, and the smell of vinegar and dense herbs is thick in the little room. It grows thicker when Nikos uncorks the slender bottle and pours a little into a cup. He pushes it toward Marcoulf. Friendly.

"We should make sure we meet these faces, or we might as well get out of town now and save ourselves another night in this inn. Who are you talking about?"

Edited 2019-09-24 04:41 (UTC)

The cup is accepted, sipped from, scowled over and immediately set very gently aside under the pretense of simply taking his time with it as opposed to mild revulsion. Nevarrans shouldn't be allowed to do such things to grapes, is a private thought before his hands return to their work. One of the griffon's harnesses had lost a buckle on the way in. He's doing the repairs now.

There's a rhythm to the task which defines what might otherwise be a too quiet room: the heavy needle working back and forth and finally pulled through with pliers, the distinct hiss as the waxed cord is pulled tight. From his perch, Marcoulf cocks his ear toward Teren without raising his attention from the mess of straps. Go on, the tilt of his head says.

"A 'Ratface Martindale'," Teren explains, unhooking her cup from her belt as she crosses the room and picking up the wine bottle, uncorking it with her teeth and pouring herself a serving without batting an eye. "I expect that's not his real name. I hope not. And Horace Becker. Those are the names I've heard bandied about the most, can't say for sure if they're truly the leaders or just the loudest."

She sets the bottle down, corks it with her free hand, and sniffs the cup's contents before taking a healthy drink of it. "Not bad."

"Glad it's to your taste." Nikos leans back in his chair, as careless a slump as ever, fuzzy at the edges from the wine. He swirls his cup to mix in the vinegar before he takes a big sip of his own. "I heard Martindale's name mentioned. I'd at least guess at some legitimacy there."

There's a hypnotism to the whisper of the needle, something familiar. Industrial needlework, like the sound turned up on something more domestic. Nikos rubs irritably at his eye, trying to forget it.

"What do we--" We, he's generous with the word; he knows his answer-- "intend to get from this meeting."

It's for Marcoulf's sake that Teren remains civil, ignoring Nikos' sniping as she goes to take a seat on one of the beds and sip from her own wine.
"What d'you think," she asks, clipped, "thoughts, plans, tips on weak spots in the regime that only a civilian would notice. Hopefully they've already got something underway that we can back, give it more muscle."

"And we do this on the Inquisition's behalf, and nothing more?"

He applies to them both with an expectant look. Though in truth Nikos does not expect very much. The still waters of Marcoulf run very deep--underground streams, that no one can see--and if he has passion, he doesn't show it easily, something Nikos respects as much as he hates. And Teren is Teren, with a face of carved wood and a heart to match. Where the fuck will he get with them?

"Or Riftwatch, acting as their hand that will get a little dirtier? But not enough. If we have the opportunity, we should encourage something real in them. Not just what the Inquisition would have us say. Something more. This is where opportunity is."

Edited (forgot half my disdain oops) 2019-10-01 19:59 (UTC)

Oh, here he goes.

"Something real," Teren intones, cocking her head, "like what, pray tell."

The pause from Marcoulf's margin of the conversation isn't strictly irregular. It's true that the hiss of heavy stitching thread dies, but it's in favor of resetting the block between his thigh and the leather strap so he can tap the heavy needle through the latter. If the interruption of the rhythm is also characterized by a sidelong glance split between Nikos and Teren-- well. Why shouldn't it?

He's very careful about how he tap, tap, taps the needle with the head of the pliers in the interest of drawing as little attention to himself as humanly possible. It would take an idiot not to have picked up on the spark of tension running between the two of them, humming slowly hotter with each passing day in Perendale.

He's mostly not one.

Edited 2019-10-01 23:28 (UTC)

Nikos' chair scrapes against the floor as he pulls it closer to the table, and to Teren. A jarring note slicing through the regular rhythm of the pliers. It's not so late in the day that he's dulled.

"This group. They have an opportunity, now. An opportunity to affect something real. If we don't fuck it up. If we can help them--really help them--and lead them toward an act of real rebellion. They have been working in the dark until now. Unsupported. Cut off, the fucking walls keep them in. And now we--" The three of them, but it's always we, that we was half of how Nikos first bought into the rhetoric, inclusive like an arm around the shoulder. The other half was an even split between the fervor and Caspar's mouth, forming the words. Caspar isn't here, so it's left, ineffectively, to Nikos. Fine. "We can help them toward their chance. And we won't have a chance for it ourselves, not here, and not again. This is it. We can do as we were ordered and still do much, much more."

With her cup partway to her mouth, Teren pauses to scrutinize Nikos, then takes a thoughtful sip. He's talking a big game, and she can't say she's surprised, based on what she knows of him.
But he's also potentially speaking of things that, were the higher-ups at Riftwatch to find out, could mean a great deal of terrible outcomes in addition to the maybe one or two good ones.

"You've already got a plan," she says in a low voice, as if to say 'I should have known'. "Out with it, then."

"General-Mayor Gosleus." Nikos is immediately ready with this name. Not a difficult one to have learned, considering the current situation in Perendale. "We go for him."

He wants, badly, to take another drink. His mouth feels dry, and there's a feeling behind his eye that aches, makes him want to press the heel of his hand to it to stem the feeling. No time for that shit.

"While here, we have learned that the town is not under strict martial rule. Good, for its people. But the signs of its new masters are everywhere. Soldiers. Banners. A new ruler to dictate life in this city, under orders from Tevinter. What orders have been issued so far have been lax enough--hold the city, keep some manner of tense peace by sword and by gallows. Signs of the resistance have surrounded us. Someone graffitied the fucking wall of this building last night. Vints go away: not the most inspiring of slogans. But it was there. It will be gone. If they catch who did it, maybe he'll get off lightly. Maybe they'll take a hand if they've been pushed enough. They'll be there, soon. Because the Vints aren't going anywhere. They've dug in here. And whatever orders Gosleus is receiving, whatever he's sending out--it's here, in this city. And we can get it. For the resistance, here. Give them a leg up on the bastards. Let them see behind the curtains of their rulers and expose what's there, what's planned, what they know."

From the margins, a pause. Hands hover over their work, then Marcoulf takes up the cup again and swallows a mouthful of sour wine.

“And how will we get it,” Teren asks evenly, her eyes still narrow and shrewd, watching the young man’s every twitch, every tic of excitement or discomfort.
“We go for the General-Mayor, do we leave him alive? His guards, his aides?”

"We can plan for subtlety--with a clause defining what we'll do if the general-mayor comes back early from the privy. The goal is to get in, to get our hands on correspondence. I'm in no way opposed to his death, but I won't seek it, actively, if only because it will make getting out of this city hell for us. Griffons and all."

Still with his wine untouched, Nikos leans forward. The itch to drink hasn't subsided. He's not giving in, not yet.

"There are three of us. Two, if you refuse to take advantage of this. Marcoulf is sitting very silently now." He throws him a look, and a wry little half-smile. "I imagine you're equally capable of holding that silence when it really matters?"

Don't look at the Warden, he tells himself. You are not taking sides in this. It mostly works, his temple just half cocking in the woman's direction like a dog who's sighted some interesting thing down the path but is mindful of its master's presence at heel. He lowers his attention from Nikos back to harness. Tap, tap, tap.

"Would that be when we are meant to be slipping undetected into a magistrate's public office, or while I am being tortured as a captured enemy agent?"

Just so they're all on the same page.

A bark of laughter is Teren's response; she didn't think the little Orlesian had it in him, but his wit is appreciated.

"It's a great deal you ask," she says to Nikos, gesturing to him with her cup, then draining the last of its contents. "With only us, with limited resources, with the oversight of Riftwatch to contend with if it goes tits up."

She rises again to refill her cup, raising an eyebrow at Nikos while she does. "How many operations have you led, anyway?"

His own little glint of appreciative amusement shows briefly, gets buried almost instantly by his defensiveness. Now he permits himself to take a quick sip of wine. It's a better taste than having his credentials questioned.

Get used to it, Caspar would say, more amused than unkind. You don't look inspiring. It's not his job to look inspiring. That part is Caspar's. The best Nikos can do is manage not to snarl outright. The wine helps there.

"I prefer working alone. And not getting caught. Which solves the question of torture. This is a chance," he repeats, again, "and if we aren't doing it for the people of this city, and their resistance--which needs help--then, fine. For Riftwatch. What secrets are in that public office will be useful."

Does that help.

Now he does glance to Teren. Well - does it?

"But you're not working alone." Teren paces in front of him, glancing back at Marcoulf with a tiny nod of acknowledgment; she's handling it.
"By bringing it up, here, in this room, you've made us complicit. So either we're all doing this, or none of us are. And as much as we all prefer not getting caught, these things have a way of happening with or without our permission." She pauses to sip her wine, scrutinizing Nikos once more.

"I say we go to the resistance meeting. Feed them the idea, see what they can make of it. We keep our hands clean, Riftwatch oversight can go about their day, and, worst comes to worst, the resistance botches it and we come back to pick up where we left off."

Edited 2019-10-14 23:52 (UTC)

"And I say we take advantage of this opportunity, now," Nikos snaps, and loses one notch more on his composure, "because I am not interested in keeping my hands clean. What will move you to act? The resistance is left to act, to take that chance at getting caught. They botch it." Her words; he fires them back. "It goes badly enough, and they get snuffed out. If some spark survives, it will be diminished. Or we come back and there will be nothing left to pick up. This doesn't wait for paperwork to be filed. This doesn't wait for someone's approval. This moment is now, and it must be planned for, or it will be lost."

He shoves back his chair, too frustrated to remain seated. There's nothing particularly graceful about it. Thick with anger like a seep that wells up under the skin. "You've asked for my resume because you think it will tell you something. We are, neither of us, here to answer to you. Go order the griffons around and see how far it will get you. I want to do something, to benefit the people of this city. Not mumble a chance and bow out to keep safe."

Edited (word vomit too vomity) 2019-10-15 01:07 (UTC)

Teren stands her ground, letting Nikos erupt out of his chair and get right in her face, where she continues to stare him down with a calculating expression. As if to prove overtly how much he isn't getting to her (that little twitch was allergies, really), she takes another sip of her wine without breaking eye contact.

"Don't try to bully me, lad," she says in a warning tone, "you're being a fool. And if you truly intend to run in half-cocked, on a whim, taking the option from the resistance without even speaking to them, you're going to be a dead fool by this time tomorrow."

"I never said I would not speak to them," Nikos counters, quick enough that he's nearly talking over her, "I never said that I would act without them. I said that I would act. Help. Not leave, and sit back, and see what happens next. What option do we take from them by assisting, now? The option to throw themselves on the rocks, alone? We abandon them and come back to pick up the pieces. Why? Because it will be more convenient, because we can fit those pieces into something we want, because it suits our timing better to hold back--"

The pause for breath is so he can spit on the floor. Not because he actually needs to take a breath. He could keep going.

"That is not what this should be. What Riftwatch should be. The world is full of the overcautious, waiting in the wings to see what comes next. We don't know, what comes next. And the more we wait, the less we can do. You act so you can shape it. The future of this, of all of it."

With a sneer of distaste, Teren looks from Nikos to the spittle only centimeters from her foot, then returns her gaze to him.

"And you're going to decide this, on behalf of Riftwatch," she continues in her low voice, "shall we ring up the division heads, see what Yseult thinks?" Tugging the crystal forward on its chain around her neck, she taps it with a talonlike finger.

"--and we're not fucking leaving, you intractable infant, not without contacting the resistance first, which is why we're here."

She leans forward slightly, growing more impassioned.

"It's your way or no way, isn't it? What do you think Riftwatch is, your toy fucking soldiers?"

Edited 2019-10-16 21:38 (UTC)

[Then this happens.]

By now Teren is used to being commanded by people half her age, but it doesn't mean she likes it any more than she ever has. To be fair, she's never liked being commanded by anyone.

But here they are, and she's not about to cut the line on Yseult, who-- loathe as Teren is to admit it-- is right to question what they're doing. Forcing her temper to quiet, she raises the crystal to speak into it better, maintaining eye contact with Nikos.

"We've infiltrated the city and successfully sorted out who's leading the resistance. I'm hoping to meet them tomorrow evening, but it would seem Averesch has a more. ...creative idea."

“We have an opportunity,” Nikos says, for what feels like the fiftieth time, and still with more teeth than before, “one we didn’t know we would have. The state of the city, for one. The state of the resistance—smaller, nascent—if we leave it without real aid, it could die. Now. Tomorrow. Soon, too soon to have made a difference.”

His voice will sound a little far off to Yseult. He’s still stood close to Teren, but hadn’t gotten his own sending crystal out, too furious to trust himself. Hands clenched, jaw set. How she managed to broadcast their shit to everyone he doesn’t know. Angry, at that, at the exposure, at everything here.

“Tevinter has as great a hold on this city, as great a hold as it has on Val Chevin. Its people are just as threatened. Everything is one moment away, when the tension will break. We must help. We’re here, to help.”

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[closed] test flight

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