[closed] test flight

[doneisdone]

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."

Comments

[exsecutus]

"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?"

After the Meeting

[doneisdone]

Teren's hopes had been high, or at least moderately positive.

Now she looks despondent, still sitting at the table in the little back room of the alehouse where the meeting is taking place. These organizers are anything but. They barely seem to know their own names, let alone what they're doing.

It's shambolic.

She sits very still with her head in one hand, eyepatch covering half of her pensive gaze, as she tries to strategize. These fools can't be trusted with anything useful-- they were right to discover this, but it's difficult not to perceive the whole operation as a waste.
She finds herself watching Nikos, gauging his reaction.