faderift | closed / some dreams are made for children

Entry tags:

closed / some dreams are made for children

WHO: Laura Kint, Byerly Rutyer, Alistair, Athessa, Ilias Fabria, Matthias
WHAT: Nothing aids digestion like an extradition crisis.
WHEN: Starts on 2nd Harvestmere, goes on as needed
WHERE: From the Gallows dining hall to Maker knows where else
NOTES: Log for the They Hired a Contract Killer player plot. Because this is happening in public, it's absolutely possible for your character to have witnessed it! A network post will go up soon, so it's also possible for your character have loud opinions!

Breakfast at the Gallows is rarely quiet, even earlier in the morning. The day a woman walks in, dressed in the garb of a Nevarran messenger, is no exception; people are coming and going at all paces, the room abuzz with conversation.

"I seek Riftwatch's diplomatic leaders." Whether she's come because the Diplomacy offices were empty or skipped them in search of the biggest possible crowd to hear her message is unclear--either way, her voice rings out over the din. Somebody is used to shouting. "You harbor a criminal among you."

Within the sealed parchment she holds, the notice is a clear and forceful demand from the Nevarran government. Deliver the suspected murderess Laura Kint to a diplomat in Kirkwall immediately. She is to be remanded to Nevarra in the company of armed guards, where she will be tried for the murder of around thirty people between 9:40 and 9:43:

Hennia Benes, a baker

Els Sebesta, a cook

Affrina, a servant

Victor, a child

Alia Somogyi, a groom

Paulin Barthel, a peddler

Caspar Ursell, a wheelwright

Lorenis, a farmer

Grett Petocs, a brewer

Anthonia "The Bright," a laborer

Costinus Dalca, a tailor

Vasilla Ignac, a blacksmith

Ullentin Winther, a butcher

Serva Mertin, a cloth merchant

Steffan Farrow, a tavern owner

Cel, a laborer

Isidia Stavus, an initiate

Arturo Lengiel, a bailiff

Sister Florenia

Brother Vulpei

Wilhelm Verony, a servant

Marckel Sarkozhe, a seneschal

Lord Baltas van Metaxa

Sister Amori

Lady Dimitra Ermolt

Lord Konrad Ermolt

Lord Melchius Ermolt

Mother Tylia

Sister Gitta

Nevarran guards may or may not be waiting outside the door to capture any attempt to flee. Unfortunately, their quarry is doing no such thing; she's frozen with her porridge spoon halfway to her lips, head determinedly down. A criminal is a general thing, but a criminal wanted by the Nevarran crown...even without knowing the contents of the demand, Laura suspects. And she does not want to return to Nevarra.

And when the woman begins to read out the demands inked onto her parchment, there is no longer any doubt.

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"Haven't you heard? We're all riff-raff," Matthias shoots back, louder, so he will be better heard. Not booming. He's not capable of booming. "S' why we're not in the Inquisition proper any longer. Sorry to disappoint."

Thank the Maker for Athessa. For now he keeps his arms folded, tightly, lest he give in to the temptation that is already tingling in his fingertips. Not magic. He won't deign to attack like that. But throwing something at this messenger would feel really good, right now--and if Athessa does it, he'll have to join in. Solidarity, and all.

And still not looking around at Laura, or anyone else.

She's not gonna sling porridge at the messenger. Won't even throw a bread roll, no matter how much she wants to. Instead, she marches over and snatches the missive from the messenger's grip--with only a little bit of a struggle against their grip on it. Give it, jerkface.

"You're not taking any of us out of here, so you might as well leave and wait for the Diplomacy Heads to get in touch--" Don't call us, we'll call you. She holds the parchment aloft the same way one might play keep-away with a child, even though the messenger has plenty of height and several pounds of advantage. "--perhaps word from our pirate Captain Commander of Forces, eh?"

Athessa makes no move to look at the parchment in her hand. There'd be no point, and it'd take her too long to read it, surely. She does, however, wave it about and gesture at everyone in the dining hall as a cover for scanning the crowd. She doesn't see Eshal, the only Diplomacy Head she'd think to seek out specifically, so she'll either have to track her down, or settle for Byerly.

"If you're dead set on taking someone with you, you'll have to take all of us."

"Now, now." Byerly has a full foot of height on Athessa, and so when he pulls the missive from her hands and lifts it out of reach, that really means something. It's anyone's guess where he's come from, but it's clear from his rumpled clothing and his red-rimmed eyes and the scent of tobacco and perfume that this meal is not breakfast for him, but rather a late-night snack. Still, he's apparently game for this fight.

However - it seems he's not on the right side of this fight. He turns a chastising look on Athessa and Matthias, shaking his head. "Dear children - " Never mind that By doesn't even have a decade on Athessa - "you're making things dreadfully difficult for our esteemed lady messenger. Please, madam, come this way with me - have a seat - " He makes a broom of his arms, sweeping her towards a place where she might sit down and have less damnable volume - "And you, my dear ones, won't you fetch Ilias Fabria for this? I don't know if you knew this - " Speaking to the messenger, now - "but we've a Mortalitasi amongst our ranks; no one can speak reason like a Speaker, eh?"

His eyes flick back to Athessa and Matthias, widening in the universal symbol for come on, now.

The messenger is willing to follow along toward a table--determined strides, no sweeping-along necessary--but nothing in her bearing suggests mollification. Maybe it's Byerly's wrinkled shirt keeping her from it. "And just who are you?"

(Laura, meanwhile, is waiting for the woman's back to turn long enough that she can stand and dart away, somewhere out of the hall and ideally out of the Gallows entirely. She has considered, briefly, the possibility of stabbing the messenger--but Nevarra could send another. It would be a temporary solution at best.)

"Byerly Vlad Rutyer," he replies easily, "cousin to the current Bann of Dragonmount - in Ferelden - and currently co-lead of our diplomatic corps. Quite new to the position, I fear. Dreadful thing, how long our seat was vacant - quite comprehensible you came directly here, rather than seeking out a person who might or might not have been there. Would you take some tea?"

Matthias, indignant, and rendered speechless for at least a moment, stares at Byerly Vlad Rutyer as he and the messenger move toward a table. His mouth is hanging open in disgust.

"I'm not a fucking errand boy," he says, on a delay--and a little pitchier than he might otherwise want to be. He can't help it. It's the insult, wrecking havoc on his poor vocal chords and all. He applies next to Athessa, with an incredulous gesture toward the cozy scene of co-leader of the diplomats and the rude fucking messenger of Nevarra. Can you even.

"Thank you, no." The woman's gaze rests on Byerly's tired face a moment longer before she looks out across the room. Her eyes never land on Matthias or Athessa; they've been reduced to a point beneath notice, at this point. "We have a schedule to keep. If you've the whereabouts of the fugitive, we can be off."

She catches Matthias' arm mid-gesture and uses it to pull him a step away. It conveniently puts them right in the middle of the line of sight that might connect the messenger's periphery to Laura. Lucky, because Athessa wasn't planning it at all. She shoots a dirty look at Byerly, wanting to agree with Matthias, but...

Well, technically they both were errand-runners. Matty doubly so since becoming Flint's assistant.

Which she tries to convey in a look and a nod towards the door.

"Ah, of course. I'll have someone go and find her at once. Tell me - " He looks at the messenger, face the picture of sincerity. "Who is it you've engaged from amongst the lawyers of Kirkwall to argue this case of yours? I assume you've found a local lawyer, no?"

"The Nevarran courts will settle this," the messenger answers, mild impatience staining her words. "As you can see from the writ you hold, it is all in order. Marcher solicitors will not be necessary."

By blows out a long, mournful sigh. "My most heartfelt apologies," he says - and to his credit, he actually does sound rather mournful. "I can't actually remotely tell whether or not something is in order. Being as I'm not a lawyer myself, you see. Alas, I'm hired for my charm, not my knowledge."

He smiles at her, lowering his long eyelashes over his lovely dark eyes. "So please, my good lady, sit and have some tea. I fear this process will actually be quite long. And in the meantime, tell me about yourself. What's your name?"

"Then I think you should summon your lawyer." Ah, the Nevarran timetable. Something serious, which leaves little room for tea. She finally looks at Byerly's errand-runners, regarding them with expectation. "As you are the only ones with concerns."

Run along, fetch the lawyer. Doesn't matter who does it.

Arm grabbed, Matthias fixes the messenger with a freshly indignant look, and makes a rude gesture at her with the hand at the end of the arm that's been left free. He's not Nevarran, so perhaps it won't translate.

But as no one seems inclined to let him keep yelling: fine. If Laura's still here, or if she's somehow managed to get herself a hasty exit--well, Matthias'd never know. He's still not looking around for her, committed to keeping her a secret.

To Athessa, as they turn to go, he mutters, "Have we even got a lawyer?"

"How the fuck should I know," she says quietly. "I was trying to figure out who Byerly told us to find."

She really needs to get better about learning names.

"Ilias Fabria." Easy answer for someone who makes it their business to know all of the mages and rate them on levels of coolness. "Mortalitasi bloke, so, sort of creepy and, you know, broody, in a I-muck-about-with-skeletons sort of way? About as tall as I am--and he's posh, and always going about in robes like a total swotty mage--"

Matthias shoots one last glance over his shoulder, as scathing as he can manage. It gives him a good excuse to give the room a once-over as well, try to see if Laura is still about. Got to be quick about it, of course--even if the Nevarran messenger has written them off by now, they probably ought to be careful with lingering stares, just in case. He doesn't notice Laura in the immediate. Good. She's free. And she'll stay that way.

"C'mon, dogsbody," he says to Athessa, "let's leave old Rutyer to it and dig up the Speaker."

Get it? Dig up, because, death mage.

"There are so many problems, though," By murmurs to the messenger. "So many dreadful inconveniences. Please believe me, I would like nothing better than to hand over this little murderer of yours. Why, by Andraste, would I have any desire to break bread with someone who might wish to kill me? Maker's breath. But everything's so complicated. You see, we're not actually part of Kirkwall. We're Riftwatch. An independent...Ah, here we are - "

Byerly snatches a cup from the hands of a passer-by. That passer by, as it turns out, is Alistair, Savior of Ferelden, Ender of the Blight, et cetera et cetera.

"Please, madam, here you are," he says, setting the cup in front of the messenger. Then - "By the way, have you met our resident celebrity? This is Alistair. He killed an Archdemon."

Alistair is a reasonable but less virulent level of concerned about Laura, and wondering whether or not the guards are susceptible to distraction if he trips into them with his drink and enormous bowl of porridge, when he's relieved of said drink. And accused of being a celebrity.

"That's nn—" he says, the reflexive beginning of an argument about the precision of that statement.

But he is a little smarter than he looks.

"—that's true." He tries to smile winningly at the messenger. He doesn't fully succeed. But she doesn't know him. Maybe that's just his face. "It was very big. Very demonic. I can tell you all about it if you like—Nevarrans like dragons, don't they? This probably wasn't as majestic as the dragon fights of old, though. The damn thing had been grounded—it had a damaged wing—and it kept flapping to the other side of the tower, and we kept running after it like idiots. But maybe the old fights were like that too and they just knew better than to tell everybody."

He uses his drinkless hand to stir his his porridge and sneaks a look at Byerly.

Sneaks might be a strong word.

Fortunately, Laura has taken the opportunity to slide down from where she was previously sitting. Her hope is that crouching under the table will give her suitable cover--and an excellent vantage point for cutting the tendons in attackers' ankles, if necessary--while she tries to come up with a more permanent solution to her problem. No virulent concern needed, at least for the moment.

Though the dragon story might help. The messenger rolls her eyes, but she has yet to try to snatch back the notice or search for someone less slippery to deal with. All she does is give Byerly a stonefaced look and says, "Kirkwall or not--it does not matter to the crown. The fugitive is required either way."

And then, she sits down and takes a sip of Alistair's tea, rolling her eyes skyward somewhere in the middle. It's evident enough that this will take more than five minutes. (It usually does.) With her free hand, she gestures at Alistair to sit as well. "Tell me about the dragon."

Byerly (and this fact might be shocking to those who know him) actually does know how to shut up when it matters. So he just sits back, and smiles placidly at Alistair. Yes, please, tell the dragon story. At length.

"Right."

He did offer. So he sits, and only knocks Rutyer's chair twice in the process. There's just no helping it. His shoulders are so broad.

"The first time I saw him—Urthemiel, that was his name—was in the Dead Trenches, the year before it attacked Denerim. He was the god of beauty or something. Which is sort of funny, given how completely hideous he was..."

Ilias hasn't had enough coffee for this. He has not, on the whole, had enough coffee for anything since burning through round two of his personal stash. But today — considering up until a moment ago when some someones came knocking on his laboratory door, he was quite soundly asleep — today, he has particularly not had enough coffee to be upright with his eyes open, while the sun is still out oppressing him from some unbearably cheerful angle through the door of his lab, and also somehow expected to make sense of the words coming out of Matthias and Athessa's mouths.

But a few of them, he manages to. Enough to stop the breath dead in his chest, just for a moment, both hands poised at the very last button of his collar (inevitable, wasn't it always inevitable that it would come to this?)—

"I'm sorry— who?"

Even if Ilias had had all the coffee in the world, it wouldn't be enough to parse a coherent sentence from Matthias and Athessa talking over each other.

After a few simultaneous attempts to tell different parts of the same story, Athessa gets Matthias in something of a headlock, wrapping her arm around his head not to choke, but to cover his mouth so she can speak without competing with him.

"Byerly told us to fetch you because a messenger from Nevarra is demanding we hand over Laura for extradition."

"Mckjmff!" Matthias says, around Athessa's hand, and tries for the third time in two seconds to twist free. The indignity. Just because he was talking shit about Ilias doesn't have anything to do with how he still wants Ilias to think he's cool, he still desperately wants that, and being put in a headlock is not cool.

He stops struggling and steps backwards so he can try to pull free of her. And he does, but his shirt gets caught halfway as well, and he has to hastily pull it back down again, obscuring scars and scrawniness--

"She's in the hall," he says, once he's finished struggling. "The messenger. Not Laura. I think. They've got her talking but she's got to fuck off."

Oh. Relief is— not the right emotion for this moment, probably, but he exhales it anyway. False alarm. Not that every word in both those sentences doesn't also spell disaster, but at least no one's at immediate risk of being turned into cervine art installation.

At risk of tripping over each other, perhaps. Ilias spares a bit of a look for them both, but he's moving — grabbing for his staff, ushering them out the door.

"Isn't Laura, you know," A gesture that in this case means A literal child, aka, "Your age?"

One of their ages. Both of their mental ages, perhaps.

For once, Athessa has a decent guess as to Laura’s age range. “Younger, I think, why? Oh, you think they might not take her if she’s not of age?”

"No, not younger," Matthias says, "not that much older'n me, if she is. And what's that got to do with it, anyways?"

That one's for Ilias, who he turns a suspicious look on. Not that he wants Laura to have murdered a load of people, right, but if she had, so what if she's under twenty.

"Wouldn't matter, if that's what you're hoping for. If they've got it in their mind that she's to be blamed then that's it. So why're we standing here jawing about it when we might, I dunno, go back and see what's happened and why you were wanted in the first place? C'mon."

"Wh--There's no way she's older than twenty--"

No older than twenty, but not much older than Matthias, meaning...

Meaning Athessa's brow knits together as she fixates on this as they make their way down the hall.

"Yeah, I know," Matthias says, with a significant look at Athessa. "Not older than twenty."

Why is she being like this? His ears have gone quite red under having to make such a thing about his age. And Laura's age, of course, but now his has entered into the discussion as well. And all because Athessa has harped on it, for some reason. Hopefully Ilias isn't looking at him. Hopefully they can all get back to the matter at hand, and get to the bloody hall quickly.

Ilias has his mouth half open in sort of a ?????, but— well, at least he has the good graces steer his eyes away without comment, considering the state of Matthias's ears. Thankfully, he's beginning to progress from groggy squinting to walking, listening, and talking all at once.

"It matters to me." How old she was, how much she understood, if she actually did anything at all. "But you are quite right, I will see what I can find out."

"In the meantime, if you do see her," Briskly, as they close the distance to the hall, a key is loosed from its ring and offered to— Maker, whichever of them looks marginally less confused at the moment. "Then I do not know where this went, and naturally cannot admit even His Majesty's messenger into my lab without exposing the Mortalitasi's deepest secrets. Yes?"

Athessa, not by virtue of being less confused but by being closest and the first to grab the key, is the one to take it. Not so much grabbing it as taking it carefully and frowning at it, or frowning because she was already doing so.

"Uh," she says, very eloquently. "Right. Ok. Sure."

Her confusion about Matthias not being as close to her age as she thought notwithstanding, the strangeness of the entire situation is starting to raise little question marks in her mind. A weird key? Mortalitasi secrets? Why would the messenger need to go into Ilias' lab? What does one keep in a lab anyway? Did Laura kill a bunch of people?

She looks at Ilias. "This is more complicated than it seems, isn't it?"

Matthias, less quick to get the key but first to put together what Ilias is getting at, thanks to the hiding and secrecy and I-have-no-idea-serah-this-isn't-the-wagon-you're-looking-for, grabs hold of Athessa's arm to stop her from walking.

"It's not that complicated," he says. And now that his ears aren't on fire, he can give Ilias what he thinks is a slow and solemn nod. The nod comes out a bit manic, like a squirrel with a pull-string, despite his efforts. He's not built for slow or solemn. "That's what she means. It's not that complicated, so we've got it, mate. Secrets. Mystery key disappearance. C'mon--" This one's to Athessa, in a whisper, with more urgency. "We're finding Laura."

And, loudly, and more cheerfully to Ilias, complete with a wave: "See you around, then!"

Well. That will have to do. Ilias's face looks a bit like it's just come out of a plaster mould, but there's an attempt at an approving nod all the same. He trusts the two of them to do what they can, at least.

He'll just have to do what he can, too. And figure out what is actually going on. Maybe the latter first. With a light thock of staff against doorway, he pushes into the dining hall.

"If we're finding Laura," she hisses, after Ilias has made his way through the door, "then why are we stopping out here? She's probably still in there." She emphasizes that last bit with a jerk of her thumb towards the dining hall. The key that had been in that hand is already pocketed somewhere in her seemingly pocketless attire.

“—and the straps on my left boot had come undone, and I was trying to keep it on my foot while we ran back and forth, so it looked like I’d injured my leg,” Alistair is saying inside the dining hall, with a tone increasingly fraying at the edges. He can talk a lot, but he’s running out of details to add to this story, given what a blur of overwhelming terror and chaos it was in reality.

The door opens. It’s the Mortalitasi. He’s briefly distracted by it, but he keeps talking.

“But that isn’t why Cousland got there first, of course.” Of course. “He got there first because he was very heroic and daring and—”

"Speaker Fabria," Byerly interrupts smoothly, getting to his feet, lifting his hand to beckon the man over. There's not even an acknowledgment of the fact that he's stepping all over Alistair's story. Instead, he just smiles at the messenger as soon as there's a moment's silence, and says, "I really must apologize for my heroic countryman. I thought he'd be better at telling stories."

(The bite is taken out of that somewhat by the fact that, when the messenger looks away, By knocks his knuckles against Alistair's shoulder in what is unmistakably a gesture of thanks, old chap.)

"Thankfully, here's a fellow quite gifted in that art. Have you two ever met before?" he asks, as though all Nevarrans were acquainted. Which they very well might be, honestly. Small country, all that.

"I've not had the pleasure, no, though I would guess my cousins may be more familiar faces at court? And of course my grandmother, Lady Eudoxia."

Sweet and insidiously dangerous, all of them, but for once Ilias can tolerate dropping a name or two for a worthy cause. He extends a hand amiably.

"Such an unexpected delight, to receive His Majesty's own emissary. She shall be most eager to hear word of it, I am certain. Who shall I tell her came all the way to Kirkwall to treat with us?"

The messenger's attention is surely waning from the story of the archdemon's slaying--but Ilias' presence sharpens it again. She stands to greet him, her brows rising at the mention of his relations. Lady Eudoxia's name particularly seems to stand out.

"Margria Kedves." The answer's at the ready, along with her hand, a kind of respect--deference?--in her bearing that Thedosians of other lands apparently don't rate. "I trust the situation has been described to you, Speaker. You must understand that this situation must be handled with some speed, or we risk losing the opportunity to bring justice."

•

Laura, meanwhile, having heard the door open and conversation begin again (if distantly, thanks to the general dull roar the dining hall always seems to have), begins moving toward the far end of the table she's under. The longer she's in the hall with them, the less secure it seems. While they are distracted with discussing her, she must find someplace more permanent to hide. That will require removing herself from the hall and possibly the Gallows or Kirkwall as a whole.

(But she dearly hopes it will not come to that.)

Cautiously, she peeks over the edge of the table she'd been hiding under, looking for the messenger's line of sight. Is the door within her view? It's hard to tell without rising to her feet--thankfully, she's near-positive the woman can't see her here--but looking at the door swinging open again, she catches sight of Matthias and Athessa in the corridor beyond.

"Laura is brilliant," has been the predicate of Matthias' argument since Ilias went into the hall. He's whispered it a few times to Athessa, while they're still stood in the corridor outside the room. Brilliant enough to have escaped somehow, is what he means--that, and, "If we go back in, it'll look weird," and, "We don't know that she's in there," and, of course, "She'll notice--the bloody messenger, not Laura, and that's if she's in there," which carries him back to the top of his arguments.

Other members of Riftwatch have to step around them to go into the hall for breakfast, or simply to pass by. This means that they get some looks in passing--not that it's so weird to see an argument, right, whispered or otherwise--but the stubborn way that Matthias and Athessa have planted themselves in nearly the center of the corridor means that any traffic must pass around them, like a river diverted by a stone. Matthias stops talking each time someone gets close, gives everyone a kind of manic grin--move along, nothing to see--which does very little to make them look less weird.

"Pretty sure she'd have left by now," he says to Athessa in an undertone, as the door swings open behind the latest person to enter. He cranes his neck to see into the hall before the door can close again, trying to see what's going on. The Speaker is standing over by the table now--Alistair himself is seated there as well, wow, all right, that's good--and the messenger is still in there, but that's of little surprise-- "She's magnificent, she could likely-- oh shit--"

This swear is because Matthias has just caught sight of Laura. Under a table, or like, behind a table. He grabs Athessa's arm, blindly, leaning to the side as the door continues to drift closed, trying to keep Laura in his sights. "She is still in there!"

"Brilliant, you said. No, wait, magnificent." She can't not deliver that jab before she pulls Matthias aside, out of the doorway.

"With you gawking like that it's a wonder Messenger Fancy Pants hasn't noticed, would you be a little bit cool please. What we need is a distraction."

Like a distraction that will distract the entire dining hall.

Insulted, punched, where does the indignity end—

No. He's relieved to be relieved, a sucker for that precise type of camaraderie demonstration, pleased to be of service. All of that. He sinks back into his chair, oatmeal held to his chest still like perhaps someone might try to take it away and give it to a Nevarran, but he doesn't get up. Just in case.

His attention does wander, though, out toward the door, just in time to catch a flash of the gawkers disappearing around the corner, and he frowns a little. In a thoughtful sort of way, you know, like: I wonder if they're going to do something stupid.

Laura's eyes meet Matthias', she thinks. The evidence is there in the way his bearing shifts, tilting as though he's trying to keep seeing her. If she can reach them, she can escape; there are rooms and rafters and battlements, the rest of Kirkwall if necessary. (She does not want to think of leaving entirely.) And with the way they'd both immediately tried to shout down the messenger, Laura thinks their interests are still allied.

(That is the thing she holds onto, Matthias and Athessa were angry with the messenger, not the message, too tightly to consider right now. It won't be safe to think about it until she is alone.)

There are too many people in the room to creep along behind the tables. Someone will see her and tell the messenger that a girl is hiding in the room--the only surprise left will be whether they did it out of a sense of justice or hope for a reward. She will have to leave in something like plain sight, like the afternoon Matthias dared her to throw a pebble at a man in the marketplace.

She moves to the sideboard, where others also are, and pretends she is interested in eating. She pretends her name is not Laura Kint, and she is not wanted for murder. And she starts pulling her cowl over up over her hair, trying to make it seem like an idle decision, not an attempt to mask herself.

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closed / some dreams are made for children

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meanwhile down the hall

sorry cee i saw my opportunity and had to take it

ಠ_ಠ

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https://media3.giphy.com/media/3o7btPCcdNniyf0ArS/giphy.gif

athessa pls

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