closed | the elusive fanged nivék.

[cozen]

WHO: Athessa, Bastien, Coupe, and Fitcher
WHAT: Four reasonably professional people conduct a reasonably professional investigation and everything goes reasonably well, probably
WHEN: Harvestmere, pre-Nevarra
WHERE: Western Orlais
NOTES: Violence for sure

Comments

[sulahnan]

Athessa's hands are shaking, but she does as she's told without more than a nod to show that Fitcher has her attention. After what feels like a frustrating amount of focus spent on completing such a simple task, the elf scrubs her face with her hands, up down up down, and takes a deep breath.

Breathe in, count to four, breathe out...

It's hard to keep it together when a single muscle twitch floods your entire body with dread, stomach reeling at the fear of being controlled again. Athessa doesn't believe in any particular deities, but she'll be sending good words along to all of them about Fitcher saving her mind by giving it surmountable objectives during this escape.

[cozen]

When this is fully over—when they are all elsewhere, all alive, all relatively unharmed when compared to the worst that could have happened, all in separate places with their separate selves—he will kick a bedpost hard enough to bruise his foot, and have to blink back a misty mix of frustration and pain, and lie awake to dissect precisely what went wrong at each step and precisely how he might have averted it.

Until then, he's fine. Appropriately drawn for the circumstances, but steady on his feet, clear-headed, feigning no fear or uselessness for the sake of looking like a musician in over his head. The rear is not the best place for him to be, so it isn't where he is, but he turns to walk backwards a few paces. Coupe's leg. Athessa's hands. The passage beyond them is silent, for now.

"If we do lose one or two limbs on the way," he says quietly, making an attempt, "it could save Lady de la Fontaine the trouble of flaying us."

[limier]

There's an old joke.

Not the oldest in the room — certainly not the best. There's an old joke, sort of shit, and it goes: When you shoot love's arrow, aim for the knee. See your intended doesn't stray.

In grim taste then. No better now, limping past wire with dull intention, and altogether too much practice. It had been a long walk from the sunless lands. It's been a long walk from that room.

She tips her head to Bastien,

"You were led astray," Less dry than distracted; she doesn't bother to indicate herself. It takes four to agree to a plan, only one need propose it. No purpose to burning the lot of them, and bullishness will be believed. "Better we were not surprised of this later."

Mme. Fitcher made quick work of that maleficar. There are only so many who can; precious few among their ranks. Fitcher has too made work of Athessa, and that's —

That's good. The twist of her mouth may only be the wound, can only be the wound. She's discreet, when she watches the girl shiver. The tilt of her eyes may only be the wound, can only be the wound,

"Should have burned it."

The corpse. Quiet, because it isn't a true suggestion. Wouldn't do much in the first place. She pushes a breath over her shoulder, to the hall, and to clear-headed, light-footed Bastien. A year ago it wouldn't have been a question: Destroy the evidence, however flimsy its use. There's little to be done beside a noble son's testimony, but even so,

But Kirkwall is waiting. But no one strays.