in the enemy's grippe

[tender]

WHO: Nikos, Derrica, Lino
WHAT: in the enemy's grippe
WHEN: Drakonis
WHERE: Nevarra City
NOTES: Chances of a light stabbing

Stealing the sedate robes of a healer was the easy part. Coming up with the plan was even easy, but now that it's time to put it into practice, Derrica is suddenly very aware of everything that could go wrong.

She'd like to be successful in this. So maybe she thinks that about every single assignment she's given, but that doesn't make it any less compelling in the moment.

"Try not to speak at all," Derrica reminds Lino, reaching over to tug at the sleeve of Nikos' robe until it hangs just right, down over his wrists. This seems to be the only thing Derrica has fully committed to: Lino should not be the one in charge of sweet talking their way into the Chantry.

Technically, Derrica is the only one among them who isn't lying, but she's also the only one among them who is clammy with nerves at the idea of being within the Chantry.

"Are we ready?" she asks, looking between them. "Do we need to go over it again?"

Comments

[imbroccata]

So maybe he stands too straight to be feeble, maybe he's too broad to pass as bookish, but bodyguard? More than that, a silent bodyguard.

Fine.

Lino responds to Derrica with a raised brow and a series of hand gestures generally reserved for the deaf. Not that he says anything of value, of course. It starts with I don't need to go over it again and ends with some very unkind things about Nikos' drinking and how it might affect the functionality of his staff.

[exsecutus]

Nikos can't read the strict meaning of the hand gestures, but he can get the gist of it. In response, he offers Lino the international hand gesture for FUCK OFF, which spans all comprehension.

Case and point, then: he is also likely not anyone's first choice for sweet-talking. But if given an objective, he can fulfill it, and he can even do it well. Probably shouldn't be too trusted to act as the face of the operation. And he is not nervous, and is instead treating everything with a kind of professional disdain. This is just what you do to get what you want.

He tugs the left sleeve of his robe back the other way, opposing Derrica's correction. Just because. "If he talks, we'll say he's mad with the grippe," he suggests dryly. "Let's go."

The way up to the village Chantry is littered with the sick--soldiers, largely, a few civilians, all convalescing on makeshift pallets. The brave souls tending to them make the rounds, carrying supplies and blankets and water, conversing in low tones over the worst cases. Damp coughs and retching fills the air with a kind of ambient sick haze. Everything smells bad.

Nikos and Derrica get few second glances. They might as well be faceless in their healer's robes. Lino--too broad, too healthy, too good-looking in his way (which even Nikos has mentally acknowledged, in disgust)--gets more attention. Just looks, at first, healers looking up from vomiting patients, patients looking up from their vomit--a gray-faced Sister in Chantry robes is slopping water over the hard-packed dirt of the road to clear it of mysterious bodily fluids, and she nearly slops the water over herself as she cranes her neck to look.

Their destination is at the end of this avenue of the sick. The chantry doors look dull, and the side of the building is spattered in mud. They're about thirty feet from the steps when the sky opens up and a good Nevarran rain begins. The crowd groans, and begins to move, lethargically. The well start covering the sick; the sick hunker down in their blankets, and move for shelter as they can.

A solider is struggling with a tent pole, trying to push it up and stand it straight in the sloppy mud off the side of the road. He waves at Lino, desperate. "Hey, you! Get over here, get the other end of this--"

[tender]

Maybe they should have made Lino wear a hood. Or a veil. It's too late now, but—

As they pass through the misery Derrica does give genuine thought to staying to actually help. Which makes it difficult to rebuff the soldier right off the bat, since that seems like such a small thing they can actually assist with.

"We can't spare much time," she answers as her steps slow, grabbing Nikos' sleeve again to be sure he doesn't just keep moving. Lino's out of reach, or she would have hooked his sleeve instead, for all the good that would have done. "We're needed in the Chantry."

At his dubious expression, Derrica immediately tacks on—

"All three of us."

[imbroccata]

This isn't even a problem. Lino keeps walking and shoves Nikos and Derrica forward.

If they stop and help one person, others will assume they're here to help everyone, and won't be stingy with their sob stories. Refuse, and onlookers will resent them and ask nothing of them.

[exsecutus]

Nikos would have been torn between an earnest desire to help the poor, disgust for the soldier, and a sulky ineptitude at acting with demonstrable selflessness in front of an audience. He's spared the quandary when Lino fucking shoves them forward.

At least it pulled Derrica's hand off of his sleeve. Even so turns, Nikos turns a mutinous glare over his shoulder at Lino. In their wake, the solider calls after them, indignant--then curses, and spits in the mud. Nikos sets his teeth, gathers his stupid robe close around himself, and stomps onward toward the Chantry. He will remember this.

The chambers beyond the doors aren't empty. More of the sick are huddled among the benches and in the aisles and antechambers. Tapestries have been stripped from the walls and cloths stripped from the altar, to make makeshift blankets. Healers in robes much like theirs scuttle from person to person, less mud-spattered than those outside but just as tired.

There's just enough space in the door for them to crowd in, too. Nikos just avoids trodding on the leg of a man retching into a bucket, and turns a look on his compatriots, in a silent now what.

[tender]

Now what very immediately turns into: be "welcomed" by the Reverend Mother. She doesn't clear Lino's shoulder and looks as if a strong breeze would topple her, but the air she gives off is so focused that it turns imposing. Derrica's eyes widen a little as this woman briskyl approaches and sizes all three of them up.

"Welcome," she says, in a tone that doesn't strike Derrica as welcoming in the slightest. "What business have you here? You seem uninjured, and unlikely to need our services."

Determination not to minimize how much Nikos and Lino speak has become more a priority for Derrica (cemented by Lino's shoving) so she quickly takes a little step forward.

"We're here to offer our services," she answers, casting a quick, encouraging look over her shoulder. There's an expectant pause, in which the Reverend Mother also looks past Derrica at her companions.

[imbroccata]

Lino nods and, on the off chance that the Reverend Mother or anyone else around actually speaks the language, signs agreement and that Nikos and Derrica are healers.

But if the Reverend Mother understood what he said, she doesn't look it. Her focus is on Nikos now that Lino has apparently proved himself simple, which means his focus is free to wander.

The building isn't grand or involved; it's small, by Chantry standards, with a simple layout and predictable exits. Not many options for where the relics are stashed away, which should make their search easier by far.