[closed] The Best Shade Plans

[thereneverwas]

WHO: Barrow, Marcoulf
WHAT: ART HEIST
WHEN: Drakonis-ish
WHERE: Château de l'Orfort, Val Chevin
NOTES: uncultured swine within

"This? ...really?"

Standing in the grand hallway, eyebrows furrowed at one of the paintings, Barrow strokes the vaguely beard-reminiscent hair on his jaw.

"...who wanted this again?"

Comments

[esquive]

"Val Royeaux. Or the Orlesian people, if that is too specific."

Who cares who wanted it, or that if he were asked a day ago he might not have had any opinion whatsoever on the state of an art collection in some chateau here in occupied Orlais. Today, standing in the corridor, and faced with the work, he has decided it matters.

(Otherwise why would they be here? Anyway, a person ought to have some sentiment for the things made by the place they come from.)

"Give me a leg up and I'll bring the frame down."

There will be a hook in some side cupboard for the same exact work, or a step ladder, or— but who knows how long it would take to hunt those down and who knows how long they have to do their work here.

[thereneverwas]

A sigh that's half-scoff escapes Barrow, but he does as requested, going to stoop by the wall with his hands held together in a makeshift step for the skinny little Orlesian who's to be his accomplice.

Figures that he'd get stuck with a patriot.

[esquive]

So it seems he has.

Marcoulf sets his boot into the step of Barrow's hands. This is the sixth piece they've freed from its frame. This should be routine by now. He counts down:

"One, two, three--"

Only his weight never shifts up into Barrow's waiting hands. Instead, a sudden pop! sounds from the end of the gallery as a crossbow bolt flies punches through a pane of delicately stained glass, then goes clattering across the stone and carpet floor. Marcoulf pauses.

He looks down at Barrow.

C'est quoi ce bordel?

[thereneverwas]

"Fuck," announces Barrow with a sigh, and from his belt he removes a buckler, which he proceeds to strap to his forearm. It's fine as a shield, but what isn't fine is the bundle of stretched canvases he's holding in his other arm.

"Get behind me," he grunts at Marcoulf, "...and open a door."

[esquive]

That prompts a flat look from the swordsman. Don't tell him what to do. Besides—

He jumps, hand catching the base of the frame. It jerks upward, pops free of its hook (or series of them) and all but leaps off the wall and falls to the floor between them with a crack of wood.

—They've work to do.

"See where it came from. I'll remove this from the frame."

(In the report he later dictates to one of the laundry women, Marcoulf will neglect this bit where they bicker over how best to accomplish their job without getting pincushioned by stray arrows.)

[thereneverwas]

"Why don't you see where it came from, since I'm already holding all the bloody paintings anyway?" Barrow sighs and moves toward the fallen piece.
"Besides, there's quite a bit less of you to hit."