[closed] don't go prison (breakin') my heart

[katabasis]

WHO: Benedict, Kitty, Kostos, Derrica, Lazar, Caspar, Poesia, Yseult, Flint
WHAT: The Gang Breaks a Guy Out of Prison
WHEN: Early Cloudreach
WHERE: Tevninter; a small island not far from Neromenian
NOTES: OOC Post; if you're in a group, I highly encourage flexible turn order. Feel free to self-assign where your character ends up once Things Get Real, but please don't have your lad or lady be two places at once. Prompts below are the main action of the plot, but feel free to do whatever you like before/after/adjacent to them.

Eione Island was once a staging ground for Tevinter forces eventually bound for the jungles of Seheron. Today, with the Imperium's attention and the bulk of its military might directed toward the South, the island fortress is an outpost in reserve - maintained by only a few dozen members of a private guard and overseen by Idothea Petrus, the third daughter of a Laetan family which has spent generations carefully navigating their way up Tevinter's social ladder. Much of the island is characterized by its challenging cliff faces with water too deep to cast anchor in. The only sure anchorage to be found is in Eione Bay itself, over which the fortress itself resides. Catapults at either end of the bay provide strong discouragement to anyone who might attempt a surprise landing to take the island by force. SO THEY'RE NOT ATTEMPTING TO SURPRISE ANYONE. Instead, Riftwatch is sailing straight into the bay in their own Tevinter ship, repainted in the reds, gold and blacks of the Artemaeus family and flying a flag of distress. The story? Benedict Artemaeus, son of a magister and heir to a textile trading empire, was returning from having overseen the sale of a large shipment when their ship was attacked by Nocen Sea pirates. Having barely escaped, the ship has put in here at Eione until the likelihood of further danger passes. Besides, wouldn't you know it? - Benedict's picked up some dreadful cough while doing business abroad and now requires the Petrus family's hospitality now more than ever as he recovers. The mages of the group in addition to Benedict are all to pose as semi-important mages in Benedict's company. The rest of Riftwatch's force will pose as servants and advisers and so on, including Yseult as Benedict's most devoted maid who is simply worried sick about her illness-stricken master and must keep close at hand at all times should he seem likely to tax himself overmuch by, say, spilling the beans, and so require the healing touch of a tender knife between the ribs. IF ALL GOES TO PLAN, Riftwatch will take advantage of Petrus' hospitality for the few days it takes to locate where their target, a once-prominent contact with the burgeoning enslaved rebellion in Tevinter who has been missing for two years, is being held. From there, Riftwatch's forces are to divide themselves into three groups: two groups will disable the catapults at each end of the bay in as flashy and dramatic a way as possible so as to draw attention; the third team will descend into the prison, locate Valeriantus, and then make their escape overland to the other side of the island where groups one and two, having made their own get away, will meet them with the ship for extraction. Simple, right?

Comments

A Grand Day Out

[bloodandsand]

i. On the Way There

[ Poesia is not terribly useful as far as sailing goes. But she's also enthusiastic and convivial, surrounded by a fascinating amount of things and given to striking up conversation with whoever happens to be nearby. ]

The masts really are incredibly tall, aren't they? I should like to climb them before all of this is over. It must be terribly thrilling to be up so high, don't you think?

ii. Discussions of Jewelry as an Alternative to Mass Murder

[ The world is, of course, full of heretics. It's not surprising, given the iron grip of the Chantry and given her own experience with devotion, she could hardly blame so many for being so devoted to their beloved Divine. But what is troubling, what is horrifically provoking is to be so surrounded by the soft cattle that worship this Corypheus. The diseased stain with his ruined dragon. And since she is posing as a servant, she does have ever so much access to their hostess' truly gorgeous set of kitchen knives.

But she is also not allowed to kill these Tevinters. She finds herself very entranced with them, fat and thin and elegantly dressed and soft skinned. At the moment she is particularly enraptured by their hostess' elegantly long neck. Poesia leans close to one of her comrades, murmuring softly. ]

She would look charming in rubies, don't you think?

i

[altusimperius]

[She's met with the prisoner's vacant stare from where he sits curled around a bucket. It is unlikely he has thought at all about being high up, or about much of anything other than vomiting and suffering.]

[bloodandsand]

[ Such a pathetic little thing. She doesn't feel especially bad for him, other than how one might find a sick baby animal endearing in a tragic sort of way. She kneels down and strokes his cheek lightly. ]

Poor kitten, are you still feeling ill? You're being terribly dull, we must have you bright and lovely if you're to fill your purpose.

[altusimperius]

[He's tempted to shrink back, but is too exhausted, and can't deny that the little bit of affectionate touch is something he's been starved for.
Something is clearly off about this woman, but gleaning it would take more energy than he has.

So he just nods.]

[bloodandsand]

[ She smiles at him, all sweetness and sunshine. ]

Wonderful you agree, kitten. You're very lovely so I imagine it won't take very much work.

[ She leans back a little, taking his chin in her hand to turn his face from side to side. ]

It's a pity my recruitment training never really took, I'd have a much better eye for this, but we make do, don't we kitten. I think a deep blue would suit you nicely.

[altusimperius]

[He allows this, of course, but his eyes stay locked on her even as his head turns.]

Red, [he rasps after a moment,] ...red. Gold and black. Like the ship's colors.

[He clears a bit of bile from his throat.]

My family's colors.

[bloodandsand]

[ She pouts. ]

Your little herd of heretics, yes. All the more reason to wear blue, I should think, but we must appeal to these cows so they come sweetly to us, mustn't we, kitten.

[altusimperius]

[There was a time he would've argued against this, and stuck up in defense of his family.

That time is long past.

He nods again.]

[bloodandsand]

[ She pats his head. ]

There's a good kitten. And you must be very good and mind yourself well so your throat doesn't get slit.

[ It's said a bit like a woman gently scolding a child, including a playful little tap on the end of his nose. ]

[altusimperius]

[Whatever insanity this is, Benedict is too weak to care. It's nice, in a hideous way. In a more hideous way, it makes him feel at home.

He nods again, and feels he trusts this unnerving woman, a fact he finds as problematic as anyone else would.]

[bloodandsand]

[ He was wonderfully agreeable and she gave his head a pat as a reward, then considered him again. She was not the plan maker here and neither was this boy. She was also under the impression that the success of their plan hinged on the festering heretics not realizing the boy was actually captive.

Or whatever he was, aside from the confusing myriad of people on the Situationally Dependent Do Not Kill list. She stood elegantly and held out her hand for him to take. ]

Come along, kitten. You require a bath.

[altusimperius]

[He considers her hand for a moment, then takes it. He's in no position to decline a bath, and in the back of his heart he hopes it's a real one, not a bucket dumped over his naked form on a bare floor, dignity preserved by a blanket hung over the cell door.

But surely there's a way for the others on the ship to clean themselves, and he trails along after Poesia in hopes of learning what it is.]

[bloodandsand]

[ It is actually a bucket and a blanket, which she leads him to with a very pleased smile. Isn't she helpful! ]

Here you are, kitten! Miserable conditions, of course, but I suppose it's to be expected. I'm told tubs are very heavy. I hardly see what that has to do with anything, but I'm not a sailor.

ii

[extortionate]

[ A grunt of acknowledgment, automatic. Lazar's not much of an actor. Lucky he's not acting: The heir to a textile empire comes with a guard or two. For the pirates.

So he's stood in a corner like the rest of them, and he's unarmed, because somewhere a manners book says don't wave your cock around someone else's house. And there's a little knife in his coat — the second one, the one they didn't find —because you don't need a book to tell you some things.

Poesia's talking. She's staring, too, and fuck if he knows why. Rich folks all eat pretty much the same. In Orlais, they just make you try it first.

Yseult and the others are closer to the table, to soft leaves and words he can't quite make out. Probably that's good. Means the two of them got a little room to talk; means any eavesdropper will have to tell their master on delay. ]

Suppose so. [ At last, when his mouth's caught up. ] But suppose I'd say elegant.

[bloodandsand]

[ Poesia tears her eyes away from the wretched heretic's throat (thin enough Poesia imagines she could fit her entire hand around it to crush their hostess' windpipe, what a pity she wouldn't have the time for it if she chose to attack now) to pout at Lazar when he fails to respond in a sufficiently amusing way. ]

How horribly stoic of you, dear. Come now, envision it: dark red spilling down to her collar bone and glinting in the candle light. [ It was a lovely vision and one she could safely nudge into jewels instead of blood. ] Hey large eyes would make it charming, but elegance is certainly a stretch.

[extortionate]

[ He considers Idothea Petrus, and the realm of poetic possibility.

Charm's a round word, provincial; soft. She's thin as stick-insects. Too old for it, anyway; those eyes are improbable now — must've been damn spooky in a child's skull. Charming doesn't rate.

Even for a joke on mages, there's better options: Enchanting, maybe; or better yet, steer clear of that shit entire. Petrus seems in the business of reminding folks what they are, doesn't need her own memo. ]

Nah, elegant's better. If you're doing it in Trade.

[bloodandsand]

[ She tips her head to look at him, a bird like little movement. ]

Why would the language you say it in make any sort of difference?

[extortionate]

Gonna set the mood, isn't it?

[bloodandsand]

Oooh, is this like when one refers to Orlesian as romantic or some such? Would you call her something different in Orlesian? Or Rivaini?

[extortionate]

Don't know Rivaini.

[bloodandsand]

Me either. But would you call her something different?

[extortionate]

You're — what, Nevarran?

[bloodandsand]

[ She beams at him, genuine pleasure at his deduction. ]

I am! Do you know Nevarran? Where are you from?

[extortionate]

Speak Trade here. [ He cautions, in Nevarran. Switches back, ] 'S polite.

[ More like: Whoever's listening might take interest in what two foreign idiots think can't be understood. That's in a manners book somewhere, too. But he sounds pretty pleased with himself (show-off). ]

[bloodandsand]

Oh! You're very clever!

[ If the foreign language doesn't draw attention, Poesia might with her sweet, soft laugh and delighted clapping. ]