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WHO: Mado and you
WHAT: where are my beloved cousins??
WHEN: whatever month this is
WHERE: the Gallows
NOTES: he's here

There's a strange man in the Gallows courtyard, a man nobody has seen before. He looks shabby, dressed in a long yellow surcoat that has seen much better days, but his face is lit with a plaintive grin as his melodic, Antivan-accented voice rings out:

"Averesk? I'm looking for Kostos, or Nikos Averesk! Have you seen them?"

It's not even entirely clear how he got here, because nobody saw him enter or leave the ferry, and this is not a person who escapes notice easily. Maybe he's a ghost. Maybe he's been living under the island this entire time.

"You there, please! I'm looking for my cousins!"

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"And the money has nothing to do with that?"

Mado blinks, with a look like he has been left behind at some important turn in the conversation.

"Money?"

There's no telling which part of that is confusing to the man, exactly, but Kostos gives his coat a long look and makes his best—or at least his most insulting—guess.

"You buy things with it."

"Yes, but," he smiles helplessly, waiting for the punchline, "what does it have to do with us?"

"Nothing," Kostos says, "because I cannot inherit. If you want to blackmail your way into an allowance, you will have to take it up with Nikos."

"Blackmail!"

Mado breaks into a peal of delighted laughter. The very thought!

"I should hope not! Don't you see, that's not why I'm here!" He takes a step forward, opening his arms slightly, the vaguest invitation to a hug.

"I don't need money, I don't even want it. I just wanted to meet you."

His eyes are damp with affectionate tears.

The only reason Kostos doesn't step back is that stepping back isn't something his feet do, even when someone is approaching him with swinging fists instead of glistening eyes and vaguely inviting arms. But he does say, "Don't touch me," just to make sure that's clear.

He needs a few moments after that to look at the man, trying to think. The results are mixed.

"Fine," he winds up saying, for lack of knowing what else to say. "Come with me."

Mado's arms drop again, but he doesn't seem too dissuaded. He's a little bit shorter than Kostos, but up close, there are definite, ominous similarities: the curl of their hair, the line of their jaws, the angle of their brows.

"Where are we going?" he chirps, following along easily.

"You are going to tell me how you happened," Kostos says, "but first I need a drink."

And to get Mado slightly further away from everyone he knows, in the meantime. How did he get here? Does the ferryman just let anyone have a ride in the boat if they ask nicely enough? He'll have to complain to someone about that later. For now they're going back across the bay—a ride Kostos spends in as much silence as Mado allows him to, aside from some mumbling into his sending crystal—and into a tavern not far from the docks.

Once he has his drink and they have a table, he looks across the table at the man.

And looks.

The silence becomes expectant.

Silence is not a thing to which Mado lends himself easily, and he chatters for most of it: about Kirkwall, about the bay, about how lovely the city is, how many interesting little shops and different kinds of people there are here, much like Antiva, but more Southern and so forth.

He's pleased as punch to be sitting across a table from Kostos, especially now that he has a drink himself.
"You asked me how I happened!" he says brightly, "and the answer-- well, I don't know, the way babies happen, but as I understand it my mother got a little too friendly with a shem'len from Rialto against the Keeper's wishes."

"And that's supposed to be our uncle?"

Nikos materializes from the crowd and sits down. He has brought his own drink with him. His clothes are creased and he smells sort of stale, like wine on a cloth that has dried out in the sun. Upon receiving his brother's crystal messages, he had considered leaving him to deal with it all alone. Kostos would deserve it.

Then he had pulled himself out of his wine slump and showed up anyways, because he's such a good friend.

He scratches, dully, at his cheek. It makes a sort of sandpapery sound, blunt fingernails against stubble. He raises his eyebrows blandly.

"Are you after money?"

The expression on Kostos' face when Nikos arrives isn't relief. Not in any obvious way. But he sits up a little straighter, bolstered by the arrival of an ally, even if it's an ally he's likely to devolve into a war with immediately after the alliance has served its purpose.

"I asked him," he says, in Nevarran, because surely Dalish elves in Antiva don't teach that alongside—whatever. How to make stew out of bark. "He says he just wants to meet us."

Their near-identical faces with their subtly different flavors of sour expression do not make them look like a pair of people that anyone with sense would want to meet.

Fortunately, no one has yet been able to prove that Mado has any sense.

"Not an uncle!" he chirps, and stands to emphatically extend his hand to the approaching Nikos, "a cousin! Creators, you really do look the same."
He plops back down into his seat with a grin, looking between them.

"I don't want your money," he reiterates with the same cheerful dismissal as before, "why is everyone so bothered about money?"

Nikos takes in Kostos' remarks with a kind of blankness, weighing it against the sight before him.

"Fucking lunatic if it's true." Also in Nevarran, back to Kostos, even though it's Mado that he's looking at. And in case Kostos was wondering: "Your accent sounds like pig's farts."

He takes a swallow of wine to bolster his defenses for this conversation. Switching to Trade, for the benefit of this purported cousin and perhaps so he doesn't have to listen to Kostos in Nevarran any longer (it's not that bad; he has to say it's bad, practically a requirement)-- "Everyone is so bothered about the money because there is enough of it to be bothered about. You can have some. Even if this is a con. I don't give a shit. I would just like you to be up front. I love my cousins. I don't know about accepting new ones."

Kostos' face darkens, but he swallows his retort, along with a mouthful of the swill in his cup—both equally likely to come back up later, if he swallows enough of them.

"Have you heard of a Borachio?" is aimed at Nikos. In Trade. Fine. "If it is a con, this—" Sorry, Mado. Kostos does not particularly love his cousins, even the ones he knows are actually his cousins. Except Marisol. And look how that turned out. "—idiot might not be in on it."

"Oh, Borachio is my good friend in Rialto," Mado clarifies, "he helped me look for you because I asked him to! He is still there and I miss him greatly, but as you can see I wanted to learn what else was out in the world."
His grin hasn't left, and there's been an ominous shine in his eyes ever since Nikos said the word 'love'.

"A thousand times I would take your love over money, cousin! Love is why I sought you out, and why I live at all."
There is absolutely no question that he means it, as he looks like he might start crying from joy at any moment.

Borachio. Nikos' eyes narrow as he commits the name to memory.

"Probably you're right," he says to Kostos. In fact there is little question that Kostos is right. There is something suspicious about this, but the story (what pieces of it he has learned) is too dumb to be anything truly sinister. In another space in his mind, adjacent to the list of names, Nikos begins composing a letter. Dear Mother, which of your fucking brothers has a bastard half-elf half-wit, and how quickly can he collect him.

The sheen of tears in Mado's eyes is unsettling. Before they can fall, Nikos leans forward to brusquely shove Mado's cup closer to him. "Drink your drink and keep it together. You've sought us out, and you've found us. Well done." His tone suggests the opposite. "Now what did Borachio tell you to do?"

Though a little startled by the suddenness with which the drink is shoved toward him, Mado takes it without question and does as he's told as easily and cheerfully as if he were a dog trained for the circus.

"Oh, he didn't tell me to do anything," he assures Nikos, holding the cup between his hands, "one of you used to live in Antiva, yes? He helped me learn where you'd gone, and I went on my way."

"Mm." It's more of a grunt, and a placeholder of a grunt at that. Nikos leans back from the table and folds his arms over his chest. He gives Mado a long look.

Eventually: "Which one of us do you think used to live in Antiva?"

This could be a fun game.

"You," Mado says easily, brightening.

Silently, and without a change to his expression or breaking eye contact with Mado, Nikos points to Kostos.

Kostos has been glaring with sullen suspicion for this entire exchange. The alternative was having his skin start to melt off his face to reveal his skeleton at that hopeful glistening of Mado's eyes, so. Preferable really. And it's easy to continue to glare—no acting skills required—while Nikos points to him.

Smiling pleasantly, Mado follows Nikos' point, considers, and shakes his head, looking back to him.

"It's in your voice," he insists.

Nikos drops his arm.

"Ooh, he's good," he says to Kostos, back in Nevarran again. "So what the fuck do we do with him?"

And as an aside, in case Mado is wondering, he adds: "We're talking about you. Make sure you stay quiet."

Mado nods cheerfully, happy to oblige.

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