Hunt A Crow

[imbroccata]

WHO: Byerly, Fitcher, Lino, Yseult
WHAT: Hunting down and killing Lino for being a shitlord
WHEN: mid-late Solace
WHERE: Denerim
NOTES: violence and death, but don’t worry; lino won’t succeed in murdering a child

Here’s the sitch:

• Early in the month of Solace, an Antivan Crow by the name of Gio will visit the Gallows. They’ll snoop around briefly but mostly they’ll seek to parlay with leadership. Turns out, Lino is on their shit-list and Gio has been sent to kill him. Gio sees an opportunity for Riftwatch to get some approval points with Antiva and the Crows. Why not just kill him yourselves? Save Gio the trouble, yeah? They can’t offer the name of Lino’s contractor or target, but they give a location: Denerim.


• By the looks of it, Lino barely has a day’s lead, having scarpered as soon as he got wind of Gio being at the Gallows.


• To make matters worse, Denerim has decided to hold a cèilidh, at which all manner of folk will be in attendance. Queen Anora will be making an appearance, and lesser nobility from all across Ferelden will be there. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of assassinatible targets. Byerly will have gotten word of this celebration. Stands to reason that whoever Lino’s target is going to be at the cèilidh.


• Your mission, whether or not you accept it, is to leg it to Denerim as fast as you can and stop Lino. Kill him. Stop him from killing his target. Feel free to get yourselves a funnel cake or two from the shindig.

Comments

[bouchonne]

That pulls a laugh out of him. No false modesty from her, ever.

"So what brings you displeasure, dear Fitcher?"

[unshut]

No avoidance either, except for when it's amusing. It would be easy to turn her head and study the horizon before them or to take in the complexities of the various ropes and canvas about them, but she just looks at him.

"I told you about my soft heart. I've enjoyed this little thing between us, and would prefer not to have wounded you by way if it. The subject of arrows and hearts notwithstanding."

[bouchonne]

Is that true? He turns his gaze more fully towards her. Is there irony lurking in the corners of her sharp eyes? A twist of humor in her tone? The thing about an assassin, he thinks, is that they are fundamentally straightforward. A spy is a liar. But an assassin just does her job.

"To claim the right to feel wounded would be...presumptuous," he responds, his voice measured. "We made no guarantees of honesty with one another." And that is true. Surpassingly true. They are not lovers - not, of course, that lovers are more honest with one another than friends; quite the opposite - they are not wed; they are merely sometime companions. Players in a strange little game. That is all.

[unshut]

"I've found there is a great deal of difference between having the supposed right to feel wounded and the reality involved with the pain of the thing."

Her long hand has flattened at her center, a quiet thing. How good that it is daylight out and not that she'd come to him at night. There might have been an inclination to tip him off the side of the boat then, which would do no one any good at all. Yseult would suspect something. Bastien would be upset. More importantly, whatever secrets Byerly keeps she suspects them to be a different kind to the ones she'd originally thought.

This is true: that it's a shame to end something for no reason.

"All the same, I have been remarkably honest when you've asked. I wouldn't care for this to change how you heard those answers."

[bouchonne]

"Remarkably honest," he echoes, his tone droll in spite of himself. "What a world we live in, that honesty is able to be remarkable."

So says the liar. No; he has no right.

So he offers her a shrug. He intends to offer her a reassurance, but instead what comes out is a question: "Was it painful? To be that person?"

[unshut]

Now there is a question with an easy, ready answer. She shrugs in reply.

"Depending on the day."

[bouchonne]

"Hm." He understands that. "What days were the good days?"

[unshut]

"Some people deserve it and the world is better without them in it. Those were good days." And here, a tip of the head - some sliver of off the cuff lightness. "And you go lots of places and see many things and share in excellent company."

He hasn't asked yet, and maybe he won't. But let her offer him something: "But sometimes the people are just desperate. And there are times I miss Treviso."

See, that's all true too. In a sense.

[bouchonne]

He thinks of what it feels like to kill a person. He wonders how soft he is, that he cannot imagine taking pleasure even from those who deserve it. He must make do with petty vengeances, because he doesn't have the stomach for the stronger ones. How strange, that Fitcher does.

"So how did you come to it?" It's a safe enough question.

[unshut]

"My husband was a troubled man."

Safe is relative.

[bouchonne]

That's too enticing an opening, though. He quirks an eyebrow, impossibly curious.

[unshut]

She breathes out a laugh, and here lets herself look away. A high flash of humor - he is relentless - and something else less easy. When she looks back to him, she has made up her mind.

"Come below with me."

She touches his elbow, a little thing, then draws back from both him and the rail.

[bouchonne]

He wonders why. They do have privacy up here, of a sort - but, well, it would be quite rude to refuse, wouldn't it?

He tips his chin up, acquiescing, then follows her.

[unshut]

The little passenger cabin is as all little passenger cabins are - cramped, stifled, with the only light afforded there being from a lantern which requires lighting once they arrive. There's hardly room for them both in it.

"Sit, would you," Fitcher says, nodding to the narrow little bunk while dredging the cabin door (which disagrees with being closed) shut behind them.

Then she promptly sets to undoing the series of buttons down the side of her bodice.

[bouchonne]

Ah.

His lips part, and his brows draw down. He finds himself dangerously, absurdly close to protesting, as though virtue is something that concerns him. But - no; he stops himself. If she wants to finally, finally screw, who is he to protest? Even if this is...not precisely the best spot for it. But maybe it helps with seasickness? Perhaps?

He sits.

[unshut]

How good he is, to be so amenable.

"When I married, it was with the understanding that I was doing well for myself. It helped that I enjoyed the man's company, and that I wasn't his first wife and so there was little in the way of scandal. But no tradesman's daughter marries up without being aware of it."

There are lots of buttons. They're part of the appeal of clothes like this - the suggestion that with enough intention, she might open up the wrap of the dress without so much as first peeling out of the high collar and long sleeves. She's brisk about it - about creating that gap down the length of her side, and about shifting closer to take one of his lovely graceful hands and inviting it to find it. It is, all of it, lacking in some patented coyness. Businesslike.

"As I said - not his first wife."

Her side is uneven, characterized less by the warmth of the skin and more by the strange series of whorls tangled into it. The texture of old burns is as notable as the look of them: mottled and odd, running over much of her side and disappearing under edges of fabric yet being held together by her other hand under her arm.

[bouchonne]

Thank the Maker - oh, thank the Maker he hadn't protested, or made some comment that revealed the smutty turn of his mind. If he had - oh, he'd have had to go throw himself in the sea. As it stands, it can just be a little thought tucked away in the back of his mind.

Embarrassment fades quickly, though, at the sight of it. He runs his fingertips over the raised patterns, the old scars. His breath catches; it feels as though winter is throttling him.

What can he say in return? The question he wants to know is, Is he dead? Because his stomach might be too weak to enjoy the act of killing, but he thinks he might derive some satisfaction out of a slightly more elaborate plan. But instead he asks, "He did this to her, as well?" The first wife.

[unshut]

"Not to her, I don't think. But all the ones who came after. I was number seven."

If you say it lightly, it sounds more absurd than terrible - like it is something out of a grimly funny song, or an especially morbid bedtime story. And it was a long time ago. She can afford to be flippant.

"As to the specifics of what he did to them, I can hardly say for certain. But I have a good imagination."

[bouchonne]

Number seven? His gaze snaps up to meet hers, eyes widening. "Why?" he asks, even though that's a foolish question. Even though sometimes, evil men do evil, and there's no way to comprehend it. To even ask why is to put a lovely little gloss on their ugliness: it implies that there's something rational or comprehensible about what they've done.

So he follows with - "How did he get away with it for so long?"

[unshut]

She smiles, not laughing but something near to it, and taps the underside of his chin. "He was rich and married tradesmen's daughters."

And the world is wide and people go missing in it all the time. And who is to say your daughter didn't catch ill in the winter or fall while riding if it happened so far from home?

"But it is a fine question, isn't it? So when that was finished,"—that, like it was nothing and not because she still has the impulse to protect the man in question; he would have thought it amusing, she thinks, to be used like a shield in this way—"It seemed natural to try my hand at finding answers for ones like it."

Her hands move then to find the topmost of that long series of buttons, beginning to patiently close them.

[bouchonne]

"No doubt he was charming," Byerly says, his voice low, "and able to spin a story when need be."

He knows the type. Maker, but he knows the type.

The hand is pulled back from her side; he doesn't think, though, he'll ever forget the feel of that uneven skin. "So then you were not an assassin, truly. You were an avenger."

[unshut]

That does make her laugh, a strangely gentle sound in the claustrophobic cabin.

"How romantic you are, Byerly. It's more or less the same business, isn't it?"

[bouchonne]

"Not at all." A shoulder is lifted. For once, he doesn't look particularly embarrassed to be deemed a romantic. "One is done for money. The other, for retribution."

[unshut]

"So you see. Just a clerk with a soft heart after all."

Halfway through her buttons, she pauses. Under the narrow light the shadow cast by her long hands hovering at her side pitches what opening in her bodice remains and the hint of mangled skin beyond it into shadow.

"I've been rather cold with you. That wasn't my intention."

[bouchonne]

But he shakes his head in answer. His voice is rather low. "How could you be anything else?" He spreads his hands on his knees. His eyes are dark and deep-set in this light, unreadable, but the twist of emotion is clear on his lips. "It is a marvel, that you can abide the presence of a man at all."