WHO: Athessa, Bastien, Doki, Sylvestre, Aleksei, Laura, et al WHAT: An informal inquest into recent acts of thievery WHEN: TBD, between Athessa's day as Ambassador and now WHERE: The Gallows, around Kirkwall NOTES: nah.
The smell of the stolen bath oils is still sharp in Athessa's room. The thief left behind the empty bottles, and they're lined with the residue--but besides that, there's a spot on the floor that has a thicker scent. Someone careless spilled while the thieving was going on.
The distinct scents of the oils then marry into one, pungent and expensive and, even weeks later, overpowering. Like a ribbon it trails out the door, down the hallway, down the stairs. The path criss-crosses the Gallows. Laura, while tracking, will find herself on a tour of the place--the baths, significantly, where steam and water might confuse the scent--but then it's easily picked up again, headed for the kitchens, smeared oily in an empty pantry, then back up and out. One section of crumbling parapet is thick with the smell. Rain and sea-spray and rainwater have marred any clear smell, but then the smell is back, in an interior corridor, headed for the Diplomacy office--and then down another corridor--
It goes on like this. Restless, like. Eventually the scent trails into the cellars, and ends at a locked door. It will require either a key, or some coaxing.
Laura catches the scent, once she's got an idea of what she's looking for, and she follows it. It's the smell of Athessa and Derrica without Athessa and Derrica in it; instead, it's someone else's body mixed up with the oils and whatever's used to make them smell of something besides themselves.
That mystery scent underlying the oils is the most frustrating thing about it. It isn't quite recognizable, belonging to no one Laura knows well. (Which is good, when she stops to consider it means no one she knows has stolen from her, but it does make finding the thief more difficult.)
She goes on the hunt, Matthias in tow, crouching down on the floor of Athessa's room in order to catch the scent. (She waves Matthias down there, too, so he knows what they're looking for, even if he can't smell it as robustly.) And then they wander off, following the traces of the oils where they go.
When they reach the baths, Laura frowns. "It smells like too many things in here."
Smelling common baths isn't the best date. Matthias is content just to spend time with Laura, which helps. And he had promised her that he would help her find whoever stole from her, so when she'd asked, he'd shown, willing as anything.
The oil smell she'd described to him--well, he hadn't gotten all of that. The layers, or whatever. But he'd done all right, even caught a whiff of it once while they were walking. Or else he'd thought that he caught it. Maybe it had been something else.
He wrinkles up his nose at Laura, to show that he's kidding.
"Can you make it out any longer? I can't smell anything. Steam, mainly."
Yevdokiya holds out the skewer of dripping meat to Athessa first, then Bastien, her eyebrows raised in friendly inquiry. Sauce and meat grease are on her fingers, smeared around her mouth. If Laura's nose were here, it would pick up the smell of the bath oil under all the sweat and meat and fur and leather that Doki is wearing or covered with. If the wind blows just right, there might be a hint of it for anyone to smell, confused with everything else Doki smells of. She's been eating as they walk along, but has suddenly remembered her manners.
The sun is baking Kirkwall today. The street smells. They have made it to the market by now, at least, where the merchants all sit in the shade of their stalls and beneath the awnings of their shops, fanning themselves. It is a fine day to be rescuing a cello.
Doki raises her eyebrows a little higher. The skewer wavers between her companions like the point of a wonky compass. Yes? No? "It's okay. Bill will not mind. He likes food too."
There's a wad of meat stored in her cheek. It makes her look kind of cute, like a squirrel that might have rabies.
Tailing the group some sixty feet aft of this most generous of offers, Sylvester Dumas cruises through the sluggish mill of the market like a shark fin, head and shoulders above what little crowd there is in the heat of the day. He’s bristling in full plate, his face dark in the shadow of his helm. The scrubbed remnants of a mercenary insignia are still streaked in red paint across one flank, too far gone to read.
It’s no secret that he’s here -- for moral support, or safety, or as an insurance policy, he wasn’t very clear. Doki knows that he is old, swaggering, loud and heavy.
But at a distance he looks formidable. Like a fellow you wouldn't want to keep a cello from.
At any distance, Bastien looks like a man it would be perfectly fine to keep a cello from. He moves his head back a fraction of an inch from Yevdokiya's skewer when it passes—looking a little amused, a little helpless. Both of those things carry into his tone, too, when he says, "Sssure," slowly, like maybe he'd been hoping something would swoop in to save him from being a good sport before he had to commit. "I'll take a little."
And now he's committed. He will take a little. He'll bite where she bit if he has to.
She'd shrugged at Athessa's refusal--blase, more for me--but at Bastien's agreement, her face splits into a grin, and she holds the skewer out so he can either a bite as they walk, or take the skewer entire from her. It would be difficult to find a bit free of teeth-marks: almost every piece has been bitten in to, at least a little.
"He is a little soft," she says cheerfully. "Not in his gut, he has a hard belly. He is not old--" This point would maybe be for Dumas the Armor Mountain, too far to hear her, probably, so maybe it is just for some other old person. "--but he has seen things. And these things have left his heart secretly very soft, I think. If you cry he will maybe be sweet. This works for me."
She pouts her lower lip and pulls a finger under one eye, as if to trace a teardrop. A faint shimmer of grease is left behind instead.
"Well that's promising. And convenient," She says it as she puts a hand on Bastien's shoulder, as if volunteering him for the role of crier. "But one of you should probably stay composed. I have to go check on something, don't wait up for me, alright?"
She taps her fingers on Bastien's shoulder--I'll be watching--and gives Yevdokia a quick smile before she ducks off into the crowd.
Old Man Dumas is soft in his gut too, but that’s what the armor is for, isn’t it? Being hard over the soft bits? He’s too far away to hear, busy listening to his own breath ringing tinny back in his ears.
His helmet is a nasty piece of work, the metal beaten up into a battleship’s wedged prow, with age-streaked holes stamped in criss-cross through the steel. It’s nested down into the wedge of a raised gorget, not a glimpse of humanity in sight, save for the slow run of a bead of sweat down the breastplate.
Behind it, he grimaces against the push of Yevdokia’s skewer into Bastien’s face -- a touch of recoil translated through a drawing back of his shoulders, and the clamp of the crystal gripped in his gauntlet up to his helmet holes. To Bastien, he says:
“If you shit yourself in this market, you’re on your own.”
Volunteered as the crier, Bastien makes a face, but his mouth is full of meat and he doesn't protest aloud. Nor does he laugh or twitch or turn to look at Dumas—but he does manage to work in a thumbs' up behind his back, subtly, in the course of pretending to search for a handkerchief for his mouth, which is instead ultimately wiped clean on his wrist.
He has a stronger stomach than he plays at, with his finicky little bite and uncertain chewing. Really he'll be fine. Once he's chewed down some lingering gristle to swallowable proportions, he leans closer to Doki.
"It is hard for me to cry out of nowhere," he says. That's not true. "If he does not listen to reason I might need you to step on my toes when he isn't looking. As hard as you can, ouais? I will signal you."
Doki leans in closer too, conspiratorial. Her grin is wolfish, if wolves ever looked pleased to be in on a plan.
"You do not worry." She pats Bastien's shoulder, greasy fingers leaving little splotches behind. "I am here for you. I can step on toes. Very good."
She raises the skewer between them and takes a big bite of meat, broadside. Her chewing is a noisy countermelody to their progress through the market.
The quality of their surroundings grows less reputable by the moment, tattier shop awnings and scanter offerings on the pushcarts, merchants with big fuck off knives prominently placed on their belts. The presence of a man in armor isn't exactly foreign here. Dumas gets some looks all the same, and looks exchanged in his wake. A little Avvar and an Orlesian get less scrutiny, and Athessa, wherever she is, gets none at all.
All this being said, no one is impeded from strolling through the market, right up to the door of Bill Bravo's shop. It is a little thing, a doorway without a door and a window without a pane. Both are covered by curtains to keep out the dust. There is no awning, but someone has taken the time to sweep clean the little patch of red stones laid artfully in front of the shop.
Doki stops when they are a few paces off and shoves the skewer into her mouth like a sword-swallower, then pops it free again without any meat on it. Chewing, mightily, she nods toward the door.
“Horrendous,” says Dumas, of Doki’s champing at the skewer. He mutters it to himself as the tucks the crystal away, the better to free up his hands for the administration of justice.
As this part of town is familiar with the presence of men in armor, he is familiar with this part of town, or any number of parts like it. Enough so that he doesn’t turn his head down or aside after any eyes that linger on him, helmet fixed forward, his elbow cocked to rest his wrist across the butt of his sword.
The cloth in Bill Bravo’s windows might keep out the dust, but don’t do much to stifle his heavy, armor-clad footfalls where he’s drawn up to park himself just across the street. Little glints of steel catch light through the flutter between curtain and frame to mark him where he stands whenever a breeze shifts through.
As watchful, warning presences go, the distance he maintains is downright considerate. The only way someone isn’t getting away from him is if they try to do it with a stolen cello in their arms.
This is not an unfamiliar gambit, but it is the first time making the attempt without the option of simply skipping town after the fact. As such, Aleksei has put in a fair bit of effort to disguise himself. The false beard itches, and the hooded cape means he's sweating in this heat, but it's only for a short amount of time. Just a single transaction, and then the entire business is finished.
And they'll have turned a neat little profit. That's worth the sweat. He's grown used to the eye patch by now, after all.
At the sound of heavy footfalls, Aleksei looks up from where had been fussing over a selection of wares spread across a borrowed stretch of cloth. The cello case is lovingly propped against the corner of the table.
"Hello?" calls a scratchy voice, a decent imitation of a bartender he'd met three years ago. "Hello? Is that a customer?"
"Hello," Bastien answers, coming into view, and, "Monsieur Bravo? We are—"
Not finishing that sentence, because he's spotted the cello case, and there is nothing he can do* except cross to it and drop to his knees, hands on either side of the body of it, overcome with relief.
"Grâce à le Créateur, mon cœur, tu es en sécurité!" And so on. He might continue like this for some time.
Doki, with one eye on the armor that is glinting outside of the window, puts her other eye on Bastien's reunion. She does not laugh. She can feel it in her chest, Alek with his stupid voice! A beard that you could raise goats in! But instead she heaves a little sigh, and presses one meat-greasy hand to her chest.
"A relief," she announces. "Bravo, you remember me? I was only just here. And see, I have brought the man who owns this case and the instrument inside. He has been looking--oh, how he has looked. Or he was looking for another one very like it."
She stretches out one leg so she can nudge Bastien in the small of his back with the toe of her boot.
Outside, Dumas tromps a few slow steps closer to the door, thud, thud, thud, to get a better angle on the inside through the curtain, or to better listen, if there’s anything to listen to. The tyrannosaurus vs water cup impact of each step is metered towards a kind of idle, sentry wandering, some inherent threat in the danger of his presence without the pressure of active pursuit.
The question doesn’t stop Bastien’s quiet effusions—heartfelt, for the record, just played up, with the dignity that would normally at least keep him on his feet cast willingly aside for The Bit. But he is truly delighted, and he only says, “The right one, the only one,” in Trade before he returns to Orlesian.
But he does begin to open the case for a peek inside. Just to be sure. And once he’s touched the body and the bow and confirmed the case is not full of wood chips, he shuts it again and stands up, with the case in hand and no intention of setting it down again.
Several answers come to mind: found it, stole it, fell off the back of a cart—
But no, those are not quite right.
He does preface his answer with the offer of a handkerchief. (Mostly clean.)
"I traded several goats for it, and a few other things," Aleksei creaks. "I might have paid too much, but the craftsmanship seemed very fine even to a know-nothing like me."
Slowly, Aleksei looks around the room, then sighs.
"My wife will be so dismayed if I come home with no coin. Perhaps we can make a bargain for your beloved instrument?"
This is the part where Doki disappears, with a cheerful bye. She has shopping to do, places to be--one minute she's walking with them, the next she's gone, leaving them to the mercy of the Kirkwall streets. But they will be okay.
And so will she. And so will Bill Bravo. And no one is expecting anything. Business is done. What could happen next?
One thing that could happen next is a complicated game of cat and mouse.
Athessa, having stayed out of sight of one so-called Bill Bravo during the meeting, stays hidden and follows Ser Bravo through the streets of Kirkwall. But when Bill turns down a narrow, winding alley, the elf scrambles onto the rooftops and sprints ahead to the only intersection; the only place to head him off.
She climbs down into one of the adjacent alleys that feed into the intersection, and trips out into the path at the same moment her quarry steps to inhabit the same space.
"Oh!" Athessa collides with him and catches herself on his arm, blinking at him with big brown doe eyes. "I'm so sorry!"
He almost, almost forgets himself and deprives Athessa of scratchy chain-smoking tones.
But Aleksei's patience is dwindling. He's ready to ditch the cloak, strip all this excess hair off his face and meet his sister to make the most of their earnings. This is a momentary but irritating roadblock.
"No apologies!" he croaks. "You aren't hurt? Not bruised?"
Hopefully not interested in talking much more, because Aleksei has places to be.
"No, no, I don't think so," she says, trying to sound sweet and flustered as she hams it up, reeling a little so her hand on his arm is warranted. "I must've been watching my feet again, instead of where I was going. I didn't hurt you, did I?"
In these moments, there is always some need for politeness. But the hand on his arm makes Aleksei wary. He's picked enough pockets to know how certain things can come to pass. A sweet face and a light exchange, and then ten minutes later a great deal of money is gone and the culprit is nowhere to be found.
Aleksei has been on both sides of this. He takes a step back after a hearty pat delivered to Athessa's shoulder.
"You are kind to worry, but I have not been hurt in the slightest."
Other than being waylaid for another few minutes in a sweltering get up.
"Now, I must not delay you any longer. Please, be on your way."
A step further back, towards the wall, with a sweeping gesture as if to wave Athessa through.
Luckily for Aleksei, Athessa isn't trying to pick his pockets.
Unluckily, she's not planning to let him just walk away. So she smiles and releases his arm and turns as if to continue on, but stops.
"Oh dear," she says, sotto voce. The intersection has four inlets, two of which they had each emerged from for their collision, and two leading to wherever, away from here. But for Athessa's purposes, she looks around at the buildings first, then the pathways, then back the way she came. (If only Bastien could see this performance.)
"Shit," And at that, she covers her mouth with her fingers, as if she's not supposed to swear. "If I've gotten myself lost again..."
Aleksei is already backing away. His face is arranged into a small moue of sympathy, though most of it is likely obscured by the prickly beard he'd attached to his face. It's the thought that counts, isn't it?
She has a sweet face, but Aleksei's very few sympathies are not hooked. (And he doesn't know enough about Kirkwall to give directions, which may not be so strange but is something he's wary of exposing.)
"Trust your instincts," he says, extolling the matriarch's advice in his scratchy, borrowed tones. "You are never lost so long as you trust yourself."
This is an approximation. The matriarchs had said it better, and with far more gravitas. But Athessa will have to suffer his attempts.
Athessa steps foward, and Aleksei steps back two steps.
"Everyone has instincts," Aleksei intones, gravitas yet again marred by his choice in false voice. Some bartender in the Marches is unaware he's being made to sound so wise. "Perhaps if your employer is so severe, this is your heart telling you to avoid him."
Solid advice from a man who has not been gainfully employed in his entire life.
"Embrace your freedom!"
A cart plows through the intersection, it's portly attendant scowling at the obstacle they are presenting.
"Oh please—" The cart trundle past and though the attendant looks none too pleased about any of this, Athessa jogs after them with calls of Oh please, ser, can you give me directions, I'm ever so lost!
And when the driver tells her to sod off and continues on his way, as anyone who knows Kirkwall would expect, she returns dejectedly to the intersection.
Ever so helpful in this characterization is knowing how effective her doe-eyed routine was against an Orlesian lieutenant, and the consternation that she's having to work harder for this guy.
In the span of time Athessa's attention has shifted, Aleksei has walked briskly down the lane. The choice of road doesn't matter, not really. He'll need to find his way back later on, but that's after he's cleared the beard from his face and gifted the cloak and tunic to whoever is nearest to hand.
But her gamble on selling the poor-lost-elf routine has cost her valuable time and broken the line of sight between them by too wide a margin. She can't waste time rushing down the other alleys to find him from the street, so once more she takes the high road on the rooftops.
It won't be easy to regain a position to try and dupe him like she was. Maybe even impossible, without a disguise. Time will tell if an opportunity presents itself. In the meantime...
"Hey, Big Turnip," she speaks into her crystal once she's spotted Aleksei once more. Much easier to keep pace without having to dodge passers-by. "You get a good look at that Bill Bravo guy when he was leaving the shop?"
For his part, Aleksei has been roped into a meandering discussion on beard care with two dwarves passing the same way as him. Keeping pace with them is truly a test of his patience.
Upside: he has convinced them egg is the key component of growing such a lustrous and bushy beard as his own.
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the bloodhound
The distinct scents of the oils then marry into one, pungent and expensive and, even weeks later, overpowering. Like a ribbon it trails out the door, down the hallway, down the stairs. The path criss-crosses the Gallows. Laura, while tracking, will find herself on a tour of the place--the baths, significantly, where steam and water might confuse the scent--but then it's easily picked up again, headed for the kitchens, smeared oily in an empty pantry, then back up and out. One section of crumbling parapet is thick with the smell. Rain and sea-spray and rainwater have marred any clear smell, but then the smell is back, in an interior corridor, headed for the Diplomacy office--and then down another corridor--
It goes on like this. Restless, like. Eventually the scent trails into the cellars, and ends at a locked door. It will require either a key, or some coaxing.
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That mystery scent underlying the oils is the most frustrating thing about it. It isn't quite recognizable, belonging to no one Laura knows well. (Which is good, when she stops to consider it means no one she knows has stolen from her, but it does make finding the thief more difficult.)
She goes on the hunt, Matthias in tow, crouching down on the floor of Athessa's room in order to catch the scent. (She waves Matthias down there, too, so he knows what they're looking for, even if he can't smell it as robustly.) And then they wander off, following the traces of the oils where they go.
When they reach the baths, Laura frowns. "It smells like too many things in here."
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Smelling common baths isn't the best date. Matthias is content just to spend time with Laura, which helps. And he had promised her that he would help her find whoever stole from her, so when she'd asked, he'd shown, willing as anything.
The oil smell she'd described to him--well, he hadn't gotten all of that. The layers, or whatever. But he'd done all right, even caught a whiff of it once while they were walking. Or else he'd thought that he caught it. Maybe it had been something else.
He wrinkles up his nose at Laura, to show that he's kidding.
"Can you make it out any longer? I can't smell anything. Steam, mainly."
meeting bill bravo
Yevdokiya holds out the skewer of dripping meat to Athessa first, then Bastien, her eyebrows raised in friendly inquiry. Sauce and meat grease are on her fingers, smeared around her mouth. If Laura's nose were here, it would pick up the smell of the bath oil under all the sweat and meat and fur and leather that Doki is wearing or covered with. If the wind blows just right, there might be a hint of it for anyone to smell, confused with everything else Doki smells of. She's been eating as they walk along, but has suddenly remembered her manners.
The sun is baking Kirkwall today. The street smells. They have made it to the market by now, at least, where the merchants all sit in the shade of their stalls and beneath the awnings of their shops, fanning themselves. It is a fine day to be rescuing a cello.
Doki raises her eyebrows a little higher. The skewer wavers between her companions like the point of a wonky compass. Yes? No? "It's okay. Bill will not mind. He likes food too."
There's a wad of meat stored in her cheek. It makes her look kind of cute, like a squirrel that might have rabies.
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It’s no secret that he’s here -- for moral support, or safety, or as an insurance policy, he wasn’t very clear. Doki knows that he is old, swaggering, loud and heavy.
But at a distance he looks formidable. Like a fellow you wouldn't want to keep a cello from.
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And now he's committed. He will take a little. He'll bite where she bit if he has to.
"Is he soft to sob stories, this Bill Bravo?"
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"He is a little soft," she says cheerfully. "Not in his gut, he has a hard belly. He is not old--" This point would maybe be for Dumas the Armor Mountain, too far to hear her, probably, so maybe it is just for some other old person. "--but he has seen things. And these things have left his heart secretly very soft, I think. If you cry he will maybe be sweet. This works for me."
She pouts her lower lip and pulls a finger under one eye, as if to trace a teardrop. A faint shimmer of grease is left behind instead.
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She taps her fingers on Bastien's shoulder--I'll be watching--and gives Yevdokia a quick smile before she ducks off into the crowd.
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His helmet is a nasty piece of work, the metal beaten up into a battleship’s wedged prow, with age-streaked holes stamped in criss-cross through the steel. It’s nested down into the wedge of a raised gorget, not a glimpse of humanity in sight, save for the slow run of a bead of sweat down the breastplate.
Behind it, he grimaces against the push of Yevdokia’s skewer into Bastien’s face -- a touch of recoil translated through a drawing back of his shoulders, and the clamp of the crystal gripped in his gauntlet up to his helmet holes. To Bastien, he says:
“If you shit yourself in this market, you’re on your own.”
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He has a stronger stomach than he plays at, with his finicky little bite and uncertain chewing. Really he'll be fine. Once he's chewed down some lingering gristle to swallowable proportions, he leans closer to Doki.
"It is hard for me to cry out of nowhere," he says. That's not true. "If he does not listen to reason I might need you to step on my toes when he isn't looking. As hard as you can, ouais? I will signal you."
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"You do not worry." She pats Bastien's shoulder, greasy fingers leaving little splotches behind. "I am here for you. I can step on toes. Very good."
She raises the skewer between them and takes a big bite of meat, broadside. Her chewing is a noisy countermelody to their progress through the market.
The quality of their surroundings grows less reputable by the moment, tattier shop awnings and scanter offerings on the pushcarts, merchants with big fuck off knives prominently placed on their belts. The presence of a man in armor isn't exactly foreign here. Dumas gets some looks all the same, and looks exchanged in his wake. A little Avvar and an Orlesian get less scrutiny, and Athessa, wherever she is, gets none at all.
All this being said, no one is impeded from strolling through the market, right up to the door of Bill Bravo's shop. It is a little thing, a doorway without a door and a window without a pane. Both are covered by curtains to keep out the dust. There is no awning, but someone has taken the time to sweep clean the little patch of red stones laid artfully in front of the shop.
Doki stops when they are a few paces off and shoves the skewer into her mouth like a sword-swallower, then pops it free again without any meat on it. Chewing, mightily, she nods toward the door.
"Here."
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As this part of town is familiar with the presence of men in armor, he is familiar with this part of town, or any number of parts like it. Enough so that he doesn’t turn his head down or aside after any eyes that linger on him, helmet fixed forward, his elbow cocked to rest his wrist across the butt of his sword.
The cloth in Bill Bravo’s windows might keep out the dust, but don’t do much to stifle his heavy, armor-clad footfalls where he’s drawn up to park himself just across the street. Little glints of steel catch light through the flutter between curtain and frame to mark him where he stands whenever a breeze shifts through.
As watchful, warning presences go, the distance he maintains is downright considerate. The only way someone isn’t getting away from him is if they try to do it with a stolen cello in their arms.
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And they'll have turned a neat little profit. That's worth the sweat. He's grown used to the eye patch by now, after all.
At the sound of heavy footfalls, Aleksei looks up from where had been fussing over a selection of wares spread across a borrowed stretch of cloth. The cello case is lovingly propped against the corner of the table.
"Hello?" calls a scratchy voice, a decent imitation of a bartender he'd met three years ago. "Hello? Is that a customer?"
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Not finishing that sentence, because he's spotted the cello case, and there is nothing he can do* except cross to it and drop to his knees, hands on either side of the body of it, overcome with relief.
"Grâce à le Créateur, mon cœur, tu es en sécurité!" And so on. He might continue like this for some time.
* He could do any number of other things.
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"A relief," she announces. "Bravo, you remember me? I was only just here. And see, I have brought the man who owns this case and the instrument inside. He has been looking--oh, how he has looked. Or he was looking for another one very like it."
She stretches out one leg so she can nudge Bastien in the small of his back with the toe of her boot.
"Hey--it is the right one?"
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There hasn’t been any running or wailing, so.
It’s probably fine.
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But he does begin to open the case for a peek inside. Just to be sure. And once he’s touched the body and the bow and confirmed the case is not full of wood chips, he shuts it again and stands up, with the case in hand and no intention of setting it down again.
“How did it come to you, Monsieur?”
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But no, those are not quite right.
He does preface his answer with the offer of a handkerchief. (Mostly clean.)
"I traded several goats for it, and a few other things," Aleksei creaks. "I might have paid too much, but the craftsmanship seemed very fine even to a know-nothing like me."
Slowly, Aleksei looks around the room, then sighs.
"My wife will be so dismayed if I come home with no coin. Perhaps we can make a bargain for your beloved instrument?"
tailing bill bravo
And so will she. And so will Bill Bravo. And no one is expecting anything. Business is done. What could happen next?
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Athessa, having stayed out of sight of one so-called Bill Bravo during the meeting, stays hidden and follows Ser Bravo through the streets of Kirkwall. But when Bill turns down a narrow, winding alley, the elf scrambles onto the rooftops and sprints ahead to the only intersection; the only place to head him off.
She climbs down into one of the adjacent alleys that feed into the intersection, and trips out into the path at the same moment her quarry steps to inhabit the same space.
"Oh!" Athessa collides with him and catches herself on his arm, blinking at him with big brown doe eyes. "I'm so sorry!"
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But Aleksei's patience is dwindling. He's ready to ditch the cloak, strip all this excess hair off his face and meet his sister to make the most of their earnings. This is a momentary but irritating roadblock.
"No apologies!" he croaks. "You aren't hurt? Not bruised?"
Hopefully not interested in talking much more, because Aleksei has places to be.
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Blink blink, sparkle sparkle.
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Aleksei has been on both sides of this. He takes a step back after a hearty pat delivered to Athessa's shoulder.
"You are kind to worry, but I have not been hurt in the slightest."
Other than being waylaid for another few minutes in a sweltering get up.
"Now, I must not delay you any longer. Please, be on your way."
A step further back, towards the wall, with a sweeping gesture as if to wave Athessa through.
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Unluckily, she's not planning to let him just walk away. So she smiles and releases his arm and turns as if to continue on, but stops.
"Oh dear," she says, sotto voce. The intersection has four inlets, two of which they had each emerged from for their collision, and two leading to wherever, away from here. But for Athessa's purposes, she looks around at the buildings first, then the pathways, then back the way she came. (If only Bastien could see this performance.)
"Shit," And at that, she covers her mouth with her fingers, as if she's not supposed to swear. "If I've gotten myself lost again..."
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She has a sweet face, but Aleksei's very few sympathies are not hooked. (And he doesn't know enough about Kirkwall to give directions, which may not be so strange but is something he's wary of exposing.)
"Trust your instincts," he says, extolling the matriarch's advice in his scratchy, borrowed tones. "You are never lost so long as you trust yourself."
This is an approximation. The matriarchs had said it better, and with far more gravitas. But Athessa will have to suffer his attempts.
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Athessa looks from alley to alley again before imploringly stepping towards Aleksei again, hands clasped in front of her.
"I hate to impose, but... could you give me directions? If I'm not back by the time my shift starts I'm done for!"
Shift where, though? She's gonna have to think fast.
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"Everyone has instincts," Aleksei intones, gravitas yet again marred by his choice in false voice. Some bartender in the Marches is unaware he's being made to sound so wise. "Perhaps if your employer is so severe, this is your heart telling you to avoid him."
Solid advice from a man who has not been gainfully employed in his entire life.
"Embrace your freedom!"
A cart plows through the intersection, it's portly attendant scowling at the obstacle they are presenting.
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And when the driver tells her to sod off and continues on his way, as anyone who knows Kirkwall would expect, she returns dejectedly to the intersection.
Ever so helpful in this characterization is knowing how effective her doe-eyed routine was against an Orlesian lieutenant, and the consternation that she's having to work harder for this guy.
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His thanks to random surly cart attendant. Maybe.
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But her gamble on selling the poor-lost-elf routine has cost her valuable time and broken the line of sight between them by too wide a margin. She can't waste time rushing down the other alleys to find him from the street, so once more she takes the high road on the rooftops.
It won't be easy to regain a position to try and dupe him like she was. Maybe even impossible, without a disguise. Time will tell if an opportunity presents itself. In the meantime...
"Hey, Big Turnip," she speaks into her crystal once she's spotted Aleksei once more. Much easier to keep pace without having to dodge passers-by. "You get a good look at that Bill Bravo guy when he was leaving the shop?"
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Upside: he has convinced them egg is the key component of growing such a lustrous and bushy beard as his own.