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.
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?"
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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.”
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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?”
no subject
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?"