faderift | closed.

WHO: Loxley, Ket Perrino
WHAT: It's stalkception.
WHEN: August, prior to moving out to the Fields of Ghislain
WHERE: Kirkwall, heading into Hightown
NOTES: References to abuse and sexual assault

Lord Lilian Lambert cuts a path through Kirkwall on frequent evenings, particularly on nights of fine weather, from the grimiest of corners of Lowtown, to his generously proportioned estate in Hightown. It is always well into the evening that he makes the initial journey down into the muddy streets, and sometimes close to dawn when he makes his return while still dark, the evening winding down. On this evening, though it is well passed midnight, Lambert is returning home. He is a man in his fifties, clean shaven and grey haired, his wardrobe touched with the ostentation of his own Orlesian ancestry. He has to hold his cloak so that it doesn't trail in the dirt.

He doesn't go alone, of course. He is accompanied by a rotation of brutes, and this time, it's a large qunari with a broken horn, wearing custom clothing that still strains at the seams to contain all of him anyway. The qunari shadows his lord a few feet back, casting a lazy eye around to make sure there's no trouble.

It's security that would deter would be muggers, but is absolutely no challenge to someone of Ket's skill.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The curiosity is more promising than otherwise, but Ket is still a woman very clearly weighing her options.

"...we're too close to the Gallows for me to take anything he wants more than he wants to save face. That's what I've been trying to pinpoint. What amount for him is embarrassing to make a fuss about." It's always possible he's reporting back to someone at Riftwatch; she's supposed to be behaving herself, after all. But technically she hasn't committed any crimes (yet). She's just watched a man when he's in public.

What's more interesting than what Ket provides is what she excludes, whether deliberately or not. Loxley flicks a glance passed her, and their mark -- such as he is -- is now breaking off conversation with the guardsman. The burly qunari brute is drifting back to his side after his lazy roaming.

Loxley says, quickly, alert to the fact she may wish to resume her stalking; "Might I buy you a late supper? Unless you intend to score this evening, you won't lose out on anything. I know well the establishments he can be tracked from any other night.

"Mine is a business invitation, to clarify."

"What a shame," is more reflex than anything; while she doesn't not mean it, the potential that it might have been another kind of invitation is not near the top of the list of things about this that worry her. Her suspicion, while muted, is clear enough to read in her body language.

(On the other hand, if she cuts him loose, she'd just worry about what he was doing where she couldn't keep an eye on him.)

After the barest pause, she says: "...why not. He doesn't seem inclined to decamp from Hightown anytime soon, regardless. Does dinner include a glass of wine?"

Reflex meets reflexive crooked smile. He does not normally pick up ladies in dark alleys, but you know, unless..., etc. As she thinks about it, Loxley watches the street, watches Lambert exit their view, watches the guardsman begin to roam--

--roughly in their direction.

"Two," he suggests, bright brown eyes snapping back to her. "One to talk over, another to toast with. This way."

Several filthy alleyways bring them to more reputable streets, and then a Lowtown tavern of a familiar atmosphere -- that is, one less likely to use the late hour as an excuse to turn away a qunari Rifter and whatever sort of companion he might bring with. It's quiet but not empty, and they're able to find a seat near an open window that ushers in some air. Loxley puts down some silver for a generous wine pitcher, and plates of lukewarm food of whatever is left in the kitchen is clattered down in front of them.

Loxley picks up the pitcher to fill both their glasses. "Now if I remember correctly, you were-- or still are, I imagine, Ket of the Scouting Division. I don't know that I got around to asking what the story was with the armed guards."

To his credit, that entire endeavour on the crystals had been an exercise in frustration, and it takes effort to mine out those morsels of information from all the, well. The rest.

"Ket Perrino," she confirms, taking the glass; the fact that she doesn't drink until he does is more habit than active suspicion that he's interested in drugging her. (Easier to do that in the Gallows, if he'd wanted to.)

"I don't see that there's any sense evading your careful not-a-question when it's easy enough to verify if you want. I was accused of either tricking a man into giving me a large sum of money or of cheating to win it from him at cards or both; the Dairsmuid Watch had a disagreement over how exactly I allegedly relieved him of so much coin. They vigorously agreed, however, that I'd gotten it dishonestly. I was on my way to stand trial, but the transport ventured inconveniently near a Rift and..." She taps her (gloved) left palm with her right index finger. "I'm now Riftwatch's responsibility until the war is over or they find a way to reliably get shards out people. Perhaps my genuine contributions to the war effort will convince them to drop the groundless charges; I suppose we'll see."

She leans forward a bit. "Now. If we're playing nice. Who are you and how did Lambert catch your eye?"

Needle prods at his attempt to finesse the conversation are probably warranted; Loxley sits with his elbows on the table, cup between his hands, and allows it to ease on by without defense, more interested in all that comes after. There is a faint near-smile for the deniability woven into her story, and he sits back once it's done, taking a sip of wine.

"I'm still Loxley," he says. "And I come from another plane named Tassia. I was an adventurer, and prior to that, the sort of person who too might have in his possession dishonest sums of money. And I would very much like to play nice."

He glances towards the server, who has since wandered off to chat up the man at the bar, so he continues; "Lambert's accumulating a reputation amongst the lower cathouses. He used to have regulars but started leaving them too worse for wear, but that's not stopped him. He has enough coin to throw around to get his way and his reputation is such that the watchmen either can't or won't intervene, not sure which."

He isn't a great read of people, famously, but isn't being sly about watching her to gauge response.

At the name, the coin drops, and her look clears slightly -- not necessarily in trust, but in being able to place something that she'd been trying to. "...you were the one trying to herd cats over the Rifter issue, a few months back, weren't you?" Perhaps tellingly, she doesn't ask how that turned out.

Instead, she moves on to: "My information says it's a mixture. A few strategic watchmen on the take, a few others blackmailed. Not all of them, just enough that his odds are good he'll have at least one 'friend' on any given shift ready to step in." Dry: "Not that justice in Kirkwall is easy for people like his victims to access regardless, of course. But rumor has it he's been increasingly careless as he's surer of his impunity." Whether or not she's ready to trust Loxley, she doesn't care who knows her low opinion of Lambert, under the circumstances.

closed.

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