faderift | war table mission: project haven

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war table mission: project haven

WHO: Petrana, Marcus, Edgard, Silver, Athessa, Isaac, Leander
WHAT: A Summer's End festival weekend
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: Cubentquium, an isolated mountain village outside Perivantium
NOTES: The plan is 3 top-levels, one for each section of the plot, RP however you like and I'll chime in with any additional info as needed. Will update warnings as we go. So far: cults, hair, blood.

The Riftwatch agents meet their guides outside a run-down little Chantry in Perivantium. Donata, a wide-smiling and plain-speaking human woman of middling age, is accompanied by two gangly youths to help her corral the assembled few dozen devotees. It's not quite the kind of group they'd been prepared to blend in with — the assembled faithful certainly seem pious enough, but where most pilgrims are the sort who've enough spending money to afford the travel, threadbare clothes and near-empty rucksacks are more the norm here. A pair of siblings are just in from Trevis, is easy enough to overhear; another family from Nessum, but they're the skittish, quiet sort and seem to expect the same from everyone else.

Not among them: the man with the red scarf and sunburst pin the team was told to look for. But then, they're hardly at the rendezvous point yet.

Honored to receive you, is the greeting that goes round with a tin of simple oat cakes from their guides; Blessed are those who give, before the group sets off into the mountains.

For a stretch of space that is, as the crow flies, not so terribly far, the path to Cubentquium is a difficult and winding one. Sharp columns of stone rise pale into paler fog, echoes of their hundred cousins to the north, and between those tight walls twists a labyrinthine path that is in places more rocky crag than walkway. Soft sand gives way to sudden drops; byways that might look a little easier to trod are, on confident assurance from their guides, decidedly not. Moving forward seems to mean doubling back as often as pushing ahead, and none of them would be blamed for forgetting which direction is which — not to worry, their guides know the way.

But when the sky cracks opens above them midway into the afternoon, pissing rain turns their precarious footholds to rushing streams, and Donata calls the group to a halt in the shelter of an outcropping until the storm passes. It's a full night and morning of waiting, wet-shoed and crowded close, before they're able to travel safely again. Thankfully, the last leg of the journey seems to be a straighter shot, and as their shadows begin to get long, the group finally reaches their destination: a deep black lake rimmed in white cliffs and tall, thin trees.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Inside," is gently issued instruction, to both. Away from the door, even as he moves up towards it. The walls are thin, but best they not call attention, he thinks.

Not until attention is desired, anyway. Marcus, personally, has questions as he bends his knees to inspect the items gifted them, and then peering out towards where similar items lie in front of other doors. He lifts the tray and stands with it, half-tempted to begin a stride after the sound of the watchman and make some queries.

It's what Petrana says that registers as more pertinent, at least for now, and Marcus steps back into the room, closing the door with a soft kick from his travel-worn boot.

"Promising signs," John deadpans. Having moved furthest into the room, he'd intended to sit down but remains on his feet, drawn a step closer by Isaac's question. The pin in Petrana's hand seems like a worse omen than the knife and jar. If their contact is missing—

"Do we think contributions are mandatory, or just pointedly suggested?"

The question is pitched low, directed at Isaac and the questionable jar, even as John's eyes linger on the broken pin.

Edited 2020-09-22 19:20 (UTC)

The night is still. You could hear a pin drop.

Isaac backs from the door, to bear space for an abundance of skirts; for John's tilting walk. Hesitation as Marcus looks toward those footfalls — hand lifted as if to catch a shoulder —

(Inside,)

Falls away as the door shuts.

"I think a pilgrim would know," To John. His chin tips to Petrana. "They said we were the first outsiders in months."

Lying, obviously. That doesn't tell them what to do of it. He'd tried to track their early passage through these hills, it didn't last. Switchbacks gave way to storm, to sudden drops — flight isn't an option.

One lie, among how many? And how many to come? Petrana retreats from the door; pauses in her step and takes in the surrounds of the room, calculating distances between door, window, them. Stops, the pin still in her open palm, the furthest she can be from both openings. “I can't think it bodes so well for a voluntary offering.”

Already she thinks: what can be salvaged? but they don't know how badly, yet, it has gone awry.

(That it has—that seems not in question.)

The tray is set down on the end of the bed he'd claimed, and the little knife picked up and inspected. It's been cleaned since it was last used, he thinks.

"Then we should decide how to respond," Marcus says, dropping the knife back down upon the tray with a dull clatter. "And begin making inquiries. Tonight or at first light."

Just start flipping tables until an answer is scared out. His gesture to diplomacy is to allow the diplomats to tell him what to do instead.

"First light would be more productive," is John's vote. "But conversationally, not accusingly."

Not to deride Marcus' ability for diplomacy, of course, just as a reminder to them all. John is extremely aware of how taxing their ascent was, and how difficult it would be to speedily find their way back down.

If this is a trap, then it's a clever one. John doesn't say this aloud just yet. Instead, he adds, "It could be that our contact simply met with an accident, but I doubt it."

"Accident or not," His voice pitches reedy again. "The other jars were full."

If they've been set up, the expectations of the Trevisians, the Nessum group, have still been met. Something here is proceeding as planned.

He slips past Marcus to take up the knife. Offers Petrana the hilt, a jerk of his chin. Just in case. She may be otherwise armed (for all he knows, she's stuffed a morningstar down her bodice), but between the four of them, only one would be running in skirts.

"Until we know more, no one should travel alone."

Marcus.

It isn't guilt that eventually recalls the second room. Athessa must know better than to spill her blood. Leander might do it for them. And the third man, a mystery.

"It might do to coordinate."

If they intend to. That little gold pin had been a time in Mme. Cedoux's keeping.

The pin she pockets again, wrapping it within the handkerchief she'd hidden it in before and not cleaning it of its dirt—a moment of time bought, possibly, if they're caught with it and it matters. (She thinks it unlikely it doesn't matter.) The knife—

she hesitates, glances toward Marcus, but accepts it. Handles it with some visible uncertainty, unsure quite where to put it, saying,

“If it was not an accident,” she doesn't think it was an accident, “then a decision was made, and with how much information we don't know. If we tip our hands precipitously—we must have a care what fires we are reaching our hands directly into. We had better discuss it amongst us all.”

Coordinate, yes. If she preferred to discuss her discovery with more known quantities first (...and Isaac, also here), then it isn't by an inclination to abandon the other half of their party to their fates. It may be something else entirely, as she takes stock of the men with her; she does not linger over John Silver, but she is tallying mages in her head.

Marcus also tracks the path of the knife, a little perplexed when it finds a home in Petrana's hand, but unprotesting for now. Listening.

"Aye," is flatly delivered, but maybe that's just how he sounds. Either way: he agrees. Both to coordination as well as not immediately marching out into the darkness.

If it weren't for Leander sitting in the other room, he might instead suggest they simply make a decision and inform the rest of it. It is, in fact, still his instinct, mage quota or not, but instead he says, "Should our answer be a missing knife?" as an aside to Isaac and Petrana.

It's a fortunate assembly of mages. Isaac, Leander and Petrana who know exactly what he is, and Marcus, who John had intended on tipping his hand to sooner or later. He meets her gaze directly, then turns from them to sit down on the bed as Marcus poses the question.

"I don't think they'll find that convincing."

John had intended to say more, but abandons the train of thought as he becomes aware that the lump in the coverlets isn't just sloppily folded sheets. He shifts his weight further up the bed, abandoning the flow of conversation to draw back the sheets.

Isaac glances between Petra and Marcus, as though himself a little perplexed by her hesitation. It has not yet occurred to him that the knife lacks a sheath, or other convenient means of blunting.

(This might say a little of his familiarity with knives, and knife safety standards.)

"No," He agrees with John. It's unconvincing, but at least they'd have the knife. Only half-serious: "Suppose we might skim the other jars —"

That seems like it would last precisely until any intended spell took effect. Silver shifts away from something, and he cuts himself short, draws no closer to squint across the short distance to the bed.

Somewhat relieved to do so, Petrana simply holds the knife out hilt-first to Marcus, her attention turning more directly to whatever it is that John has discovered in sitting down—

“What is it?”

Marcus takes the knife, turns it once in his hand in final study, and then sets it down. He's solved the knife puzzle.

An empty jar and a clean knife, then. He wonders a little if that is in itself an act of aggression, the cold refusal, but he supposes it depends on the culture of these people, of which they know nothing. In spite of brewing tension, there is half a flash of humour in his glance to Isaac and his remark about skimming.

But he feels focus pull, and silently looks to Silver as well.

The blankets are exceedingly soft, well-made. If the circumstances were different, John might have been pleased about it. The last spate of missions have had less than ideal sleeping conditions.

However, when John draws back the downy-soft fabric and sheet, it's not to reveal a foot warmer or bolster. It's a doll, slightly damp to the touch. John lifts it with a slight grimace.

"A doll," John says, before his frown deepens. "Made of..."

He looks up to Isaac, doll raised slightly, as if inviting him closer for confirmation.

Edited 2020-09-27 00:06 (UTC)

John can issue all the invitations that he likes. He absolutely does not want to get closer to that doll.

...Does so, anyway. Wouldn't it be worse not to know?

"Well," Reluctantly, Isaac reaches for it, rolls the damp fibers between finger and thumb. They come away a muddy black, clotted by dark streaks. "That's disgusting."

The younger apprentices will make toys of anything, and an indulgent mage — perhaps a very bored one with an excess of time — might lend his hand to it. These have been woven under less attentive eyes.

"Hair and blood. Mme. Cedoux?"

Is he asking the only girl present about a doll? Maybe. But Julius trucks in glyphs, in impressions of greater permanence; Isaac owns only the haziest sense of those things.

(It sounds better than asking, has anyone present done blood magic? when Leander's just down the hall.)

Julius trucks in glyphs; Petrana quite specifically in enchantments, and she is already reaching for it, frowning, her head tilted as if listening to something very intently. It feels a little like pressing her ear to a door to hear something muffled by it,

“A ward,” she says, finally, “Did you not look at it, it might make you feel more at ease here. Safe.”

Very little about looking at a rough-hewn doll made of some unknown person's off-cuts makes her feel safer here. She adds, “I couldn't say if the ward is meant to offer protection or only impart its feeling.”

The two possibilities suggest different things.

Marcus frowns at the conversation being had, before quietly turning his attention to the other beds. Maybe John Silver has been marked in some way, but more likely--

With his own bed playing host to the tray, he steps towards the next, and flips aside the exceedingly soft sheets to find another of these dolls. He isn't moved to pick it up, expecting the sound of fluttering wool to net the attention of the others.

"A few of our hosts were wearing tokens," he offers, instead, filling in a blank as he sees it. "Meant for minor enchantments. I've seen free mages do similar."

The distinction Petrana describes is crucial. John is absently rubbing the hand he'd lifted the doll with against the blanket, as if to smother the sensation of damp hair.

He doesn't bother asking if it's human hair. It seems irrelevant next to the bigger question.

"I'd put it into the fire," John advises. "If it's as Mme. Cedoux says, it's not worth the risk of a false impression working on us while we're here."

But then they end up in the same position: how soon will their hosts notice?

"Aggressive," To burn them. It's not disagreement — the implication of Petrana's discovery crawls, twists his nerves along those little spiral eyes. "Might we hold them in something? A barrier?"

To Marcus. Will that do anything at all? Can't say. But if it was before a poor idea to come in staves blazing, it strikes poorer with perhaps multiple mages among their hosts.

Edited 2020-09-27 01:38 (UTC)

“If the enchantment is not a strong one—” and it doesn't feel significant, “—then it may, from now, not last the length of time it takes us to discuss how to best nullify it. Though it also may not offer much resistance to being quelled,” with a more generally querying look. Enchantments are her specialty, and for the purposes of strengthening them here as she's done elsewhere she's learned more about the nature of them in Thedas—still, she has worked mostly with her own, and not native magic.

Whether or not she even can quell a native enchantment is a question she's not before had cause to try to answer.

“If it means only to impart the sensation of safety, then that it isn't a priority to do so for very long raises further questions.”

Several. Pressing.

"I don't see the harm in removing the enchantment. If it's to protect us from something, or a matter of hospitality, they've not--"

But Marcus pauses, attentive all at once to the creaking of foot steps outside, restlessly on his way over there even before knuckles bounce light off the other side. He at least waits until that happens before he opens the door. That he was slightly tense prior to seeing familiar faces on the other side is perhaps only noticeable when it unwinds.

Good, then. He steps back and widens the door. "Quickly," is quiet.

Athessa is first through the door, quickly as bidden and nearly silent and looking mildly irritated. It may or may not be related to their present situation. (More likely, it's preemptive weariness at the prospect of working alongside Edgard in a scenario where stealth is a virtue.)

Her nod at the tray on the bed is relieved, in whatever way a nod can be. Confirmation, perhaps. Ah, good, they didn't bleed themselves either.

And then there's another one of those dolls.

"I'm not the only one put off by those things, am I?"

She keeps her voice low, to keep from being overheard by anyone not within the room.

Edgard, having caught up, shoves his way into the room ahead of Leander. He takes in the rest of the party, intent in conversation, and the tray on the bed like the one in their room.

To Athessa, "Are you still on about the dolls? I thought we agreed they were gifts. Protection tokens." He looks to Leander for confirmation.

He will be leaving out the fact he he just got a little spooked by one.

Leander, only now just closing the door behind him, after the shouting and bustling and so on, is visibly agitated. Having absolved himself of any responsibility for this disaster of a man the instant he was so rudely pushed past in the otherwise silent hallway, he simply clears his throat in a moment of mild, but still obvious, self-collection and addresses the rest of the group.

"I suppose you've noted the blood by now."

Sat on the edge of the bed, John's gaze moves first from Athessa, to Leander, then to Edgard before he turns his head to look across to Isaac, eyebrows raising before he speaks.

"We've been discussing our options for donation," John answers, before nodding at the doll in Petrana's hand, "and the purpose of the enchantment on those."

The assertion that they're harmless strikes John as so preposterous that he doesn't bother responding to it.

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