MISSION: AN OFFER THEY CAN REFUSE

[archademode]

WHO: Wysteria, Gideon, Yevdokiya, Gabranth, and Sawbones
WHAT: Negotiating with the Carta for fun and profit...but mostly profit
WHEN: current
WHERE: Orzammar
NOTES: screaming nugs, good god | OOC post

let's do some mafia work

Nothing can be set in deep stone until work paints them as trustworthy. It isn't a matter of negotiation, but necessity, and so in the wake of that first meeting with Tarash— and his scaled down brother, whose penchant for irritation and anger reminded Gabranth of absolutely no one in particular— they meet within some nondescript corner of Riftwatch's private dining room within the Paragon's rest, huddling up in safer waters for the sake of reviewing given tasks, and deciding what roles they'll play within them.

Aside from the technical illegality of them, and the screaming nug delivery that needs doing without...screaming, it isn't an insurmountable list.
 
But they'll need to devise a strategy regardless: well before they begin trying to smuggle gold beneath the Merchants' Guild's collective, wealthy nose.

Comments

[deceivingly]

"Serrah Muscles!"

Approvingly, Doki slaps the table. Her mug of ale is already half gone. She was busy guzzling it while everyone was saying how good of a plan she had thought of. Yes, of course, it is good. She is among the cleverest here, and if they did not understand it before, they do now.

"I am believing you. This is good! I will be street performer. I can walk on my hands very well. Faking magic, with throwing powders, and all of this--Miss Bearhold, she will be yours for this. The little Sister and the little Rifter will be with me. We will do well! Get your drinks, let us toast."

[archademode]

Gabranth rises, but not to toast. Instead he leaves his untouched mug of ale where it rests, along with the concept of any further companionship on his part. He came to table with purpose, and with that finished, so is he.

For now.

“Make ready the last of your details. We finish this tomorrow.”

——

Tomorrow plays its role, as do they all, and so completed time sees them all returned to the Paragon's rear, huddled once more in meeting, a little more weathered for their trouble.

“Our end of the bargain has been fulfilled.” His tongue curls with distaste, barely suppressed— though the matter of it is masked fully by his own helm, kept in place, of course, as he stands dutifully at Wysteria’s back. “If you must, consult your contacts— though I imagine you have already been made aware of this.”

What he hopes, of course, is that any prying eyes would only have noted the results. The end point of their efforts, rather than the full depth of it: the sound of squalling from a closed crate, the momentary pause where his own posture was so stiff as to be conspicuous near standing guard—

From the other end of the table, their contact Tarash shows nothing of either his knowledge or his hand, though his brother’s twitching face shows irritation throughout.

He’s prone to that.

“With this I believe we are free to resume our negotiations in full.”

Is that too presumptuous? Perhaps. But Tarash waves over a round all the same, filling the table with ale in short order. This, of course, is the part where everyone begins making their demands.

Or pleasantries, maybe.