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

[archademode]

"I have heard the Gates mentioned." Perhaps more, though his retention of the information had been poor; without immediate relevance, his mind had opted to simply cast aside talk of ancient stories as no more than that. He had listened more out of curiosity than intent, and it's only now, settled in the latent quiet of a well-spent day, that he realizes perhaps his prior assessment had been incorrect.

A first, undoubtedly.

"Beyond that, I know little. Less than I ought."

[heirring]

"Maker, we really must do a better job as an organization introducing a series of basic intelligence to new Rifters. I have long considered including it as part of my survey. We are relatively good at seeing that you all know how to dress and not be robbed in Kirkwall and the general state of geography and so on, but it seems very silly to me not to require some basic reading. Or to receive a most fundamental debrief. I suppose," she says, still in the middle of what extraordinarily appears to be a single breath. "That it might be something of a security threat. Perhaps someone is worried that new arrivals will have no true alliance to Riftwatch or her allied forces and so be happily persuaded to defect."

All this she has said with her hand having returned to its work, the letters formed by the pen entirely independent from this plucky diatribe. She in fact pauses for a full beat after to finish a bit about Kirkwall coterie history, see 'A Summation of Scoundrels' by unnamed (presumed deceased) before she lifts her attention again, finally sets the pen and her notes fully aside and begins something like an explanation in earnest.

"A few months prior to your arrival, a number of us experience a Fade-touched dream where we saw an imagined version of the future if we are not to stop Corypheus. A vast majority of the details were inconsequential, however it was implied by various accounts and by a meeting with the spirit of the Herald of Andraste, that Corypheus is seeking out a series of 'Gates' which will in some way assist him in winning the war. Which would all sound like the silliest kind of nonsense had myself and a few other members of the outfit not already discovered one such Gate the summer prior. Even now it is open in the base of a temple to the old god Dumat, in Orlais.

"As for the other darkspawn—Corypheus is not working alone. That we know from the assault on Nevarra City—Gods, it has been nearly two years now."

[archademode]

“I function in this world. Is that not education enough?”

A question answered not long after, when his understanding of that dream and all its ill omens is toppled in a way that draws immediate focus, the stretch of his neck rising higher— posture going rigid with attention.

“Perhaps the Gates are merely symbolic. Places marked by power, which he assails at his leisure.” A feeble suggestion, given Gabranth's own lack of knowledge on the subject, and the woman with which he speaks (one far more sharp-witted than himself, and with near encyclopedic knowledge of the world they currently inhabit), but that has hardly ever stopped Judge Magister Gabranth from opening his mouth.

“Yet if you believe the darkspawn truly assist him in this cause, then I believe we can make a few more...milder concessions, in order to secure this intel for your general research.”

[heirring]

There is a moment there where Wysteria visibly and heroically struggles not to make some minor correction, must disregard it as ultimately unimportant, and then satisfies herself with saying,

"I believe it very likely, yes. Or at least that the two are not unrelated. Indeed a great deal of our troubles seem to be related to the blight, and so any information we might collect on it and darkspawn seems entirely worth our while."

A beat. Then, laser focusing on him rather than on her own unspooling train of thought:

"Milder concessions? I have not changed your mind about this Corterie business, have I?"

Smug? Her? No, certainly not.

lmf Wysteria don't rub it in!!!!!

[archademode]

"...Lady P— de Foncé," he corrects, catching himself in his own error, though the name once spoken bears a certain air of disapproval. Perhaps it is only in regards to the way she teases with a predator's clear focus—

Or perhaps it is the thought of her husband, and the memory of his defiance.

"I have adjusted the scope of my own priorities, based on information freely given. It would be unbecoming to preen over such a thing."

[heirring]

She has a very dreadful poker face; her crooked smile grows more crooked still.

"In front of the other party in the negotiation, yes. It would be very unbecoming indeed. But here when it is only the two of us friends? Come now, Ser; you must allow me my satisfaction."

[archademode]

From the base of his throat comes a low noise of irritation, made all the more deep by the echoing hollows of his helm. Yet that is all that she earns for her insistence— and anyone that knows Gabranth well enough might grasp that this is a sign of free rein, in essence: the grousing of a creature that would do no more harm than voiced displeasure.

Friends, she says. Friends they must indeed be.

He leans back by degrees in his seat, the stone of it well-suited to his weight in armor.

"Speak of this to no one else."

[heirring]

"That we are friends, or that I have successfully swayed you to agree with me?"

She evidently doesn't need to know him well to recognize recognize weakness, and is perfectly happy to delight in exploiting it. Or at the very least, making every appearance to do so. She takes the most base form of pity on him a few moments later, relenting in the form of lowering her attention to the task of collecting together her notes and various papers, saying,

"Well, I am glad we have decided in any case. Now we need only convince the rest of our resolution and perhaps we may at last make some headway with Tarash."

[archademode]

"Both." He determines dryly. So dry, in fact, that he plays his hand in terms of tolerance: easily made transparent despite the heaviness of dark armor and its inhuman face.

But they move on.

"Leave their uncertainty to me. I shall sway them by word, or through fear. Tarash is yours."

[heirring]

"Let us rely on word," she says without raising her attention from the proliferation of papers before her. "I don't believe fear is likely to get us very far. And besides, I think Tarash and his wife are perfectly charming. Though you are welcome to be as gruff as you like to his dreadful brother who surely deserves to be menaced somewhat."

A pause then. The rise of Wysteria's attention from her notes is abrupt and threateningly penetrating in the way that can only be achieved by sweet girls with no discretion whatsoever.

"Have you dealt very much with scoundrels and villains, Ser?"

[archademode]

That stare could put basilisks to shame. She makes it effortless, and he holds no doubt that were she not a creature composed of jovial mirth and cheerful inquisitiveness, it would be no different.

Even so, his voice is as stolid as ever when he responds.

"Define your usage of the term 'dealt'."

[heirring]

—is evidently so fascinating a specter of semantics as to require her fully undivided attention. Wysteria sets her papers aside.

"I suppose I hadn't really thought of it. You clearly have some opinion on the subject. Perhaps you might lead me through your understanding of the term."