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

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."