WHO: Bastien + Various WHAT: Business outside of Kirkwall WHEN: Mostly August WHERE: Hasmal, Antiva, Cumberland NOTES: If something isn't clear enough or we need to hash anything out OOC, hit me up.
[ Bastien's voice is quiet. But it's a cheerful, energetic sort of quiet, not the whisper that would indicate he's hiding in a closet somewhere with an imminent threat of being dragged out by his ankles. He's not even indoors. Behind his voice is the muffled thud of hooves on a packed dirt road.
Still, he's not far enough away from the estate—or from this entire invaded region of the Marches—to want his voice carrying anywhere out of sight. ]
If no one else has had any luck, it is because I took it all.
[ It's probably part of the job description, where any incoming reply over the crystal from a div head requires they sound like they've had a long day, at any hour. Still, there's the tiniest ember of interest. Incorrigible optimism. ]
Be my guest, Lumière. Or, our guest.
[ How can you even tell it's a group chat over a hunk of quartz? Things we don't have to talk about. ]
[ On Byerly's end, there's an annoyed sigh (why in the Maker's name does Stark think that Bastien's name is "Lumiere," where did he ever get that from) but no commentary. But the annoyance can't last long, because Bastien wouldn't be saying that if he didn't have something really good. ]
[ If Lumiere translated, Bastien would be delighted (yes he is a light, thanks for noticing), but it doesn't, so the best he can do is take it in stride. ]
No, no, but they were here just two days ago. They escaped! They are going to be so smug about rescuing themselves, but they are alive.
[ Probably. He'd given up on the idea, himself, and fully expected to find confirmation they were dead before anything else. Hearing otherwise has made him a little giddy. But he sounds more measured, when he goes on. ]
They will be injured, though, judging by, uh— [ the state of the dungeon, the word of the other prisoners, the concept of interrogation ] —everything. They can't be moving quickly.
[ Both to reverse, mine for more information, but also—not wholly ready to feel optimistic, even after Bastien's tempered his joie de vivre, or whatever the Orlesian equivalent is. ]
What was the situation they escaped from, exactly?
The estate is between Hasmal and Tantervale, near a village called Preswike, on the the river—they are keeping prisoners in the basement, Monsieur le Provost.
[ Prisoners he left where he found them, because helping them wasn't on the itinerary, and getting into and out of the estate was enough trouble without a trail of ducklings for the exit. But now that he's clear and away and talking to people who might have taken the risk, there's a squiggle of guilt.
Double, given he did risk palming a jewel-encrusted little owl statue from the Vint's stash of plundered art. ]
They said Yseult and the Commander were being interrogated. It was—
[ bad. ]
If the griffons circle, they might be able to signal from the ground.
[ Things were a lot easier when Byerly didn't have the power to order the full contingent of Riftwatch's spies and saboteurs to go and extract those tortured bodies from the basement. When Yseult's cold practicality made those decisions in his place. He feels the slice of guilt across his heart, and closes his eyes, and dooms them.
Maker forgive me. ]
Don't let your friendship [ with Yseult, of course ] make you turn that offer down. I think others' skills are more applicable here now that you've done your part.
[ Not skeptical, per se, just, that'd save them a lot of work. Wherever he is, he drums his hands against a desk edge restlessly. Weird, how energising a little good news can be.
Instead of launching into pick up logistics, Tony asks, instead— ]
Cumberland is a lovely city—Bastien said as much on the approach, when the great golden dome of the abandoned College of Magi came into view, and for once in his life didn't accompany that with an unfavorable comparison to Val Royeaux. But the tavern they're in now is all but identical to taverns near the docks of every other coastal city in Thedas. Rough-hewn furniture, rough-hewn clientele. It's early for drunk and disorderly crowds, but there are signs that there was one last night and the night before that, and there will be again when the sun dips.
Until then, it's mostly empty, and Bastien is pulling apart a smoked fish (whole, of course, and staring at John with one sightless eye) with focus. He's hungry. It was a long ride.
Between bites, he asks, "Do you think you can tell a good sailor by looking, John?"
The night is as dark as the moons will allow, Zacharias Epifanio has disappeared down the lamplit street, and Bastien is crouched in the alley behind the silent, defenseless shop, talking to a dog.
"I don't suppose you also turn into a cat?" he says. "Or a slightly smaller dog? That would be very convenient."
He's eyeing the hole in the door that the cats have been slipping in and out of since they started watching the shop. It's a little small—unless dogs, like cats, can fit through things no one would expect of them.
The dog shakes its head. Then, temporarily, it changes back into a man, who heaves a little sigh through his nose.
"I've been working on Bird, but need a lot more practice," he whispers, "...I can try."
If nothing else, he can stick his hand through it and feel around for the latch-- having a criminal history can be handy, even if the odds are against him.
Bastien watches the transformation, his interest stronger than the fact that it threatens to give him the willies, and then smiles to himself at the image of Mado-as-a-bird inside the print shop, fleeing cats, springs into his head. Of course it would not happen that way. Not least because he could turn back into a man and put the fear of the Maker into the cats. But it's funny.
"Try," he says, crouching as if to tie his boot. Instead he is untying one, just enough to extract the flattened fold of leather that holds his lock picks. (Not that he knows anything about criminal histories.) "I will race you. Loser buys drinks."
It's not a set-up. Picking locks isn't his forte, and hard to disguise from any passersby who might peer into their alley. It'll take him a little while.
Mado is capable of looking serious sometimes, and he does now-- at least, until Bastien makes a wager, which causes his pleasant curiosity to split into a grin.
"Buono," he remarks, and glances back to the hole in the wall. A deep breath in, out-- he's been working on this, he doesn't have to fly-- and he melds carefully into a little rock dove, which takes a moment to survey its suddenly much larger surroundings, and then tilts its head to look up at Bastien.
"That is so weird," Bastien tells the dove when he is done becoming, in the same tone he would use to say that is so cool.
But he's also got both hands over the doorknob, picks already working—not forfeiting yet. There's still a chance he'll do this faster than Mado can get through the cats' hole and to the latch. There's a chance he'll be eaten and never reach the latch at all.
The dove struts amiably, and perhaps unnaturally quickly, through the hole. All is seemingly well, until a whooshing sound and a decidedly human gasp precede the heavy thump of Mado re-transforming while under the windowsill and banging his head. An alarmed yowl followed by several feline voices hissing in unison is enough indication of what has just happened, but Bastien will then feel someone fumbling at the other side of the latch, trying to open it before he can.
Bastien tries to the last moment, hands working carefully even while there seems to be chaos happening inside—if Mado is being murdered by cats, Bastien won't be able to help him until the door is open–but he's not quite fast enough.
"Nooo," he whisper-whines when the door springs open, one of his picks still protruding from the lock. Not seriously upset, though. He slips in through the open door quickly, pulls his pick free, and drops the heavy bag slung around his shoulder onto the floor while the door swings shut behind him.
The cats have retreated to dark corners and beneath furniture, in the chaos, but one growls low.
"They will never trust a bird again," he predicts.
Mado's face is alight with triumph when he spies Bastien on the other side, but his brow immediately knits in a more sympathetic smile as he slips out of the way and allows him through.
"Any bird who walks on the ground shouldn't be trusted anyway, I'd think," he cheerfully opines.
"Well, it depends on what you mean when you say a good sailor, Bastien."
John Silver, quartermaster of the Walrus and expert on sailing. That's him.
"A good sailor isn't necessarily going to be the man you want on a crew. We want men who can manage to exist in a cramped, wet space together for months on end. Expertise can be acquired on the way, but a harmonious temperament, that's not something to be taught."
There's a flippant tone to the recitation, but John isn't entirely joking. There are men who make trouble within a crew. If they can avoid acquiring that type, they'd have a far better chance of seeing this partnership intact months down the road.
"Can you tell a well-tempered man by looking?" he asks Bastien, reaching for his tankard.
Bastien wobbles his head from one side to the other and says, "Sometimes."
Or, more accurately, he can eliminate a sizable percentage of the bad-tempered. Even when they're in high spirits, there's usually something brittle about the energy of it. Likely to snap and to be jagged once it has.
He peels a sharp bone out of the fish and sets it aside.
"But I can tell them best by being a little obnoxious," is an offer.
He crouches to pull a stack of inserts from the bag, then another. The gazettes are stacked neatly on wooden pallets on the floor. They have at least five hours. This shouldn't be a problem.
A fair offer, considering John's answering chuckle.
"Are you sure you don't have any experience sailing?" he asks. After all, isn't being just a little obnoxious how John weaseled his way into the hearts and minds of the Walrus crew?
However, more seriously—
"We might try that. No one's going to listen if you're too polite about trying to hold their attention," John explains, as he gestures down the lane, towards one of the public houses currently shuttered. "My guess is that we'll want to start there."
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closed | div head hunting (backdated)
[ Bastien's voice is quiet. But it's a cheerful, energetic sort of quiet, not the whisper that would indicate he's hiding in a closet somewhere with an imminent threat of being dragged out by his ankles. He's not even indoors. Behind his voice is the muffled thud of hooves on a packed dirt road.
Still, he's not far enough away from the estate—or from this entire invaded region of the Marches—to want his voice carrying anywhere out of sight. ]
If no one else has had any luck, it is because I took it all.
no subject
[ It's probably part of the job description, where any incoming reply over the crystal from a div head requires they sound like they've had a long day, at any hour. Still, there's the tiniest ember of interest. Incorrigible optimism. ]
Be my guest, Lumière. Or, our guest.
[ How can you even tell it's a group chat over a hunk of quartz? Things we don't have to talk about. ]
no subject
Did you find them?
no subject
No, no, but they were here just two days ago. They escaped! They are going to be so smug about rescuing themselves, but they are alive.
[ Probably. He'd given up on the idea, himself, and fully expected to find confirmation they were dead before anything else. Hearing otherwise has made him a little giddy. But he sounds more measured, when he goes on. ]
They will be injured, though, judging by, uh— [ the state of the dungeon, the word of the other prisoners, the concept of interrogation ] —everything. They can't be moving quickly.
no subject
[ Both to reverse, mine for more information, but also—not wholly ready to feel optimistic, even after Bastien's tempered his joie de vivre, or whatever the Orlesian equivalent is. ]
What was the situation they escaped from, exactly?
no subject
[ By, meanwhile, allows himself to be affected a little by Bastien's Orlesian optimism. He lets out a breath, and says - ]
Give your exact location. I'll dispatch scouts there to begin searching - off the roads, I would assume, no doubt they'd be avoiding pursuers...
no subject
[ Prisoners he left where he found them, because helping them wasn't on the itinerary, and getting into and out of the estate was enough trouble without a trail of ducklings for the exit. But now that he's clear and away and talking to people who might have taken the risk, there's a squiggle of guilt.
Double, given he did risk palming a jewel-encrusted little owl statue from the Vint's stash of plundered art. ]
They said Yseult and the Commander were being interrogated. It was—
[ bad. ]
If the griffons circle, they might be able to signal from the ground.
no subject
[ A lot of collapsed bridges between there and Kirkwall. ]
We'll get Darras and friends in the air, make it look like we're monitoring enemy forces which—we are. You need an extraction?
no subject
Maker forgive me. ]
Don't let your friendship [ with Yseult, of course ] make you turn that offer down. I think others' skills are more applicable here now that you've done your part.
no subject
Tomorrow. Or the day after. I will look around Preswike first. If they needed help before they could travel, someone might be hiding them there.
no subject
[ Not skeptical, per se, just, that'd save them a lot of work. Wherever he is, he drums his hands against a desk edge restlessly. Weird, how energising a little good news can be.
Instead of launching into pick up logistics, Tony asks, instead— ]
How's it looking, out there?
closed | recrewting in cumberland
Cumberland is a lovely city—Bastien said as much on the approach, when the great golden dome of the abandoned College of Magi came into view, and for once in his life didn't accompany that with an unfavorable comparison to Val Royeaux. But the tavern they're in now is all but identical to taverns near the docks of every other coastal city in Thedas. Rough-hewn furniture, rough-hewn clientele. It's early for drunk and disorderly crowds, but there are signs that there was one last night and the night before that, and there will be again when the sun dips.
Until then, it's mostly empty, and Bastien is pulling apart a smoked fish (whole, of course, and staring at John with one sightless eye) with focus. He's hungry. It was a long ride.
Between bites, he asks, "Do you think you can tell a good sailor by looking, John?"
closed | stuffing gazettes in antiva city
The night is as dark as the moons will allow, Zacharias Epifanio has disappeared down the lamplit street, and Bastien is crouched in the alley behind the silent, defenseless shop, talking to a dog.
"I don't suppose you also turn into a cat?" he says. "Or a slightly smaller dog? That would be very convenient."
He's eyeing the hole in the door that the cats have been slipping in and out of since they started watching the shop. It's a little small—unless dogs, like cats, can fit through things no one would expect of them.
no subject
"I've been working on Bird, but need a lot more practice," he whispers, "...I can try."
If nothing else, he can stick his hand through it and feel around for the latch-- having a criminal history can be handy, even if the odds are against him.
no subject
"Try," he says, crouching as if to tie his boot. Instead he is untying one, just enough to extract the flattened fold of leather that holds his lock picks. (Not that he knows anything about criminal histories.) "I will race you. Loser buys drinks."
It's not a set-up. Picking locks isn't his forte, and hard to disguise from any passersby who might peer into their alley. It'll take him a little while.
no subject
"Buono," he remarks, and glances back to the hole in the wall. A deep breath in, out-- he's been working on this, he doesn't have to fly-- and he melds carefully into a little rock dove, which takes a moment to survey its suddenly much larger surroundings, and then tilts its head to look up at Bastien.
Bird achieved.
no subject
But he's also got both hands over the doorknob, picks already working—not forfeiting yet. There's still a chance he'll do this faster than Mado can get through the cats' hole and to the latch. There's a chance he'll be eaten and never reach the latch at all.
no subject
The dove struts amiably, and perhaps unnaturally quickly, through the hole. All is seemingly well, until a whooshing sound and a decidedly human gasp precede the heavy thump of Mado re-transforming while under the windowsill and banging his head.
An alarmed yowl followed by several feline voices hissing in unison is enough indication of what has just happened, but Bastien will then feel someone fumbling at the other side of the latch, trying to open it before he can.
no subject
"Nooo," he whisper-whines when the door springs open, one of his picks still protruding from the lock. Not seriously upset, though. He slips in through the open door quickly, pulls his pick free, and drops the heavy bag slung around his shoulder onto the floor while the door swings shut behind him.
The cats have retreated to dark corners and beneath furniture, in the chaos, but one growls low.
"They will never trust a bird again," he predicts.
no subject
"Any bird who walks on the ground shouldn't be trusted anyway, I'd think," he cheerfully opines.
puts the most shamed hand over timestamps
John Silver, quartermaster of the Walrus and expert on sailing. That's him.
"A good sailor isn't necessarily going to be the man you want on a crew. We want men who can manage to exist in a cramped, wet space together for months on end. Expertise can be acquired on the way, but a harmonious temperament, that's not something to be taught."
There's a flippant tone to the recitation, but John isn't entirely joking. There are men who make trouble within a crew. If they can avoid acquiring that type, they'd have a far better chance of seeing this partnership intact months down the road.
"Can you tell a well-tempered man by looking?" he asks Bastien, reaching for his tankard.
no subject
Or, more accurately, he can eliminate a sizable percentage of the bad-tempered. Even when they're in high spirits, there's usually something brittle about the energy of it. Likely to snap and to be jagged once it has.
He peels a sharp bone out of the fish and sets it aside.
"But I can tell them best by being a little obnoxious," is an offer.
no subject
He crouches to pull a stack of inserts from the bag, then another. The gazettes are stacked neatly on wooden pallets on the floor. They have at least five hours. This shouldn't be a problem.
no subject
"Are you sure you don't have any experience sailing?" he asks. After all, isn't being just a little obnoxious how John weaseled his way into the hearts and minds of the Walrus crew?
However, more seriously—
"We might try that. No one's going to listen if you're too polite about trying to hold their attention," John explains, as he gestures down the lane, towards one of the public houses currently shuttered. "My guess is that we'll want to start there."