faderift | OPEN | intro log.

WHO: Syveth & u
WHAT: Syveth arrives in Kirkwall
WHEN: Nowish.
WHERE: Kirkwall, Gallows, etc.

The journey has been long, and Syveth is no more the cleaner or better fed for it. It makes the idea of signing on to Faderift an even keener prospect. She would like a bed to sleep in and daily meals. She'll figure out the rest later.

The tattoo on her face makes her look Dalish; it always does. She doesn't much mind that, in the normal way of things-- there are advantages to people reading you incorrectly. Her accent, though, is purely Antivan, and if one is a study of such things, distinctly urban.

(a.) In the Gallows mess hall, you may be eating breakfast. Or you may notice the elven woman playing a game of dice with the guards. Her hands are quick, nimble, catching the dice mid-air before letting them fall onto the table. Depending on the numbers, a shout or a jeer rings out. Coins shift across the table in small piles.

"Oh, you," she snaps her fingers, all confidence, and waves you over. "Want to make some money? Or lose some, eh? But you look like the lucky type."

(b.) In Lowtown, there's a scuffle. Two brutes argue over stolen goods. In the crowd, gathering to watch the fracas, a woman's eyes meet yours; has she seen you before? You might recall her at the Gallows, idly asking directions to some place or another. She wanders over to you, and you feel the weight of a small bundle pressed into your hand.

"We should leave."

(c.) And in Hightown, a place where a Dalish elf sticks out like a sore thumb-

"Isn't there a discount? For Wardens, maybe?"

-Syveth argues with a merchant, smiling with a mouth full of teeth. Personally, she thinks her teeth give her dead away; they're too numerous for her to be truly Dalish. But if the merchant before her picks up on this, he doesn't show it.

"Yes, I am a warden. Really, truly. What? No, I can't prove it to you. That's not how it works. Trust me."

(wildcard.) [Combine prompts, come up with something new, go crazy. I'm good for it.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The other elven woman in question, the Morale Officer, stands at four feet ten inches tall (short, even for an elf) though her hair piled atop of her head makes her appear at least a few inches taller; her eyes go comically wide as she processes what is happening around her before she turns on her heel to put some distance between them and the crowd.

The bundle vanishes from her hand into some internal pocket or bag at her waist beneath her cloak.

"Yes, I imagine we should."

Is Syveth more likely to trust an elf? It depends. Will it benefit her? That's what most of the things in her life depend on, frankly.

She walks through the crowd swiftly, head held high, as though her fleet footedness has more to do with excitement than nerves. She wants to make sure the other elf can follow her as well, can see her in the crowd. This is a game she's played before.

When they're out of the crowd, behind an alehouse, Syveth reaches for her new acquaintance. "How lucky I found you."

Adrasteia does not open the package while they are in the crowd. She does, in fact, move it to a different pocket, just in case. In case of what? Well. She is trusting, and she is friendly, but she grew up in the alienage outside of Amaranthine and she is not a fool.

She's seen Syveth before, in the Gallows. Gave her directions to the library. But that doesn't mean the other elf is trustworthy. So when she's reached for Adrasteia leans a little out of the way. "I suppose you are. What did you take?"

"Warden -" His own smile's slung easy, though it hardly extends so far. (No cause to prove his own dentals; plenty to conceal them.) "- There you are, Ellis has been looking."

Probably not. There are only so many of the names he's bothered to learn. A glance slides over the Merchant, eye contact briefly apologetic. His hand hovers by Syveth's shoulder, ready to yank, not bold enough to try.

"Might we hurry this along?"

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Sly grin settling in at her side, a pair of sharp ears and even sharper teeth. And ah, what a sight she is, this strange new face in a crowd of miserable silhouettes all bogged down by drudgery (he does so hate the Gallows)— her markings drawing his reddened stare for a few beats too long to be proper in any sense.

“The problem is, I get the feeling you’re lucky too.”

And so the question is, between the two of them, whether she’ll treat him as an adversary in her wicked work…

Or an ally.

OPEN | intro log.

b.

no subject

no subject

c

A;