faderift | [CLOSED] silverwhere?

Abby is used to getting clothing off of corpses all the time, but that doesn't mean she has to like it. There is a very ominous dark stain on the left breast of her uniform when she looks down the front of herself, which she tries to ignore.

Grabbing her things, she follows Fenris out of the door. She has a long stride, but she keep pace with him.

"No." Well- "Actually- yeah, I did, but I gave up on the whole sword thing pretty quick."

She lifts her arm to show him the spiked mace that she's holding. "Been practicing with this instead." Abby should have known to go for something like this from the start. The sword was more appealing at first glance, that's all. Especially to a woman who spent a fair amount of her time reading the Canterbury Tales as a teenager, but she won't admit that.

A moment of silent walking. Then, almost apologetically, "I'm not very subtle."

Which he may have gathered by this point. The sneaky part of this mission might be more of a trial than previously advertised.

Again his mouth twitches, amusement weaving through him. It isn't meant to be at her; it's just that, well—

"I normally wield a claymore sword. It spans about four to five feet, depending on the individual blade, and weighs as much as a small child." He glances over at her, then shrugs one shoulder. "I am a warrior, not a rogue. If we are to be unsubtle, at least it will be together."

Frankly? He isn't that worried. They'll do their best, and either they'll succeed (which would be good) or they won't (which would be less than ideal, but given the mission goals, he isn't, hm, all that concerned?). There are no lives at stake, no desperate world-shattering consequences if they fail . . . it's not that he isn't taking this seriously, but, like, it's silverware. He's not going to get worked up about it.

"Did you not play pranks as a child, though?" Like, he hasn't, but most do. And it's sort of a getting-to-know-you question, anyway. "Or were you more concerned with brawn?" It isn't a complaint.

"Huh." Suddenly, she's looking at him in a new light. And she might be trying to figure out how somebody that slender lifts a sword that weighs as much as a small child. And also she'd like to hold this sword herself, just to see–

But that's something she can ask to do later, it's not mission specific. Fenris may or may not have gathered from the tense way that she holds herself even while walking, but Abby gets worked up over just about everything. Flint told them to do this and she wants to do well because of it, obviously. She wants to prove herself.

Old habits die hard. She snorts.

"Yeah," after a moment's consideration. "I guess I played them on my dad. When I was a kid." Feels like a long time ago. Everything was different then, anyway. "The brawn was- later." But she doesn't want to talk about that so, "What about you. What are you most concerned with?"

"On this mission?" It's a good question, Fenris thinks, and stares ahead as he thinks on it. The village is settled by now, the lanterns all snuffed out and the streets all but empty. They still ought to be cautious, and certainly Fenris pitches his voice lower as they get closer, but still, it's a good sign.

"Nothing," he finally decides, and jerks his head in a nod, indicating they ought to head off the main road and around towards the perimeter of the nearby buildings. You never know who might be up and peering idly out the window, you know? Besides: it's not exactly a big village. His feet are surprisingly quiet against the grass and dirt, his voice quiet as he speaks to her. "I have done things that were both more difficult and had more at stake. I will not say this is not important, but . . . no lives will be lost if we fail. A minor bit of propaganda will not succeed, that is all."

They're only walking. Just two people... out for a walk. At night. It's not inherently suspicious. Abby still feels the need to look over her shoulder constantly, and curbs the impulse with difficult. She follows Fenris' lead in both manner and tone, her voice growing quieter as she answers him.

"I wouldn't rule it out entirely." She is sort of joking, "You never know when some trigger-happy idiot'll show up and have a go." Stupider things have certainly happened. Abby feels like she's dispelled their bad luck appropriately by voicing such possibility, so she continues; they approach the Chanty, casually.

It's the biggest structure she's seen in the little town so far, which tracks. These things always remind her strongly of churches back home: abandoned, huge, and echoey on the inside.

"... Front door?" Could it be that easy? There is a wooden bar positioned across it, which she eases quietly up with both hands.

He tips his head, shrugging with one shoulder. It does seem a bit too easy, but ah, life is so hard already, and he won't grumble if this mission is the easiest they've ever been on. Don't look a gift-griffin in the mouth, or something like that. As Abby sets the bar down, Fenris reaches for the handle, pulling—

— and grimacing as a bolt-lock catches against the doorframe. Mm. That makes sense. In all honesty, it's probably for the best; there's lax security that comes when you live in a small community, and then again there's just plain stupidity. A single bar across the door is assuredly the latter. But ah . . . hm. Shattering a window will probably draw too much attention, but so does what Fenris has planned . . .

What attracts more attention? Sound, or sight? He'll wager on the former. Shattered glass isn't ideal, so . . .

"Stay there. Keep watch. And put the bar back," he says, and doesn't offer more explanation than that. He probably should, and to be fair, it isn't that he doesn't trust her with the information. It's just that he's too used to working alone. "I'll open a window from the inside."

And before she can ask how he means to do such a thing, Fenris . . . ah, but what to call it when he activates his lyrium? There's no sound, not really; just the sense of it, air pressure flooding the space where a body had occupied not half a second before. A flare of blue lightning, a burst of lyrium, and perhaps she'll be able to sense the magic tangled up there: the scent of ozone, the flare of mana that always comes with such a large application of lyrium suddenly activating. He's a wraith in the truest sense of the word— for though he does indeed vanish, he hasn't disappeared. And perhaps she can see that: faint shimmering hints, a sense of wrongness in the air as he moves.

Understand: it's never fun to slip through walls and doors. It's a bit uncomfortable, honestly, and when he was younger he was always a bit worried about getting stuck in some way. Lyrium is volatile, and tearing out a heart is much different than shifting your entire body through something solid. But the door isn't so thick, and he has gotten so much practice this past decade. It's the work of a moment to find his way into the Chantry.

For a moment his eyes dart about it, a sense of hesitance filling him. It's not . . . he's not religious, not really, not in any way that counts, but still. Some quiet part of him disapproves of what they're about to do. But ah, it's just a small part; in the next moment he turns, heading towards the largest window he can find. It's set higher than normal, a stained-glass piece so clearly meant more for show than to be opened.

The hinges are rusted, but the latch is at least easy to undo. A few determined pushes later, and it bursts open (loudly, fuck, but there's nothing for it now). A tanned hand appears a moment later, as green eyes and white hair peer over the sill. "Come on. Can you climb?"

Abby, too used to old, apocalypse-worn doors with brittle locks, frowns. But Fenris has a back-up plan, and she mm-hmms his instructions, turning her head to see him go-

He really does go, is the thing. He practically dissolves into the air while she watches, staring, but leaves behind a ripple in the shape of himself like he's displacing everything around him with each careful step. Forcing reality out of the way. He leaves her there to carefully lower the bar, which she does slowly to keep from anything creaking unnecessarily, and just when she's hoping that he didn't want her to go with him (wherever he went, she can't see him any more), something bursts open above her head, around the curve of the Chantry.

Following the sound, she sees a hand first.

"How the fuck..." is a murmur for herself rather than him, her brow furrowed. Whatever. Ask questions later. "Yeah."

A boost would be good... she assumes that's what his held out hand is for and jumping, she clasps it tightly in hers and uses that to get her palm flat on the sill. From there, she has no trouble pushing herself up the rest of the way (noting with satisfaction that her healed elbow holds her weight just fine, if not with a tremble of strain). "Move."

She's good, you can drop down now.

The inside of the place is not what she was expecting (dusty, ruined). It's actually really beautiful, in a quaint and peaceful little way. The people who live here probably come inside often to gather as a community. ... Fuck. Now she feels bad about what they're here for. To make matter's a little worse she's abruptly reminded of Lev and Yara. She can picture the pair of them standing up front, heads bowed, palms pressed against symbols of their faith. They'd find all of this so interesting.

To distract herself from the uncomfortable squirm in her stomach, Abby turns her head, glancing around methodically. Trying to think like a local. "Where would they put it?"

Probably not in the pews.

It is beautiful, and undoubtedly those who come here to worship revere it. But, Fenris thinks, ignoring the curl of guilt twisting low in his stomach, they can always rebuild. What mischief he and Abby will get up to is not meant in religious disrespect, not really. And it will serve a greater purpose.

(He tries very hard not to think about how such justifications have been used to excuse just about anything, and all by people who very much believed it to be serving some greater purpose. This is different. It's stopping an empire full of blood mages and slavers; there is no greater purpose).

"Somewhere hidden," he says, flexing his fingers. Going up the aisle, he steps up to the alter. That's too obvious, but there's a little side room to his left, and it's there he heads next. There's incense and folded robes, and he goes through them haphazardly, knowing the more mess they leave, the better it will be. "Are the Chantries in your world like this?"

"No shit." She makes a show out of checking underneath of a pew but he's already moved out of the room and completely misses it.

Oh well. Plenty of other things to look through and knock over. Stacks of pamphlets she can knock over, catching fragments, sentences- "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him," thus spoke the prophet Andraste, as she cast down the Tevinter Imper- before they scatter across the floor.

"They probably used to be." Cozy and neat. Silent. Empty places of worship usually creep her the fuck out, but the Chantry does not. Probably because people still come here regularly and it hasn't been lost to time, forgotten about. To clarify, "I came here from an apocalypse."

That's the best way to put it, right?? Anybody else would call that but to her it was the way she'd always lived. "Lots of places like these back home, but... not a lot of people left to use them."

This is the second time he's heard of a Rifter coming from a place that was hellish; idly he wonders if that's at all a factor in why they're chosen. Then again: Astarion's world had seemed intact. His life was hellish, but his world whole and hale; perhaps it's just idle chance. Or—

He sticks his head out of the little room, frowning at her. "What kind of apocalypse, exactly?" Maybe it would be easier to ask do you come from the same world as Ellie, but one thing at a time.

Fair question. Abby doesn't look, because she's busy opening little drawers up by the altar, rifling through, leaving them open, "Pandemic."

You know. She gestures at her head with one hand, mimicking the sprout of mushrooms, "Brain-eating fungus." And in fact, she'll connect the dots for him. She may as well, considering how much of a social butterfly Ellie is, "D'you know Ellie? In Scouting, missing two fingers. We're from the same world."

"Ah." Brain-eating fungus is a new term; he'd heard it was a disease not unlike the Blight, but that adds a new layer of horror to it. For a moment he vaguely tries to think about what that might mean . . . a corpse with an empty skull, staggering around and acting on the impulses of some disgusting bit of mold . . . eugh. It's theoretically no more horrific than the Blight, but there's something off-putting about what you aren't intimately familiar with.

But ah, so they are from the same world. Fenris jerks his head in a nod, confirming that— and then, rather than return to his search, leans in the doorway, looking at her. "A lucky happenstance." His tone even. "Did you two know each other prior to being taken here?"

"So lucky." Her tone is as even as she can make it, and she's saved from answering his question by immediately (thankfully) discovering, "Ah ha."

A little collection of silverware, how about that. The drawer was tucked into a cabinet underneath an array of stacked cups. She shakes the entire thing out of its grooves. It's painfully obvious to her that Fenris is putting two and two together of his own accord in the background (her avoidance of the subject isn't going to make that any better) but she's determined not to bring it up. He'll have to do it, and she won't make it easy for him.

For now: "Help me with this." They should split the load, so that Abby's bag isn't full of soup spoons.

She wants to make it difficult, and that's fair enough; he appreciates that over a blatant lie. And you know, it's none of his business? It really isn't. Whatever history Abby and Ellie have with one another (and they surely do, for gosh no I never once met her is a lot easier than openly dodging a question) is their own business, and by all rights Fenris ought to respect that.

He won't. He's not perfect by any stretch, and on the list of sins, nosiness really isn't all that bad. Besides: he's rather fond of Abby. There's a certain blunt sensibility about her that Fenris appreciates.

"Ah. It was so bad, then?" Idly said as he comes over to help her. It's smart not to load one bag full of spoons, yeah. It'd probably be smarter too for them to wrap each individual one with some kind of fabric, but eh, fuck it. "What was the issue?" She can tell him to fuck off if she really wants, but you never figure anything out unless you ask.

Hopefully he still likes her blunt sensibility when she tells him, "Yeah." And he's only just met her and so isn't entitled to any of the details, but perhaps he'll be expecting for her to continue breezily, "And it's none of your fucking business."

Not angrily, just light and matter-of-fact, a clear indication that he should drop it as she tips the other half of the cutlery draw into his open pack. A couple of knives miss and hit the ground loudly, but she doesn't seem to care. It'll look more haphazard and frantic if they leave a few things scattered anyway.

Abby glances over her shoulder, checking. "Let's get out of here."

He laughs when she says that. It's quiet, more an amused scoff under his breath than anything else, but still, it's there. She's absolutely right, is the thing of it. It's none of his business and he's being nosy, but ah, he appreciates someone who says such a thing outright instead of politely demurring.

But yes, leaving seems advisable. He follows her towards the door, and they're just about to open it when a thought strikes at him.

"Can you speak Tevene?" Any kind of Tevene, really; he doubts anyone in this tiny village can. "It may help sell the act if they overhear certain phrases." But really: why on earth would she? It's an irritating language to learn, doubly so if you haven't grown up with it. Leaning up against the ancient wood, he tips his head, regarding her.

"Festinare, populus excitare mox." Which is sort of a handful, and so he adds: "Or, if cursing suits you more: futuere."

Abby chuckles too when they start walking; she can hear the dull clinking of all the forks in her pack. That's subtle.

To his question she raises an eyebrow, and says, "¿Qué? Perdón. No hablo inglés," in a good imitation of somebody she misses very much; what he says back to her sounds like no language she's ever heard before. Which makes sense. Because why the fuck would she know how to speak Tevene–

"... I'm gonna stick with the swear words." Best thing you can learn in any language, "What was the first thing? Festinare, something,"

"Festinare means, more or less, hurry up." He shifts his own pack up, listening with satisfaction to the silverware rattle. He has never been one for sneaking about, wraith-like powers or not; much easier to simply charge forward and deal with things head-on. "Futuere can mean . . ."

Hm. He pauses for a moment, but finally: "Go fuck yourself, I think, would be the most accurate translation. But if you wish for something more versatile, fasta vass is one I default to often. Fucking hell might be a good, if not word-for-word accurate, translation of that." Language is his passion, really— and honestly, it's just good to speak his native tongue. "If you wish for more, I would not mind teaching you. Later, though, perhaps."

"Okay."

She'll take him up on that and gladly, once they're out of the woods. Or, rather, out of the Chantry? since they have to exit the same way that they came in. At least they can be as noisy about it as they like now that they're on the way out, blatantly leaving the place with bags clinking from all the stolen shit inside of them, and Abby bitterly exclaiming, "Fasta vass–" amongst a litany of other things, all equally as rude as the last (and all very truthful, because she nearly loses her balance on her way out of the window).

Abby is in a good mood. It's from a combination of relief that Fenris didn't push her for information, and genuinely enjoying herself. There's something enjoyably mischievous about this stupid mission, and yelling swear words in a different language as they leave the scene of the crime.

(She drops a fork on the way outta there, but she bent it solidly in half, first.)

[CLOSED] silverwhere?

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