MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone (more or less)
WHAT: A trip to Rialto, in pursuit of convincing Antiva to give up its famed neutrality, just this once, pleaaaase.
WHEN: Cloudreach/Bloomingtide 9:48
WHERE: Rialto, Antiva
NOTES: OOC post here. Remember to use warnings in your subject lines for gore, sexual content, or anything else people might not expect to find while casually reading this log on a work computer.

YOUR DESTINATION

Rialto is Antiva's second city in importance and in population, but in many ways it is first in sheer Antivanness. When foreigners imagine Antiva, they often conjure images of graceful bridges arching over turquoise canals, lovers on a romantic gondola ride serenaded by a soprano's aria, fiery young men in vibrant leathers dueling for the honor of their houses in the piazza while down at the docks pirates share tales over bowls of seafood pasta. All of this is to be found in Rialto. While Antiva City is a teeming, bustling center of world commerce, with all the clamor and diversity that creates, Rialto is popular more with the city's uppermost classes than its vast mercantile middle, particularly the old aristocracy who prefer Rialto for its relative peace and its proximity to King Fulgeno's favorite residence. This is not to suggest that Rialto is a Hightown without any Low—like all major cities, for every palazzo-lined canal where the wealthy rest are ten more waterways packed with delivery boats and shops and taverns of every degree and description, from the broad spans edged with rows of fashionable tailors and jewelers to narrow, winding alleys of water overhung by leaning buildings of smoke-stained stucco. The docks, though neither as large nor as busy as the capital's or Kirkwall's, are still large and busy by any other measure, packed with merchants and sailors and fishermen, along with some who—uniquely common in Antiva, a kingdom founded by pirates—skirt the line between honest seamen and buccaneers.

Antivans will argue it's always a good time to visit their country, but everyone else agrees that spring is the ideal. The weather is consistently mild and pleasant, warmer than Kirkwall but without yet edging into the heat of summer the way it is in Tevinter to the north. In the city's parks and piazzas, flowers and shrubby add a few splashes of greenery and warm breezes send occasional showers of petals down from the cherry and citrus trees just finishing their blooms. Climbing flowers and arbors of grapevines are common adornments.

For the king's birthday celebration the city's elegant pale stone buildings are all decorated, with public buildings and bridges hung with bunting in the crown's favored purple and banners depicting the arms of Antiva and the royal house Campagna: a golden ship, sails unfurled, beneath a crown, the shield supported by a seahorse on one side and a stallion on the other. Along the grand canals every palazzo is bedecked in some combination of the occupant's colors and the kingdom's purple, and the theme continues throughout the city, every district finding some means to demonstrate its festive mood. The effect is only slightly diminished by the few areas where graffiti conflicts with the decorations, and Riftwatch, at least, will be pleased to see it mostly takes the form of anti-Tevinter sentiment, ranging from a scrawled FUCK THE VINTS to a few choice quotes from certain popular pamphlets and puppet plays, to a large and surprisingly skillful mural of a dragon and a caricatured merchant prince sitting together on a heap of gold playing with toy ships and dolls while behind them a fire rages.

The king's birthday is always an extravagant occasion, even more so when he hits any age ending in a 0 or a 5, as he is this year. A full week of revelry has been decreed, with each day marked by pageants and parades and games of all sorts, and every night new and fabulous parties in his honor hosted by various houses, guilds, and societies. Knowing the king's love of masquerades, many of these balls are masked, with themes ranging from House Campagna's most celebrated ancestors, to sea creatures, to all gold everything. (While fancy dress is of course always encouraged, many will simply attend in their best finery, with the intention of visiting multiple parties in the same night.) The city is lit with lanterns, torches, and even the occasional bonfire, as the bacchanal spills into the canals and piazzas each evening and continues long into the night.


YOUR MISSION

Riftwatch arrives on this scene by ship, which garners a few approval points from the merchants and pirate-descendants populating the city. The ship remains anchored in the harbor for the duration of their stay, reachable by tender and doubling as a temporary home for the selection of griffons who have accompanied them north.

Griffon riders will make the trip back and forth from the ship most often, as they'll be assigned to shifts that keep one or two of them in the air at all times, day or night. The outward justification for this is to entertain the Antivans below them; they're encouraged to fill some of the time with acrobatics over busy squares or particular parties, at times with banners and streamers to trail behind their mounts. Those with griffons who don't startle easily might be entrusted with a few fireworks to set off from the air. But the real purpose is surveillance, of course, and to serve as emergency back-up or ambulance for anyone who finds themselves caught in a tight spot and calls for help. Riders will be equipped with vials of antidotes to some common poisons, and particularly at night, anyone with healing magic or medical skills might be asked to ride along.

Meanwhile, down on the ground, a steady stream of influential merchants and socialites will want an interesting Riftwatcher or three at their dinners and private parties, each presenting an opportunity to impress upon influential people the importance of the war. These gatherings will range from stiff, formal affairs to wild bacchanals, depending on the host. Of note: a moonlit evening with a chamber quartet on Antonio Luppi's pleasure yacht, famously large enough to have a croquet pitch on the upper deck, a days-long Wicked Grace tournament with rising stakes where Marco "il Calabrone" Molinari defies anyone to beat him, and a race through the canals on gondalas owned by Antiva's who's-who. There are no rules, so finding ways–even magical or new-technological ways–to improve the odds of the more invested racers may win some favor, and a number of competitors are eager to see if Riftwatch has some arcane way to give them an edge.

Outside the city gates, on a grassy cliffside that overlooks the Amaranthine Ocean, there's a faire for the workers and peasantry. There's dancing, a series of field games (tug of war, footraces, horseshoes, wrestling, hammer throwing, blindfolded stick-dueling, mob football, and whatever the heck wallop is), a bonfire each evening, and young people goading one another into cliff diving and climbing back up, sopping wet, using stairs and handholds carved into the cliffside. While no single one of the participants is as influential as the better-heeled set hosting gathering elsewhere, it's still good politics to put in an appearance, play some games, and dispel any lingering perception of Riftwatch as a weird heretical sect or pack of wild demons.

They'll find similar opportunities scattered throughout the streets of Rialto: full tables at taverns who might listen raptly to their accounts of the war further south, minstrels and players who might be persuaded to change their tunes to whip up sympathy or anger for Corypheus' targets, and lower-level independent tradesman who might be persuaded to stop doing business with Tevinter or push for such an agreement within their guilds.

Riftwatchers who are especially active in outreach in these working-class quarters may find themselves approached quietly by representatives of I Figli Della Brace, an underground network of agitators that sprung up in the wake of Riftwatch's prior propaganda efforts and has been wreaking minor havoc by destroying Tevinter goods, carrying on the tradition of vandalism, and hassling those who do the most business with Tevinter and the Anderfels. They're loosely helmed by Vieri Fontana, who already trusts a few members of Riftwatch, and in exchange for Riftwatch's assistance with a few sneaky favors and quick but rowdy demonstrations of disobedience, they'll promise a strong showing of angry common folk outside the palace when it's most needed.

And through all of this, Riftwatch members will need to be looking over their shoulders, watching their drinks, avoiding dark alleys, keeping an eye out for snipers on rooftops, and staying wary of alluring strangers, because an untold number of Antivan Crows are out for their lives and/or anchors.

The purpose of all of this hobnobbing and sneaking around and dodging of murder attempts awaits at the end of Riftwatch's stay: King Fulgeno the Merry and all of the Merchant Princes have agreed to give a contingent of Riftwatch diplomats a moment, the day after the king's largest birthday feast, to plead their case against continuing to trade with Tevinter and the Anderfels. Winning them over would strike a significant blow to the enemy, already cut off from trade with much of the rest of Thedas, and bring Antiva that much closer to actively assisting with the war effort.

Should this meeting involve the support of a few more Merchant Princes, the dramatic unmasking of a traitor among the Princes and a conspiracy among the Crows, and shouts of support from people in the street echoing in through the windows, there's a good chance they'll pull it off.


YOUR ACCOMMODATIONS

The canal-side palazzo where Riftwatch is residing during its visit is the summer property of Merchant Prince Amancio Vivas. Unlike some questionable accommodations provided to Riftwatch in the past, Palazzo Vivas is roomy and lavish, brimming with expensive decor and labelled artifacts and comfortable seating. Anyone needing space to work or plan will find multiple nooks and tables in the library, and Riftwatch has collectively commandeered a secondary dining room (there are several) for meetings.

For those needing a break from work, actually, Palazzo Vivas is well-stocked with books and all of the necessary equipment for parlor games, plus an echoing ballroom equipped with a pianoforte. There's a cabinet of decent wine and spirits available, or a locked cellar full of the very good stuff for the particularly enterprising. The palazzo encircles a central courtyard garden with enough tall hedges and trees that someone might disappear into it. Currently it's in full bloom, including some rare night-bloomers, and at all hours bustling with some combination of insects, birds, and bats. Also featured: two small fountains and a canal-fed wading pool.

The beds, unlike most of the Gallows', involve feathers rather than straw. The sheets are soft. Everything smells like lavender. Everyone can have a bed if they're willing to share with at least one other person; those who are unwilling will find themselves on the floor or a settee.

Everyone will be asked to take on some additional tasks in the palazzo. Most important is guard duty, including some overnight patrols to make sure there are no intruders or disturbances. But as only a skeleton staff is present in the palace, idle Riftwatchers might be sent out to Rialto's bustling markets for food and supplies and/or pressed into making vats of porridge, pasta, or seafood stew to keep everyone else fed while the single cook is attending festivities elsewhere.


YOUR LEISURE

Between assignments, Riftwatch members may find moments–or even several consecutive hours!--to enjoy Rialto. Cautiously, on account of the assassins. But still. In addition to partaking in the merriment, entertainment, and games purely for fun, there are street performances to watch, gondolas to hire for leisurely floats, markets and shops stuffed with goods from throughout Thedas, bath houses, and, only a short hike or shorter griffon ride away from the city, a pristine white sand beach on a calm cove, littered with sea shells, without a single decomposing shipwreck in sight. It's not something they're going to find in Kirkwall, so no one can be blamed for wanting a peek.

Comments

MISSION: Mazegate

[faderifting]

OOC | Do your mission log here. Remember: your goal is at least 15 tags.

[youwonscience]

Come to Antiva, they said. We need help reading the thaumascope measures, they said.

Cosima's determination to minimize her fieldwork does not not actually go so far as insubordination, or even criticizing assignments out loud. But she does maintain that silent, inner grumbles are every agent's prerogative. The party has been nice enough (besides the suspicion with which Riftwatch agents are forced to regard every edible or potable offering). Cosima's dressed in an outfit that's a stylish but bohemian mix of Marcher and Antivan menswear, her hair in a large woven bun in the back of her head. The look drew comments, but as many admiring as critical (especially because even with gloves covering her anchor shard, no one is going to mistake her for anything but a rifter). It's a convenient mix of her own preferences and a practical choice, and she's especially grateful for the sturdiness of her boots as she and her colleagues work through the maze. It's mostly fairly even ground, but still dirt and grass.

Mostly, she's paying attention to the readings, so she's been quiet. But she perks up and says, "Oh, hey, I think there's something over h-"

The thought abruptly cuts off as she takes a turn and nearly careens headlong into a deep pit. She's not out of danger immediately, as she very much looks in danger of losing her balance.

MISSION: Pirate Pretend

[faderifting]

OOC | Do your mission log here. Remember: your goal is at least 15 tags.

rolled 5

[altusimperius]

The clouds, which were looking bright and puffy and picturesque minutes ago, have begun to form worryingly into a general covering that blocks the sun and officially prevents its cheerful twinkling on the waves.

It's also a pity considering how much effort Benedict has put into his look: optimized for positively glowing with health and adventuresome youth, he has parted his hair just so, smudged kohl around his eyes, and arranged the opening of his shirt such that it will show just enough chest to be romantic.

Leaning against the pirate ship's railing, he looks as though he's posing for a painting, his image of effortless beauty only disrupted by the occasional disgruntled glance cast at the sky. He could have had it all.

MISSION: Crowspiracy

[faderifting]

OOC | Do your mission log here. Remember: your goal is at least 15 tags.

[positioning]

There had been complaints earlier, as they'd dressed. Not about the bloodstains, which Aleksei has no real issue with, but with the fashion of the garb itself. And with the alterations to his hair. And so on. There are objections.

But never let it be said that Aleksei doesn't take seriously the task in front of him, even if it is to pose the question, very quietly as the doors to the Palazzo Pugnale swing open—

"You are very sure we are allowed to keep whatever we find?"

In which the word "find" is in many quotations.

john silver.

[hornswoggle]

[ starters go here. wildcard or request some shenanigans. ]

ota.

[hornswoggle]

pub crawl

Business in Antiva is not so far removed from how John spends his time in Kirkwall: split between high society parlors and crowded taprooms along the water.

What has changed is that he is obliged to acquire a partner in these travels. And so he has, catching whoever looked least occupied on his way out for the day and can be so charged with the task of preventing a Crow from cutting John's throat.

Nevermind that John is very capable of preventing that himself. Keeping that truth to himself has always served him well.

"You might let me do most of the talking," John is advising, in a tone that is equal parts teasing and genuine advice. "Unless you've a suggestion as to which of our recent exploits would make the best impression?"

Please, remind him of what's been done lately.

wildcard

[ do whatever.

quick run down of places you're likely to find john:
- around the bonfire at the faire
- fancy dinners and private parties
- any given water-side tavern
- facilitating rowdy displays of disobedience ]

derrica.

[tender]

[ starters go here. wildcard or request some shenanigans. ]

palazzo wildcard

[nonvenomous]

“Are you lost?”

Crows tread very quietly; the voice that lifts through the dark of the palazzo hallway behind them is remarkably close, its source ill-positioned to see the way Mr. Dickerson’s eyes cut to Derrica in a measure aside. He’s listening sharp while he runs the numbers, stopped dead in his tracks. This is not ideal.

It is also already happening.

“It’s warm indoors for gloves don’t you think?”

“I have a circulatory condition,” Richard answers in clipped Antivan. He hasn’t turned. There are daggers at his belt he hasn’t reached for.

Somewhere ahead, near indistinguishable from a band of dark tile, Thot has curled quick quick quick around a corner to retrace her steps back for them. Her pupils are blown wide, retinas glimmers of distant gold.

Behind his cloak, Richard crooks his near hand into a clear sign to share what Thot sees behind them -- for Derrica’s eyes only. One crow.

ellis.

[heorte]

[ starters go here. wildcard or request some shenanigans. ]

astarion.

[heorte]

There are better places for a reunion than in a crowd of Antivans, well-dressed and sipping expensive wine and circling in and out of Astarion's orbit in the course of the evening.

Ellis is not a man for events such as this. But there are assassins trying to kill them all, and that must overrule other factors. Such as who among them would make it through an evening among high society without considering the merits of tossing themself from the window.

Regardless, they are here.

"Do you imagine you'll stay until the end?" is pitched quietly. Ellis is not holding a cup of wine, but his mace is affixed to his hip, close to hand. Just in case.

Perhaps it is as if Ellis had never been gone, and his reappearance is no longer worth commentary. The work requires their attention, doesn't it?

loki.

[icasm]

[ starters to come. feel free to wildcard me or request something. ]

poisoning & roommate shenaniganery all in one | closed to abby & benedict

[icasm]

Loki is drunk.

Not 'very full' like he told Sylvie that one time on Lamentis-1, but well on his way. Everything has softer edges to it, the colors are vivid, and he can't stop humming a song as he makes his way back to the room he shares with Benedict. He makes more noise than he expects to, probably waking Benedict who he can tell is at least sitting up in bed and staring at him.

"'m drunk," he informs his roommate, cheerfully. "It was a lovely party, really, you should have come. There was dancing, and good food, and I only had two drinks? Which..." He pauses, frowns, and thinks about it before he begins patting down his pockets. The room spins, and he grabs the footboard of the bed with one hand while checking his pockets for his crystal with the other.

"Shit."

Byerly

[bouchonne]

[ Starters in thread! ]

open: Wicked Grace tournament

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly Rutyer is good at Wicked Grace. He's good at bluffing, he's good at lying. So the fact that he's losing to Il Calabrone, a man so insufferable that he gave himself a nickname, is - Well -

Well, it surely doesn't come from Byerly's lack of skill. He's just having a run of bad luck, that's all.

He's walked away from the table to regroup. "Another glass of brandy, gents," he's saying as he goes, and somehow manages to keep from gnashing his teeth when Molinari cackles about how of course he needs something to steady his hands. There's nothing he wants more than a real drink when he stands at the bar, but he orders (as is his wont in situations like this) nothing more than a bit of water to which he adds a few drops of brown dye. And then he turns, and sees -

Someone to help him. Thank the Maker. ]

You.

[ He jerks his chin. ]

I need you to cause a distraction.

Dante

[rebellionyell]

[Starters coming forthwith. Open to requests or you can BYOB.]

Beds, baths, and beyond

[rebellionyell]

[Fortunately for Edgard, Dante doesn’t require a bed to sleep, preferring to sleep strategically as opposed to comfortably. He’s a fan of sight-lines so he’ll gladly take the settee and arrange it so the window is at his side and the door is in full view.

While he’s not paranoid, they are situated in what he’s been told is assassin central, the paradise for assassin birds and sharing a room means he’d rather be alert and protecting the sanctity of the space rather than sleeping anyway.

He'd much rather entertain his roommate or guests and people watch from the window.

--

Unless of course he’s indulging in the bathhouse, in which case ha can be found passed out and in a corner with a towel over his face, seemingly unaware of the rest of the world. Dead? No surely not, but he’s also not moving a single muscle.

Fortunately, he is sleeping, it seems to be the only time he can find between missions and menial tasks to close his eyes without thinking about windows and doors. Whether or not he's chosen the most ideal place for a nap has yet to occur to him, but it's comfortable enough.

--

When stuck between jobs Dante can be found cobbling together some kind of instrument, it looks like a lute with a hollowed out drum, more strings, a fret boards...something coming close to resembling a guitar.

It’s a work in progress.]

Mado | OTA

[lumelume]

I. Arrivano

In addition to whatever welcoming committee awaits Riftwatch on the dock, there's also a pair of raggedy musicians, dark of hair and tan of skin, brother and sister by the look of it. Their smiles are bright as they play the company in on their exotic-looking stringed instruments, one bass and one treble, though the music stops altogether when they've finished scanning the crowd and found who they're waiting for.
A sonorous cry of delight greets them from the back of the procession, and the woman lowers her violin to greet an embrace from Riftwatch's rusty-haired Rialtino that could be categorized as projectile. After nearly knocking her over, he then proceeds to leap into the arms of her large brother, who swings him around without much awareness of who might be standing nearby.
An excited outpouring of frenzied Antivan follows, as Mado seems to briefly forget why he's here in the face of people he clearly knows and, if their expression are any indication, adores.

II. Vita di Palazzo

a. On any given night, when the time has come to turn in, Mado can be found sleeping in dog form by the hearth on the palazzo's kitchen floor. He's generally happy to become man-shaped again without much prompting, though he will usually cast a canine side-eye towards any late lingering staff, not wanting anyone to scream or faint from surprise.

b. Though downtime is rare, particularly for those in Scouting, and double-particularly for those who can disguise themselves in other forms, there are times when the house is quiet that Mado can be found wandering about (as a human), feet clad in quiet canvas shoes, simply turning his head to and fro as he takes in the art and family iconography of their temporary residence.
He doesn't touch anything.

III. In Cerca di Famiglia

Never one to say overtly what he wants, who he is, where he's going, it's easy enough for Mado to slip in and out of most rooms without most people noticing. Anyone who does notice will find that he most frequently travels in dog form, trotting along the cobbled streets with native familiarity, and that he favors one location as much as he avoids another.

a. The preferred location is one that could, by an astute observer, be recognized as the home of Kostos and Nikos. Having followed one or both of them there once as a dove, he now returns periodically as a dog to sit on its periphery, where he seems to be content to simply stare at the door.

b. For whatever reason, he won't go near one particular plaza that features a regularly rotating cast of colorful street musicians, though he will at times give it the same treatment, sitting off to one side to observe and sniff the air. A careful eye will note that his friends from before are among the players, and during their sets they're joined by a third, unfamiliar man.

IV. Wildcard

ii - b

[exsecutus]

"You can take it."

Nikos appears, somewhat suddenly and clumsily, from the shadows of the adjoining room. This is not as cool an entrance as it might sound. It is not quite night, just shy of the evening hour, but it is dark in this part of the palazzo. The curtains have already been drawn, which means that Nikos has just been sitting in the dark.

He uses the bottle he's holding to gesture toward one of the small paintings. The wine sloshes against its sides but he's drunk enough that it doesn't spill out, as careless as he's being with it. On the canvas, tall sandstone cliffs stand over the ocean. A small ship is poised upon the waves. Its unfurled sails are full of invisible wind.

"The prince won't notice. He's got a hundred more to take its place. In crates, in storage. You could take those too."

kostos averesch

[exequy]

[ Thread container, etc. Hit me up or wildcard me if you have a different idea. ]

palazzo vivas | ota

[exequy]

i. For all he blusters like he owns the place, Kostos has not been to Prince Amancio's Rialto residence since he was a child. Eight, maybe? Small. Small enough that he and Nikos and Keto could all be locked in a wardrobe by Marisol—the true mistress of the house—and left there, squabbling and scratching and stubbornly refusing to give Marisol the satisfaction of hearing them shout for help, covering Keto's mouth when she tried, until their empty dinner chairs inspired a manhunt.

He knows the wardrobe when he sees it. But even the things he can remember look different now, with age and new angles, and there is a great deal he does not remember at all.

So, on their first night in Rialto, he gets lost in the hallways, despite how predictably laid-out they are around the square shape of the building. He passes by some open bedroom doors twice, maybe three times, on occasion hissing, "Shit." He lingers for a time glaring at a painting of a ship that he's sure he's already passed. (The actual problem is that there are several paintings of ships, and he doesn't have an eye for paintings or for ships.) He is not going to ask for help.

ii. After the first night, he is back to blustering like he owns the place, demonstrating an uncanny ability to appear wherever someone has caused or is about to cause some small amount of trouble to remind them that they are not allowed.

Touch the art? "Don't."

Track in mud? "You are cleaning that up."

Linger too long near the locked door to the wine cellar? "You will wish you were dead."

Break something? A long, long, silent glare.

Though, on closer read, it might be a more accurate read to say he is blustering around like he's in charge of the place. Perhaps like he is worried about the opinion of the person who actually owns the place. He learns the names of the few servants who are present faster than he has ever learned one of his Riftwatch colleagues', but it's not to give them orders more efficiently; it's to apologize for other people's misbehavior, to tell them someone else will take care of this or that so they don't need to worry about it. To silently say please tell Amancio we were the best guests you've ever seen. But, like, in a cool, reserved way that does not require him to say please.

Cosima

[youwonscience]

Faire (OTA)

Anyone who ventures out to the workers' faire won't find it hard to spot Cosima. For all she's following instructions not to wear her Riftwatch uniform, she can't really do without her glasses, and her manner sticks out even after years in Thedas have made her more at ease here. She's not much use at any game except horseshoes, but she's frequently in the thick of the dancing, gamely getting locals to teach her the steps. Later in the evening, she can be found around the bonfire, listening to locals' stories and occasionally offering some of her own (though only when requested).

For all she insists her place is in her lab back in Kirkwall, there's something brighter and warmer about her in the midst of a party like this. Her genuine interest in the people she meets is clear to see, though when she catches sight of a fellow Riftwatch agent, her smile is just as big and welcoming, and she's apt to gesture them over to join her.

Wildcard

[Choose your own adventure! Or if you'd like something bespoke, hit me up on plurk or Discord.]

[armd]

It's probably safe to sit with Cosima now that they've reached evening and the darkness offers them a little more cover and anonymity to counter looking distinctly out of place. Abby joins her by the fire, and stretches her legs out beside it, watching the embers crackle into the night air.

"This place is kind of amazing," she confesses, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "Isn't it? Riftwatch should have a summer base here."

yseult

[hassaran]

[ hit me on plurk if you want something specific ]

closed | tsenka & ellie

[hassaran]

[ The last groan of the cupboard feet across the floorboards fades and Yseult sinks to a seat in the trail of old vestments that've tumbled out of it on its journey. Not a long one, just from that bit of wall a few feet over to barricade the door, but about at the limits of their capacity just now given the way her knees give up and drop her the last foot or two to the ground. She strips out of her coat before arms get too far gone--a man's overcoat, heavy padding sewn into the lining to help disguise the shape of hips and chest. A disguise that doesn't hold up on close inspection, but it has other uses too: there's a slash clean through the coat on one side, hole gaping as she pulls, but barely a snag in her shirt beneath. She rubs a hand over ribs and leans back against the armoire with a thunk of bone on oak. ]

Are you both alright?

Ellie

[notathreat]

[Open prompts and bespoke! HMU if you haven't already.]

OPEN

[notathreat]

A. | Patrol

As a somewhat experienced griffon rider (experienced griffon rider, her, who woulda thunk?) Ellie's usual assignment is to be in the air. She takes a slew of passengers with her, concentrating on those who don't ride on their own and need a stable mount, but if space or time's an issue, she'll double up with someone who already knows the ropes.

In the warmer climate, Ellie's got on a a tunic and breeches, high leather boots, and has finally started to forego the heavy cloak. Now she's in favor of a leather vest that provides a comfortable perch for her pack, bow and quiver. It's a lovely bow, too -- made shortly before the mission. Those who can sense magic will be able to taste the fade-touched crystal inlaid in the body of the bow, worked prettily into the sides.

The gear makes her easier to hold onto, but not by much. Artichoke is big, muscular, and eager to show off by wheeling powerfully into the sky.

Once they gain a bit of height over the water, cheers rise up from the revelers below. People are starting to recognize her.

"On a scale of one to ten," she says conversationally, "How awesome do you want to make their day?"


B. | Tag, You're It

"Hey," Ellie says from the mouth of an alleyway. Night is close to falling and the party is picking up, but that just means that fewer people are paying much attention.

"Give me a boost, would you?"

Without waiting for a reply, she disappears down the alleyway, and indicates an overgrowth of canal ivy and grapevines just out of her jumping reach. She'll have to either be tossed or climb on someone's shoulders to reach it properly.

For the eagle-eyed, there's a bit of paint smeared on her cheek and fingertips, which might hint at what she's up to.


C. | Wildcard!

Abby

[armd]

(Catch-all for open/closed. hmu if you would like something special!)

OPEN

[armd]

SPOT THE TOURIST

Abby has no expectation for Antiva simply because she doesn't know what to expect, and it delights her, every single bit. She came to Thedas under travelled and being granted the opportunity to explore to her heart's content (within the strict confines of the buddy system of course) is freeing, exciting. There are a lot of things she wants to look at. Rialto is the polar fucking opposite of the dismal, eternally damp Seattle. She kinda loves it.

Whomever has been cajoled into buddying up will have to endure her excitement over the most innocuous of things. The little round coins stamped with what she's assuming is the king's likeness are a good example.

"Where do we get more of these?" By trading for them, probably, or trying to get change. Somewhere. She'd like two.

ALL'S FAIRE IN LOVE AND TUG-OF-WAR

A crowded area seems like a good place to spend a couple of hours. Hard to murder somebody during a scene like this without drawing a bit of attention and there no buildings around to shoot from the top of when you're in a field... besides, she never signed up for any of the games everybody else got to do during the grand tourney! So she owes this to herself.

'This' being tug-of-war. Obviously.

"Oh come on. You can be on my side."

Y'know, if that's what you were worried about.

WILDCARD ME

(Or make me write you a starter. I'll do it punk don't think I won't, hmu)

Benedict

[altusimperius]

for Yseult + anyone who feels like being almost-murdered

[altusimperius]

The party in the square is crowded enough to classify as a throng, which is annoying in itself. It's even more annoying when one is resolved to be a teetotaler for its duration, but drink poisoned wine once, shame on the poisoner, but drink it twice, et cetera.

It's through this clarity of mind as Benedict traverses the festival that he catches sight of a metallic glint from within a reveler's sleeve; and on paying further attention it becomes clearer that, while casually weaving through the crowd and saying absent hellos to people here and there, the owner of the sleeve and its glint is unmistakably making their way toward a familiar exposed back.

In the moment he realizes what's happening, Benedict's head jolts with the instant adrenaline knowing. His hand follows a moment later, just a flick of his wrist in the offender's direction, and they suddenly swerve, crashing confusedly into a bystander.
The blade falls from their sleeve and clatters on the cobblestones, eliciting a scream of alarm from the few packed closely enough to see it.

Mobius

[favoriteanalyst]

[starters below, feel free to wildly wildcard]

ship/the journey there [open]

[favoriteanalyst]

Ships, proper ships, are something of a novelty to Mobius. Most of his travel has ever been by foot or by caravan, and most water crossings have been over bridges. Maybe the occasional small craft to shunt between close-but-not-close-enough shores. So the Gallows ferry was something exciting and new. But it's relatively short. It's not a journey the way this is, passengers and luggage and stores of food and such, and truly out on the open sea even if they're just following the coastline.

So when it's safe to do so, he's up on the deck peering ahead, taking in the constant rush of sea air. While there are those who can't stand the rocking and don't seem to have sea legs of note, he takes to it with ease.

Plus, it smells better up here than down below. So he'll take it where he can.

Astarion | OTA | warning for rowdy partying of the pg-13ish variety, violence, blood

[illithidnapped]

I: A LITTLE PARTY NEVER KILLED NOBODY

[You’re here because he brought you here.

Maybe it was willing, maybe it wasn’t— but there’s something almost overwhelming about the terrace fete tonight, music and laughter echoing off the surrounding buildings, swept along by vibrant water not so far below. Every once in a while a burst of hand-cut confetti’s tossed out by an overly-enthusiastic supporter (and overly-drunk) of the reason behind the bacchanal itself, wound up in slurred cries of long may he reign and let tonight never end before, eventually, falling from the rooftop completely—

With a splash.

Not everyone is as wildly taken, of course. Some attendees discuss philosophy, art, the practicalities of Tevinter’s sprawling trade and influence— and the risk of cutting ties. How it might anger a force that isn’t at all in decline, despite the pushback of Val Chevin. The recent delinquencies (while awful, a few admit) proving trouble could only follow.

Astarion, meanwhile, is doing shots with his mouth in a rapid-fire countdown game where the first person to snatch up liquor without using their mouth from bodice, breast or chest earns a point.

How many points one needs to actually win, is entirely unclear.

(And the fact that one of those glasses or bottles could be poisoned doesn’t seem to bother him, either.)]

And just like that, one more round goes to me. [He might, for the record, be swaying ever so slightly— but that's not important right now.] If I get a streak on the next, you all have to swear to support backing out of trade with—

[Hold on.]

Mm. Tevinter.

[Yes. Nailed it.]

II: THE DOG DAYS ARE FAR FROM OVER

[He tends to lurk around the estate at the hours between dawn and dusk.

That’s how it works, night life. Liminal hours become luxury hours, where he paces through the gardens (or, even more rarely, those isolated shores not too far away) by himself in looping paths, followed by a hulking wolf that seems to appear (and occasionally disappear) without any real pattern, her strides long and heavy, stretched out in a way that might, if not for her Fade-touched everything, paint the image of a man walking his dog.

Because shockingly, yes, that’s exactly what he’s doing.

You try leaving a phasing wolf back in Kirkwall.

It’s also why he happened to request a balcony from their gracious organizer (Kostos, he’s going to remember that lack of veranda or garden view, thank you very much), if only to make giving his newfound burden some much-needed air and exercise, rather than letting her wander loose and risk her making a commotion.

So.

Nightly. Daily. Sunrise and sunset, here he is, book in hand, trudging around in idle circles.]

III: WILDCARD
[ooc: You know how it is! Do a combo of prompts, make something else up entirely, start at the estate and then move to a party or vice versa, I am here for it completely :9

Alt message me if you'd like to discuss something more specific, will match format!]

for Fenris;

[illithidnapped]

Oh come on, my darling, I need you. Everyone else is busy tonight— [The mirror Astarion stares into in order to see Leto settled across the bed (Ataashi’s massive silhouette dozing peacefully just behind him), is exceptionally large and exceptionally ornate in equal measure, framing Astarion’s presently pouting expression much in the same way gold leaf frames fine portraits.]

I’ve heard a few members of Riftwatch have been poisoned already, and that’s not to mention all the attempted violence, within and without closed doors, no matter how finely crafted. Nothing seems to stop these so-called assassins, which— I’ll admit— might actually make them good enough at their job that even I’m longing for the luxury of a decent kidnapping.

[A pointed beat, before:]

You don’t want me to get killed out there on my own, do you?

[He’s still getting ready as he feigns at wounded desperation, shrugging a wafer thin shirt around bare shoulders, dark fabric sheer enough to leave even the scars across his back perfectly visible beneath golden leaves that’ve been almost embossed into its surface for how invisible their gilded stitch work seems— like the image of changing seasons or new beginnings, a bird shedding gosling down, the pattern clutters at his shoulders and turns sparse the farther down it runs, tracing the hemlines of the shirt itself (completely open in the front right until it hits the lacework of his trousers...very classy), and accompanying the pearl droplets collaring his neck, flecked throughout his curls, worn in rings across his fingers (lurid overtures in sophisticated symbolism, Astarion’s wicked favorite). Lilac stronger than ever, chasing out the typical accompanying scent of leather oil. Of the lavender sheets they sleep upon, too.

It’s intentional: the well-off and ambitious don’t usually like to be reminded of the mundane unless there’s a deliberate joke in play—

And Astarion won’t make himself the joke. Ever.]

Besides, haven’t you ever thought about what it might be like? Dressing yourself in finery so well crafted that it practically melts to the touch, sinking into the arms of a merchant princess and hearing her sigh as she dreams of you rutting with her beneath a starlit sky...

[Ah. He’s gone and made himself jealous of the potential reality of his own fantasy.

Damn.

How does that even work? Seems unhelpful and unreasonable all at once. Ugh.

Ugh being the noise he actually makes out loud. Shoved away in the absolute next beat by force: stop it, Astarion. Focus, Astarion.]

There’ll be exquisite wine, exotic food, a thousand wonders from every corner of Thedas brought out in celebration of the king’s looming birthday— and Antiva being Antiva, so few here seem to give a damn about what we are. Where we go. You’ll be adored, Leto.

Better than rolling around in here with an overgrown fur rug. [He adds lastly, his pointed glance towards the bed earning one lazy whuff of a sound from the wolf that doesn’t at all move.

Helpful.]

emet-selch

[arkitect]

[collecting open & closed prompts here, come at me if you want anything specific!]

(open)

[arkitect]

1- party time

[Surprisingly enough, maybe, Emet-Selch can actually be found at various functions throughout their time here. He doesn't attend alone, so maybe he's enlisted you to come along to one, or maybe you both had designs on the same gathering in the first place; he tends toward more formal affairs, when he can, a little more reminiscent of those he ran in his former stint as an emperor.

But, on at least one occasion, you can find him at a louder party than the ones he prefers-- one that's more of a revel than one would expect him to engage in. Regardless, he is here, hair slightly disheveled, face flushed a warm pink...

Literally warm, as he's keeping his layered robes on to maintain it so he can keep looking a little drunk (they're a little bit in disarray too, but still firmly fastened.)

Outwardly, he appears to be sliding an arm around whatever familiar face draws near so that he can steady himself, leaning in with a sly grin to tipsily whisper something into their ear.]

Get me out of here.

[His tone is entirely at odds with that smile on his face, and there's the faintest twitch of a brow. Escape route, please. This is especially pointed if you happened to drag him here.]

2- did someone say assassins (combat can be skimmed over to make our lives easier if you prefer)

[The thing about the threat of assassination (or abduction, take your pick) is that while it had obviously been a threat to him in his time as emperor... well. He was distinctly immortal, then. It's difficult to care too much that anyone wants you dead when you're well aware that, should they succeed, you've got a room full of backup vessels.

That's not the case, anymore.

On the upside, he's accustomed to keeping an eye on his surroundings, ever attentive even when he doesn't seem like it, although this is not always going to help as much as he thinks it is.]

(option a- rescue)

[This is one of those cases. He's been fairly certain he's being followed; the trouble is that he can't pin who it is, or determine where they are. Foreknowledge didn't keep them from getting the drop on him after a turn into an unpopulated street, and his back is fairly literally against a wall at the moment. He keeps a tight grip on the two-handed sword in his hands, but it's not an ideal weapon for the space he's in-- they could have killed him by now, probably, which he thinks is likely worse.

Another pair of armed hands certainly wouldn't go amiss.]

(option 2- assist)

[Knowing the dangers they all face here, he keeps as much of an eye on the others as he does the strangers in this city. Whether they're assigned to him for the day or not, he'll help keep an eye on their backs, so if they're on the losing end of their own fight, the moment he finds a sufficient opening to slip in--

The next time a strike lashes out at them, it meets the flat of a large sword.]

fenris;

[doggish]

[all closed starters for now, but come hit me up at kitnkat if you wanna do something!]

closed - ellie

[doggish]

[Rialto is . . . a lot. Not necessarily in a bad way, mind you, but it's always a little overwhelming to be in a new country (and Fenris would know, wouldn't he?). There's so much to take in, sights and sounds, an overwhelming cacophony to the senses, especially compared to Kirkwall's eternal grimness. It's all a little much, and so he spends those first few days walking around the city on his own.

Pacing the cobblestone streets, idly eating various pastries and meats sold by overly enthusiastic vendors, flipping coins into canals and politely declining the chance to own a genuine Antivan souvenir (made of genuine gold!), listening to the chatter as it flows around him . . . it's nice, really. Strange, and frankly a little too brisk in temperature for his tastes, but a welcome break nonetheless.

He runs into Ellie on the third day: the two of them meeting in the street by chance not far from the marketplace. Exploring the city on his own has been nice, but company is pleasing too; he falls in next to her, content to chat and allow her to lead the way forward. Maybe he'll get some sword polish. Who can say. It's a nice day and he's in a pleasant mood; there's something to be said for not having to worry about the state of the fucking world.

Understand: he isn't actively wary. It's not like he's breaking up their conversation every three minutes by craning his neck and searching the crowds. But some instincts never die, and being a bodyguard was his life for so long. It's instinctive to scan the crowd and watch to see if anyone familiar pops up; to see those who are staring for too long, or who seem a little too intent on not catching his eye. Little tells, little hints— and he cannot say what he senses, only that he does.

His hand is heavy as he presses it on Ellie's shoulder, steering her gently but firmly away from a display and forward.]

Keep to this pace. Do not look back. But we are being followed.

sidony venaras | ota & closed prompts.

[indissection]

COURTYARD / PALAZZO / MARKETPLACES.

[ Sidony considers it her proper duty to spend at least a little of her time around the Palazzo each day, if only to ensure there is some form of medical attention on hand for anyone that might need it. Given the nature of their expedition, undercover or otherwise, there is undoubtedly going to be some issues to be dealt with and some problems that will need the support of a well trained healer, magical or not.

She might be the latter, but some prefer a less ethereal hand.

There are a great many of hours that are spent sitting in the library, book in hand, turning the pages idly as her head tilts here and there. She listens out for anyone who might come and find her, pays attention to the people wandering here and there, and altogether lends herself towards becoming more decoration than anything else. It is rather nice, in the end, to have some measure of a break, especially if she might ruin her shoes soon enough chasing here and there after people.

It is becoming a hazard of the trade, and she has accepted that silk slippers are no longer permissible.

Daylight has her in the market, procuring the things she needs for poultices, for cures, for dealing with infection and so forth. She is quite an intense customer and it can be seen in the way she speaks with those hawking their wares, making a decent enough argument about why she ought to be given some money off and offering what she has on hand for trade, little pieces of greenery from here and there that might be of some worth. She is not as successful as she'd like, and it's clear from the twist of a scowl on her face.

During the late hours she can be found enjoying the corridors of the place, looking at the artwork, scolding anyone who thinks to bring mud into the finely decorated place and altogether making herself as useful as possible, her surgeon's case strapped to her arm as a constant and familiar companion. ]

PARTY TIME.

[ Sidony is not fool enough to think her only use is that of a healer, however; she recognises well enough the fact that she is nobility, that she has a certain air about her, and she is proficient in speaking to those who might prefer a more blue-blooded touch.

Brought to a party she has her head held up high, a glass of something delicious and inevitably expensive in her hand, and a smirk on her face. It feels painfully familiar to be here, waving at anyone she might recognise and nodding absently at anyone who looks at her curiously. It's been a long time since she really flexed her proper title and heritage, but if there was ever a moment for it then it would be here.

(Her reputation may well have been damaged by her rather quick and, in the eyes of some, poor marriage, but she does not dwell too much on that - she is far happier with it than without).

Should she see anyone from Riftwatch she recognises she will approach with a drink, or with a hand in offering for a dance, or at least a smile to urge them to come and talk between her rounds of flattering gentry and offering painfully simpering smiles, all in the effort of whispering about Tevinter and the proper form the future ought to take. ]

WILDCARD.

[ Come and find Sidony elsewhere, see her post assassination attempt (closed thread below!) or ping me for something and I can write it up! )

closed to adra.

[indissection]

[ The attempt had come on her way home from one of the parties, a touch of wine in her system and her bag a little too far away.

She had imagined the lithe little elf as someone working at the gathering, handing out cloaks and taking items that needed storing, and had paid very little attention in the moment - more fool her. There had been something familiar about them, enough to leave Sidony with her guard down and hackled settles, enough that she wasn't prepared for the press of a knife against her side and the rather painful sting of wound between her ribs.

It reminds her of the Battle she had been in years before, the breaking of her ribs and the burning on her arm, and suddenly she is leaning against a wall gasping for breath, trying to remember her name and what she ought to do in this situation.

It's likely luck, a painfully good stroke of it, that Adrasteia had been on guard and prepared to take care of her in the event of anything going wrong. There's an edge of panic about Sidony as she stumbles away, the elf slipping off into the night and her eyes widening. She doesn't dare reach down to touch the side of her body, well aware of the fact that her fingers will come away bloody and dark to the touch. She feels foolish for going alone, for not having someone at her side, for not asking Adrasteia to come with her properly, but she cannot undo the mistakes of the past.

Moving out of the way, tucking herself behind a tree - for all the good that will do, considering the stickiness she can feel at her side - she reaches into her bodice and pulls out her crystal, pulling it to her mouth. It's difficult to maintain a level of calm, but she manages, if only to try and urge her girlfriend not to panic... Not that she imagines it will work.

Adrasteia has been proven right, and it leaves a sour taste in Sidony's tongue. ]

I'm by a tree in the palazzo garden, if you wouldn't mind collecting me. [ Swallowing, she breathes out sharply. ] There has been something of an... Incident. I hope you're close?

flint

[katabasis]

I. DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS (feel free to tweak the details to fit your character/throw me a wildcard-ish variant/combine things/whatever)

"You. Come with me," may not have been a particularly heartwarming invitation, but it's landed you—

^(A) Here, in a bustling tavern squashed onto the upper floor of a dockside trade house. It would be loud even if it weren't for the raucous tenor of the patronage. The cacophonous sound of the business being done on the floor below—all the ordinary commerce inflated by the addition of hawking trinket souvenirs and ribbons in the city's colors and pins emblazoned with Fulgeno's face—seeps up through the very floorboards.

It makes for one hell of a place to choose to hold a conversation. And yet that's what they've been doing for the past two hours: entertaining a string of merchant sailors and tradesmen and ship's pilots to discuss the state of trade on the Amaranthine. One might be forgiven, given the noise of the density of the talk and Flint's apparent disinterest in consulting his companion during any of these talks, for wondering what the point of accompanying him has been at all (unless it's simply to fulfill the obligation of the buddy system).

And then, as the latest survivor of Flint's interrogation disappears down the narrow stairwell, he turns and says, "I need you to do something for me."


^(B) Here, at the service entrance to Palazzo Vivas where a wagon with a tarp over its contents is waiting. A brief conversation with the driver reveals the cargo to be a number of casks of wine. This is all perfectly innocuous given the circumstances. After all, Riftwatch must be mindful of what they eat and drink; it only makes sense to have bought a surplus from some trusted confidant.

What is less innocuous is the fact that once the the wagon been unloaded and rumbled away around the corner and out of sight, Flint orders, "Crack the lids. Check the cargo," rather than to simply roll the barrels in off the side street.


^(C) Here, a number of hours, a full evening of gambling, an escaped assassination attempt, and a stolen gondola later, hiding out under one of Rialto's many canal bridges.

The gondola's forcola has been scorched a strange color from the contents of the jar lobbed after them—a Crow's last frustrated attempt to keep them from escaping—, and the scent wafting up from that end of the boat is powerful enough to singe nostril hairs. But at least they're unlikely to be spotted here at their extremely temporary mooring deep in the bridge's shadow.

Flint, sweat prickling hot at the back of his neck, at last brings in the oar to lay it in the bottom of the gondola.

II. WILDCARD

[You know how this works/ping me if you want a bespoke starter]

i.a.

[justashotaway]

"What do you require?" As though she'd say no.

Her presence in this tavern has been a confusing one. Crewmen of various ships have arrived, and Commander Flint has spoken with them. Some of the conversations have been utterly incomprehensible, filled with jargon she assumes one must sail to understand; others have been clear, but without any need for contributions from her. She's simply been a small, pale figure in a black cape beside the commander, observing everything and saying nothing.

Now, given the promise of a task, she's intent. Perhaps her objective is something more than witness or protection.

Julius

[overharrowed]

[Starters go here; if you'd like something bespoke, hit me up oocly]

Closed to Petrana and Marcus

[overharrowed]

The party had been going well.

It was the second occasion Julius had managed a talk with Mayor Ghio of Verteria, a small group dinner in a public but exclusive establishment. Having Petrana at his side had been an undisputed boon, both for charming the skeptical mayor and for keeping a second set of eyes on him. In the end, though, it hadn't been the mayor who had ruined the dinner, but rather someone dressed as a member of the staff who smoothly added something to Petrana's wine before serving it. It was the merest chance Julius had seen, a turn of the head at exactly the right angle at exactly the right moment.

He'd reached over and taken the glass himself, making a show of sniffing it and then taking a (smaller than it looked sip). It led to a small but pronounced expression of disgust and a declaration that the wine had been corked and no one could be expected to drink a ruined bottle. He was polite but firm, and accidentally spilled the goblet's contents on himself and the floor trying to hand it back. This gave him a clear reason to excuse himself.

He trusts Petrana to know something is amiss and follow when she can. She'll be alerted enough to take care of herself, presumably. For his part, he hasn't gotten far, ducked into a nearby doorway, more or less out of view but not hard to find. He's fumbling his way through a simple healing spell to keep himself in good enough shape to get back to their lodgings and secure an antidote. He's honestly not sure thus far whether he's feeling ill effects or if he's just badly shaken; it could be either.

bastien

[cozen]

[ Thread container, etc. Hit me up or wildcard me if you have a different idea. ]

palazzo | ota

[cozen]

There are moments—hours, weeks, years—when Bastien scoffs at this sort of luxury. Thinks of nothing except the people who could eat for the cost of some men's idle entertainment and soft pillows. Swings idly between thinking the exceedingly rich are soulless schemers and cushion-softened idiots, or some combination of the two.

And then there are these moments: when he is sunk deep into the cushions of an overstuffed chair in the overstuffed library, or eating his cheap market food off of an ornate golden platter in a flower-perfumed nook of the garden, or plonking around on the pianoforte in the beautiful, empty ballroom.

In any one of those moments, he might say, "What if—écoute-moi—" or écoutez-moi, as the situation requires "—what if we changed course and used our collective power for evil?" Evil means money. "We could take a vote."

Vanya

[wearyallalone]

[Threads, including open, below; you know the drill if you want something specific!]

Open

[wearyallalone]

Griffon Patrol
(feel free to jump in as a co-rider if your PC is able, or a request air support from the ground)

Vanya volunteered for griffon rider training mainly because it seemed like they could use more griffon riders. He hadn't had any special attraction to them or designs on taking to the air for its own sake. But he unexpectedly found that in the process of gaining a griffon's trust, he'd become fond of her in turn. And, equally unexpectedly, he also found a true pleasure in taking to the air. Neither feeling seems very appropriate to him; they're in the middle of a war. But on the other hand, regular air patrol assignments are less of a hardship than they might be.

He's not much good at showy tricks yet, but Pamplemousse's penchant for play gave him some opportunities for public relations, especially with children. Mainly, though, if his patrol partner is up for some showier flying, he's the one who keeps an eye out for trouble. Inevitably, sometimes they find it. But sometimes it's a quieter evening, even allowing for a bit of conversation if his partner is so inclined.

Panic at the Rialto

Vanya's not alone when the elf runs into him, hard. She does pull his full focus for a moment as she scowls up at him, her sandy hair pulled back in a scarf and a large hoop earring in one ear. "Why don't you watch where you're going?" she says, louder than necessary.

As Vanya starts to apologize, his own voice even, she raises her voice further. "WHAT did you say about Antivan clumsiness?" Before he can catch up to what is happening, she adds, "We don't have to stand for this sort of thing from foreigners," and gives him a shove backwards. A muscular human appears at her shoulder, cracking his knuckles, and then a second, and Vanya doesn't have time to tell anyone with him when he clocks this as a setup because it is already well on its way to becoming a brawl. He can see the glint of a stiletto blade in the elf's hand, but it's hard to immediately do anything about it as bystanders feel evidently compelled to help defend Antiva's honor and Vanya's hands are full dodging their clumsier but more numerous blows.

Wildcard

[Choose your own adventure.]