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

[armd]

After an apologetic rub of Hardie's ears (oopsie), Abby takes a seat at the edge of the bed.

And flops down onto her back with an exaggerated sigh.

She appreciates this, really. Everything explodes out of her, "I didn't pay any attention to the sign-up for the rooming situation, and of course I got paired with Ellie goddamn Williams. I'm so fucking sick of her."

Lifting her head up by millimeters to check Gwen's expression after she says all of this is a little late but, "You're not friends with her, are you."

[kantikoy]

I'll do better once I'm at your side, I promise.

[ She'll give her a kiss for every half of a minute it takes her to exit this crowded shindig and find Sidony. She hears the irritation, can guess well enough at its cause. Her need for Sidony to survive this greatly outweighs the risk of becoming an irritant.

Adrasteia should never have allowed her to attend this party on her own. She should have followed her no matter what.

The question stops her brain from spiraling since it is so far out of the realm of what she's concerned with. It almost stops Adrasteia entirely, but she can see the door to outside now and is heading out of it, come Blight or high water. ]

What? [ No, obviously not. ] In what way is it wrong?

[rebellionyell]

That has to be remedied. Living in a world of massive dragons and never seeing one!

[Dante could never.]

Of course I have a plan B! [Can he tell you the Plan B? That it means transforming into a demon and gliding to the ground and possibly having the dragon attempt to ride on his back the whole way down in retaliation...a hiccup...but] Don't fall!

[armd]

If it saw me it would eat me! (Right?????? Isn't that a dragon's whole MO. She's read The Hobbit and you can't fool her) Or carry me off and eat me later.

(Also that plan B is terrible.

Jokingly,) Maybe you should bring a giant set of reins and try to ride it.

[rebellionyell]

What's the old saying? Dragons don't eat sweet meat? [There's no such saying, you just made that up.]

If I can tame it, I'll attach a sleigh to it and then one night a year I'll fly it across Thedas and drop packages of booze down the chimneys of good boys and girls. [Maybe cause a panic and a few explosions, but the idea is there.]

[bouchonne]

Byerly, of course, should not be surprised by the sound of a body hitting the pavement behind him. That's the point of this. But even so, there's something about the sound - unmistakable, the wet-brittle sound of bones and meat colliding with elegant cobblestones - that a fellow can't simply ignore. The gorge naturally rises.

But after that shudder, he turns. Backs up, eyes scanning the rooftops, searching for a place where he can stay in sight but still defend himself. In the end, he selects a limber tree, planted in the middle of the walkway, its trunk wide enough to provide cover, well-lit enough that Bastien and Fitcher can keep track of him.

The first Crow continues their descent - fast, now that they know they've been made. They find the ground far more nimbly than their partner did, landing on silent feet, moonlight flashing against their blade. And they're clearly aware of where they're being attacked from, because as soon as they're on the ground, they're dashing for cover - ducking under the awning of a street cafe, at just the angle where Fitcher can't press her attack.

Still, it seems they have the advantage -

Until there's a crack of glass somewhere above them and to the left. And suddenly the air on the rooftop is filled with a sickly scent: blood lotus. A confusion grenade, filled with a gas to befuddle the senses and paralyze the mind.

[armd]

(Snort,) There's nothing sweet about me. (But it's a good line all the same.)

If you can't do that with a dragon you should find a way to do it anyway. (She doesn't strictly miss Christmas or anything. It would be funny though,) Imagine the size of the Santa hat you'd have to make...

[contritumella]

[ River hadn't recognized him immediately either, much to her instantaneous chagrin, because she could have said something clever or sweet or told him he was handsome (he is, and she doubts people tell him because of something regarding elves, something else about lyrium tattoos or whatever.

Instead, she complimented his sword. Kind of.

There's something like compassion in his face when he looks at her after she speaks and something like recognition, and she thinks that those aren't too terrible of a thing.

So the girl falls in step with him as they make their way to one of the blade-sellers. They make quite the pair, the lithe human girl and the elf with intense tattoos, but everyone is looking at everyone so River tries to set her quiet paranoia aside. ]

She's good at finding the hidden places, the quiet whispers, the dark corners. Talks in too may undefinable shapes for Diplomacy, and no one in Forces would believe she's to be reckoned with. Research sounds like fun but the necessity for sun and fresh air means... no, not that.

[ River idly runs her finger along a sharp blade with just enough pressure not to cut herself. ]

[rebellionyell]

Well, you can't be scorched meat, because that would be me. You can have charbroiled. [He's too weird to exist.]

Oh that hat would be getting the Grinch treatment. I'll sneak into the home of some fancy pants, snatch their drapes, and fly off into the night. [How he'd manage that with a dragon waiting outside? Ignore the physics.] We'll hit the dragon cave and then it's Fred the Hotheaded Reindeer and Dante the Trash Santa time.

[contritumella]

Does Mobius find River? It depends, really, on if he looks up or not. For when he passes by a tree full of fragrant blossoms and sturdy, crooked branches, there's a soft bit of humming coming from nowhere in particular.

River is up in the tree, patiently combing and braiding her hair with a gold comb with little flowers inlaid in the handle. She saw it in a marketplace and it spoke to her, in beauty if not with words, and she paid more than she was expecting to that day, but it was so worth it. She's also gotten flowers from street vendors, and little gold ornaments she's found broken and scattered amongst the floors at various parties and is carefully braiding all of these items into her hair.

The man walking beneath her has come by this way twice now, and so she stops humming.

"Hey."

[favoriteanalyst]

"Oh-!"

Somehow up had simply never occurred to him. Maybe the murmur of people going about their business, or the chatter of some of the servants, or music floating up in the distance had obscured her humming, or maybe he's just starting to get too single-minded in his age/lyrium consumption. He leans on the tree. It's beautiful, like everything around here.

"Hi, River. You're looking-" good, she looks good, like she's thriving, like she's going to finish up with her hair and dress up and go to a party and knock everyone's socks off, like he shouldn't worry about her at all actually like a silly old man "-very floral. Even among the flowers." He doesn't frown, though there's a pinch at his eyes. "Anyone else around, or are you keeping an eye out from up there?"

Technically everyone only really needs partnered up when they leave the property, but it's still encouraged otherwise; Crows are meant to be excessively good at what they do. One can't be too careful. Or. Is he worrying too much?

[doggish]

[Ah. The mage. He will admit to a bit of wariness at first as he notices her approach, barely noticeable but still there. It isn't personal; he's still finding his footing with most of the mages in Riftwatch, and until he does, he'll be on his guard. But ah, wine helps. A universal sign of peace, and he takes the glass with a grateful nod.]

At least you can say you give it an effort.

[Amused. He takes a sip and settles in next to her, deliberately forcing himself to relax. He cannot spend all his life tensing up against mages— or rather, he can, but it will make his time here very exhausting very quickly.]

And I suspect you fared better than I did.

[A tip of his glass, shared amusement in his gaze.]

I will tell you my tale if you tell me yours.

[rebellionyell]

[Judging by the look in Dante's eyes, he has no idea who Zither is, but he doesn't interrupt to say as much, very taken by the idea of a lute on fire.]

I've never heard of him [he's blunt, but curious, in his admission. To be fair he hasn't had the time to entrench himself within the music circles given his tendency to avoid people by and large.] guess I'd better fancy myself up and keep an ear out, I wouldn't want to miss the chance to see flaming lute.

[sparklequeen]

Orange juice is definitely a bonus, Glimmer will agree. As she stuffs some more food in her mouth, both eyebrows raise a little in question. She has to stop, chew, swallow before she can actually asked what's on her mind.

"What's wrong? Bed too soft after sleeping on the ground so much?" Gentle ribbing. Friendly.

"Playing tourist. Oohing and ahhing at how nice the place is, mostly."

[armd]

Abby gives her a look, eyes rolling, but it's all in good fun. "Oh ha ha."

The beds are too fucking soft though. She doesn't like the way her body sinks down into them, it's– cloying, some how. Too secure. Maybe that's fucked up, but it's just how it is.

"Ellie tried to get in bed with me last night," she what she goes with, and reaches across the table for the dish of salt.

[favoriteanalyst]

[look riftwatch seems to be full of really tall people, rifter or no??? it's extremely unfair he isn't even short he just doesn't break six fucking foot y'all GIANTS]

Unless someone in the crowd wants to pursue you for other reasons.

[Sexy reasons, is what he means. Frankly it makes smiling and looking sly through this much easier if he makes light of it all.]

I take it you aren't exactly a party person, huh.

[cozen]

From Aleksei's right, Bastien swivels his head to give him a look: narrowed eyes still conveying a smile, stern but not unamused.

There was a time he would have murmured, most valuable grab wins. A time not very long ago at all. The number of times in recent memory he's found himself being the loyal or dutiful one, so far as Riftwatch goes, probably says something terrible about the rest of Riftwatch.

He doesn't say anything at all now. He has managed to memorize the correct pronunciation of a handful of important Antivan responses—yes, no, thank you, excuse me, good, etc.—and they're going to have to get him through the evening. For as long as they're potentially within earshot of the palazzo's murderous occupants, he is playing someone polite and very taciturn.

[doggish]

[He kisses her, and it is . . . it's okay! It's solidly decent. A pleasing exchange spurred on by rich wine and decent conversation, and the predicted conclusion to the unsubtle way they've been flirting these past few minutes. And give her credit: she kisses well. She takes the initiative, her head tipping just so as she presses a reddened mouth to his own slick lips, bold fingers drifting up the line of his arm and caressing the curve of his waist as they join together.

But that's all it is. Mundane pleasantness, impersonal and a little bland, and it's no one's fault. Perhaps he is simply too old for this sort of thing. Perhaps, when one hits a certain age, one loses the taste for quick sex or cheap thrills. Or, he considers as he draws back and she stares up at him curiously, perhaps he himself was never very good at impersonal hook-ups like this. Sex without romance, yes, he could manage that; Maker knows he and Isabela had spent a fair few years happily (and enthusiastically) indulging in such a thing. But there was such an intimacy with Isabela, romance or not. He trusted her with nearly all of him, and that brought its own passion.

Besides, he thinks, and tucks a strand of white-blond hair behind her ear, he cannot deny his thoughts stray elsewhere. And it would be . . . mm, dishonest of him to allow this to continue.

Fortunately, she does not seem offended by his sudden disinterest. Instead: she draws back just a little, their bodies still close but a clear line drawn between them, and busies herself with her wine glass. He does not try to explain, and she does not ask, for which he is grateful.

They talk a little more. She hears his accent and speaks of Tevinter, and he gives it a go, he really does, but his heart isn't in it. He does not mind speaking of the evils in that empire, nor indeed all the very good reasons Antiva oughtn't trade a damn thing with them, but he is no spymaster. This is not his game. And while she seems convinced enough, who knows if that will translate into anything meaningful?

But all at once Leto is tired. And perhaps she senses that, for it isn't much longer before she makes a polite excuse and slips out, pressing her lips together all the while. He lingers, scowling at the wall. Not annoyed at her so much as at himself, his own misery and uncertainty as to how to even begin to rectify it. And ah, that could be the start of a very melancholic line of thought indeed, especially after two glasses of red wine, but a noise distracts him.

The sound of footsteps. Faint, but noticeable. A bitten-back exhale; a creak of floorboards. He frowns, his fingers curling (ah, he does not have his talons anymore, and he really ought to start wearing them again), cursing the fact he had not brought a weapon. But no matter. He can tear the heart out of any assassin or saboteur, he thinks, approaching the doorway silently. His fingers knot in the curtain, and all at once he yanks it back—]

Astarion?

[And so baffled is he (so overwhelmed, his stomach dropping like a stone in water, his eyes wide and that woman's lipstick still coloring his lips, guilt screaming across his nerves though he barely knows why), that he does not sense the ripple of air behind him. He does not see the disguised figure slipping out the shadows, darting forward with deadly speed, a knife raised—]

[overharrowed]

"Yes, you're both very durable, and I need to stop stepping in the way of poisoners and axes," he grumbles. It has more than an hint of whistling in the dark to it, a bit more strained than a joke. He's not entirely sure if it's the poison, the antidote, or both making his stomach feel like it's being kneaded by a giant, invisible fist. Either way, being launched into the air hardly helped the situation, for all he's grateful enough for the rescue.

He is, at least, determined to stay conscious. It's probably good for the antidote's action. More realistically, the alternative seems deeply humiliating. To that end, he lapses into silence, his grip on the saddle a bit tighter than strictly necessary.

[notathreat]

You bet.

[Fear is there. It touches her breathing, but she greets it like an old companion. It keeps her sharp, keeps her alive. In turn, she gives the area behind Fenris fleeting glances, letting her eyes track over the stalls rather than linger anywhere too long.]

I can fight. Better if we can get somewhere away from all these people.

[Better to disappear. Ellie starts heading in a different direction, away from the closer knots of people. They muddle her senses with their safety and revelry.]

This reminds me of the Stalkers.

[She says it conversationally as they continue, her voice still softer and harder to catch unless someone's very close, like Fenris is.]

The Infected aren't smart, not like people. But they're still predators. After a while they get sensitive to light, so they hunt in the dark, in packs. They'll follow and corner you, and tear you apart.

They're quiet, though. Sometimes you don't notice them until they're on you.

[notathreat]

The knife bites deeply into the man's back, and it gives Ellie enough room to scramble back and out of his reach as he goes down. Ellie's almost lost the impulse to go for her gun, but she does it as another one of the thugs goes for Yseult.

They're saved by Derrica's intervention, and the thugs stumble back from the light, surprised by the sudden appearance of the barrier.

Ellie takes a moment to be appropriately impressed.

Taking advantage of the sudden reprieve, Ellie closes the distance between herself and Yseult, knowing the barrier won't hold forever, but it should hopefully be long enough to get them out of here. So she makes for the wall, bringing her hands together and knitting her fingers, and bracing her back against the wall.

"You first."

Hopefully, she can make it if Ellie boosts her up high enough, even without the use of one of her arms.

[indissection]

Of that I've no doubt.

[ Sidony sighs softly, leaning back and closing her eyes. It hurts, but in an odd, distant sort of way, and she doesn't want to draw too much attention to herself. Let the assassin imagine her a pretty lady who has no one coming to her aid, ready to pass away into the night with no one to mourn her.

That's a rather sober thought.

Adra brings her back to the present, however, and she sniffs, irritated. ]

Abby says that instead of the Four Humours there is something called a germ and those are what make people feel ill.

okay NOW cw for gross violence

[illithidnapped]

[He can’t see his own expresion in the moment when that curtain snaps to one side just before his outstretched fingertips can do the same (or retreat, maybe, if he ever found restraint), but Astarion can feel his body stiffen entirely for an abrupt beat; his eyes falling immediately to the red lip stain smeared across the edge of Leto’s mouth, a landmark to her touch that he can’t look away from, its color seared into his mind—

Before he notices, just at the corner of his peripheral vision, the slightest flicker of movement. A thin sliver of light disturbed by shadow, long before the glint of a raised dagger is in view. 

And it’s sudden. 

A flash of a thing. 

With the hand he’d meant to use to push curtains aside, he slams Leto against the archway’s carved wall, lunging forward in a surge of untethered momentum. Not a vampire anymore by definition, no, but not an elf, either, monstrous as he is at his heart, locked in a lingering half-state: still unexpectedly strong— still quick as a viper (for even as a spawn he’d always needed more than just his charm or immortality), it's only muscle memory and instinct that drives him in seconds like these, erasing every layer of his carefully cultivated facade. The paper thin illusion of dignity, whatever that might be worth. Val Chevin. The Silent Plains. 

Rialto. 

It is an ugly scuffle. There’s no pretty flash of deft precision; Astarion forgets the knife tucked against the small of his spine, and in less than a second he has the Crow on his back, mask knocked aside to reveal an elf not much older than Leto himself, vibrant blue eyes narrowed in a vitriolic glare.

Before Astarion’s fingers crush the fine bones of his wrist.

And that’s the unexpected part. Because the assassin endures that pain in the way of something trained to. In the frantic pitch dive of brutally thrashing limbs and torn jewelry, he guards his chest, locks his limbs so they can’t be easily maneuvered, keeps his face tilted back towards the nominal protection of his own slanted mask.
 
But he doesn’t anticipate what he’s fighting. 

It takes nothing— less than a blink, a breath— for a mouth full of jagged, razor-sharp fangs to puncture the soft skin of the assassin's throat, clamping tight around his windpipe the way a lion cows a caught deer: crushing pressure forcing the air in his lungs to stay there, rather than expel. The fibers surrounding muscle penetrated and compressed beneath the closing of an unfeeling vice. 

And all at once, their training vanishes. They are a panicked thing in his arms— struggling in the most futile, thrashing bursts of adrenaline-fueled horror, clawing and striking and kicking until Astarion yanks his own head back—

Taking soft flesh and tattered skin with it. 

And he stays there, though it doesn’t take long for the inevitable. Blood pooling wide beneath a subsequently stilling body, his cold, reflective stare unblinking as it watches, marking second after second of fading life with predatory focus. His mouth coated in blood and soon-spat-out viscera, welling scrape-marks from blunted nails scraped from his temple all the way down to his cheek. 

He doesn’t move to ask, his tone low (and wet from the taste across his tongue) in addressing the only person left:]

Are you all right?

[A narrow slide of his attention, head twisting nearer to his shoulder.

Did he cut you.]

[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."

[icasm]

Why is it fine? Loki wonders and shakes his head a little. "It doesn't have to be if it isn't." Just. Putting it out there.

"Fortunately there are bathhouses. Ones that might even be open at this hour." He'd meant what he said about washing Benedict's hair. Seems the least he could do.