faderifting: (Default)
Fade Rift Mods ([personal profile] faderifting) wrote in [community profile] faderift2022-04-24 03:06 pm

MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

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.

illithidnapped: (123)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2022-05-15 09:27 am (UTC)(link)
Better than Astarion, of course, whose entire face remains fully obscured from top to bottom until they've both entered the room— and snapped the bolt back into place— where he finally yanks a distinctly avian beak mask free, exposing a tangle of silver curls and the pointed tips of his own white ears (and hollow red eyes, reflective when he catches the dim light wrong).

"No, you? A novice in the realm of love?" He gasps out in matching form, fitting her with a sidelong glance while moving to thumb through a nearby wall of shelved books and scrolls— sprawling room seeming more half-living space than proper study, but clues come in all shapes and sizes, and from all places, so.

On they search.

"I don't believe it for a second, beautiful creature that you are. Surely someone must've struck your heart at least once."

...or vice versa.
armd: (darkly)

cw blood injury ahhh!

[personal profile] armd 2022-05-15 09:32 am (UTC)(link)
"We just met," is her terse reply, and her expression flickers when whatever is sharp there presses into her skin warningly, enough to bite. But the Crow, perhaps sensing the sudden danger of not one but two large Riftwatchers (Vanya clearly headed in their direction, his gaze having found her in the crowd), abruptly gives up any pretense of a calm, collected kidnapping.

Abby has a breath of warning with which to twist away, but the knife point stabs into her waist anyway, an inch or so deep, drawing a pained hiss of breath.

She can't get to her mace fast enough, couldn't swing it around in the crowd even if she could. The Crow doesn't care about collateral anyway. He shoves her forward, into Barrow.
illithidnapped: (42)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2022-05-15 09:33 am (UTC)(link)
There's my girl. [Astarion chimes in approvingly, offering up a reassuring wink for all her scalding trouble in swallowing it down— but she does it, that's what truly matters.

His hand is held outwards just in the aftermath, palm turned up in an offer to take the glass off her hands.
]

When was the last time you let loose, anyway?
illithidnapped: (A4)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2022-05-15 09:36 am (UTC)(link)
Able, yes. Safe, as well.

[It isn't a perfect art, but blending in? Oh, it helps. And these days, Astarion has long since started hiding his own Ritter status (gloves on, always).

Ataashi makes herself into a rumbling little chin rest for her newest friend, wagging slowing into something contentedly subdued.
]

A....Qunari from another world?

How surprising.

[One little beat of consideration, before:]

Then again, I suppose it's no different than an elf, either.

[Pot. Kettle. So on and so forth.]
illithidnapped: (82)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2022-05-15 09:39 am (UTC)(link)
If I wanted to be subtle, I'd be... [His posture lurches only a little. It's his voice, on the other hand, that seems more inclined to sway: tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth with every softer consonant.]

Clinging to the corners of the party, drinking from an empty cup. [He snorts slyly, leaning forward to hook his finger in the lip of Benedict's goblet, giving it the sharpest tug imaginable—

Ahah. See?
]

Caught you, little kitten.
armd: (fond)

[personal profile] armd 2022-05-15 10:04 am (UTC)(link)
(Abby mmhmms, because listening attentively to Astarion has just become a hobby, paling in comparison to the full-time job of rubbing Ataashi's belly when she rolls over to expose it. Who knew that wolves were just big belly-rub guys all along? Not her. If Lev could see this he would flip out.

Considering her own excitement over Ataashi, she thinks to add, cheekily,)
Does this mean you think I'm charming too? (Just a joke, really. She doesn't care what he thinks of her, a lie that has long since comfortingly cemented itself in her frame of mind.

But in all seriousness:)
What do you mean why?

(She gestures out. Across all the white sand, and the sun going down, and the ocean in its still, sparkling glory, with the early evening rays spilling out across it, turning it a deep gold.

Duh.)
Never saw anything like this back home. (Just the sun down over the water out by the Seattle aquarium, sans beach.)
sparklequeen: (019 » Everyone but me)

[personal profile] sparklequeen 2022-05-15 03:22 pm (UTC)(link)
"...Ouch. Sounds like Ellie, yeah." Glimmer picks at her breakfast a bit more, frowning.

"So what are you guys doing for tonight? Fist fighting over who gets the bed?"
sparklequeen: (120 » Still get up on my own two feet)

[personal profile] sparklequeen 2022-05-15 03:46 pm (UTC)(link)
[ When was the last time you let loose, anyway? Astarion asks, his voice charming and heavy with approval for her drinking. It pushes at something inside of her and a memory that is partially hers and partially some other Glimmer's comes to mind. Downing glass after glass of bubbly, too-sweet wine and Ellie gently scolding her for drinking too much again.

If there's anyplace that Antiva reminds her of, it's the Aerie. Maybe all the more reason to have a drink.

Glimmer takes a breath and reaches for another glass. This one goes down easier, memory kicking in. She savored the ones that burned, the ones that took the edge off faster. ]


It's been a while.

[ She doesn't cough this time, just tries to smile. ]

Like, a year maybe?
Edited 2022-05-15 15:48 (UTC)
bouchonne: (serious)

[personal profile] bouchonne 2022-05-15 05:00 pm (UTC)(link)
By extricates himself fully from under the man and takes stock of himself. Wound on the back of the neck; wound on his hand from the garrote; wrist twisted when he fell, just enough to hurt, not enough to impede mobility. He's gotten off far more lightly that Astarion has, all things considered.

"No," he says. Then amends - "Nothing of significance."

He stands. He's a little shaky on his feet. But when he clenches his hands, they're steady enough; and so he holds out his hands for Astarion's, tacitly offering to take over the surgery.

As he does, he says - his voice clipped, formal, utterly devoid of his usual flamboyance, "I owe you a debt of gratitude, Astarion. I'd certainly have been killed without you." And no irony there, no bravado. He meets Astarion's gaze, and his lovely eyes are solemn and unsmiling. A rare glimpse of the duty-bound soul residing under, or perhaps alongside, the clown.
katabasis: ([093])

[personal profile] katabasis 2022-05-15 10:16 pm (UTC)(link)
"Signora D'Agostino"—the woman whose footsteps might even now still be heard on the stair were the intervening meters between there and here not stuffed full with talkative sailors and merchants, all rounded shoulders and sunburnt necks, and the flash of metal on fingers and in ears—"I want you to go after her to return this."

From the inside of his coat, Flint briskly produces two items: a handkerchief and a small drawstring back. It's the handkerchief to which he refers. The drawstring bag however—

"If she refuses it, apologize for the mistake and take your leave. But find a way to plant that somewhere on her person before she dismisses you." That is a blue crystal not unlike their own sending crystals lurking at the bottom of the bag. It glows softly, suggesting its activation. "Follow her from a distance. She'll meet with someone. Once she's finished her conversation, you're to contrive some method of recovering the crystal and return to me here. Understood?"
armd: (eyeroll)

[personal profile] armd 2022-05-15 10:46 pm (UTC)(link)
Right? Abby rolls her eyes, but mollifies herself with a good sip of orange juice.

"Doubt it. She's probably gone off to share a room with one of her men." A catty thing to say to a close friend of Ellie's, but she's past the point of caring. "Doesn't bother me. Means I get to have a room to myself."
justashotaway: (l03)

[personal profile] justashotaway 2022-05-15 10:51 pm (UTC)(link)
Laura nods, taking both objects, and leaves her cape at Commander Flint's side. Down the stairs, out into the still-busy street, following the woman's scent as much as the sound of her boots. Once behind her, Laura hides her face as best she can behind her hair and affects broken Antivan in her boyfriend's accent. If Signora D'Agostino remembers her beyond this moment, the memory shouldn't match Flint's stiff compatriot.

"Signora, erm - yours, yeah?" She tugs at the woman's coat as she asks, and the drawstring pouch slips neatly into a pocket. Her posture is slouchy when D'Agostino turns, looks at the handkerchief, and huffs. She shakes Laura's hand off her arm and walks off into the crowd, and Laura watches her go.

And then she follows.

The conversation takes place near the cliffside, D'Agostino and a bespectacled man chatting while they lean against the alley wall of a pub. The words are indistinguishable, so Laura spends her time trying to remember the man's face: round in the cheeks, eyes small behind the glasses, a receding hairline. His neck is thick, but there are too many scents to decide on his in particular.

When the conversation ends, Laura follows D'Agostino a little ways longer. Pickpocketing isn't a skill she's cultivated, but she doubts her ability to remain unremembered if she speaks with D'Agostino again. In the end, she waits for the street to become crowded, then does her best to lift the bag from the pocket it sits in. Her ability to dart through the crowd and disappear down a street is really what allows her to get away with it - when she's running away, she can hear D'Agostino's voice.

It takes time - an hour in all, perhaps longer - but she does return to Flint with the pouch clutched in one hand. She sets it down on the table before him and sits down, silent and waiting.
katabasis: (which is the way a vulgar man aspires)

[personal profile] katabasis 2022-05-15 10:52 pm (UTC)(link)
Flint been contemplating that long walk back to the palazzo himself—albeit for radically different reasons than his partner as they'd stepped out into the crisp cut of the evening air. The knots in his lower back and between his shoulders formed from so much sitting are eager for the reprieve up being upright and on his own two feet. And then there is the pinch of a headache high in his head, planted there by the effort not to frown his way through the day's conversations—

It's not that all the news has been bad news. Or that Rialto's flock of tradesmen are any more or less aggravating than any others they've dealt with. Or even that the song and dance required by any information brokering is a particularly strenuous one—indeed, there is a pleasure to watching Silver lead it. But shuttling about from one point of contact to another, investing this brokering of deals in slant floored taverns while he day marches inexorably on, he is keenly aware of nothing so much as his own restlessness. There is an urge— not to be elsewhere, exactly. But an awareness that everywhere in the city, members of Riftwatch are playing similar games to these ones and he's impatient for the results.

Flint has only just begun to lengthen his stride when the bolt strikes the man ahead of them. It sends the stranger staggering—not fatally wounded, but certainly having a less than pleasant evening—off kilter and Flint turns, reflexive, to look behind them in the direction from which the bolt must have inevitably originated. His hand is moving already to the sword at his belt.

The second shot doesn't come from behind though. Instead it whistles from one of the great strings of little rowboat and fishing vessels all strung together like picketed horses along the wharf ahead of them. This bolt skips directly past and bewildered collateral damage. It's pure luck that sends it punching through the edge of Flint's cloak where it trails behind his pivot, widening his silhouette in the lamplit dark by a fair margin, rather than landing with a thock in his thigh.

Two shooters, apparently.
katabasis: (or more freedom from trouble)

[personal profile] katabasis 2022-05-15 11:13 pm (UTC)(link)
It's possible that in that precious hour, Flint has continued on with his business more or less without interruption. But if he's seen anyone in the interim, they're not here she returns. His only remaining company is a half empty bottle of wine—the latest in a diplomatic string of them.

"I trust it went smoothly enough."

(It's not a question. Or maybe it is simply by merit of the fact that he speaks on the subject at all. Someone who actually trusted in that fact might say nothing.)

Flint retrieves the pouch, emptying the crystal out onto his palm. It's turned until deactivated, and then tucked quietly away and back into the same pocket from which it was originally produced—here and gone again as it if never were. Afterward, Flint checks the contents of his tin cup. Dissatisfied with the prospect of the grit lurking at its bottom, he fetches up the wine bottle and splits what remains of its contents between his own cup and its mismatched partner which has heretofore served their guests.

Hopefully Laura doesn't mind Antivan cooties.
hornswoggle: (027)

[personal profile] hornswoggle 2022-05-15 11:16 pm (UTC)(link)
Two shooters, at least. (John wonders if they're lucky enough for it to be only two.)

Two shooters and too many witnesses surrounding them. John makes that calculation instantly as the churn of panic whips up the movements of people around them and Flint shifts instantly into action.

All these years of training with the sword, and it is still not John's first instinct to reach for it.

But consider: it is impossible to outrun a threat, these days.

A third bolt does him a favor; it catches high, sinks into his bicep as John propels himself towards the low wall at the high point of the street. The pain is a shock, and the hot burn that creeps in after is unwelcome, but it gives John what he needs.

Retaliation comes in unseen, power shoved back the way the bolt came. Regrettable, for the civilians caught up in the web of this spell, but the chaos is a necessary thing. It gives them cover, enough so that John can shout, "Shall we?"

Fight? Flee? Where to, if the latter? How effectively, if the former?
justashotaway: (82.)

[personal profile] justashotaway 2022-05-15 11:25 pm (UTC)(link)
"Yes." The details can be reported later, if needed; she isn't sure they're suitable for discussion in public. If they were, Flint would be replaying the contents of the crystal then and there - and though she's deeply curious as to its contents, she knows better than to ask about them.

(She'd asked Matthias recently if he thought he might tire of taking orders, and moments like this remind her of the conversation. She doesn't mind waiting for information, or following orders without explanation - but once, she would have done so without noticing her part in the larger scheme of things. Someday, she suspects she might not feel so patient.)

Laura takes the cup that's available, unconcerned with the number of other mouths that have drunk from it. The wine has a strong, tannic taste to it, that makes the surface of her tongue feel slightly fuzzy. "Will we see anyone else?"

(She thinks not - they would need the cup.)
justashotaway: (l01)

[personal profile] justashotaway 2022-05-15 11:30 pm (UTC)(link)
They both already know he'll do the talking. Laura knows little of John Silver, but she's sat in a tavern and heard him tell stories; she's listened, rapt, despite knowing how his tales of Riftwatch end. Occasional nods of acknowledgment at the Gallows aside, that's the only way she's encountered him.

But if she's asked to guard someone, she does. And when her opinion is requested...well, she tries. As they walk from their carriage to an enomous building with stone creatures sitting at the corners of the roof - "We have killed several Venatori."

It isn't a story in itself, and perhaps it won't be appropriate for whatever fine salon they're attending, but Silver will know what details to add.
illithidnapped: (A32)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2022-05-15 11:41 pm (UTC)(link)
There's no argument had when it's requested; Astarion turns out his palm without ceremony or fuss— pale palm extended and still trickling with a welling mess of blood around scattered lines of what once was a perfectly serviceable wine glass. The larger pieces have mostly gone, leaving fragile grit and brittle shards embedded in livid skin.

Waste of a good port, too.

"Don't." Is the mild warning he offers in the clear-cut span of their present unmasking. More discomfort than denial.

"It was just a fight. And I just happened to be here."

Luckily, yes. But there's something about heroism that makes his skin crawl.

"Don't start swearing any life debts to me or I'll be forced to start weighing the merits of offing you myself."

(That, said with the faintest leveled look, is a joke. Probably.)
katabasis: (he was going to attack)

[personal profile] katabasis 2022-05-15 11:47 pm (UTC)(link)
The truth is they could likely speak at full volume about everything Laura saw of Signora D'Agostino and no one in that crowded public house would overhear more than a half dozen words, and would give a flying fuck about absolutely none of them. But the prudence (if that's even the proper word for it) is noted.

Flint, who has been nursing his cup at careful intervals throughout the day, doesn't bother to restrict himself from it now.

"Not here."

They've a stop to make after this one. Those details however might be more immediately salient to their surroundings, however. So, like a pickpocket's offhand distraction:

"Have you and Matthias decided whether you're marrying?"
Edited (fiddles) 2022-05-15 23:52 (UTC)
doggish: than the bartender on the simpsons (soft ⚔ more moe)

[personal profile] doggish 2022-05-15 11:54 pm (UTC)(link)
[I love you, and tales always get it wrong, for Astarion says that and there is no heavenly choir. The clouds do not part, and he feels no great revelation. I love you, and though he is glad to hear it, something in Leto merely exhales in quiet, relieved confirmation.

For he had known that already, of course. Astarion has told him a thousand times before, quietly and without much fanfare. The stroke of his fingertips against Leto's scalp as he carefully cut away loose ends and overgrown wisps. The offer of a bottle of wine while they both sat in front of the hearth and talked of things of the past, both terrible and wonderful. The trading of atrocities in their past, and the quiet healing that came from someone reacting not with shock or horror, but simple steadiness: I know. I understand. I see how badly you have been hurt, and there is nothing to do to erase it, but still, I see it. The heat of his body pressed in close as they trembled from nightmares; the gentle stroke of his thumb as he wiped away tears and drew no attention to them. It was in the clasp of his hand when they stumbled out of the Crossroads; it was always in his voice, whether his tone was low and gentle or high and flighty. It was in the way Leto has always, always known that Astarion would drop everything to help him if need be; that there was no place safer than by his side.

What else do you call that, if not love?

His eyes are so soft as he gently tugs Astarion back. Puppy-dog eyes, full of such tenderness it's a wonder he has kept his feelings under wrap for so long a time. His hand cups Astarion's cheek, his thumb stroking against the curve of his cheek, as he smiles at him.]


I love you, too.

[Gentle. Simple. Not parroted back for the sake of politeness, but a quiet confirmation. He holds them together like that for a long few seconds, making sure Astarion knows that he's truly genuine. That this is not a joke at his expense, or a polite lie, or any of the other things that he has so likely heard from victims before. I love you too, and he does. Oh, he does. Heart and soul.]

My darling. My brave, clever darling.

[But ah . . . tenderness is well and good, but he had shuddered when Astarion had breathed such a suggestion against his ear. And while his heart would be content to stand here for the rest of the night, breathing out sweet nothings, other parts of his anatomy object very strongly indeed.

His grin sharpens. He tangles their fingers together (thrilled, quietly, at something so mundane as holding hands) and leads them to shore.]


A brothel, then. And you seem to be making a great deal of assumptions as to who is going to be rough with whom, Astarion . . . tell me you do not think I am some blushing virgin who is going to cede to you the moment you undress.

[And then they really did have just an ungodly amount of sex my goodness gracious me.]
Edited 2022-05-15 23:55 (UTC)
bouchonne: (drunken pontificating)

[personal profile] bouchonne 2022-05-15 11:59 pm (UTC)(link)
A spy is a spy. Even a chivalrous one with an earnest heart is still, first and foremost, attuned to manipulating the perceptions of the people around him. And so, at that admonition, he withdraws - placing a light smile on his lips, arranging his face in pleasing irony. If someone is even remotely dismayed by Byerly-the-righteous, Byerly-the-rake will take his place with hardly any effort at all.

Well. Maybe a little more effort than usual, here. The brutality of the fight threw him off. So it might take a few more seconds than usual, and when he does, there isn't much wit to him - he just says, "I live to serve," and turns his gaze to the removal of that glass.

He works quietly a few moments, then comments - "We can have my lady wife take a closer look at it later. She'll make sure there's no infection."
Edited 2022-05-16 00:04 (UTC)
justashotaway: (83.)

[personal profile] justashotaway 2022-05-16 12:00 am (UTC)(link)
If she's surprised by the question, it doesn't register on her face. And she is surprised - in close to three years, Laura's never observed Commander Flint taking an interest in anyone's life, only their work. It was reassuring at first, proof in her mind that he would never use his position to demand things he shouldn't, and then it was simply a fact, like his red beard. And now, the change is a curiosity, one that successfully removes her attention from the crystal in his pocket.

"No." Discussions in a dream don't count, however clearly she remembers them. Laura takes another sip of her wine. "Why?"
katabasis: ([007])

[personal profile] katabasis 2022-05-16 12:14 am (UTC)(link)
"Because if I were to ask Matthias, he'd self-combust."

And the prospect of finding a new assistant out of the current offerings in the Gallows appeals even less than asking someone to sweep the ashes of his old one out from between the floorboards.

(That's not really an answer to the question she'd really asked, was it?)

"No you haven't decided, or no you're not?"
arkitect: (Default)

[personal profile] arkitect 2022-05-16 12:22 am (UTC)(link)
She is hardly in the way.

[Leave Ataashi be... look, maybe he wouldn't mind touching a wolf right now, much as he would never say so. But he's still leaning against Astarion as he's settled onto the bed, exhaling a sigh.]

And it shall take a measure of acclimation, yes, to prevent this from being so debilitating in the future-- but for the moment, it was not one of them. It was you.

[Easy, matter-of-fact. It was just Astarion. In a sense, he's come to rely on his presence, despite quietly reminding himself not to.]

Nevermind that I am not without a trick or two up my sleeve yet. I expect I could survive long enough to call.
arkitect: (Default)

[personal profile] arkitect 2022-05-16 12:25 am (UTC)(link)
I have, thank you, and now I have quite tired of it. I can only escape so many invitations before I must make good my exit.

[The annoyance in his tone, though, is less sharp than it could be, seems to come easily. He's used to being needled exactly like this.]

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