faderift | Spies vs. House Party (Closed)

Yseult's path takes them back into sight of that hall and its guardian, pausing near a hothouse palm tall enough for fronds to arch over their heads.

"Thirty seconds to get past the checkpoint and around the corner," she estimates, while sipping lemonade and idly scanning their fellow guests. "If our information is correct the office is second from the far end. If the hall is clear we proceed like we belong. If not-- how long can you hold your breath?"

Ellie's expression is a study in demure, lowering her head to peer through her eyelashes, following Yseult's eyeline like they're having a conversation about the party itself, the fellow guests.

She smooths her hand shyly over the front of her dress.

"Two minutes," she says decisively. "I've done three, but that's pushing it."

And, because it's necessary: "Squeeze my hand once for yes, twice for no, three for wait and see."

They did something similar on patrols.

"More than that would've needed a warm-up," Yseult agrees.

A middle-aged gentleman with bushy sideburns and jarringly chartreuse cuffs angles their way, looking at Yseult with a beadily hopeful gaze. She lifts her fan and turns to Ellie behind it. "Laugh like I've made a mean joke." She casts a disdainfully fleeting glance over the would-be suitor as he catches the seeming insult and decides against interrupting after all.

"Will I be able to see you?"

"Mhm."

Ellie's eyes find the man just as Yseult draws her attention, and she lifts a hand to cover her mouth, like she's choking back a slightly horrified giggle and struggling not to look at the unlucky soul.

It works like a charm.

From behind her hand, she murmurs: "Yeah, but it won't be the same. You'll see." There's no real explaining what the world is like when you're invisible, but it's different. There'll be no danger of forgetting that they're doing something decidedly supernatural.

They should have practiced this before they left, but there wasn't much time and if she's honest, Yseult had hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Stupid, to neglect such an obviously useful tool, not to at least eliminate these unknowns. But here they are.

"Alright. The next palm, by the pillar there. Just between them we should be out of sight for a moment. We'll go invisible there, and then straight down the hall."

She finishes her lemonade and abandons the glass on the lip of the palm's pot, one slow deep breath in and out before she snaps her fan shut and is on the move.

It's the type of situation Ellie's had more times than she can count. Forced to adapt on the fly, to make use of what she has along with her trust in her partner. It's the kind of skill that can't be taught, only honed.

Ellie nods once, then falls into step next to Yseult, timing her breaths, getting several deep ones, slowing her heart rate. She's practiced on the rooftops of Kirkwall, in the caves along the coast, and in the midst of war engagements. Timing it properly is not a problem.

Between one step and the next, they disappear. Ellie remembers to cover her chest with her hand. To close her eyes.

And then they are in it.

Yseult will be able to breathe normally, it's only Ellie who has to hold her breath. They stand the same world, in the same place, but shadowed. Colors appear less glossy, the sounds muted- though if they focus on any one thing it will jump back to looking and sounding as it should, surrounded with that halo of shadow.

Ellie alone looks real and unshadowed next to Yseult -- with one change. In the center of her chest bears a light, bright blue glow. The same shade as pure lyrium veins. It appears to be no particular shape, and it's clearly shining through her skin, like it originates in the center of her, somewhere.

The light of it shelters them, a soft, pleasant tingling on their skin. Ellie switches from linked arms to holding Yseult's hand, and nods at her, encouraging her to go on.

Edited 2023-07-05 00:21 (UTC)

It's good that Yseult isn't trying to hold her breath, because her heart rate jumps at that shift, and the unexpected sensation that raises the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. It's all objectively perfectly fine, odd at the worst, but the prickle of magic and the way the world dims and focus narrows to tunnel vision together grate at her like the grinding squeal of bone on bone. She breathes through the adrenaline, forces herself to look carefully around to see if anyone has noticed, and, finding none, gives Ellie a nod and a single squeeze of her hand.

The crowd is thinner here away from the ballroom, and it's easy to dodge the few that pass or linger. Yseult leads the way past the servant manning the hall mouth, her skirts caught up in her free hand to avoid any suspicious rustle or breeze as they pass. The carpet makes silence easy, and lets them move briskly down the corridor toward the turn.

The hall isn't empty. Ahead of them, a couple stride arm in arm down the center of the hall, pace leisurely, seemingly unsure which door they're looking for. Yseult gets as close as safe and then moderates their pace to match, glancing to Ellie to check how she's doing. It's only been about a minute, but the sudden slowdown makes it feel longer.

Ellie holds her hand tighter, looking for that nod, then relaxes her hold when she's sure she won't pull away. It's a really freaky thing to go through, and Ellie's only brought a handful of people with her like this. Most everyone finds it unsettling.

She easily follows Yseult, hitching up her skirts with one hand. Blue's power doesn't make them silent, just invisible. They dodge on through, keeping quiet, and Ellie keeps up beautifully -- a childhood following Joel through active battlezones would do that.

Ellie checks the hallway front and back and finds no eyes. They're directly behind the couple, pacing them. She drops it, just for half a second. Just long enough to take a deep breath in through her nose. They flicker back into existence, just long enough for Ellie to fill her lungs with air, like a swimmer.

In front of them one of the couple shivers and rubs the back of her neck, but doesn't turn around.

Ellie squeezes Yseult's hand. Good to go.

Yseult glances over as the power flickers and Ellie breathes, and then stops suddenly, hand tightening, as the couple ahead of them make a sharp stop and pivot, turning back to the door they just passed. Yseult and Ellie have to backpedal out of their way, but the turn to a door lets them then continue on around and past, Yseult walking backward another moment until the couple finish lingering, giggling before the treshhold, and the door is firmly shut.

Then: quickly down to the end of the hall, an ear held next to the office door for a moment before she produces a set of picks from her hair and, once Ellie has shifted her grip back to her arm, makes quick work of the lock.

Once the door is locked again behind them she gives herself a discreet shake as the magic fades and looks around, the space an unremarkable example of a lord's study, complete with heavy desk, shelves of leather-bound books, an animal head (here a Hunterhorn ram with its great curling horns) mounted between the sconces.

"It will most likely be some sort of ledger separate from his real accounts," she says, moving around the desk to test the drawers, "But it could be disguised."

The two of them maneuver like a barn door backwards to get out of the couple's way, and Ellie backs up to the side, following Yseult over to the door.

She's quick, but Ellie's feeling somewhat lightheaded by the time she gets the door open, and she's grateful when they find the room empty. She flips the lock shut behind them on the door and catches her breath, making sure to go slowly rather than to gulp air. Her palms are a little sweaty, so she wipes them on her skirts.

"Gotcha."

The desk isn't large enough for the both of them to search at once, so Ellie keeps an ear trained on the door and quietly begins searching along the shelves, looking for signs of something frequently moved. Everything's impeccably dusted, so the usual tells she looks for are harder to find.

The sconces are normal, and none of the books seem remarkable, so she looks to the carpets, and then the Hunterhorn ram. She checks the base of the book-cases next, finds that one has a locked drawer.

"... hm. This one's shut tight."

Yseult pauses in her search of the desk to look at the cupboard Ellie's indicated. "Careful not to scratch the keyhole," she warns, then returns to rifling neatly through the papers atop Lord Arvend's desk, setting each stack back down as she found it. There are locked drawers here, too, and she is crouching to begin picking one open when there are footsteps in the hall.

She straightens, seeking Ellie's attention with a wave of an arm, silently listening as the steps approach the door. As they near and slow she tucks picks back into her hair and moves out from behind the desk, careful again to keep skirts corralled. The handle is tried, and then there is the scratch of a key against the lock, and Yseult quickly arranges herself on the arm of one of the chairs before the desk, gesturing with a soft snap of fingers for Ellie to come stand beside her. She leans in, "We were brought here to meet with his lordship and then forgotten," a hurried whisper.

When the door opens her fan is fluttering, the expression half-hidden behind it one of mingled relief and annoyance.

"Finally," she says, "I was beginning to think no one would ever come!"

Picking locks is still far from Ellie's realm of expertise. With a flimsy thing like this, she could have it open it approximately two seconds with the flat of her blade and a jerk of her arm, but it'd be obvious that she forced it open, and that's not what they're going for, here.

So with a sigh she crouches down to try her rudimentary picking skills with one of her tools -- and almost immediately has to retract it into the wrist of her evening gloves, getting to her feet and retreating to a place next to Yseult.

A single nod, and she has just a moment to arrange her face into slightly flustered relief, to match Ysuelt's. She holds her tongue for the time being; on the field, she's coming to learn that silence is often the most effective tool. People tend to read all kinds of things into it, and it's usually what they're expecting to see.

"Oh my." The gentleman that enters looks about 50, of medium height and build, dressed finely but soberly, with a thick but neatly trimmed mustache that is probably the only thing anyone ever remembers about his face. Most importantly, he is not Lord Arvend.

"I'd the heard rumors, of course," he says, pushing the door shut behind him with slightly too much enthusiasm and hands flapped in apology for the noise. He turns the lock and pivots back to them, excitement widening his eyes though it's still not enough to really pull focus from the mustache. "And when I discovered I had been assigned Arvend's precious study!" He brandishes the key, a little paper tag hanging from the handle. "I knew it must be something special. It is not every day my friend allows guests into his sanctum."

Beside Ellie, Yseult continues to move her fan in rhythm while above its edge mobile brows mirror the rise and fall of the man's tone.

He chuckles, a low, round sound that edges upwards with a hint of nerves. "But still, ladies, I am overwhelmed with my good fortune." He advances across the carpet, hands out as if he intends to clasp theirs. There is something about the way he forms the word ladies, the look in his eye as he says it, that gives the impression of a dog licking its chops. "I am--"

"No names, my dear sir," says Yseult, snapping the fan closed to smile at him. "It is a private matter, you understand." The strident note she'd initially projected is gone, replaced by something richer, somehow reminiscent of laughter, or a promise. (It might also remind one a bit of Fitcher.) "But I am sure we are very pleased to make your acquaintance. Are you expecting anyone else?"

"Anyone-- oh no, no," The man looks back over his shoulder at the door and shakes his head, clearly flustered by the idea, though it does nothing to diminish the hungry glint in his eye. "I think the three of us shall be a very jolly party, don't you?"

Edited 2023-07-10 14:44 (UTC)

The pompous noble guy says ladies and Ellie has to fight hard not to break character. Her lip probably curls though, and she lifts a hand to cough nervously into it, hiding her expression. Thankfully, playing shy and demure falls perfectly into this character they've concocted.

Still, her heart rate's starting to pick up. This is the kind of shit she definitely doesn't want to get stuck in.

The way Yseult seems to lean into it is even more fucked up -- but then Ellie considers. It's possible that she's distracting him. All the better for Ellie to get an opening.

She sweeps her hand behind her and into one of the hidden pockets of her skirts, coming up with the glass she secreted there.

"I-I," she says, nervously, playing her part to the hilt. "My throat's very dry, so- do you mind if I go get another lemonade first?"

She takes two steps, as if to move past him to the door.

The coy turn of Yseult's head away from the gentleman's flirtation lets her glance at Ellie from behind her fan, quickly marking the shift in posture, the increase in tension. She thumbs one of her rings, an intricate web of silver, and then reaches out to bar her path.

"No need," she says, and the arm that's blocked her path is pointing to a sideboard across the room, "Why don't you fetch us all some brandy, instead?" She lifts a brow and cocks her head just so, the order clear.

"I'm afraid she's still a bit shy," she tells lord whoever, watching him watch Ellie cross the room. "I do my best, but she's a prim little thing. You understand." She snaps her fan closed more loudly than necessary, the crack drawing the man's attention back to her. She eases to her feet and taps him on the chest with it, then reaches to twin her arm with his and walk him toward the opposite door (that definitely has been here the whole time). "Why don't you and I retire to the adjoining chamber, and perhaps jealousy will overcome her?"

Ellie tilts her head at Yseult's order, pausing for a moment while she interprets the orders. Stay close. Pay attention.

I'm taking his attention off of you.

Ellie sees that opening and reaches out to grasp it with both hands, flickering out of sight as soon as the man's back is turned. A quick twirl on her toe-pinching, absurdly delicate slippers, and she reaches into her pocket to find her switchblade. She slips it out, quieting the click of it with the palm of her hand, and steals up behind Lord Whocares.

She doesn't doubt that Yseult has been keeping half an eye on her this whole time, but she wants to be sure.

So she drops the invisibility, a soft, soundless breath directly behind the mark, and lifts one eyebrow at her Scoutmaster.

The blade's naked in her hand.

Yseult does keep some portion of her attention on Ellie, and whether it's by instinct or some shift in the air or the ring's enchantment, she senses the approach a moment before Ellie reappears and is not surprised to find, out the corner of her eye, the knife in her hand. She gives the most minute shake of her head and, for good measure, curls her free hand behind her back, fingers clenched in a fist in the hopefully-multiversal signal to stop.

It's not difficult to keep Lord Mustache from noticing, easily urged into the other chamber, and though he begins to sputter a confused protest as she untangles her arm from his, it is quickly assuaged: "You make yourself comfortable," she says, drawing the door closed on him, "I'll collect that brandy and see about my companion." It's possible she winks.

As soon as the door is shut, she is turned back toward Ellie, passing her on the way to pour those drinks, voice low and shake of her head brisk: "We can't raise Arvend's suspicions. Find the book, copy the pages as planned," the newest and an older one as a decoding reference, they'd decided earlier, "and then have a coughing fit."

She arches a brow in expectation of assent.

The blade disappears as fast as it appeared, flicking itself back into Ellie's palm, stored away while she drops her hand to her side and fades from sight again. When she reappears it's at the small bar area, hands innocent of weapons, opening the bottle of brandy to pour.

She looks up as Yseult starts back towards her, her flustered, innocent mask back in place, though her eyes sharpen as Yseult leans in to speak with her.

There's no hesitation. She nods, glancing at the door behind them.

"If you need me-" though she doesn't doubt for one second that Yseult can take this man alone, a thousand things could require Ellie at her side again, "-say..." Fuck. Something unusual, but not too unusual. "Starlight."

The look Yseult gives Ellie is all shifting eyebrows and microexpressions, some blend of bemused, insulted, and endeared by this suggestion. (It's not a bad idea, just an unfamiliar precaution.) She nods. Glasses of brandy are both taken up in one hand once they're poured and she begins to backpedal, skirt twitched out of the way with the other.

"When I open the door," she says, "Giggle like I've just said something scandalous."

Edited 2023-07-13 04:42 (UTC)

Ellie gives her a flat look back, and in that moment she has no idea just how much she echoes Joel. It doesn't matter to her that Yseult is older, wiser, infinitely more experienced than her, and could probably do this mission both alone and in her sleep.

It's always possible for things to go wrong. It's always possible for things to get fucked up.

It's a credit to her, maybe, that Ellie turns on a dime as soon as the door opens. She pushes out a sputtering, shocked giggle, like she was surprised into it and trying desperately to muffle it before the man in the other room could hear.

As soon as the door is firmly closed, Ellie keeps one ear on the murmurs from in there, and takes out her picks again. She's no great shakes at lockpicking still, but she's been a very diligent student, and the simple lock on this drawer is no match.

Fingers flying, she slides the drawer open and takes out what looks like a ledger, reading over the first few lines, wondering if it's a language she doesn't know. This, at least, she recognizes as a code.

"Jackpot," she whispers to herself, lips moving as she pulls out her notebook and pencil. She prioritizes speed over neatness but is very careful not to leave anything out. One page for code-comparison... and the last page is very short, so Ellie flips to the page before that, copies that as well.

She quickly secrets her notebook back into one of the pockets of her voluminous skirts, places the ledger precisely back where it was, and closes everything back up.

Once she's perfectly satisfied, Ellie puts both hands to her mouth, but gives a few inches of room so she won't muffle the sound-

And proceeds to cough a few times, pause, and then go again, this time making it sound much more like a fit.

"Good girl," is the last thing Yseult says as she shuts the door, voice pitched back to that late-night-call-line timbre and just loud enough for their guest to overhear. Then she's gone, and the walls are sturdy enough there will be little to hear while Ellie works. A laugh that matches the voice, a thunk of wood against stone, the rest too muffled to distinguish.

There's no immediate activity when Ellie starts coughing. She has to keep at it for a couple minutes before finally there comes the sound of conversation, footsteps, and a rustle of fabric as Yseult tugs the door open, a very flustered-looking lord trailing in her wake.

"Another of your lung attacks?" is a testy demand, followed by a heavy sigh. "My deepest apologies, my dear sir, that we must cut our evening short but I must get her back to bed immediately. Weak lungs are a constant trial." She drags fingers down his jaw, and leans up to nip at his lip and then smudge lip-color away with a thumb. "I had so hoped to continue. Perhaps next time I'm in town, if you promise me you can be very discreet. I really should not, but--"

Mustache bobbing he hastens to assure he is the very soul of discretion, will speak of this to no one, and she gives him a promising smile as she plucks a calling card from his pocket and tucks it into the neck of her gown, and then presents her hand. "Until we meet again," she says as he presses a kiss to its back, and then another. She pulls away after the third and gestures Ellie to the door. "Come along, girl. To the steam tent for you," and moves briskly out out the study.

Only to find the hall filling with people, some sort of commotion brewing some doors nearer the ballroom. A woman faints with a little cry. Guards are jogging into the scene, herding the gathering group, preventing them from advancing any further down and out of the wing. "Garden door," Yseult suggests under her breath, turning down the opposite hall.

Ellie keeps at it, with only brief pauses to gasp for air, and by the end it's actually painful, but it gives her face a realistically flushed look, gives her eyes a sheen of dewy helplessness.

It also serves to keep her mind off the gallop her heart had taken when Yseult had murmured that praise at her. Because she was entirely too damn effective for her own good.

Thankfully, she has her shit together when the door opens.

The look she gives Yseult when she comes back out is nothing short of mortified embarrassment over ruining her companion's evening. She avoids eye contact with Lord Whatsit completely, and whispers a tremulous apology to Yseult that's pitched just loud enough for him to hear.

She takes her arm in the hallway as they had before, swallowing to soothe her aching throat. The commotion gives her pause, but she squeezes Yseult's hand once in a yes before she steers them behind a potted plant in the hallway, breaking line of sight for a brief moment while they flicker magically out of sight.

Nobody's watching them, but Ellie doesn't take chances with this.

She remembers where the garden door is, running the maps in her head to give herself an approximate location. From there it's not much trouble to find the door a couple of hallways over, where the sound of voices has quieted considerably.

Chancing a brief come-up for air, Ellie lets them flicker in and out, once, and leans in to listen at the door. There are guests in the garden, but this door is tucked away behind balustrades and ivy. They have a good shot of being unnoticed, barring servants or a romantic entanglement in the alcove.

Edited 2023-07-16 18:04 (UTC)

Ellie leads them safely through the house, and after that momentary pause to catch breath and assess, out they go. No servants, no lovers entwined in the alcove, but as soon as they're out in the garden the hue and cry from the hall seems to follow. There's no sign that it's after them in particular, but there are shouts of surprise and alarm, and the jangle of armor as boots pound down pathways and the booming voice of a guard calling for all guests to return to the ballroom at once and be prepared to present themselves for inspection.

Yseult makes a faint irritated noise under her breath and steers them deeper into the garden, moving quickly to take advantage of invisibility and stay just narrowly ahead of the spread of the guardsmen taking up positions at the gates and directing anyone spotted among the shrubbery back inside. "There should be-- ah." Tucked back almost out of sight behind a hedge is a gardners' shed, a low structure with a lock that takes roughly fifteen seconds for Yseult to pick, throwing the bolt again from the inside once it's shut behind them.

"This doesn't seem anything to do with us, but we can't risk being caught without invitations or references," she says, lifting her skirt to move deeper into the hut, not that there's far to go. Maybe ten by twenty, with a long workbench along one wall and racks of tools along the other, shelves of implements and pots, drying cuttings hanging from the ceiling. "We'll wait it out and then head over the wall or wander out and play drunk."

Ellie tries not to think of how easily all of this could have gone wrong. It doesn't matter now.

Ellie holds her breath solid as they make their way through the garden, dodging guards, keeping ahead of the searches. Nobody suspects anything. She transfers her grip on Yseult to the back of her shoulder as she picks the lock, and she's lightheaded by the time they get inside.

The first gasp of air is almost too much, and she leans up against the workbench, making herself slow down and take deep, slow breaths of air. She coughs again, clears her throat, making sure to muffle their sounds.

"I prefer the wall," Ellie says. Variables she can control, and she's good at climbing. But she knows that Yseult will want to lay down a trail that seems normal. Noise and misdirection.

Another deep breath and she lays a hand over her heart, shutting her eyes to catch up on air for another few seconds.

"Your makeup's, um. Smudged."

Having watched sideways for a moment as Ellie coughs and catches her breath, Yseult had turned back to studying the room with narrowed eyes. An ashtray on the far corner of the workbench catches her gaze, the low stool beside it. She steps that way, leans around the end of the bench, hunts for a minute among the contents of the nearest crates, and comes up with a sloshing brown jug. She pulls the cork, sniffs, and then lifts it to her mouth, taking a confirming drink before passing it to Ellie.

"Ale," she says, "For your throat." It's not too bad, as far as a hidden shed stash goes, not yet gone sour or stale. "Lucky the gardener's not a whiskey man."

That done, Yseult too leans back against the edge of the work bench, opening the obligatory reticule hung from her wrist to draw out a tiny mirror and check the aforementioned makeup, scraping a nail around the edges of her mouth where the color's smeared wide, blurring away the faint grey drip of one of the kohl lines beneath an eye. Satisfied for now, she returns the mirror to the bag on the benchtop and extends an arm back toward Ellie, hand open for the jug.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject