faderift | Spies vs. House Party (Closed)

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.

Ellie almost laughs aloud as Yseult puts together the pieces of the puzzle and pulls out some rando's hidden hooch. Get you a boss that sees the importance of a drink on the job, apparently.

"Thanks," Ellie says scratchily and takes a mouthful, letting it sit for a moment before she swallows, sighs. "That does feel better."

They're speaking in low voices, though all the commotion is far off, and Ellie listens a moment while Yseult fixes her makeup, and hands back the jug.

"You all right?" she asks, because although Yseult's a professional, that guy had seemed... grabby. Overeager. And to Ellie, anyone would be rattled after having to basically seduce a stranger. Right?

Yseult curls her hand around the base of the jug to take it back, drinks more properly than that first "is this what I think it is" test sip, and then sticks the cork in and sets it on the workbench between them before sinking down onto that stool, skirts smoothed beneath her, twitched out of the way of a splintered shelf.

The question is answered with a quirk of a brow and an eye cast over their surroundings, either misunderstanding or misdirecting. "Less dust and a proper chair would be nice, but it will do. Did you get the pages we need?"

Edited 2023-07-23 14:34 (UTC)

Ellie's eyes remain on Yseult for longer than a blink, the kind of eyes that make it so hard for her to hide what she really is. She doesn't believe that Yseult misunderstands her.

She lets it go for a moment, nods as she takes her notebook from the hidden pockets of her skirts and hands it over, crossing both arms over her stomach.

"Copied over the last page and a half or so, and one for the cipher comparison. At a glance it looks kinda similar to one we've seen 'em use before, so we better double check it."

She says all of this like this isn't what Yseult's taught her, which draws out what they aren't saying, the part that chokes Ellie with discomfort.

"I can't do that." Her voice is quiet. "What you did back there." There is fear behind her teeth, fear of saying no, of not being enough, of changing Yseult's opinion of her, but above all Joel taught her to be honest about handicaps. You can't cover each other properly if you don't know what's needed.

She says it simply, firmly, her fingers white-knuckling in on themselves, crumpling the part of the gloves they have stuffed to disguise her missing fingers.

"I'd have killed him."

"You could," says Yseult, as she eyes the code Ellie has copied, flipping through the pages in her notebook with an eye to that similarity. "It's not difficult, most men are easy. Most women, too." She casts a look up over the notebook's edge at Ellie then, some faint crinkle at the corners of her eyes and mouth that says she knows exactly what that parting good girl did to her. See how easy it is?

She spends a moment looking at Ellie's face, observing the clenched fists. She sheds—subtly, as if it was imagined to begin with—the faint edge of humor, and her tone settles instead into a normal conversational register.

"Do you understand why killing him wasn't the best option here?" is not a challenge or a criticism, just a question. She might, she might not.

Edited 2023-07-24 21:36 (UTC)

Yseult leans on it, into it, and Ellie can't begrudge her for it. She does this when she's teaching, pushing Ellie into accepting something she already knows to be true, getting her past her preconceptions and praising the parts of her that will ultimately help her stay alive. She thinks on her feet. She does things even when she knows they're difficult. She listens, almost to a fault.

It works, usually. Because Yseult knows how Ellie works, and because Ellie knows that too, and allows herself to be pulled and shaped. They are so often a team, herself and her mentor.

This time, she hits a stark and unyielding wall. Yseult leans on that silken bit of praise to make a point, and Ellie lets herself meet her eyes with something sharp-edged. A glimpse of the vicious, cornered animal that speaks in taunting whispers, drawing a throat close enough to tear it out.

It's easy, yes. But not for her. Not this.

"I understand." It's level, steady. "And I'm glad you handled it."

It's Ellie with the issue, not Yseult.

Yseult observes all this as she usually does: steady, eyes keen but manner impassive--a sheathed blade. She looks Ellie in the eye for a long moment and she lifts a hand, palm out, reassuring. "I'm not going to make you."

She lets that be it for a moment, lets it sink in before she closes the notebook and hands it back, leans her forearms on her knees, hands clasped loosely in the air before them.

"But it's a tool," she says, and there is a bit of that teaching tone back but something gentler, probing instead of pushing, looking for understanding rather than agreement. "What is it about it that bothers you?"

Ellie hadn't thought that Yseult would insist, but the reassurance is still nice to have. She nods, curling her fingers in and crumpling her lovely sleeve, and makes herself stop.

Of course, Yseult has questions.

Questions that bring her up short, and Ellie lifts her head to consider her, an ache of unease in her throat. Not for Yseult, but for the way she puts it, like it's a part of putting on a disguise, like another bit of acting and deception. Another tool.

"I'm not interested in men," she says, which answers the question, but only in part.

"... if I got into that position-" she frowns to herself. It's not vulnerable, not sad, but it is a strange absence.

"It wouldn't end well."

"It's not a matter of personal interest," Yseult replies, and there's a slight bend to her brows, the one that says Ellie is smart enough to've spotted the flaw in her thinking on her own.

But she can recognize a nerve when she's hit one, and she stretches up for the jug of beer, cradles it in a palm while she tugs out the cork. "You should sit down," she suggests, nodding toward a crate to Ellie's right. "We may be here a while." She drinks, and lets Ellie decide whether to do that or not, and then sets the jug back up on the bench.

"Why could it not end well?"

Yeah, Ellie's smart enough to spot that hole a mile away. She just doesn't want to get into why. Turns out there's no way to have a casual conversation about this, and they're stuck here.

At least there's something to drink.

Ellie holds out her hand for the jug, takes a healthy swig of it, hands it back. She picks at the edge of her glove for a moment, ordering the words in her mind. She does sit, though less gracefully.

"I've- killed a lot of people," she says, which is a super strong start, Ellie, great. "I've always meant to, though." She pauses there. There's a lot of details and nuances there that ultimately don't matter.

"There was only one time where I just... snapped."

It's very quiet. She's told this story before, and she doesn't particularly want to get into the details again. Frankly, Yseult doesn't need to know them.

"I was fourteen, and I met a man who turned out to be the worst person alive, and he thought that I was special."

Ellie jogs her foot, biting the inside of her cheek. She's acutely aware of how awful this sounds, but the point of this isn't sympathy, and she doesn't want it to be.

"He tried to corner me, and I killed him. And then I... just kept on hacking him apart. I couldn't stop. Joel had to pull me off of him. I almost hurt him, too."

And by now, Yseult knows precisely how much being in control means to Ellie.

"Not the sort of thing you want to happen on a mission, you know?"

Edited 2023-07-26 05:17 (UTC)

Yseult listens the same way she listens when Ellie gives a mission report, keenly focused and otherwise impassive, not about to interrupt with shows of horror or sympathy. It is awful, and she needs no explanation of how terrifying it must have been, but it's also not an outlandish story and even if it were, pity's clearly not the aim of its telling.

When Ellie's done, Yseult clasps her hands, forearms resting on knees, and agrees: "No, it isn't." She gives that a beat before going on, "But you've years of experience since then. What makes you think you'd still lose control?"

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cw: oblique reference to a pedophile, no detail

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