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WHO: Kingfisher and anyone she wakes up
WHAT: Delivery!
WHEN: 2am morning of Solas 25
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Noisiness. Can probably just be a pile on in one thread.
WHAT: Delivery!
WHEN: 2am morning of Solas 25
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Noisiness. Can probably just be a pile on in one thread.
Despite the frequent storms that have plagued Kirkwall, it's been a quiet, calm night. Lucky, in some ways, as if it had been raining Kingfisher would likely have had to part with a few more coin to persuade the boatman across to the fortress. As it is her coin purse is already lighter for the trouble than she'd like, and really, who sets up some kind of elite emergency army out in the harbour and then doesn't put on a night ferry?
That impression doesn't improve much on finding no guards or staff to greet her. She'd almost consider the place empty, except she knows what abandoned places feel like, and the quiet here is softer than that kind of coldness. Still, the lack of the kind of late night motions she'd expect in a place like this has her wondering why her delivery here was impressed as being so urgent. It didn't look like anyone was going to get anything done with it any time soon. But she doesn't question her clients. She'd have a lot less of them if she started doing that.
She'd have less of them if she failed in delivering anything as promised, too. But in the absence of any noticeable staff or guards to point her in the right direction, she isn't going to be able to find the recipient quickly. And there's no way she's walking the whole fortress banging on doors.
There are weapons racks visible in the courtyard. Taking a moment to peruse the options, she picks out a nice domed shield, unbuckling her scabbard so as to be able to heft her smallsword by the sheathed blade. There's a singular, ringing clang as she tests out the combination, nodding to herself in satisfaction at the way the sound echoes off the walls around her.
The next wave of clangs comes in threes, louder now for the shield and sword hilt being struck together in the air above her head. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. Then a pause, where she inhales deep and does her best town crier, bellowing "Commander of Riftwatch!" before striking her improvised bell again.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
She's an archer. It'll take a while for her arms to get tired.
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The united front doesn't need her input to start showing cracks, though. Even if she was open to persuasion on the matter, they wouldn't be making much of an impact. The final reference to her maintaining her very serious and solemn duty to her cargo as grandstanding is the last nail in that coffin. She turns, walks over to the box, then plonks her butt down on it. Sword braced across her knees, bored expression settling over her features.
"Tell your commander I'm waiting."
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And as the courier pivots into another new mood and takes a seat, it gets less subtle. His eyebrows go up. Andraste help him. (As a figure of speech. She will of course do no such thing.)
"If you're going to insist on trespassing, you can do it in the dungeon," Redvers proposes, "and we'll tell the Commander in the morning. Unless you want to tell us anything to explain why it's so urgent. Aside from you wanting to get paid. We don't—"
A pause. He carefully does not glance at Matthias, who he suspects now will disagree with any we he puts forth.
"I don't care if you are or not."
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"Open it yourself," he says quietly, and glances once more from Matthias, to Redvers, to the courier. There's an implied 'or else'.
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"This is stupid."
--he might as well say it aloud. This courier is acting arsey on purpose and it's far too early (late?) and Benedict is of no real help at all and then there's Redvers, who Matthias does, unfortunately, have to agree with in this particular moment.
"She's not going to open it and she's not going to give it over, and she's not going to tell us anything, so--" Annoyed, he shoves off to approach her, shuffling his feet so they work down into his boots properly. He'd only had a moment to pull them on before heading out here. "Dungeons it is. C'mon."
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So, here: the scrape of boot heels, the flap of a coat tail, the faint click of metal shifting against metal that comes from the easy collision of belt knife against stowed spyglass. Fragments of brazier- and moonlight paint Commander Flint in a patchwork of golds and blues as he comes traipsing out of the dark, the stark black shape of him clarifying in pieces as he cuts in across the courtyard.
"Is this meant to be the watch change?" sounds more like a patronizing What the fuck is half the company doing in the yard at this hour than it does some barked order. It's dark. He's sixteen paces off. The woman sat on the crate could be—
it's a shorter list than is ordinary, but still.
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She's about to turn her sword off her knees to ward off the approaching mage when there's the sound of yet another grumpy bloke coming to join the party. Kingfisher knows better than to get her hopes up, at this point, but it's an effort to stop herself rolling her eyes.
"Let me guess," she says, gesturing at the new arrival with the pommel of her sword for emphasis. "Also not Commander Flint."
STEALTH