open | jeaaaaalousy

[cozen]

WHO: Anyone.
WHAT: Ferreting out imposters.
WHEN: Drakonis 9:50
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: This is a catch-all for anyone who needs a place to put logs related to the envy demon plot. Use CWs in your subject lines.

art

Some number of Riftwatch's members are, presently, envy demons in disguise. Better find them.


RECAP
Previously, all these things happened on one day actually:

• Julius was poisoned and Flint, Yseult, and Marcus killed the culprit.
  
• Marcus ordered the Gallows on lock-down. No one's allowed to leave, but Riftwatch members outside the Gallows at the time are required to return.
  
• Yseult announced the possible presence of shape-changing imposters.
  
• Byerly encouraged identifying people who might be affected.
  
• Templars had a huddle.

Comments

[quaestionespatris]

Oh, shit. What was it Byerly had said--that he had an aunt--or was it an uncle?--go up north to marry into a family in trade of some sort? Octavius' eyes shift uneasily from his cards back to Barrow, somewhat relieved to find him still focused on his cards, then back again.

Aunt, or uncle? Kaffas, quit dithering, just choose one--

"Uh, through his uncle." He fidgets with his cards, clears his throat. Fidget fidget fidget. "We're more like second cousins once removed. On my father's side." nailed it

[thereneverwas]

Barrow pauses, frowning at the cards in his hand, and carefully reorganizes a few of them.

"Did you visit him in Amaranthine often? Or is this a long-awaited reunion?"

[quaestionespatris]

It is entirely possible--and likely--that Byerly provided Octavius with all the correct answers to Barrow's questions. And like any dutiful student keen to earn top marks and make his teacher proud, Octavius had tried to commit them to his memory to be whipped out on an occasion precisely like this one. It's just a shame that, in all the ensuing chaos, to say nothing of his own grief, Octavius can't for the life of him remember any of it. Not one word. Anxiety and stage fright have turned his memory into a buzzing chasm of white noise, and while all the solutions to this problem are presumably in there somewhere, there's just no way he's going to find them in time to salvage this shitshow.

Octavius is staring at his cards, but he's clearly not seeing them. He swallows, hard. "No," he says. Wait. "I mean, no, I've never been to Amaranthine before." What was the other question? Fuck.

[thereneverwas]

This is... more or less expected, but that doesn't make it any nicer. Barrow sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he swats his cards down onto the table, slowly groaning to his feet once more.

"Up you get," he sighs, gesturing to Octavius with a dismal look, "make it easy on us both, eh mate?"

[quaestionespatris]

He cracks immediately, dropping his cards. "No wait," he blurts out, eyes wide and desperate as he looks up at Barrow as though the man is about to march him directly to a gibbet. "I'm not a demon! I'm not Byerly's cousin, but I'm not a demon!"

[thereneverwas]

Not the gibbet, maybe, but Barrow is somewhat less tolerant of Horseshit than he might be on a typical day. He stops walking, staring Octavius down with the sort of weary gaze that comes from not wanting to make a crater of him, but knowing he'll do what has to be done.

"Then tell me who you are," he says, his voice low but gruff, "and what you're doing here. And don't try to lie to me again, lad." He stands between Tavi and the entryway, so any attempt to run would be misguided.

[quaestionespatris]

"I won't, I swear." The words come tumbling out of him in a rush, alongside a shaking, relieved exhale, that he isn't about to discover firsthand whether the rumours about southern Templar brutality towards mages are true. Octavius's hands are trembling as he presses them against his face (which is even paler than normal), pushes them upwards and through his hair, and then lets them drop to the table again.

He takes a moment to look around the dining hall to see if there's anyone within earshot, then looks up to Barrow again. Softer, slower, more deliberately now: "I'm Octavius Vedici, and I'm just trying to find my father. Magister Vedici--he was the Inquisition's prisoner here about seven years ago. I just--I need him to sign some papers, so I can have my fucking life back. Byerly," a tired, weak wave of both hands, "found me in the city getting robbed blind by a bloody street urchin and took pity on me, I suppose."

A moment's hesitation, before he risks meeting Barrow's eyes again. His expression is agonizingly earnest, and though he is trying to hide it, he's doing a poor job of masking his fear, too. "That's the truth, I swear it."

[thereneverwas]

Folding his arms as he listens, Barrow pinions the boy with his gaze, occasionally nodding along to indicate he understands what he's being told. An uncomfortable tug at his memory brings him back to a time when it was commonplace to see a young mage squirming under scrutiny; he didn't enjoy it then, and he doesn't now, his mood darkening as shame rises in him.

"None of that is a crime," he says patiently, with as much gentleness as he can muster in the moment (not a lot), "but what I don't understand-- perhaps you can help me out here-- is why Byerly would feel the need to lie about it."

A joke taken too far? Some other bizarre reason? It's a bad day for this to be coming to light.

[quaestionespatris]

"He didn't!" A beat, and then a conciliatory dip of his head, and, "I mean, he did to you, but not to the Scoutmaster. We told her everything when I first got here. He was worried about someone called Flint catching wind of who I am, I think."

This isn't how any of this was supposed to happen. Not that Octavius has a clear idea about how this little quest of his was supposed to shake out, but he's quite certain the answer is a resounding not like this. "He was just--being kind, because Benedict is my friend."

A pained look steals across his face then. "Was my friend," he corrects himself quietly.

[thereneverwas]

Oh, for—-

Barrow smears his hand down over his mouth and chin with an equally pained look: of course, of course it’s that simple. Everything clicks into place with everyone involved, and suddenly he’s so, so tired.

He takes a seat on the adjacent table’s bench, folding his hands and hunching over toward Tavi in a proper man to man.

“Flint isn’t going to hate you outright,” he explains, “he’s a hard man, but a g—“
He has to stop before saying Good, because they’re supposed to be telling the truth here. He balks equally before saying Fair, pausing to collect himself and revise:

“He’s got principles. Artemaeus ran afoul of them some time ago. That’s got nothing to do with you.”

He pauses, and grimly adds, “unless it does.” Eyebrow arch. Does it?

[quaestionespatris]

"No," Octavius answers, though he looks as though he's starting to second guess even the truth of his own story when Barrow raises his eyebrow at him like that. This feels like getting caught trying to climb over the Nautia estate's garden wall by Captain Basco when he was a child, who never seemed to catch Otho and Gaius when they decided to misbehave. Except this time he's reasonably certain he hasn't actually done anything wrong. "I don't think so anyway. What did he do?"

barrow's brain begins to hemorrhage from the rupturing of the fourth wall

[thereneverwas]

The frightened look in the boy's eyes says it all, and Barrow shakes his head, dismissing the thought. At the question, he shrugs a shoulder.

"Not sure," he admits, "was around the time I arrived, so I wasn't looped in. But it was enough to land him downstairs for a time, and no small amount of bad blood, by the sound of it."

But that was then, and he might even be dead now, so.

"Just keep your nose clean and don't pick any fights. You'll be fine."

rip barrow's brain🤘😔

[quaestionespatris]

"All right," Tavi says, though the uncertainty still plainly visible on his face belies his agreement. It's all well and good for Barrow to tell him that he'll be fine as long as he follows the rules and avoids running afoul of anyone else at the Gallows, but he's not the one with a Venatori magister for a father. Still, it's sound advice from someone who could just as easily have decided to drag him 'downstairs.' (He tries very hard not to think about what that must have been like for Benedict. He's trying very hard not to think about Benedict at all.)

He hesitates. Then, meeting Barrow's eyes again, pleads quietly, "Please, don't tell anyone. I'll--sort out how to come clean about the whole mess, I will, but if it comes out now..." A pained grimace, before he shakes his head. "Byerly stuck his neck out for me, I'd never forgive myself if he was punished for it."

[thereneverwas]

A serious nod—- the lad can come clean on his own time—- but the conclusion to the plea elicits a bark of a laugh, not entirely mirthful, not entirely unkind.

“Punished,” Barrow exclaims, “yeah, that’ll be the day.” Welcome to the circus, kid.