faderift | [ may catchall ]

[ Teryn Everett Cornelius of Ostwick is holding a banquet and hunting party at his country estate. Traditionally, he awards a sizeable sack of gold coins as a prize to the hunter who lands the largest beast. Riftwatch can enter two agents into the contest. The only goal: either land the biggest prize, or land a decent prize and sabotage all the other entrants to ensure victory. ]

There’s an early rash of sickness at the banquet. Nerves, perhaps, or an under-roasted tusket —

( Prized for their virility, An enthusiastic young man explained, his spectacles fogging with breath. )

— And very little to do with Isaac, a devoted professional who’s gracefully volunteered his services to those taken ill. Clarisse was warned on the long ride to Ostwick to exercise caution at the dinner table; they aren’t the only ones with an eye for tomorrow’s prize.

Though the field has narrowed, contenders remain:

Dame Lire, a Chevalier in from Serault. She's taken a strict fast of water and bread; so to court Andraste’s favor. Regrettably, she is not so pious that the Exalted March could not spare her leave for the good Teryn’s feast.

'Hammer' Tomas, the Nevarran dragon-hunter, has shown no such temperance - or any symptoms. He pushes wine on everyone, and can't be so drunk as he pretends.

Rebeca Maria Galleria Naia Onala Mia de Toledor, a Lord of Fortune whose gown clatters with the sewn-in coins of previous triumphs. She pries and flatters, in search of an alliance with Clarisse; or at least, information on their competitors.

When Isaac finally returns to the room, it’s with a number of unpleasant stains across his sleeves. He’s already searching for a cigarette, pockets patted in the brainless fumble of someone who went through their stores two days prior.

"Kaiten’s out," The Fighting Kite tripped down some stairs in a drinking contest. "Poor man’s quite disoriented. Did you eat?"

Edited 2024-05-03 23:09 (UTC)

Clarisse is up, pacing the room. She's not nervous about tomorrow, but she's feeling a certain amount of restless energy and nowhere to throw it yet. She used to get like this the night before capture the flag, too. And basketball games.

Though there was a little less sabotage involved in those competitions than this one. (Sometimes. Capture the flag could get pretty nasty.)

When Isaac starts patting his pockets, she reaches into her pack and offers him a rolled elfroot joint. It's not a cigarette, but close enough. If he doesn't want it, she might smoke some herself.

"Not the tusket," she says, her lip curling in amusement. "You?"

Doesn't look like it, from the state of his clothes.

"Good, horrible animals. Someone ought to poison them."

Isaac considers the joint - looks in the moment, his age, and tired for it. Some funny little smile tugs at his mouth as he props it in teeth, cupping the end alight. A long drag.

"What manner of support will you need tomorrow?" Isaac passes it back to her, and goes digging in a pack. Comes up with sausage, hard cheese. Purchased a town away, and sweaty of the road, but this is all for nothing if they send her out faint. "You’ll be at the spear, I presume."

While Clarisse thinks it over, she takes the joint back from him and raises it to her lips. She inhales the familiar smoke and holds it in her lungs until they burn, then lets it out slowly.

"Yeah. de Toledor says she wants an alliance, but I don't trust her. She makes me the most nervous. I would love to throw her off somehow, send her in the wrong direction." Get rid of her. The others are still contenders, but she feels like she can handle them.

She paces again, briefly, smoke trailing her, then notices the food he's pulling out and winds her way back. Some people might lose their appetite before a contest like this, but not Clarisse. She offers the joint back to Isaac. Trade?

Trade, she better needs it. Isaac's not about to go sprinting through the forest for anything less than open war.

"She’s a problem," He agrees, pleased with the assessment. Game it out: "Tomas gave her wide berth, so he’s decided the same - or they’ve a prior agreement. He saddles you with sorting her out, promising a cut of the prize, and she gets an alibi to cross him for Lire. Good odds they've each received your offer."

The joint waves, lazy. He may be overthinking this, Ostwick isn't Orlais. But people are bastards everywhere.

"Misdirection is a fine idea," She's tougher than the silk implies, a spooked horse wouldn't do it. "Does she want the gold, or the glory?"

Edited 2024-05-22 01:34 (UTC)

"Everyone wants glory," Clarisse says, her mouth already half-full of cheese. "Kleos. What's the point in having all that gold if nobody's admiring you for it?"

Admittedly, she may be biased; she wants glory. But even aside from that, she thinks this is mostly true for everyone even if they don't admit to it, and especially everyone here—if gold is all they're after, there are other ways to get it that don't involve showing up for a very public competition.

"There's no way Tomas is as drunk as he's pretending," she adds, almost like an afterthought, though she's considering Isaac's musings on the possibility of two competitors working together in secret. "He wants everyone to think he's going to fumble it—which is stupid, he hunts dragons, there's no way this would be a challenge for him."

Which is a problem. It's all a problem, frustratingly. All these angles, all these actors.

"If he hunts dragons," Isaac prods. These are Clarisse's sort of people, and he believes she's the right of it — "There’s little glory in this at all."

Wyverns are ever flashy trophies, but then, why put on the show? I managed it dead-drunk, a hand behind my back, it reeks of a man on the decline.

"So to one end or another, he's desperate," A patron to impress, or a debt to outrun, "And Lire wants out of the March, but a Chevalier has certain obligations."

To crown and cause, and not some upjumped Marcher. A funny look crosses his face.

(That may be the smoke.)

"Do you imagine she’s trying for injury?" Spend a sweet summer at home, abed. "That little show of temperance, so she can’t be blamed; piety, so she won't accept healing."

So: Tomas and the Lord of Fortune.

"Toledor might have been hired by either as support. If she scoops a victory for herself out of it, that's only a bonus," Hm. Endangering the potential clients won't do it, then. "Then there's the Teryn. Oh, fuck."

Times are hard. Maintaining appearances is an expensive task. If Toledor only wants glory, he might enable her win, and avoid paying up altogether.

"It's got to be the Teryn. They're all using her but us. That's why she's on you."

Clarisse leans back in her chair, tapping her index fingers together. Thinking.

"So Lire gets her time off, the Teryn doesn't have to pay up, and Toledor still gets the glory." She can believe it, sure. She isn't 100% on how the dragon hunter fits into all this, if he even does, but now she's off on another track anyway.

Tap, tap, tap. She frowns. "Do you think the Teryn will intervene if it seems like someone else might win? It's a lot of trouble to go to, but... so is organizing all this in the first place." Right? Then again, if the guy is that hard up for money, anything is possible.

"Perhaps. I don’t see why we were invited if we might act as a true spoiler."

But this theory has more than a few holes. They may never have been meant to make it this far. Isaac slings onto the chaise, drapes a hand over his face. The pleasant prickle at the back of his eyes is — distracting.

"We could win goodwill for throwing it, but frankly we better need the gold. And I’d very much like to see whichever head you drag back to stuff." Toledor’s would do. "I could seed the word we're short on something, some alternative trade. A payment plan? An heirloom? His firstborn child?"

A gesture to Clarisse. She's steeped more deeply in Forces: What do the kids want?

"Umm," Clarisse says, rubbing the spot between her eyes like that's gonna massage her brain a little. Problem is, she never has much of a clue what the other divisions are up to, and Forces is primarily an excuse for her to play soldier and lift heavy shit.

Still. She's got some idea of what could be useful. "We're always looking for people who we could call on for a favor later," she says. "And, I mean, we've been kind of fucked with all the trade routes getting disrupted, so anything that we can't get our hands on..."

But she's not really thrilled about either idea, because—"I'd rather we just win."

It's a moment before he responds. Starts, really – ah, right, of course –

"I’m confident of that," He sounds a touch looser than confidence implies. He sounds like he’s about to take a nap. "If you weren’t a fine challenge, they’d none of them need worry."

A yawn. Cracking his fingers to find her gaze:

"You're going to win."

Maker, it's been an Age since he smoked.

Clarisse watches him, amused and wondering if she maybe smokes too much. She doesn't react like this anymore, that's for sure. Oh, well, that's something to consider once they're back home.

For now, she nods and pops a piece of sausage into her mouth. "I like your confidence," she says with her mouth full.

She does, she's not being snarky. Because either he just has a lot of faith in her, in which case she's flattered, or he's going to pull off something sneaky and underhanded tomorrow and secure their victory. Either way she emerges from this situation looking good.

And eventually, they do emerge: Victorious, and covered in leaves, and alright, a little underhanded.

(Toledor had frozen, strange, for a crucial shot. Tomas' hart was found rotten through, clearly an old kill dragged in to fake.)

The Teryn looks a sour man at his own celebrations; Isaac smug enough for the both of them, when he pulls aside to discuss alternate prizes. Among the arrangements promises the return of Clarisse's trophy to Riftwatch, a finely-stuffed –

What did she take down, again?

Edited 2024-07-24 05:44 (UTC)

It was definitely a bereskarn, and its stuffed body will make a delightful addition to the Gallows.

Clarisse, for her part, is able to play it cool at the celebration afterward. She's obviously pleased with herself, and proud of their work, but she's not going out of her way to brag. (She saves all that for the trip back.)

[ may catchall ]

clarisse; closed

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