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Entry tags:
player plot: the walk-in
WHO: Benedict, Bastien, Lazar, Caius
WHAT: Making Bene wear an elaborate disguise to recruit a Tevene defector
WHEN: Ferventis / Justinian
WHERE: Nessum
NOTES: Tbd.
WHAT: Making Bene wear an elaborate disguise to recruit a Tevene defector
WHEN: Ferventis / Justinian
WHERE: Nessum
NOTES: Tbd.
The Tevene city of Nessum is a little like Kirkwall in the way that peacocks are a little like pigeons — structure, not aesthetic. A shimmering mirage on the edge of the Silent Planes, its hills roll green out of the desert and crash against a dizzying jut of rock that peaks at Andraste's gleaming crown. Like Kirkwall, its lowest levels host a warren of alleys and hovels giving way to markets and shops, taverns and townhouses, but instead of eau de fish guts and ocean damp, the cool breeze off the valley below brings in farm feed and summer grass, even in wartime. The markets may be barer than usual, the guard towers full, and the roads mudded with soldiers' boots, but this city isn't falling to rubble. In place of Hightown's crowning mansions, the ringed walls of these widening streets open to the glittering jewel of southern Tevinter — the Black Divine's Summer Palace.
And for some reason, some idiot in there wants to swap.
At least their contact's potential has been verified, if not his sanity. A young mage of no great rank, an academic of some esoteric discipline, but a Venatori collaborator, confirmed to be in a position to offer useful intelligence. Anything more, Riftwatch will have to learn for themselves.
The party where they're meant to do that is not being held in the Summer Palace, but in a residence near enough to it that the rich and influential can annually exert both in person, blessedly free from the burden of vows. That the Black Divine has been so recently and scandalously replaced hasn't escaped anyone in the city's notice, but it has if anything fueled the need for such a gathering — so that everyone who's anyone can display, publicly but not gauchely, how entirely fine they are with the new situation.
spy shenanigans
Fortunately, it isn't a fortress. Unfortunately, it is very public.
As guests arrive in the carriageway en masse, a number of people have clustered in the front courtyard to watch the sunset or each other, before they brandish their gilded invitations at an overwhelmed doorman. A flurry of waitstaff duck through from their rounds toward the servant's entrance and kitchens beyond. A man in an elaborate hat and equally elaborate hand gestures expounds upon a subject less than fascinating to his captive audience. An older woman struggles with a collection of brightly colored pillows under one arm and an extraordinarily fluffy muff (–in this heat?) under the other.
For three of Riftwatch's finest, options abound.
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He’s watching the old woman, not the young one at his arm. Lazar is, ostensibly, guarding Benedict. Benedicta. Whatever name they’re using (it’ll come to him). The dog’s a problem - dogs're unpredictable, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Toss it a canape later.
"Lemme help you there, ma’am," Unslithering from his side to assist, a gracious gesture to the pillows. "You got your hands full with that little jewel."
Long as they all get inside, they can regroup.
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and her gaze flits about the courtyard in search of anyone who might obviously match the description they've been given. It gives an impression of aloofness and disinterest in the overall proceedings, which will suit the Riftwatchers just fine.
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He hovers near Fausta with less protective attachment than Lazar exhibits—exhibited, before chivalrously abandoning her. Equally hired help, less equally responsible for her wellbeing. He faces the talkative gentleman in the ornate hat, looking half interested, but his attention is on the waitstaff beyond him, calculating. A tray of drinks spilled down Fausta's front might get them both through the servant's entrance, under the guise of needing to clean up somewhere private, but a commotion and a stain would both draw more attention than they want.
"Fascinant, no?" he says quietly to Fausta in the meantime, tilting his head toward the talker with the hands and meaning, pretend to be fascinated.
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Into Lazar's waiting arms go the pillows, "Honestly, any decent person would have a mote of consideration for my darling Vicki Yoo's comfort, and after she was so ill in the carriage," —And she deposits the dog atop them as well.
Beady little eyes stare up at Lazar from a dish flat face. Despite her presumably petite lungs and stunted airways, Vicki Yoo draws in a deep breath, freezes like she's subsequently forgotten what breathing is, and belches stupendously. It doesn't smell great!
"— all down his beard, can you imagine the insult!" The large triangle of spiked fabric atop hat-man's head bobs with enthusiasm, but perhaps more importantly, so do the panels of his long jacket, where the golden edge of an invitation or two glimmers in one pocket.
The others he's trapped — a pair of youths not quite confident enough to interrupt their own torture — make ample room for the newcomers the way one assumes prisoners do at the stocks, but then continue every so slowly inching back.
"And that's only the second sequel. Why, the private lives of the not very rich or famous could — and will — fill volumes!"
"My good lady," Far be it from hat-man to overlook the vague proximity of a lovely young woman of who isn't yet but could be paying his work the attention it deserves. The bard is fine too. (That she keeps the company of bards must be a good sign!) "Have you never wondered about the daily toil of those whose lives are not quite so thrilling as your own?"
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Fuck. What sounds Tevene.
"Black Dragon's brood. Shape's too fine."
If Sybelle comes home with one of these, he’ll sign any papers she wants. At least its teeth are too stumped for true damage. Height's not always a boon to this kinda thing. Makes it easy now, at least, to glance the other two -
(They've got it handled. Worst case, whoever makes it opens the milk door.)
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"Constantly," she replies in a quiet, breathy contralto, brushing her fingertips to his sleeve as she draws them up to curl coquettishly in front of her mouth.
"You'll tell me about them, won't you?" The opposite hand extends delicately in an invitation for him to offer the expected greetings to a single woman at or above his station; it also, conveniently, will leave his pocketed invitations unguarded.
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Instead he looks at Monsier Passioné with a polite smile and a hardness behind the eyes. The look of a watchful bird of prey—or maybe just a jealous man, endeavoring to be pleasant while in fact displeased to have such a storyteller competing with him for the lady's fascination.
And he listens to Lazar, his new friend and his new little charge. If Lazar makes it through the doors successfully, then Bastien has half a plan.
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Though not literally. The dog only licks its chops in satisfaction, sparing Lazar for the moment.
"—And too delicate for this miasma, you're quite right. Let us find her a proper sofa." Nose upturned at the rabble, she gestures broadly onward. Her off hand sweeps into her purse for her own invitation, ready to present to the doorman.
So odds are looking good for one of them.
"With pleasure." Fausta's companion, meanwhile, is not quite so high born nor so well-liked as his ego might suggest, but if there is anything this man loves as much as attention, it's his hat — and after that, jealousy. The glint in his eye is not only for the statuesque Fausta, whose eyes he meets as he bends to nobly kiss her hand, but equally for the bard at her side he distinctly does not acknowledge. Imagine, being preferred over a real bard! Perhaps then he might even sell a book—
"But where to begin? Is it the grain sorter's miniature war against tedium that captivates you? The muck shoveler's vain quest for completion? Or perhaps the single-success singer's vain struggle against his own mediocrity?"
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- And he’s through the doors, lets himself be led with only occasional interjection to coo some empty compliment to beast or broad. Valhail, what a legacy.
Keeps an eye on their surrounds as they go. 'Skinny fuck in black' is about half the guests present; they’re gonna need Fausta in here to make any real headway.
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"Muck shoveling," she answers lightly, beginning to drift in the direction of the door as well: if her companion has two tickets, one of them may as well be hers.
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A moment later he pauses a step, as if with realization. Looks back, looks ahead at the door Lazar has vanished through ahead of them.
He says, "Bonnes flammes," to himself, and to Fausta: "Est-ce que votre abruti ander a l'invitation?"
Perhaps Benedict will not need this excuse at the door. Perhaps he'll only need his pretty face and attentive ear. But in case.
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She tightly grips the old man's hand, turning back to him imploringly.
"My foolish bodyguard has wandered off with my invitation," she gasps, "I don't suppose you've got an extra?"
Her eyes are dark and deep and vulnerable, lined so flatteringly with kohl.
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Luckily, there's at least a modicum of a plan. A pin, green as rift, should be affixed to the lapel of their specific skinny fuck-- and it doesn't take long to spot a man with exactly that bit of jewelry, veil quartz gleaming at his collar.
Pale may seem an exaggeration -- perhaps he's seen some sun lately. Brunette, as young as Fausta, awfully gregarious for a man about to defect, if the handful of other youths orbiting him is any indication--
--Shorter than Bastien. (Hadn't their contact said the opposite?) As he turns his head to laugh with a friend, the slightest point of an ear shows beneath his hair.
From the mezzanine above, tense eyes track the movement every person who approaches the gregarious elf. Tall, pale, skinny, and paranoid.
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Her gaze sweeps over the crowd, lingering briefly on the skinny individual who watches the proceedings so intently.
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"If he’s playing coy, he’ll wanna see it through. Get the kid somewhere he can follow easy. Box him in then."
Suggestion, not command — they aren’t here to kill the guy. Probably. Just nice to have the option. His chin cants toward Bastien, What d'you think?
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He sums this concern and advice up as, "Delicately."
Mostly agreement. A little biased; it's hard for him to make sense of what anyone is saying in an indoor crowd. A garden or an alcove, yeah, and he'll feel less hobbled and vulnerable.
His eyesight is fine, though. He marks the angle of Fausta's gaze but doesn't follow it up to the balcony; peripheral vision does the job fine.
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Marel isn't a perfect match, he knows that. Who do you throw to the wolves but one of their kin? But he knows most of the people Marel knows; he doesn't know these. That's enough to at least warrant a better look.
Above, the figure moves between party-goers along the rail, not rushed but not idle, too much purpose in his strides for subtlety. There are people who are good at this, he ought to have practiced— what, weaving through crowds? Committing treason? But a better angle is all he's after just yet, a look at the young woman's face while she decides what to do next.
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It's a come hither, if not the kind she's used to. Come hither so we can steal you.
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Down the nearest staircase, then, and when the crowd next breaks he gives a more pointed nod-- behind her, left. A hallway, with doors leading off away from prying eyes.