player plot: the walk-in

[sumptus]

WHO: Benedict, Bastien, Lazar, Caius
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.

Comments

[sumptus]

"You do have an eye." Has this woman ever heard of Black Dragon? No. Does she want to sound like she might not know something? Absolutely not! "Valhail's Languidly Spirited Lightning was her sire, she is the spitting image."

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?"

[extortionate]

‘Scuse me, one moment, casual-harried as any hired help. He angles Vicki Yoo’s piggy breath toward the doorman’s very fine jacket; a grenade that at any time might blow.

- 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.

[altusimperius]

Perhaps it's to draw more jealousy out of her current attendant that Fausta glances after the departing bodyguard, a longing look about her like she'd rather not be left behind, but she humors the-- whoever this is-- anyway.

"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.

[cozen]

Bastien follows too, half behind her. His bristle at single-success singer's vain struggle against his own mediocrity isn't subtle: a stiffening back, a lifted chin, a glance in the man's direction to gauge how intentional this well-placed jab might be.

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.

[altusimperius]

"Mm?" Fausta intones, turning back to the bard with glance down her nose-- he's so very short-- "oh. Oui."

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.