In Qarinus he has a quiet presence. Literally: he doesn't talk much. When he does talk he defaults to the eastern, coastal Free Marches accent that Yseult has taught him over the years, not because it passes for Tevinter, but because the shapes of the syllables dissolve in the murmur of a crowded street better than Orlesian would. And figuratively: neutral clothing, contained posture, a manner bordering on timid without becoming remarkably so, any glint of friendly mischief scrubbed from his eyes. A man that eyes will pass over without pause.
Maybe recognizable to the people who were with the Inquisition's Kirkwall outpost when he first arrived five years ago. Or maybe not. Being unmemorable is the point.
But for people inclined to spot him or assigned to work with him, he's here and there. Watching both the thunderstorm brewing out over the sea and the movement of uniformed guards on the docks from the shade of a cluster of palm trees, scratching the side of his head to signal when there's a gap in their coverage big enough for their refugee-smuggling allies to move people through it. Meandering through a market, looking at foreign food and enchanted wares with uncharacteristic impassivity—if drawing attention weren't an issue he would be touching everything, asking ten million questions, spending all of his ppocket money to taste whatever he'd never tasted before—and keeping tabs on a tall, dark, gangly, bookish-looking man, Hadrian Neromenius, who's approached the outer rim of the Lucerni with interest in assisting them but is suspected of being an aspiring mole. Or ducking into the lighthouse they're using as a base, hissing Orlesian curses, clothes soaked through and hair waterlogged by the warm, raucously windy storm that's sprung up outside.
a tavern
The mission: meet with Pollia Florens (Polli to her friends), the owner of a local printing operation who's already dipped her toes into anonymous anti-Venatori tracts now being passed carefully around among people judged unlikely to call the cops. The agents: Bastien and whoever he's pressed into service today, motivated by any combination of their being interested, being interesting, and not looking like they had anything better to do.
The location: a tavern on the border between the loud, rat-infested docks, and the less-rat-infested, walled-garden homes of people who want to live near the sea for their pleasure rather than their professions. Nautically themed. The prize above the mantle is the cracked helm of a sunken Qunari dreadnought, around and throughout which a sculptor has added the Tevinter duo of dragon and snake.
Polli Florens meets them in a private room upstairs. She's a broad woman, hourglass-figured, confident, with silver streaks in her long dark braid. With her is a younger woman with eyes so big they're a bit buggy, much less comfortable in her chair, introduced only as Polli's favorite anonymous.
"Red wine, whiskey, or water?" Polli asks the newly arrived Riftwatch delegation, in a tone that suggests there's a right and wrong answer to this question—
So Bastien looks politely at his partner to let them answer first. He can recover from her disapproval of them much easier than her disapproval of him.
a little house
When they arrive, it's already gone wrong. The home's owners (or letters, as it were) are a short, balding man named Gal—short for something too embarrassing for him to admit what—and his taller wife Vorenia with hair enough for both of them, two elfblooded soporati friends of the People of the Silent Plains. The current occupants are Gal and Vorenia, obviously, but also eleven escaped slaves out of Minrathous and two humans running from arrest for dissidence, who've spent the last week crammed into the small cellar below the equally small house, and, unfortunately, two uniformed men who have been tied up where they lay on the floor.
"We'd nearly put them off the scent, but the baby started crying," Vorenia explains once she's hurried the two Riftwatch agents past the threshold and shut the door behind them. The room is dark, lit only by the dying fire. The baby is no longer crying, and a curious refugee has lifted the cellar door an inch off the floor to peer at the scene above. "And Gal... I didn't know he had it in him."
She looks proud. Gal looks like he's going to be sick.
"Must have been a neighbor," he says distantly. He's sitting in a chair, staring at the men. City guards, now taking orders from the Venatori. One is unconscious. The other's eyes are open, flitting around above his gagged mouth to assess the situation. "Or... I don't know. I don't know how they knew. But they must have known."
They were supposed to move tonight, the refugees. They still need to move. There's a ship waiting that won't wait forever.
"They've seen... Do we have to kill them?" Gal asks. The last words are moaned. He leans forward to hold his head in his hands and his arms on his knees.
Bastien isn't sure yet, and if he had to guess he'd say probably they do, but he doesn't want the man to faint. He says, "No. Of course not."
qarinus (ota)
In Qarinus he has a quiet presence. Literally: he doesn't talk much. When he does talk he defaults to the eastern, coastal Free Marches accent that Yseult has taught him over the years, not because it passes for Tevinter, but because the shapes of the syllables dissolve in the murmur of a crowded street better than Orlesian would. And figuratively: neutral clothing, contained posture, a manner bordering on timid without becoming remarkably so, any glint of friendly mischief scrubbed from his eyes. A man that eyes will pass over without pause.
Maybe recognizable to the people who were with the Inquisition's Kirkwall outpost when he first arrived five years ago. Or maybe not. Being unmemorable is the point.
But for people inclined to spot him or assigned to work with him, he's here and there. Watching both the thunderstorm brewing out over the sea and the movement of uniformed guards on the docks from the shade of a cluster of palm trees, scratching the side of his head to signal when there's a gap in their coverage big enough for their refugee-smuggling allies to move people through it. Meandering through a market, looking at foreign food and enchanted wares with uncharacteristic impassivity—if drawing attention weren't an issue he would be touching everything, asking ten million questions, spending all of his ppocket money to taste whatever he'd never tasted before—and keeping tabs on a tall, dark, gangly, bookish-looking man, Hadrian Neromenius, who's approached the outer rim of the Lucerni with interest in assisting them but is suspected of being an aspiring mole. Or ducking into the lighthouse they're using as a base, hissing Orlesian curses, clothes soaked through and hair waterlogged by the warm, raucously windy storm that's sprung up outside.
a tavern
The mission: meet with Pollia Florens (Polli to her friends), the owner of a local printing operation who's already dipped her toes into anonymous anti-Venatori tracts now being passed carefully around among people judged unlikely to call the cops. The agents: Bastien and whoever he's pressed into service today, motivated by any combination of their being interested, being interesting, and not looking like they had anything better to do.
The location: a tavern on the border between the loud, rat-infested docks, and the less-rat-infested, walled-garden homes of people who want to live near the sea for their pleasure rather than their professions. Nautically themed. The prize above the mantle is the cracked helm of a sunken Qunari dreadnought, around and throughout which a sculptor has added the Tevinter duo of dragon and snake.
Polli Florens meets them in a private room upstairs. She's a broad woman, hourglass-figured, confident, with silver streaks in her long dark braid. With her is a younger woman with eyes so big they're a bit buggy, much less comfortable in her chair, introduced only as Polli's favorite anonymous.
"Red wine, whiskey, or water?" Polli asks the newly arrived Riftwatch delegation, in a tone that suggests there's a right and wrong answer to this question—
So Bastien looks politely at his partner to let them answer first. He can recover from her disapproval of them much easier than her disapproval of him.
a little house
When they arrive, it's already gone wrong. The home's owners (or letters, as it were) are a short, balding man named Gal—short for something too embarrassing for him to admit what—and his taller wife Vorenia with hair enough for both of them, two elfblooded soporati friends of the People of the Silent Plains. The current occupants are Gal and Vorenia, obviously, but also eleven escaped slaves out of Minrathous and two humans running from arrest for dissidence, who've spent the last week crammed into the small cellar below the equally small house, and, unfortunately, two uniformed men who have been tied up where they lay on the floor.
"We'd nearly put them off the scent, but the baby started crying," Vorenia explains once she's hurried the two Riftwatch agents past the threshold and shut the door behind them. The room is dark, lit only by the dying fire. The baby is no longer crying, and a curious refugee has lifted the cellar door an inch off the floor to peer at the scene above. "And Gal... I didn't know he had it in him."
She looks proud. Gal looks like he's going to be sick.
"Must have been a neighbor," he says distantly. He's sitting in a chair, staring at the men. City guards, now taking orders from the Venatori. One is unconscious. The other's eyes are open, flitting around above his gagged mouth to assess the situation. "Or... I don't know. I don't know how they knew. But they must have known."
They were supposed to move tonight, the refugees. They still need to move. There's a ship waiting that won't wait forever.
"They've seen... Do we have to kill them?" Gal asks. The last words are moaned. He leans forward to hold his head in his hands and his arms on his knees.
Bastien isn't sure yet, and if he had to guess he'd say probably they do, but he doesn't want the man to faint. He says, "No. Of course not."