faderift | PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

Clarisse has been fighting back yawns and almost slouching up until now. She's tired and ready to be in her own bed again as soon as humanly possible, but as soon as Cedric makes himself known she straightens to her full height, frowning.

She's not chatty enough with locals in the city to have noticed any difference in behavior as they made their way through to the docks, but this, Cedric facing them with a hand on his knife and that look in his eyes, is obviously not right.

"Just reporting back," she says, lifting one eyebrow as if to say, what else?

Because what else would they be doing?

"Right." Skeptical. He knows everyone here, too small a place not to. And any more distant allies — "Dunno who you report to, but know they wouldn't be happy if I let you across. You give me a name, and we'll set something up. Shouldn't be more'n a day or so."

"Please, Mister Carsus, spare us whatever game this is."

This from the gaunt fellow with the no-nonsense eyebrows, the sickles of brown hair stubbornly projecting despite his hat. A satchel hangs on him, crosswise. Unlike Bastien, and like Clarisse, Viktor is accustomed to being acknowledged by few, so crossing the city was a non-event, and this surprise is all the more displeasing for it. He's fatigued. He's aching. His crutch is digging into his armpit. He wants to go home.

As the gap between ferry and dock actually begins to widen, he gestures after its pilot, palm open, in the universal body language of Excuse me, what the fuck?

Something bristles. Spent long enough in Kirkwall to meet folks, but most don't look or sound like Viktor. All of them know better than this.

"Alright, let's break it up." He steps forward, palms rising from belt to the broad air. Cedric ushers them back toward the street. "If Shinbones put you up to this, you can tell him it was a laugh."

(Different impressions from every one of them: Orlesian tourist, alleged agent; a flash-dressed skeleton, and the little blonde. Almost like someone aping their own motley hands. When he tries to push it together, the shape slides from grasp.)

Edited 2024-12-03 03:54 (UTC)

It's not that Ness thinks she's likelier to get a better response from Cedric than any of the others that makes her speak up, it's just... This is all very strange, and she's never known him to be a prankster.

"Cedric," she pipes up from where she's been hovering near Bastien's elbow, looking for all the world like a very confused, kicked puppy, "do you really not know us? Has something happened in the Gallows? We weren't gone that long."

...right? She glances around them trying to ascertain by vibe alone whether the Venatori magic had held them all in stasis for a few years or something equally outlandish. Nothing seems too out of the ordinary, so she steps forward, toward Cedric, the very picture of friendly concern.

"Are you alright? Have you hit your head recently, or been tossed around? We can have the Doctor look you over for a concussion when we get onto the island."

"Enough," Clarisse cuts in, loudly and almost over the top of Ness's last couple words. She steps forward as well, arms crossed tight over her chest. Like hell she's going to let Cedric usher them back onto the street like they're strangers.

"Either let us through, or call someone who will." Someone who hasn't lost their mind, preferably. "Let's stop playing games."

It's a good question. He's taken more knocks than most, even before the lyrium; a patchwork history. That's what makes it exactly the wrong thing to say. His mouth draws tight. Shoulders square. Any trace of that early, easy manner's gone, out past the waves with Jonah.

"Miss," Sharp. "You're not getting to —"

They'll never know how that sentence ends. Not with Clarisse in his face.

"Back off. Now."

His head tips, bullish. Expression plain: They're about to have a real problem.

(Maybe he would still called someone, maybe cooler heads would prevail. But the greasy slip of it all sets him on edge. Do you really not know us?)

They shuffle positions like pieces on the board. Instinctual choreography always surfaces in moments like these. Viktor himself has conceded a few short limps to the shepherding; as the mood curdles, he yields another pair of them.

We weren't gone that long—

Serious brows relax their furrow a notch. Body still, only his eyes move, flicking thoughts. With Cedric's attention commanded elsewhere, he feels confident in loosing a buckle on his satchel, slipping a hand inside in search of a certain thickness of pages. This may seem an odd time to check notes—but if this goes where it seems to be headed, those who'll come from the island will be even less inclined to be friendly, and under a more robust escort he may not have another chance to look.

The hand that Bastien puts on Ness's shoulder is half preemptive comfort—Cedric's sharp tone doesn't seem like it will do any wonders for the kicked puppy thing—and half preparation to pull her further back away from any possible future commotion, as he looks between Clarisse's stance and Cedric's.

Then to Viktor. He would raise his eyebrows imploringly, please say something about thaumaturgical backlash or something that makes this fine, if Viktor were looking back at him instead of searching his bag.

"We can go," he tries, voice low and aimed at Clarisse. If nothing else it might be better to regroup and decide on an approach that doesn't involve squaring off with any colleagues, right? Right?

Had Bastien spoken just a handful of moments earlier, it would be another story. Clarisse is hardheaded, stubborn as hell, but she could've been convinced to regroup somewhere else. Unfortunately, now she's standing in Cedric's space with her chest puffed up, and now it's more about pride than anything.

Besides, she's freaked out. Genuinely scared, worried for everyone who's still in the Gallows. The last thing she wants to do is turn around and waste even more time.

"No," she says without turning to look at Bastien, "we can't. Something really bad could be happening over there, really bad, and he's been—fucking brainwashed or something."

A flicker at that.

"Alright,"

Cedric steps back, to the side, as though cowed — in the end, he is a small man. A quick one: Hands snake in to find Clarisse's shoulders and twist, shoving hard into her own motion, out toward the water.

It isn't deep. This near the dock, even a nug couldn't drown. But with any luck, a splash earns some breathing room.

She expects him to go at her, but not the way he does it.

Clarisse's own momentum carries her over the side of the dock, but she shoots one hand out and closes her fist around the fabric of Cedric's shirt and holds tight even as she falls. If she's going into the water, she's taking him with her.

The distance from the dock to the water isn't enough to hurt when she hits, but the frigid water more than makes up for that. Clarisse releases her hold on Cedric and kicks out at him before she goes to surface, not sure where her feet will land but hoping it's somewhere soft enough to hurt.

You ever try to swim while someone kicks you in the balls?

The lights go out. Cedric chokes on a lungful of grey water, and nearly pukes. Comes up a beat too late, dizzy of it, and a whole lot fucking madder than he was just a minute ago.

He charges, crashing them both into the side of the ladder back up. Impact rocks the salt-warped boards, wood mites skittering, but their shoulders are both clear when he pulls back to swing for her face.

They hit the side of the ladder hard. The air feels like it rushes out of her lungs all at once, and she sucks in a throatful of water trying to inhale.

She's still gagging it out when Cedric's fist crashes into the space just below her left eye. Luckily—maybe?—the freezing water has made her go half-numb, and it doesn't hurt as much as it probably should. Still, Clarisse feels her head rock back, and she hits the ladder again, this time with her skull. That hurts.

At this point a normal person would probably be doing their best to haul themselves out of both the harbor and this entire situation, but Clarisse only grabs for the slick ladder with one hand and slams her other elbow into Cedric's jaw.

It has occurred to Viktor to leave while the leaving's good—while he's not quick, neither are most freshly battered persons with full dress soaked through by the winter sea—but that would be entirely counterproductive. Nearly everything that might be of use to them now is inside that fortress.

Temporal distortion, altered memories. The temple. The time graft. Young scars, barely healed over, easily pulled open. It's why he went in the first place, why he's fussing with a makeshift notebook instead of gawping at the brawl taking place right there. (It's why his chest is tight as a fist; it's what trickles cold at the base of his spine.)

Pages snap until he finds the most recent log. His stomach leaps. Predictably, the notes end before whatever incited this, but that which came before—

has just been slapped with a spray of silty saltwater—

He's slipping on silt when her elbow rockets out, an icepick into bone. He stumbles back in a wash of water, spitting blood, and green flares at the end of his hand. Cedric glances at the anchor, as if surprised to find it there,

Before ripping up its shield like a club, smashed down above her into the ladder. Wood splinters, splits a shattered rung.

Clarisse already decided: If one of them's in the water, then both of them are.

It’s enough commotion to draw attention, onlookers curious but wary enough to avoid interference in Riftwatch chaos unless directly impacted. Jayce had taken care to cross Lowtown in brisk strides rather than a run, in some misplaced, perhaps, hope that doing so might avoid garnering attention himself. Now, with the docks in view, he breaks into a sprint.

The acid glow of an anchor shield supersedes the small group of onlookers—those individuals claiming to know them, belong to the same organization as them. A fight in the water— Who—?

His eyes dart to the strangers, all risk-assessment, no trace of recognition. His mind stumbles over the oddity of their inaction. Are they not—?

After another wary glance, Jayce turns his attention onto the scuffle below. Recognition, then. “Carsus!” he shouts, withdrawing his mace. The shard in his left palm snaps with an acid electricity of its own.

He can only assume the worst of intentions, even if the players aren’t positioned correctly. (Why haven’t the others jumped Cedric, too?) Even so, firing into the water would be exceedingly careless, but he sure as shit isn’t jumping in yet, either. Maybe his addition might be enough to break things up, if only for a moment— if only one of them is hostile—

Clarisse winces, jerking back as the rung she'd grabbed for splits apart, and just like that, she's treading water again. She should probably be thankful that Cedric didn't bring that shield down on her head, but she's beyond thinking clearly about any of this.

If she can just get behind him, if she can grab him in a chokehold or something, maybe—

Footsteps on the dock above them. At first she thinks it's one of her group, finally backing her up, but the voice she hears next isn't anyone who was on the mission.

"Jayce?!" She risks a look over her shoulder. It's Jayce, yes. But he's got his anchor shard pointing right at them, ready to fire. "Wait," she starts, "wait—"

Clarisse made a fine point, a minute ago. One Bastien would have carefully considered for at least ten seconds before reasoning his way back into not going to the prison island with the possibly-brainwashed or possibly-demonic Cedric-shaped man.

But that was a minute ago. Now there's chaos, and there's Jayce and his mace—

that rhymes, there's a song to find in there

—and anchor, and Bastien shakes his head at the entire situation, looks from Ness to Viktor to see if either evinces any interest in coming with him, and turns to shoulder his way through a small cluster of bundled-up and bemused onlookers. They part without resistance, much more interested in craning to see whether anyone's being drowned.

Viktor, meanwhile, in acute dismay, is watching this page bleed into oblivion when a familiar body charges past him without so much as a glance his way. He breathes in—but Clarisse says it first, leaving his mouth empty and the rest of him rooted uselessly to this spot.

He, too, turns a look to his companions, likewise taking stock, and so catches Bastien's eye just in time to communicate his own inner disarray; You're leaving? hardly has time to spark before the man opts to abstract himself from their circumstances. Here Viktor remains, now very aware of the bystanders, who will receive from him only silent reproach before he snaps his attention back to the absolute shambles of a situation unfolding here.

"Don't," comes out steely. "Put that away." The anchor.

Edited (wrong) 2024-12-10 04:11 (UTC)

Everything is happening so fast—Ness went to the crystals to attempt to get them passage on the ferry, and still no one knew them, and now Cedric and Clarisse are fighting—she wrings her hands at the violence between friends, near to tears. Jayce's appearance, mace in hand, anchor shard snapping, draws a gasp, and her hands go up in the universal signal for 'I have no weapons, I'm not a threat.'

Of course, that means her anchor shard is pointed directly at him.

She barely spares a glance for Bastien—it hasn't even occurred to her to run.

"Messere Talis," she says, a distinct pleading tone to her voice, "what is going on?"

Alarmed, his eyes dart from Clarisse to Viktor to Ness, the latter on whom they remain, narrowed with confusion and suspicion. This isn't just one unfamiliar voice on the crystals recognizing him anymore, and while that doesn't really change anything, it does deepen the prickly discomfort in his stomach.

After a beat, Jayce lowers his anchor. "Question of the day, isn't it?" is not an answer because he hasn't got one. Glancing between Ness and Viktor, concluding that, for at least the next few seconds it's unlikely for either of them to suddenly attack, he approaches the edge of the docks and crouches down, not resting on his knee (in case he needs to spring back from an assault). The woman in the water seemed disarmed enough, so--

Offering his shard palm, he grimly says to Clarisse (and Cedric), "Let's go."

Clarisse grits her teeth. She wants, more than anything, to say him first and force Cedric up onto the dock ahead of her. She wouldn't put it past him to try and hit her from behind as she climbed up first. There's a similar problem with Cedric going before she does, though, where he and Jayce will both be standing above her, at an advantage, while she treads water.

Wild that these are real thoughts she's having—that Jayce, her friend, the person who sat with her in the forge for hours working on that knife, might attack her.

After a few more seconds of deliberation, she snaps, "Fine." She reaches up for his hand and uses the momentum and Jayce's weight to haul herself up and out of the water.

PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

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lor has full license to change whatever xoxo

right back atcha

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jayce and his mace in a one-man foot race from the marketplace

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