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

"There some trouble, Messeres?"

Uncanny, how quick he's slipped between them, back to the boat and hand resting on knife. A small man, but his forearm cords with muscle, and the unmistakable whiff of ozone. His smile is steady. It doesn't find his eyes.

A quiet shift on the storehouse watch. They aren't expecting visitors. Or loud, armed volunteers en masse —

His palm cants in faint adjustment, green flickering pommel.

"Jonah, why don't you shove off while we sort it?"

Without anyone aboard.

Edited 2024-12-01 22:26 (UTC)

From the back of their cluster, mumbled around a cigarette: "No, no trouble."

This has to be a lie. On the walk through Kirkwall to the docks, three different people who ought to have waved to Bastien didn't. One or two might have been distracted or cross about something, but three? And Jonah—

He's banked a lot of goodwill with Jonah. Even if he'd been successfully roped into a prank, he'd owe Bastien a wink about it.

—so there's trouble. Just not on their end. Cedric's knife-resting hand in his peripheral, Bastien declines to look more than mildly perturbed, same as if he were barred from entering a café he only wanted to go to so much in the first place.

"Is Riftwatch doing passwords now?"

"Sure. We give them at appointments,"

His glance slides over Bastien and away. Not loud enough, strange enough, to register beside the rest. (The tall girl's the real concern.) A tourist, maybe. Try and shove them off on the Chantry gardens —

"Be glad t'set one up for you. What's this about?"

Behind him, the ferry poles from dock.

Edited 2024-12-02 01:40 (UTC)

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."

Going no contact, involuntarily and without warning, would be concerning in any context. Julius well aware of how alarming it must have been in this one, given that he was on a mission to investigate Venatori time experiments. He is, perhaps, even the smallest bit shaken up himself, given how close a call it had turned out to be. That said, he isn't injured. Were the positions reversed, he wouldn't want to wait to hear either of his partners had returned safely.

When the five Riftwatch agents make it to Kirkwall, he tells the others he's going to stop over in town before returning to the Gallows. He doesn't imagine anyone will begrudge him a stop to reassure his loved ones, and the Commander may even be present, if someone insists that debriefing is critical. If neither of them are in residence, he may wash off the road dust before he goes further; he doesn't imagine anyone will begrudge him that, either.

He has a key, so there's no knock. That said, he isn't trying to be stealthy. On the contrary, he calls, "Anyone in?" as he shuts the door behind him.

"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 is wrong, and Bastien is moving through the street like something is wrong—so like nothing is wrong. The same way he's walked away dozens of times before, unhurried and nondescript, like he has somewhere to be but isn't in a particular rush to get there, politely interested in the wares of the market stalls he passes but not lingering long enough to register.

Until he sees Fifi, carrying her basket through the market like nothing is amiss.

Whatever is wrong, odds are good it's wrong with her, too. He shouldn't show his hand. He knows that. But the difference between this and all the times he's strolled casually away from the scenes of swiped valuables or split skulls is that he's afraid. He's pinching the flesh inside his mouth between his teeth hard enough it's going to leave welts. He's falling into step beside her with a white-knuckled hope that he can trick things into being fine, like pulling a tablecloth out fast enough the tableware stays put.

"If it is going to be this cold, it should snow," he says. "It is only fair. Right? Right now it is all the misery, none of the charm... Can I help you carry that?"

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)

Breaking in would be a strong term. He has a key. He's here for things that belong to him. That he waits until the sun has gone down and times his entry to avoid being sighted is a matter of convenience only. That he waits a little longer to be confident Byerly is out, not in, is only because he can't deal with that right now. Not when he's this tired. Not after Fifi.

That he brings offal for the dogs—that's half because he loves them, and this way he might not have to find out either way if they recognize him. He drops the food for them downstairs and doesn't wait to see if it's made them love him forever before making his way up. The little flame from his runestone doesn't give much light to work by, but he knows his way around; his absence hasn't rewritten anything. His cello is still in the corner. The book he was reading before he left is still tented open on the nightstand. Signs of his life are everywhere. But Byerly wouldn't have said a word about Duke Bastien on the sending crystals if he knew who the signs belonged to.

The cello's too big to grapple with tonight, but he grabs the book without much thought, tossing it on the bed, followed by the things he really came for: clothes and money. If he's going to be a ghost, he'd like to be a clean one that sleeps in a bed.

His ear is on the stair, the door, the dogs. But more of his attention is on moving quickly, even when it means making a bit of noise. He doesn't want to linger.

It takes a moment for Fifi to realize it's her the man is addressing, and, as she knows to do from years of experience, she offers him a pleasant little smile and a small, deferent incline of her head.

"Very kind of you, Messere, but I think I can manage," she reassures him, and a keen eye (much like Bastien's) might note the way she takes stock of his posture, his expression, the look in his eyes. Her face remains pleasant, relaxed, ready to defuse. She has no idea who he is.

If it weren't for Bastien's bad ear, he almost certainly wouldn't have been taken by surprise. But it's on that side that Byerly approaches. Maybe it's just coincidence - but even so, it might spark some hope that there's a memory in there, buried deep down. Some hidden knowledge of Bastien and his weaknesses.

And yet Byerly's voice, when he speaks, is chillingly pleasant. Not wry or teasing or warm or gruff or sultry or exhausted or any of the multitude of tones that Bastien hears from his beloved. Instead, it's the warm indifference of the Ambassador. Monstrous in its friendliness.

"A very pleasant evening to you, messere. Have you found everything you're looking for, or do you need a bit more time?"

His hand rests on the haft of his dagger. Not a threat yet, but a warning.

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."

Outside the little study allotted to Petrana, she will hear brisk footfalls, Marcus across the length of their home with purpose.

And for good reason. She'd have heard the unsettling combination of their door being opened, a stranger's voice carrying through, just as he. He'd been busying himself changing out of the clothing he'd worn for caring for his horses in the stables, and so when he enters the front most room, he's in a state of slight half-dress, if still decent. Missing a jacket, shirt tails loose.

Boots on. Bladed mage staff in hand. His expression is subtle but nevertheless confronting in the way Julius will find himself being hastily assessed.

"What do you want?" sounds a little like a tensed diversion from what he would rather be saying, which, for the record, is a demand for this person to get out of his house. Julius is being paid the credit that there is a meaning to this intrusion.

Messere hits wronger than any of it. He'd never put up with her talking like he's a superior—not without her tongue in her cheek. He doesn't miss a step, even feeling like cracking glass, but he adds a couple, enough to step ahead of her and turn around to walk backwards in front of her.

That's a more precarious endeavor than it used to be, with his hearing the way it is. He might run into someone, if anyone behind him is looking down and fails to swerve to make room. But he does it anyway.

"Fifi," he says, smile nearly slipping off his face for a moment before being pinned up by its edges. "Come on. Look at me—can you try to remember?"

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?)

Without looking at him, Bastien says, "Five more minutes should do it," in the coastal Marcher accent Yseult has painstakingly taught him to imitate. Western, coastal. Wycome or thereabouts. Not entirely right, but the wrongness is in the care with which he makes some of the sounds, as likely to be compensation for a speech disorder or a pretentious affectation as anything else.

He snuffs out the flaming runestone before he turns away from the wardrobe. The sweater in his arms is a rough knit he'd only wear in public among dockhands and fishermen, and one Byerly wouldn't wear at all. He looks at the weapon first. Byerly's face second. He'd already steeled himself for the lack of recognition; the implicit threat is, if anything, comforting. He knows what to do about daggers.

A friendly, cocky smile is already in place and doesn't waver.

"Not here for trouble. Just something to wear. And if you wanted to read the book," is not out of the question for Byerly these days, really, "I can pick a different one."

"I see the problem here. The problem is that you seem to have mistaken my home for the Chantry, and me for a bleeding-heart sister here to give alms."

It's not exactly the most normal behavior for Byerly, all things considered. He's not generally precious about belongings, especially not something as rough-spun and shoddy as that sweater that Bastien is grabbing. And yet his posture shifts into something just a bit more aggressive. A strange protectiveness over these strange items? Or is it just common suspicion?

"Curious enough, since I'm not quite comely and buxom enough to be a holy temptress."

The slight tension under her still-smiling eyes betrays Fifi's discomfort with the situation: he's in front of her now, blocking her path. He has used a name only known to those most familiar to her, which means either that he has been watching her in some capacity, or that he has known of her for quite a long time.

Her stomach turns; a patron of the club would have said Vulpesse. Perhaps he remembers her from her other profession of the time, and those patrons don't like to be forgotten.

"Forgive me," she says, her smile artfully remaining, "I can't quite recall your name." She has stopped walking, adopted a guise of pausing to chat, all the while toying with the crystal at her neck.

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?

It's a loose thread, is what it is. Something he can grasp and tug on better than slippery indifference and blank absence of recognition from the one person—

He says, "That's your opinion, serah," smile widening asymmetrically, and he unfurls the sweater to hold it up against his torso in demonstration. It'd fit him, see? Like a glove.

Or like a mitten made by someone's arthritic grandmother, fine. But it'd fit.

"Come on. It's cold. I have had a shitty day. I fed the dogs and I didn't touch the drawer with the false bottom or the safe or the 'hidden' cellar." He twitches his fingers to suggest air quotes without releasing the sweater. The dim street light that seeps through the murky glass of the window glints off his ring. "And you're not going to hurt me, so tell me what warm thing you like the least. Not this? You like this?"

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."

PLAYER PLOT | Forgetti Catchall, now in the right comm

FERRY;

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declaring loose tag order anarchy

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Kirkwall Proper; closed to Marcus and Petrana

bastien collection.

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fifi.

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byerly.

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