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open | now give me something to believe in.

WHO: Cassian Andor & you
WHAT: A liaison from the Shadow Dragons arrives
WHEN: Bloomingtide
WHERE: Minrathous + Kirkwall
NOTES: Some injury description

arrival.

It’s a late spring night when a stranger arrives at the Widow Tavisa’s Boarding House.

Most regular guests would take the front entrance and speak to the innkeeper in the main room; but this one slips through the back entrance and takes an out-of-the-way servant’s staircase, into a shuttered wing of the building which isn’t supposed to be open to the public. But those rare people in the know might be aware that this leads to Riftwatch’s secret outpost in Minrathous —

The darkhaired man slumps against the locked door leading into their safehouse. He knocks on the door in a fixed, staccato rhythm identifying him as an ally. He has a hand pressed to his side with worrisome urgency, jaw tight and teeth gritted against the pain; he knocks again a little louder, in case whoever’s on watch is dozing.

No one’s expecting a new arrival right at this hour. It’s not ideal.

settling in.

After finally getting vetted and officially joining, Cassian tucks the Riftwatch pin into his pocket and starts to get the lay of the land, gathering information, pressing a finger to the pulse of this new city he’s going to be calling home.

There’s a kind of amiable affability to this new arrival, his smile calculated to be inoffensive and mild, even as the gears are very busily ticking away behind his dark-brown eyes.

You might find him at the Gallows bar, pouring himself a drink and smoothly sliding into the chair at your table to pry: “So, what’s your favourite place in the Gallows or Kirkwall?”

Or wandering the battlements of the towers and looking out across the city. Rebuilding is expensive, and so some parts of Kirkwall still bear the marks of the Venatori attack a little over a year ago: collapsed buildings that never got raised again, battle-scars and scorch marks from dracolisks. “What was it like?” he asks. “The Venatori attack.”

He also goes for long walks through the city, right past the alienage (although his gaze lingers), and venturing into the deeper recesses of the city slums. One particular afternoon, he emerges from Darktown blinking half-blinded into the dim light of Lowtown, which is right about when a few thieves assemble around him for an attempted mugging, knives brandished. “I really don’t have time for this,” he says to the ringleader, looking more annoyed than frightened; which is right about when a Riftwatch colleague might turn the corner and encounter the scene.

( Also happy to receive wildcards, or to write up a bespoke starter for you; just hmu @

quadrille if you’d like to discuss! )

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The first order of business is to prove his credentials, which means it’s a relief that Riftwatch apparently has someone on staff who specialises in decrypting encoded messages. Perhaps it’s even the first hurdle to see if this organisation is simply an assortment of war-harried brute soldiers, or if they’re capable of a more deft hand, a sophisticated touch where it comes to spywork.

So per arrangement, he goes to the office shared between the Chief Cryptographer and the Master of Information — already noting both titles as very much of interest to him — and knocks on the door, poking his head in to find a blonde woman.

There was an envelope sewn into the lining of his jacket; Cassian had carefully ripped out the seams earlier to retrieve a page of what looks like banalities, a letter from a woman written to her husband across the continent, catching him up on the local gossip and the state of their rose-garden.

“Hello. Are you the resident cryptographer?” he asks.

The woman at her desk when Cassian arrives — the other side of the office is not occupied, presently, but plainly in use — seems absorbed in her own thoughts, enough that the initial knock had not quite stirred her from them. She looks at him with no small surprise, an openness about it that he will certainly come to recognise as unusual; arranges her features into a more measured pleasantness with the ease of great practise as she says,

“I am. And you are, Monsieur…?”

She sounds Orlesian, so long as one is not greatly familiar with the usual cadence of native speakers; slightly too clipped, if one is, something a little more Tevene about the way she shapes her vowels and patterns her speech.

(And yet, to hear her actual accent in spoken Tevene—)

There’s a slight twitch to his expression at the Orlesian title; not enough to quibble about the use of it, however. It’s polite, and he’s answered to worse.

“Andor,” he says, his voice noticeably Tevene-accented. “Cassian Andor. Newly arrived.”

The way he approaches the desk is as if she’s called him in to attention. A straight bearing, professional and obedient, a hound called to heel. He reaches into his pocket, retrieves the piece of folded paper, and sets it on the nearest clear spot at the edge of the woman’s desk.

“Leadership will need to see my credentials, but they’re in the form of an encrypted letter from the Lucerni. I hear you might be able to help me.”

Her expression warms at his accent and this news — and, perhaps, some small amount at this demeanour, familiar as it is — and she says,

“Indeed I may,” in fluent Tevene, the way she speaks it strikingly underlining the similarities to her natural accent (the wrong notes to an Orlesian ear) as well as indicating, as she continues, that the drawing rooms and parlours where she has honed her Orlesian are not where she most usually converses in this language: “I have some familiarity with your ciphers already.”

The way that Tevene had always seemed to rumble out of James Flint’s diaphragm and curl, smokelike into conversation; her prim speech is not that. Still, there is a brisk affect, a particular patter — a specificity to her cadence and even the words she chooses when translating her thoughts — that signposts other habits. She lifts the paper he places down, not immediately unfolding it but instead laying her hand upon the lowest drawer of her desk and opening it with the flare of a cold blue light momentarily aglow in her eyes,

rifling through it a moment, and then resealing it the same way when she finds what she is searching for.

“I expect that you will be obligated to cool your heels whilst I translate your letter,” she says, “so if you would sit, I would be most interested in your introduction. I am Madame de Cedoux.”

Edited 2025-05-20 08:23 (UTC)

Cassian starts to go for the chair to cool said heels, but then he blinks, thrown.

It’s the first stutter in that otherwise smooth demeanour, tripping right over— well, not the fluency in the language, that’s easy and common enough, but the particular lilt to it. A certain hyper-specific regionality to her speech and idiolect which catches him entirely off-guard for how it doesn’t match the package at all. She looks like a perfectly-coiffed blonde Orlesian duchess and sounds like a fucking pirate.

“Where,” he says, his voice faster and more fluid in his native tongue, a little less stilted around the edges as he’s briefly derailed from the original topic, “did Madame de Cedoux learn to talk like a grizzled old sea dog?”

It’s funny: if she’s speaking trade, it isn’t a very difficult thing to crisp up her vowels, shift the way she holds her mouth, lean into the aspects of her accent that make less sense in Val Royeaux and she can sound as Minrathousian as she likes, months ago stepping easily into the role of a prissy bureaucratic go-between. In her conversational Tevene, though, it is inescapably shaped by the men she most frequently conversed with,

and it is difficult for those sanded down edges to remain that way, when one is likewise inescapably shaped by one’s pursuits.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of the Walrus,” she suggests, “and her captain.”

If her feelings on both ship and man remain complicated — scraps of stolen correspondence are little to the investment lost, even if they are not nothing and even if the frog might as well rail against the scorpion — there is none of that in her voice or demeanour. It is not unknown that James Flint, captain of the Walrus, had loitered in Kirkwall attached to this same company; that he had commanded, for a time, their Forces division. It is probably harder to imagine Madame de Cedoux in his company, although certain corners of Hightown have colourfully elaborated on the possibilities.

“I think he did not intend to be held to the offer made, when he made it. Nevertheless.”

They’d placed him in guest quarters at first, out of an abundance of caution, but with his letter of introduction translated, Cassian’s now able to sit down and have this conversation with something more to show for it than his mere word.

Ever since needing to go underground, magisters on the run or black-bagged and thrown into prison never to be heard from again, the Lucerni had become more cautious. They’ve been covering their tracks, operating in the shadows, but the splinter group’s finally ready to reach out and reconnect with their Riftwatch allies.

By all accounts, all roads lead to the Scoutmaster; she’ll be the one to vet his arrival, and he already knows it’s her division he’ll want to join. So the meeting’s scheduled, and the man known as Captain Andor shows up with military punctuality, spine straight, hands folded against the small of his back.

“Scoutmaster Yseult? I hear you’re the one to talk to.”

The Scoutmaster stands at a filing cabinet on the far side of her desk, rifling through a neat collection of folders. She plucks one out, and says, "Come in," as she flips open the waxed-cloth cover (who can afford paper for anything but writing these days). She gestures at the chairs as she turns, movements seamless even if her gaze pauses on his face.

"You must be our new Shadow Dragon recruit." She sets down the folder and takes a seat, picking up another off the top of the pile in the tray to her right. Her hair is lighter here and longer, skin paler after a long winter, makeup more subtle, but she wasn't in deep disguise that time in Vol Dorma, just blurred a little, softer, unmemorable--not at all the same as unrecognizable.

"Pleased to meet you, Serah Andor."

Once Yseult turns around to face him, and once she speaks,

then there’s a sense of nagging déjà vu nipping at his heels, a faint disorientation like climbing a staircase and miscounting the steps and missing the landing. He trips over that metaphorical absence, then recovers, and moves forward to take the offered seat in front of the desk. Cassian’s good with faces, but the context’s so wholly different that he can’t pick out yet what she reminds him of. Give him some time to chew over it.

(The two fake servants working the magister’s party that evening had had different names, both of them.)

“And you. The Lucerni appreciate Riftwatch’s efforts in the region— as you probably know, our operations have changed over the last year, we’ve had to go underground,” into the shadows, “but the Dragons wanted to pick up collaboration again.”

And it had been an easy choice to send Andor. They pointed him and told him to go, and off he went. He could think on his feet and improvise if necessary, but in the meantime, he would stay loyal and focused on the cause.

The rescue is not a dreadfully heroic one. The Riftwatch colleague does not leap into danger full of derring-do, brandishing a rapier; he does not place himself in the way, making certain that it is his body assuming the risk of violence. He does not even use his silver tongue to charm and cajole.

Instead, this Riftwatch colleague (who is out walking his dogs, one a tiny rat and the other a mournful hound) matches Cassian's peevish energy perfectly. His response to running across this threatened violence is to just sigh heavily and say, "Maker's breath, Ingrid, not in front of my house. Take it elsewhere."

The leader of this little pack narrows her eyes and replies, "Not in front of your house, not in front of the theater. Where can I make my living, then?"

Byerly turns towards Cassian and raises his eyebrows, clearly asking for suggestions. After all, Cassian certainly gives a general impression of being the sort of person who'd know where you might find some illegal business, if for no other reason than his pragmatism over having a knife pointed at his heart. And Byerly has had this conversation with Ingrid more than once. And clearly none of his suggestions have been good enough for her.

Edited 2025-05-13 02:38 (UTC)

There’s a kind of mental realignment which always happens in moments like this. The stranger with the Tevene accent (not a popular one around here, either) had been strung taut, body language tense and on the verge of bursting into movement, a hand drifting towards the edge of a jacket where perhaps he keeps a knife of his very own. The taste of adrenaline, the threat of impending violence, the readiness to do what he has to.

Byerly severs all of it neatly with just a few words and a glance.

Cassian tilts his head, and he considers the question posed. Hightown had deeper pockets, but increased guard presence. The Undercity had even less to steal and their people deserved even less to be stepped on.

“Learn the guard rotations,” he eventually suggests, ruminative, “and hit them where they’re not looking. Bigger scores above,” Hightown, “and you won’t have to scavenge so much so often down here.”

Because each mugging was another accident waiting to happen, another potential fight with opportunities to go wrong. The eternal balance of risk:reward.

"That's bullshit," Ingrid replies. She has a Fereldan accent. It's the reason that she has some measure of familiarity with Byerly, if not necessarily respect for him. If they were back home, she'd absolutely loathe this nobleman with his effete and condescending manner; here, their common origin overrides the class difference.

Despite her immediate resistance, she's watching Cassian closely, her eyes narrowed.

"I tried going up there before. They took one look at me and knew I didn't belong there."

Byerly, helpfully, offers - "Have you tried scowling a bit less? It might do wonders if you didn't look like you were sucking on a lemon."

"Get fucked," says Ingrid.

Byerly gives a sanguine shrug. But for all that he's talking to the woman, his gaze is also on Cassian. His interest is piqued.

“It’s worth cleaning the jacket and blending in, to go after the bigger score. How does that Fereldan saying go?” He’s noticed both their accents. “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, but teach a man to fish…”

A small glint of humour, but not as easy and relaxed as the other man, just yet. Ticking through these questions of survival, he hasn’t spared the attention to fully size up Byerly, what with most of his attention still kept locked on the surly woman with the knife.

And for his part, he looks different from the last time they may or may not have crossed paths: a couple years older, scruffier and more frayed around the edges, and not the gelled hair and shiny shoes and long coat of the frivolous manicured dandy Varian Skye.

(Still: his voice sounds very much the same. He hasn’t been able to shake it.)

It is the voice that triggers it. It wouldn’t be easy to make that connection under normal circumstances: they are a long way from Minrathous, and a Tevinter intelligence operative should have better places to be than Lowtown.
Varian Skye has a long way to go to jump into Byerly’s mind. But that voice is so dreadfully distinctive - the accent idiosyncratic amongst even Tevenes. And Byerly has a talent for learning things by ear.

His smile doesn’t change. His posture remains the same. But his gaze sharpens, and he lets his hand move (bit by bit, through apparently unconnected gestures) towards his dagger sheath.

“It’s sensible to me,” says Byerly. “I’ll even let you borrow a few fine things that’ll let you blend in. If you cut us both in, of course.” He winks at Cassian. “I think our friend has earned something for his trouble.”

“Get bent,” Ingrid says. But at long last, she sheathes her knife, her silent and meek compatriot following her lead and doing likewise. Then she eyes Cassian. “You new in town? Vint, right? You need a crew to hook into?”

(Whatever her rough language and poor manners might imply, it seems she’s impressed by Cassian’s poise.)

It's not long after Cassian's official joining date that Riftwatch's own welcome wagon, Benedict, approaches him, carrying his little writing board and not at all nervous that he's about to speak to a real live Shadow Dragon, thanks for asking.

"Messere Andor?" he asks brightly, "I'm--" sometimes the surname is there, sometimes it isn't-- to say it now, he might as well paint a target on himself. "--Benedict."
He smiles.
"...personnel officer. I wanted to see how you were finding everything."

Benedict finds him at breakfast in the dining hall, digging into some rough bread and scrambled eggs and watery tea, coffee still being at too much of a premium to afford often. It’s a quiet morning; ordinarily Cassian has been cozying up to people, trying to get their stories, but he’s alone today until the personnel officer approaches.

(This long table isn’t exactly the same as the small, bustling Shadow Dragons mess hall tucked away in a safehouse, but: close enough.)

“How I’m finding everything,” Cassian echoes, pausing after spearing some more eggs, looking at the other man a little too closely. He can hear home in Benedict’s syllables, the shape of his words; and rather than evoke some simpatico, it makes Cassian automatically warier.

“Well. The breakfast’s decent.”

"We do our best," Benedict chirps, straightening as though paid a personal compliment-- keep it light, keep it cheerful-- "may I sit?"

He gestures to the seat across from Cassian's, even the motion of his wrist subtly outing him as upper class.

“It’s a free country,” Cassian says with a flash of a smile, and —

his expression is ostensibly friendly and the words aren’t unpleasant, exactly, but there’s a bitter bite beneath the surface. Sharp and sardonic, pressing his thumb on a particular bruise for a Tevene citizen like himself: Kirkwall still breathes free while Corypheus now sits openly in the Archon’s seat.

But he waves his own free hand, a have at it gesture. Cassian’s still new here. He’ll take the welcome wagon as it comes.

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open | now give me something to believe in.

petrana.

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yseult.

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mugging

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settling. hello beloved countryman

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