open | now give me something to believe in.

[interroga]

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! )

Comments

mugging

[bouchonne]

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.

[interroga]

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.

[bouchonne]

"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.

[interroga]

“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.)

[bouchonne]

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.)