faderift | WAR TABLE: Bad Blood

Presumably Abby knows she's on the mission already, but either way, she's greeted on the dock outside the houseboat one morning by a fidgety Warden von Skraedder, pack slung over her shoulder and ready to go.

"Got your things?" she asks, nudging her head bluntly toward the direction they'll need to go to enter the Crossroads.

She hasn't interacted all that much with von Skraedder but this mission is perfectly inline with Abby's current 'do literally anything to keep from thinking about it all' philosophy and she's even early to meet her at the dock — or would have been early, had the Warden not beat her there. It's early and everything is still: the water and houseboats bobbing atop it, the minimal foot traffic nearby.

Abby rotates her shoulder slowly, nodding. "Yeah." Always. She adds, "I'm so fucking glad they invented the Crossroads," or found them, got access to them, whatever. It's miles better than hopping on the back of a griffon.

Her mouth curling into a wry smirk, Teren muses "them elves knew what they were doing." She doesn't inquire about Abby's state, offer any condolences; of course she knows what happened, but Teren von Skraedder can tell the difference between someone who wants to address it and someone who doesn't. All the better.

"We'll have one more meeting us," she briefs, walking briskly, "new fellow. Knows Minrathous."

"Oh," Abby says, clicking her fingers, "Uh, yeah. It's..." that guy, the one she helped out at the safehouse before he got here proper. She literally sewed him back together while he got blood all over her trousers and she can't bring his name to the forefront.

In her defense some shit has happened since then.

"I know who you're talking about," she concludes, lamely. "Where's he meeting us?"

Edited 2025-09-23 03:33 (UTC)

If the lapse bothers Teren, she doesn't show it. Who can remember names anyway?

"Round by the Crossroads," she says, keeping up her pace, "he'll be looking out. Have you ever assassinated anyone before?" that's right after the social media policy in your intranet training modules

"I," Abby says, and pauses again to think because the word 'assassination' is particular, isn't it? Motive-wise. It's something that happens to kings or leaders — in the books she usually likes to read, anyway — it's something that nearly happened to Isaac a bunch of times while she was with the WLF until they shunted him back into the heart of the FOB, took him off the front lines after a shot meant for his heart hit his leg.

Eventually she shrugs. "No. Not like that. But I have killed people before if that's what you're asking."

A sound of acknowledgment: all right, workable,

"how, like? Not quietly, I reckon?" Teren glances her over, "you strike me as the bludgeoning type."

It reminds her a little of Lev wanting to know if she'd ever tortured people before, when he waited in silence for her to answer while she struggled, undoubtedly a truer answer than whatever she said to him in the end (some sort of deflection). The difference between then and now is that Teren is not fourteen, and it's been almost five years since she beat Joel Miller to a slow death with a golf club because she thought he'd earned it.

Is she still that same person? In some ways, yes. In the ways that Teren is asking for right now, yes.

"I am," she says finally. Her mouth is a little dry. "You're right. Not quietly. I'm probably not the person to send in if you're trying to avoid a cover-up."

Edited 2025-09-23 21:31 (UTC)

Sometimes you slowly beat a man to death, sometimes you pin a man to the ground by his hand in a burning building and leave him there, potato potáto.

“Fair enough. I’ll have you on the door then, and restraint, if necessary.”
They pass through the eluvian leading to the Crossroads, and Teren pauses to look around, getting her bearings and scanning for their third.

“Ought to be a quick job, if we do it proper. Just a clean kill and plant, feels like a bloody vacation.”

Edited 2025-09-23 21:51 (UTC)

“Sounds like you’ve had very different vacations than me.”

Their third was already present and waiting, settled on a nearby floating rock which doesn’t seem connected to solid ground at all, his sword across his knees as he works on cleaning and polishing the metal: always keeping busy. He tucks the supplies away, sheathes the sword again, and springs lightly down to meet them. Flashes Abby a smile of recognition, hello again, and then turns to the older woman in their group, his posture straightening as if reporting for duty (which he is):

“Cassian Andor. At your service. I know Vatharis’ estate, a bit.”

So it’s clear enough why he wound up tapped for this particular mission: he’s the local, and also comfortable enough with quick kills.

"Works for me."

Abby trails Teren through, lagging half a step behind only so she doesn't notice Abby gulping a breath and holding it while they pass through the first gate — it feels right. Could be a placebo that always leaves her feeling strange, sort of static-charged after passing over the fade's threshold.

"Hey," she says to Cassian (Cassian, right right right... thank fuck he introduced himself first), lifting her chin in acknowledgement. "Stitches healed up?" Yes, undoubtedly, as she's just watched him balance on a rock and then vault off it in the same breath, but it's always nice to check up on your patients.

"Grand," Teren remarks, genuinely pleased to the extent she can show it; him being familiar with the estate will help them out significantly. "Any history with Sarn?"

She leads them on through the Crossroads, making their way toward the gate for their Minrathous safehouse.

“Only by reputation. But Vatharis is a known sleaze,” there were so many gossip rags throughout Minrathous, it sometimes felt like there were stalls with loud hawkers and floating scrolls on every street corner, “so for motive… maybe an affair? Either of you good at fake love letters?”

Ideally, by the end, there’ll be one more magister dead. If they can frame the other one for murder and tarnish his reputation in society at the same time, well, that’d be grand. Cassian is practically itching for it, even as he falls in beside them, a quick-step to keep up with the women.

"Um," Abby says awkwardly. Make as well throw it out there if it's for a mission. "I... could probably write something."

Neither of them have to know this is because she loves a soppy romance novel — they'll have to think that she is, secretly, a romantic person. Abby can't tell which of these things is worse, actually. She's keeping hard pace with Teren out of principle, now.

It’s a quick pace as far as walking goes, and Teren is nodding along as the two discuss the strategy; a grunt of approval at Abby’s suggestion, and she’s certain she chose the right team.
Her pace hitches suddenly, and though she doesn’t slow entirely to a stop, Teren seems like her attention is elsewhere, listening for something no one else can hear.

Edited 2025-10-04 21:51 (UTC)

Good, he’s thinking, if Abby can write the letter then I can plant it on the estate —

But Cassian isn’t comfortable yet in the Crossroads (and frankly, politely, he thinks you’re fucking insane if you are) to take it easy here, and so his hackles go up the moment Teren’s step hitches. Their de facto leader, as he’s already thinking of her by virtue of age and experience.

His gaze drifts across the landscape, a broad scan for movement. Looking for demons or spirits or whatever-the-hell makes their home here along the margins.

“Everything alright?”

Abby doesn't say anything. She's splitting her attention between watching Teren and listening hard for whatever she's noticed. Her hand, first on the handle of her mace belted in at her side, takes it fully out, quiet-like, dangles it at her side. Her grip is a little loose, easy, ready for a swing.

It may come as a surprise that she can hold herself this tense, barely breathing — it's all leftover instinct. It hasn't gone away and Abby hopes it never does.

"Hate this place," she breathes after a minute. They're still walking forward. Teren is still quiet.

Whatever she's hearing, it's inaudible to anyone else; Teren continues to stand like a stone for several moments more, but is jarred out of her trance by Cassian's question. She blinks at him, eyes narrowed, and then, for whatever reason, just smiles wryly.

"We'll be there shortly," she says from behind Abby, quickening her pace to stay in the lead and bring them through the gate.

Cassian stares back at Teren, a question mark in his eyes. But the moment passes, and they’re back into movement, and there’s no room to wonder any further. Instead, the closer they get to the mirror, he finds himself now lapsing into relaying information. The whole reason they’d brought him; the Shadow Dragons had extensive dossiers on both magisters.

Not for the first time, he drifts into what he thinks of as Luthen’s brusque delivery, to-the-point description of logistics and what they’ll need to do. This is just like any other briefing he’d received.

“We’ll exit in the Minrathous safehouse,” a familiar place, considering it’s where Abby scraped him off the street, “and should have some time there to get into servants’ outfits and for Abby to write the incriminating letter. I’ll plant that on Vatharis’ estate and work on getting— some sort of weapon from his house, whatever’s available.

“They both live in Hightown, unsurprisingly. While the two of you figure out how to kill Sarn, I’ll play scout. What’s your plan for the assassination itself? I’ll try to match the weapon to it, when I bring it to you.”

Abby doesn't relax. She's ready and that's a hard thing to switch off — she keeps her mace in hand and held aloft until they stride into the gate; then she has to put it away at last. She's pretty sure the definition of being casual and undercover does not include walking around with your weapon out even if you really want to.

Minrathous again. She can see a little smudge of something rust brown on the floor of the safehouse and scuffs it with the toe of her boot as they come through. Could very well be a smudge of old blood from the last time she was here.

Shit, she wasn't thinking about the letter. Hard to get into a romantic frame of mind while you're wondering if you're about to get jumped by a Crossroads demon. She sighs and sets her jaw, slings her pack down to dig a hand into it. This produces a paperback from a side pocket and she opens it from the other end, finds a few blank pages. Very carefully she extracts one, coaxing it from the seam with her thumb.

"Anybody got something I can write with?"

Teren, taking a little too long to respond, gives a short but genuinely delighted sounding laugh-- whether it's at the conversation or something else she doesn't clarify, but then she's back again.

"There'll be something here," she muses, peering around the safehouse. "For Sarn, the two of us will act as servants and get her in the usual way. Try to find a dagger."

“’The usual way’,” Cassian repeats, and there’s a flicker of bleak almost-amusement at that phrasing. What have their lives become. What have their lives been, all these years, that murder is such a regular occurrence and not worth flinching at.

But the safehouse is a brief respite, a chance to breathe and catch their breath and gather their wits and supplies before they head into the field. Cassian goes rummaging through the wardrobe while Abby searches for quill-and-ink, and they’ll take some time to prepare before the job itself later.

The board is set, such that it is: dressed all in their drab servant's garb, the three agents get to work. Eldrin Vatharis, their primary target, has retired to his study for the evening, set on preparing remarks for a talk the following day. Lirael Sarn, the object of his hatred, enjoys a cool drink on her veranda as she watches the bustling city below.

The objective? Sarn has to die, but first they need a weapon from Vatharis. Cassian is deployed to infiltrate his armory, steal a dagger, and play lookout for the assassination; Teren has secured the disguises and won them passage into Sarn's house, which leaves Abby to manufacture a reason she can be brought inside off the veranda-- and kept inside-- so Teren can work her magic.

Actual servants waylaid, Abby and Teren stand on either side of the veranda doors, preparing to execute. They can't do the thing out in open air, not where they might be seen; Teren gives Abby a nod.

While Teren and Abby are set to infiltrate Sarn’s home, Cassian is tasked to Vatharis first. His task is still dangerous, but gods willing, he won’t actually be getting his hands dirty tonight; the women will have the more difficult job of the assassination later.

Some putty moulded to the tips of his ears, an appropriately cringing demeanour, fluent Tevene, and nobody looks twice. It stings a little, every time he has to use this particular disguise, but when needs must.

Once he gets further into the manor, his arms full of sheets and linen and his head ducked, he promptly detours to the armoury. Kneels on the hard stone and sets a pair of enchanted humming lockpicks to it, his cheek pressed to the door, waiting and listening. After it cracks open, he slips inside and finds— crossbows, ornamental maces from some bygone era and, there, a dagger with the Vatharis family crest on it. He pockets it but leaves the rest alone.

Out, to the escape. Quick, before anyone notices or asks him what he’s doing or why he’s not actually headed to the laundry. Cassian passes through a library, the clearest route they’d arranged beforehand for him to clamber out onto the rooftops and away across the city, to swiftly reunite with the others.

While he’s in the library, however, he pauses again. This part wasn’t in the plan: there’s a few chairs sitting askew, old cigar ashes in a tray, papers strewn across the desk, the debris of what looks like a meeting. Nothing so lucky as a page marked HERE ARE OUR TOP-SECRET VENATORI PLANS FOR THE WAR BECAUSE WE’RE TOTALLY VENATORI, but there are some scraps of supply reports, the kind that are easily overlooked but tell you how far a supply wagon is being forced to ride. The map of a camp, strategically unlabelled, except you could probably deduce a few things once you get the cartographers on it by the shape of the nearby mountain, the winding pass to get there. A terse note from one magister to another, I covered the last delivery to that forsaken border so it’s only fair you take your turn.

Every Shadow Dragon is an opportunistic magpie when they need to be, and when a gift falls into their lap. Cassian grabs the papers, stuffs his pack with them, and then swings himself out the window.

WAR TABLE: Bad Blood

Before

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cw description of past murder

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maybe 🎀

During

also during.