faderift | closed.

It is Derrica's immediate instinct to break away to see to Marcus but—

The unavoidable fact is: this is her duty, and she cannot abandon it midway through.

"We do," she answers. "We could spare some, to a man willing to offer honest answers to us in exchange."

Derrica is still sheathed in ozone and sparks, coolly serene in the center of all this crackling energy. The pop and spit of it builds as it draws in what is left from all the magic expended in the course of the brawl, passively gathering strength in the absence of a dismissal. Are they done here? Perhaps, but she will wait until there is no doubt.

Edited (fumble fingers posting before i meant to) 2022-07-04 18:07 (UTC)

Julius's first instinct is to see to Marcus in Derrica's stead, with a bit of relief that he doesn't have to be the leader of Sashamiri just now. There are plenty of other capable hands, if he wants to be selfish for just a moment. And the competing impulse, to use a spell to punch the smug captive's teeth in, is leashed for now, though few of his compatriots would have seen Julius well and truly angry before this incident.

He does shoot the templar a lingering look that's more fire than ice as he goes to make sure Marcus is in one piece, his staff still handy in case Derrica and the others need the backup.

A dozen paces removed, one of the Templars in her full plate has been induced to take a heavy seat on a stone at the edge of the roadway. Flint is there. He has both her sword and his tucked under his arm, and the details of whatever corroborating conversation is occurring are largely indistinguishable under the heavy clang-clang-clang of the transport's lock being broken.

Here, down in the mud, the man in the leather armor slides his attention from Derrica to Julius retreating toward the back of the transport, and back again. He's quite clear when he says to her, "Well, I can't make any promises. But let's see if a drink relieves this itch in my throat enough to make conversation."

He is maybe forty and sports a Marcher accent so broad that it's indistinguishable. Under a dark, closely kept beard, the man has a fairly unremarkable face excepting the scar that clips through one eyebrow. That said, his smile involves a fair number of teeth and might be charming were it expressed in less fraught circumstances. In these, it's something of an aggravating pretense.

Is Flint faring better? Derrica doesn't glance over to check, but she is as aware of him as she is of Julius departing towards the cart, and the efforts centered there to break the lock and free the man within it.

Her hands fold, one over the other, onto the worn-smooth grip of her stave as she looks back into his face. Wrestles with the urge to threaten.

Instead, she nods silently, and then turns to look to the nearest set of free hands that might pass her a waterskin.

Bastien’s quick to hand Derrica one: his, already open for his own use. Despite his best efforts, he’s looking rumbled. There’s only so much anyone can do about that, when they’re closing in on forty and fighting armored men in midsummer. His hair is damp enough with sweat to stay sticking up oddly when he runs his hand through it, and he picks intermittently at his shirt to let a breeze in the chest and sleeves. Maybe there’s some bruising, maybe a scrape. He’s very grateful not to have died for Marcus Rowntree.

He smiles at the bearded Templar. It’s quick, twitchy, temporary smile of someone who finds themselves drawn in by those many teeth, despite the circumstances and an unwillingness to be charmed. (It’s practiced. He’s not charmed.)

“What do we call you, Ser—?”

"Serah," sounds like a correction as he raises his free hand toward Derrica and the waterskin. It continues smoothly into— "Arlyn, will do. I wish I could say it's a pleasure."

But they've moved somewhat beyond that.

For a moment it seems like he might say something further, but then crack! The sound of the lock giving way at the back of the transport gives him pause and momentarily draws his attention.

"Arlyn," is pointedly familiar. Derrica, who rarely uses titles, would have said this very warmly, were Arlyn another sort of man.

The breaking lock underscores all the ways in which he is not.

She passes him the waterskin regardless, maintaining the arm's length of distance between them. Anger is still simmering in her, held in check but present. She is at work here; it cannot be indulged.

A step back. Waiting. Some small, sidelong look at Bastien, seeking less his thoughts in this moment and more for any blooming spots of blood on his tunic. Arlyn may have his drink, before they begin again.

So, with the little knot of reunited mages at the back of the transport having failed to materialize into swift revenge, Arlyn helps himself to a generous swig. The waterskin is offered back after. No need, apparently, to lean on their generosity overmuch.

"What makes you think I was being dishonest?"

What does make them think he was being dishonest? Bastien's quick glance at Derrica carries the question, in abbreviated form, but it's a rhetorical glance.

"I think," he says, in a hazarding tone, "we would prefer to think better of the Chantry and its Templars."

Not something he thinks Derrica is interested in, actually. Maybe it's true of the Seeker. And maybe it's half true of Bastien, who would like to think better of everyone.

"We have worked very well with the Chantry for so long. We have some of your fellows among us. But now here you are, seizing our man instead of coming by to let us know you needed to talk to him. Leaving another for dead. Shooting as us when we were trying to talk. Très malpoli, vous savez? I thought we were friends."

"Friends," Arlyn repeats back, not entirely without a sense of humor. Then, more soberly, with the appearance of resisting shooting another glance toward the back of the transport toward the man in question—

"You don't know what he was doing, do you?"

"It would be good to tell us, straight out, regardless of what you believe we did or did not know."

In this aftermath, Tiffany has been keeping an eye on Serah Arlyn--and on Bastien and Derrica. The eye of the Seekers of Truth is beaten into the breastplate of her armor, painted on her shield. It's a watchful eye. She has trust for Riftwatch or else she wouldn't be here. She has not met anyone she actively distrusts among Riftwatch's company--careful though she is with her trust--and she hasn't met anyone she actively dislikes, either. But liking doesn't matter, to a point.

In this spirit of neutrality, she chooses this moment to step in and join this conversation.

"I think we can all agree that there's little sense in you asking us questions."

From the brief flexion in the lines of his face, it doesn't seem as is Serah Arlyn completely agrees with that assessment. But he must know better than to say outright otherwise to a Seeker of the Truth. Rather than straightforward objection, he instead pauses to recalculate his trajectory.

"A group of dissident mages turned marauder in Wildervale has been feeding information to Tevinter forces in the region. Marcus Rowntree has been in contact with them, and is suspected of using Riftwatch resources to support them. We were ordered to apprehend him should he attempt to meet them.

"I'm surprised, is all," he says, opposition turned purposefully toward a less prickly shape. Arlyn smiles in a way that's not strictly polite but isn't really anything else either—just manufactured. "Are you certain you're Riftwatch?"

"That's untrue."

Flat, unyielding. She will not give space to the implication.

But beyond that—

"And it is not your place, nor the place of the Chantry to investigate it. He is our man. It is our work to look into any rumors such as the one you are speaking of," she presses, hands folding one over the other on the hilt of her stave as she looks down at him. "I cannot see how you meant to investigate anything, without cooperation."

As firm as she is in this, she feels a prickling of worry working in his chest. Bastien and Theophenia may not support her. What would happen then?

Suffering the accusation of being a liar seems to ruffle fewer feathers than the implication that he might be wrong.

"Hence my confusion," Arlyn says patiently, withdrawing his hand from under his leather chest piece to check the state of the blood on his hand. What he finds must not concern him overmuch for the hand doesn't ferret back between the light armor and shirt.

"I believed we were cooperating. At the very least, that's what I was told. So either one of us is lying," he says, turning that smile on Bastien and Tiffany as if having sensed he's unlikely to find sympathy from Derrica's corner. "Or you have a real problem on your hands."

(Or both.)

Creases appear and deepen slowly across Bastien's face. His glance passes from Tiffany to Derrica, then further away to Flint, as if expecting one of them to provide clarity or contradiction. Genuine concern, filtered through a conscious decision to let it show.

"We're not lying," he says, "so let's say we have a problem."

For discussion's sake. The possibility that Serah Arlyn is lying remains open, but further accusations of dishonesty don't seem like they'll go anywhere. The possibility that the Templars are the ones with a problem—maybe after this. Right now he drops to squat, nearer to eye level, arms loosely folded across his knees.

"You got your orders from—?"

This even vantage produces something quietly interrogative in the point of Serah Arlyn's attention. He hardly was failing to meet anyone's eye before, but close up there is a particular tinge of examining a bug under a glass as he looks at and answers Bastien. Were the circumstances not so clearly out of his favor—

"Mother Madeline, of Val Chevin. They"—he indicates the knot of with a tip of his head—"Received theirs orders from the Knight-Commander recently installed at the same. But I know for certain Mother Madeline received word of all this from Riftwatch. I saw the letters myself."

Which must seem to Arlyn like the right leverage to get away with asking:

"I would appreciate having your names."

Tiffany is not be a bard. She has been schooled--first as the daughter of a lord, second as a Seeker--in how to control herself, how to marshal her features so no surprise or emotion will show. Beneath that neutral mask, she still feels. This time it's a pang of misgiving. The possibility that Serah Arlyn is lying remains open to her as well. The possibility of some element of this being truth remains just as open. Some seed of corruption or dishonesty, some maneuvers from the shadows.

With nothing to hide, she answers without hesitating. "Lady Seeker Theophania Hart." A Seeker who will be requesting that correspondence, on behalf of the order and on behalf of Riftwatch. She leaves that unsaid for now, cards close to the chest.

"You saw the letters. We can conclude that when we, as Riftwatch, came upon you, you would still have been expecting our cooperation. Why was your troop so prepared to strike against us?"

"Frankly? I didn't believe you were who you said you were. Why would Riftwatch come after someone they'd asked that we quietly do away with? Much more likely that you're the freebooting mages Rowntree was traveling to meet claiming otherwise."

Arlyn flicks the point of his attention to Derrica, and to Derrica's stave, and then back again. Lots of mages in the road at present, aren't there?

"I haven't ruled it out yet. Not that your armor isn't compelling when viewed up close, Lady Seeker Hart. Now, might I have the names of the rest of your companions? The Mother will want to know I've done my due diligence. Particularly as we've lost a man."

We've lost a man.

Difficult to grieve a templar, particularly one that was trying to kill them, but the potential problems the death presents aren't lost on her. She will have time to think on it once Marcus is out of that wagon and they have resolved this conversation.

Though still, the way his eyes move from her face to her stave irritate her. And every instinct twitches against giving over more names, except—

"My name is Derrica," she tells him. "Mother Madeline can make contact with me to discuss what's happened here. I am the one who manages our relations to the Chantry."

Surprise.

But beyond that, she considers the Commander, before her gaze slants to Bastien, questioning. Trying to get a better read on what he thinks should be volunteered beyond the two names they've already given.

Under Arlyn’s examination, Bastien raises his eyebrows. The muddly, bluntly pleasant quality of his eyes makes it looks more like sorry, is there something on my face than I dare you. But as the eyebrows come back down, there’s a deniable split second of something else, sharper and more focused and less kind in its amusement. Recognition. Relation, maybe; not a brother, but perhaps a cousin. Bastien’s closest brush with death and least concealable scar were gifts from a Chantry agent.

He looks up at Derrica, then at the Seeker. He wobbles his head in a display of reluctance to follow their example.

But, "Bastien," he says, with apparent sheepishness for the lack of relevant authority to go with it. "And that is our,” dear, Fereldan-accented, contributes his inner voice, “Commander Flint."

Which leaves unnamed one or two of the mages, depending on what they already know, as well as the man responsible for the arrow. Those aren’t names that anyone who might be inclined toward revenge quests needs to learn right now. Bastien resumes his tunic-plucking to cool off while he looks up at the women.

“Do we know anything about letters to Mother Madeline?”

Edited (mind change about something silly) 2022-07-11 15:40 (UTC)

Do they? Tiffany meets Bastien's gaze as blandly as she can, her mouth set. She'd sensed--and understood--his reluctance to give up his name. Her own admission had been easy, protected in her iron self-conviction. If you are doing the right thing and acting in the interest of pursuing the truth, then you cannot be questioned.

But she's not immune to reluctance. How much more do they say in the moment? Withdrawing could look like weakness. Admitting to anything, in front of Aryln, could be weakness.

"I think, Serah," and she's speaking to Arlyn, even if she's not looking at him, "we will leave you to your water for the moment. While you drink, I hope you rest easy--or as easily as you can, in the present moment--and rule out any lingering suspicions you might be harboring. We are, each of us, members of Riftwatch."

She tips her head, an invitation to Bastien and Derrica, a calculated withdrawal.

Serah Arlyn tips his head in something like assent. It's a gesture more suited to a polite meeting around a table than it is to a muddy road with his back to a broken transport carriage while his peers mill useless and unarmed in a shallow nearby ditch. Even so, for a moment he seems to be perfectly content with the prospect of waiting.

They only manage to remove themselves by a pace of two before he says, "Oh." As if he's only just remembered—

"Do the initials SF mean anything to you?"

At oh, Bastien pauses his obedient following after Tiffany to look back at Arlyn, all polite curiosity.

"Why?"

Behind his quizzical smile, he's running through names. If it's a Riftwatcher he's referring to, there are only so many to consider. It's only a breath before he nods, face and posture both tightening—for Derrica's sake. For Tiffany's. To communicate to them that this is something to care about. He hadn't wanted to say we do have a problem before, having not ruled out Tiffany as the source of it, but now—

"Is that who sent the letters?"

Serah Arlyn attention flicks from Bastien, to Derrica and Tiffany, then back again. It's a brief but studious assessment. He punctuates it with that polite smile.

Maybe.

"I'm going to stand up now if that's all right."

Reflex says No. Derrica feels it catch in her throat, soaked down with that same venom that rose in the wake of being cut off from the Fade.

But she is not here to indulge herself.

"Slowly," she cautions, as much for their protection as it is good sense for his injury.

Her head tips towards Bastien. Not outright questioning, not in front of this man. But catching that tightening of his expression and feeling some echoing worry spark up in her chest. SF means nothing to her, but if Bastien recognizes it—

and they woulda gotten away with it too if it weren't for you meddling kids.

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