No Rest for the Wicked [Saturos/Donovan]

[Charlotte]

The blonde remained silent as the other three discussed their next course of action, and Charlotte could hear the slight frustration in Saturos’ voice upon the realization that the inn was the safehouse. For someone who had been so grateful just moments before, the shift in tone seemed off, but it didn’t appear that Donovan or his mother took note. Then again, the teal-haired operative was quick to reroute his frustration back towards the anxious refugee act. Charlotte would definitely learn a thing or two, watching the way the man so easily switched his tone.

Charlotte was unfazed when Donovan’s mother let them know they would not be staying at the inn another night; it only made sense they’d keep moving. But as soon as Donovan was dismissed by his mother, Charlotte shot a glance over to Saturos. He’d mentioned that Donovan would be their guide, not his mother. Was there a reason for the change they didn’t know about? The pair seemed slightly suspicious of Saturos and her, so were they changing the plan to see if they’d be thrown off? Being paranoid wasn’t Charlotte’s style, but Saturos and her hadn’t had their moment alone to go over the plan yet. It wasn’t like the blonde to go into something so blind.

After Donovan left, his mother looked back to the pair and asked what brought them here and their names. Luckily for Charlotte, her companion had had enough time to brief her on what she’d asked. Delicately placing a hand on Saturos’ shoulder, Charlotte gave a sheepish smile. “Ah, please forgive us for not introducing ourselves, ma’am; my husband forgets his manners when he’s stretched so thin. You can call me Myscha, and my husband Ryker.”

Her choice of words was deliberate, making the names seem as if they could be their true names or simply cover names to protect their true identities. Either way, the names were the ones used in the letter summoning her to the small town, so Charlotte could infer that these were the names they would be using.

The blonde let her smile falter into something of a pensive frown, as if she were remembering something less than pleasant. “Etruria has been… less than kind to us as of late.” Charlotte paused, biting her lip and crossing her arms. A few bruises showed on her exposed arms as they came out from under her cloak; the bruises came from her tussle with the assassin, but it seemed they could play into their story. “We’d just like a fresh start… for life to go back to normal, you know?”

[Saturos Prox]

"Yes, normal," sighed the teal-haired Etrurian. His eyes grew wistful as he turned to look at Charlotte. As she touched his shoulder, he noticed how she flashed the bruises on her arm. Saturos made a mental note to ask her about those when they had some time alone, then made another to play up the abused refugee angle when they got the chance, realizing Donovan and his mother had likely noticed them. But he maintained his demeanor, and casually ran a hand through Charlotte’s hair, as if remembering better times. In reality his mind was fixated on other things.

So the mother was to be their guide? Different, yes, unexpected, yes, but perhaps better. The mother was supposedly in charge of this local network of safe houses and secret routes, which in and of itself made her a proper candidate for extracting information. On the flipside, Donovan had already demonstrated a certain talent for deceit that, while neither intimidating nor unexpected in this line of work, made him less than ideal. Saturos prized his ability to elegantly navigate and get what he needed from a difficult conversation, but why take unnecessary risks? A key part of espionage, and the reason the operative was so good at his job, was knowing how to pick your battles.

“And now that you know our names, might I ask for yours?” asked Saturos with a slight bow of his head. An innocent question, but an important one. “Unless your parents actually decided to name you ‘Ma’, that is. In that case you have my condolences.” The Etrurian smiled in a friendly manner, attempting to build rapport with the woman. It was as genuine as it was calculated. Yes, friendliness built trust, but at the samed time, if he was going to spend the next few days with this woman, he'd rather not be on foul terms with her.

[Donovan]

As the silver tongued mercenary was managing the situation upstairs, he played his part in the smuggling of the two refugees. His time on the road, fighting alongside Perun and his other friends had left him with sharper eyes than most barkeeps could claim. As he went about the ground floor’s pub delivering drinks and food, he kept an eye out for swords, bows, or daggers. And from his perch behind the bar he casually scanned the room for anyone who seemed to be eyeing him or the cellar door. It made sense that any Operative that was after the two people downstairs would be keeping an eye out for them. But it seemed like there wasn’t anyone of the sort hanging about the Wayward Trouper. Which was a good sign, these two seemed to be doing an excellent job of covering their trail.

The lavender haired woman downstairs felt less sure of the situation. Her son had only just arrived and was not aware that the man had stayed at their Inn alone, “Myscha” nowhere to be seen. But based off of the bruises on the woman’s arm, that could have very well been planned to throw their pursuers off their trail, which appeared to be hotter than she’d have expected based on the information she’d been working with. The entire situation was, at best, worthy of caution. And quick movements.

“Show me those bruises on you arm, Myscha,” the matriarch requested, her tone softening to try and lull the two into some sense of being in good hands, “How did you get them?” The lilac haired mother went into a tucked away room in the cellar, filled with some remnants of her former life in Etruria before Don’s father had stolen her away from the clergy. She grabbed her healer’s staff and returned to the main room. “I can heal that up for you, if you’d like?” As a sudden afterthought, she remembered the husband’s request, “You may call me Pheobe, if you’d like. Though I’d appreciate it if you were careful who you mention that to.” In truth, the Innkeeper’s name was Diane, but a layer of disconnect was useful in situations such as these.

[Charlotte]

The blonde turned her head slightly towards Saturos’ hand as it pushed through her hair, though for no more than effect. Like Saturos, Charlotte was considering the situation at hand, doing her best to plan what steps they should take next. Unfortunately for her, she was still largely in the dark on all this, but a few things were clearer. Donovan was not just a refugee guide, nor a simple mercenary, and his mother seemed just as observant as any, though it was unclear exactly what she might have seen or what she knew of them.

Those sharp eyes had seen the drop of Charlotte’s sleeve, though, and as Pheobe asked to see the tender skin, a flash of true discontent came across the blonde’s features. She had not expected the woman to be a healer, nor for her to offer her aide. Usually Charlotte only allowed her Sacaen friend, Loretta, to tend to her wounds; she’d even turned down the count’s offers to hire a healer back in Santaruz, back when her bruises and aches were worse than the lingering bruising in the days after her tussle. But it would have been uncharacteristically rude for a meek refugee to refuse help in the same manner, especially when it was clear they were under scrutiny.

“Your offer is most kind, ma'am.” Adjusting her cloak and rolling back the sleeves on the simple sheath dress she wore, Charlotte showed her arms to the woman as she brought back her staff. Her right wrist was more colored than her left; you could almost still make out the shape of a handprint in the purple-colored skin, though the color was starting to fade into a sickly green with age. Her left bicep, though, was still largely discolored from where she’d been thrown into a wall after the explosion. It was a good thing Charlotte was covered up to the base of her neck today, thought, or the tavernkeep would see the rest of the bruising the woman had sustained: up her left side, back and across her shoulders. Instead, the blonde just showed her arms; it made it easier to explain where they came from, anyways.

Charlotte paused before speaking, for a good long moment; it could have been perceived as remembering something awful, but instead it was the woman considering where they would have been in their travels based on the age of her bruising. “Ah... we were in Worde, ma’am. I’d taken to the streets alone for some air - I'm not fond of tavern rooms. Two men, they wanted my necklace but...”

The young woman paused again, closing her eyes as she seemed to recall the event; instead, she recalled the assassin’s cold, dead eyes, bringing a chill through her body and an unsettled look to her features. Opening her eyes, she gave a weak half-smile. “Apologies. They took my necklace, but if my husband hadn’t come looking for me, we likely wouldn’t be speaking now.” The blonde cast a glance to Saturos before looking back to Pheobe - his kindness paired with Charlotte’s sad story were meant to humanize them, but it wasn’t always easy to tell who held the upper hand in interactions like this.

As Pheobe looked over her arms, Charlotte couldn’t help but wonder aloud something she’d thought earlier. Eyes on the staff the woman held, the blonde spoke again, though this time with a question. “I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve never seen a staff like that outside of the churches back home... are you a member of the Church?”

[Saturos Prox]

“Consider my lips sealed,” replied Saturos, his smile wild. Was her name really Phoebe? He’d wager a gold purse it was not. Only a fool would use their real name when performing work such as this, and given how long this women had likely been operating, Saturos figured she was no fool. But he also figured that it didn’t really matter. Someone’s name was important when they had history; a name could grant you insight into a person’s experience, talents, skills, and temperament, but for a woman who likely had no history beyond what he and Charlotte were currently investigating, it meant little.

And yet the woman’s reappearance with a staff in hand piqued the Etrurian’s interest. Charlotte noticed it too, and went out of her way to ask about it. It made sense. While not as flashy as other schools, staff magic was still magic; it was typically only practiced by those with the means and the know-how to do so. In Saturos’s mind, a modest innkeeper would have neither the time nor the money to fall into that category, so it was reasonable to believe that this woman had not always been an innkeep. Of course there was also the fact that she happened to run a refugee smuggling ring efficient enough to deserve his presence. The operative mentally chided himself. He was being sloppy twice now. He should never be so quick to write someone off. He may very well be wrong in writing this woman off nothing more than a random kind soul.

Saturos also found himself interested in Charlotte’s story. He knew it was made up, an explanation more than a retelling of any sort, but... he had no idea how she had gotten the bruises. He found himself worried about her, wondering if she was ok. What sort of trouble had she gotten herself into while they had been apart? They’d have to catch up when they got a chance.

“That is quite the staff,” added the Etrurian, looking over his “wife’s” shoulder. “I appreciate you healing my wife’s injuries. We’ve been on the move so much I haven’t had time to hire a doctor, much less a healer.”

[Donovan]

The Lilac haired woman shook her head, a concerned look on her face. “A word of advice from an old woman; when you are on the run from the most powerful nation on Elibe with an elaborate network of spies, it is best to not wander off on your own. Pretend you are on your honey moon, from now on and don’t let each other out of your sights.” Her eyes flashed up to meet Ryker’s, “You don’t know if next time someone tries to stop you in the street will be a drunk, a thief, or an assassin. There’s only so much a smuggler can do to keep you safe. You need to help us with that.” She looked at the beautiful Myscha and smiled motherly. The story had some concerning loose ends. While she didn’t suspect the pair anymore than she had before, it was worrying that they didn’t seem to know who attacked them. If they were assassins, were they still following? If they were just some thugs on the street, then why hadn’t Myscha been staying in their inn? There were too many questions and not nearly enough time for answers.

Holding onto her staff tightly, the former cleric focused on trying to heal the bruise on the blonde woman’s arm. It was difficult after years of ignoring her practice and with all of the thoughts running through her head. She couldn’t quite shake the distractions, though, so she focused her thoughts of Donovan’s father. He’d always helped her find her center after she’d abandoned the church. A warm sensation washed over her and the stone on the top of the stave glowed blue. Miraculously, the bruise began to fade, slowly but surely. Until thoughts of her love’s bleeding body flashed into her mind, shattering her concentration. The light from the stave sputtered out and the bruise remained, though less noticeable than before.

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe shook her head, trying to clear her mind of any thoughts of what she’d lost. “It has been a long while since I’ve used any staves.” She peddled back and replaced the stave with the rest of her keepsakes from her first life before returning back to the pair of refugees. “You are right, of course. That was an Etrurian stave. Though it was from another lifetime ago entirely. Back when I was young and devoted and foolish.” She shrugged, “But here we are now. And I think it might be time we start moving. Do you have enough food and water for a few day’s journey?” Phoebe turned around and began checking her bag for the trip, wanting to make sure that she had everything ready. A sudden thought occurred for her. “Say, Ryker. How did you manage to get those two muggers off your wife?” There wasn’t much time for questions, but there was certainly time for the one.

[Saturos Prox]

"Believe me, I will not allow it to happen again."

When Phoebe inquired as to how he had managed to down the two brutes that had accosted Charlotte, Saturos found himself just a bit lost for words. It wasn’t an odd question, not from Phoebe’s perspective, but the answer was quite odd in that Saturos didn’t know it. He had somehow managed to save the life of his companion while not even present, which was impressive yes, but befuddling. Yet that was the thing about lies: they could get... befuddling. They could get confusing when unplanned. But confusing didn’t mean unnavigable.

Honesty would likely be the best answer here. Well, not honesty, nothing about any of this was honest, but the facsimile of it would do. It wasn’t hard for Saturos to imagine just how Ryker would have taken out two aggressive men, even if this was a slightly different version of the man than the one Charlotte had met in the mountains of the Western Isles.

“Well, I… um,” he said, his grin a bit sheepish. He pulled back his cloak to fully reveal the two weapons that were sashed to his waist. There was no point in hiding them, given that the larger of the two had been poking out from underneath since the moment they had met. “I’m sure you’ve already noticed the blades. I am something of an accomplished swordsman." Saturos nodded his head a couple times, playing up the mannerly humility of any properly raised noble. But he laced his words with pain. A swordsman, not a killer. "I... When those men attacked my dear Myscha, I had no choice but to defend her." The Etrurian grimaced as he let his gaze fall to the ground. Tears? No. Tears would be too much. Nobility didn't allow themselves to cry in front of commoners. Ever.

"We've already been force from our home, and now we're being preyed on by beasts." Saturos shook his head. "It's too much. We don't deserve this. No one does."

[Charlotte]

Nodding as the woman advised her, Charlotte did her best to appear ashamed, embarrassed - anything to portray that she was aware that her ‘actions’ hadn’t been in their best interest. “Of course, ma’am - I know that quite well now.” Smiling abashedly as the woman began attending to her bruises, the blonde had to wonder if the woman was truly buying into everything the pair were telling her. She was surprisingly hard to read - a good thing for refugees who needed someone who always appeared calm, collected, but bad for Charlotte and Saturos. When a story was being fabricated on the fly like this, reading a person’s reaction to it was almost more important than the lie itself. All that mattered was if it was being believed or not.

The bruises faded as the lilac-haired smuggler focused. Charlotte grimaced, though it wasn’t painful; in fact, the same warmth seemed to tingle at her skin as it always did whenever she had been healed in the past. But it simply felt wrong, not being healed by Loretta. Despite using healers, and despite owning a magic blade, magic itself made the blonde uncomfortable. The idea that there were certain aspects to the whole craft that seemed unexplainable didn’t bode well with the practical woman, which was why it was so hard for her to trust anyone but Loretta with her injuries. That, and she didn’t like letting anyone else close enough to potentially ask questions like Phoebe was. Loretta never asked questions, and Charlotte never had to tell.

“It’s alright; thank you,” Charlotte pushed her sleeves back down after looking over the faded bruises. For a moment she even believed the woman might have believed their story as she asked them if they were ready to go. Charlotte began looking through her own bag as if checking to ensure she had what she needed, but before they could respond, the woman inquired further into the situation - though this time from Saturos. Charlotte continued shuffling through ‘her’ things, though a small frown came over her. Maybe the smuggler was just being extra cautious, maybe she was like this with everyone. Or maybe, just maybe, she was more perceptive than she let on.

Charlotte listened as Saturos explained how he’d come to her rescue, and even she found herself believing him. The blonde could have fooled herself into thinking he was making some confession about their encounter at the Isles, but perhaps he was simply lacing her lie with truths to make it more palatable. While Charlotte tried to shroud her true self in shadows, it seemed the operative use the truth to shield him. It certainly came across as more genuine more often, to be sure.

Was there anything else to say after Saturos finished, Charlotte wondered? What would the noble, obedient yet somewhat foolish Etrurian wife say? As a small dull pain began at her temples, Charlotte knew what she would say at the very least. While Myscha wasn’t suffering from a drinking bender in Santaruz, she certainly was in other respects. “We’re so tired, ma’am,” the blonde finally said quietly as she stopped rummaging through her bag. Looking up, her tone was exasperated. “The sooner this whole ordeal is over, the better.”

[Donovan]

[OOC: Sorry for the delay, guys, finals and holidays tricked me into thinking I'd done this already. Happy New Year, though, hope you had a fun first Christmas with the baby!]

The fallen priestess watched Ryker with curiosity, as anyone would when they hear of a noble on the run who was skilled enough with a blade to do what he had done — though she was far from certain that their story was completely true. It was convincing, yes, but the details of their encounter were not wholly adding up. Perhaps there was something else at play. Perhaps they were just trying to hide their identities even further in case some operative came asking questions. Either way, Phoebe wanted to hurry this pair along as quickly as she could.

“I think it’s time we go. Your next caravan is not too far away, but it is a little bit of a hike. Best to get moving now.” She gathered her things and began to climb the staircase out of the cellar once again. She walked up to her son who was still standing behind the bar and he gave her a brisk shake of his head, indicating that there weren’t any spies or attackers in the pub that he could see. “Now make sure you don’t forget, Devdan is bringing over 2 dozen eggs at half past. Don’t let him see Astrid over there, if you can help it. You know she’s still apt to bring him to tears, the poor boy.” To anyone listening, the coded talk between mother and son likely would’ve sounded like a bit of small town gossip, but in reality she was giving him instructions. The silver tongued mercenary cocked a smile and shook his head, “He’s still pining after Astrid? Seriously? That girl’s about as friendly as a hungry doog! ‘Course he’s about as smart as one, so I suppose it makes sense.” Phoebe eyed him dangerously, “Don’t you dare say anything of the sort to him. Just pay him and get him out the door.” And with that, the innkeeper was off with her charges in tow.

2 dozen eggs at half past: wait 2 minutes and stay behind them. Standard deal when you needed to keep an eye out for thugs and operatives. The mercenary continued to polish a glass as they left the pub, cracking his neck while he analyzed the situation. She wanted him to keep out of sight of the refugees as well, which wasn’t unusual but definitely not the norm. Generally it meant that his mother was worried - whether she was suspicious of Ryker and Myscha or just thought that there was a definite tail was unclear. Either way, it’d be best if he kept Frag at the ready. He counted to 60 in his head and threw down the rag. “Johnny,” he called to their busboy, “I need you to man the bar for a little bit. Gotta see about a girl.” He gave the young man a devilish smile and wrapped his cloak around his shoulders before heading out, his hand firmly on the hilt of the ancient sword on his hip.

[End Thread]