bakerstreet | The Gagged Meme

Grier tells himself that incorrect information about him circulating is not necessarily a bad thing. It also means the Venatori has incorrect information, more than likely. But when Varric called him a man who "prefers to work in straight lines" it can be a touch literal. He just does what he wants and people get tired of arguing eventually.

But if Illario is listening? If he's getting through? Maybe things can be even better, even if changed. He can still help Lucanis and Spite without the total breakdown of his family being the catalyst. "It can be a good place to begin again, and not even the only one."

But how do you not press too hard when things are dire? When the wrong word said might seem insincere, and then what? Does he die right here?

Illario's mind churns through it all. The Venatori. The Gods. Caterina. Lucanis. The hurt, the pain, the frustration, the satisfaction of a plan, the anxiety of the plan gone wrong. Sleepless nights and terrifying days, hungry and nauseous and frightened and holding on by his fingernails. It bubbles and turns inside him and becomes the familiar throbbing pain behind his eyes.

"Rook, please, be quiet." He says, the other man's words pounding on the door to his skull. There's too much, and he wants to scream or push over the table, but never once do his thoughts turn to hurting the man tied in the chair in front of him.

It takes a moment, several, truly, wasting more and more of the time he doesn't have. The Wardens. The Joining. The Calling. He knows very little about it, apart from the definitive end. He would be far from Treviso. Far from Antiva. Would Caterina or Lucanis bother following him to the ends of Thedas? Would they just let the dark roads do that work for them? But Lucanis has the ELuvians, he could get anywhere, a knife in the dark, the demon inside him would push and push-

But here? What chance does he have here? Caterina is loose somewhere, she could be anywhere-

"No where is safe for me, Grier. My family are my enemies, and if I spare them, then I have the Venatori to face." He sucks in a breath, not even realising he's used the man's real name. "The Venatori are here. In the Opera house. Killing them will give me more time."

He allows Illario that moment, wrestling with a pressure he has not seen on him in so long as far as his memory is concerned. If bindings were not already involved he would be fighting much harder against the urge to just get him to be still. To hold him.

He promised Caterina, before he woke up in his own past, that he would take care of him. He promised himself.

"Your grandmother trusted me when I said I was going to talk to you." And Lucanis would, eventually, if he had told him up front that he was coming here. "...And unfortunately, it is not the only place the Venatori are in Treviso, if my information is correct. You also have an advantage where you stand now, because they do not know that we are talking."

Illario had no idea what it might be like to be held by this man. He hasn't even thought to imagine it. He hasn't thought about anything beyond surviving and getting to the next day since Lucanis showed up alive, whole, and changed. His heart soared joyfully at that moment, and his stomach crashed through the floor.

"The two of us can't clear out the whole city. But we can clear out those who are here, and that gives my grandmother more chances to get out. She might be First Talon, but she is still my grandmother." Illario replies and moves, untying the ropes that bind Grier's hands and his torso to the chair.

"You and your friends will have to deal with the rest of Treviso. Once my betrayal is known, I doubt I will be of any use but kindling."

The nearest Eluvian is going to be in the Cantori Diamond, not the only one but the other might be prohibitively hard to get to. Once Caterina gets that far, she will be among friends, and Teia and Viago would be quick to hide her until the smoke clears. But it also means that no matter what, he is going to have to get Illario there to take him anywhere else.

The Wardens are the immediate thought. Possibly even the Lords, given their friendly terms with the Crows and direct opposition to the Antaam. There is not a single corner of Thedas that is not a danger of some kind.

But Antiva is not safe for Illario until it is clear to all that it matters to that Grier has indeed been successful in turning things around.

And all that requires getting him out of a hotbed of Venatori first. The second Grier walks out of this room, they are going to know Illario is compromised. And continuing to play that he is fully captured, even subdued or turned, could be dangerous. What if they summon Elgarnan or Ghilanain?

"Considering we are going to have to make it back to the Diamond, that is going to be a tall order all around."

The tendrils of that foreign magic are starting to wear off. But that inward part of himself that makes a side of his face numb and his chest constrict reminds him that he could have an edge.

Illario hasn't given much thought to the Lords of Fortune. They're pirates basically, treasure hunters who rob graves and ruins, shipwrecks and ancient places better left undisturbed. They don't even factor into his head as an option for him- the Wardens at least have work, a cause, he can work toward that. He is used to an organisation like that.

But he finishes untying the ropes, lets them drop down and then he steps back, away, letting the other man stand and get used to freedom again. He wasn't bound long, wasn't harmed by the blood magic that Illario had used on him. No lasting harm anyway, there's always a lingering unpleasantness to being controlled. But Rook? He seems to be able to bounce back from almost anything.

"What do you suggest? I can get us out of the villa unseen, if you want to leave a nest of Venatori here." He says, "If you trust me. I would not blame you if you did not."

Oh he's sure Caterina and Lucanis would love that. But maybe that can be used later.

Getting out quietly may be the better plan at this point in time.

Grier brings his hands around in front of them, flexing his fingers. It is still affecting him. "First question: Where is my spellblade and orb?"

He takes a moment, watching Rook recover himself, wrists and fingers still moving stiffly, and he steps a little closer, before pausing. He knows better than to try to get too close, not when Rook still has no reason to trust him. So instead of reaching out to try and help blood flow back easily, he steps back to give the man room.

"Rub circles into your wrists and then the centre of your palm. Then fingers. It gets the blood moving. I'll get your weapons." He says, and moves carefully towards a chest by the wall, opening it and getting out both spellblade and orb, offering them back out.

"I'm in your hands. If leaving quietly is what you think is best, we should leave sooner rather than later."

Grier didn't bring the lyrium dagger with him for good reason. On the off chance that things went south, that did not need to fall into the Venatori's hands. The orb slips into his bag -- more a prop than anything, they both are. Things to make it look like the magic he was doing was normal to this world. The dagger, a jagged silver thing with strange writing on the blade, in a language unknown to anyone here. He turns it over in his hands before attaching it to his hip.

"Do you know about how many are here?" he asks.

Because they could slip out undetected if he trusted enough to use the secret entrance under the villa. Likely the same one Caterina would have used to escape. But that Lucanis was sure Illario did not know about. The trouble was that the Venatori could translocate. As soon as the jig was up, anyone left would immediately raise the alarm.

The other immediate option was to kill them and try to do it without any of them noticing until it was too late. It would buy them time until whatever kind of rotation they had arranged.

"...And how much can you do with that brooch?"

Illario watches, studying the way the man handles his weaponry- you can always learn a lot about someone from the care of the things that might save their life. Rook moves... differently with the orb and spellblade than he's used to seeing, snd it makes him wonder if before now he was more used to a staff. If so why change?

He'll think about it later, because it doesn't sit right with him.

Instead he addresses the question, raising a dark, sculptured eyebrow into an arch. Of course he lnows how many are in his house.

"There's a dozen or so in the Opera House. Two patrolling the family apartments, two around the library, two near Caterina's study. Two in the gardens." He pauses, a little grin pulling at his features. "Not a difficult number for a Crow. But you know that."

Of course it seems that Rook has another idea, based on his next question and Illario shifts his weoght on his feet, uncomfortable in drawing attention to the broach and what it does.

"A fair amount. I am no mage but as long as I feed it, I could control perhaps... five of them at once. Or harm them. But I need to be in sight of them to do so. Why?"

He hates this. He hates the idea that he is about to ask him to consider using it. Part of him wants him to do something else that he would be equally resistant to, and given the fickle forms his magic could take, would likely end in him still using blood magic anyway.

"Caterina said that everyone was fooled, because they used blood magic to disguise another body as Lucanis," he says with a raised eyebrow.

If they think that Grier, or even both of them, are dead, they have nothing to raise another alarm about. As it is a bulk of them are likely already looking for Caterina. They might pull back if they think Illario is dead, expecting enemies to converge.

Illario frowns, fingers moving up towards the broach, feeling the whispering start in his ears, the hunger for his blood, the promise of power in exchange. He's careful enough not to cut himself on it yet, not before they're ready, but caressijg the thing makes it easier to work out how he needs to do it.

"If we find two about the right builds and heights, I can do it. Are you prepared to leave your clothes on the corpse?"

He has to ask the question, because leaving the bodies in Venatori clothing will make the others suspicious. At least, here in Illario's own home, he has a change of clothes.

"I think there are clothes that will fit you in the next room over. They won't be very fashionable, but needs must."

"Someone will notice two strangers in plainclothes leaving. It will take longer to be suspicious of two agents changing shifts, and evil cults and criminal cells do love wearing masks."

He doesn't quite move to stand yet. It will be easier to lure two people in if he does not look like he's free. That would be the simpler way to do this. Get a couple lackies in under the guise of assisting Illario.

"Are you prepared to leave your clothes? I might be able to glamor those with little effort. But not that." He nods toward the brooch. "Even if I could, I am not putting it past them being able to test for the real thing."

"I have other clothes here. But-" the possibility of leaving the broach is a hard one. It is so useful, it's served him very well in the last few months. The very idea of taking it off almost hurts, a sharp pain through from the broach into his chest.

"They might not think to look for it." He says, throwing it out more in hope than with any absolute certainty. But the reat of the plan? That he agrees with.

"I'll fetch two. You stay here, on the chair. They won't realise you're untied." He hopes they don't. For the forst time in a long time he feels something a little like hope. Maybe its still fear. Maybe its still terror. But it means someone else is shouldering some of the thinking and that helps. That feels like a weight off his shoulders.

And then he's stepping outside, finding the two guards and luring them back. Rook's captured he needs them to help interrogate the prisoner. They're almost tripping over themselves to do it, and when they steo into the room and Illario closes the door behind them, its the work of a moment to press a knife soundlessly into one's kidney and twist.

Illario doesn't give him time to argue but that hesitation is visible and deliberate. It's a holdout, a last sliver that might still make things go wrong, and for the moment there is no room to argue.

But they are working almost immediately; he shifts his wrists behind his back and bows his head. The image of a tired, maybe a little ruffled prisoner, but still with some bite left. In fact the sight of him is arresting enough, that defiant gaze that takes in each of them singularly. He is known. They are not, but he is seeing them.

There's a level of bigness that comes of that, even from an enemy. At least they get to save that in their final moments.

A mildly dramatic "Oh must we?" does much to cover the dying sounds of one, that the other is a touch delayed in realizing the scene has changed.

Because Venatori are trained to prefer death over failure.

He needs the broach on for the moment. He'll need it for the blood magic, and maybe he can take it off after that. But there's something nasty wriggling and twisting in him that tells him not to, to keep it on. It's his last resort, it's what makes him strong enough to escape Caterina and Lucanis.

There's no time to dwell on that, though. One Venatori lies dying on the floor, blood soaking the tiles; the second seems too surprised by the betrayal to react too quickly but still manages to dart away from Illario’s blade and then start summoning some sort of spell to throw back at Illario.

Illario is no mage killer, not like his cousin, but he's quick on his feet and darts away, hopefully fast enough.

Edited 2025-06-01 16:32 (UTC)

The cultist is murmuring something under his breath, and the feel of the hairs on the back of Grier's neck rising tells him it's something with a verbal component. He moves quickly, taking advantage of the fact that he is being ignored, but he is not thinking about what will kill him quickest. The man needs to be neutralized without drawing attention from outside, but the first thought is to stop the spell.

So when the punch lands it is squarely in the throat. As is windpipe buckles under the sudden trauma and sound is choked down -- no words, and more importantly no screaming -- the magic crackling in the air dissipates, its focus lost.

Illario expects some counterspell when Grier moves, something magic to combat magic. Not a punch to the throat, which damages the windpipe so thoroughly that the Venatori collapses without even finishing casting whatever it was they'd been intending to unleash.

He bends to one knee, cleaning the blade of his knife on the robes of the fallen.

"That was highly impressive." He says, no word of it a lie, and he seems to be looking at Rook with a new found respect. "I didn't think that was something I'd ever see any of your team do. Well, perhaps the other Warden."

Then, carefully, he pulls his glove from his right hand and slides his fingers across the razor-sharp edge of the broach. Blossoming blood fills the air with a red mist, and then Illario directs it into the face of the Venatori.

The face seems to melt hot wax and then begins to reform, a very passage mimic of Illario's own features. It takes time, Illario's blood slipping free as he works, feeding the magic and when he's done, he's breathing a little harder than before, and he doesn't try to stand immediately.

"You will be harder. I'm not that familiar with your face." He says, after a few more steadying breaths. "I'll need to get a better look at you."

Illario would have no reason to know how many times Rook has walked into a dangerous situation unarmed in previous months. The Venatori of late never know what to expect of him, because he could unleash spellwork but he has also downed entire groups of them with nothing but bar furniture. But throwing a chair (on top of just dispatching him) was going to be a bit louder, too.

At Illario's suggestion, he stops short. First at the idea that there is an Illario that doesn't know his face well. But then that familiar...uncertainty. At being perceived.

Grier's face falls briefly before he looks at him, determined not to delay things with his own strange misgivings.

There's that blackness in him, that he can almost feel pulsing against his cheek, seeming to clench on his torso, that says he could do it.

"If you overtax yourself, it will slow things down."

Illario has no reason to know for sure, but from that confident display, he might hazard a guess- you do not punch like that unless you are certain you can land it well, and there was no hesitation in Rook's movements. Even well-trained Crows might think twice before trying such a thing.

"I doubt we have time to waste. I'll be fine." He replies to Rook's concern, and then he shifts, getting up and moving closer, and then pausing, going still, and making an apologetic noise.

"Can I touch you?" Rook would be well within his rights to say no to that, so Illario adds, "It might help."

After all, he's so familiar with the shape and look of his own face that it's easy to replicate, but Rook is still a stranger, in truth.

If Rook allows him to do as he asks, Illario's unblooded hand reaches out, tucking Rook's hair out of the way and brushing his fingertips over that sharp jaw and the prominent shape of his brow.

He swallows a little more visibly than he'd like and tries not to think about how handsome the man who has ruined all his plans is.

"I...Yes. I understand."

Now is not the time to let that take the breath out of him. Some nearer contact that is not part of them yet, not anymore. The charm in being asked. Careful hesitation that he knows he is probably reading wrong, but something like hope blooms in him.

There's a part of him that still blanches when the marks on his face are touched, even if they at least obscure marks of age.

But he catches sight of something like conflict. It overrides even the temptation to answer the magic in him. "It's going to be all right. I promise."

Illario is grateful for the man's agreement- that at least shows more freely in his face before his blue eyes open a little wider and he starts to try and learn Rook's face. It's strangely intimate, for two men who by rights might want to harm each other. Strangely trusting and while enjoyable is the wrong word, there's a strange feeling that settles into Illario's stomach that feels... if not good than at least reassuring.

He sees and feels the flinch, and for a momwnt he thinks he's brushed a sensitive bruise or barely healed wound, but there'd none of that. Instead he realises it's because of the dark shapes beneath the man's skin.

"You have such a very handsome jaw." He says, the first thing that comes into his head, unfiltered- he'll blame the blood loss and stress, but it should distract Rook well enough.

It's going to be all right. I promise. Rook says and Illario should be able to come up with so many witty replies to that. But as things stand? He turns hopeful eyes on the other man and gives a small nod.

"I hope so." He murmurs, and then takes a breath to try and refocus. "Let's see if I can manage a passable replica of you, shall we?"

This is hardly the first time this man, in particular, has been this close to him. Not by Grier's recollection, anyhow. Perhaps the danger of the moment, the vanishing of context< all of it? Makes it feel as uncertain as before. Waiting for the ugliness to be taken in full and acknowledged.

A small burst of pink finds his features. "You're being kind."

Illario continues to take in his features, and even when he's avoiding a full gaze, Grier is reading body language, looking for telltale signs the man might be going too far in his bloodletting.

"Here." He kneels down and fishes a vial out of the leg of his boot. Where one would expect him to have poison or even another weapon on his person however, it's an elfroot potion. An emergency portion when the bottles usually at his hip are either not present (like now) or drained.

Anyone who has seen him during a mission might have noticed he tends to sip from one fairly regularly. A little more than regularly. Always careful to take more when he happens upon some.

"The kind one of us is Lucanis." Illario replies, but even so, the fact that such a silly slip of the young can make Rook blush is... well. He'd assumed the man was straight. Maybe that was foolish, he should know better, but with everything? He might have noticed how attractive Rook is, but he knows better than to have entertained anything more.

Now is not the time to start wondering either. They have work to do and Rook is moving, shifting, making ready pull a knife-

-A vial. A potion, from the colour and viscosity. It could be poison, elfroot potions can be augmented and tampered with but he doesn't think a Warden is the sort. That's something a Crow would do.

"If I drink it now, I'll only need another one after. Give me a moment." He takes the vial, and offers Rook what he hopes is a thankful smile.

Then he's dropping to his knees by the other body and considering the blood from his right hand is only oozing slowly now, he runs the fingers of the left hand across the broach's blade. Again, the red mist forms, but a little slower this time and Illario breathes harder from the get go as he pours himself into trying to match Grier's features. The strong brow, the amber eyes, the distinctive nose and jaw. He spends too long on the lips, trying to get it right, and the the particular colour of the man's hair, many shades as it catches the light. Once he's done he sits back on his heels and reaches for the potion, swallowing it down as his fingers still bleed.

"I... I wouldn't normally ask for you to look at your own corpse but... will it do?"

A hand falls to the man's shoulder to steady him when he finishes. Grier does as asked and...well there is a reason one shouldn't make a habit of this. It's rather grisly. And wouldn't be if he were not well-copied. "Unsettlingly perfect. ...I think changing the clothes is all we really need to worry about."

And that in itself is a careful process. He even notably makes sure that both his spellblade and orb are left in the room, perhaps a struggle to reclaim them. Though notably he squeezes the handle of the blade and it...changes. Or rather reverts. Still a spellblade but decidedly less alien looking. He was already disguising it?

"You're going to want to leave the broach on him," he finally puts in gently. "...That kind of magic gets more of a hold on you the more you use it. There's more of a price than just your blood. I'm willing to wager you're still thinking about using it even now."

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