bakerstreet | The Gagged Meme

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."

"I'll accept perfect." He says, still exhausted. Ilalrio doesn't mean to lean into Rook's steadying hold, but he does even as the potion begins to help wounds close. It doesn't replace the blood lost, but at least Illario isn't losing any more. That is a good thing, whatever way you look at it.

He stays like that until Rook lets him go. He needs to focus on his own magic, and really, he shouldn't feel the loss of that hand so badly. Apart from this man, who else has touched him recently? Willingly? Lucanis he thinks, when he tried to kill him at the bloodied bath-house beneath the Chantry.

When Rook prompts him about the broach, a fresh wave of unpleasant pain goes through him, starting at his chest and radiating out.

"It will prove useful-" he begins, which eases the hurt, but there's something in Rook's eyes something knowing, and it makes Illario want to squirm away.

"That's the magic you are feeling right now."

His voice is gentle, understanding, but yes -- knowing. And there is some temptation to touch him again, but he knows it will be a little too forward. It will look like manipulation, and that is not what he is trying to do.

"There is a reason that people who get into using blood magic never keep it small forever. Please do not leave that way open for yourself. You are worth more than that."

He feels ever so tired again, rung out and delaying getting to his feet for as long as possible. Its so much easier to simply stay on the floor rather than fight how tired he is, how sore. Trying to move anywhere seems too much effort, even lifting his hands to his chest to remove the broach.

But he's also too tired to hide it, to stop himself looking up at Rook and bother to hide the expression on his face- fear of the future, of his fanily, rhw unknown. The broach offer protection, even if it comes at a cost. And behind all of that, the hope that those words might be true. That he might really be worth more.

"Do you truly think that?"

"I do."

He can't hold him. He can't reassure that uncertainty and fear he has seen in some form before. Even tell him that Illario Dellamorte would have eventually come to this conclusion even without him here right now.

But he can offer a hand to help him up.

"Do you believe me?"

"I'm trying to." Illario replies, abd he hopes his voice conveys that it isn't Rook that makes him doubt it. It's himself, the still churning fear. But he takes the hand thats held out to him, getting to his feet with Rook's help. The Warden's grip is strong and solid, reassuringly certain and unwavering, despire the sins of the man he helps up.

Maybe if Rook believes in him, a man who has done what so many think is impossible, Illario can believe in it too.

He takes a steadying breath, fingers trembling as they try to fight him but when he releases Rook's hand, he reaches for the broach and unpins it from his chest.

Rook gives his hand a reassuring squeeze just before he fully lets go. Reminds himself that Illario did a lot of this without much from him. If this is how things are going to change, he will find a way to make it work.

When the brooch is at last affixed to his doppelganger, there is a moment where he doesn't immediately make physical contact again. Once more it would read, whether intended or not, as manipulative. He takes a breath.

"I won't pretend nothing will be difficult from here on," he offers carefully. "But nothing I could mention right now will be harder than what you've already been going through."

"I hope that's true," Illario murmurs, moving bodies and staging the scene a little more realistically, something he is very familiar with. Once done, he's a little more himself, less woozy, less exhausted, and actually... feeling hopeful. Maybe it's the removal of the broach or the possibility of escape from an escalating situation. Maybe it's trusting someone again after forgetting what that could be like.

"I think the Joining might be a problem, hm? But we will deal with that when we get to it." He says, and moves toward the door, the family apartments quiet and still, there's no crackle in the air of hidden Venatori.

"We should go. The sooner the better." And while Illario doesn't know the secret way via the basement, he knows plenty of other quiet and shadowy routes, some of them just as dusty with long disuse. They might spy a couple of guards but no one spots them as Illario leads them out of the villa complex.

When they reach the boundary he stills a little, looks back at the sprawling buildings and gardens, buries all the feelings and turns back towards his companion.

"The Diamond?"

The hoods and masks that Venatori tend to don helps with preventing any real suspicion. They might as well be just as Grier suggested they would look: like grunts changing shifts or seeing to orders from someone more important and less faceless.

"The Diamond." And there are layers that can be gradually shed on the way, without creating scandal, that stops them looking immediately alarming to people around them. Not long, even, before they are going to be among people who will likely recognize them without becoming hostile.

Though Grier skirts much of the marketplace, not wanting to risk Ivencii potentially being there.

It is probably when they are near to this point that he turns, likely to address Illario, and he's not immediately behind him. Someone else, something that tinges familiar but recognition won't fully spark. Just that hackles raise and he is already going for a weapon.

--

His body shakes with a start and he is awake. Home. In bed. Familiar sounds and scents close, and his hands immediately feel for the weight he already feels next to him.

The Gagged Meme

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