Post #2502230 in The City of Chains, a roleplay on RPG

It was a rare day indeed that Varric Tethras did not at least appear to be in a good mood. The dwarf storyteller and rogue had been pacing around the Hanged Man, his place of residence, with an impatience and anxiousness uncharacteristic of him, waiting for those he'd sent for to arrive. On the table, his impressive repeater crossbow Bianca was loaded and ready for a small war, with ample ammunition set aside, as well as a number of other nasty devices, traps and poisons and light explosives and the like. Varric looked as though he was preparing for battle, though in reality it was simply one man that he sought.

The Warden Nostariel arrived alongside Ashton Riviera, and the dwarf put on something of a mask for them, offering them seats in his expansive (for the Hanged Man) chambers and offering them drinks, shoddy though they were. Sparrow arrived soon after, and Varric made somewhat forced smalltalk while they waited for the last arrival. Judging by the look on Ithilian's face when he entered, it was only reluctantly that he answered the dwarf's summons, given the amount of trouble he'd landed himself in the last time he'd accompanied Varric. The Deep Roads Expedition had been born out of greed, after all, and had almost turned into a disaster because of that greed, particularly on the part of Varric's brother. Still, the Dalish had dragged himself into the Hanged Man and back into Varric's private quarters with the others, though he declined the offer for a drink.

"You might reconsider when I tell you the news," Varric said, with a sort of dark humor. Upon seeing that there could be no more delaying, Varric uncomfortably settled in. "I've had an ear out for Bartrand. After the Deep Roads, he ran to Rivain, probably because he knew I couldn't track him. But I hear he might be back in Kirkwall. He called in loans from a few of his contacts in Hightown." Ithilian did not reconsider the drink. To him, this sounded like simply more trouble waiting to happen, since Bartrand Tethras had delivered them nothing but trouble the first time around. "And how do you know he's not just passing through?"

"If my information is good," the dwarf replied, "and it's always good, one of the loans was a small manor to stay in, which gives us a good shot at having a word with my dear, sweet brother."

Nostariel’s cup lay untouched in front of her, one leg crossed over the other. The news caused her to frown; she had not forgotten the ordeal they’d been through in the Deep Roads because of what Bartrand had done, not even in the three-and-some years that had transpired since. Still… the Warden took in Varric’s array of weaponry, and the look on his face, and the way he said his piece. "Are you sure?” Her tone was cautious. "There is little to be gained from retribution but heartache, Varric. And he is still your brother.” One did not array themselves so if they merely wanted to talk to someone. Only the most violent of vengeances required an armory, and she was more willing to just let the whole thing go than she was to watch this hurt her friend more than he expected it would.

"Nostariel, dear," Varric answered, plastering another smile onto his broad face, "I said I wanted a word with my brother, and I meant it." He shrugged at the array of weaponry he'd be bringing. "Bianca's just coming along for our protection, considering what Bartrand tried to do to us last time. I want answers from him first, not blood. That might come later, depending on the answers." The Warden looked for a moment like she wanted to sigh, but in the end, she simply inclined her head.

Next to her, Ashton lounged about in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm and his back leaned against the other his foot rhythmically dancing in the air. In his hands were one of Varric's bolts which he set about to play with in the nonchalant way that was entirely his own. He ran a finger down the shaft, admiring the wood grain, but he was halfway listening to the conversation too. "I'm going to be honest, I'll be a little let down if he doesn't get away without a little..." Ashton paused and made a fist with the bolt, punching it into his other hand lightly a couple of times.Then he let his head loll backward so he could see Nostariel-- though upside down-- and shrugged. "They're dwarves, and brothers to boot. I'd be shocked if neither never thrown a fist at the other."

He then raised his head and tossed the bolt back into the pile, his face taking on a more serious edge. "Though I do agree. I'm not too keen on watching someone get shot in the face."

Ithilian wasn't overly concerned with what Varric would choose to do with his brother; if the dwarf thought the only solution was to put a crossbow bolt between his eyes, that was his business. Dwarven family matters were not something he wanted to be involved in. That said, the idea of seeking answers from Bartrand did manage to resonate with him. He had stolen a valuable lyrium idol from the Deep Roads, a trinket that led him to betray his own brother, leaving them all for dead. If Bartrand was dangerous, or if that artifact was, it seemed a valuable use of a night to sort the situation out. He nodded his agreement, as Nostariel had done.

Pleased, Varric grinned up at Sparrow. "So, what do you say? Shall we stop by Bartrand's new house, welcome him back to the neighborhood and all that?"

“I'd say if he's stupid enough to come back to Kirkwall after what he's done, he has what's coming to him,” Sparrow replied, shrugging her shoulders. Though her methods might have been a shade darker than the others, she could not relate to those who professed having a deeper understanding of familial ties. The closest person she ever had to a sister was Amalia, and she'd betrayed her as well. Perhaps, not in the same manner, but in a roundabout way that still felt like abandonment. What Bartrand had done in the Deep Roads had been far worse. Abandoning them to their own fates for a simple token that may or may not have been completely worthless. To a likely death hadn't it been for their skills. Even she was not that greedy. Not enough to leave her family and throw them to the wolves. If Varric so chose to kill his brother, she would hold him down. Justice and honor hardly held hands, in her opinion.

“I'm in,” she added with a slip of a smile, leaning her chair at an alarming angle before clattering back into place, “Lead on, Varre. May Bianca guide us swiftly.” Her eyebrows jettisoned up, then waggled back down. She looked at the others and pursed her lips, wondering why, exactly, they might have any reservations about the one person that could have been the end of them all. He'd been particularly ruthless about leaving them, so why did they want Varric to talk to him? Surely, if Bartrand had wanted something different, like reconciliation, he'd have contacted Varric or visited him in the Hanged Man. He knew where to find him. Or maybe, he'd lost his mind in shame. She clicked her tongue and leaned her elbows on the table, “Either way, we'll find out why he hasn't come to apologize, right? Let's go give him a warm welcome...”

By the time the group reached Hightown, the sun had set behind the rooftops of the towering manors, casting the streets into a darkness occasionally puncuated by the glow of a torch hanging along the walls. The particular house Varric sought was isolated, conveniently concealed by the wealthy district's twisting turns and occasionally narrow streets. When they arrived, however, Varric and Ithilian frowned as one, surveying the location.

"Abandoned," Ithilian stated, noting the obvious lack of care put into the state of the manor. A garden at the base of one of the first floor windows looked to have died months ago, if not longer, and the window above it had been shattered by something, with not even a simple boarding up job to seal it. Inside, there was no light visible, though the occasional picking up of the wind carried a torn leaf of paper into view. It was a dead end street with no other manors to speak of, and Ithilian wondered if the city guard even came this way. "At least, it looks that way. Could easily be staged."

Varric grumbled something unintelligible to himself. "Hrm... I don't get it. My sources saw people making deliveries here just a week ago. This... looks like it's been empty for months." Bianca on his back, Varric crossed his arms and studied the door, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to go inside. It was possible that nothing at all awaited them inside. More likely, Ithilian suspected, was a trap. Surely Bartrand wasn't so much a fool as to return to Kirkwall and expect those he'd left for dead to take no action.

Nostariel wore a puzzled frown, reaching up to absently tug at one of her ears, the motion somewhere between thoughtful and anxious. There were a lot of things this could mean, but it was probably just impossible to know from just this. She was certainly no master of deduction, nor of knowing the minds of other people. She couldn’t pretend to any knowledge about Bartrand’s logic or his motives, but she did know one thing: whatever was going on here, the answer was unlikely to reveal itself to anyone who waited outside the place. "I suppose… we’ll just have to go in and find out. Watch for traps?” There was no telling what awaited—but caution was not a bad idea, considering who they were dealing with. "My thoughts exactly," Varric agreed. "Keep your eyes peeled."

Sparrow showed no concern given the state of the mansion, and the fact that it looked as if only rodents and roaches occupied the place. This particular corner of Kirkwall was unknown to her, so she hunkered down by what might have been a withered rose bush and pinched the crooked stems between her fingers. In disarray, or splendor, anyone could live in a place like this. She'd seen worse in Darktown, after all. This would have been considered luxury by any of their standards, but it was indeed odd if Bartrand had walked away from the Deep Roads a rich man, and willingly walked into squalor. Maybe he sold that blasted object and gambled it all away—forcing him to take refuge in this dump, or maybe it was a strange form of penance. A punishment for leaving behind his own flesh and blood. She doubted both stories, but it was the only thing she could come up with. She pursed her lips and slowly came back to her feet, studying the door, as well. If anyone knew anything about her, they'd know not to let her bumble ahead when there were good chances that traps had been set. Sparrow merely nodded, fingers creeping across her belt. She was ready.

The door opened with a noisy squeal when Varric pulled on it, and the group moved cautiously inside. They got no further than the entrance, however, before Varric carefully pulled Bianca into his hands, eyes falling to the floor, where two bodies lay in pools of blood. They were armed and armored men, the leather and mail trappings of mercenaries and sellswords. There had obviously been some kind of violent struggle leading to their demises; much of the room was wrecked around them. "These corpses aren't even stiff yet," Varric commented, prodding at one of them with his boot. "There has to be someone still in here."

As it turned out, there was someone in the very next room. Four someones. They were more mercenary guards, standing idly or sitting about as though waiting for someone. At the sight of Varric and the others, however, they immediately sprang into action, charging blindly forward with weapons drawn, shouting madly and incoherently. Most unlike sellswords, they gave no thought to personal defense, and as such Varric was easily able to thrum two bolts into the chest of the first, while Ashton and Ithilian feathered the second, leaving Sparrow and Nostariel to dispatch the others. When all four were dead or otherwise incapacitated, Varric stopped to take a breath. Ithilian frowned, crouching before one of them. "Even the most desperate criminal in Darktown has more sense than these four."

Varric nodded grimly. "They were completely out of their heads. Bartrand must have done something to them."

Whatever had been done, it had taken hold of the dozen men waiting for them in the great room as well. They set upon the group with a reckless abandon, dying without a second thought as they ran upon the arrows and bolts of the archers, and the magic and heavy mace of the mages. They proved little challenge in their delusional state of mind, and the fight came down to little more than butcher's work, as it was clear that little would dissuade them from trying to kill the intruders other than their own deaths. When the work was finished Varric led them upstairs, frustrated at needing to kill someone other than his brother for this. He was just about to kick down the closed door of the master bedroom when a shuffling was heard from his left.

He raised Bianca in the direction of the sound, but it was a second dwarf that appeared before them. Not Bartrand, that much was plain, but a well dressed younger lad, with an as of yet beardless face and short brown curls. He looked absolutely terrified. Upon recognizing him, Varric lowered his crossbow. "I know this man," he said to the others, to stay their hands. "He's Bartrand's steward."

"Varric? Is that you?" It seemed to take the steward a moment to recognize the dwarf. "Praise the ancestors..."

"Hugan, what happened here?" Varric asked. The dwarf steward's face fell, and he wrung his hands together nervously. "Varric, your brother... that statue he brought out of the Deep Roads... Bartrand said it sang to him, even after he sold it." He glanced down to the bodies of the guards on the floor. "I've been hiding in here, away from the guards. They're like crazed animals. I didn't dare go past them. Everyone in this house has gone mad."

"How?" Ithilian asked, not yet putting his bow away, though he did lower it at the start of the talk. "Did Bartrand do something to all of them?" Hugan nodded nervously. "He's been feeding them lyrium ever since he hired them. Secretly at first, but eventually he was able to force them into it. Some of the servants, he... cut pieces off of them while they were still alive. He says he's trying to help them hear the song. Please, stop him." Varric looked somewhat incredulous at the news.

"Bartrand's not exactly a nice guy, but... this doesn't sound like my brother."

Nostariel’s face twisted into a grimace. That idol had made her feel uneasy, certainly, but this… she would have never guessed that anything like this would happen. Uncomfortably, the Warden smeared blood from her cheek onto her thumb, wiping it for lack of anyplace better on the hem of her shirt. This was all kinds of wrong, and something about the air in here made her feel… ill. Chewing her lip, she glanced back and forth between Varric and the steward as they spoke, but in the end she had to admit that it was one piece of information that stuck with her the most.

"He sold it?” her tone was thickened by dread. If it could do this much in the hands of a merchant, she couldn’t even imagine what a magister would do with it. Or a politician. Or… well, anyone who would want to purchase such a thing. "To whom?”

A statue rendering someone mad? Mad enough to cut off limbs and feed people lyrium, supposedly. An incredulous snort sounded, and Sparrow found herself wringing her own hands, binding them into fists. A kinder soul may have thought that it hadn't been Bartrand's fault—that the idol had influenced him so, that his crimes were products of an evil object. Whispering and promising things. She knew the feeling and she'd never excused herself, either. She hoped that the others felt the same, and when the time came, they would kill him. If he was too far gone, and there was nothing they could do, it might even be a mercy. They would need to find the idol and destroy it before it hurt anyone else. Demons and this idol, she believed, had much in common.

"I don't know," the steward said. "It's why we came back to Kirkwall, but I don't know who he sold it to. He was already starting to rant about the sodding idol and the singing. On his better days, he hated the thing, wanted to get rid of it. But the minute it was gone, he got worse."

"And where is my brother?" Varric asked. "I think it's about time we got some answers straight from him." Hugan pointed down the whole, to the last door. "Bartrand locked himself in the study with some of the servants. No one's come out for days, and those sodding lunatics just kept prowling the halls."

"Then we go in after him," Varric said, resolved. "Come on, let's finish this."

He led the way down the hall, leaving the steward behind to make his own way out now that they had cleared it of the mercenaries. Bianca in hand, Varric gave the door a couple of solid kicks before it busted open, and he charged inside. Bartrand was the only one left in the room, but he was lying in wait for his brother, and he sprang upon him as soon as he entered the room, a knife in hand. The two went to the ground, Bartrand ending up on top in an advantageous position, but Ithilian was quick to rush up behind the crazed dwarf, wrenching the knife from his hand and sending it clattering across the floor. Seizing Bartrand under the arms, he pulled him free of Varric, who immediately pressed the attack, throwing a wild haymaker into Bartrand's jaw.

Several more followed, and soon the younger dwarf tackled the older one, pulling him from Ithilian's grip and nearly knocking the elf over. Varric proceeded to beat his brother across the face until it was clear that Bartrand had submitted, at which point Varric reluctantly rose, allowing Bartrand to slowly get to his feet. He coughed and spat out blood onto the floor, but there was a small bit of clarity in his eyes now, something that had been lacking before.

"I can't... I can't... hear it anymore." He rubbed at his bruised face. "I just need to hear the song again. Just for a minute." He then suddenly turned sideways, staring at the wall. "Stop saying that! I know I shouldn't have sold the idol to that woman! It was a mistake! A mistake..."

Varric, annoyed, stepped forward and grabbed Bartrand firmly by the shoulder, shaking him. "Bartrand, get a hold of yourself. Do you know where you are? Do you know what you've done?" Finally, he seemed to recognize the dwarf standing in front of him. "Varric! You'll help me, won't you little brother? Help me find it again. You were always the good one."

"Help you? Bartrand, you left me to die, you left all of us here to die, and for what? Some trinket? Look at yourself. Look at what you've done to the men and women who served you. Where's your nobility, brother? Where's your dwarven honor?" To that, Bartrand seemed to have no answer. His gaze was often unfocused, as though sometimes he saw the people standing before him, and sometimes he saw something else entirely.

It was Ashton's voice that broke Bartrand's silence. His crouch brought him to eye level with both dwarves and he placed a hand on Varric's shoulder, urging him to calm himself. "Varric," He said, his voice lacking Ashton's standard whimsical tone. "Look at him, something's not right. That thing, whatever the hell it was, broke him. He needs help," Ashton said. "And keeping him the hell away from that trinket is a start," He added, whispered into Varric's ear. The Bartrand in front of him was not the proudly stubborn dwarf he remembered on the expedition, this was a sick man whose mind was muddled.

The actions he'd taken were despicable, Ashton wouldn't try to argue that, but the man stood in front of them, talking to the walls and looking at them through a haze. It was hard for him to feel anything else but pity.

Varric didn't seem to like hearing that. He glanced back over his shoulder. "I didn't come here just to leave without telling my brother he's a filthy nuglicker, and demanding some answers. Help can come later." He turned back to Bartrand. "Why'd you do it, Bartrand? Were you already crazy before we even went into the Deep Roads, or was it all the statue?" Bartrand seemed to hear the word statue clear enough, though he shook his head in disgust at the sound of it.

"Idol," he corrected, "not a statue. It wants to be worshipped. It wants me. It wants me back! She stole it from me!"

“He doesn't need help,” Sparrow cut in, throwing her arms wide in confusion, “There's no way he was off his bloody rocker in the Deep Roads, if what tiny said was true.” Whatever Bartrand was suffering had taken time to develop. He'd abandoned them in the Deep Roads with a clear conscience, for whatever manner of jewels and treasure. At the time, he never mentioned anything about the idol—only that he didn't want to split everything among so many people, that he hadn't wanted them to come along. They were pests and he was in the business of coin, always had been from the stories he heard from Varric. Her teeth grated together, chewing heated words in the back of her throat. The damning voice in her head bugled that she was being hypocritical. She'd never been insane, but she'd had the inability to distinguish dream from reality when under Rapture's influence. This was different, she reasoned. “He's dangerous. This is untreatable. Dwarves can't be possessed, everyone knows that. This isn't poison. If we can't help him now, how long do we wait while he's trying to cut off someone's arm?”

The tension in her shoulders slowly trickled away, and she found herself staring at the dwarves, and at Ashton. He was trying to soothe their ruffled feathers, pacify Varric's anger and save someone who was sick. Surely, Nostariel's influence. She couldn't help but feel wrong at the thought of helping someone who'd so easily abandoned them. For an object. An idol, whatever the hell that ugly statue was. Knuckling her nose irritably, Sparrow shrugged her shoulders and forced a tight-lipped, crooked smile. The more Bartrand babbled, the more she wanted to beat him senseless, too. She took a few steps around the huddled group and waggled her eyebrows, absently prodding the back of Bartrand's leg with her leather boot. “She? Mm,” her tone might have changed, but it still felt sharp as a knife, “Did an old lady-love take your stupid statue away? Thought that a woman would fall head over heels with you after presenting her with that ugly thing. Did she reject your feelings? Send you away? Choose the idol over you?” She dipped low, crouching to Bartrand's right. Her next words were frigid.

“Tell us who she is.”

"She glittered like the sun," Bartrand answered, "but her heart was ice. She will not feed it, not like I did it." Ithilian rolled his eyes at the answer.

"I don't think he even knows. Ashton's right; his mind is shattered."

Varric grimaced, frustrated. "Bloody ancestors... why bring me this close and still nothing? For three years all I've wanted was to look him in the eye and get his answers. Why he abandoned us in that thaig, what any of this was for. But I guess there's nothing he could say that could make it right." His hands gripped the crossbow a little tighter. It was obvious that Bartrand wasn't going to be able to supply them with the answers they sought. All that remained was deciding what to do with him. Varric's mind appeared unmade.

Nostariel’s mind was not. "Varric, whatever happened here… Bartrand is no longer himself. He’s mad, and he needs to be looked after, not killed. He’s still your brother, and I think you would regret bringing him to harm.” Vengeance was not the answer here, if there was an answer. For all she knew, Bartrand was all the family Varric had left, and even if he wasn’t… that connection, that tie, shouldn’t it be strong enough to allow forgiveness? Nobody was perfect, everyone made mistakes, and more than anything else, it seemed important to her that no more were made in the aftermath of it.

"Sparrow..." Ashton said, the emotion drained from his voice leaving the name monotone. Disappointment hid behind his tone, and held an uncomfortable note, one that was unfamiliar from his lips. "What you're suggesting is murder, no matter how hard you try to justify it," Ashton explained coolly. Sparrow was upset over Bartrand's actions, he could see, but to kill him for it in his state? It was petty vengeance, nothing more, and it made Ashton sick, and the fact that it came from Sparrow's mouth made it that much more worse. The man that'd left them to die in the Deep Roads was already dead, all that remained was an ill husk. "Is that what you want? More blood on your hands?"

She glittered like the sun. Cold as ice. Whoever Bartrand was talking about, she didn't sound pleasant in the slightest. A soft, billowy sigh escaped her lips, and she slowly reeled away from him, planting her hands on her knees and moving away, backwards. This was yet another reminder that she was not quite the same as her companions. Not as kindhearted, and certainly not strong enough when it came to forgiveness. Maker knew, it'd taken her a long time to forgive herself. Only at Rilien's behest had she stopped being so self-destructive; Ashton, Nostariel and the others had played their parts, as well. Her feigned smile faded away and strung itself into a frown, pulled taut at the edges. She'd known Ashton long enough to hear the disappointment in his tone, bereft of its usual lilt. And her heart tightened like a fist in response.

“Mercy,” she corrected, tonelessly, “I'm suggesting mercy.” There had been a time where she'd begged to be killed, to be put down before she committed any more crimes she would later regret. She remembered asking Rilien, as unfair as it had been. If Bartrand had any moment of clarity, would he even regret his actions? Greed had played his hands for a long time, and now, an idol played puppet master. Was she wrong? The fist loosened. What would Rilien do? His pragmatics always appeared sound to her. If there was a threat, it needed to be dealt with—but, he, too, was changing. Perhaps, he'd agree with them, or simply sit quiet and let the others decide Bartrand's fate. Bartrand was not her kin to punish. Bartrand was not her, either. More blood on your hands. Her stains would not wash off, mostly by choice. She took another step back from them, and shrugged her shoulders. Her hand drifted away from the pommel of her mace. “It's Varric's decision, not mine. Do as you will.”

Varric looked more inclined to violence at first, especially after Sparrow's initial words, but Nostariel and Ashton both counteracted them, and then Sparrow herself changed her tune. Ithilian did not offer any words of his own, agreeing that it was Varric's decision, not any of theirs, but he could see Sparrow's point. Whatever magic had warped Bartrand's mind, it appeared quite potent, and he was not sure what he would want if something of the sort was to happen to him. Sadly, they couldn't discern what Bartrand wanted, beyond the idol.

Relenting, Varric shook his head. "I can't do it. I thought I could, but I thought he'd be gloating, lying on a bed of gold and comissioning painters to memorialize the instant he sealed us in the Deep Roads. But look at him. Whatever that idol was... it did worse to him than I ever could." He lowered Bianca, any combative air leaving him for good. "I'll send someone to come get him. Sit tight, brother... help is on the way."

He turned to the others. "Come on. The sooner we get out of this house, the better. And... thanks, for having my back."

The Chanter's Board has been updated. Family Matter has been completed.

Snippet #2502230

located in Kirkwall, a part of The City of Chains, one of the many universes on RPG.

Setting

Characters Present

Footnotes