Branson moved quietly through the darkened streets of Minrathous, the air dense with the scent of aged stone and something acrid, Tevinter's magic hanging thick in the night. The barrier overhead glimmered faintly, casting the city in an eerie glow that only seemed to heighten his suspicions. He’d never trusted anything this big, this powerful, especially when it cut off the whole damned world. And yet, here he was, caught within its bounds with no intention of leaving… not while *she* was here. He wasn’t about to let anything happen to his family, not the least of all at the whims of Tevinter’s highest powers.
As he approached the looming structure of the Magisterium’s headquarters, Branson kept to the shadows, his steps measured and soft. He wasn’t sure how far he would get, what sort of magical protections they would have up, but he found a spot where he could hide and watch anyone coming and going to see what they did. It was times like these he wished he was a mage, it would make snooping on mages so much easier.
Branson pressed himself deeper into the shadows, eyes fixed on the Magisterium’s towering entrance. Symbols pulsed faintly on the walls, layers of protection woven into the stone itself, warning off intruders and silently daring anyone reckless enough to try. He had spent too long in Tevinter already, but he wouldn’t leave without answers. She was here, enslaved to a magister, and he was ready to do whatever it took to keep her safe.
A robed figure approached, their face obscured as they traced a pattern into the air, causing the heavy doors to unlock with a faint hum. Branson watched the motion, committing it to memory. But just as he leaned forward to see better, a soft scrape sounded behind him, sharp against the night’s silence. He froze, every nerve on edge, his hand moving instinctively to his dagger as he held his breath and listened.
The creature that made the soft scrape, was none other than Caesennia. She didn't freeze, but the other person she'd walked up behind of did — and his hand found a dagger. Doe-eyed, she stared at the stranger.
The young woman was silent, her breathing level. If there was nothing else that her mistress had taught her, it was not to overreact. Dressed in britches and a simple shirt, her clothing was better than a regular slaves, but not nearly as opulent as what the wealthier folks wore. She was somewhere above the slaves, but beneath the rest.
Do... do you need help? She inquired, finally. Her gaze flickered to the knife in the stranger's hand every few seconds.
Branson turned slowly, his dagger gripped firmly but kept low, nonthreatening. His sharp eyes swept over the young woman, noting her plain but clean attire, the way she carried herself—cautious, but not afraid. She didn’t look like a threat, but in Tevinter, appearances could be deceiving. Still, her voice lacked the rehearsed chill of a mage’s pawn or the subservient tone of a beaten slave. Intriguing.
He eased slightly, the edges of his rugged demeanor softening just enough to seem approachable, though he stayed alert. Help? His voice was low and gravelly, a whisper meant for the shadows they shared. Depends. You always wander out here alone, offering aid to strangers with knives?
He took a step back into deeper shadow, still holding her gaze. Branson had a knack for reading people—it was in the way they moved, the way their eyes betrayed what their mouths wouldn’t say. This woman was… wary, yes, but there was no malice in her. That didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous; in Tevinter, even kindness could be a weapon.
What are you doing out here? This isn’t exactly the kind of place you come for an evening stroll, he asked, his tone even, probing without pressing. He kept his movements slow, deliberate, like a wolf circling to gauge the intentions of a potential ally—or foe. His dagger was still in hand, but he held it loosely now, ready to sheath it if she proved herself harmless… or useful.
Caesennia glanced towards the door of the magistreum, My Mistress is in attendance. She held up a basket of phials and vials, shimmering vaguely with captured magics. I was sent to retrieve some things for her. She replied, easy-going.
I offer aid, merely because you are in the wrong place. She added, with a nod. It's dangerous here, if you're unwanted. There are wards. And if you made it past the wards... well, a shrug of one shoulder
Branson raised an eyebrow, though the shadows likely swallowed the expression. Her answer was straightforward, but her calmness in the face of his blade was… unusual. Most would have faltered, stammered, or fled. Instead, she stood there, basket in hand, delivering her warnings as though they were idle observations about the weather.
The wrong place, huh? He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he studied her. Good thing I’m rarely where I’m supposed to be. His voice carried a faint edge of humor, dry as the cracked streets of the alienage he grew up in.
He glanced toward the door she had nodded at, the faint hum of magic in the air confirming her words about the wards. So, what happens if someone like me—unwanted, as you put it—decides to stay? He took a careful step closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. Do these fancy barriers scream bloody murder, or just fry me where I stand?
Branson’s eyes flicked to the shimmering vials in her basket, curiosity momentarily pulling at his focus. And what’s in those? Something your mistress needs, or something you do? There was no accusation in his tone, just an undercurrent of suspicion wrapped in genuine intrigue.
He leaned slightly against the wall, dagger now resting casually at his side, but his posture still screamed readiness. She might not be dangerous, but the fact that she had approached him at all was enough to make him tread carefully. People didn’t survive long in Tevinter by taking everyone at face value.
Caesennia's lips pulled into a knowing smile, Perhaps they scream, perhaps they fry. I wouldn't know, ser. I'm where I belong. She replied, with a shrug of her shoulders. In all honesty, the stranger was in more danger if found by the people who put those wards up, than the wards themselves.
He asked about the basket, the vials had caught his attention. Mmm, a bit of both. Medicines. My Lady has a life-long ailment. Not quite a lie, though she wouldn't really call them medications... But nonetheless, her smile brightened just a bit as she regarded the stranger.
If you really wanna get in undetected, there's a guard change in thirty minutes. She added, with a nod. She could, of course, vouch for the man. But she wasn't going to do that, not knowing him, nor if he was of any import to her mistress.
Branson’s gaze sharpened at her mention of the guard change, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Generous of you to share. Makes me wonder why. His tone was measured, probing.
He straightened, nodding toward the faintly glowing barrier above. Truth is, I don’t trust that thing. Magic this big, this showy—it’s never simple. I need to know what makes it hold, and maybe… how it breaks.
His voice dropped, rough with intent. That’s why I’m here. Not for coin, not for glory. Just answers.
Taking a step closer, he studied her, his tone soft but pointed. So, what’s your play? You think I’ll fail, or am I worth the gamble?
