felldenlogs | [Quest/Closed] i'm learning all your tricks

WHO: Crowley, NPCs
WHAT: Investigating true sentiments towards the war
WHERE: Kyst
WHEN: Sept. 17th-19th
WARNINGS: Alcohol use, one mentioned death

Independent thought and the challenging of authority are the keys to survival. Travel to Kyst to hear the seeds of unrest that are being sown.

Generally speaking, he doesn’t make a habit of taking unsolicited advice from mysterious notes that appear on his bedside table. He likes to consider himself a sensible entity, able to see trouble where it decided to crop up, and nothing about the letter that he’d found hints at anything but a bad time. Logically speaking, any normal person would have discarded the thing and gone about their merry way, unquestioning and unconvinced of any strange play.

Questioning, however, is something written deep in what makes Crowley Crowley.

It's been his downfall six thousand years ago, and it seems as though curiosity will get the better of him once again. A million miles away in another world altogether, and the temptation is still there. The note contains just enough pique his interest, bless it all, but not quite enough to slack the thirst for knowledge that comes afterwards. Whomever had sent it was playing dirty, and as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Crowley can appreciate a well-laid trap.

He has no loyalty to his new home, hasn’t been given anything beyond vague threats against his own world. Perhaps the Emperor thought that the potential for ruin would be enough to rally those that they plucked out of the multiverse, but they’d been dreadfully wrong. It isn't as if Crowley wished ruin on the kingdom, perish the thought, but he hasn’t survived for as long as he had by just accepting things at face value.

The sky is black as ink when he finally slips away from the Court.

---

There are so many places to start, more than a man could hope to visit in his lifetime. Crowley has many lifetimes under his belt already and many more looming in the future. It’s a matter of plying the knowledge he had now, finding the best place to start on this inane self-imposed quest that he’s decided to indulge in. It doesn’t take more than a moment before he knows where he should be.

---

The tavern itself is dingy, dirty, and perfect. A few faintly flickering scones shed just enough light to cast moody shadows over the ramshackle furnishings and surly patrons, and there’s a certain scent of vomit and unwashed bodies that’s just shy of being hair-curling.

Sitting at the bar, Crowley wraps his robes closer, both to fight the stubborn chill in the air and to make himself seem as small as possible. Alcohol may loosen lips, but it doesn’t guarantee results; he’s spent far too long of a life pulling strings from the shadows to rush this. He can nearly taste the sin, the discontent, and there’s something about that that thrills a small little part of him. Old habits die hard.

Time passes, however, and nothing of interest seems to be passing by. A few lover’s quarrels (a wealthy businessman had been found in the arms of two buxom ladies, according to a rather racy rumor), someone shouting about a gambling debt (the table they’d been playing at had, blessedly, not been overturned), and even what appeared to be a meeting of double agents had been enough to keep his attention, but it isn’t what he’s looking for. With each hour that passes, Crowley feels more and more foolish; of course running off because of a little note wouldn’t be fruitful. He should have known better-

“-would’ve been twenty today, ‘f it weren’t for the pox-forsaken bitch and her war.”

Wait. There, that sounds promising. With a whisper of demonic energy, Crowley sobers himself up, careful not to let on that he’s listening too closely. It’s a gaggle of men at a table to his left, dressed down in soldier’s blues, already three sheets to the wind, and one seems to be ranting rather animatedly to the others.

“Sitting up there, all safe and warm while we bust our asses out in the shittin’ fields and forests. ‘s not fair, that’s what.”

He flags down the barkeep, miracles himself a jug of house ale, and then pushes himself away from the bar with a sigh. His footsteps are light, lost in the cacophony, but there’s an audible thunk when he places the jug on the edge of the table. The rambling man goes quiet, six pairs of eyes drunkenly focus on the new arrival that’s interrupted their conversation, and Crowley?

Crowley smiles, bright and sharp.

---

Humans were predictable, no matter the world it seemed. There had been a few moments of tension, mutterings about otherworlders and auras, but the offering of free ale that he’d brought the soldiers had been enough for them to welcome him into their midst. Now the conversation was lively yet again, spurned on by the same young man as before. Ianto was his name, Crowley thinks, but it’s an inconsequential piece of information. What’s important is that the whole lot of them are there to mourn the loss of Ianto’s brother, Saul.

The man had been killed on the frontlines, during one of the more recent battles, and judging by the scathing insults thrown towards the High Priestess and the Emperor, it seemed as though the entire lot of them were ready to up and abandon their posts over it. Unfair is thrown around quite a bit, along with far more colorful language, and all the while Crowley keeps himself quiet, drinking in all of the information with a bloodless smirk playing across his thin lips. “Why not do it then?”

It’s the first time he’s spoken up since introducing himself, and the question seems to pierce through the drunken haze that’s settled over the group.

“Can’t just leave,” one of them starts, “’s treason.”

“Treason nothing,” another chimes in, “what’ve those bastards ever done for us besides watch us die and stay all comfy up in their fortresses?”

The remaining men make various noises of agreement, and the one who’d originally voiced his concerns looks almost sheepish. A few more moments pass, and the lot of them start murmuring to each other almost excitedly.

Crowley smiles once more.

---

After that first night, whispers of discontent flow freely, like vinegar’d wine left to spatter all over the ground. The bar had been fruitful and he’d left knowing that at least a few soldiers wouldn’t be returning to their barracks at the end of the night. Now that he knew what to look for, it wasn’t terribly hard to pick out just who might have grievances to air.

There are whispers of something far more taboo than mere opposition, though, and he can’t let that go. It’s a tantalizing thought, but difficult to track down any actual details. No one seems willing to say anything out in the open, and the most that he’s been able to suss out has something to do with the foundations of the factions themselves and potential other players. Interesting, very interesting.

He takes a different form when he goes to investigate, all midnight and copper scales as he slithers through the filth of the street. It’s disgusting, he’s going to take a shower, ten showers when he gets back, but given how hard it’s been to even get this much information, he doesn’t want to ruin his chances by standing out. Though it hurts his pride something awful, it’s better to be overlooked as a vermin in the gutters right now than to risk discovery and ruining everything.
It’s long, unrewarding work, and at the end of the second day he’s no closer to cracking the mystery than when he’d started out. It’s frustrating, especially with the amount of work that he’s put in, and he retires back to the dingy little tavern for a drink and a sulk.

Ianto and his crew are there, much to his surprise, and they cheerfully wave him over. There’s a moment where Crowley considers ignoring them, he’s not here for social calls, but eventually he relents and takes a seat at their table. It’s been a bad day, he could use something to lift his spirits, and alcohol and (good?) company seem to fit the bill.

An hour in and he’s actually smiling, a curl of warmth in his gut and a pleasant looseness in his limbs courtesy of the free flowing ale. They drink in Saul’s memory, they drink for new beginnings away from the army, and they drink to Crowley’s difficult day. While he hasn’t been forthcoming about exactly what he had been doing, it didn’t hurt to admit that things had been a bust, and he’s rewarded with some friendly jeering in return.

“’s what happens when you go trying to find stuff out,” one of the men, Thad, slurs at him with a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Easier to just shut up and keep your head down.”

“Not if you’re lookin’ for stuff,” another one interrupts, lightly punching Thad’s arm, “that’s like the opposite of what you’re supposed t’do.”

Crowley can’t argue that; he’s in for a penny in for a pound now, after all. He waves a hand as if to dismiss the negativity, then motions for someone to refill his mug. “That’s m’point. My point is, fuck it.”

That prompts raucous laughter from his companions, and someone reaches over to slap him on the back. He’s not sure how to feel about that, normally he’s not one for people touching him, but he allows it for now. They’re…not bad guys, if he thinks about it. Easy to manipulate, yes, but the more time he’s spent with them the more he’s finding that he might actually be a bit fond of the whole of them.

“What’re you lookin’ for anyways?” Ianto’s question pierces through Crowley’s self-reflection, and he blinks for a moment before shrugging and offering a slightly sardonic smirk.

“Information.” A few good-natured groans follow, “following up on some rumors.”

“Like what? Like Vicount Dreerly gettin’ caught with his pants down? ‘cause that’s a big one right now,” Thad chimes in, not-so-helpfully.

“No,” though Crowley does file that away for later perusal, “faction-related. Something about more people with their fingers in the pie.”

He’s expecting more laughter and the conversation to continue on, but instead he’s met by wide-eyed looks and a certain sense of unease that descends over everything. No one speaks for a bit, but Thad is the first to break the silence. His sun-scarred skin has gone a particularly unflattering shade of grey, and he leans in as if to prevent anyone outside of their little group from hearing. “That’s dangerous stuff. Don’t go stickin’ your nose in it.”

Crowley wants to ask more, wants to pry, but instead he settles for nodding slightly and raising his glass in a mock salute, a promise to drop the subject. The night continues on, though not entirely as lively as before, and when the lot of them finally part ways, he slips into a nearby alley before shedding his human form in favor of the serpent once again.

He’s not stupid, there’s something there, and he intends to get to the bottom of things.

His comrades are staying at the inn above the tavern, so it’s a matter of slipping up a rain pipe, slowly, carefully, and slithering into their shared room without being seen. Thankfully the men are quite drunk, but Crowley still takes every precaution he can, curling up under one of the modest beds and flattening himself to the floor. His hearing isn’t the best like this, but he can make out a few snippits of conversation. It’s mostly inconsequential, banter and things he doesn’t care about, but curiously he hears himself referenced at least once. Their words pitch lower after that, more hurried and whispered, and he has to strain to pick anything up.

”-idiot if ‘e thinks he’s gonna pry into-”

”I mean, might as well intervene. Both of ‘em could-”

”-though? Warlock I could see, but Death?”

”They could both stop this if they wanted to.”

Oh. Oh, that’s incredibly interesting indeed, and suddenly Crowley feels like he understands a bit better. Third, or rather fourth, party support, it seems, is the talk of the night, and while he’s not familiar with the upper echelons of Fellden enough to see why this would be such a taboo discussion, it seems he’s managed to stumble into what he was looking for after all.

---

He has to wait until things quiet down before he’s able to slink away, but when he finally reaches the ground outside the tavern he reforms himself with a thought. There’s a lot of information to ponder over, to perhaps discuss with Aziraphale given the chance, but there’s something he has to smile about, given the situation. Deus Ex Machina, it feels like, that he’d spend so much time looking for answers when they were right in front of him. It all seems a little too convenient, if he’s being honest with himself, but time is growing short. He has to get back, there’s a party planned, after all, and he’d be damned (twice over) if he was going to miss it.

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