(121-05-14) Send the Eel Swimming
Send the Eel Swimming
Summary: Ser Daevon Targaryen enlists unsavory help for a just cause.
Date: 14/05/2014
Related: Wickham's Nest; next: Secret Webs

It is a summer day. The weather is warm and raining.

The docks are lined with a vast array of wood-and-stone piers, cranes, and winches dedicated to the unloading and loading of cargo and passengers alike. Here, Oldtown's life-blood of food, medicine, and other necessary goods are brought into the city in large quantities, from every kind of ship imaginable.

Day and night, the docks are abuzz with activity, packed with throngs of stevedores, sailors, passengers, rivermen, fishermen, peddlers, and the veritable fleet of ships arriving and departing. There is a distinct smell of salt, rotting timbers, and fish here.

Oldtown's mighty fleet of warships sit at anchor here, some leaving, or arriving, from patrol duties. They announce their presence with the clamor of sailors' voices, and the deep throb of the drum beating time for the oarsmen aboard.


The woman who serves as the gateway — or gatekeeper — to the dealings of the mysterious Black Eel drifts around the Oldtown docks like any other organic part of it. Evallash, swathed in a flowing maroon gown, its fabric seeming rich despite its simple make; the rag draped over her head is poorer, a simple protection from the rain. She flicks a strand of damp, dark curls from her forehead and shares quiet, smiling words with the elderly merchant she walks alongside. He carries a covered basket; he looks little more than a peddler, but he's known around these parts. The wares he peddles are known to be decent and he likes to give the sailors and stevadores discounts on perfumes for their wives and candles for their quarters before he sets up at his stall.

Eva has other designers on the seafarers and travellers, and she's whispered about in entirely different manners— whatever she carries in her own covered basket may not be so innocent. Yet as they stroll slowly along the docks, her attention is currently on the old man, who seems to be distracted by fretting over the recent rumour of the slaughter aboard the Costayne ship. "I would not worry about another ghost ship, sweet man," the distinctive Lorathi tells the merchant, a hand on his frail elbow.

Daevon's been directed to Eva, by one of the many who know of her. The Maiden's Knight is not made for blending in, not with that silver-gold hair, nor those amethyst eyes of his. His hair's damp, as is the rest of him from the rain. His sword at his hip. He's easily seen as he strides over to her.

Easily seen, indeed; the second Eva catches sight of a tinge of pale hair, there's a subtle shift. Her casual stroll and poise with the old merchant change none, but the woman's gaze seems to deepen, even from afar; a growing, contemplative intensity. As the Maiden's Knight nears, she separates fluidly from the merchant to meet him with a small grin. Her study continues, closer: travelling all over his particular features like she's committing, or comparing, them to memory. "Dra-gon," she pronounces huskily in her thick, lilting accent, punctuated by a slow wiggling of her lifted fingers, airy, as though through some gossamer fabric; it seems for a moment that she may reach out and touch his face. Of course, she doesn't; she would like to keep her hand. "You have come seeking." Her voice is kept low, secret, easily lost under the shouts and chatter around the docks. "What is it you seek?"

Daevon smiles at Eva, warm and friendly, utterly guileless. "You, I think. Do you read common?" he asks. "I have some things I'm looking for." He looks around at the crowds, already his presence is drawing attention. That's the drawbacks of being famous and a Targaryen, impossible to go unnoticed even if you might want to.

"Mm— some," Eva replies, tipping her chin up, which seems to accentuate the grin at the corners of her lips— much less guileless and matching the twinkle of curiosity in her stare. The notice Daevon's presence is gaining gains her notice, and she turns — a gentle swirl of fabrics — expecting him to follow her to the corridor made by two cargo shipments. Used to this routine, the old merchant prepares to partially block them from view and uncover his more legitimate wares, as though all Daevon requires is a few candles and a bottle of perfume.

Daevon does indeed follow Eva, and there's a smile at the cleverness of it all. He gets straight to the point. "I'm seeking some jewelry that was stolen." He gets right down to business. "I think, most likely it's been melted down. Is this something that you can help with?"

As she presses up against the side of the cargo, something like disappointment darkens Eva's eyes and lowers her lashes, but she's sly as she looks right back up. "You want melted metal?" she queries, dangerously near mocking. "This must be quest for justice, what Targaryen has use of the coin earned from scrap metal." Fingers trail along her lips, scraping and falling off her chin. "Mm— I can…" she smiles, "inquire. Who was it stolen from?"

Daevon shakes his head. "No. I do not want the metal. I want the truth." And in turn, that truth is all he speaks. He doesn't even bother coming up with a cover story. "You've heard of the massacre of Wickhams Nest? The only thing of value that was taken was the jewelry. I have a list and descriptions of every piece. I want to know what happened to it. If any of the pieces have shown up, or if anyone's been using any of the signet rings to forge documents."

"Mmmmm…" Another luxurious sound of contemplation, it ends on a slightly stiff shift of Eva's jaws and a purse of her lips. "Jewelry is not my area of expertise — nor… iiis… theft— " She seems to momentarily reconsider, her smile turning particularly mischievous, but it evens out upon a lift of her brows up at Daevon. "But I know people. The Black Eel knows people who know people. They would remember, something such as this." She lifts her finger as if to wag it; doesn't. "Justice, justice." It's not a shining word, in her vocabulary. "You are the Maiden's Knight." A confirmation. "You are pretty like your sister. Did you know I helped pull her out of the water— just," she cranes her neck and cannot see the water beyond the cargo, but goes on, "there."

Daevon nods. "Yes, I am Ser Daevon Targaryen, often called The Maiden's Knight." He smiles at the compliment. "Thank you." There'sa shake of his head to the question. "Then I am in your debt already. Thank you. Is there some way I could repay you? Or has my sister already done so?"

"I received no such payment," Eva replies, what could be a bitter edge to her voice mostly drowned in the rich syrup of the smile that follows. "But I would accept anything, from you, Ser, and do everything I can to find that which you seek." However warm her smile, it's still that of a snake. The politeness toward nobility is foreign on her tongue. With her fingertips, she pulls back the cloth covering the basket on her other arm, just a few inches, allowing a glimpse of bottles — looking, for all the world, identical to the old merchant's perfumes — as well as rolled parchements and a gleam of something that could be metal. "Leave me the details, Ser Dragon, in here; the Eel will crawl in every dark space for answers."

"My apologies," Daevon says. He looks Eva up and down, thoughtfully. "I shall speak to my sister. I have something of an idea." He looks at the things she reveals but asks nothing, instead offering over the scroll with the description of the jewelry.

The smile on her face transforms, the curiosity more pure— such a thing is bound to wither on her devious face. Her eyes narrow, warmer than suspicious, creasing a smear of black painted around them. "How mysterious." Her gaze sparkles; she nearly winks; doesn't. She furls the cloth back over the basket's edge, hiding the tucked away scroll amidst sundries. Her head bows, a few strands of hair encircled and tangled with trinkets swaying forward. "I will bring you word."

Daevon smiles once more at that response. "Hopefully you will like it." He nods. "Thank you."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License