#rhynna devlin

(a thought about the future)

Neither Rhynna Devlin nor Karla Braunfels could be blamed for their current predicament.  Rhynna’s infiltration, based on Karla’s impeccable research, had gone perfectly, at least until a sudden hard thunderstorm drove most of the men who were outdoors indoors.  To make a long story short, a steady hail of bullets now kept the two women pinned behind an overturned trestle table, and the assault showed no sign of stopping.

Karla jabbed Rhynna’s side with a sharp elbow.  In her hand rested a grenade, the final grenade from her ever-present satchel.  Above them, a rope handle hung down from an attic hatch.  A distraction of the exploding sort might give Rhynna time to leap up from the side of the table, grab the rope, tug down the hopefully unlocked hatch, and make her way up.  To…something.

Rhynna’s eyebrows rose.  Karla shrugged.  Rhynna’s mouth curved into a madcap smile, to which Karla offered a single nod.  “One, two…”  On three,  Karla twisted, stood, and threw.  Rhynna leapt toward the table’s edge.

BOOM.

The Braga estate curled around the coastline west of Sanctum Harbor, close enough to the central city to arrive there in moments, but distant enough for quiet and discretion.  As Karla neared the front gate -- and a stranger in white seemed to do the same from the opposite direction -- an attractive older brunette in a violet silk dress descended the marble stairs and swung the painted iron gate wide.

“Ladies,” she said, with a smile aimed first at the stranger in flowing white cloth and glittering jeweled cords, and then at Karla, dourly opposite in heavy black. “I’m Mrs. Sloane, the Captain’s housekeeper.  You’re expected in the drawing room.  Would you come with me?”  She stepped back out of the path and onto the grassy bed of a manicured front garden, giving the two arrivals room to move past.

Karla made a gesture for the stranger to walk ahead of her.  "I’m Karla,” she said, with her arm still swept to the side.  “And you are?

( @rhynna )

The same letter is sent to two very different women, strangers to each other (for now).  It reads:

It would be my great pleasure if you would join me for dinner in three days’ time at my Lion’s Arch residence.  The matter is a professional one, though I see no reason for professional meetings to lack civilized habits.  We will dine well.

You may ignore this missive, as is your right.  The opportunity is lucrative, however, and my good will is a favor not to be squandered.  All I ask is a hearing; beyond that, you would be under no obligation.

My family dresses formally for dinner.   

Respectfully, Captain L. Braga, Lion’s Arch and Divinity’s Reach

(( Continued from here; ongoing rp with @rhynna ))

Karla did drink on occasion, and considering the quality of everything else Captain Braga chose for his surroundings, indulging herself with half a glass seemed an easy choice.  Once the wine was poured, Braga’s housekeeper left the room and closed the door behind her with a soft click of the latch.

Karla swirled the glass.  Silence dragged, and so she offered, “Gods watch over you,” in a formal toast. Though Braga seemed to have difficulty tearing his gaze away from Rhynna and her flowing gown, he offered a nod of appreciation as he raised his glass and drank.

Forewarned was forearmed.  Karla Braunfels made no pretense at concealing her weapons, though any society maven would have told her they clashed with the severe formality of her floor-length gown.  She could have chosen a more strategic approach: a more vulnerable-seeming appearance, the use of his family’s colors, an attempt at feminine wiles -- though she had it on good account that her ‘wiles’ were not her sharpest tool.

She’d had time to research Captain Braga, and from what she’d gleaned, the man would appreciate a direct approach.  To that end, her usual black would do, albeit more fancifully decorated.  Her pistol of choice was plain, but clean, and the holo-sword hilt almost lovely in its dark angles and gleaming metal. Useless without sunlight to focus, but it, too, made a statement.

Her hair was perfect, her skin flawless.  After a final peer at the mirror by the door, she set off down rain-slick pavement. Braga’s home wasn’t far; she’d known her destination the second she’d seen the address.  Not a hull suspended by chains, and not a new-Arch stuccoed monstrosity, either.  He’d built a graceful house, elegant, expensive, with a dock and balcony she’d admired from passing boats. 

Elegant.  Expensive.  And by far the most illustrious potential client to have ever contacted her.  She recognized the slow build of excitement behind her breastbone, the anticipation that flushed her pale, powdered face.  For a man like Braga to contact a low-stakes investigator like her, he’d have to be unable to use his usual resources -- and whatever hazards the evening held, at least her insatiable curiosity would be well fed.