>>5234903>>5234906>>5234883>>5234620You sneak through the city streets, by now so familiar that you can navigate practically without landmarks. However, you cannot traverse as freely as you once did: there are guards everywhere. While you suppose you could expend time and mana to glamour each and every patrol, you think it a smarter play to take the extra time necessary to avoid them—and ESPECIALLY the more physically and magically-imposing Paladins who you spot on at least one occasion. You are without reinforcements, and cannot risk battling one of those bastards or their blasted bird-monsters right now.
>15 for stealth>Favourable probability roll [37, greater than the 25% chance that the Inquisition would get to Albacete before you did]You manage to evade the patrols, circling through the mid-town area and back into the more well-to-do districts under their noses. There, a few blocks from your old apartment, you find the familiar residence of Hawksong’s premier etiquette and dance teacher (and fellow Reptilian Infiltrator), ‘Dame’ Albacete.
“Yes?” she says, opening the door. “Who is… Oh.”
The Reptilian wears the guise of an elderly (though still quite fit) human woman in a flowery dress and hat. She beckons you inside, and you slam the door shut behind you, causing her to look at you in confusion.
“You seem… Alarmed,” she notes.
“Asss should you be,” you hiss, before switching to the True Speech. “The city’s authorities are onto us. We are all at risk. I seek counsel, and aid.”
“Well, I’ll pour us some tea, and you can explain further,” she says.
“There is no time!”
“Then we are already doomed,” she says calmly. “Either our enemies are about to burst through that door, and I have no time to advise you, or we can discuss this matter while also drinking soothing tea.
You take a steadying breath, and acquiesce. The tea is pleasant—not too fragrant or strong, with a soft mintiness to it which is suitable to a Reptilian palette. As you sip it, you explain all that has occurred.
“Then I am, after all, doomed,” Dame Albacete sighs. “Or at least, this identity is.”
“What do you mean?” you ask, alarmed anew.
“How was I to get you the reinforcements you required, for the Gala?” she asks, a question for a question, before expanding upon the answer: “I made recommendations, served as a character reference, to get many of the Degenerates onto the staff of caterers and highly-placed households. Even when they were searching for ‘Southern demonists’, I feared my connection to them might invite trouble.”
“And now that they know what they are looking for…” you begin.
“Yes,” Albacete agrees. “If I stay, they will see through my disguise with these glasses. If I go, I will confirm their suspicions.”
She sips her tea, looking wistfully at the floating leaves.
