Date: 2023-02-18 01:34 am (UTC)
portolan: (sad 53)
From: [personal profile] portolan
His first mate had wanted to wait another day or two; they weren't entirely ready, and in all likelihood the crew and the Strahl were going to sustain damages. They also weren't particularly close to any borders. Assuming they were successful, they might meet authorities trying to get out to the sea.

Balthier didn't care. If they didn't do this now, there was a real chance there was no other shot. He'd have gone in by himself if the crew mutinied, and he wouldn't have blamed them. If she made it across the border, he'd have found a way to sneak into the court and whisk her away again. And if that didn't work, he'd have found a way to follow her to wherever they sent her. He wasn't letting them put her back in that cage.

But when his first mate pointed out flimsy errors in his reasoning, stupid mistakes from being tired and frazzled and awake only on tea and fumes, Balthier had relented. They needed a plan. A real one.

He knew Piaget's moves, and Piaget knew his. This was personal. It was designed to make Balthier slip up and scions it was working.

So his mate took over as acting Captain of the Strahl, chasing down the Wyrmwing and backing her into a gully that scooted up to a tiny finger of Jagd made artificially by his father's test, about the only useful thing his father had ever given him. They fired, and in the chaos, Balthier snuck a lightcraft down to the dock bay -- he knew the Wyrmwing's base model. Had worked on half a dozen like her. The illusion spells were no real match, but he know the second he slipped inside the alarms would be off. He had to trust his gut that Piaget would have her in the brig because he only got one shot at this.

He's halfway down the access hall when the alarms start. There are three doors because of course Piaget extended the holdings. His magic tells him there's only a body in one, so that's where he goes, forcing an indelicate mass of magic onto the lock and absolutely frying the spell. All good and well, but he still has to pick the physical thing manually, forcing himself to keep his hands steady.

It clicks. He swings the door open and his legs threaten to buckle with relief. She looks terrible -- pale, sickly, hair limp and greasy. Not that he looks much better with the state he's been in.

"Aerith," he breathes, voice cracking, knowing if he stoops down to hold her he won't get back up. But he holds his hands out to her, keeping the door open with one foot. "We don't have much time."
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