With less than 24 hours preparation before departure, the Covenant was bustling. Or, at least, it should have been - it was, relative to its usual sleepy appearance. The grounds were hardly centralized, and between the underground passages, the underwater facilities, the docks and Iohannes' ship, and the various warehouses and offices that comprised the mundane "front", the innocent public face of the covenant, it was hard to know where every last soul was at any one time.
Where in Hades is everyone?, thought Vispillius, striding through one of the warehouses with a double-arm-load of clothing and provisions for the trip. Never find a grog when you need one... a body would think they were cursed for life with nothing but difficult underlings or some such...
A loud knock on the heavy door leading to the street slowed him as he passed. He thought about calling out for someone to respond, but if the knock were not heard, his voice was unlikely to be as well, and those outside would hear the latter. He ignored it and hurried past, when it was repeated, a bit louder.
Oh, Twilight take me now...
With a sigh he slowed, stopped, and, shifting the bundle in his arms, managed to free one hand to make the gesture of Intellego, speaking only loud enough to carry to the door.
His vision changed, giving him a slightly foggy view from the door itself, clear enough but slightly warped, of four guardmen in chain, and a fifth, in a blue cloak, waiting expectantly. Vispilius took a moment more to scan the street beyond, for any more who might be waiting, or watching, then abandoned the view.
Could be a member of the Order, but if it's another merchant selling something, I will learn the Corpus version of Torpid Toad...
He set his bundle down, and with another flourish his body grew a bit in height and weight, and his features changed into those of a gruff sea-salt, a proverbial ancient mariner, with deep lines creasing his face, bad teeth and a long-broken nose foremost.
Won't hide The Gift, but it's better than nothing... we've got to get a watchman's slot put in here...
Placing a boot behind the sill to prevent any further opening, cracking the door a bit and summoning up his best "sea salt" accent (which included the bad Latin he remembered from such wanderers combined with a dab of the local), he opened the door just wide enough to leer through, and greeted the petitioners.
"Ya, goot day to ye - und what being you want?"