Cohost writing prompt: @spy-thief-assassin-who — Thief who insists wearing the maid outfit is essential for this bit
"I don't like this plan," Dora says.
"Well, I didn't like yours," Elith replies. "That's the thing about wizards, you're all kids with hammers. We need to open a door: magic. We need to sneak into a house: magic. We need to wipe our arses in the outhouse: magic. We need—"
"Our target's a wizard."
"Yes," Elith says patiently. "You're a wizard, he's a wizard, both of you instantly assume the answer is to out-mastermind the other one, pure reason your way to the single decisive stroke to unravel your rival's everything, and magic it. And that's why a well-executed non-magical plan is going to entirely pass by his notice."
"What happens if there are magical traps in his house?"
"Dora," the elf says, rolling her eyes, "he's an old creep who hires young women to put on silly, skimpy servants' uniforms and do everything in his house that he could do perfectly well, if not better, with magic, and would, if it wasn't an excuse to be surrounded by short skirts and cleavage. He's got a constant stream of new staff as he leches his way through their tolerance for him; do you imagine there are a constant stream of echo-skulled nubile maidens getting immolated and de-skeletoned and hellsent inside? No. Of course there are booby traps, and of course they don't attack the staff. So as long as I'm wearing this silly thing with the hemline that's constantly leering in the direction of flashing bush, I'm safer'n a sailor on a hill."
Dora gnaws her lip. "What if," she says, and hesitates, and can't actually say and what if the old pervert sticks his hand up your skirt, because Elith will look at her with cool, narrow eyes and say what about it? and Dora can't...quite articulate the vast and unbearable problem she very definitely feels there is with that happening.
"Is that really the entire plan?" she says instead, glumly. "You want into the house dressed in — that — and just...nose around? Until you confirm he's got the thing?"
"Dress like a maid, work like a maid, keep my eyes open, yes," Elith says. "When I see it, work a couple more days, then flounce, like any sensible girl."
"I don't like it," Dora says, beseeching with her eyes for Elith to understand she's not just complaining about it being an unwizardly kind of a plan, and Elith softens a little.
"I'm not a helpless baby, if things go squiffy," she says. "Not even against a wizard."
"I know," Dora says, and looks again at the maid's outfit spread out on the tavern bed, and fiddles nervously with the brim of her wizardly hat as she tries not to picture Elith in danger in it. Or Elith in it at all.
"I've picked up some tricks from you, you know," Elith coaxes. "I'll be fine."
"I know," Dora says, and sighs and retreats, pours herself a cup of wine from the jug, rubs her face, and waits for Elith to gesture for a cup of her own.
Dora's picked up some tricks, too. Simple sleight of hand, and where the elf keeps her knockout powder.
Just because she doesn't like the plan doesn't mean she can't recognise Elith's right about it; somebody putting on the horrible uniform and bearing it is the most sensible option they have. Somebody.