Syan
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The Wyrd of the Black Dogs
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Fantasy The Wyrd of the Black Dogs [OPEN]
- Thread starter Thread starter Syan
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Syan
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Chapter 1
‘Like Carrion Scavengers.’
Syan
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Merry
The camp slowly drifted through the hills, or it seemed to: the snow soft on its bracken heels—paler than the bright moon—serenaded the fellows to sleep. The watch duty, too, drifted half-awake and half-asleep, occasionally jolted by the sound of a passing animal or the lone howl of a distant wolf. They willed themselves to walk and, in the distance, seemed like ghosts emerging from the snowy mountains next to the camp. The torches on the borders and the flickering campfires cast them in a sinister light. There was little noise: the crackling of wood, burning up as a thin smoke that disappeared into the clouds; the soft chatter of those still awake, maybe the scribbling of a quill on a letter addressed to this or that beloved; and the rare sound of implements clattering together at the hands of the dutiful who clean their equipment. It was night-time. The tumble of two pairs of dice could be heard.
Near the camp’s borders, a torch wilting from a snowy assault, its bearer yawning and willing himself awake—fixed to his position, a chill accumulating on his body—and suddenly, he said, ‘Ho, who goes there?’ and was answered from a distance, at a low yell, ‘It’s me, Critch. Carry on.’ The torch was fixed to its place for a second, as if lost in confusion, before resuming its wavering. It dropped to a low angle as a man carrying a barrel trudged up to it. The man growled, although not out of hostility but from the force of exertion, ‘At ease, eh? Cold night, isn’t it, Critch. What say you?’ And the torch flickered again, in response. The man placed the barrel on the ground and wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘That sounds about right,’ he said. ‘Oh, that?’ He gestured at the barrel and gave its lid a slap. ‘Powder. Wouldn’t want it to soak un’er this weather.’ He fastened his coat together, shivering. ‘Real cold night. Carry on now, Critch, steady like that.’
The man—Merry, Lieutenant, sapper—swore under his breath and lifted the barrel again with a slight groan. Critch looked at him with an askew glance, suddenly more awake, as he mumbled, ‘If you need help…’ Merry shrugged, shook his head and made his way to the supplies tent wedged deep into the center of the camp. Everywhere there was the smell of faint cordite, lingering spice—cardamom, cloves and cumin—and pain from the cold air. The snow, powdery like the black gold in his barrel, shifted easily to his steps; impressions of his feet disappeared quickly. From the medical tent, he could hear light moaning: the product of injuries suffered at a light skirmish earlier in the morning. The Black Dogs had accidentally encountered a scouting party from the Yur tribe, a hostile people, and fighting had ensued. Further in, past the supplies area, he could see the command tent, a faint glimmer of light still seeping out from its interior. He would go there later, he decided.
The supplies tent was massive, hexagonal and striped in black and brown. The two heavy drapes of canvas that made up its entrance were swinging to the tune of the wind, but only lightly. He entered the tent. Inside, there were barrels of powder, crates and racks of weapons, tools and oils, whatever an aspiring mercenary would require. Food and other miscellaneous items were stored elsewhere, and so the room smelled almost entirely of powder and cordite. Merry loved that smell: it was familiar to him and gave him a feeling of homeliness. The cruel Cantons, on the other hand, could only be described as unhomely. To the left of the room, surrounded by racks, was a crafting table—to the right and all the corners of the room, there were the crates and barrels. He settled his own barrel somewhere next to its fellow compatriots and made way to the table. The room was lit by a large lantern, fixed to the roof of the tent and hanging from the center. The lantern was peculiar: it required no fire and emitted light without smoke or combustion, which was useful in a room full of combustible material. Merry had bought the thing during his last trip to Black Mountain, after the unfortunate death of his previous captain, with the company’s funds, of course.
On the crafting table, there were signs of previous—and ugly—craftsmanship: powder strewn about on its scored wood surface; a few nuts and bolts; and a poverty of cleanliness in general, judging by the scraps of cloth. The loose powder bothered him. ‘What is the quartermaster doing?’ he mumbled to himself before sitting down on the chair next to the table. Out of idleness, he took the black powder in his hands and let it sift through his fingers. He had worked with powder all his life. While some feared it, he was all too comfortable with the idea of exploding things. Even excited by it. Tomorrow, at daybreak, he planned to make great use of this black gold. The thought brought a smile to his lips. As he played around with the powder, the loose entrance of the tent came open and in shambled a figure.
Merry looked up: it was Critch. ‘Ho, Critch,’ he said, waving a hand in greeting, ‘what brings you here?’
Critch he saw was carrying a bottle and two small pewter cups in one hand. Snow still remained scattered across his shoulders and on his cap. He shook them off and looked at Merry. He was grinning. ‘Hey, boss. Thought you’d want a drink.’ He walked in and set the bottle and the cups on the table. ‘Before you ask, my shift’s over.’
‘You read my mind. A drink’s the right thing for a night like this,’ said Merry.
Critch nodded and took out another chair from a corner of the room, pulling it next to Merry. He took his seat and then popped open the bottle, pouring the liquid—an amber, almost incandescent fluid—into the cups. ‘Brandy. From Daruvan. A taste of home, lieutenant.’
‘Home,’ Merry muttered. He took one of the cups and tried to smell the liquid: he recognized the scent, a blend of pomegranate and some herbs. It was a bottle of Daruvan Special. ‘Salud!’ he said and took a sip. Anyone else in the force and they would have downed the cup in one go. That would have been a serious waste.
Critch followed his cue and also took a sip. He was a smallish man of a lean frame, in his early twenties, pale skin and not a single ounce of hair on his body: no hair even on the eyebrows, much less his head, face or body, which he described as a ‘defect of a magical experiment’. He was also a Varian’s-man like Merry but much more modest about his origins. Critch had been recruited into the Black Dogs by Merry’s previous division. He had come from a family of reddlemen and as a result he preferred wearing red-dyed clothes: even now, Merry could see bits and pieces of red flashing from in between his plate and fur. He was a junior sapper, rank of corporal and had been with Merry during the incident that led to his previous captain’s death and the collapse of that division; and he had been transferred with Merry, with a couple of other folks, to this new, hastily-made division.
Critch smacked his lips, leaning back on his hair. He said, ‘Home indeed.’
‘In this godforsaken place, s’all one can ask for. A tiny piece of home—’ he grabbed the powder in a fist, ‘and a fuckton of powder. We’ll bury ’em before they can even see us. And pick them apart, like carrion scavengers.’
Critch nodded. ‘We’ll do that.’ He took another sip. There was a brief, awkward silence.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Merry out of nowhere. Critch questioned him and he continued, ‘At that time—and y’know what I’m talking about—I didn’t have much hope for making it out intact. That was a bad time. Now?’ He sniffed. ‘Still bad, but not so much!’ Although he was outwardly casual, the incident had shaken Merry and he still recalled every now and then, with vivid intensity, what had happened. It was someplace in Dreadgloom. A bizarre outbreak of the undead, via a rogue lich; the Black Dogs caught unaware from the reserve wing, and then pretty much routed as they fled; and the captain at the rear lines killed while attempting to retreat. He shook his head. This was not the time for reminiscing.
‘I don’t like thinking about it too much. What do you think about our new division?’
‘Shit,’ Merry said with a deadpan expression. ‘Especially the captain. Heard he’s some jerk from Jul.’ As a republican, he wasn’t too fond of the Julese: as far as he was concerned, they were a bunch of stuck-up, frilly barbarians. He hadn’t been introduced to the captain at any length, however, beyond the formal introductions in Black Mountain. Now that they had a commission, he shivered at the thought of working with the much younger man.
The commission was simple. Some tribe—known as the Ank tribe—from the Cantons had suddenly decided to rip through Cantons’ various mining colonies, depressing the trade of ores and, most importantly, pissing off some bigwig in the Empire. What the Black Dogs had to do was either eliminate the tribe, which Merry found to be a terrifying prospect, or dissuade them from any further intrusions into Empire territory. For that, the Black Dogs had about two hundred soldiers, most of them blooded in previous fights and, if not trained by a formal programme, were at least trained by time and experience. The Ank raiding party, on the other hand, consisted of three hundred to four hundred fighting men: poor equipment, poor training but, no doubt, lots of vigor and gusto. The two things this new company, with its low morale, seriously lacked. The new division, as far as Merry could tell, was still a patchwork of troops from various pared-down divisions; they did not have a feel for fighting with each other yet. Aside from that, they had also picked up several new recruits: Iun knows how they would perform, but Merry held little hope for them. The Ank party was set up some ways deep into the Cantons, so the scouts reported. The fighting would occur in narrow passages and caves but they still did not have a proper plan of action yet.
‘I haven’t had the time to meet some of the new people in the camp, lieutenant, but I recall some interesting faces.’ Sensing his superior’s rising anger, he changed the topic and said, ‘Say, where was the powder from? That barrel you were carrying, lieutenant.’
‘You weren’t there.’ His tone slowly began to grow angry. ‘The sappers were experimenting with some bombs, for tomorrow you see, but some shithead had left it out on the snow. If the powder’s wasted, who do you think’s got to answer to the quartermaster?’ He finished his cup with a swig, shook his head when Critch offered him more and got up. ‘You ought to get a few winks in. No telling what happens tomorrow.’
‘Aye, boss,’ and with that Critch capped the bottle and got up. They left the tent together before parting ways outside: Critch to the sappers’ tent, Merry to the command tent. He was curious about the light: he suspected the captain was in, and probably having an audience with some of the new recruits and other hangers-on. Merry planned on discussing the affairs of the camp and the plan of action for tomorrow’s battle. As he thought about it, he realized he was already next to the tent. Steeling himself, he went in through its flaps.
The camp slowly drifted through the hills, or it seemed to: the snow soft on its bracken heels—paler than the bright moon—serenaded the fellows to sleep. The watch duty, too, drifted half-awake and half-asleep, occasionally jolted by the sound of a passing animal or the lone howl of a distant wolf. They willed themselves to walk and, in the distance, seemed like ghosts emerging from the snowy mountains next to the camp. The torches on the borders and the flickering campfires cast them in a sinister light. There was little noise: the crackling of wood, burning up as a thin smoke that disappeared into the clouds; the soft chatter of those still awake, maybe the scribbling of a quill on a letter addressed to this or that beloved; and the rare sound of implements clattering together at the hands of the dutiful who clean their equipment. It was night-time. The tumble of two pairs of dice could be heard.
Near the camp’s borders, a torch wilting from a snowy assault, its bearer yawning and willing himself awake—fixed to his position, a chill accumulating on his body—and suddenly, he said, ‘Ho, who goes there?’ and was answered from a distance, at a low yell, ‘It’s me, Critch. Carry on.’ The torch was fixed to its place for a second, as if lost in confusion, before resuming its wavering. It dropped to a low angle as a man carrying a barrel trudged up to it. The man growled, although not out of hostility but from the force of exertion, ‘At ease, eh? Cold night, isn’t it, Critch. What say you?’ And the torch flickered again, in response. The man placed the barrel on the ground and wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘That sounds about right,’ he said. ‘Oh, that?’ He gestured at the barrel and gave its lid a slap. ‘Powder. Wouldn’t want it to soak un’er this weather.’ He fastened his coat together, shivering. ‘Real cold night. Carry on now, Critch, steady like that.’
The man—Merry, Lieutenant, sapper—swore under his breath and lifted the barrel again with a slight groan. Critch looked at him with an askew glance, suddenly more awake, as he mumbled, ‘If you need help…’ Merry shrugged, shook his head and made his way to the supplies tent wedged deep into the center of the camp. Everywhere there was the smell of faint cordite, lingering spice—cardamom, cloves and cumin—and pain from the cold air. The snow, powdery like the black gold in his barrel, shifted easily to his steps; impressions of his feet disappeared quickly. From the medical tent, he could hear light moaning: the product of injuries suffered at a light skirmish earlier in the morning. The Black Dogs had accidentally encountered a scouting party from the Yur tribe, a hostile people, and fighting had ensued. Further in, past the supplies area, he could see the command tent, a faint glimmer of light still seeping out from its interior. He would go there later, he decided.
The supplies tent was massive, hexagonal and striped in black and brown. The two heavy drapes of canvas that made up its entrance were swinging to the tune of the wind, but only lightly. He entered the tent. Inside, there were barrels of powder, crates and racks of weapons, tools and oils, whatever an aspiring mercenary would require. Food and other miscellaneous items were stored elsewhere, and so the room smelled almost entirely of powder and cordite. Merry loved that smell: it was familiar to him and gave him a feeling of homeliness. The cruel Cantons, on the other hand, could only be described as unhomely. To the left of the room, surrounded by racks, was a crafting table—to the right and all the corners of the room, there were the crates and barrels. He settled his own barrel somewhere next to its fellow compatriots and made way to the table. The room was lit by a large lantern, fixed to the roof of the tent and hanging from the center. The lantern was peculiar: it required no fire and emitted light without smoke or combustion, which was useful in a room full of combustible material. Merry had bought the thing during his last trip to Black Mountain, after the unfortunate death of his previous captain, with the company’s funds, of course.
On the crafting table, there were signs of previous—and ugly—craftsmanship: powder strewn about on its scored wood surface; a few nuts and bolts; and a poverty of cleanliness in general, judging by the scraps of cloth. The loose powder bothered him. ‘What is the quartermaster doing?’ he mumbled to himself before sitting down on the chair next to the table. Out of idleness, he took the black powder in his hands and let it sift through his fingers. He had worked with powder all his life. While some feared it, he was all too comfortable with the idea of exploding things. Even excited by it. Tomorrow, at daybreak, he planned to make great use of this black gold. The thought brought a smile to his lips. As he played around with the powder, the loose entrance of the tent came open and in shambled a figure.
Merry looked up: it was Critch. ‘Ho, Critch,’ he said, waving a hand in greeting, ‘what brings you here?’
Critch he saw was carrying a bottle and two small pewter cups in one hand. Snow still remained scattered across his shoulders and on his cap. He shook them off and looked at Merry. He was grinning. ‘Hey, boss. Thought you’d want a drink.’ He walked in and set the bottle and the cups on the table. ‘Before you ask, my shift’s over.’
‘You read my mind. A drink’s the right thing for a night like this,’ said Merry.
Critch nodded and took out another chair from a corner of the room, pulling it next to Merry. He took his seat and then popped open the bottle, pouring the liquid—an amber, almost incandescent fluid—into the cups. ‘Brandy. From Daruvan. A taste of home, lieutenant.’
‘Home,’ Merry muttered. He took one of the cups and tried to smell the liquid: he recognized the scent, a blend of pomegranate and some herbs. It was a bottle of Daruvan Special. ‘Salud!’ he said and took a sip. Anyone else in the force and they would have downed the cup in one go. That would have been a serious waste.
Critch followed his cue and also took a sip. He was a smallish man of a lean frame, in his early twenties, pale skin and not a single ounce of hair on his body: no hair even on the eyebrows, much less his head, face or body, which he described as a ‘defect of a magical experiment’. He was also a Varian’s-man like Merry but much more modest about his origins. Critch had been recruited into the Black Dogs by Merry’s previous division. He had come from a family of reddlemen and as a result he preferred wearing red-dyed clothes: even now, Merry could see bits and pieces of red flashing from in between his plate and fur. He was a junior sapper, rank of corporal and had been with Merry during the incident that led to his previous captain’s death and the collapse of that division; and he had been transferred with Merry, with a couple of other folks, to this new, hastily-made division.
Critch smacked his lips, leaning back on his hair. He said, ‘Home indeed.’
‘In this godforsaken place, s’all one can ask for. A tiny piece of home—’ he grabbed the powder in a fist, ‘and a fuckton of powder. We’ll bury ’em before they can even see us. And pick them apart, like carrion scavengers.’
Critch nodded. ‘We’ll do that.’ He took another sip. There was a brief, awkward silence.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Merry out of nowhere. Critch questioned him and he continued, ‘At that time—and y’know what I’m talking about—I didn’t have much hope for making it out intact. That was a bad time. Now?’ He sniffed. ‘Still bad, but not so much!’ Although he was outwardly casual, the incident had shaken Merry and he still recalled every now and then, with vivid intensity, what had happened. It was someplace in Dreadgloom. A bizarre outbreak of the undead, via a rogue lich; the Black Dogs caught unaware from the reserve wing, and then pretty much routed as they fled; and the captain at the rear lines killed while attempting to retreat. He shook his head. This was not the time for reminiscing.
‘I don’t like thinking about it too much. What do you think about our new division?’
‘Shit,’ Merry said with a deadpan expression. ‘Especially the captain. Heard he’s some jerk from Jul.’ As a republican, he wasn’t too fond of the Julese: as far as he was concerned, they were a bunch of stuck-up, frilly barbarians. He hadn’t been introduced to the captain at any length, however, beyond the formal introductions in Black Mountain. Now that they had a commission, he shivered at the thought of working with the much younger man.
The commission was simple. Some tribe—known as the Ank tribe—from the Cantons had suddenly decided to rip through Cantons’ various mining colonies, depressing the trade of ores and, most importantly, pissing off some bigwig in the Empire. What the Black Dogs had to do was either eliminate the tribe, which Merry found to be a terrifying prospect, or dissuade them from any further intrusions into Empire territory. For that, the Black Dogs had about two hundred soldiers, most of them blooded in previous fights and, if not trained by a formal programme, were at least trained by time and experience. The Ank raiding party, on the other hand, consisted of three hundred to four hundred fighting men: poor equipment, poor training but, no doubt, lots of vigor and gusto. The two things this new company, with its low morale, seriously lacked. The new division, as far as Merry could tell, was still a patchwork of troops from various pared-down divisions; they did not have a feel for fighting with each other yet. Aside from that, they had also picked up several new recruits: Iun knows how they would perform, but Merry held little hope for them. The Ank party was set up some ways deep into the Cantons, so the scouts reported. The fighting would occur in narrow passages and caves but they still did not have a proper plan of action yet.
‘I haven’t had the time to meet some of the new people in the camp, lieutenant, but I recall some interesting faces.’ Sensing his superior’s rising anger, he changed the topic and said, ‘Say, where was the powder from? That barrel you were carrying, lieutenant.’
‘You weren’t there.’ His tone slowly began to grow angry. ‘The sappers were experimenting with some bombs, for tomorrow you see, but some shithead had left it out on the snow. If the powder’s wasted, who do you think’s got to answer to the quartermaster?’ He finished his cup with a swig, shook his head when Critch offered him more and got up. ‘You ought to get a few winks in. No telling what happens tomorrow.’
‘Aye, boss,’ and with that Critch capped the bottle and got up. They left the tent together before parting ways outside: Critch to the sappers’ tent, Merry to the command tent. He was curious about the light: he suspected the captain was in, and probably having an audience with some of the new recruits and other hangers-on. Merry planned on discussing the affairs of the camp and the plan of action for tomorrow’s battle. As he thought about it, he realized he was already next to the tent. Steeling himself, he went in through its flaps.
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Gears
Harbinger of War, Chaos, Death And Toast
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Arris trudged through mud and muck. Her boots and tips of her cloak where already in horrific condition, now coated in mud. Her boots where filled with holes, while the cloak was thread bare and covered in holes. Her fathers heraldry was faded, the twin blades forming the wings of a hawk. Arris was sure her father turned a blind eye to her squalor, his resplendent plate well shined, not a bit of mud on the dwarven steel. The muscle bound stallion he rode keeping him from the mud, the snow dropping on his plate. She had been holding a ridiculous looking parasol to make sure the armors shine was preserved for as long as possible. Hours spent waxing the armor for his arrival. The horse had been well scrubbed and cleaned that morning,
"Stay silent and do my bidding Bastard. I would prefer that you keep your parentage from them- I have had numerous wards over the years that have risen in the ranks of the Black Dogs. Do as I say and you could become something useless like a quartermaster or a scout- you deserve far less."
Arris stayed silent, simply nodding as she followed. hands wrapped around herself to keep out the bitter cold. She would need to brush the snow from his plate before they entered the command tent, then assist him with removing the armor as he spoke with her betters- which would be anyone here. He was right- this was far more than she deserved. When she had wandered onto his doorstep with the letter her dying mother had given to her, he had simply laughed and left her to the rain for a few hours- though the long trek to his mansion had made her used to the elements. He had left her in with grumbling, letting her sleep at the ashes of the kitchens fire- before explaining his "Conditions" in the morning. He had lost his previous master servant in a battle and was awaiting his patron lord to send another, so she could take the role until the trained servant could arrive. He needed someone who could keep his secrets and was obedient, and the shy bastard that had appeared on his doorstep was inconsequential- his spies making sure she had no one to spread his secrets to.
She had spent weeks cleaning his manor, serving at his lavish parties, and sending messages to his allies. The work was hard and her father was unkind, but she was fed and sheltered. With her mother dead, never introducing their family as they struggled in the city, she had no choice.
She craved the warmth of distant fire light as she continued the dreary march through snow and wind, tightening her hood over the bone white hair that peeked out of her hood- cut as to not attract any attention from her fathers drinking friends- they where repulsive enough, she shuttered to think of how they would react to something feminine in shape. She still wore the baggy clothing of the previous master servant- the arrow hole that had killed him patched, slightly adjusted so it better fit her. The only thing she wore with it was a necklace of silvery metal, fake rubies shining on the length. Her shortsword was secure at her side, the only item she owned that was well maintained- the dagger she kept in her sleeve of similar quality.
The horses footfalls announced their arrival- crunching as he passed, worst of the snow brushed off fathers armor and cape as he passed. He kept to a parade stance as he passed, sword gleaming at his side and helmet looking to the sky. Arris followed a short distance behind the knight, head bowed- searching the passing soldiers eyes as she carried fathers pack. The soldiers saluted the infamous hero, though he did not glance at them as he passed, waiting until a groom took his horse before entering the command tent. Arris carried his pack inside before taking her place behind her father- out of sight and unimportant- removing her hood as she accepted his helmet, allowing his golden hair to cascade over his shoulders while she cleaned it, listening to the conversation.
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FujoshiStar
When will it end
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“So!” Elara began in a cheerful sing-song voice, “Who can explain the importance of breathing when casting magic?” She stood at the base of the lecture hall gazing up at the rows of desks that stretched upwards in neat, ascending tiers. Sunlight poured through the tall windows drizzling the room in a golden glow. The polished wooden floors and pristine desks almost seemed to glimmer under the sun’s rays. Being at the center of the classroom, she had a perfect view of her packed lecture hall. Many of the teenage students sat shoulder to shoulder, some eagerly leaning forward, others slouched with arms crossed. From her vantage point she could see everything from their faces of eager anticipation to expressions of vague curiosity. “I guess that’s to keep us from turning purple like a Dream serpent.” Someone quipped from the last rows of the lecture hall, earning them a murmur of chuckles and giggles. She could already tell that was the voice of Jimmy, a student known for his mischievous etiquette. Elara lightly laughed as well, “I suppose you could say that's part of it”. She leaned against her porcelain desk that sat snugly in the middle of the room, “But it also regulates your focus, your precision with your staff is more accurate , and your energy flows become more balanced. It’s important to keep that in mind in any situation you might find yourself in.”
To showcase this, she grabbed her tall oak staff that laid gingerly against the side of her work desk along with a cage that contained a wounded blue bird. It was the size of her palm and Its right wing was completely mauled off with peaks of bloody jagged remains of bone sticking out. The bird laid almost lifeless in the cage. She saw it taking shallow breaths clearly griping at the small amounts of life it had left. She found the bird earlier in the murrow right outside the school gates, She assumed a stray cat might have gotten to it the night before. Normally she would have healed the creature immediately but decided the small being was a good example for her students to see the essence of healing magic firsthand. "It's okay little love" She whispered looking into the cage , "You'll be alright soon."
She inhaled sharply causing the ruby at the top of her staff to glow a color similar to that of a blooming red rose on a spring day. The staff casted a saturated red hue throughout the classroom almost overshadowing the sunlight that peeked in through the windows. Many of the students leaned forward as she did this, their attention hooked at the energy shift in the room. With a graceful motion she placed her staff at the top of the cage and exhaled. The students observed in awe as the birds wing reanimated at a rapid speed - it was as if time itself was reversing the the injury. The blue bird's body that once laid still as a corpse was now up and flying around the oval shaped cage, chirping excitedly. She could understand it's avian language perfectly, a gift granted by her elven lineage and she understood how happy the bird was to be flying again, she smiled. "Healing" Elara begins, shifting her gaze from the bird to her aisles of students, "Isn't only about mending wounds, it's about understanding and appreciating the essence of life. Your staff or wand is an extension of your being, therefore it's an important tool to bridge the gap between harm and harmony. Always be prepared to save whatever life you have with the best of your abilities." Her students nod in understanding, others sat drinking in the site of the bird now singing with life. The glow to her staff slowly dimmed, and then eventually died out after some moments.
A loud chime of the school bell echoed throughout the classroom signaling the end of lecture. A wave of activity washed over the room as students began packing up their bags to move to their next activity. "Tomorrow each of you will practice what we discussed today on plant life, so be prepared." She said as she watched many of her students leave. 'Have a good day Ms.Reyleth' and 'Bye Ms.Reyleth' resounded through the room as her young students emptied out the classroom, and she waved pleasantly in response. Once the room was empty she placed her brown oak staff gingerly against the side of her desk again. The staff was almost the same height as her 5'11 stature but stopped just below her nose. She made her way across the room to the windows - birdcage in tow. With a gentle motion she opens the window allowing the fresh breeze to enter. She opens the birdcage and without hesitation the bird flutters its wings and soars out the cage and into blue skies still chirping estactically. She watched as it disappeared into the distance a satisfied smile gracing her features.
"Playing with animals again Elara?" a voice said in a familiar teasing voice.
She quickly whipped around, to see her childhood friend Eldric Bayard casually leaning against the classroom door frame. He was fully garbed in his royal guard uniform, his sword belt securely around his waist with his scabbard tucked on his right side. Her eyes widened in surprise, She hadn't seen him in weeks since the assassination of the emperor. Ever since Guard Commander Augustine had been put on house arrest the royal guardsmen were subject to rigorous and almost cruel training regimens. Anyone could see the combat drilling they underwent as of late was punishment for their failure to properly protect the late highness Edmon Reyard. The last time she spoke with eldric face to face, she remembered seeing his hands bloodied and his face bloated blue with recent punches to his jaw. He refused to have her heal him as he thought it would be an 'Unfair advantage' and he wanted to be on the same level as his fellow guardsmen. He declined telling her what exactly they had him and his regiment doing. He didn't have to answer however - she could tell by his injuries it wasn't anything good. Even now as she looked at him he had a bandage on his nose and a scar that slashed through his right eyebrow. Elara thought the punishment was twisted and warped - she bit her lip in frustration.
Eldric crossed the classroom quickly, and wrapped her in a tight warm hug. She hugged her friend back just as tight before letting go.
"How fare you?" She asked earnestly her eyes riddled with worry.
He chuckled - his rich velvety laugh sounded through the room , "You look as if I've come back from fighting dragons"
"You might as well have, look at you" she folded her arms against her chest disapprovingly, "How do our royals expect you or the guardsman to protect anyone while wrecking you all to the bone?"
"Hold Thy tongue" he said sharply, "You know they have good reason. We failed to do our duty, it's only right we accept retribution for our incompetence"
She grimaced. Her friend was loyal to the royalist an unfortunate allegiance that sometimes strained their relationship. He came from a family of nobles whose ties to the throne went far back - The Bayards. Both his parents were wine connoisseurs that handsomely funded the royal family whenever asked. In turn, he and his family had high social standing and were well known in many social circles. Due to Elara'a own adopted family being merchants they would often sell to the bayards and in turn, Elara and Eldric would often play together growing up. Their families were quite close - up until King Reyards Assassination. Elara's own family were more inclined towards the levellers .
Eldric cleared his throat after a moment of stretched silence, "I didn't come here simply for pleasantries" he said a smile now plastered on his features, "I've come to escort you to the capital. Apparently an important announcement from the royalists. They have asked for all political staff, the royal guard, and academic staff to attend. "
"Now I wonder what that's about." she thought keenly before grabbing her staff, "Nothing good I'm sure."
"Let's hurry sweetling, We can talk more about my proposal as well on the way over." He continued, as he began heading towards the classroom exit, "No rush of course." She could hear the bashfulness in his voice as he made his exit hastily.
She sighed internally. She completely forgot about that. The same night he came to visit her all beaten and bloodied he proposed and professed his love for her, he told her he didn't expect an answer immediately but mentally she already had one. She didn't see him as anything but a close friend and she wondered if she ever lead him on to believe otherwise. She didn't want to hurt his feelings - as she did care about him immensely - but those feelings never rose above platonic. Besides she knew what he wanted of her - a house wife to birth him half elf and human children. His family had no magical power in their ancestry and she knew Eldricks parents wanted to change that. She knew he would ask her to quit teaching to stay at home with the children - and that just wasn't something she was interested in. She had her own goals - her own ambitions - and she wasn't putting that on hold for anyone.
"Yes coming." She answered, and began to follow after him, preparing herself for an awkward trudge to the capital.
To showcase this, she grabbed her tall oak staff that laid gingerly against the side of her work desk along with a cage that contained a wounded blue bird. It was the size of her palm and Its right wing was completely mauled off with peaks of bloody jagged remains of bone sticking out. The bird laid almost lifeless in the cage. She saw it taking shallow breaths clearly griping at the small amounts of life it had left. She found the bird earlier in the murrow right outside the school gates, She assumed a stray cat might have gotten to it the night before. Normally she would have healed the creature immediately but decided the small being was a good example for her students to see the essence of healing magic firsthand. "It's okay little love" She whispered looking into the cage , "You'll be alright soon."
She inhaled sharply causing the ruby at the top of her staff to glow a color similar to that of a blooming red rose on a spring day. The staff casted a saturated red hue throughout the classroom almost overshadowing the sunlight that peeked in through the windows. Many of the students leaned forward as she did this, their attention hooked at the energy shift in the room. With a graceful motion she placed her staff at the top of the cage and exhaled. The students observed in awe as the birds wing reanimated at a rapid speed - it was as if time itself was reversing the the injury. The blue bird's body that once laid still as a corpse was now up and flying around the oval shaped cage, chirping excitedly. She could understand it's avian language perfectly, a gift granted by her elven lineage and she understood how happy the bird was to be flying again, she smiled. "Healing" Elara begins, shifting her gaze from the bird to her aisles of students, "Isn't only about mending wounds, it's about understanding and appreciating the essence of life. Your staff or wand is an extension of your being, therefore it's an important tool to bridge the gap between harm and harmony. Always be prepared to save whatever life you have with the best of your abilities." Her students nod in understanding, others sat drinking in the site of the bird now singing with life. The glow to her staff slowly dimmed, and then eventually died out after some moments.
A loud chime of the school bell echoed throughout the classroom signaling the end of lecture. A wave of activity washed over the room as students began packing up their bags to move to their next activity. "Tomorrow each of you will practice what we discussed today on plant life, so be prepared." She said as she watched many of her students leave. 'Have a good day Ms.Reyleth' and 'Bye Ms.Reyleth' resounded through the room as her young students emptied out the classroom, and she waved pleasantly in response. Once the room was empty she placed her brown oak staff gingerly against the side of her desk again. The staff was almost the same height as her 5'11 stature but stopped just below her nose. She made her way across the room to the windows - birdcage in tow. With a gentle motion she opens the window allowing the fresh breeze to enter. She opens the birdcage and without hesitation the bird flutters its wings and soars out the cage and into blue skies still chirping estactically. She watched as it disappeared into the distance a satisfied smile gracing her features.
"Playing with animals again Elara?" a voice said in a familiar teasing voice.
She quickly whipped around, to see her childhood friend Eldric Bayard casually leaning against the classroom door frame. He was fully garbed in his royal guard uniform, his sword belt securely around his waist with his scabbard tucked on his right side. Her eyes widened in surprise, She hadn't seen him in weeks since the assassination of the emperor. Ever since Guard Commander Augustine had been put on house arrest the royal guardsmen were subject to rigorous and almost cruel training regimens. Anyone could see the combat drilling they underwent as of late was punishment for their failure to properly protect the late highness Edmon Reyard. The last time she spoke with eldric face to face, she remembered seeing his hands bloodied and his face bloated blue with recent punches to his jaw. He refused to have her heal him as he thought it would be an 'Unfair advantage' and he wanted to be on the same level as his fellow guardsmen. He declined telling her what exactly they had him and his regiment doing. He didn't have to answer however - she could tell by his injuries it wasn't anything good. Even now as she looked at him he had a bandage on his nose and a scar that slashed through his right eyebrow. Elara thought the punishment was twisted and warped - she bit her lip in frustration.
Eldric crossed the classroom quickly, and wrapped her in a tight warm hug. She hugged her friend back just as tight before letting go.
"How fare you?" She asked earnestly her eyes riddled with worry.
He chuckled - his rich velvety laugh sounded through the room , "You look as if I've come back from fighting dragons"
"You might as well have, look at you" she folded her arms against her chest disapprovingly, "How do our royals expect you or the guardsman to protect anyone while wrecking you all to the bone?"
"Hold Thy tongue" he said sharply, "You know they have good reason. We failed to do our duty, it's only right we accept retribution for our incompetence"
She grimaced. Her friend was loyal to the royalist an unfortunate allegiance that sometimes strained their relationship. He came from a family of nobles whose ties to the throne went far back - The Bayards. Both his parents were wine connoisseurs that handsomely funded the royal family whenever asked. In turn, he and his family had high social standing and were well known in many social circles. Due to Elara'a own adopted family being merchants they would often sell to the bayards and in turn, Elara and Eldric would often play together growing up. Their families were quite close - up until King Reyards Assassination. Elara's own family were more inclined towards the levellers .
Eldric cleared his throat after a moment of stretched silence, "I didn't come here simply for pleasantries" he said a smile now plastered on his features, "I've come to escort you to the capital. Apparently an important announcement from the royalists. They have asked for all political staff, the royal guard, and academic staff to attend. "
"Now I wonder what that's about." she thought keenly before grabbing her staff, "Nothing good I'm sure."
"Let's hurry sweetling, We can talk more about my proposal as well on the way over." He continued, as he began heading towards the classroom exit, "No rush of course." She could hear the bashfulness in his voice as he made his exit hastily.
She sighed internally. She completely forgot about that. The same night he came to visit her all beaten and bloodied he proposed and professed his love for her, he told her he didn't expect an answer immediately but mentally she already had one. She didn't see him as anything but a close friend and she wondered if she ever lead him on to believe otherwise. She didn't want to hurt his feelings - as she did care about him immensely - but those feelings never rose above platonic. Besides she knew what he wanted of her - a house wife to birth him half elf and human children. His family had no magical power in their ancestry and she knew Eldricks parents wanted to change that. She knew he would ask her to quit teaching to stay at home with the children - and that just wasn't something she was interested in. She had her own goals - her own ambitions - and she wasn't putting that on hold for anyone.
"Yes coming." She answered, and began to follow after him, preparing herself for an awkward trudge to the capital.
Last edited:
Syan
Junior Member
- One on One
- Group
Alain
A few days earlier, in Ashcliff
A feral, wild wind. It mixed with the blood—the vapor-stuff of human matter—and winded through the streets and down the windows. The chimneys clogged with sweat and cratered skin. Alleyways darkened by the sun’s strange angle disappeared into a blackness, seeming like cracks in reality; and the corporeal became something merely abstract, the twisted cloth of death, that white shroud, which disappears into the firmament the moment it is buried into the cruel, hard dirt. The master builder shivered.
A crystal on the table cracked and became opaque, yet still refusing to fall apart. It had cracked with a snap: a sharp sound, but muffled somehow, which broke the master builder’s reverie. He reached out a hand and caressed the orb. ‘Like the empire,’ he muttered. The curtains rose to the sway of the wind, assuming shapes such as the elephant—or the frog, leaping, lurching and leering from the weather’s bull market. The master builder felt aged, more aged than he had ever felt. His face scrunched with worry, and ever since the tragedy his shoulders had been hunched into a constant set of tension. He was thin as a yarn already and the recent stress had made him lose more weight. On his desk was an envelope. The mailmen had arrived in an organized, ceaseless file. Their carriage: letters from persons high and low; people of the countryside, where news of vague tragedy had arrived; and people of the cities, where the news had already been watered down with drink, though the drink was not enough. The master builder’s fingers trembled as he fingered the envelope. His eyes wandered over the textured paper, the molten-wax seal—embossed, the image of a sword and a book—and the Windkeep’s crest stamped on the envelope face. Slowly he pried open the seal, wedging his fingers into its exterior. Outside, albeit faintly, he could hear a crier’s voice. The violence near Misty Lake, intrusions of the barbarians, conflict with the Julese delegation. The master builder popped off the seal, decided against opening the envelope and stood up. His legs creaked from the pressure. ‘Fry me,’ they said, the worn-out tears in his sinews. He went to the window and shuttered them. Then he closed the curtains. There was that noise, but it was silent too. The accusatory wind was not there any longer. The master builder looked back at his desk—it would be too dark to read the letter—and again at the curtain, before opening a slit. A crack of light slithered into the room. He couldn’t help but smile. He went back to the desk: it was made of mahogany, a dark and brooding sort, and greedily lapped up the light. A few rays accidentally reflected from its surface and scattered towards the room’s emerald walls, before dispersing into a diffuse, dull glow. The room was large, perhaps too large, and the same could be said for the apartment. A large window placed opposite the door framed the desk and chair. He had made the building and its floors himself; he was the master builder of the court, but not, he supposed, for much longer. There simply was no court to build for. He took the letter out from the envelope. It was crumpled slightly and the ink was splattered on the edges; the handwriting was straightforward. He recognized the hand that wrote the letter. Cursing under his breath, he silently read. A minute passed by. After he had finished reading the letter, he placed it on the table and sat down.
There was a knock on the door. The master builder took the letter and crammed it into one of the desk’s drawers, and then he shouted, ‘Come in, the door’s open.’ The door opened a nudge—and a head slipped out. It was his assistant, Fitz, who said, ‘There’s a man, sirrah, who wants to pay you a visit.’ ‘D’you recognize his face?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Fine, let him in.’ He wiped the sweat from his brows with a handkerchief, and then smoothed over his hair—what little was left of it—with a hand.
After a short while, the door opened and through it entered a giant of a man, garbed in armor though with an empty scabbard, since it was a courtesy to keep your weapons at the door of your host’s home during social visits. The armor was blackened and decorated with fine cloth, covered partially by a red cloak: on his tabard he wore the symbol of Edmon the Second’s crest, which he inherited from his father. His face was marred with burn scars, leading to a noticeable downward tilt to the left of his mouth; the other side was now lifted into a vaguely sinister smile. He walked like an intruder: closer and closer to the desk, helmet in hand. His face, the master builder realized, he used as a tool of intimidation. He recognized the burned man and, instinctively, tensed up.
The man said, ‘I’ve an issue, Alain. It’s something you can help me with.’ He had a lisp, which crunched his syllables to a narrow edge. The master builder replied in a tone he hoped was polite: ‘I’m not sure what I can help you with, but that can wait, can it not? We can talk about business later. How’ve you been doing?’ ‘Not very good, as you can imagine,’ he drawled, his smile refusing to break. ‘No, not very good at all. I imagine that is the same for you, master builder—’ and gesturing outside—‘and every single man and woman of this country.’ The master builder, Alain, took a deep breath and said, ‘What do you need help with?’ ‘I have good reason to believe the… affair… was conducted with the assistance of secret passageways that run through the castle.’ ‘What sort of babble is this?’ cried Alain. The man coolly replied, ‘Only the most certain kind. Immediately after the emperor’s assassination—pardon my manners—and during the investigation of the scene of this great tragedy, some of us uncovered secret tunnels connected to bedrooms and hallways, accessible only through switches hidden in the gaps of our walls.’ ‘Some of us?’ Alain slammed a fist on his desk, and continued speaking, albeit with clenched teeth: ‘Without the court’s knowledge!’ The burned man idly waved a hand. ‘It is of no consequence.’ ‘It is of the highest consequence.’ ‘The details of this incident cannot go above board. The illusion—as an architect, surely you understand this—must remain intact.’
A pause. Alain stood up, cleared his throat and looked the burned man in the eye; he spoke clearly and carefully as he said, ‘I do not suggest you spill all our affairs to the public, but the least you can do is tell the people of the court.’ Alain suspected two things: the man being an agent of Edmon the Second, and his ambiguous ‘us’ seemingly referring to Edmon’s clique, it was clear that the first prince had reserved the information for his own advantage; and it was entirely possible that Edmon suspected some people in the court, perhaps the Chain, perhaps Half-Jon’s men and women.
The burned man raised his only remaining eyebrow, almost innocently. ‘But I told you, haven’t I?’ he said, before pulling a scroll from under his cloak. He gently laid the scroll on the desk. Alain noted the calluses on his fingers. ‘These are the details of our impromptu expedition. As the master builder, we hope that you can provide us with further insight. Surely, you must have inherited the floor plans of the castle? If there is anything you can glean from them… of course, you will be rewarded.’ Alain remained silent. The burned man smiled and added, ‘For the sake of the empire, and the late emperor, may the Lord bless him.’ He stepped away from the desk, turning his back. The master builder almost retorted but bit his lips. Before exiting, the man turned around and, with more bite to his voice than before, said, ‘There’s blood on the grounds, on the walls and everywhere beside. We’ll all be dirty by the time this is done.’ Having said that, he waved his hand and left the room.
Alain immediately exhaled; he had been holding his breath.
Brutus
A day earlier, in Ironway
The date of the assassination was a few weeks past, but for Brutus it felt like months. The question of the old man’s death was out of everyone’s mind. What remained was a picture: the empty throne, and the shadow occupying its negative space. The senate was busy arguing between themselves. Some of the arguments revolved around the circumstances of the emperor’s death, but it usually devolved to nothing. The plebian council was less interested in solving the murder and more in settling the agitated public; he could not blame them for that. In the court, the royal guard was disbanded in all but name—and outside of the court, the Anvil found themselves restrained by the political atmosphere: the Chain was accused, albeit indirectly and with little evidence, of participation in the assassination. It was not a good time to be a man of the law, much less one of those clerics. Brutus was partially glad that he was no longer a member of the Anvil, but at the same time he could not but feel bitter. His profession had given him purpose, direction and, most importantly, resources. He could still leverage his badge for situations but it would be wiser to do so after the Anvil slipped away from public scrutiny.
Brutus had listlessly attended the senate meetings of the past few days. As the lord of Windkeep, he had a seat there, and he felt the seat had been gathering dust for too long. If there was any better moment to involve himself in the affairs of the kingdom, now seemed to be the best time. Still, he had very little idea of what precisely to do: he was not a popular man in the city’s social circles, and he had spent the last few years in his home, Windkeep, like a recluse. The empire was in shambles. The emperor’s death was a mystery, and it was a mystery no one—except, seemingly, himself—was interested in solving.
Brutus was walking through the streets. There was disquiet around him, noise from homes still burning their lamps, but there was something dead about it. The cobblestone pavement crackled as he walked, one sandalled foot after the other; his knees were beginning to complain, but he ignored them. From a few chimneys, smoke rose. A nearby inn was still alive with the sound of merry-making. For most people, life simply went on. The stench of piss, drink and sweat still lingered in the air, although passersby at night were rare. It was dark and lonely. Stretched out in the more prosperous districts he could see street lamps.
‘What’s the word?’ someone was saying in an alleyway. Brutus heard it, stopped and leaned next to the wall: he was decent at skulking in the dark, and a legal sort of curiosity had embedded itself in his mind. The man spoke in a barbed half-cant, not uncommon in the lower districts.
‘Nothin’: it’s business as usual,’ another voice, this time a woman, said.
‘The Secret Three—I heard they’re taking the opportunity… all the chaos everywhere, y’know what I mean… to kill off their enemies.’
Brutus perked up. He hadn’t heard of this ‘Secret Three’. Were they actually a knowable quantity or the product of a lowlife’s mythmaking, he wondered.
The woman said, ‘By enemies, you mean—’
‘Yes, the Thieves’ Guild.’
‘That—that doesn’t sound right.’
‘I assure you. It does! Everyone is talking about it.’
‘If the Secret Three even exist, my friend!’
‘I have it on good authority that they do. And they have a master plan: conquest of Ironway, so that they can rule the city in all but name.’
Brutus made a mental note to check the veracity of this rumor.
The woman, in a quieter, hushed tone, replied, ‘If the guild hears you saying this…’
‘I know, I know. But keep your eyes about. Anything might happen.’
Brutus, on light feet, left his listening post and then resumed his initial travel. He tossed and turned the notion of a ‘Secret Three’ in his head, but it really didn’t make sense. Moreover, the name was ridiculous, he felt, the product of a glib story from some fraud or the other.
His travel took him from the lower districts to the residential blocks near the castle ground, populated by larger one-storey to two-storey apartments, and well-lit. The roads were also paved better and they did not irk his sandals too much. He released a little bit of the clasp on his cloak, letting it flow behind him rather than cover him. There would be no need to skulk and stalk here.
His destination was a small detached loft, once connected to a larger building but since then having assumed its independence. He watched as a drunken aristocrat slowly tottered past the building, and wisely avoided his gaze: it could well have been a spy pretending to be drunk. Brutus was not a paranoid man but there was good reason to believe that this house would be an area of interest. Keeping an eye for his surroundings, he went to the slightly rusted iron gates and rang the doorbell.
Almost instantly, someone responded, ‘Who’s there?’ The voice was smooth but clipped, bureaucratic.
Brutus said, ‘Postumus.’
‘What’s the purpose of your visit?’
‘I want to talk to my friend. That is permitted.’
An affirmative grunt and the door opened before him. He stepped in, looked at the guard: he was a man of city watch, under the employ of the plebian council. Brutus nodded in greeting and then followed the narrow path to the apartment itself, taking care not to trample on the garden around the path.
The building, although modest in comparison to its neighbors, was still something that could not be afforded by a commoner of the empire. He knocked on the door. There was no reply. He tried the doorknob: it was unlocked. ‘How curious,’ he muttered as he entered.
Navigating, he found himself in a desolate place. There was seemingly no resident in the building. The lamps were unlit, but from the kitchen he could see a dull light. He went there, found a servant preparing food—tasteless food by any reckoning, judging by the smell, or the lack thereof—and said, ‘Where’s your master?’
He spoke with a stammer, ‘In the observatory, m’lord.’
‘Thank you.’ Brutus took a crisp turn and left. He ascended up a stairwell to the second floor, which was much more well-lit than its counterpart, and went directly to the observatory. The arrangement was familiar to him. He had been here before.
He knocked on the observatory’s door. ‘Come in,’ yelled someone, muffled.
Brutus opened the door and entered. The observatory was very well-lit in contrast to the rest of the house. To the right, there was a shelf of books, aged and leatherbound. To the left there was a large window, currently silenced by way of a thick curtain. At the end of the room was a desk and a chair—and at the center was a table surrounded by sofas, one of which was occupied by the building’s owner and resident. A cup of the tea on the table and an open book laid on its face suggested that the man was enjoying a moment of rest. The man was unarmored, almost vulnerable and clothed in his sleeping garb, seersucker pajamas, which Brutus found comforting given the simplicity of his own clothes.
‘Hello, Augustine.’
The guard commander, in response, only beckoned him to the sofa opposite his own. Brutus followed his direction and took a seat. A conversation ensued.
BRUTUS: Your arrest was unwelcome news.
AUGUSTINE: (frowning) It is provisional. But I thank you for your concern.
BRUTUS: I didn’t come here to discuss the circumstances of your arrest—
AUGUSTINE: I would rather you did, my friend. I will admit it freely: I failed in my duties, but I had no part in this… case.
BRUTUS: I am sure you did not, but everyone is confused—a clear, visible target is required and, unfortunately, you have been painted with one.
AUGUSTINE: That has been made evident, but I ask for clemency.
BRUTUS: (shaking his head) That is beyond my powers, Augustine. You know that. I will try to get you out of here, but—no promises.
AUGUSTINE: That is the best I can hope for.
BRUTUS: Now, what I was curious about—and I would’ve sent you a letter, but I was nearby and decided to pay you a visit…
AUGUSTINE: A letter would have been unwise. They read everything that is sent to me, do you know? You should not pull any needless attention on yourself.
BRUTUS: Of that, I am aware. People are quick to accuse now. There is little respect for the law anymore.
AUGUSTINE: I’m worried for this city, Brutus, and for this nation.
BRUTUS: This city has always been a nightmare, but a nightmare of delights.
AUGUSTINE: And now it is a nightmare of nightmares.
BRUTUS: I won’t mince words. What happened that night?
AUGUSTINE: I hardly know myself. I’ve been repeating this for the last few days, and… surely you’ve read the inquest?
BRUTUS: But I want to hear from you.
AUGUSTINE: I’ll tell it the best I can, as I saw it.
BRUTUS: That is what I hope for.
AUGUSTINE: There wasn’t anything off about that night, I’ll swear on that. It was stormy—raining. I had given out the day’s postings to my men and had gone to sleep. I ’fer the less restricted circumstances of my own home, but that night, as on other nights when the whim strikes, I dozed off in my office after talking with my second. My second had said, ‘I would’ve liked to see the coronation of the emperor.’ And in return I said, ‘And I would like to see you without your waffling.’
BRUTUS: It seems like your second will indeed see a coronation.
AUGUSTINE: I exchanged some rough words with him—he really is a lazy fellow—and then I bade him goodnight and went to sleep.
BRUTUS: Where did you sleep?
AUGUSTINE: (straightening) The couch in my office.
BRUTUS: Very unconventional.
AUGUSTINE: That may be so. I was woken up some hours later—
BRUTUS: When?
AUGUSTINE: At around three…
BRUTUS: And?
AUGUSTINE: I don’t remember the time—I didn’t bother to check the clock. I was woken up by my second. He said, ‘His Highness has been murdered.’ I asked him to repeat himself and he did so. At first I thought it was a prank, some sort of mummery, but the look on his face said otherwise.
BRUTUS: And then you rushed to the emperor’s bedroom.
AUGUSTINE: I still didn’t believe him. I thought it couldn’t have been possible. Consider this: the empire has not seen an assassination of this gravity for at least a few centuries.
BRUTUS: Two. Consul Tunor. Hood took him early.
AUGUSTINE: That might be right. At any rate, I went in. Allow me to describe the scene frankly.
BRUTUS: Please.
AUGUSTINE: The door was left open. Before the door, there was a cup—ah, spilt tea, I think. It was still raining: someone had left the shutters open, and I could smell the rain, that freshly watered dirt. The emperor’s bedroom wasn’t too high off from the grounds, you know. The old man—pardon my familiarity—wanted to see the grounds very clearly, especially the training field.
BRUTUS: The most popular speculation is that the window was the entryway for the assassin.
AUGUSTINE: Perhaps. But there is no evidence of that. It could have been a red herring; or merely something done by the emperor himself before he went to sleep.
BRUTUS: Was it something that the emperor did? That is, keep the window open?
AUGUSTINE: Not with any sense of regularity, but from time to time, yes.
BRUTUS: (nodding) Carry on.
AUGUSTINE: There were no footprints near the window, or anywhere at all.
BRUTUS: The window was kept open? It was raining? There should have been water near the window.
AUGUSTINE: There was.
BRUTUS: And no prints?
AUGUSTINE: None at all! Which is why I am skeptical of the window notion. Let me get back to the scene. The emperor was splayed on the bed—two dagger wounds on his body, one striking the heart. His quilt had fallen to the floor, and his hair—his garb—was tousled. My speculation is that there was a brief struggle: the first thrust missed its mark.
BRUTUS: And the features of the wound?
AUGUSTINE: The first wound was jagged, ripped through the muscle; the second was straightforward. There were handprints on his neck: he was choked, perhaps while the assassin thrust their dagger into him.
BRUTUS: What did you understand from the handprint?
AUGUSTINE: Nothing much. The assassin clearly wore gloves.
BRUTUS: And?
AUGUSTINE: The wounds were not conventional. They were not made by your typical dagger, you see. It was a dagger with three edges, incapable of slicing but fine for thrusting. The wounds are very distinct, triangular almost.
BRUTUS: One thing escapes me. What about the magical wards in his room? Surely it should have alerted the court’s magician, if not outright blasted the intruders—assuming they did not use the conventional entrance—
AUGUSTINE: They did not. That much the guardsmen of that night can attest to. The wards? An oddity. I cannot figure that out myself.
BRUTUS: The magician had little to say too.
AUGUSTINE: One other thing. The room smelled of jasmine.
BRUTUS: What?
AUGUSTINE: A flower from the west. I know it because I saw it during my younger years, when I worked for the military. Those were wilder times…
BRUTUS: Don’t stray from the topic. Jasmines, hm? Interesting. It might suggest the intruder is from the west. Or it could be another red herring—and the same for this pyramid-shaped dagger, and the open window. It could be a clever play at misdirection, to leave us traipsing around the western parts of the world.
AUGUSTINE: It could be, but I know what I saw.
BRUTUS: (getting up) Let’s leave this for another time. It is getting late. Ah, one other thing. What do you know about this so-called Secret Three?
AUGUSTINE: I’m not sure what you’re referring to.
BRUTUS: I heard it while walking on the streets. You know I am somewhat of a flaneur, but this so-called Secret Three were posed as a competitor to the Thieves’ Guild.
AUGUSTINE: (shaking his head) I’m afraid you should ask the city guard, or the Anvil. I don’t keep up with the affairs of the city.
BRUTUS: Is that so? You’re right. I should do that. Good night, Augustine. I’ll see if I can get you out, at the very least with a probationary measure. I could do with your help in the future.
AUGUSTINE: Thank you, my friend.
BRUTUS: Good night then.
Before leaving, Brutus asked him, ‘I’m sorry to ask you this, but do you know where I might find that court magician?’ Augustine smiled and answered, ‘I suppose you have questions to ask him. Your roots are showing, my friend. All this question-asking business. Well, you won’t have any luck finding him. He was already somewhat of a recluse to begin with but now that the court is a mess…’ ‘That’s a shame. The fact of the wards… it must be answered for.’ ‘What do you want to ask them?’ ‘Augustine, it occurred to me that if anyone could bypass the castle’s wards, and do it without leaving a single trace, it might be an elf.’ Augustine’s mouth tightened back into a frown. ‘Those are dangerous words, friend,’ he said. ‘Pray you don’t say them elsewhere.’ Brutus paused and then said: ‘Do you have anyone who could help?’ Augustine thought about it for a minute and then answered, ‘I do know some people. Your best bet is the royal academy. I hear they have some elves in their faculty. True-blooded elves. You’ll have some luck with them, I believe. Here I’ll write down their names. Ask at the academy.’ He quickly took a parchment from his desk, scribbled on it with a pen—a device with an inkwell built into its thin frame—and, after sanding down the ink, passed it to Brutus. He took the scrip, nodded his thanks and then made his exit.
Brutus left Augustine’s home, more questions in his mind than he had started his trip with. The events of the night, which were before clear to his imagination, now became hazier; there was a sinister confusion in the whole image, as if it were a fictive play, deliberately constructed and acted out. However, there was a silver lining. Before his meeting with the guard commander, he didn’t actually have anything to go on: a vague desire to see to the affair of the assassination, yes, but not much more than that. Now he had a few distinct leads. He would start on them first and see if anything was worth reckoning thereabouts.
Critch
Near the Cantons, in the Black Dogs’ camp
Bald-faced Critch shrugged the snow off from his shoulders. The snow was no good, he decided: he had never liked cold weather, snow or anything remotely chilly. A passing physician had told him that was because of his bald body; no hair meant little natural protection from the cold, and hence a natural revulsion to the cold. Critch did not buy that. ‘Ah, young Critch, a reddleman’s son—full of red, always red, from head to toes—and easy to make a fool of,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll shew them.’ Of course, there was nothing to ‘shew’ them—whoever this them was—except for his slight build and young years. There was a lot ahead of him; and that reddleman’s mind, as Merry told him often, was the key to success as a sapper.
One evening a year ago, when Critch had recently joined, he had come open to Merry about his history. It was after a particularly disastrous training session; his bomb had nearly blown up on his face, the result of an improper fuse, and had burnt his favorite shirt. He went to Merry for commiseration, and the older engineer had said, ‘The reddleman’s dye: that red stuff, like blood, isn’t it, Critch? But that’s gold too! Not dissimilar to powder. No, not at all. If you learn to dye, you learn to sap. That’s the truth of it, yes?’
Those words had made Critch happy. He had always been ashamed of his origins, of being red all around, for which he’d been made fun of by the village kids during his childhood. He could not help it. As a reddleman’s son, he was expected to help his father with dyeing; and the reddleman’s technique was often messy, leading to the person themselves becoming very red. He had learned to hate the profession, but nowadays he took a little pride in it.
As he wandered around, lost in his thoughts—and perhaps a little lost in the camp too, judging by how he couldn’t find his tent—he saw a visitor arriving with some fanfare. A man on a horse, arriving with an attendant—carrying, bizarrely enough, a parasol, with which they shaded the man. The man seemed to be a knight. He wore armor: well-shined and well-waxed, as far as he could see, but it was really the parasol that stuck out the most. He watched as they entered the command tent—the same tent he had seen Merry enter. He found himself feeling sorry for the poor sapper. Nothing good could come out of this, he thought.
Brutus
In Ironway, the Royal Academy
He held the scrip in his hand. He was clothed in slightly more formal clothes than what he had worn yesternight: a frock coat, but exchanging the collared shirt characteristic of Varian fashion for a shirt with a band collar—more reminiscent of Duiran tunics—with his Anvil badge pinned on it, against his better judgment. He thought it would be useful, or at least somewhat useful. The academy’s land was impressively large, and not without reason did some describe it as a city within a city. Encompassing a district’s worth of territory, with green fields and several buildings, for the various laboratories and various seminary rooms, and several other buildings for the faculty and some for students from outside of the country, or outside of Ironway. The buildings were constructed in the older style, complete with marble columns and an ivory finish, although the building had to be reconstructed after a fire had burned down most of the academy’s grounds during an accident a half-century ago. He saw several students emerge from the building, some garbed in their student robes, and others in more ordinary clothes—the academy was lax about its requirements. Most of them walked while talking: Brutus heard both things of intellectual import and babblings of politics, perhaps even seditious in tone. He inwardly groaned. In some ways, the academy, in its independence, was a boiling kettle waiting to blow.
Stilling his face, he went inside. The scrip, brief though it was, offered some interesting details. It was the least uncomfortable of his tasks—the others, it appeared to him, would either require a greater degree of footwork or at least one confrontation or two. To his eyes, violence lurked around every corner. From the scrip, he picked out two candidates. Elara, an elvish magician, apparently a true-blood and capable of fine magic. She taught at the academy. The other option was Frem, a wizard loaned from Mithia and knowledgeable of many different arts. He worked as a consultant for the academy’s research branches.
The road winded through the way, twisting around gazebos and rogue trees, on a slight incline towards the academy’s main building at the top: a vast, but low, building embossed with the abstract art from the stonemason’s association. A colonnade led to the entrance, which was open: it was morning and there were no reasons to refuse visitors and prospects. Brutus entered and made his way to the reception.
He made sure to keep his badge visible. Approaching the reception desk, he asked a nervous-eyed, fidgety clerk, ‘Hello, I am here to ask for an appointment.’
‘Er, how can I help you?’ said the clerk, his tone deeply unsure and confused.
Brutus made his best attempt at a smile. ‘I said I am here to ask for an appointment.’
‘Ah, with whom?’
‘One Freminius Flammas, if he is available right now.’
‘And who might you be?’
‘Postumus. Postumus Brutus.’
‘Ah, Professor Flammas…’ The clerk rifled through some papers but none of them seemed to have any relation to his inquiry.
‘Professor Flammas has sadly taken a leave of absence,’ interjected a stranger. Brutus turned to face him as he continued: ‘You can call me Adom. I am a professor in this school.’ He had long hair curling over distinctly large ears, partially covered by a loose, floppy hat. He wore a longcoat which accentuated his height: he towered over Brutus’ squat figure.
‘Fine, Adom. That’ll be a no for Frem. What about Elara? One Elara Reyleth.’
He spoke with a low tone and a slow cadence, enunciating each syllable. ‘I believe I saw her leave just now with a young man… I should say, her friend…’
Brutus shook his head. There goes his two options. ‘How long ago did she leave?’
‘Just now. You missed her by minutes. What do you need her for?’
‘Consultation,’ he said. ‘An official business. That is why I wanted to set up an appointment. It was either her or Frem.’
‘I believe you can catch up to her if you go now.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘Hm. She’s rather tall—she’s an elf, so that much we ought to take for granted. She has blond hair and I believe she was wearing a long skirt.’ With a cryptic smile he added, ‘You’ll find her, I’m sure. She is hard to miss.’
Brutus briefly nodded in acknowledgement before taking his leave. He looked around as he walked. There were some women who were blonde, but lacking in the other features. He noted that the magician was probably traveling with her friend, as Adom had put it. Walking for a few minutes he found a woman fitting that description: a blonde elf, a few inches taller than him, accompanied by a youth in the uniform of the royal guard. He looked at them, somewhat puzzled: Adom had clearly neglected to mention that the man was a part of the royal guard, which would have helped his search.
He shook it off and approached them, saying, ‘Elara? Elara Reyleth? My name is Postumus Brutus. I am the lord of Windkeep. I wanted to ask if you had time for a consultation. There is a problem and I believe you can help with it.’
A few days earlier, in Ashcliff
A feral, wild wind. It mixed with the blood—the vapor-stuff of human matter—and winded through the streets and down the windows. The chimneys clogged with sweat and cratered skin. Alleyways darkened by the sun’s strange angle disappeared into a blackness, seeming like cracks in reality; and the corporeal became something merely abstract, the twisted cloth of death, that white shroud, which disappears into the firmament the moment it is buried into the cruel, hard dirt. The master builder shivered.
A crystal on the table cracked and became opaque, yet still refusing to fall apart. It had cracked with a snap: a sharp sound, but muffled somehow, which broke the master builder’s reverie. He reached out a hand and caressed the orb. ‘Like the empire,’ he muttered. The curtains rose to the sway of the wind, assuming shapes such as the elephant—or the frog, leaping, lurching and leering from the weather’s bull market. The master builder felt aged, more aged than he had ever felt. His face scrunched with worry, and ever since the tragedy his shoulders had been hunched into a constant set of tension. He was thin as a yarn already and the recent stress had made him lose more weight. On his desk was an envelope. The mailmen had arrived in an organized, ceaseless file. Their carriage: letters from persons high and low; people of the countryside, where news of vague tragedy had arrived; and people of the cities, where the news had already been watered down with drink, though the drink was not enough. The master builder’s fingers trembled as he fingered the envelope. His eyes wandered over the textured paper, the molten-wax seal—embossed, the image of a sword and a book—and the Windkeep’s crest stamped on the envelope face. Slowly he pried open the seal, wedging his fingers into its exterior. Outside, albeit faintly, he could hear a crier’s voice. The violence near Misty Lake, intrusions of the barbarians, conflict with the Julese delegation. The master builder popped off the seal, decided against opening the envelope and stood up. His legs creaked from the pressure. ‘Fry me,’ they said, the worn-out tears in his sinews. He went to the window and shuttered them. Then he closed the curtains. There was that noise, but it was silent too. The accusatory wind was not there any longer. The master builder looked back at his desk—it would be too dark to read the letter—and again at the curtain, before opening a slit. A crack of light slithered into the room. He couldn’t help but smile. He went back to the desk: it was made of mahogany, a dark and brooding sort, and greedily lapped up the light. A few rays accidentally reflected from its surface and scattered towards the room’s emerald walls, before dispersing into a diffuse, dull glow. The room was large, perhaps too large, and the same could be said for the apartment. A large window placed opposite the door framed the desk and chair. He had made the building and its floors himself; he was the master builder of the court, but not, he supposed, for much longer. There simply was no court to build for. He took the letter out from the envelope. It was crumpled slightly and the ink was splattered on the edges; the handwriting was straightforward. He recognized the hand that wrote the letter. Cursing under his breath, he silently read. A minute passed by. After he had finished reading the letter, he placed it on the table and sat down.
There was a knock on the door. The master builder took the letter and crammed it into one of the desk’s drawers, and then he shouted, ‘Come in, the door’s open.’ The door opened a nudge—and a head slipped out. It was his assistant, Fitz, who said, ‘There’s a man, sirrah, who wants to pay you a visit.’ ‘D’you recognize his face?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Fine, let him in.’ He wiped the sweat from his brows with a handkerchief, and then smoothed over his hair—what little was left of it—with a hand.
After a short while, the door opened and through it entered a giant of a man, garbed in armor though with an empty scabbard, since it was a courtesy to keep your weapons at the door of your host’s home during social visits. The armor was blackened and decorated with fine cloth, covered partially by a red cloak: on his tabard he wore the symbol of Edmon the Second’s crest, which he inherited from his father. His face was marred with burn scars, leading to a noticeable downward tilt to the left of his mouth; the other side was now lifted into a vaguely sinister smile. He walked like an intruder: closer and closer to the desk, helmet in hand. His face, the master builder realized, he used as a tool of intimidation. He recognized the burned man and, instinctively, tensed up.
The man said, ‘I’ve an issue, Alain. It’s something you can help me with.’ He had a lisp, which crunched his syllables to a narrow edge. The master builder replied in a tone he hoped was polite: ‘I’m not sure what I can help you with, but that can wait, can it not? We can talk about business later. How’ve you been doing?’ ‘Not very good, as you can imagine,’ he drawled, his smile refusing to break. ‘No, not very good at all. I imagine that is the same for you, master builder—’ and gesturing outside—‘and every single man and woman of this country.’ The master builder, Alain, took a deep breath and said, ‘What do you need help with?’ ‘I have good reason to believe the… affair… was conducted with the assistance of secret passageways that run through the castle.’ ‘What sort of babble is this?’ cried Alain. The man coolly replied, ‘Only the most certain kind. Immediately after the emperor’s assassination—pardon my manners—and during the investigation of the scene of this great tragedy, some of us uncovered secret tunnels connected to bedrooms and hallways, accessible only through switches hidden in the gaps of our walls.’ ‘Some of us?’ Alain slammed a fist on his desk, and continued speaking, albeit with clenched teeth: ‘Without the court’s knowledge!’ The burned man idly waved a hand. ‘It is of no consequence.’ ‘It is of the highest consequence.’ ‘The details of this incident cannot go above board. The illusion—as an architect, surely you understand this—must remain intact.’
A pause. Alain stood up, cleared his throat and looked the burned man in the eye; he spoke clearly and carefully as he said, ‘I do not suggest you spill all our affairs to the public, but the least you can do is tell the people of the court.’ Alain suspected two things: the man being an agent of Edmon the Second, and his ambiguous ‘us’ seemingly referring to Edmon’s clique, it was clear that the first prince had reserved the information for his own advantage; and it was entirely possible that Edmon suspected some people in the court, perhaps the Chain, perhaps Half-Jon’s men and women.
The burned man raised his only remaining eyebrow, almost innocently. ‘But I told you, haven’t I?’ he said, before pulling a scroll from under his cloak. He gently laid the scroll on the desk. Alain noted the calluses on his fingers. ‘These are the details of our impromptu expedition. As the master builder, we hope that you can provide us with further insight. Surely, you must have inherited the floor plans of the castle? If there is anything you can glean from them… of course, you will be rewarded.’ Alain remained silent. The burned man smiled and added, ‘For the sake of the empire, and the late emperor, may the Lord bless him.’ He stepped away from the desk, turning his back. The master builder almost retorted but bit his lips. Before exiting, the man turned around and, with more bite to his voice than before, said, ‘There’s blood on the grounds, on the walls and everywhere beside. We’ll all be dirty by the time this is done.’ Having said that, he waved his hand and left the room.
Alain immediately exhaled; he had been holding his breath.
Brutus
A day earlier, in Ironway
The date of the assassination was a few weeks past, but for Brutus it felt like months. The question of the old man’s death was out of everyone’s mind. What remained was a picture: the empty throne, and the shadow occupying its negative space. The senate was busy arguing between themselves. Some of the arguments revolved around the circumstances of the emperor’s death, but it usually devolved to nothing. The plebian council was less interested in solving the murder and more in settling the agitated public; he could not blame them for that. In the court, the royal guard was disbanded in all but name—and outside of the court, the Anvil found themselves restrained by the political atmosphere: the Chain was accused, albeit indirectly and with little evidence, of participation in the assassination. It was not a good time to be a man of the law, much less one of those clerics. Brutus was partially glad that he was no longer a member of the Anvil, but at the same time he could not but feel bitter. His profession had given him purpose, direction and, most importantly, resources. He could still leverage his badge for situations but it would be wiser to do so after the Anvil slipped away from public scrutiny.
Brutus had listlessly attended the senate meetings of the past few days. As the lord of Windkeep, he had a seat there, and he felt the seat had been gathering dust for too long. If there was any better moment to involve himself in the affairs of the kingdom, now seemed to be the best time. Still, he had very little idea of what precisely to do: he was not a popular man in the city’s social circles, and he had spent the last few years in his home, Windkeep, like a recluse. The empire was in shambles. The emperor’s death was a mystery, and it was a mystery no one—except, seemingly, himself—was interested in solving.
Brutus was walking through the streets. There was disquiet around him, noise from homes still burning their lamps, but there was something dead about it. The cobblestone pavement crackled as he walked, one sandalled foot after the other; his knees were beginning to complain, but he ignored them. From a few chimneys, smoke rose. A nearby inn was still alive with the sound of merry-making. For most people, life simply went on. The stench of piss, drink and sweat still lingered in the air, although passersby at night were rare. It was dark and lonely. Stretched out in the more prosperous districts he could see street lamps.
‘What’s the word?’ someone was saying in an alleyway. Brutus heard it, stopped and leaned next to the wall: he was decent at skulking in the dark, and a legal sort of curiosity had embedded itself in his mind. The man spoke in a barbed half-cant, not uncommon in the lower districts.
‘Nothin’: it’s business as usual,’ another voice, this time a woman, said.
‘The Secret Three—I heard they’re taking the opportunity… all the chaos everywhere, y’know what I mean… to kill off their enemies.’
Brutus perked up. He hadn’t heard of this ‘Secret Three’. Were they actually a knowable quantity or the product of a lowlife’s mythmaking, he wondered.
The woman said, ‘By enemies, you mean—’
‘Yes, the Thieves’ Guild.’
‘That—that doesn’t sound right.’
‘I assure you. It does! Everyone is talking about it.’
‘If the Secret Three even exist, my friend!’
‘I have it on good authority that they do. And they have a master plan: conquest of Ironway, so that they can rule the city in all but name.’
Brutus made a mental note to check the veracity of this rumor.
The woman, in a quieter, hushed tone, replied, ‘If the guild hears you saying this…’
‘I know, I know. But keep your eyes about. Anything might happen.’
Brutus, on light feet, left his listening post and then resumed his initial travel. He tossed and turned the notion of a ‘Secret Three’ in his head, but it really didn’t make sense. Moreover, the name was ridiculous, he felt, the product of a glib story from some fraud or the other.
His travel took him from the lower districts to the residential blocks near the castle ground, populated by larger one-storey to two-storey apartments, and well-lit. The roads were also paved better and they did not irk his sandals too much. He released a little bit of the clasp on his cloak, letting it flow behind him rather than cover him. There would be no need to skulk and stalk here.
His destination was a small detached loft, once connected to a larger building but since then having assumed its independence. He watched as a drunken aristocrat slowly tottered past the building, and wisely avoided his gaze: it could well have been a spy pretending to be drunk. Brutus was not a paranoid man but there was good reason to believe that this house would be an area of interest. Keeping an eye for his surroundings, he went to the slightly rusted iron gates and rang the doorbell.
Almost instantly, someone responded, ‘Who’s there?’ The voice was smooth but clipped, bureaucratic.
Brutus said, ‘Postumus.’
‘What’s the purpose of your visit?’
‘I want to talk to my friend. That is permitted.’
An affirmative grunt and the door opened before him. He stepped in, looked at the guard: he was a man of city watch, under the employ of the plebian council. Brutus nodded in greeting and then followed the narrow path to the apartment itself, taking care not to trample on the garden around the path.
The building, although modest in comparison to its neighbors, was still something that could not be afforded by a commoner of the empire. He knocked on the door. There was no reply. He tried the doorknob: it was unlocked. ‘How curious,’ he muttered as he entered.
Navigating, he found himself in a desolate place. There was seemingly no resident in the building. The lamps were unlit, but from the kitchen he could see a dull light. He went there, found a servant preparing food—tasteless food by any reckoning, judging by the smell, or the lack thereof—and said, ‘Where’s your master?’
He spoke with a stammer, ‘In the observatory, m’lord.’
‘Thank you.’ Brutus took a crisp turn and left. He ascended up a stairwell to the second floor, which was much more well-lit than its counterpart, and went directly to the observatory. The arrangement was familiar to him. He had been here before.
He knocked on the observatory’s door. ‘Come in,’ yelled someone, muffled.
Brutus opened the door and entered. The observatory was very well-lit in contrast to the rest of the house. To the right, there was a shelf of books, aged and leatherbound. To the left there was a large window, currently silenced by way of a thick curtain. At the end of the room was a desk and a chair—and at the center was a table surrounded by sofas, one of which was occupied by the building’s owner and resident. A cup of the tea on the table and an open book laid on its face suggested that the man was enjoying a moment of rest. The man was unarmored, almost vulnerable and clothed in his sleeping garb, seersucker pajamas, which Brutus found comforting given the simplicity of his own clothes.
‘Hello, Augustine.’
The guard commander, in response, only beckoned him to the sofa opposite his own. Brutus followed his direction and took a seat. A conversation ensued.
BRUTUS: Your arrest was unwelcome news.
AUGUSTINE: (frowning) It is provisional. But I thank you for your concern.
BRUTUS: I didn’t come here to discuss the circumstances of your arrest—
AUGUSTINE: I would rather you did, my friend. I will admit it freely: I failed in my duties, but I had no part in this… case.
BRUTUS: I am sure you did not, but everyone is confused—a clear, visible target is required and, unfortunately, you have been painted with one.
AUGUSTINE: That has been made evident, but I ask for clemency.
BRUTUS: (shaking his head) That is beyond my powers, Augustine. You know that. I will try to get you out of here, but—no promises.
AUGUSTINE: That is the best I can hope for.
BRUTUS: Now, what I was curious about—and I would’ve sent you a letter, but I was nearby and decided to pay you a visit…
AUGUSTINE: A letter would have been unwise. They read everything that is sent to me, do you know? You should not pull any needless attention on yourself.
BRUTUS: Of that, I am aware. People are quick to accuse now. There is little respect for the law anymore.
AUGUSTINE: I’m worried for this city, Brutus, and for this nation.
BRUTUS: This city has always been a nightmare, but a nightmare of delights.
AUGUSTINE: And now it is a nightmare of nightmares.
BRUTUS: I won’t mince words. What happened that night?
AUGUSTINE: I hardly know myself. I’ve been repeating this for the last few days, and… surely you’ve read the inquest?
BRUTUS: But I want to hear from you.
AUGUSTINE: I’ll tell it the best I can, as I saw it.
BRUTUS: That is what I hope for.
AUGUSTINE: There wasn’t anything off about that night, I’ll swear on that. It was stormy—raining. I had given out the day’s postings to my men and had gone to sleep. I ’fer the less restricted circumstances of my own home, but that night, as on other nights when the whim strikes, I dozed off in my office after talking with my second. My second had said, ‘I would’ve liked to see the coronation of the emperor.’ And in return I said, ‘And I would like to see you without your waffling.’
BRUTUS: It seems like your second will indeed see a coronation.
AUGUSTINE: I exchanged some rough words with him—he really is a lazy fellow—and then I bade him goodnight and went to sleep.
BRUTUS: Where did you sleep?
AUGUSTINE: (straightening) The couch in my office.
BRUTUS: Very unconventional.
AUGUSTINE: That may be so. I was woken up some hours later—
BRUTUS: When?
AUGUSTINE: At around three…
BRUTUS: And?
AUGUSTINE: I don’t remember the time—I didn’t bother to check the clock. I was woken up by my second. He said, ‘His Highness has been murdered.’ I asked him to repeat himself and he did so. At first I thought it was a prank, some sort of mummery, but the look on his face said otherwise.
BRUTUS: And then you rushed to the emperor’s bedroom.
AUGUSTINE: I still didn’t believe him. I thought it couldn’t have been possible. Consider this: the empire has not seen an assassination of this gravity for at least a few centuries.
BRUTUS: Two. Consul Tunor. Hood took him early.
AUGUSTINE: That might be right. At any rate, I went in. Allow me to describe the scene frankly.
BRUTUS: Please.
AUGUSTINE: The door was left open. Before the door, there was a cup—ah, spilt tea, I think. It was still raining: someone had left the shutters open, and I could smell the rain, that freshly watered dirt. The emperor’s bedroom wasn’t too high off from the grounds, you know. The old man—pardon my familiarity—wanted to see the grounds very clearly, especially the training field.
BRUTUS: The most popular speculation is that the window was the entryway for the assassin.
AUGUSTINE: Perhaps. But there is no evidence of that. It could have been a red herring; or merely something done by the emperor himself before he went to sleep.
BRUTUS: Was it something that the emperor did? That is, keep the window open?
AUGUSTINE: Not with any sense of regularity, but from time to time, yes.
BRUTUS: (nodding) Carry on.
AUGUSTINE: There were no footprints near the window, or anywhere at all.
BRUTUS: The window was kept open? It was raining? There should have been water near the window.
AUGUSTINE: There was.
BRUTUS: And no prints?
AUGUSTINE: None at all! Which is why I am skeptical of the window notion. Let me get back to the scene. The emperor was splayed on the bed—two dagger wounds on his body, one striking the heart. His quilt had fallen to the floor, and his hair—his garb—was tousled. My speculation is that there was a brief struggle: the first thrust missed its mark.
BRUTUS: And the features of the wound?
AUGUSTINE: The first wound was jagged, ripped through the muscle; the second was straightforward. There were handprints on his neck: he was choked, perhaps while the assassin thrust their dagger into him.
BRUTUS: What did you understand from the handprint?
AUGUSTINE: Nothing much. The assassin clearly wore gloves.
BRUTUS: And?
AUGUSTINE: The wounds were not conventional. They were not made by your typical dagger, you see. It was a dagger with three edges, incapable of slicing but fine for thrusting. The wounds are very distinct, triangular almost.
BRUTUS: One thing escapes me. What about the magical wards in his room? Surely it should have alerted the court’s magician, if not outright blasted the intruders—assuming they did not use the conventional entrance—
AUGUSTINE: They did not. That much the guardsmen of that night can attest to. The wards? An oddity. I cannot figure that out myself.
BRUTUS: The magician had little to say too.
AUGUSTINE: One other thing. The room smelled of jasmine.
BRUTUS: What?
AUGUSTINE: A flower from the west. I know it because I saw it during my younger years, when I worked for the military. Those were wilder times…
BRUTUS: Don’t stray from the topic. Jasmines, hm? Interesting. It might suggest the intruder is from the west. Or it could be another red herring—and the same for this pyramid-shaped dagger, and the open window. It could be a clever play at misdirection, to leave us traipsing around the western parts of the world.
AUGUSTINE: It could be, but I know what I saw.
BRUTUS: (getting up) Let’s leave this for another time. It is getting late. Ah, one other thing. What do you know about this so-called Secret Three?
AUGUSTINE: I’m not sure what you’re referring to.
BRUTUS: I heard it while walking on the streets. You know I am somewhat of a flaneur, but this so-called Secret Three were posed as a competitor to the Thieves’ Guild.
AUGUSTINE: (shaking his head) I’m afraid you should ask the city guard, or the Anvil. I don’t keep up with the affairs of the city.
BRUTUS: Is that so? You’re right. I should do that. Good night, Augustine. I’ll see if I can get you out, at the very least with a probationary measure. I could do with your help in the future.
AUGUSTINE: Thank you, my friend.
BRUTUS: Good night then.
Before leaving, Brutus asked him, ‘I’m sorry to ask you this, but do you know where I might find that court magician?’ Augustine smiled and answered, ‘I suppose you have questions to ask him. Your roots are showing, my friend. All this question-asking business. Well, you won’t have any luck finding him. He was already somewhat of a recluse to begin with but now that the court is a mess…’ ‘That’s a shame. The fact of the wards… it must be answered for.’ ‘What do you want to ask them?’ ‘Augustine, it occurred to me that if anyone could bypass the castle’s wards, and do it without leaving a single trace, it might be an elf.’ Augustine’s mouth tightened back into a frown. ‘Those are dangerous words, friend,’ he said. ‘Pray you don’t say them elsewhere.’ Brutus paused and then said: ‘Do you have anyone who could help?’ Augustine thought about it for a minute and then answered, ‘I do know some people. Your best bet is the royal academy. I hear they have some elves in their faculty. True-blooded elves. You’ll have some luck with them, I believe. Here I’ll write down their names. Ask at the academy.’ He quickly took a parchment from his desk, scribbled on it with a pen—a device with an inkwell built into its thin frame—and, after sanding down the ink, passed it to Brutus. He took the scrip, nodded his thanks and then made his exit.
Brutus left Augustine’s home, more questions in his mind than he had started his trip with. The events of the night, which were before clear to his imagination, now became hazier; there was a sinister confusion in the whole image, as if it were a fictive play, deliberately constructed and acted out. However, there was a silver lining. Before his meeting with the guard commander, he didn’t actually have anything to go on: a vague desire to see to the affair of the assassination, yes, but not much more than that. Now he had a few distinct leads. He would start on them first and see if anything was worth reckoning thereabouts.
Critch
Near the Cantons, in the Black Dogs’ camp
Bald-faced Critch shrugged the snow off from his shoulders. The snow was no good, he decided: he had never liked cold weather, snow or anything remotely chilly. A passing physician had told him that was because of his bald body; no hair meant little natural protection from the cold, and hence a natural revulsion to the cold. Critch did not buy that. ‘Ah, young Critch, a reddleman’s son—full of red, always red, from head to toes—and easy to make a fool of,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll shew them.’ Of course, there was nothing to ‘shew’ them—whoever this them was—except for his slight build and young years. There was a lot ahead of him; and that reddleman’s mind, as Merry told him often, was the key to success as a sapper.
One evening a year ago, when Critch had recently joined, he had come open to Merry about his history. It was after a particularly disastrous training session; his bomb had nearly blown up on his face, the result of an improper fuse, and had burnt his favorite shirt. He went to Merry for commiseration, and the older engineer had said, ‘The reddleman’s dye: that red stuff, like blood, isn’t it, Critch? But that’s gold too! Not dissimilar to powder. No, not at all. If you learn to dye, you learn to sap. That’s the truth of it, yes?’
Those words had made Critch happy. He had always been ashamed of his origins, of being red all around, for which he’d been made fun of by the village kids during his childhood. He could not help it. As a reddleman’s son, he was expected to help his father with dyeing; and the reddleman’s technique was often messy, leading to the person themselves becoming very red. He had learned to hate the profession, but nowadays he took a little pride in it.
As he wandered around, lost in his thoughts—and perhaps a little lost in the camp too, judging by how he couldn’t find his tent—he saw a visitor arriving with some fanfare. A man on a horse, arriving with an attendant—carrying, bizarrely enough, a parasol, with which they shaded the man. The man seemed to be a knight. He wore armor: well-shined and well-waxed, as far as he could see, but it was really the parasol that stuck out the most. He watched as they entered the command tent—the same tent he had seen Merry enter. He found himself feeling sorry for the poor sapper. Nothing good could come out of this, he thought.
Brutus
In Ironway, the Royal Academy
He held the scrip in his hand. He was clothed in slightly more formal clothes than what he had worn yesternight: a frock coat, but exchanging the collared shirt characteristic of Varian fashion for a shirt with a band collar—more reminiscent of Duiran tunics—with his Anvil badge pinned on it, against his better judgment. He thought it would be useful, or at least somewhat useful. The academy’s land was impressively large, and not without reason did some describe it as a city within a city. Encompassing a district’s worth of territory, with green fields and several buildings, for the various laboratories and various seminary rooms, and several other buildings for the faculty and some for students from outside of the country, or outside of Ironway. The buildings were constructed in the older style, complete with marble columns and an ivory finish, although the building had to be reconstructed after a fire had burned down most of the academy’s grounds during an accident a half-century ago. He saw several students emerge from the building, some garbed in their student robes, and others in more ordinary clothes—the academy was lax about its requirements. Most of them walked while talking: Brutus heard both things of intellectual import and babblings of politics, perhaps even seditious in tone. He inwardly groaned. In some ways, the academy, in its independence, was a boiling kettle waiting to blow.
Stilling his face, he went inside. The scrip, brief though it was, offered some interesting details. It was the least uncomfortable of his tasks—the others, it appeared to him, would either require a greater degree of footwork or at least one confrontation or two. To his eyes, violence lurked around every corner. From the scrip, he picked out two candidates. Elara, an elvish magician, apparently a true-blood and capable of fine magic. She taught at the academy. The other option was Frem, a wizard loaned from Mithia and knowledgeable of many different arts. He worked as a consultant for the academy’s research branches.
The road winded through the way, twisting around gazebos and rogue trees, on a slight incline towards the academy’s main building at the top: a vast, but low, building embossed with the abstract art from the stonemason’s association. A colonnade led to the entrance, which was open: it was morning and there were no reasons to refuse visitors and prospects. Brutus entered and made his way to the reception.
He made sure to keep his badge visible. Approaching the reception desk, he asked a nervous-eyed, fidgety clerk, ‘Hello, I am here to ask for an appointment.’
‘Er, how can I help you?’ said the clerk, his tone deeply unsure and confused.
Brutus made his best attempt at a smile. ‘I said I am here to ask for an appointment.’
‘Ah, with whom?’
‘One Freminius Flammas, if he is available right now.’
‘And who might you be?’
‘Postumus. Postumus Brutus.’
‘Ah, Professor Flammas…’ The clerk rifled through some papers but none of them seemed to have any relation to his inquiry.
‘Professor Flammas has sadly taken a leave of absence,’ interjected a stranger. Brutus turned to face him as he continued: ‘You can call me Adom. I am a professor in this school.’ He had long hair curling over distinctly large ears, partially covered by a loose, floppy hat. He wore a longcoat which accentuated his height: he towered over Brutus’ squat figure.
‘Fine, Adom. That’ll be a no for Frem. What about Elara? One Elara Reyleth.’
He spoke with a low tone and a slow cadence, enunciating each syllable. ‘I believe I saw her leave just now with a young man… I should say, her friend…’
Brutus shook his head. There goes his two options. ‘How long ago did she leave?’
‘Just now. You missed her by minutes. What do you need her for?’
‘Consultation,’ he said. ‘An official business. That is why I wanted to set up an appointment. It was either her or Frem.’
‘I believe you can catch up to her if you go now.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘Hm. She’s rather tall—she’s an elf, so that much we ought to take for granted. She has blond hair and I believe she was wearing a long skirt.’ With a cryptic smile he added, ‘You’ll find her, I’m sure. She is hard to miss.’
Brutus briefly nodded in acknowledgement before taking his leave. He looked around as he walked. There were some women who were blonde, but lacking in the other features. He noted that the magician was probably traveling with her friend, as Adom had put it. Walking for a few minutes he found a woman fitting that description: a blonde elf, a few inches taller than him, accompanied by a youth in the uniform of the royal guard. He looked at them, somewhat puzzled: Adom had clearly neglected to mention that the man was a part of the royal guard, which would have helped his search.
He shook it off and approached them, saying, ‘Elara? Elara Reyleth? My name is Postumus Brutus. I am the lord of Windkeep. I wanted to ask if you had time for a consultation. There is a problem and I believe you can help with it.’
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Jam._
New Member
Aurox
Wandering around in the Black Dogs’ camp
Compared to the others in the camp his appearance was rather jarring- his long 5-foot dragon tail dragging behind in the snow below his feet along with small horns out the top of his head that seemed to be collecting snow. He was wandering aimlessly around the camp searching for the command tent- ordered to go to ‘some meeting’ for all of the new recruits. While it was a simple task, his familiarity with the layout of camp was rather limited- and the snow only seemed to obscure his vision even more. The cold weather didn’t seem to bother him, though he seemed to quickly wipe off any large accumulation of snow to avoid frostbite or anything of the sort. As he walked around aimlessly, small yet sharp remarks could be heard from other members around the camp-
We might as well recruit the wild boar too!
Maybe he should be out there in the forest instead of in here with us-
And what’s with all that shit he’s carrying?
While he could only hear muttering in his surroundings- he seemed content in ignoring them.
God I am SO gonna be late… he briefly thought to himself as parts of his tail turned into a distinct shade of red. He seemed to be getting frustrated- not from the people around him or from his punctuality- but rather from his lack of ability to navigate. As time passed, through sheer luck he managed to find the place he was looking for.
In the Black Dogs’ command tent
He barely made it on time to the meeting- attempting to take a seat in one of the chairs in the back though his tail and belt made it difficult. The captain proceeded to give the recruits an earful about the camp, the Black Dogs’ values, their mission, their objective. To Aurox- all the words blended together into one, he didn’t care about any of their overarching goals or mutual loyalty- he came here to experience the ‘dreaded camp life’ and the ‘feelings of life and death’ that he had heard so much about. But most of all- he came here to get stronger, and in search to feel the ‘weight of taking another life’ by his own hands- if there was one at all.
Why is all of this even important anyways?
He felt bored- a strong feeling of… nothingness. He felt more hollow than usual. The words from the captain felt like they continued for years. As the lieutenant Merry walked in, a cold breeze from the outside filled the tent again. The recruits shuddered- wrapping their arms around themselves while Aurox remained still- more of the same feelings of emptiness. His fingers seemed to trace around the yellow vial attached to his belt- as if he were mentally contemplating something.
Perhaps I’m meant to feel happy here? Or is it something else?
His disinterested demeanor seemed to grant him some gazes from the captain- nothing that could result in anything positive.
He looked at the recruits next to him- analyzing their body language, their eyes solely on the captain and no one else, their slight leaning forward as if trying to capture every word he said- their absolute stillness and processing of every word that was said. He also noticed their caution around him- his lineage of beastfolk causing a sense of disgust.
They don’t seem happy, no smiles, no relaxing expressions. Though they don’t seem sad either. His words have a strong command to them- perhaps it’s fear? No- no one is antsy. And what's with that look? The ones closer to me seem to have this look of discomfort- but remain with that strong gaze. Maybe something along the lines of this…
His finger traced around the vials of anticipation, trust, and disgust. However, a small gurgling noise could be heard as the liquid in the vials drained slightly. His tail switched to multiple shades of green and purple, his gaze sharpened, he leaned slightly forward not wanting to miss a word. His face even had the same undertones of disgust that people had for his lineage, though he didn’t seem to direct it at anyone in particular. It didn’t feel real- a part of him could still feel a hollowness- but at least now he could mimic the others.
Wandering around in the Black Dogs’ camp
Compared to the others in the camp his appearance was rather jarring- his long 5-foot dragon tail dragging behind in the snow below his feet along with small horns out the top of his head that seemed to be collecting snow. He was wandering aimlessly around the camp searching for the command tent- ordered to go to ‘some meeting’ for all of the new recruits. While it was a simple task, his familiarity with the layout of camp was rather limited- and the snow only seemed to obscure his vision even more. The cold weather didn’t seem to bother him, though he seemed to quickly wipe off any large accumulation of snow to avoid frostbite or anything of the sort. As he walked around aimlessly, small yet sharp remarks could be heard from other members around the camp-
We might as well recruit the wild boar too!
Maybe he should be out there in the forest instead of in here with us-
And what’s with all that shit he’s carrying?
While he could only hear muttering in his surroundings- he seemed content in ignoring them.
God I am SO gonna be late… he briefly thought to himself as parts of his tail turned into a distinct shade of red. He seemed to be getting frustrated- not from the people around him or from his punctuality- but rather from his lack of ability to navigate. As time passed, through sheer luck he managed to find the place he was looking for.
In the Black Dogs’ command tent
He barely made it on time to the meeting- attempting to take a seat in one of the chairs in the back though his tail and belt made it difficult. The captain proceeded to give the recruits an earful about the camp, the Black Dogs’ values, their mission, their objective. To Aurox- all the words blended together into one, he didn’t care about any of their overarching goals or mutual loyalty- he came here to experience the ‘dreaded camp life’ and the ‘feelings of life and death’ that he had heard so much about. But most of all- he came here to get stronger, and in search to feel the ‘weight of taking another life’ by his own hands- if there was one at all.
Why is all of this even important anyways?
He felt bored- a strong feeling of… nothingness. He felt more hollow than usual. The words from the captain felt like they continued for years. As the lieutenant Merry walked in, a cold breeze from the outside filled the tent again. The recruits shuddered- wrapping their arms around themselves while Aurox remained still- more of the same feelings of emptiness. His fingers seemed to trace around the yellow vial attached to his belt- as if he were mentally contemplating something.
Perhaps I’m meant to feel happy here? Or is it something else?
His disinterested demeanor seemed to grant him some gazes from the captain- nothing that could result in anything positive.
He looked at the recruits next to him- analyzing their body language, their eyes solely on the captain and no one else, their slight leaning forward as if trying to capture every word he said- their absolute stillness and processing of every word that was said. He also noticed their caution around him- his lineage of beastfolk causing a sense of disgust.
They don’t seem happy, no smiles, no relaxing expressions. Though they don’t seem sad either. His words have a strong command to them- perhaps it’s fear? No- no one is antsy. And what's with that look? The ones closer to me seem to have this look of discomfort- but remain with that strong gaze. Maybe something along the lines of this…
His finger traced around the vials of anticipation, trust, and disgust. However, a small gurgling noise could be heard as the liquid in the vials drained slightly. His tail switched to multiple shades of green and purple, his gaze sharpened, he leaned slightly forward not wanting to miss a word. His face even had the same undertones of disgust that people had for his lineage, though he didn’t seem to direct it at anyone in particular. It didn’t feel real- a part of him could still feel a hollowness- but at least now he could mimic the others.
Syan
Junior Member
- One on One
- Group
Merry
In the command tent
The insides of the command tent were relatively simple: free of any outwardly ostentatious sign, the insides tent—large in capacity—was distinguished by a map in the center. The map was filched from the Black Dogs’ archives, detailing the Leialath Pass in the Cantons; this is where the Ank tribe purportedly lived, and the battle would be commenced there. The map was sparse with details but offered a clear view of the major geographical features of the pass. The pass itself was narrow, fitting—and this Merry knew by past experience—around three to five people in width, six or eight if the people were compacted together. Above, there were some cliffs, which could be scaled from further down each extreme end of the pass. The overlook offered a good vantage point, and the area was wider up there. The overlook spread out into a relatively flat plane, ending at a bunched-up cluster of mountains, with narrow caverns leading to a maze inside. Putnam’s Cave, as some people called it. It was entirely possible that the Ank raiding party was hiding inside the caves; or through the other end of the pass, opposite to their own camp, in some of the other cave systems. The advantage, thought Merry, could be secured from the vantage point: it would be easy to rain down ranged fire on any forces coming through the pass; and if the forces were hiding inside the caves, they could be smoked out. The latter approach had a different problem. The cave system was large enough to have alternative exits, and that meant the raiding party would be able to retreat easily; or, worse, lure the Black Dogs into the caves for close quarters fighting, where they might lose the advantage they would have had in open-field pitched battle. On the other hand, it would also be easy for them to cut through potential entrances on their side of the pass, ambushing the raiding party from an unexpected angle. At any rate, the Ank had a certain other advantage, at least in terms of mobility. As a native tribe, they would have access to sleds and snow-shoes, as well as knowledge of the geography, which the Black Dogs would not be able to afford in short order. The best thing, it seemed to Merry, would be to cut off any potential exit routes and box the barbarians in—and then cut them down as they approached. He had taken the time to mark the points of interests in the map with pins; it had almost become his hobby in the few days they had spent in the Cantons. A faint glimmer of an idea began to develop in his mind, and that idea involved a lot of explosives.
Merry scratched his beard and yawned. The captain was, it seems, busy with some of the other recruits and hangers-on, just as he had suspected. Discussing tomorrow’s operation would have to be left for later. Among the arrivals, there was a man in shiny, polished plate, which he found mildly disturbing. He could not really imagine wearing plate while not in combat: and now the plate was off of him, being carted around by a scrawny youth, perhaps an assistant. The scene, he found, was oddly comic. He could see a lock of white hair, pale-white, peek out from under the assistant’s head. This interested him but the circumstances prevented any attempt at conversation.
Another figure suddenly burst into the tent. Merry swiveled to face them: it was a person with draconic features, a part of the dragonfolk. Interestingly enough, a puny dragonfolk, short and covered in dark scales. Merry was intrigued. The dragonfolk were rarely seen in the human regions—much less a member of one of their tribes who was interested in human work. The dragonfolk appeared purely uninterested; and then they fidgeted, some gurgling was heard; and suddenly they had a sharp gaze, a face with vague disgust plastered on it. Merighi almost instinctively raised an eyebrow. He leaned back and saw the dragonfolk’s tail: it was shifting colors. As far as he knew, that was not a feature of dragonfolk.
He slowly inched towards this—recruit? attache? concerned citizen?—and said, quietly to the side, ‘I say, your tail—it’s flashing colors. Is it supposed to do that?’
Jam._
Gears
Harbinger of War, Chaos, Death And Toast
- One on One
- Group
The Familiar scent of acrid armor cleaner filled her nostrils as she worked, using a rag from her messenger bag to clean the armor. Up close, she could see the slight blemishes and warping on the suit. One the left pauldron, the faint impression was angular enough to suggest an arrow- reworked by Fathers armor smith. Upon further inspection one could see countless signs of tarnish and damage- well repaired and concealed. Certain areas appeared to be so weathered that they could give out- why keep this relic?
Arris shook her head and scanned the room, eyes lingering on the stranger who had just arrived, a tail poking from his form. She could tell her father looked at him with disdain, not enjoying any “Impure Creatures” in his presence. She did not see others in that way- all where above her, a useless wretch. Who was she to feel prejudice at the lowest echelon of this world. She noticed one of the soldiers note her, quickly tucking a rogue lock of hair back in her hood, eyes returning to her task as her face burned.
Mother had called those locks beautiful- a gift from the gods; but Father saw them as unseemly and potentially distracting from important things- particularly from him. Arris felt a burning in her fingertips, shaking her hand as she cursed silently. She looked and found bits of her pale skin had been burned by the chemicals- she could hear the faint bubbling of the chemicals that Father liked to clean the steel. She grabbed the glove she preferred to wear when working some other duties, hiding whatever had harmed her- she would look for some way to heal it- perhaps Evermint's leaves mixed with longroot. She would have time after setting up fathers tent, maybe pry a bit about the solution he had given her. She returned to scrubbing the armor, keeping contact to the polish to her gloved hand- though a few rashes broke out where she wasn't careful.
Jam._
New Member
Aurox
In the Black Dogs’ command tent
Almost instantly after he heard the whispers from his side his sharpened gaze went away, his focus easily broken off from the meeting at hand. He cleared his throat briefly, his emotions subconsciously switching in his mind to something more casual and friendly. It was rather rare that he did influence his emotions manually- only in situations where his curious nature seemed to take over his will to reason, where he needed to play a part, or in that dreadful state of boredom that inched closer and closer to being emotionless.
While the meeting fit all three of his criteria- the idea of conversation soon broke him away from the manual manipulation of his emotions. His expression briefly switched to something of anger- his tail flickered red.
This tail is the bane of my existence. A weight- like a stain that won’t wash away. An exposure. A reminder.
He thought to himself. He always had a small resentment for the exposure his tail brought him- the center of attention that it created, the looming shadow of his condition reminding him that these stupid vials were all that kept him even partially alive. His emotions quickly switched to something more suitable for conversation, as his tail flashed to colors of orange and yellow- his facial expression in the blink of an eye turning to something more relaxed as he wore a faint smile.
“ ‘Supposed to’ is a strong phrase, I wouldn’t exactly describe it as something that’s meant to happen.”
He spoke with a slightly higher pitch and a friendly voice, despite the numerous unanswered questions that his response seemed to generate. He let out a small chuckle. In the midst of their conversation- the meeting seemed to slowly end as recruits with a better understanding of the Black Dogs’ purpose began to flood out of the command tent towards their personal ones- eagerly waiting to hear about the battle plans tomorrow.
“Though it is interesting you’d notice its color before its appearance as a whole. Most people around here won’t even take a seat near me.”
He let out another small chuckle, he didn’t seem upset by the negative attention he was drawing. He seemed to look in Arris’s direction looking at her father’s look of disdain- the narrowed eyes that focused on his tail and horns rather than his face.
“For example- Exhibit A”
He turned towards Arris’s father’s direction as he spoke slightly louder towards them.
Why don’t we test the waters…
“You’ve been looking so much I’m starting to think there’s something stuck between my teeth. Or maybe my hair is covering these fascinating horns?”
Despite the mockery of the message he said it in the same polite and friendly voice he spoke to Merry in. His tail shifted slightly from left to right as he asked the question- as if he were drawing more attention to his inhuman features.
In the Black Dogs’ command tent
Almost instantly after he heard the whispers from his side his sharpened gaze went away, his focus easily broken off from the meeting at hand. He cleared his throat briefly, his emotions subconsciously switching in his mind to something more casual and friendly. It was rather rare that he did influence his emotions manually- only in situations where his curious nature seemed to take over his will to reason, where he needed to play a part, or in that dreadful state of boredom that inched closer and closer to being emotionless.
While the meeting fit all three of his criteria- the idea of conversation soon broke him away from the manual manipulation of his emotions. His expression briefly switched to something of anger- his tail flickered red.
This tail is the bane of my existence. A weight- like a stain that won’t wash away. An exposure. A reminder.
He thought to himself. He always had a small resentment for the exposure his tail brought him- the center of attention that it created, the looming shadow of his condition reminding him that these stupid vials were all that kept him even partially alive. His emotions quickly switched to something more suitable for conversation, as his tail flashed to colors of orange and yellow- his facial expression in the blink of an eye turning to something more relaxed as he wore a faint smile.
“ ‘Supposed to’ is a strong phrase, I wouldn’t exactly describe it as something that’s meant to happen.”
He spoke with a slightly higher pitch and a friendly voice, despite the numerous unanswered questions that his response seemed to generate. He let out a small chuckle. In the midst of their conversation- the meeting seemed to slowly end as recruits with a better understanding of the Black Dogs’ purpose began to flood out of the command tent towards their personal ones- eagerly waiting to hear about the battle plans tomorrow.
“Though it is interesting you’d notice its color before its appearance as a whole. Most people around here won’t even take a seat near me.”
He let out another small chuckle, he didn’t seem upset by the negative attention he was drawing. He seemed to look in Arris’s direction looking at her father’s look of disdain- the narrowed eyes that focused on his tail and horns rather than his face.
“For example- Exhibit A”
He turned towards Arris’s father’s direction as he spoke slightly louder towards them.
Why don’t we test the waters…
“You’ve been looking so much I’m starting to think there’s something stuck between my teeth. Or maybe my hair is covering these fascinating horns?”
Despite the mockery of the message he said it in the same polite and friendly voice he spoke to Merry in. His tail shifted slightly from left to right as he asked the question- as if he were drawing more attention to his inhuman features.
ThatWhichShouldBe
Sleeper of Endless Eons Whence Death May Die
- Group
- Dice
- Nation Building
- Off-site
Captain Alois de Garnier
Alois is dressing himself in his personal tent- And already, the privileges of being a Division Captain are apparent. His very own tent. With a mirror, even. Just like in the Chevaliers, when he was a much richer man. How... nostalgic. Though not all of those memories were particularly pleasant. God, how he chafed in the Order. Julians could be so insufferable, and none knew this better than a Julian himself. Honestly, he should have left the order years ago.
Instead, he finds himself now in command of a patchwork unit, made of all manner of people, with no knowledge of their reliability nor their expertise. He supposed it was in some ways what he would get, for his 'noble deeds'. Uncovering a fraud ring in the Black Dogs had landed him a command post, but he'd pissed off enough people doing so that it wouldn't be a good one. Seemed to be a bit of a trend in whatever organization he worked for, really. The Order or the House Garnier. Do the right thing, eat shit for it.
Eh. C'est la vie.
He reviews the files one last time. Some of the notables in his new, motley force. Smoke, the assassin. Infiltration, stealth- the most dishonorable forms of war. Tch. Just his luck. They could prove useful for scouting, but he was loath to rely on deception. Even if only from a practical standpoint- a mercenary company lived and died on reputation. An assassin worth their salt would have none. Their targets would simply... cease to be. And then there was 'Merry', who he suspected he would be relying on as an aide. Alois knew his limits- and while he was an excellent logistician and warrior, he was not a tactician. Postumus as well- he needed people who would tell him his ideas were stupid to his face. Aurox and Elara... He had little experience with the application of mages. And then there was that knight. From the Dossier... he suspected they would get along quite unpleasantly. He'd simply have to see for himself what they could do, and what they were like.
He puts the files away, and leaves through the flap, heading into the command tent, before standing at attention as he watches his troops file in with a careful eye, studying each one of them.
"I am Captain Alois de Garnier, and from this moment on, I shall be your commanding officer. Welcome to the New Division. I am told," he smiles, "Depending on our performance in our first mission, we shall be earning a proper name."
He taps the map laid out on the table before them, marked with the locations of towns, markers indicating pre-existing garrisons and troop dispostions, as well as notes on the terrain. That at least, Alois had been sure to find and note down. Supplying their troops here could be quite troublesome, for the Ank were likely to raid their supply lines.
"Our assignment is to prevent the Ank Tribe from continuing their attacks on cantons. Kindly introduce yourselves, and describe how you would approach this assignment."
He'd like to gauge the caliber of his subordinates right out the gate.
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