Riverview Rest Inn, Nevuchar Springs, Darkon
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Riverview Rest Inn, Nevuchar Springs, Darkon
End of December
Professor Kingsley was seated at her usual table near the window. It was mid-afternoon and quiet in the dining room. Her tea was tepid, forgotten in her writings. It was a bleak day; the Mistlands was presently living up to its name. Stretches of fog spread out over the Vuchar River, now and then pierced by a ray of sunlight. It reminded her of Paridon, and a brief wave of homesickness washed over her. She lay down her pen, moved the letter aside, and brought her elbows on to the table. She then rested her chin on her palms and stared out at the grey landscape.
The Darkest Night had come and gone; Gertrude had made a mental note never to be in Darkon again for that event. The arrival of winter and the coming end of the year had not been any aid to her mood considering her latest readings and interviews. Undead, liches, Fall of Night, Time of Unparalleled Darkness, Doomsday Device… This particular sect had never drawn her attention before, with its apocalyptic worldview and barbaric approach to Ezra’s worship. She had been surprised by Teodorus Raines’ acceptance of nonhumans, considering his harsh attitudes to practically everything else. She recalled with some regret the dusty state of the elven shrines she’d visited. She’d been informed that the worshippers had seen the light of Ezra and turned to her church. Privately, Gertrude believed they’d seen the horror of the Last Redoubt and decided that an abandoned shrine was better than a destroyed one.
The Last Redoubt… Her visits to that wreck of a church left a bitter taste in her mouth. Here were a people who maintained the Nevuchar Shrine, with a tree able to turn salt water sweet. She smiled to recall the marvel, the fresh taste. Their cottages were framed by living trees, lovingly maintained… and they were home to Ezra’s ugliest, most morbid sect. Paradox…
Yet despite her dislike for Raines’ methods and views, she had to grant the Bastion had been generous with the resources he’d put at her disposal. She’d been granted access to certain sections of the library, and been permitted to borrow a couple of books during her short stay in the growing town. Her studies on the forms of magic had been put aside as she tried to grasp the nature of the problem van Rijn had presented them back in October, and her own role in events.
What am I going to do…
Professor Kingsley was seated at her usual table near the window. It was mid-afternoon and quiet in the dining room. Her tea was tepid, forgotten in her writings. It was a bleak day; the Mistlands was presently living up to its name. Stretches of fog spread out over the Vuchar River, now and then pierced by a ray of sunlight. It reminded her of Paridon, and a brief wave of homesickness washed over her. She lay down her pen, moved the letter aside, and brought her elbows on to the table. She then rested her chin on her palms and stared out at the grey landscape.
The Darkest Night had come and gone; Gertrude had made a mental note never to be in Darkon again for that event. The arrival of winter and the coming end of the year had not been any aid to her mood considering her latest readings and interviews. Undead, liches, Fall of Night, Time of Unparalleled Darkness, Doomsday Device… This particular sect had never drawn her attention before, with its apocalyptic worldview and barbaric approach to Ezra’s worship. She had been surprised by Teodorus Raines’ acceptance of nonhumans, considering his harsh attitudes to practically everything else. She recalled with some regret the dusty state of the elven shrines she’d visited. She’d been informed that the worshippers had seen the light of Ezra and turned to her church. Privately, Gertrude believed they’d seen the horror of the Last Redoubt and decided that an abandoned shrine was better than a destroyed one.
The Last Redoubt… Her visits to that wreck of a church left a bitter taste in her mouth. Here were a people who maintained the Nevuchar Shrine, with a tree able to turn salt water sweet. She smiled to recall the marvel, the fresh taste. Their cottages were framed by living trees, lovingly maintained… and they were home to Ezra’s ugliest, most morbid sect. Paradox…
Yet despite her dislike for Raines’ methods and views, she had to grant the Bastion had been generous with the resources he’d put at her disposal. She’d been granted access to certain sections of the library, and been permitted to borrow a couple of books during her short stay in the growing town. Her studies on the forms of magic had been put aside as she tried to grasp the nature of the problem van Rijn had presented them back in October, and her own role in events.
What am I going to do…
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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A letter slips under Getrude's door. The paper is midnight black! Running footsteps are heard from outside. Whoever did the delivery has run away.
The paper is sealed with golden-hued wax with the impression of Serd's house insignia, a fox's head.
The paper is sealed with golden-hued wax with the impression of Serd's house insignia, a fox's head.
"You truly see what a person is made of, when you begin to slice into them" - Semirhage
"I am not mad, no matter what you're implying." - Litalia
My DMGuild work!
"I am not mad, no matter what you're implying." - Litalia
My DMGuild work!
- Pamela
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As the dining room darkened, Gertrude gathered up her books and writings. Her fingers flowed through the folds of her brown skirts, straightening it out and smoothing creases. She picked up her small pile and made her way upstairs to her room.
The corridor was gloomy but the professor paid no heed; the lamps would be lit within the next few minutes. Tucking her pile into the crook of her right arm, she reached into her pocket, retrieving the key with her left hand. She unlocked the door and entered the room, missing the letter in the darkness.
She lit the lamp which stood on a nearby stand, and placed the books on the bed. As she returned to close the door, she saw the black rectangle with a gold seal upon the mat.
“What in the world…” she murmured to herself, slightly annoyed. “We do have a concierge here.” She broke the seal and unfolded the letter, trying to recall where she’d last seen the fox’s head.
Oh wait, that letter from Serd…black paper?! How dramatic…and impractical…
The corridor was gloomy but the professor paid no heed; the lamps would be lit within the next few minutes. Tucking her pile into the crook of her right arm, she reached into her pocket, retrieving the key with her left hand. She unlocked the door and entered the room, missing the letter in the darkness.
She lit the lamp which stood on a nearby stand, and placed the books on the bed. As she returned to close the door, she saw the black rectangle with a gold seal upon the mat.
“What in the world…” she murmured to herself, slightly annoyed. “We do have a concierge here.” She broke the seal and unfolded the letter, trying to recall where she’d last seen the fox’s head.
Oh wait, that letter from Serd…black paper?! How dramatic…and impractical…
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Bird's-eye view
Cloaked doubly by the twilight and the thick fog that drifted across the Vuchar’s languid flow, the VRS agent wiped condensation from the lens of his spyglass yet again, then set it once more to his eye. The professor’s seating preferences had been a lucky break for him – Have to make a note to caution her about security, he wryly mused – yet he’d not been able to get close enough, even with the scope’s aid, to clearly make out the titles of those books she’d been reading by the window. Still, he’d kept close watch as she took her leave of the Riverview’s dining room, and counted off seconds, thereafter, until one of the upstairs guest-rooms came alight. Unless there was some other guest in residence who bound her hair so primly, in shadowed silhouette upon the chamber’s curtains, Crow now knew the Paridonian scholar’s room number.
Good to know, in case tomorrow’s rendezvous doesn’t play out as planned. If Buchvold was a sledgehammer, this formidable little matron may well be a scalpel – subtle, precise, and sharp as all hells – and hence, an entirely different class of challenge.
“Sounds like fun, eh Ceatsã…?,” the bard murmured to his Steed, and swept a gloved hand through the dense mists that surrounded them. Chuckling lightly as he closed his palm around the vapors, he leaned forward in the saddle and cupped his hand before the conjured mount’s lips. Perhaps it was vanity, but he liked to believe the Phantom Steed’s limited quasi-existence was brightened by such gestures; certainly, though the Mistborn creation had no biological requirement for sustenance, Ceatsã compliantly went through the motions of “eating” the handfuls of fog he occasionally “fed” it.
Then the bard straightened in his seat, grimacing momentarily as he did so – too many consecutive nights of riding, these past weeks, and he’d have missed Kingsley entirely had he spared himself more time to recuperate – and collapsed the spyglass, tucking it securely into the form-fitting sheath of his right saddlebag. Crow turned the Mist-gray greatcoat’s collar up even higher, to keep the fog-trail of his Steed’s mane from soaking his vest, and toe-nudged Ceatsã into an eerily-soundless canter, seeking a landing-point where no witness would see rider and mount disembark from the lazy Vuchar’s trackless, unrippled surface.
Good to know, in case tomorrow’s rendezvous doesn’t play out as planned. If Buchvold was a sledgehammer, this formidable little matron may well be a scalpel – subtle, precise, and sharp as all hells – and hence, an entirely different class of challenge.
“Sounds like fun, eh Ceatsã…?,” the bard murmured to his Steed, and swept a gloved hand through the dense mists that surrounded them. Chuckling lightly as he closed his palm around the vapors, he leaned forward in the saddle and cupped his hand before the conjured mount’s lips. Perhaps it was vanity, but he liked to believe the Phantom Steed’s limited quasi-existence was brightened by such gestures; certainly, though the Mistborn creation had no biological requirement for sustenance, Ceatsã compliantly went through the motions of “eating” the handfuls of fog he occasionally “fed” it.
Then the bard straightened in his seat, grimacing momentarily as he did so – too many consecutive nights of riding, these past weeks, and he’d have missed Kingsley entirely had he spared himself more time to recuperate – and collapsed the spyglass, tucking it securely into the form-fitting sheath of his right saddlebag. Crow turned the Mist-gray greatcoat’s collar up even higher, to keep the fog-trail of his Steed’s mane from soaking his vest, and toe-nudged Ceatsã into an eerily-soundless canter, seeking a landing-point where no witness would see rider and mount disembark from the lazy Vuchar’s trackless, unrippled surface.
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
- Pamela
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Unfolding the letter, Gertrude stared, then sighed. “First Tao, now Serd- must everyone act like we’re in a threepenny novel? I suppose there are spies outside my window, watching my every move.'' She rolled her eyes, shaking her head over it all.
She spoke a syllable and briefly waved her hand over the black, seemingly blank, page.
She spoke a syllable and briefly waved her hand over the black, seemingly blank, page.
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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At the arcane command, the black paper transformed to normal paper written by Serd's hand. A few words were written on the paper.
"Professor Kingsley,
I'm to come to Nevuchar Springs to meet you about at 10 - 12 January 760. I'll bring along the copies of the books I acquired in that fateful excursion, so we can discuss our findings and plan ahead.
To make sure that no illusion - cloaked scoundrel or monster impersonates either of us, I would advise a simple method of recognition. When we meet, and I look forward to it, I'll drop the word "Eternity" in my greeting. I would expect to hear the word "history" if all is fine or the word "Immortality" if there are problems and you can't speak freely to alert me.
Anxious to meet you,
Draxton Serd.
26 December 759"
"Professor Kingsley,
I'm to come to Nevuchar Springs to meet you about at 10 - 12 January 760. I'll bring along the copies of the books I acquired in that fateful excursion, so we can discuss our findings and plan ahead.
To make sure that no illusion - cloaked scoundrel or monster impersonates either of us, I would advise a simple method of recognition. When we meet, and I look forward to it, I'll drop the word "Eternity" in my greeting. I would expect to hear the word "history" if all is fine or the word "Immortality" if there are problems and you can't speak freely to alert me.
Anxious to meet you,
Draxton Serd.
26 December 759"
"You truly see what a person is made of, when you begin to slice into them" - Semirhage
"I am not mad, no matter what you're implying." - Litalia
My DMGuild work!
"I am not mad, no matter what you're implying." - Litalia
My DMGuild work!
- Pamela
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“Bloody sun, man, if anyone intercepted this letter they’d then know what to do, wouldn’t they?!” The professor clucked her tongue in exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, I was planning on being gone by this date, and have no means to contact you!”
Frown lines creased her forehead as she returned to the bed with the letter. Why is he contacting me? We barely talked at Le Manoir, and surely there are other brothers he’s much more familiar with. I’m of low rank in the Fraternity, and have only begun reading about the undead. It made no sense to her, and this made her highly suspicious. What does he want of me?
And what is he up to that requires such secrecy? She wondered if the curse he’d gained had affected him more than physically. A man who considers a curse a badge of honour is not very wise…but what was the book that he retrieved? Perhaps he wants my opinion of the work…Religious tomes were a private weakness.
Curiosity warred with prudence. I could arrange a brief excursion south to get myself out of Darkon, and return…but dammit, it does mean a delay in my schedule. Do I really want to deal with this man? Who else is involved with these shenanigans? And again, she asked herself, why me?
She carefully folded up the letter, she would burn it later after she had written an expurgated version of it for her husband. She did reach for her diary, and under the 10th of January wrote:
Invisible Man. vale Aeternitas! Bona historia, mala immortalitas!
………………………
The next morning, Gertrude donned her dove-grey skirt and jacket. She smiled as she did up its buttons; Rupert often bemoaned her ‘governess look’. He’d often threatened to buy her spectacles to complete her ensemble till she’d finally pretended to consider the ludicrous idea. The professor was willing to downplay her looks, but even she had a limit.
She pulled out her tidy scholarly pile to double-check that all her papers were in order. She put them back in her blue, faded carpet bag and all ready to return to her studies headed downstairs once more.
She nodded her head to the other guests she’d come to recognise during her stay so far; most were pilgrims or traders. The latter had provided useful information on her encounters with the elves, as well as the invaluable hint to often mention that she would be returning home soon. Her place was set and she smiled at the brilliant dawn which was lighting up the whole room. A good day….
Frown lines creased her forehead as she returned to the bed with the letter. Why is he contacting me? We barely talked at Le Manoir, and surely there are other brothers he’s much more familiar with. I’m of low rank in the Fraternity, and have only begun reading about the undead. It made no sense to her, and this made her highly suspicious. What does he want of me?
And what is he up to that requires such secrecy? She wondered if the curse he’d gained had affected him more than physically. A man who considers a curse a badge of honour is not very wise…but what was the book that he retrieved? Perhaps he wants my opinion of the work…Religious tomes were a private weakness.
Curiosity warred with prudence. I could arrange a brief excursion south to get myself out of Darkon, and return…but dammit, it does mean a delay in my schedule. Do I really want to deal with this man? Who else is involved with these shenanigans? And again, she asked herself, why me?
She carefully folded up the letter, she would burn it later after she had written an expurgated version of it for her husband. She did reach for her diary, and under the 10th of January wrote:
Invisible Man. vale Aeternitas! Bona historia, mala immortalitas!
………………………
The next morning, Gertrude donned her dove-grey skirt and jacket. She smiled as she did up its buttons; Rupert often bemoaned her ‘governess look’. He’d often threatened to buy her spectacles to complete her ensemble till she’d finally pretended to consider the ludicrous idea. The professor was willing to downplay her looks, but even she had a limit.
She pulled out her tidy scholarly pile to double-check that all her papers were in order. She put them back in her blue, faded carpet bag and all ready to return to her studies headed downstairs once more.
She nodded her head to the other guests she’d come to recognise during her stay so far; most were pilgrims or traders. The latter had provided useful information on her encounters with the elves, as well as the invaluable hint to often mention that she would be returning home soon. Her place was set and she smiled at the brilliant dawn which was lighting up the whole room. A good day….
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
- Rotipher of the FoS
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Not a dozen paces from the sternly-garbed professor, tucked away on the shadowed side of the panoramic window-array for which the hotel took its name, the bard tilted his butterknife's polished surface slightly to check his reflection for flaws, then back to verify that Kingsley hadn't budged. No problem with his makeup -- he'd worn one of his more generic guises to the Manoir de Penombre, two months and a lifetime's worth of anxiety ago; reconstructing its details was simple, and was fast becoming routine, even allowing for its current modifications -- and the FoS sister appeared quite captivated first by the view, then by her paperwork, as she awaited delivery of her breakfast from the Riverview's kitchens.
Same window-seat, and she hasn't 'made' me or she'd not have spread those documents so indiscretely across the table. Looks like it's amateur hour again, Crow-my-lad ... but be careful: this one likely won't let anger or arrogance cloud her judgement, and you don't know what her ulterior motives are, as yet.
Mentally reviewing the text of his bogus letter to this inquisitive out-Core scholar, and rehearsing possible "feints and parries" to be wielded in this conversational gambit, the bard waited, huddled low within the concealing swath of his greatcoat -- a garment he'd actually bought, for once, albeit secondhand so as to obscure his own psychic signature beneath its former owner's -- to make sure the professor wasn't meeting anyone else for the morning meal. Satisfied, shortly, that she breakfasted alone, Crow laid a few coins beside his own emptied dish (Not the best circumstance to be accused, in mid-scheme, of skipping out on one's bill!), shrugged his shoulders free of the voluminous coat -- he'd bought it two sizes too big, which could be useful for concealment but embarassing in a social encounter; it would stay behind, to save his table for him -- and grudgingly took up the magpie-crowned black walking stick (another ornithological mismatch, but at least the taxonomy was closer than the owlhead Buchvold could have lent him). The bard didn't much care for canes, either as fashion-statement or locomotory aide, but he'd ridden so extensively and so soon after his ankle's re-injury, he hadn't much of a choice in the matter aside from falling on his face.
Still, his limp posed rather an embarassment to Crow -- it normally wasn't nearly as bad or evident as this, and he hated feeling weak, even if he could feign weakness without complaint -- so he timed his "ambush" so that the professor'd not see him favoring his limb, as he approached. In this, the Paridonian's own disciplined intellectual focus proved an ally: whatever she read must've been interesting, as it held her attention quite exclusively. So absorbed in her studies was she, the first Kingsley knew of the VRS spy's presence was when a looming, agitated figure suddenly blotted out the sunlight that fell across her paperwork, and slapped down yet another sheet of paper -- the very letter she'd sent to the bard's Ludendorf mail-drop, weeks ago -- on the table before her with a sigil-ringed hand, indignantly shouting:
"How the devil did you get this address, woman?!"
Same window-seat, and she hasn't 'made' me or she'd not have spread those documents so indiscretely across the table. Looks like it's amateur hour again, Crow-my-lad ... but be careful: this one likely won't let anger or arrogance cloud her judgement, and you don't know what her ulterior motives are, as yet.
Mentally reviewing the text of his bogus letter to this inquisitive out-Core scholar, and rehearsing possible "feints and parries" to be wielded in this conversational gambit, the bard waited, huddled low within the concealing swath of his greatcoat -- a garment he'd actually bought, for once, albeit secondhand so as to obscure his own psychic signature beneath its former owner's -- to make sure the professor wasn't meeting anyone else for the morning meal. Satisfied, shortly, that she breakfasted alone, Crow laid a few coins beside his own emptied dish (Not the best circumstance to be accused, in mid-scheme, of skipping out on one's bill!), shrugged his shoulders free of the voluminous coat -- he'd bought it two sizes too big, which could be useful for concealment but embarassing in a social encounter; it would stay behind, to save his table for him -- and grudgingly took up the magpie-crowned black walking stick (another ornithological mismatch, but at least the taxonomy was closer than the owlhead Buchvold could have lent him). The bard didn't much care for canes, either as fashion-statement or locomotory aide, but he'd ridden so extensively and so soon after his ankle's re-injury, he hadn't much of a choice in the matter aside from falling on his face.
Still, his limp posed rather an embarassment to Crow -- it normally wasn't nearly as bad or evident as this, and he hated feeling weak, even if he could feign weakness without complaint -- so he timed his "ambush" so that the professor'd not see him favoring his limb, as he approached. In this, the Paridonian's own disciplined intellectual focus proved an ally: whatever she read must've been interesting, as it held her attention quite exclusively. So absorbed in her studies was she, the first Kingsley knew of the VRS spy's presence was when a looming, agitated figure suddenly blotted out the sunlight that fell across her paperwork, and slapped down yet another sheet of paper -- the very letter she'd sent to the bard's Ludendorf mail-drop, weeks ago -- on the table before her with a sigil-ringed hand, indignantly shouting:
"How the devil did you get this address, woman?!"
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Gertrude had taken her seat, still smiling as she basked in the dawn that brightened her view of the Vuchar River. If she had been home in Paridon, she would have had the Newsbill in her hands, tutting over the latest scandals besetting the government. She hesitated briefly, then gave in to her need to read, as she always did. The carpet bag’s clasps were undone, and she reached for her notebook, pens, and the cherished History of the Nevuchar Shrine. The book was an excellent translation of an elvish work, and soon she was lost in its poetry. The professor took careful notes, marking not only asides and questions but page numbers to passages which were elegant in wording.
She had ignored the shadow, assuming it to be an attentive servant checking if she was done or required another tea, or possibly another diner who wanted to enjoy the view. These unconscious assumptions were shaken apart when the accusation was hurled and a paper flung upon her notes.
Her eyes revealed her surprise and irritation at the rude interruption as she asked in a cool voice, “I beg your pardon?” As the words emerged from her lips, she registered who her inquisitor was- and the state of disrepair and neglect he seemed to be in, despite his fine clothing.
“For heaven’s sake, Crow, what’s happened to you?” she blurted out. She was rising from her seat even as she spoke, pulling up a chair for him. She gave a look to a fast- approaching servant to assure him that she was fine, and nodded towards her cup and her companion. Her manner seemed brisk, as if ready to fend off any protestations at her aid, but her hand was gentle as she guided the young man into the seat. Once he was seated, she gave a light pat to his shoulder before resuming her own place. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a cup of tea but if you do not want it, please inform Lukas what you would like instead. Habit,” she said ruefully, gesturing to her own cup.
Recalling his question, she said chidingly but gently, “As for my letter- really now, if this is how you address acquaintances, I am chary of naming your friend. I can assure you that I have not given your mailing addresses to anyone else. Indeed it was strongly impressed upon me that you would not wish such information bandied about. This is why I made the letter as short and innocuous as I could.”
She had ignored the shadow, assuming it to be an attentive servant checking if she was done or required another tea, or possibly another diner who wanted to enjoy the view. These unconscious assumptions were shaken apart when the accusation was hurled and a paper flung upon her notes.
Her eyes revealed her surprise and irritation at the rude interruption as she asked in a cool voice, “I beg your pardon?” As the words emerged from her lips, she registered who her inquisitor was- and the state of disrepair and neglect he seemed to be in, despite his fine clothing.
“For heaven’s sake, Crow, what’s happened to you?” she blurted out. She was rising from her seat even as she spoke, pulling up a chair for him. She gave a look to a fast- approaching servant to assure him that she was fine, and nodded towards her cup and her companion. Her manner seemed brisk, as if ready to fend off any protestations at her aid, but her hand was gentle as she guided the young man into the seat. Once he was seated, she gave a light pat to his shoulder before resuming her own place. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a cup of tea but if you do not want it, please inform Lukas what you would like instead. Habit,” she said ruefully, gesturing to her own cup.
Recalling his question, she said chidingly but gently, “As for my letter- really now, if this is how you address acquaintances, I am chary of naming your friend. I can assure you that I have not given your mailing addresses to anyone else. Indeed it was strongly impressed upon me that you would not wish such information bandied about. This is why I made the letter as short and innocuous as I could.”
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
- Rotipher of the FoS
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At Kingsley’s dismayed exclamation, the bard froze: his affected trembling of outrage, stilled by a stiffness bespeaking some unbearable inner tension. For an instant, he let the genuine strain and trepidation of his past weeks’ frantic questing, as the clock inevitably ticked off the dwindling hours until Darkest Night, sweep across his features. Together with the haggard, weary aspect he’d given his cosmetic guise, the sleepless reddening-of-eye achieved via pungent camphor vapors (left over from his defunct auto-trap), and the disheveled state of his black curls (which, frankly, he seldom bothered to comb anyway), Crow knew his “haunted” demeanor would ring all-too-true: it really was precisely how he had felt, in those nightmarish weeks before the sun rose on the 22nd to an unwounded Darkon, that terrible whisper heralding apocalypse – this time – mercifully unheard.
(Another year fate had spared him, if the pattern held true and the mad-thing that reigned over Il Aluk’s ruins yet adhered to the conventions of its own macabre mythology. Time enough, perhaps, if the bard was shrewd and lucky, to avert a tragedy he’d failed to stop before … one tragedy, at least. If the pattern held….
(His dreams hadn’t ceased, despite the Solstice’s undisturbed passage. The one with the broken-hafted spear, it’d been last night, and an unbreathing chest’s faded scar, that he’d recogn— no, he mustn’t dwell upon that. The only dream-omen he could afford to contemplate, now, was its testament that the threat still remained, and Crow’s mission was far from over.)
Cued by the professor’s solicitous remarks and gestures – surprisingly so, for a Fraternity adherent; his training nonwithstanding, it took a conscious effort on the bard’s part not to doubt his own veiled suspicions, in light of her gracious manner: high tribute, indeed, to the prim scholar’s staunch force of presence – Crow relaxed his tense pose in compliance with her coaxing and let himself be guided to the proffered chair, stammering half-coherent words of contrition, and offering only the meekest of token objections to the Paridoner’s shepherding. Slumping heavily into the seat as if the weight of all the Land bore down upon his limbs, the bard hooked the cane onto the table’s edge and wearily buried his face in his hands, one propped elbow “accidentally” knocking the magpie-crowned stick clattering to the floor, with the insensate clumsiness of the physically- and emotionally-exhausted.
The bard affected not to notice, spoke brokenly into his palms, avoiding the professor’s concerned gaze as if shamed by his own outburst. “Forgive me … too long since I slept, not thinking straight … not well, anyway … damned country’s too big, like riding forever … even after the Solstice, I’d wake in the night … so sure I’d only dreamt it was over, or that I’d not counted off days correctly … kept waiting for the whisper to return…”
A covert glance, concealed by his pose of dejection, at the documents Kingsley’d strewn across the table. Nothing useful in her notes – Crow’s familiarity with Zherisian was so sketchy, all he could be certain of was that the professor did jot them in her native tongue – but the translated elven text was an unexpected surprise. Theological lore’s not the usual Fraternity fare, even from an historian’s perspective; that is interesting…
Knowing the server would be back with his tea promptly, and not wishing to appear too hapless – playing for sympathy was a viable opening ploy, especially if her veneer of compassion wasn’t wholly feigned, but Kingsley did need to conclude that he was worth vouching for – the bard shook his head and rubbed his temples, sat up a tad straighter as if rallying from fatigue. Better if I “recover” on my own, at least partially; vulnerability should help put her at ease, for starters, but overdo it and she’ll think me as useless as those daft matrons and ingénues she’d scorned at the Manoir! Gradually, as the professor insisted she’d not passed along the contents of “Tao’s” letter – a good sign, that – Crow allowed his dog-tired comportment to enliven a bit, his attentiveness to Kingsley’s words improving in cautious fits and starts. By the time his tea arrived, the bard had “revived” enough to lift the cup with only a slight tremor, easily steadied as he "regathered his wits".
“Madam,” he began speaking at last, after a few sips of the (excellent) tea had completed the charade of his revivification. “I confess I’m at a loss, to voice an apology equal to my discourtesy. I’d no right to address you so harshly, nor have I any business burdening you with my personal dilemmas. Were I but at liberty to do so, I would unquestionably offer such meager recompense as I might, by paying for the breakfast my rudeness has so clearly spoiled for you, and then remove myself posthaste from your presence without troubling you further.
“But I haven’t any such choice, I’m afraid … and it’s not solely on my own behalf, that my options have run out. If you only knew what your letter’s arrival foreboded, Professor – what it led me to speculate … nay, to fear … to receive it by that path – and what I’d half expected to find here, awaiting me in your stea— ”
The bard’s measured speech – its courtliness, upgraded markedly from how his initially-scripted monologue would have scanned, in deft emulation of the flowery elven writing-style the Paridoner’d clearly been enthralled to read – broke off abruptly, and he looked Kingsley in the eyes for the first time since his introductory shout. Met her gaze, as his own fume-reddened eyes widened, as with the sudden apprehension of some horrible possibility.
Hard to tell about you, Milady Scalpel, but you certainly seem like a decent-enough person. Too bad I have to scare the living daylights out of you, just now…
As he’d been speaking, Crow had set the teacup aside and lightly rested his hand on the crisp white tablecloth, a few inches from Kingsley’s. Now, as his widening eyes proclaimed alarm, his idle hand leapt to capture the professor’s in a painless, yet firmly-unyielding grasp. His free hand’s fingers twiddled a hurried melody, and his voice – suddenly far stronger – crooned an old Halan lay-healers’ ditty, used to time the steeping and admixture of herbal medicines.
Evidently caught off-guard, Kingsley could do no more than open her mouth to object before the revitalizing warmth of the healing-spell – no mean outcome to achieve via arcane techniques, aberrations like Hartly nonwithstanding, perplexed wizards down through the ages having failed to replicate such direct infusions of invigorating life-essence; Crow, conversely, had only to recollect how easily his performances with Tiahn could quicken the blood and raise the spirits of a previously-listless audience, and he had all the “positive energy” he needed – suffused her body. Whether he’d corrected some minor ache or scrape she’d suffered of late, hence revealing the spell's benevolence, or his personal quirks of casting-style had merely startled this arcana-expert into silence, the professor’s mouth closed without uttering the protest or cry for help she’d doubtless intended.
The bard released her hand at once, laid both his own flat upon the tabletop – the same gesture by which he’d expressed his disinclination to spell-battle, when first captured by Buchvold – and let his curly head dip low, in a contrite bow to the twice-affronted Paridoner.
“Again, Professor, the deepest of apologies wouldn’t begin to suffice. But I don’t speak Zherisian, to verify your identity that way … and the odem that attacked poor Corbil in Delagia last year knew our cell's old Fraternity passwords, sun save us all … by my oath to the Brethren, madam, I swear it was the only way I knew, to be certain you were still truly one of us.
"But perhaps, now, you might surmise why I absolutely must see whatever missive my alleged 'friend' sent to you."
OOC: I honestly don't know if Cure Light Wounds would do a darn thing to damage an odem that's invaded a living body -- the 3E books don't seem to mention if undead lose their traits while their possession-powers are in effect, and VRGtG was written before Cure-spells damaged the undead -- and I'm not sure Crow knows either. But so long as Kingsley can be convinced that's what he was testing her for, who cares?![Wink :wink:](./images/smilies/icon_wink.gif)
(Another year fate had spared him, if the pattern held true and the mad-thing that reigned over Il Aluk’s ruins yet adhered to the conventions of its own macabre mythology. Time enough, perhaps, if the bard was shrewd and lucky, to avert a tragedy he’d failed to stop before … one tragedy, at least. If the pattern held….
(His dreams hadn’t ceased, despite the Solstice’s undisturbed passage. The one with the broken-hafted spear, it’d been last night, and an unbreathing chest’s faded scar, that he’d recogn— no, he mustn’t dwell upon that. The only dream-omen he could afford to contemplate, now, was its testament that the threat still remained, and Crow’s mission was far from over.)
Cued by the professor’s solicitous remarks and gestures – surprisingly so, for a Fraternity adherent; his training nonwithstanding, it took a conscious effort on the bard’s part not to doubt his own veiled suspicions, in light of her gracious manner: high tribute, indeed, to the prim scholar’s staunch force of presence – Crow relaxed his tense pose in compliance with her coaxing and let himself be guided to the proffered chair, stammering half-coherent words of contrition, and offering only the meekest of token objections to the Paridoner’s shepherding. Slumping heavily into the seat as if the weight of all the Land bore down upon his limbs, the bard hooked the cane onto the table’s edge and wearily buried his face in his hands, one propped elbow “accidentally” knocking the magpie-crowned stick clattering to the floor, with the insensate clumsiness of the physically- and emotionally-exhausted.
The bard affected not to notice, spoke brokenly into his palms, avoiding the professor’s concerned gaze as if shamed by his own outburst. “Forgive me … too long since I slept, not thinking straight … not well, anyway … damned country’s too big, like riding forever … even after the Solstice, I’d wake in the night … so sure I’d only dreamt it was over, or that I’d not counted off days correctly … kept waiting for the whisper to return…”
A covert glance, concealed by his pose of dejection, at the documents Kingsley’d strewn across the table. Nothing useful in her notes – Crow’s familiarity with Zherisian was so sketchy, all he could be certain of was that the professor did jot them in her native tongue – but the translated elven text was an unexpected surprise. Theological lore’s not the usual Fraternity fare, even from an historian’s perspective; that is interesting…
Knowing the server would be back with his tea promptly, and not wishing to appear too hapless – playing for sympathy was a viable opening ploy, especially if her veneer of compassion wasn’t wholly feigned, but Kingsley did need to conclude that he was worth vouching for – the bard shook his head and rubbed his temples, sat up a tad straighter as if rallying from fatigue. Better if I “recover” on my own, at least partially; vulnerability should help put her at ease, for starters, but overdo it and she’ll think me as useless as those daft matrons and ingénues she’d scorned at the Manoir! Gradually, as the professor insisted she’d not passed along the contents of “Tao’s” letter – a good sign, that – Crow allowed his dog-tired comportment to enliven a bit, his attentiveness to Kingsley’s words improving in cautious fits and starts. By the time his tea arrived, the bard had “revived” enough to lift the cup with only a slight tremor, easily steadied as he "regathered his wits".
“Madam,” he began speaking at last, after a few sips of the (excellent) tea had completed the charade of his revivification. “I confess I’m at a loss, to voice an apology equal to my discourtesy. I’d no right to address you so harshly, nor have I any business burdening you with my personal dilemmas. Were I but at liberty to do so, I would unquestionably offer such meager recompense as I might, by paying for the breakfast my rudeness has so clearly spoiled for you, and then remove myself posthaste from your presence without troubling you further.
“But I haven’t any such choice, I’m afraid … and it’s not solely on my own behalf, that my options have run out. If you only knew what your letter’s arrival foreboded, Professor – what it led me to speculate … nay, to fear … to receive it by that path – and what I’d half expected to find here, awaiting me in your stea— ”
The bard’s measured speech – its courtliness, upgraded markedly from how his initially-scripted monologue would have scanned, in deft emulation of the flowery elven writing-style the Paridoner’d clearly been enthralled to read – broke off abruptly, and he looked Kingsley in the eyes for the first time since his introductory shout. Met her gaze, as his own fume-reddened eyes widened, as with the sudden apprehension of some horrible possibility.
Hard to tell about you, Milady Scalpel, but you certainly seem like a decent-enough person. Too bad I have to scare the living daylights out of you, just now…
As he’d been speaking, Crow had set the teacup aside and lightly rested his hand on the crisp white tablecloth, a few inches from Kingsley’s. Now, as his widening eyes proclaimed alarm, his idle hand leapt to capture the professor’s in a painless, yet firmly-unyielding grasp. His free hand’s fingers twiddled a hurried melody, and his voice – suddenly far stronger – crooned an old Halan lay-healers’ ditty, used to time the steeping and admixture of herbal medicines.
Evidently caught off-guard, Kingsley could do no more than open her mouth to object before the revitalizing warmth of the healing-spell – no mean outcome to achieve via arcane techniques, aberrations like Hartly nonwithstanding, perplexed wizards down through the ages having failed to replicate such direct infusions of invigorating life-essence; Crow, conversely, had only to recollect how easily his performances with Tiahn could quicken the blood and raise the spirits of a previously-listless audience, and he had all the “positive energy” he needed – suffused her body. Whether he’d corrected some minor ache or scrape she’d suffered of late, hence revealing the spell's benevolence, or his personal quirks of casting-style had merely startled this arcana-expert into silence, the professor’s mouth closed without uttering the protest or cry for help she’d doubtless intended.
The bard released her hand at once, laid both his own flat upon the tabletop – the same gesture by which he’d expressed his disinclination to spell-battle, when first captured by Buchvold – and let his curly head dip low, in a contrite bow to the twice-affronted Paridoner.
“Again, Professor, the deepest of apologies wouldn’t begin to suffice. But I don’t speak Zherisian, to verify your identity that way … and the odem that attacked poor Corbil in Delagia last year knew our cell's old Fraternity passwords, sun save us all … by my oath to the Brethren, madam, I swear it was the only way I knew, to be certain you were still truly one of us.
"But perhaps, now, you might surmise why I absolutely must see whatever missive my alleged 'friend' sent to you."
OOC: I honestly don't know if Cure Light Wounds would do a darn thing to damage an odem that's invaded a living body -- the 3E books don't seem to mention if undead lose their traits while their possession-powers are in effect, and VRGtG was written before Cure-spells damaged the undead -- and I'm not sure Crow knows either. But so long as Kingsley can be convinced that's what he was testing her for, who cares?
![Wink :wink:](./images/smilies/icon_wink.gif)
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
- Pamela
- Sorority Shadow
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When the cane clattered to the floor, the professor picked it up while the young bard seemed to recover himself. Zherisians were known as a reserved people and Gertrude wasn’t any different. She had tried to teach herself to give leeway to the more…expressive…manners of others, but still had a voice in the back of her head which sighed at such exhibitionistic behaviour. The raven-haired young man was a bard, and not Zherisian- both good reasons to expect such lack of discipline. But she didn’t trust him- not since that odd letter- and he hadn’t been such a woman when faced with a potential lich, wererats and a troop of zombies. She was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but she refused to lay her qualms aside.
None of this was a conscious process of thought, but impressions which shaped her perception of Crow’s words and actions. She heard his apology and explanation but didn’t speak; if he were upset, he would still be too distraught to notice anything she said. Her eyes widened at the reference to the Darkest Night and to the Requiem of nine years before. The Fraternity elders had kept mum on the details of the missing folder, promising further details at the meeting that would come upon their new premises in the next month or so. She was still trying to gather information on the object, and knew little more. Was this the cause of the rise of Necropolis?! Where had Crow gained these details? ‘Whisper’- what is he talking about- had he truly been nearby when the Requiem had occurred? It would certainly explain his own vested interest in stopping the creation of this machine, even if he weren’t a Fraternity member. This unconsciously encouraged her sympathy and favour.
Gertrude was tempted to ask but curbed her curiosity. She was still owed an explanation over his paranoid reaction to her letter. If he still suspected her of heavens knew what, any questions would be in vain and would possibly invite further suspicion. She sipped her own tea in a companionable silence. The roué look rather suited the bard, and she suspected that he knew it. But the handsome were entitled after all, and she saw no reason not to appreciate nature’s fine sights.
She mildly shook her head at his apology as if to dismiss a minor incident not worth recalling. A light smile reflected her quiet amusement at his flowery words; the scholar loved the elvish turn of phrase and poetry- from elves, or on the stage. In daily discourse from humans she saw it as an affectation, or attempt to impress. She was not some thin-skinned blueblood whose laws of etiquette required such an abject show of shame; if she had been, she’d never gotten as far in her field. It wasn’t the first time somebody had yelled at the grocer’s daughter, nor would it be the last. Still it tickled her to hear such courtly words being displayed for her pleasure.
Her eyes reflected her interest as he started to speak of forebodings. She was intrigued to know what he thought would be following him and looked askance at his sudden silence. Did he feel he had said too much? She returned his gaze, as if to reassure that she were not whatever threat it was he imagined. She went still when he took her hand, as she fought the Zherisian revulsion at such sudden, intimate gestures but it quickly transformed into fear and rage at the unmistakable use of a spell.
Idiot! She thought at herself, bracing herself mentally and physically to try to fight off whatever he had cast, praying it wasn’t some form of mental control, a personal fear. She had been trying to pull her hand away and the effort’s minor pain was alleviated when the spell took effect. She froze, nearly gasping her relief and wonder when instinct and years of discipline clamped her lips shut.
At the release of her hand, she quickly brought her own hands into her lap, to hide her trembling. She looked down, hiding her face and the mix of emotions that were trying to overwhelm her. She had to fight against closing her eyes, and kept them focused on the man’s hands. Her back went stiff at this new apology; one outburst was a lapse of good manners; two indicative of a man’s habit. She had to curb the outrage that threatened to spill from her lips, knowing most of it was a reaction to her awareness of her fear and lack of caution. Beyond that, she refused to give anyone the satisfaction, let alone this impudent pup, of admitting it.
Then an unusual phrase caught her attention. ‘Sun save us all’…This caused her to look up with a sharp glance at Crow. Since the Great Upheaval, when the Mists had obliterated the entirety of Zherisia, circling the walls of Paridon as a gloomy prison, the sun had become a precious thing, and something sworn by in her homeland. She was unaware of any other nation which spoke thus of the sun, at least on the Core. Her eyebrows raised when he then swore on his oath to the Fraternity. It’s easy to swear on what we never took, isn’t it, though… Her wariness grew as the man demanded to see the letter.
So you can burn it? she thought to herself drily. She pulled her chair back a little, giving herself room to move if there were going to be any more theatrics or attacks. She kept her eyes focused on the bard, watching his reaction and ready for any sudden moves. “As a matter of fact, I do not. Your behaviour has been interesting to date and I hardly see how my private correspondence should be any of your business. And before we fall into an argument, Crow, let me render the matter moot by telling you that I do not have the letter on my person. I travel alone and learned years ago to destroy or store away valuable items to avoid sudden losses. This letter by its earnest entreaties encouraged me to include it in this particular category.”
“So we seem to be at an impasse. You may of course, rush off with a dramatic flourish, if you believe yourself to be so highly endangered by myself or these actions. Although I would suggest against it; the limp would render it less effective and possibly comical,” she added drily.
“Or we could actually try to talk like adults and come to some kind of understanding and sympathy despite our mutual suspicions and fears. I am willing to try; otherwise, I never would have written you in the first place. You have information that I am interested in and I would like a chance to both prove myself worthy of trust and to see this favour returned.
“The choice, of course, is yours.”
None of this was a conscious process of thought, but impressions which shaped her perception of Crow’s words and actions. She heard his apology and explanation but didn’t speak; if he were upset, he would still be too distraught to notice anything she said. Her eyes widened at the reference to the Darkest Night and to the Requiem of nine years before. The Fraternity elders had kept mum on the details of the missing folder, promising further details at the meeting that would come upon their new premises in the next month or so. She was still trying to gather information on the object, and knew little more. Was this the cause of the rise of Necropolis?! Where had Crow gained these details? ‘Whisper’- what is he talking about- had he truly been nearby when the Requiem had occurred? It would certainly explain his own vested interest in stopping the creation of this machine, even if he weren’t a Fraternity member. This unconsciously encouraged her sympathy and favour.
Gertrude was tempted to ask but curbed her curiosity. She was still owed an explanation over his paranoid reaction to her letter. If he still suspected her of heavens knew what, any questions would be in vain and would possibly invite further suspicion. She sipped her own tea in a companionable silence. The roué look rather suited the bard, and she suspected that he knew it. But the handsome were entitled after all, and she saw no reason not to appreciate nature’s fine sights.
She mildly shook her head at his apology as if to dismiss a minor incident not worth recalling. A light smile reflected her quiet amusement at his flowery words; the scholar loved the elvish turn of phrase and poetry- from elves, or on the stage. In daily discourse from humans she saw it as an affectation, or attempt to impress. She was not some thin-skinned blueblood whose laws of etiquette required such an abject show of shame; if she had been, she’d never gotten as far in her field. It wasn’t the first time somebody had yelled at the grocer’s daughter, nor would it be the last. Still it tickled her to hear such courtly words being displayed for her pleasure.
Her eyes reflected her interest as he started to speak of forebodings. She was intrigued to know what he thought would be following him and looked askance at his sudden silence. Did he feel he had said too much? She returned his gaze, as if to reassure that she were not whatever threat it was he imagined. She went still when he took her hand, as she fought the Zherisian revulsion at such sudden, intimate gestures but it quickly transformed into fear and rage at the unmistakable use of a spell.
Idiot! She thought at herself, bracing herself mentally and physically to try to fight off whatever he had cast, praying it wasn’t some form of mental control, a personal fear. She had been trying to pull her hand away and the effort’s minor pain was alleviated when the spell took effect. She froze, nearly gasping her relief and wonder when instinct and years of discipline clamped her lips shut.
At the release of her hand, she quickly brought her own hands into her lap, to hide her trembling. She looked down, hiding her face and the mix of emotions that were trying to overwhelm her. She had to fight against closing her eyes, and kept them focused on the man’s hands. Her back went stiff at this new apology; one outburst was a lapse of good manners; two indicative of a man’s habit. She had to curb the outrage that threatened to spill from her lips, knowing most of it was a reaction to her awareness of her fear and lack of caution. Beyond that, she refused to give anyone the satisfaction, let alone this impudent pup, of admitting it.
Then an unusual phrase caught her attention. ‘Sun save us all’…This caused her to look up with a sharp glance at Crow. Since the Great Upheaval, when the Mists had obliterated the entirety of Zherisia, circling the walls of Paridon as a gloomy prison, the sun had become a precious thing, and something sworn by in her homeland. She was unaware of any other nation which spoke thus of the sun, at least on the Core. Her eyebrows raised when he then swore on his oath to the Fraternity. It’s easy to swear on what we never took, isn’t it, though… Her wariness grew as the man demanded to see the letter.
So you can burn it? she thought to herself drily. She pulled her chair back a little, giving herself room to move if there were going to be any more theatrics or attacks. She kept her eyes focused on the bard, watching his reaction and ready for any sudden moves. “As a matter of fact, I do not. Your behaviour has been interesting to date and I hardly see how my private correspondence should be any of your business. And before we fall into an argument, Crow, let me render the matter moot by telling you that I do not have the letter on my person. I travel alone and learned years ago to destroy or store away valuable items to avoid sudden losses. This letter by its earnest entreaties encouraged me to include it in this particular category.”
“So we seem to be at an impasse. You may of course, rush off with a dramatic flourish, if you believe yourself to be so highly endangered by myself or these actions. Although I would suggest against it; the limp would render it less effective and possibly comical,” she added drily.
“Or we could actually try to talk like adults and come to some kind of understanding and sympathy despite our mutual suspicions and fears. I am willing to try; otherwise, I never would have written you in the first place. You have information that I am interested in and I would like a chance to both prove myself worthy of trust and to see this favour returned.
“The choice, of course, is yours.”
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
- Rotipher of the FoS
- Thieving Crow
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Observation of the professor’s reaction to his second conversational maneuver – risky, to employ magic on the unsuspecting in so public a venue as this, but even Raines’ extremists likely wouldn’t string him up, as a “Legionary of Night”, for a healing spell – was intriguing for the bard. In mere seconds, the ever-so-proper Paridoner’s reserved demeanor flashed through affront, then violated panic (quite strong, at that; was it fear, phobia, or a clue to some ugly past experience?), and lastly a clashing medley of relief, self-recrimination and the brute-force reassertion of her iron self-control. Even this paltry betrayal of emotion, better discerned in her breathing and chair-creaking shifts of posture than her prudently-hidden features, lasted only seconds; Crow was soundly impressed by Kingsley’s rapid recouping of discipline, and doubly-so when her next words proved both unruffled and undiscouraged by her scare.
Still no inklings as to her true agenda, nor how best to steer this scalpel-in-schoolmistress’s-guise … but the ice had cracked, at least momentarily, and he’d seen enough beneath it to be grateful he’d not allowed her enquiries via post to continue unchecked: this Fraternity member plainly wasn’t the type to let incongruities pass unnoticed or unchallenged, nor to become discouraged or lose interest at a mere lack of progress. Yet just as plainly, from her retorts and calmly-diplomatic appeal for openness, she’d not let the outrage the bard had deliberately provoked, via his improvised “odem-test”, goad her into error. A "formidable little matron", indeed!
Excellent riposte, madam; whatever else the mind behind that stern façade may conceal, the blundering bluster of a Buchvold certainly isn’t it! A rare thing, to confront an equal play-actor in so bland a vocation as that whichyou profess to pursue – have to make a note to verify your credentials, just in case! – but you’re clearly no amateur in social duplicity, even if you all but wear a marksman’s target on your back, in other respects.
Tapping into the wry humor inherent in this untutored neophyte’s offering him a far more intriguing challenge than the obstreperous Borcan – yet another old trick in his shyster’s repertoire: this one, favored by a certain school of actors, who improved the authenticity of each emotion’s portrayal, by making themselves feel it in truth for some recollected cause – Crow chuckled aloud, and shook his head as though in bemused self-mockery. He unfurled the fresh white napkin that had been delivered with his tea – not missing for an instant how his hand’s movement made the Paridoner stiffen; though it’d gambled whatever minimal trust she might’ve afforded him to start with, his ploy with the curative spell had clearly awakened her to the realities of personal danger! – and waved it as a self-deprecating “flag of truce”.
“Madam,” he confessed, with an honesty which (for the moment) he allowed to ring true by virtue of sincerity, not pretense. “You cut through the dissembling and affectations of a lifetime’s coy habit, with the effortless bluntness of the forthright. So long have I been dealing with deceivers and manipulators, or eluding the unfriendly attention of same, that so slyly-sophisticated a recourse as simple candor quite slips my mind, as an alternative. What an uncouth churl you must think me, for failing to explain my quandary openly from the first! It’s that breech of etiquette for which I’m most obligated to make amends, I think, far more than any fatigue-addled outburst or the needed, albeit alarming, imposition of my ‘test’.
“You propose a parley, Professor, for the exchange of facts. Most certainly I accept, both in hopes of ensuring our mutual safety, and of possibly regaining some fraction of your respect.”
He paused as one of the Riverview’s wait-staff drew near, attracted by his careless – and highly calculated: now that tea and confrontation had allegedly restored his “impudent pup” persona’s wakefulness, its roguish antics had to resume, both for consistency’s sake and to obscure his own canniness; besides, acting as if he really was still in his twenties was far too much fun, to pass up the excuse his youthful Manoir-guise afforded – napkin-waving theatrics. The bard reciprocated Kingsley’s previous kindness by gesturing to her empty cup and raising his own, which he drained to the dregs before continuing.
“Firstly, madam,” Crow resumed, as he “idly” spun his empty cup around and around in his hands … a feigned “nervous habit” he cultivated purely to quell the real nervous habit of pinching the bridge of his nose when frustrated, and thus, potentially spoiling his masque at the most imprudent of times. “You are certainly entitled to know it’s not you, Professor Gertrude Kingsley, of whom I was, and still am, fearful. I’ve no cause to believe you intend me harm – apart from, I suspect, a good tongue-lashing, which I surely deserve and certainly wouldn't hold against you – nor, to be candid, even that you’d be capable of inflicting punishments more damaging than a scolding. Certainly, from what I hear tell of your own contributions at the Manoir, your deeds boast more of your courage, leadership, and resourcefulness than of any direct aptitude for physical or arcane mayhem. Nor would a willing foe have chosen to leave herself so vulnerable … be it to my own hand’s grasp, or to any hired marksman whom Van Rijn or his ilk might see fit to station beyond that expanse of window-glass, there.”
The bard gestured to the dining room’s panoramic view of the Vuchar, now diminished to a trickle with the tide’s retreat, exposing acres of sodden red mud. The fogs of high tide had likewise withdrawn, leaving the river’s bed visible … and, Crow surmised, suddenly threatening to the professor, whom he suspected had never truly contemplated how the renegade lich might exercise proactive tactics in his war against the Fraternity of Shadows.
You’d mailed me your bloody travel-itinerary without even knowing my full name, silly woman! What did you expect: that the gender you strive to downplay would yet shield you from his anger, when the time came for him to strike? That you “aren’t involved”, hence couldn’t be accounted a target? As if the women of Il Aluk were spared its doom, or those “not involved” were granted leave to depart, before their city died! Honestly, you’re lucky I chose to play you this way, if only as a wake-up call to acknowledge how imperiled your defiance of Van Rijn at the Manoir has left you: socially-adept or not, madam, you’re nearly a babe-in-arms, where avoiding physical threats is concerned!
Setting down the teacup, and letting a seriousness he seldom exposed – at least, not while in his “cheeky rapscallion” mode – darken his expression, Crow loomed forward in his seat and interlaced his fingers, peered over them at Kingsley. No rule against his cadging a postural trick from Buchvold, if it made his next statement ring slightly more sinister and thus, helped convey the (literal!) graveness of the situation he alleged. He spoke softly, both as a precaution against being overheard and to draw her closer, physically and - if he was lucky; basic though they were, body-language tricks had worked for him before against Paridoners, who were so often unused to physical expressiveness and its unconscious impact on the psyche - in her sympathies.
“Which, professor, brings me to the other fact to which you are well entitled: to whit, my fears concerning that letter you state that ‘my friend’ sent to you. I presume, from what you say of it now and from how you, yourself, subsequently contacted me, that it professed to come from a fellow Brother … or, I suppose, perhaps a would-be Brother … who’d somehow learned of events at the Manoir and of our respective roles in that misfortune. I suspect it urged you to contact me – or, alternatively, voiced views or hints that would encourage you to, on your own initiative – and gave you the Ludendorf address so you might do so, whilst tasking you to practice all due discretion, either for the Fraternity’s overall security, or for the actual safety of myself, this alleged ‘friend’, or both.
“The problem, madam, is that in heeding that letter’s urgings – a letter, whose authentic origins with a living ‘friend’ of mine, I can’t possibly verify without examining its contents or handwriting for myself – you may have endangered the Fraternity and both of our lives. For, of the thirty-six men who ever knew I could be contacted via that particular mailing-address in Lamordia, to the best of my knowledge only three of them are still alive … which, regrettably, doesn’t prove that it was one of them, who sent you that letter.”
Crow spoke this last sentence with a conspiratorial intensity, then leaned back again in his chair, and let first somber resignation, then the past weeks’ deferred weariness and strain, and finally a soft, true-ringing echo of regret – regret, which the VRS agent could tap far more easily than any other emotion; rather, keeping it out of his demeanor was his perpetual problem – creep into his voice.
“Erik Van Rijn, madam, was not the first Fraternity-member to cross over into the ranks of the undead, nor to carry the brotherhood's secrets with him into that lamentable state. Virtually every man who’d ever named me ‘Brother’ passed likewise, long before he did, albeit not willingly … and if the traitor’s allied himself with them as well as Il Aluk’s abominable master, I have to know for sure that’s so. Because if such an alliance does exist, they’ll stop at nothing – certainly not deceiving or destroying you, Professor – to prevent me from warning our colleagues in Souragne of how they’ve more than one fallen Brother, with all the arcane skill and covert knowledge that status implies, to stand against. Without seeing that letter, I can neither confirm this threat, nor discount it enough to trust anyone: not the other Fraternity branches, not my surviving associates … sun’s blood, not even loyalists like yourself, who fought Van Rijn so valiantly at the Manoir!
“I truly do regret that my healing-spell’s usage distressed you so, and that I couldn’t risk warning you of my intention to test your life-force for contamination. But had I done as much for poor Corbil, when the odem-spirit that possessed him set an ambush for Tao and I in Delagia – an ambush, which it could only have staged, thus, if it had once worn a ring like our own, before the first Doomsday Device’s activation nine years ago – why, madam, then we might not have been forced to kill one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”
How’s that for a concluding “dramatic flourish”, Milady Scalpel…? Now, let’s see what you do with it, when it’s a dearer wound than a bad ankle you can either empathize with or mock … and when you truly grasp the stakes of the game you’ve stumbled into! Hope you’re as up to a challenge in the real world as you are on the social playing-field: you picked a devil of a time to attack the ‘glass ceiling’, madam, and if you’d not a very fast learner indeed, I’m not sure if even I can keep you alive in this … at least, not if you're so blindly stubborn as to still insist on sitting in front of these bloody windows, I’m not.
(Not that the bard wouldn’t do his damnedest to guard the professor from her own inexperience, stubborn or not. Suspicions and pretenses and potentially world-shattering stakes aside, this close-fought verbal duel with the incredulous academic was the most fun Crow’d had in weeks! And with – hopefully – a year’s leeway, perhaps he could afford a few hours’ chat with an FoS scholar: one who, perhaps, really had made a study of the theological implications of the “watchers”. Had he heard of Kingsley’s work sooner, he might’ve left the Manoir with a somewhat lighter load, and would have built up his persona’s credentials beforehand, well enough that he’d’ve been spared all that wretched, painful bother with Buchvold … all, just so he could talk to her, after the mystery of the annotations’ disappearance had been forgotten, about some of the Land’s more esoteric mysteries. Crow was a workaholic for the VRS and an anxious, driven man even at his calmest, but satisfying his personal curiosity had its place, too.
(And besides, it really had been very good tea.)
Still no inklings as to her true agenda, nor how best to steer this scalpel-in-schoolmistress’s-guise … but the ice had cracked, at least momentarily, and he’d seen enough beneath it to be grateful he’d not allowed her enquiries via post to continue unchecked: this Fraternity member plainly wasn’t the type to let incongruities pass unnoticed or unchallenged, nor to become discouraged or lose interest at a mere lack of progress. Yet just as plainly, from her retorts and calmly-diplomatic appeal for openness, she’d not let the outrage the bard had deliberately provoked, via his improvised “odem-test”, goad her into error. A "formidable little matron", indeed!
Excellent riposte, madam; whatever else the mind behind that stern façade may conceal, the blundering bluster of a Buchvold certainly isn’t it! A rare thing, to confront an equal play-actor in so bland a vocation as that whichyou profess to pursue – have to make a note to verify your credentials, just in case! – but you’re clearly no amateur in social duplicity, even if you all but wear a marksman’s target on your back, in other respects.
Tapping into the wry humor inherent in this untutored neophyte’s offering him a far more intriguing challenge than the obstreperous Borcan – yet another old trick in his shyster’s repertoire: this one, favored by a certain school of actors, who improved the authenticity of each emotion’s portrayal, by making themselves feel it in truth for some recollected cause – Crow chuckled aloud, and shook his head as though in bemused self-mockery. He unfurled the fresh white napkin that had been delivered with his tea – not missing for an instant how his hand’s movement made the Paridoner stiffen; though it’d gambled whatever minimal trust she might’ve afforded him to start with, his ploy with the curative spell had clearly awakened her to the realities of personal danger! – and waved it as a self-deprecating “flag of truce”.
“Madam,” he confessed, with an honesty which (for the moment) he allowed to ring true by virtue of sincerity, not pretense. “You cut through the dissembling and affectations of a lifetime’s coy habit, with the effortless bluntness of the forthright. So long have I been dealing with deceivers and manipulators, or eluding the unfriendly attention of same, that so slyly-sophisticated a recourse as simple candor quite slips my mind, as an alternative. What an uncouth churl you must think me, for failing to explain my quandary openly from the first! It’s that breech of etiquette for which I’m most obligated to make amends, I think, far more than any fatigue-addled outburst or the needed, albeit alarming, imposition of my ‘test’.
“You propose a parley, Professor, for the exchange of facts. Most certainly I accept, both in hopes of ensuring our mutual safety, and of possibly regaining some fraction of your respect.”
He paused as one of the Riverview’s wait-staff drew near, attracted by his careless – and highly calculated: now that tea and confrontation had allegedly restored his “impudent pup” persona’s wakefulness, its roguish antics had to resume, both for consistency’s sake and to obscure his own canniness; besides, acting as if he really was still in his twenties was far too much fun, to pass up the excuse his youthful Manoir-guise afforded – napkin-waving theatrics. The bard reciprocated Kingsley’s previous kindness by gesturing to her empty cup and raising his own, which he drained to the dregs before continuing.
“Firstly, madam,” Crow resumed, as he “idly” spun his empty cup around and around in his hands … a feigned “nervous habit” he cultivated purely to quell the real nervous habit of pinching the bridge of his nose when frustrated, and thus, potentially spoiling his masque at the most imprudent of times. “You are certainly entitled to know it’s not you, Professor Gertrude Kingsley, of whom I was, and still am, fearful. I’ve no cause to believe you intend me harm – apart from, I suspect, a good tongue-lashing, which I surely deserve and certainly wouldn't hold against you – nor, to be candid, even that you’d be capable of inflicting punishments more damaging than a scolding. Certainly, from what I hear tell of your own contributions at the Manoir, your deeds boast more of your courage, leadership, and resourcefulness than of any direct aptitude for physical or arcane mayhem. Nor would a willing foe have chosen to leave herself so vulnerable … be it to my own hand’s grasp, or to any hired marksman whom Van Rijn or his ilk might see fit to station beyond that expanse of window-glass, there.”
The bard gestured to the dining room’s panoramic view of the Vuchar, now diminished to a trickle with the tide’s retreat, exposing acres of sodden red mud. The fogs of high tide had likewise withdrawn, leaving the river’s bed visible … and, Crow surmised, suddenly threatening to the professor, whom he suspected had never truly contemplated how the renegade lich might exercise proactive tactics in his war against the Fraternity of Shadows.
You’d mailed me your bloody travel-itinerary without even knowing my full name, silly woman! What did you expect: that the gender you strive to downplay would yet shield you from his anger, when the time came for him to strike? That you “aren’t involved”, hence couldn’t be accounted a target? As if the women of Il Aluk were spared its doom, or those “not involved” were granted leave to depart, before their city died! Honestly, you’re lucky I chose to play you this way, if only as a wake-up call to acknowledge how imperiled your defiance of Van Rijn at the Manoir has left you: socially-adept or not, madam, you’re nearly a babe-in-arms, where avoiding physical threats is concerned!
Setting down the teacup, and letting a seriousness he seldom exposed – at least, not while in his “cheeky rapscallion” mode – darken his expression, Crow loomed forward in his seat and interlaced his fingers, peered over them at Kingsley. No rule against his cadging a postural trick from Buchvold, if it made his next statement ring slightly more sinister and thus, helped convey the (literal!) graveness of the situation he alleged. He spoke softly, both as a precaution against being overheard and to draw her closer, physically and - if he was lucky; basic though they were, body-language tricks had worked for him before against Paridoners, who were so often unused to physical expressiveness and its unconscious impact on the psyche - in her sympathies.
“Which, professor, brings me to the other fact to which you are well entitled: to whit, my fears concerning that letter you state that ‘my friend’ sent to you. I presume, from what you say of it now and from how you, yourself, subsequently contacted me, that it professed to come from a fellow Brother … or, I suppose, perhaps a would-be Brother … who’d somehow learned of events at the Manoir and of our respective roles in that misfortune. I suspect it urged you to contact me – or, alternatively, voiced views or hints that would encourage you to, on your own initiative – and gave you the Ludendorf address so you might do so, whilst tasking you to practice all due discretion, either for the Fraternity’s overall security, or for the actual safety of myself, this alleged ‘friend’, or both.
“The problem, madam, is that in heeding that letter’s urgings – a letter, whose authentic origins with a living ‘friend’ of mine, I can’t possibly verify without examining its contents or handwriting for myself – you may have endangered the Fraternity and both of our lives. For, of the thirty-six men who ever knew I could be contacted via that particular mailing-address in Lamordia, to the best of my knowledge only three of them are still alive … which, regrettably, doesn’t prove that it was one of them, who sent you that letter.”
Crow spoke this last sentence with a conspiratorial intensity, then leaned back again in his chair, and let first somber resignation, then the past weeks’ deferred weariness and strain, and finally a soft, true-ringing echo of regret – regret, which the VRS agent could tap far more easily than any other emotion; rather, keeping it out of his demeanor was his perpetual problem – creep into his voice.
“Erik Van Rijn, madam, was not the first Fraternity-member to cross over into the ranks of the undead, nor to carry the brotherhood's secrets with him into that lamentable state. Virtually every man who’d ever named me ‘Brother’ passed likewise, long before he did, albeit not willingly … and if the traitor’s allied himself with them as well as Il Aluk’s abominable master, I have to know for sure that’s so. Because if such an alliance does exist, they’ll stop at nothing – certainly not deceiving or destroying you, Professor – to prevent me from warning our colleagues in Souragne of how they’ve more than one fallen Brother, with all the arcane skill and covert knowledge that status implies, to stand against. Without seeing that letter, I can neither confirm this threat, nor discount it enough to trust anyone: not the other Fraternity branches, not my surviving associates … sun’s blood, not even loyalists like yourself, who fought Van Rijn so valiantly at the Manoir!
“I truly do regret that my healing-spell’s usage distressed you so, and that I couldn’t risk warning you of my intention to test your life-force for contamination. But had I done as much for poor Corbil, when the odem-spirit that possessed him set an ambush for Tao and I in Delagia – an ambush, which it could only have staged, thus, if it had once worn a ring like our own, before the first Doomsday Device’s activation nine years ago – why, madam, then we might not have been forced to kill one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”
How’s that for a concluding “dramatic flourish”, Milady Scalpel…? Now, let’s see what you do with it, when it’s a dearer wound than a bad ankle you can either empathize with or mock … and when you truly grasp the stakes of the game you’ve stumbled into! Hope you’re as up to a challenge in the real world as you are on the social playing-field: you picked a devil of a time to attack the ‘glass ceiling’, madam, and if you’d not a very fast learner indeed, I’m not sure if even I can keep you alive in this … at least, not if you're so blindly stubborn as to still insist on sitting in front of these bloody windows, I’m not.
(Not that the bard wouldn’t do his damnedest to guard the professor from her own inexperience, stubborn or not. Suspicions and pretenses and potentially world-shattering stakes aside, this close-fought verbal duel with the incredulous academic was the most fun Crow’d had in weeks! And with – hopefully – a year’s leeway, perhaps he could afford a few hours’ chat with an FoS scholar: one who, perhaps, really had made a study of the theological implications of the “watchers”. Had he heard of Kingsley’s work sooner, he might’ve left the Manoir with a somewhat lighter load, and would have built up his persona’s credentials beforehand, well enough that he’d’ve been spared all that wretched, painful bother with Buchvold … all, just so he could talk to her, after the mystery of the annotations’ disappearance had been forgotten, about some of the Land’s more esoteric mysteries. Crow was a workaholic for the VRS and an anxious, driven man even at his calmest, but satisfying his personal curiosity had its place, too.
(And besides, it really had been very good tea.)
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Gertrude went still at the little trick with the napkin, then seemed to relax as his apology began to unfold. His florid speech patterns reminded her of that convoluted letter, and she saw she would have to practice the same exercise in filtering through his words and her reactions. She noted the compliments so swiftly followed by the veiled insults and warning, and lay aside her pique for later indulgence. She was, by his view and experience of the world, being careless, and she inclined her head slightly in recognition of this point. She had been much more careful when she’d left Richemulot for Paridon. Her return to the mainland had given her a few nights of insomnia. But the mundane nature of reality- her reality- had settled in her mind once more; a world where the only back-stabbing she had to fear was social and professional. She was reading and learning what she could from books and interviews, but it still seemed surreal, and esoteric. Looking down upon the red, bare riverbed, memories of Le Manoir stirred, then older, bloodier ones. She stilled a shudder at the recollection, but not the regret and loss. Rupert… He’d been the reason why she’d left, and forced herself to pursue these studies. You really have no choice, do you, she thought to herself. But Crow was speaking again, and once more she lay her personal thoughts aside for later consideration.
The professor inclined her head again towards Crow as his voice lowered, though she made no other gesture to move closer. She’d had enough sudden surprises without inviting them. As he quietly explained the cause of his fears and reason for wishing to see the letter, the discordant notes from Tao’s letter were reinforced. Why had that idiot Tao sent that letter, stirring a suspicion which hadn’t existed beforehand? Why such a fuss, further compounded by Crow’s elaborate explanations and unorthodox behavior?
She nodded at the idea that van Rijn hadn’t been the first member of the Fraternity to be attracted to the necromantic arts. If he had been allowed to continue as a member after being caught the first time, she assumed a precedent for the leniency. The notion that the Fraternity was still functioning in Il Aluk was intriguing if horrifying. It certainly gave a feasible answer into how the Manoir’s defences had been so easily overcome by so many. She glanced at the ring on Crow’s hand in speculation.
As she listened to the fate of Corbil, her expression grew softer. At his conclusion, she murmured, “So that is why…My condolences, Crow.” Did she believe Corbil had ever existed? She didn’t know. She did know that Crow had made it clear that he had had more than ample opportunity to do worse to her than be a rude guest- and hadn’t taken advantage of it. Why? Well, she would find out.
She took a sip of her tea, then turned to the bard. “I can have the letter sent to me, but I don’t know when it will come- and where we shall next meet, if we do.” A light smile crossed her lips. “After all, we can’t assume you’d think it safe to maintain contact with myself.” She looked around the dining room, then out the window at the beautiful morning a little wistfully. “But I suppose you would feel more comfortable if we moved to another table.” She rose from her seat gracefully and extended a hand to the bard. "Please forgive me for mocking your injury; that was inexcusable."
The professor inclined her head again towards Crow as his voice lowered, though she made no other gesture to move closer. She’d had enough sudden surprises without inviting them. As he quietly explained the cause of his fears and reason for wishing to see the letter, the discordant notes from Tao’s letter were reinforced. Why had that idiot Tao sent that letter, stirring a suspicion which hadn’t existed beforehand? Why such a fuss, further compounded by Crow’s elaborate explanations and unorthodox behavior?
She nodded at the idea that van Rijn hadn’t been the first member of the Fraternity to be attracted to the necromantic arts. If he had been allowed to continue as a member after being caught the first time, she assumed a precedent for the leniency. The notion that the Fraternity was still functioning in Il Aluk was intriguing if horrifying. It certainly gave a feasible answer into how the Manoir’s defences had been so easily overcome by so many. She glanced at the ring on Crow’s hand in speculation.
As she listened to the fate of Corbil, her expression grew softer. At his conclusion, she murmured, “So that is why…My condolences, Crow.” Did she believe Corbil had ever existed? She didn’t know. She did know that Crow had made it clear that he had had more than ample opportunity to do worse to her than be a rude guest- and hadn’t taken advantage of it. Why? Well, she would find out.
She took a sip of her tea, then turned to the bard. “I can have the letter sent to me, but I don’t know when it will come- and where we shall next meet, if we do.” A light smile crossed her lips. “After all, we can’t assume you’d think it safe to maintain contact with myself.” She looked around the dining room, then out the window at the beautiful morning a little wistfully. “But I suppose you would feel more comfortable if we moved to another table.” She rose from her seat gracefully and extended a hand to the bard. "Please forgive me for mocking your injury; that was inexcusable."
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Crow seemed pleased at the requested move and quickly, graciously, dismissed the need for an apology. There was some brief bickering over the bill when Lukas came over. The bard was adamant, however, once she’d provided him change for a skull. Skulls, bones and chips…a grisly currency… Gertrude’s thoughts turned once more to Necropolis and the Doomsday Device. As he settled up with the servant, she placed her book and journal back in her carpet bag while keeping a discrete eye on the tip that was being left for Lukas. Those who took care of their servants were well cared for in turn, and she wasn’t going to have her service jeopardized by a chivalric act. Whether Crow was naturally generous or aware of her concern, she didn’t know but was satisfied.
She gave her wry smile as she saw that he had been at another table. Had he arrived before or after her? She would bet before. She was careful to maintain Crow’s pace as they walked, and remarked, “While I don’t have the letter, I can tell you about its unusual features.” She described the official Darkonese document, and the spell which hid its real message (though not its password). “It was signed by Tao, and gave a surprisingly detailed description of your history. He named the paper which had earned your rank as Brother.” She paused in recollection. “On Folkloric Power-Sites and…I am sorry, I can’t remember the rest of the title, though I do have it written down. A shame that it was lost…and that you never tried to reproduce the work. Or have you?” She spared him a seemingly innocent glance before continuing. “I would be interested in hearing what it was about, as well the paper that you submitted for your initiation. Is there any chance that that one was sent to the Brautslave Institute upon your admission to the Society? They’d never heard of any member called Crow but I suppose you assumed that pseudonym upon the destruction of Il Aluk… Ah, here we are- let me help you,” she said kindly as they reached the table and helped him to his seat once more.
The professor maintained her calm conversational tone as she reached into her bag for the journal, and began to seek the pertinent passages. “But priorities of course; old papers are not as important as the present, and your name is your business. If you’d wanted me to know it you would have told me by now.” Another gentle glance before she returned to her notes. “As reckless as my habits seem to your eyes, let us spare ourselves the charade of proper introductions.” A smile of recognition appeared as she found the relevant page. It had been written under her list of Darkonese fiction.
“And here we are: 'Dzungaria Tao, Initiate and thespian, formerly of Aluk Septentrion'- in the letter he calls himself a prospective Initiate and a native of Il Aluk while revealing you yourself weren’t, and calls himself a bard. He was at a Stagnus Lake student tavern? Ah yes, that’s where he heard about my inquiries, though why the Fraternity would bandy your name about in such a place is a bit beyond me … He called you a “Brother-in-Exile”- a particularly apt term for our time, isn’t it?” She studied a symbol she’d written and flipped over a few more pages to her list of Darkonese officials. A question mark had been included beside the name and description. “The military letter claimed to have been sent by the Office of Captain Poorgate, Baronial Guard, Nartok Keep, Nartok, Barony of Volker. Its topic was unauthorized inquiries, and despite heavy censoring the term Corvia was prominent.” Another glance up. “A Darkonese variant of Crow?” She then turned several more pages and recited, “On Folkloric Power-Sites And Potential Transformative Effects Of Music-Mediated Paradigm Shifts On Their Emotive Ambience’s Sustaining Zeitgeist. There’s the name of your paper! And that’s all I have, I’m afraid. I didn’t copy your mailing addresses because I saw no point in writing more than once; if you were going to answer, then you would, when you were able. It was merely an academic inquiry, after all,” she said as she closed the journal and placed it back in the bag at her feet.
She sat back, smiling. “Having successfully proved that I am alive, I can only hope that you do not consider me an enemy or traitor. I’ll answer your questions to the best of my ability.” Her expression softened as she added, “By the way, Crow, you are right; as an enemy, I make a poor sword in anyone’s artillery. I cannot apologise for what I am, except in so far as it may have endangered you. I have not had to fight for a very long time; it was not an experience I much enjoyed.” Her expression briefly clouded, then cleared. “But this too is ancient history and of no interest to you. What skills I can offer, I do, and I am willing to try to learn to better defend myself.
"I have been trying to find references to the Device; I placed a request at the Brautslava Institute on my way here to search their library on my behalf.” Her eyes darkened at the memory. Professor Hazan’s letter of recommendation had been embarrassingly necessary in far too many places. It had however forced the cells she’d met to treat her requests seriously, if only out of fear she would go crying to the Esteemed Brother. She'd have sooner crawled over broken glass...but there was no need for them to know that.
“So far I have learned nothing. I have received word from another Brother that there is a possibility van Rijn is now a lich. You probably suspected as much, I am sure. I have been reading up on the creatures.” She waved her hand in the general direction of the temple. “As good a place to start as any, and Raines certainly is happy to give anyone information on ways to deal with the armies of darkness, even those who are not true believers,” she remarked drily.
She gave her wry smile as she saw that he had been at another table. Had he arrived before or after her? She would bet before. She was careful to maintain Crow’s pace as they walked, and remarked, “While I don’t have the letter, I can tell you about its unusual features.” She described the official Darkonese document, and the spell which hid its real message (though not its password). “It was signed by Tao, and gave a surprisingly detailed description of your history. He named the paper which had earned your rank as Brother.” She paused in recollection. “On Folkloric Power-Sites and…I am sorry, I can’t remember the rest of the title, though I do have it written down. A shame that it was lost…and that you never tried to reproduce the work. Or have you?” She spared him a seemingly innocent glance before continuing. “I would be interested in hearing what it was about, as well the paper that you submitted for your initiation. Is there any chance that that one was sent to the Brautslave Institute upon your admission to the Society? They’d never heard of any member called Crow but I suppose you assumed that pseudonym upon the destruction of Il Aluk… Ah, here we are- let me help you,” she said kindly as they reached the table and helped him to his seat once more.
The professor maintained her calm conversational tone as she reached into her bag for the journal, and began to seek the pertinent passages. “But priorities of course; old papers are not as important as the present, and your name is your business. If you’d wanted me to know it you would have told me by now.” Another gentle glance before she returned to her notes. “As reckless as my habits seem to your eyes, let us spare ourselves the charade of proper introductions.” A smile of recognition appeared as she found the relevant page. It had been written under her list of Darkonese fiction.
“And here we are: 'Dzungaria Tao, Initiate and thespian, formerly of Aluk Septentrion'- in the letter he calls himself a prospective Initiate and a native of Il Aluk while revealing you yourself weren’t, and calls himself a bard. He was at a Stagnus Lake student tavern? Ah yes, that’s where he heard about my inquiries, though why the Fraternity would bandy your name about in such a place is a bit beyond me … He called you a “Brother-in-Exile”- a particularly apt term for our time, isn’t it?” She studied a symbol she’d written and flipped over a few more pages to her list of Darkonese officials. A question mark had been included beside the name and description. “The military letter claimed to have been sent by the Office of Captain Poorgate, Baronial Guard, Nartok Keep, Nartok, Barony of Volker. Its topic was unauthorized inquiries, and despite heavy censoring the term Corvia was prominent.” Another glance up. “A Darkonese variant of Crow?” She then turned several more pages and recited, “On Folkloric Power-Sites And Potential Transformative Effects Of Music-Mediated Paradigm Shifts On Their Emotive Ambience’s Sustaining Zeitgeist. There’s the name of your paper! And that’s all I have, I’m afraid. I didn’t copy your mailing addresses because I saw no point in writing more than once; if you were going to answer, then you would, when you were able. It was merely an academic inquiry, after all,” she said as she closed the journal and placed it back in the bag at her feet.
She sat back, smiling. “Having successfully proved that I am alive, I can only hope that you do not consider me an enemy or traitor. I’ll answer your questions to the best of my ability.” Her expression softened as she added, “By the way, Crow, you are right; as an enemy, I make a poor sword in anyone’s artillery. I cannot apologise for what I am, except in so far as it may have endangered you. I have not had to fight for a very long time; it was not an experience I much enjoyed.” Her expression briefly clouded, then cleared. “But this too is ancient history and of no interest to you. What skills I can offer, I do, and I am willing to try to learn to better defend myself.
"I have been trying to find references to the Device; I placed a request at the Brautslava Institute on my way here to search their library on my behalf.” Her eyes darkened at the memory. Professor Hazan’s letter of recommendation had been embarrassingly necessary in far too many places. It had however forced the cells she’d met to treat her requests seriously, if only out of fear she would go crying to the Esteemed Brother. She'd have sooner crawled over broken glass...but there was no need for them to know that.
“So far I have learned nothing. I have received word from another Brother that there is a possibility van Rijn is now a lich. You probably suspected as much, I am sure. I have been reading up on the creatures.” She waved her hand in the general direction of the temple. “As good a place to start as any, and Raines certainly is happy to give anyone information on ways to deal with the armies of darkness, even those who are not true believers,” she remarked drily.
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
- Rotipher of the FoS
- Thieving Crow
- Posts: 4683
- Joined: Sat Dec 06, 2003 4:18 pm
The VRS spy’s game was progressing. While discovering the Paridoner hadn’t kept the letter in her immediate possession was trying – more delays, dash it all … but at least he could afford a few, now that the Solstice was past – it need not derail his plans. More importantly, while Kingsley’s skepticism yet persisted behind her gracious façade – Crow was sure of it – she seemed willing enough to speak freely (albeit through a veil of gentle courtesy; again, subtle and precise) about the basis for her doubts. The bard had barely spoken to the professor at the Manoir, but he’d seen how intensely she observed while the less-canny attendees chatted; guessing that a missive which posed puzzles would intrigue her type of mind hadn’t been so difficult.
Now, if he could just keep that lure beckoning her curiosity long enough….
Crow mutely accepted the professor’s condolences with a grateful nod, sorely wishing this weren’t one of those times when a lie’s credibility was rooted in a truthful core. (His late VRS associate hadn’t truly been under an odem’s control when killed, but everyone in the Society knew that if the truth of their sacrifice would spread more terror than good, the actual manner of their deaths might never be told; besides, knowing her husband had been slain in mercy by his own allies as an infected lycanthrope would have only caused Corbil’s widow more grief.) Deep down, the bard was a little disgusted with himself, to exploit a deceased comrade’s name in this manner – even though he knew it was what the plucky violinist would have wanted – but Kingsley’s intellectual nosiness was tenacious, and he knew she was likely to check whether any such gentleman had been laid to rest in a Delagian grave last year.
Uncomfortable though that particular remark of Kingsley’s had left him, her subsequent actions were encouraging. She broached the possibility of having the “Tao” letter sent to her – Well, it’s about time! – and she’d clearly determined to learn from her past mistakes: she not only proposed a prompt move to another table, but she apologized for making light of his infirmity and permitted him (after minor protests; no doubt, as a female defending her own worth in male-dominated academe, the professor habitually rejected most chivalry as patronizing) to pay for her breakfast as he’d promised. Seeing her covertly watch him lay out their server’s tip was droll – as if he’d snake the hotel staff for pocket-change! – but it deflected her attention from other issues. He tipped well, on principle as much as for generosity’s sake: it was Buchvold’s expense-money, after all.
Since the professor clearly felt it was her turn to divulge information – a course of action the bard could heartily concur with; it gave him an opportunity to feel out how much faith she had in his forgery – he let her rattle on pleasantly, as they took seats at his original table. Blinking sleepily on occasion, though not so often that his display of resurgent weariness detracted from his pose of dogged attention, Crow took care to nod in response here, frown in perplexity there, and grimace in embarrassment at one or two points in her discourse. Kingsley’s own body-language during her speech seemed impeccable: either sincere in truth, or so well-played, the bard felt more than a little thankful the Fraternity was too hidebound to allow this artful woman the rank her cunning merited! Just briefly, as she checked her notes, a flick of humor showed itself in her smile, perhaps a tad strong for her minor quip about “proper introductions”; he wondered if her unseen, unreadable notes (blast it, he knew he should have brushed up on his Zherisian, for this!) might conceal some snide commentary regarding “Tao’s” bungling rudeness.
While the preponderance of his reactions to her description of “Tao’s” letter were nods, and he let the feigned tension he’d maintained throughout their conversation ease off as her “clues” to its alleged origins accumulated, Crow still wore a puzzled expression at the end of her account. He bowed, impressed, at her revelation that she'd researched the Doomsday Device and Van Rijn's lichdom - the VRS spy's information on the former, tragically, hadn't come solely from such academic sources; he still wondered, sometimes, if his adventurous contacts who'd been investigating the Ebon Fold still shambled Il Aluk's streets, undying - but had to steer things back to the letter before he could address these vital issues.
“Professor,” the bard spoke thoughtfully, “it seems you’ve cleared up one mystery, but only by presenting us with another. Granted, the latter is a vast improvement over what I’d been dreading! I recognize that trick with the hidden page as Tao’s handiwork … and it was Corbil, who used to contact me via hinting references to that town. A private joke, from our student days: “Corbil” or “Corvia” both refer to ravens, cousins to the common crow; in effect, I’d proclaimed myself his ‘cousin’ in my then-nickname and now-alias. (Silly, to look back on it now; but what can one expect from wayward youths, he not quite twenty, and I a year younger…?) Tao’d been one of our mentors, back then – not faculty, but the University knew its conservatory hadn’t a prayer of matching Dementlieu’s, so the music-school’s budget was minimal and it often sent students to his theatre for hands-on experience – and he could’ve recalled the reference.
“And he’s calling himself a true Initiate now, is he? Can’t say I’m too surprised – with neither I nor Corbil around to stiffen their spines, Ilyano and Vhexus never could deny the old man what he wanted for long – although I seriously doubt if any real Fraternity branch would consider two votes out of two sufficient, to approve a prospective’s bid for initiation! I suppose he grumbled at length about ‘anti-bard bias’ amongst the higher ranks, too? If so, that’s another mark in favor of its originator being Tao, and not one of the Slain using his name: while he’d blame anyone but himself for his articles’ rejections, as near as I recall he never actually told the wizards to their faces that he thought them so-prejudiced.
“I wouldn’t take the ‘student tavern’ remark at face value, by the by. If it is Tao’s letter, and if he’s even half so paranoid – seeing Kargat around every corner and checking for Slain under his bed, even before Delagia – as he was when I left Darkon, he no doubt lied as to how he learned of your own queries. Or, if it’s a ploy by my Slain ex-Brethren, Van Rijn could’ve told them everything, but they’d need some excuse for Tao to have learned of your existence, out-of-touch though he’s been with the Fraternity proper.
“I’ve never heard tell of this ‘Captain Poorgate’ … but if he’s indeed a Baronial officer, it shouldn’t be hard for us to confirm his status, at least. National troops’ maneuvers may be confidential, but the guard-officers who enforce local governors’ authority are public figures. The cover-letter must be a fabrication – I'd assume you haven’t been sending out queries about some dwarf foot-soldier, have you, Professor…? – but that doesn’t mean it can’t offer us any clues: if the Fraternity’s Slain are resurfacing as Van Rijn’s allies, their information on local officialdom would likely be out of date. If Poorgate’s retired, been promoted beyond captain, or died in the last nine years, we’ll know the letter’s author has been out of the loop since then.
“As for my paper,” the bard winced, “I swear to you, madam, that godsawful title was not my idea. Not much of a contribution, really: just my own compiled observations of how a concerted effort to improve the reputation of a locale deemed ‘haunted’, ‘accursed’, or otherwise supernaturally-infamous, in the popular imagination – provided it’s achieved via music, and by one who understands music’s arcane potential – seems to abate such a site’s ambient ethereal resonance over time. Dashed if I know why the wizards made so much fuss over the idea – it’s not as if they could do it! – but it seemed to stir up a lot of debate about how the landscape holds itself together, or some such poppycock.
“Not really my field of interest, frankly – I’d joined the Fraternity to learn what’s behind Shadow, not the metaphysics of what casts it – but I guess I’d done something right, because they didn’t consign my second paper to the slush-pile my first report wound up in. Nor did the examiners grill me so fiercely as they had, for my initiation.” Another wince, as from a recollected ordeal … not feigned, as even Buchvold’s description of the oral exams that preceded FoS initiation had sounded painfully-demeaning to Crow. Give him thugs’ fists over exhaustive cross-examination by stodgy pedants, any day!
“As for that first paper, Tao’d warned me that writing about spells that only practitioners of our musical variant of arcana can utilize was a sure path to non-publication, regardless of the examiners’ verdict. Granted, they did accept me, but I’m not sure that’s much to my credit; considering some of the topics and writing-quality you see in first-time papers – that of your companion from the Manoir, Mr. Hartly, springs to mind; not a paper one would care to present, before mixed company! – the bar just doesn’t seem to be set very high, for neophytes. All Tao’s tired complaints (and I’m sure you saw plenty of them, if the letter truly was his), non-withstanding.”
The bard had been counting off clues on his fingers, visibly weighing the evidence favoring or disputing the Tao letter’s “veracity” as the work of a living hand. While some clues were pending outside confirmation, the majority pointed to the letter’s being what it professed to be … naturally enough, since Crow’d inserted the very clues he was "interpreting" into its text himself.
Still, if she didn’t let him inspect the actual letter again, this would all be academic. So he re-baited the hook with another mystery.
“But even if Tao really did send you that letter – and I’ll admit, now, that this seems by far the most plausible explanation for its contents – I’ll be dashed if I can explain why he would ever choose to do so! No offense intended, madam, but Tao isn’t the greatest fan of ‘manly pursuits’ by the fairer sex … or of out-of-Core foreigners … or of wizards in general, for that matter, not since the wizard-king’s experiments unleashed disaster upon his home city. And he’s certainly not one to break with the practice of secrecy which, in truth, he himself forced down our throats – Corbil and Vhexus and Ilyano and I – in the aftermath of that disaster! Not unless he already knew you from somewhere, I suppose… or had reason to think he could pressure you to do something he wants, that he lacked the nerve or honor to state outright… but I just don’t know what it could be, that would be worth his breeching our pledge to remain dead to the world….”
The bard let his words trail into a perplexed silence, looked questioningly to Kingsley, his hands now anxiously spinning his cane’s magpie-top as they had, the teacup.
Now, if he could just keep that lure beckoning her curiosity long enough….
Crow mutely accepted the professor’s condolences with a grateful nod, sorely wishing this weren’t one of those times when a lie’s credibility was rooted in a truthful core. (His late VRS associate hadn’t truly been under an odem’s control when killed, but everyone in the Society knew that if the truth of their sacrifice would spread more terror than good, the actual manner of their deaths might never be told; besides, knowing her husband had been slain in mercy by his own allies as an infected lycanthrope would have only caused Corbil’s widow more grief.) Deep down, the bard was a little disgusted with himself, to exploit a deceased comrade’s name in this manner – even though he knew it was what the plucky violinist would have wanted – but Kingsley’s intellectual nosiness was tenacious, and he knew she was likely to check whether any such gentleman had been laid to rest in a Delagian grave last year.
Uncomfortable though that particular remark of Kingsley’s had left him, her subsequent actions were encouraging. She broached the possibility of having the “Tao” letter sent to her – Well, it’s about time! – and she’d clearly determined to learn from her past mistakes: she not only proposed a prompt move to another table, but she apologized for making light of his infirmity and permitted him (after minor protests; no doubt, as a female defending her own worth in male-dominated academe, the professor habitually rejected most chivalry as patronizing) to pay for her breakfast as he’d promised. Seeing her covertly watch him lay out their server’s tip was droll – as if he’d snake the hotel staff for pocket-change! – but it deflected her attention from other issues. He tipped well, on principle as much as for generosity’s sake: it was Buchvold’s expense-money, after all.
Since the professor clearly felt it was her turn to divulge information – a course of action the bard could heartily concur with; it gave him an opportunity to feel out how much faith she had in his forgery – he let her rattle on pleasantly, as they took seats at his original table. Blinking sleepily on occasion, though not so often that his display of resurgent weariness detracted from his pose of dogged attention, Crow took care to nod in response here, frown in perplexity there, and grimace in embarrassment at one or two points in her discourse. Kingsley’s own body-language during her speech seemed impeccable: either sincere in truth, or so well-played, the bard felt more than a little thankful the Fraternity was too hidebound to allow this artful woman the rank her cunning merited! Just briefly, as she checked her notes, a flick of humor showed itself in her smile, perhaps a tad strong for her minor quip about “proper introductions”; he wondered if her unseen, unreadable notes (blast it, he knew he should have brushed up on his Zherisian, for this!) might conceal some snide commentary regarding “Tao’s” bungling rudeness.
While the preponderance of his reactions to her description of “Tao’s” letter were nods, and he let the feigned tension he’d maintained throughout their conversation ease off as her “clues” to its alleged origins accumulated, Crow still wore a puzzled expression at the end of her account. He bowed, impressed, at her revelation that she'd researched the Doomsday Device and Van Rijn's lichdom - the VRS spy's information on the former, tragically, hadn't come solely from such academic sources; he still wondered, sometimes, if his adventurous contacts who'd been investigating the Ebon Fold still shambled Il Aluk's streets, undying - but had to steer things back to the letter before he could address these vital issues.
“Professor,” the bard spoke thoughtfully, “it seems you’ve cleared up one mystery, but only by presenting us with another. Granted, the latter is a vast improvement over what I’d been dreading! I recognize that trick with the hidden page as Tao’s handiwork … and it was Corbil, who used to contact me via hinting references to that town. A private joke, from our student days: “Corbil” or “Corvia” both refer to ravens, cousins to the common crow; in effect, I’d proclaimed myself his ‘cousin’ in my then-nickname and now-alias. (Silly, to look back on it now; but what can one expect from wayward youths, he not quite twenty, and I a year younger…?) Tao’d been one of our mentors, back then – not faculty, but the University knew its conservatory hadn’t a prayer of matching Dementlieu’s, so the music-school’s budget was minimal and it often sent students to his theatre for hands-on experience – and he could’ve recalled the reference.
“And he’s calling himself a true Initiate now, is he? Can’t say I’m too surprised – with neither I nor Corbil around to stiffen their spines, Ilyano and Vhexus never could deny the old man what he wanted for long – although I seriously doubt if any real Fraternity branch would consider two votes out of two sufficient, to approve a prospective’s bid for initiation! I suppose he grumbled at length about ‘anti-bard bias’ amongst the higher ranks, too? If so, that’s another mark in favor of its originator being Tao, and not one of the Slain using his name: while he’d blame anyone but himself for his articles’ rejections, as near as I recall he never actually told the wizards to their faces that he thought them so-prejudiced.
“I wouldn’t take the ‘student tavern’ remark at face value, by the by. If it is Tao’s letter, and if he’s even half so paranoid – seeing Kargat around every corner and checking for Slain under his bed, even before Delagia – as he was when I left Darkon, he no doubt lied as to how he learned of your own queries. Or, if it’s a ploy by my Slain ex-Brethren, Van Rijn could’ve told them everything, but they’d need some excuse for Tao to have learned of your existence, out-of-touch though he’s been with the Fraternity proper.
“I’ve never heard tell of this ‘Captain Poorgate’ … but if he’s indeed a Baronial officer, it shouldn’t be hard for us to confirm his status, at least. National troops’ maneuvers may be confidential, but the guard-officers who enforce local governors’ authority are public figures. The cover-letter must be a fabrication – I'd assume you haven’t been sending out queries about some dwarf foot-soldier, have you, Professor…? – but that doesn’t mean it can’t offer us any clues: if the Fraternity’s Slain are resurfacing as Van Rijn’s allies, their information on local officialdom would likely be out of date. If Poorgate’s retired, been promoted beyond captain, or died in the last nine years, we’ll know the letter’s author has been out of the loop since then.
“As for my paper,” the bard winced, “I swear to you, madam, that godsawful title was not my idea. Not much of a contribution, really: just my own compiled observations of how a concerted effort to improve the reputation of a locale deemed ‘haunted’, ‘accursed’, or otherwise supernaturally-infamous, in the popular imagination – provided it’s achieved via music, and by one who understands music’s arcane potential – seems to abate such a site’s ambient ethereal resonance over time. Dashed if I know why the wizards made so much fuss over the idea – it’s not as if they could do it! – but it seemed to stir up a lot of debate about how the landscape holds itself together, or some such poppycock.
“Not really my field of interest, frankly – I’d joined the Fraternity to learn what’s behind Shadow, not the metaphysics of what casts it – but I guess I’d done something right, because they didn’t consign my second paper to the slush-pile my first report wound up in. Nor did the examiners grill me so fiercely as they had, for my initiation.” Another wince, as from a recollected ordeal … not feigned, as even Buchvold’s description of the oral exams that preceded FoS initiation had sounded painfully-demeaning to Crow. Give him thugs’ fists over exhaustive cross-examination by stodgy pedants, any day!
“As for that first paper, Tao’d warned me that writing about spells that only practitioners of our musical variant of arcana can utilize was a sure path to non-publication, regardless of the examiners’ verdict. Granted, they did accept me, but I’m not sure that’s much to my credit; considering some of the topics and writing-quality you see in first-time papers – that of your companion from the Manoir, Mr. Hartly, springs to mind; not a paper one would care to present, before mixed company! – the bar just doesn’t seem to be set very high, for neophytes. All Tao’s tired complaints (and I’m sure you saw plenty of them, if the letter truly was his), non-withstanding.”
The bard had been counting off clues on his fingers, visibly weighing the evidence favoring or disputing the Tao letter’s “veracity” as the work of a living hand. While some clues were pending outside confirmation, the majority pointed to the letter’s being what it professed to be … naturally enough, since Crow’d inserted the very clues he was "interpreting" into its text himself.
Still, if she didn’t let him inspect the actual letter again, this would all be academic. So he re-baited the hook with another mystery.
“But even if Tao really did send you that letter – and I’ll admit, now, that this seems by far the most plausible explanation for its contents – I’ll be dashed if I can explain why he would ever choose to do so! No offense intended, madam, but Tao isn’t the greatest fan of ‘manly pursuits’ by the fairer sex … or of out-of-Core foreigners … or of wizards in general, for that matter, not since the wizard-king’s experiments unleashed disaster upon his home city. And he’s certainly not one to break with the practice of secrecy which, in truth, he himself forced down our throats – Corbil and Vhexus and Ilyano and I – in the aftermath of that disaster! Not unless he already knew you from somewhere, I suppose… or had reason to think he could pressure you to do something he wants, that he lacked the nerve or honor to state outright… but I just don’t know what it could be, that would be worth his breeching our pledge to remain dead to the world….”
The bard let his words trail into a perplexed silence, looked questioningly to Kingsley, his hands now anxiously spinning his cane’s magpie-top as they had, the teacup.
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow