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Rotipher of the FoS
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[OOC: Sorry it was another loooooong wait, for this latest post. One word of explanation: Midterms. :P ]



Nathan of the FoS wrote:"Wolfsbane, please arrange to take the folder as soon as possible and see if you can't keep track of it this time. Brother Crow, a word with you, please?"
Crow slips Wolfsbane the page -- carefully folded to hide what is written there, to show willingness to keep the archivist's lapse from public knowledge -- then turns back to the darkling, as if the Brautslava underling has ceased to exist for him. 'Brother Crow', by appearances, doesn't see fit to waste his considerable charm on bumblers and lackeys.

The darkling steps back into the library, now empty, and seats himself. "Clever," he says, smiling very slightly, "but not a winning gambit. The Fathers of the Fraternity have already learned who took that folder and when; there is no hay to be made there, Brother Crow. But your display of initiative...rather catches the attention."
Remaining on his feet as in deference to the Exalted Brother's stature, the bard nods in acknowledgement of Roeccha's remarks, and files away the mention of when the plans were stolen for future consideration. He lets the corner of his mouth curl up a tad, when the darkling admits to the cleverness of 'Brother Crow's' gambit, then broadens it into a smile when its attention-grabbing potential is pointed out.

"I noticed that you asked the Borcan the right questions, as well--it's an enviable talent to recognize the right question, and not many possess it."
Interesting, the bard thinks -- for more than one reason -- and nods again, this time with as much gratitude as deference.

"Indeed, it rather makes me ask--who is this brother? Where is he from, and why have we never met previously? How does he have the cheek to declare himself at large in the restricted stacks, and the possessor of the folder containing the plans for the Doomsday Device, on an occasion where the Fraternity library was rifled and robbed of those plans and many other valuable manuscripts? At the very least, Brother Crow, you are angling for recognition, and a bigger piece of the pie. If you can answer questions as well as you ask them, you may get a chance at it."
'Pray harken: by steel of tongue, the battle is join'd', the VRS spy mentally quotes Campole to himself, as his wits and thrill-seeker blood rise to the darkling's challenge. He shrugs his shoulders, lets gleaming, perfect teeth flash once more, then trades his smile for a more serious demeanor and commences to field the darkling's most-pressing queries, albeit in reverse order.

"A 'chance', Director, is all that I ask or require. If answering such queries as you broach -- within reasonable bounds of privacy and decorum, of course -- should earn me that much-desired opportunity ... why, then I'll happily tell you that which I'm at liberty to pass on to any Brother, as well as a thing or two best kept from other ears.

"You've guessed my aim in part, sir -- recognition is what I seek, if not for scholarship or spellcraft, then for less ... mainstream ... aptitudes -- and I'd neither shirk from, nor quail at, the chance to place those knacks at the disposal of a Fraternity in sore need of them. Lateral thinking, Director, is what is called for when the bedrock shifts under one's feet -- not the complacency of the past, nor the routine predictability of the present -- and all the more so, when the scoundrel who's kicked the world's pillars out from under you knows your old methods and tactics intimately.

"Consider the ease with which the Traitor exploited loopholes in his own cell's all-too-familiar defenses. Consider how little we would know of his agenda, even now, had a few of us not had the 'cheekiness' to fight back! I know I did my best, sir, to salvage what was most precious from the Manoir's fall; I know my conscience is clear, and I apologize for my actions only so far as they broke with protocol, not honor. Judge me harshly if you must, Director, for venturing where only those with proper authorization were permitted ... but if I hadn't dared to do so, and retrieved that book on the undead, Buchvold and Conrad might never have deduced the renegade's grim apotheosis. Nor might solid proof that the plans in question didn't merely burn to ashes, with the rest of the Library -- I speak, of course, of the folder I retrieved -- have ever emerged.

"They did mention that little detail, when the survivors regrouped after the fire, didn't they? As I said, I missed whatever debriefing took place afterwards, but I should think that Conrad, at least, would've vouched for the part I played ... after all, he joined me in the Restricted section, and was extremely diligent in rescuing volumes I -- not personally being a connoisseur of wizard-lore -- might admittedly have neglected to save.

"If we've not met before, Exalted Brother, then -- with all due respect, sir -- it's because I'd not deemed such a meeting to be as necessary at it is now, before the Fraternity's betrayer showed his true colors. When I had little to contribute that the Brethren-at-large would appreciate, it was hardly in my best interest to invite attention to myself: my history as a member isn't one that conventional critics would deem laudable, as I've no patience with journals' persnickety submission-standards and my own magical specialty is barely tolerated by most. Why chase recognition or stature amongst the Brethren, when they'd merely dismiss me out-of-hand for a dabbler? Before Van Rijn's rebellion, remaining just an anonymous face in the crowd spared me from unrewarding busywork and petty intra-society politics.

"But now, when the Fraternity needs such 'fringe dilletantes' as have the temerity to think in unconventional fashions -- to think that deception needn't be arcane to be effective, for example, or that a quarry who expects to be tracked magically is best pursued by other means -- I have to say that such discretion has outlived its usefulness. At a time like this, I see my chance to shine -- something a performer can hardly turn away from, sir -- and to prove my usefulness to those who've doubted and dismissed me.

"You say my 'gambit' wasn't a winning one, Director ... and, had its purpose been to coerce your support, this would certainly be true. But I might point out that it, along with my previous query at Buchvold's lecture, succeeded in catching your eye, sir -- another thing a performer is ever-alert to, in a potential patron -- and ask only that you take that 'winning' outcome into account, should your opinion ever be sought as to the selection of Brethren to help pursue the turncoat."

Crow bows in the Darkonian style, with a dash of military 'By-Your-Order-Sir' deference.

At no time, of course, has he actually accused Conrad of being the Library-thief, nor pled that a bard had far less use for books than the numerous wizardly suspects who took part in the rescue of the Manoir's texts. Moreover, his words have skipped the most innocuous -- and delicate -- of Roeccha's queries: just where, exactly, is 'Brother Crow' from? But the VRS spy isn't fool enough to think the Exalted Brother won't spot these omissions ... or question his motives, in deftly avoiding such overly-defensive statements.

(He does, however, know that so long as Roeccha thinks 'Brother Crow' is trying to demonstrate his ability to con his FoS superior -- and thus, prove he's devious enough to be an asset to the Fraternity, worthy of inclusion in the lich-hunt -- then such omissions and veiled statements on the bard's part needn't necessarily constitute proof of his concealed guilt. Rather, they might merely be another attempt to show off his own duplicitousness, just as the feigned extortion-ploy with the accession number -- a ruse, in truth, to lure Roeccha's interest and thus bring the darkling's inquisitveness into the open -- had been.)

Am I lying to save myself, or to 'sell' myself? You'll surely know it's one of the two, but can you guess which? It's a quandry your native powers can't foresee your way out of, Roeccha -- at best, they'll only confirm that there's trickery at hand, but you've surely deduced that already -- so it all comes down to one question: does leading you into such a place of uncertainty impress you enough to convince you I really would be useful, in whatever personal schemes or ploys you might find such deviousness an asset to, in the future?

The bard savors the edge-of-the-cliff sensation of peril, as he awaits the Brautslava director's reply.
"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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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

"Very pretty," the Director says drily, his black eyes never leaving Crow's. "Unfortunately, it is as empty of substance as it is dashing. Save your badinage for your marks, gleeman. I require straight answers to my questions, and I require them now."

The darkling snaps out the last word like the crack of a whip. He continues, softly, "I am tolerably well acquainted with the members of the Fraternity, and I never heard of you before this last October. As near as I can tell, no-one else had, either. When and where did you join the Fraternity, Brother Crow? To whom were you known then? Who can corroborate that you were a member at all? How am I to know, for example, that you are not a friend of van Rijn's? That it was not you, yourself, who provided him with the plans you claim were gone when you obtained that file? That your absence after the debacle was not due to your having fled to confer with your ally?

"Answer me those questions, jackdaw, and I may believe you picked up that trinket only because it was shiny and caught the eye."
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

Nathan of the FoS wrote:"Very pretty," the Director says drily, his black eyes never leaving Crow's. "Unfortunately, it is as empty of substance as it is dashing. Save your badinage for your marks, gleeman. I require straight answers to my questions, and I require them now."
On the surface, the bard's amiable expression remains unchanged, but his stance and the tension in his neck shifts infinitesimally into dismay, then snubbed offense, at the Director's disparaging remarks. At the whip-crack of "now", his posture momentarily stiffens, as if to restrain himself from flinching. 'Brother Crow's' facade is well-practiced, but not (quite) so invulnerable as to withstand the formidable Exalted Brother's verbal assault: he's a bit more intimidated by the darkling than he strives to appear.

The real Crow, conversely, has seen it all before. The shalach-ti's refusal to fence is irritating -- spoilsports always are -- but such a blunt rush into the clinch is revealing in itself.


"I am tolerably well acquainted with the members of the Fraternity, and I never heard of you before this last October. As near as I can tell, no-one else had, either."
Another telling comment, that Roeccha has been checking up on him ... and before his questions to Buchvold at the lecture, to boot. And revealing, also, that the darkling openly admits as much to his face.


"When and where did you join the Fraternity, Brother Crow? To whom were you known then? Who can corroborate that you were a member at all? How am I to know, for example, that you are not a friend of van Rijn's? That it was not you, yourself, who provided him with the plans you claim were gone when you obtained that file? That your absence after the debacle was not due to your having fled to confer with your ally?

"Answer me those questions, jackdaw, and I may believe you picked up that trinket only because it was shiny and caught the eye."
The VRS spy waits, all attention, as the Director's pointed questions grill and provoke him. Aside from a brief spark of revulsion -- not feigned, exaggerated outrage, as might be layered over guilt, nor even sincere anger, but genuine disgust -- in his eyes at the accusation that he could have stolen the plans himself, the prior "lapse in his pose" is not repeated.

Then, as the darkling finishes speaking, he returns the man's glittering gaze for a breath or two ... and then turns to push the library's door shut, firmly and decisively.

"Very well," he replies, in quite a different voice. He lets the bantering in his tone evaporate, the disarming casualness of his demeanor fade away. He leans against the wall, beside the doorframe -- not in idleness, as his 'smart-alec bard' persona might, but in a calculated I'm-Not-Awed-By-Your-Rank gesture -- and meets the darkling's gaze again.

(Were he not so deeply caught up in the game, the bard might note that he's allowing this aspect of 'Brother Crow' to partake of his real personality -- and the darkness he fears must lie beneath it ... a darkness, that might not have cause to fear Eonarda Roeccha -- far more than he normally deigns or dares to.)

"If straight answers are what is required, to 'clear the air', then straight answers are what you shall have, sir. Corroboration may be another story -- you, of all people, know how recollections of events in Darkon cannot always be taken at face value, and the account I offer must be considered in light of memory's fundamental uncertainty -- and a scarcity of such is, in truth, the other reason I've been avoiding Fraternity officers' eyes, this past decade."

The bard notes the Brautslava Director's growing aura of impatience, and deliberately 'misinterprets' his irritation as incredulousness.

"'Decade...?' Oh, yes, sir: I'm a fair bit older than I look. A family trait, perhaps -- it's been said there's a dash of elven blood in my lineage, though I've never credenced such tales -- but mainly a performer's vanity, to present myself thusly ... not that it's not convenient to be underestimated, mind."

Crow flashes the darkling an Our-Little-Secret smile, then continues.

"You ask my time and place of entry into the Fraternity, Director, and the names of those I knew. I'll tell you whatever I can recall, sir, to satisfy your skepticism; I regret to say, however, that it likely won't be enough. Much of my former colleagues' purpose was kept from me, you see -- my own position was exposed, far too much to risk telling me everything -- and even before Van Rijn betrayed us all, those I'd worked with are no longer ... available ... to vouch for my status.

"And the cause of their unavailability, Director, is why I am the last one you should conceivably be accusing of taking THOSE plans. Nor would I EVER have allied with Van Rijn -- not knowing or suspecting his vile purpose -- even if he did have anything to offer, that a bard would deem of value."

Speaking these words, the spy lets the full measure of his revulsion for the transmuter-lich's crimes -- the fallen Brother's betrayal of all life, by his alliance with the Necropolitan mad-thing, and his unthinkable intention to re-enact the horror which had devoured the world's grandest city before Crow's eyes -- pour forth in his voice. If the darkling retains the slightest vestige of the keen judgement of his erstwhile tribe, it is this utter, sincere loathing of Erik van Rijn and all his handiwork that will 'sell' his tale, far more than the revelations to follow.

The Brautslava Director's eyes glitter, and the bard knows his emotions have not escaped the gaunt ex-Canjar's notice. He pauses, meeting the darkling's penetrating gaze for a moment; Crow lets the man's stare pass right through him, keeping himself as transparent -- and, with luck, unreadable, save for those feelings he's let slip by his own design -- as glass.

Then, he chuckles.

"Ironic, that prohibitions established for security now work against me ... but who knew? Having met you, sir, I can see now why it was deemed wisest not to tell the Institute anything of those caches which had already been salvaged -- let alone, that the recovery-team was recruiting new Brethren, with skills better-suited to the task! -- even discounting tired old worries about Kargat infiltrators at Brautslava. You're not a man who'd suffer to be kept 'out of the loop' by anyone, as I've too often been obliged to, sir: it could've undermined the entire operation, had the truth gotten out before the Founders' lost works could be retrieved.

"And I can see, too, why Brother Marchare deemed you so ... imposing, sir, even in days well before your appointment to the directorship."

The bard bows again, with a deference that, this time, doesn't seem like sarcasm.

And waits to see if the name he's just dropped -- that of Honored Brother Taddeous Marchare, Darkonian historian and victim of the first Doomsday Device -- will leave Roeccha startled, horrified, or laughing in his face.



[OOC: Okay, let's see if all that scheming with Buchvold and flaw-testing with Kingsley has actually generated a backstory that'll keep ol' Crow's neck off the chopping block! Sure, he could have waited until someone else actually accused him, but a one-on-one confrontation is more managable than potentially getting grilled in public at the panel discussion tomorrow, and broaching the issue himself should be a point in his favor: a Van Rijn plant probably wouldn't have done anything so forward, and certainly not without reporting the contents of Ananda's lecture to the lich, first. Plus, "Mr. Audacity" was no doubt getting bored. :wink:

[Virtual Halloween candy goes to whomever spots where I dug up the name 'Marchare', first! :D ]
"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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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Rotipher of the FoS wrote: Virtual Halloween candy goes to whomever spots where I dug up the name 'Marchare', first! :D ]
OOC: Dang, that seems familiar. I can't quite place it, though...

IC: "A brother recruited from Il Aluk," Roeccha replies musingly. "Well, I'll have to ask Taddeous about it. You should have come forward immediately, Brother Crow, but under the circumstances some reluctance isn't surprising. Was your salvage work...successful, then?"
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[OOC: And another long delay, this time because everyone and their pet hellhound wants to write for the VRF:D! Granted, all of these contributions are appreciated, but it has diverted my attention from the other professional imposter on these boards. :roll: ]


The bard blinks.

(He can't help it: the shalach-ti has narrowed in on the greatest potential gaffe in his backstory, and done so with a speed that terrifies. Crow has agonized over that one flaw in his 'cover', these past weeks: the outside chance that the Fraternity's leadership had set aside its professed aversion to all things undead, and risked contacting its Slain members, despite their likely subversion by the mad-thing's unholy will. Had the spy not seen, for himself, how freely the vipers' own rules were set aside when convenient -- by Draxton Serd, to name but one example -- he might have been taken by surprise, and caught, then and there.

(But if a petty incompetent like Serd can fiddle with necromancy and remain unpunished, then Crow'd be a fool to think the ranking FoS officers would let oaths or compacts rein in their own breaches of ethics. And the bard has thought, very long and hard, about this possible dilemma ... and about what a hypothetical accuser might plausibly choose to say or threaten, should "Brother Crow's" avowed membership in the defunct Il Aluk cell be challenged in this manner.

(And if Crow has concluded anything with certainty, it is this: if the FoS leaders have re-established contact with the Slain, they'll never openly admit that fact to a suspected infiltrator, whether in Van Rijn's service or another enemy faction's. They would only profess to communicate with the Slain cell, if they feel they can exploit such an infiltrator, to feed misleading information about how much they knew of Necropolis to the spy's controllers ... or if the accuser is lying, and knows of no such communication beyond the Shroud.

(Either the bard is already exposed -- and already dead, for the FoS has no fear of his Society and can already (damn them all!) mislead the twins through Balfour -- or Roeccha is testing him.

(If not for his encounter with Draxton, and its reminder that not all the necromantically-curious FoS had fled with the transmuter-lich, the darkling's trick might easily have worked. Even so, the ex-Canjar clearly thinks fast, and with an unnerving discernment: best to wrap this up expediently, and not fish for closer access to the Van Rijn investigation any further this day.)

Needing little more than a heartbeat's thought to recognize the Director's ploy, Crow blinks again, and he lets his eyes widen, shimmering moistly as with rising emotion: the orphaned Brother, startled and thrilled at the prospect that his Slain former associates and friends might not be wholly lost to the world, after all. He allows the shy beginnings of an astonished, open-mouthed grin to cross his lips, like the half-manifested ghost of a younger, more hopeful "Brother Crow", before shutting his eyes and gritting his teeth to compose himself.

The bard looks down quickly, as if shamed by this momentary lapse into un-Fraternity-like sentiment, and nods in mute reply to Roeccha's words about how "Brother Crow" should have revealed his survival sooner. By the time the darkling asks him another question -- again, the spy knows he is being tested, a familiar role which renews his confidence -- the bard's gray eyes are open and hardened by experience once more, his arms crossed resolutely, his bearing steadfast and (now that "Brother Crow" believes the Director has knowledge he wants) deferential.

"As successful as could realistically be expected, before the fall," the bard replies to the Brautslava director's query. "Again, circumstances back then barred me from knowing everything Marchare and the rest could glean from the Founders' recovered documents ... and as for their magical assets, that part of the caches' contents often couldn't be removed at all. Between the curfew, a limited access to the University grounds, and those bloody royal prohibitions against private ownership of enchanted wares, I never had a chance to retrieve anything as valuable as the rings Brother Yaurek brought out from Father Tam's secret storehouse in New Town. Not that I didn't carry my weight, mind you -- none of the cell searched harder than I, that last year -- but even the wiliest crow can't bear off more seeds than his beak can scoop up in haste."

The bard's thumb brushes across his secondhand sigil-ring -- a feigned habit he'd previously practiced for Kingsley, that seems quite a natural one by now -- and his eyes grow distant and shadowed, as if pondering events "Brother Crow" has long avoided recollecting. The names and facts he drops are valid ones, gleaned from the late Rodrigo Taroyan's documents and from such Fraternity records as Buchvold could plausibly access; his expressions, both haunted and tenatively hopeful, are lifted from the spy's own past experiences and the emotions they raised.

Now, Crow taps into emotions he truly hates himself for exploiting -- that naive spike of hope which had risen in him, when first he'd knocked on the door of Van Richten's herbalist shop, and thought the hands that disengaged its chain to be the doctor's, rather than those dear, guileless, irrepressible girls' -- and cautiously broaches a question of his own.

"But, sir... Director... if you'll forgive me for asking...," Crow speaks more softly, and blinks again. "If you've spoken to Brother Marchare ... if you've seen him, since ... since I had the chance to do so..."

He pauses, swallows, blinks.

"...then, sir, is there any way I could contact him, also? Just to be sure he's still the man he was -- still one of us -- whatever ruin his body might have suffered? If he really does remain loyal -- and sane -- no matter what the Requiem did to him ... then that could mean there's still a chance for all of them, even for--"

And the bard stops, dead, features suddenly blank and impenetrable.

And despises himself, deep down, for these words of feigned hope, that defy everything he's taught himself -- has stringently and stubbornly forced himself -- to believe about undeath.

(Forgive me, old sage....)

He holds the moment for a few seconds, no more -- just long enough to make the mood awkward -- then hardens his expression and gestures dismissively.

"Your pardon, sir; impertinant of me to ask. I withdraw the request." He shakes his head ruefully, as if shedding the moment's lapse into youthful credulousness, and lets the hope in his eyes expire under the smothering ashes of cynicism.
"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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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Rotipher of the FoS wrote:
"...then, sir, is there any way I could contact him, also? Just to be sure he's still the man he was -- still one of us -- whatever ruin his body might have suffered? If he really does remain loyal -- and sane -- no matter what the Requiem did to him ... then that could mean there's still a chance for all of them, even for..."
"Even for whom, Brother Crow?" Roeccha asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Your pardon, sir; impertinant of me to ask. I withdraw the request."
"A wise decision," Roeccha says, nodding. "I am afraid Honored Brother Marchare is not who he once was; better, I'm sure, to hold your fond memories of him as you knew him then. It would also be unwise, by the by, to attempt to arrange a meeting on your own."

Standing and walking to the library door, Roeccha holds it open for Crow. "In truth, it would be better to accept your comrades' fate for what you always thought it to be. As the Darkonese say, the wisdom of the dead is shown by their silence."
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[OOC: Heh heh. I didn't think that conversation would last long, once it threatened to turn too emotional for Roeccha's comfort-level. Talk about a "cold fish"! :roll: ]

Nathan of the FoS wrote:"A wise decision," Roeccha says, nodding. "I am afraid Honored Brother Marchare is not who he once was; better, I'm sure, to hold your fond memories of him as you knew him then. It would also be unwise, by the by, to attempt to arrange a meeting on your own."
The bard nods, his bearing (for him) a bit subdued. Especially unwise, if I were telling the truth, and found out from Marchare that you're bluffing, 'sir'? Really, now, if that self-opinionated grump of a history-fanatic was even half so irritating as Taroyan's journals lambast him for being, you'd neither speak of my 'fond memories' of the scoundrel, nor name him 'Taddeous' with such gentle familiarity, yourself!

Bluff called and countered; both sides fold. If the FoS is in contact with the Slain, the darkling knows nothing about it. And so long as raising the issue with the Fathers would also draw renewed attention to Brautslava's own culpability in Van Rijn's theft -- and a cover-up of same, perhaps? -- then the shalach-ti has at least one motive not to press the matter.

(Besides, thinking he has something to hold over "Brother Crow's" head, to coerce the bard in future, might prove tempting in itself, if the Director's lackeys are all of Wolfsbane's mediocre caliber. Now, there was a thought....)


Standing and walking to the library door, Roeccha holds it open for Crow. "In truth, it would be better to accept your comrades' fate for what you always thought it to be. As the Darkonese say, the wisdom of the dead is shown by their silence."
Another deferential nod from the spy, and a sudden turn to face Roeccha square-on, on his way to the door.

"And not solely the wisdom of the dead, I should think, sir? There's good sense for the living in discretion, also: I've no wish for my name -- my present name, free from failure's stigma -- to be undeservedly linked to debacles long-past. Best to let old misfortunes lie, as you say."

Crow's gaze darkens for a moment, and he lets a flare of outrage at Van Rijn -- rather, outrage at the Fraternity of Shadows and all that its corrupt ideology stand for -- burn in his eyes.

"New offenses, on the other hand, aren't to be left unanswered, and the surest response is delivered by those both competent and motivated. I want in on this, Director -- it's why I came back, even knowing my status would be challenged -- and, with all due respect, it'd be folly to turn me away from this task, to wait on the sidelines. You, and the Fraternity, finally need my talents again, sir -- especially so, if Wolfsbane's any example of the caliber of assets it's been recruiting, these past ten years -- and if you'll but take advantage of those skills, the Traitor's hiding place won't remain hidden for long.

"Give me this chance to prove my loyalty -- and my worth -- and I promise, you'll be amazed at what I am capable of, sir."

(If the darkling is seeking signs of a lie in Crow's vow, he will not find it. A solid core of truth: the key to the greatest of deceptions.)

The bard bows -- respectfully, but once more with no hint of intimidation at the other's rank -- and steps backward out the door, then extends a gracious arm to usher the Exalted Brother from the Library in turn. He bows again, when the gaunt ex-Vistana emerges into the hallway, one flattened palm rising to his chest Darkonese-fashion.

Then he hesitates, his high-arched eyebrows rising in plainly-feigned surprise. Crow's long fingers dip into the breast-pocket of his Souragnien jerkin, retrieving a folded slip of paper.

"Oh my, how thoughtless of me!," he chides himself, shaking his head in mock self-derision. "Please, Director: if you should happen to run across Brother Wolfsbane later tonight, would you be so kind as to pass this on to him? Poor chap; for an archivist, he seems to have the most frightful luck at keeping track of documents...."

And the spy hands the folded page to Roeccha -- the same page he'd palmed, and switched for another, when he'd pretended to hand Magnus the accession-number ten minutes ago -- and takes his leave of the darkling, slipping back into character with a jaunty gleeman's chuckle.
"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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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Rotipher of the FoS wrote:
Standing and walking to the library door, Roeccha holds it open for Crow. "In truth, it would be better to accept your comrades' fate for what you always thought it to be. As the Darkonese say, the wisdom of the dead is shown by their silence."
"And not solely the wisdom of the dead, I should think, sir? There's good sense for the living in discretion, also: I've no wish for my name -- my present name, free from failure's stigma -- to be undeservedly linked to debacles long-past. Best to let old misfortunes lie, as you say."
"You are correct, Brother Crow," the darkling says, smiling sardonically. "Even the living are often best served by silence."
"Oh my, how thoughtless of me!," he chides himself, shaking his head in mock self-derision. "Please, Director: if you should happen to run across Brother Wolfsbane later tonight, would you be so kind as to pass this on to him? Poor chap; for an archivist, he seems to have the most frightful luck at keeping track of documents...."

And the spy hands the folded page to Roeccha -- the same page he'd palmed, and switched for another, when he'd pretended to hand Magnus the accession-number ten minutes ago -- and takes his leave of the darkling, slipping back into character with a jaunty gleeman's chuckle.
Taking the paper and turning it, Roeccha laughs--a harsh, grating chuckle. "Ah, the unfortunate Wolfsbane. Yes, Brother Crow, I do believe we can find a place for a man of your talents. We'll talk of this again."
The bard nods, his bearing (for him) a bit subdued. Especially unwise, if I were telling the truth, and found out from Marchare that you're bluffing, 'sir'? Really, now, if that self-opinionated grump of a history-fanatic was even half so irritating as Taroyan's journals lambast him for being, you'd neither speak of my 'fond memories' of the scoundrel, nor name him 'Taddeous' with such gentle familiarity, yourself!
Only when the Director has passed out of sight--much too late, perhaps--does it occur to Crow that the darkling might, in fact, have taken his questioning after Honored Brother Marchare as a sign of a underling's devotion--and, given that the darkling almost certainly was once well-acquainted with the historian, that an attitude that rings so false might tend to undermine, rather than support, his facade. The ever-so-slight (imagined?) sardonic twist of "fond memories" echoes in his mind as he turns his steps toward the ballroom.
Last edited by Nathan of the FoS on Tue Nov 14, 2006 1:00 pm, edited 2 times in total.
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
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Rotipher of the FoS
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[OOC: Just wanted to point out that Crow never gave any indication that he was loyal to Marchare personally. On the contrary, his second hint at sentiment implies that there's somebody else "Brother Crow" hoped might not be beyond saving -- someone who might not even be in the Fraternity -- if Marchare hasn't turned into a babbling lunatic and/or Death's lapdog. He knows from Taroyan's notes that Marchare was a cantankerous ass, unlikely to win the personal loyalty of anyone ... let alone, a bard like Crow, whom Marchare (being something of a traditionalist, like most historians) wouldn't think worthy of a sigil-ring. :wink:

[That being said, the "Cut Scene" is tolerable. So long as his real agenda is concealed, I don't mind letting the bard serve the FoS's purposes, all unwittingly ... or having him appear to be doing so. :twisted: ]
"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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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

OOC: Touche. On the other hand, Roeccha may have drawn the right conclusion from the wrong evidence. On yet another hand, Crow didn't respond to his question ("For whom?"), which could give him a chance to deflect that suspicion.

And, gripping hand (quick, name the book!), a similar cut scene would have appeared at about this point no matter what Crow did. There's just too much he doesn't know to be able to deceive people above a certain level in the Fraternity.
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[OOC: Understood. Just so long as Moral's PC doesn't get caught in the crossfire, when Roeccha looks into Crow's ring-test ... and so long as my tabletop players don't learn too much.

[And if the higher-ups start monitoring Crow 24-7, let me know via pm, as there's something I'll definitely need to tell you about him if that's the case.]
"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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