Burning Away

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Winter mashed its way into the hallway, ice-bearing winds whipped at her extremities. Instantly, Trinan shuddered under the changing temperature, but kept staring straight ahead. Ethan's words kept the smile lit on her face, a determined grin. She wasn't one to be won by words, but hearing anything was a start. The girl kept her head up despite the white dust pouring into the room. Her face stung, and immediately her sense of smell abandoned her. Lindwell stepped out through the door, the first to venture out into the cold. Maria was quick behind him, walking with quick, long strides. The stone path the gates was indiscernible from the rest of the ground. Only the firm stone that met her shoes as they punched out a trail in the snow reminded of its existence. They sped past a duo of guards holding the gate. Maria waved to the soldier at the left, raising her hand over her shoulder and holding it there a moment. The hooded man returned the greeting in just as casual a fashion, but she didn't stop to address the quizzical look that came over his face immediately after. The cold began to set in immediately after as she followed Ethan down the side of the road. The freezing soldier held her waist, keeping her arms in close while she watched her breath make clouds in front of her. It wasn't long before she broke into a jog, taking a few overacted strides forward, her excuse was to fall in beside Ethan. The man remained silent, unfaltering, and never once seemed to notice her presence. She thought back on her intentions in the hallway. "Hey," she said, raising her voice slightly to combat the howling winds, and faltered there. Her lips pressed together, flattening. Her expression was that of physical pain as she sought out the statement she needed. "How big is this estate? Entrances, and things like that. What needs to be secured for the night?" No sooner than she had opened her mouth, her teeth started to chatter. Trinan hung her head, gritting her teeth and letting her eyes rest. Of course, the only topic that came to mind with the utterly silent man beside her was work. Hopeless.


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Boyd and his followers tailed Gareth up the stairs, crowding the wooden gangway as the group gathered around the messenger's room. The door swung open on a rather typical temporary lodging. He had no idea what he had been expecting, but it certainly fit the day's pattern. Only one issue promised any break from the typical, and that was... Boyd temporarily paled, thinking back on realizing that Wolcott and Lindwell were alone in his office. He could only imagine how quickly the fragile working world he had created the past few months was unraveling with the two men set free. He gathered himself quickly, never wanting to look the fainting type and recalling that a third monster was at the office to preside over the day. "Best news I've gotten all day," one of the guardsmen chimed in, stepping through the open door into the room. Each of them seized a trunk and lifted it, making ready either for move. Some diplomats carried their entire life with them, it seemed, and for the recipient guards it was surely a break. Boyd had found his time to speak once more. "It certainly won't be long. Assuming you don't wish to continue staying here, of course, there's a lodging house just down the road that... Well they're not exactly the State Military, but it's being used by the Arcarti government at the moment." He smiled gently. The monster had her uses, but for Boyd all of them were the people she kept around. Most of them were like him, they flocked to the Golden Pigeon like pilgrims to a way shrine, and they chose to stay near by. "There's no safer lodging in the city, I'm willing to bet. It's temporary, but getting a house to accommodate Keilaud diplomats will require more paperwork than Wolcott is able to ignore with his word alone." He chuckled at the thought of the Grand Marshal being unable to force his way through more of procedure he loathed so much. He and the guards stood by, waiting. "Whenever you're ready, Mister Harker, we can brave the winter for a few more moments."​
 
After Maria had spoken, Ethan stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned towards the young woman. Underneath the cloak, the sound of tightening leather could be heard as Ethan clenched his fists, "Do you forget me so easily, soldier?" Ethan's voice easily raised over the sound of wind and snow, "I am not your friend. I am not your comrade. I am your superior, and commander. You'd do well to remember that, Trinan." The last part of Ethan's words carried enough venom to sting harder than the cold wind would for the vastly under dressed Maria. After a moment of standing in the cold weather, Ethan noticed that the woman in front of him appeared to be freezing, such as one would expect when dressed like Maria. For a moment, Ethan regarded the frozen Maria with empathy, before washing the emotion from his face. After another moment of cold silence, Ethan leaned in closer to Maria, until his face was roughly 4 inches from her, "Fall in line, soldier, or leave." Ethan's gaze held as he awaited Maria's answer. Ethan's gaze conveyed a coldness only matched by the increasingly worsening weather, and his eyes glared the same daggers that they had glared into Wolcott not even a hour beforehand.
 
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Gareth smiled at the guard and offered his sympathies. "Poor man." His eyes scanned the room as if they were hunting for something, and he walked to the other side. There he pocketed a pocket watch off the nightstand, an item he'd forgotten that morning in his rush to the House of Affairs, and Harker returned his gaze to looking into Boyd's eyes while he trodded across the room to the door. "We're all ready to go, Marshal Boyd," Gareth confirmed. "Only a little while more." He beckoned the group out of the room and readied himself to lock the door behind him. "I'll leave this key with the keep."
 
She froze in place as the first words rolled off of Ethan's tongue. Trinan could only stand firm, clinging to herself against the cold as his tirade joined the weather in its assault. No response came from Trinan, the desire to open her mouth had left her and the heaviness she had felt in the office returned in force. Her limbs were shackled by the cold, and dread deadened them. Numbness was the wrong word, because she could still feel nausea welling in her guts. For just an instant, she felt warmth, absurdly hot, even as she shivered. Anger, which had been dead for years, and extinguished in seconds. She knew better now. Lindwell was done speaking before her tiny frown settled in. The cold had brought color to her pale face, and the red flush of her cheeks and nose may as well have come from a slap to the face. Amidst the risen blood, the scar across her face stood out as a white, dead line. She could feel it now, a distinct itch atop the painful cold. Her eyes locked with Ethan's, peering directly into the blue pools that opposed her. He too bore scars, the more severe. No matter where she tried to scrounge familiarity, the idea that this station was going to work, his words broke it down, and she had run out of ideas as he delivered his ultimatum. A hollow face turned back on Ethan, expression vacant from Trinan's olive green eyes. She had lived this life before, could visit it again, the cost meant nothing. "Yes, sir," she acknowledged crisply, breaking her huddled stance to snap her heels together in the snow. Her arms locked flush at her sides, and she stood straight backed in recognition of the command.


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Boyd maneuvered around the floor, doing his best to stay out of the way as everything was made ready and the group filtered their way out of the room and back into the even more cramped hallway. "Right then," he said as Gareth took his position by the door. "These gentlemen know the way, take care of the key and I'll be waiting at the door. It's a very short walk, I assure you." After, Boyd followed the guardsmen downstairs and let them through the front door. They disappeared into the street shortly, filing off towards their destination down the road. He waited where he had promised himself to be, ready to lead on down the road. When everything in the tavern had been taken care of, he lead off down the road to their final destination. Berlett's Boarding Home stood out on the side of the road not for its brightly lit interior or flashy sign, but because on an entire street of competing taverns the building was entirely dark. No sound could be heard within the lonely structure, nothing seen through the blacked windows. The two guards sent ahead had apparently gone into the building, only the door hung open behind them. Snow piled in the entrance, pierced by bootprints that indicated the guards had passed by the building ice. Boyd looked on with a mixture of surprise and confusion. "Generally, the staff is here... I may have to leave the guard with you." He decided to be the first into the building, given that it wasn't exactly presentable. The marshal stepped through the door, adding his own footprints to the entrance and wandering into the dark. "Oh dear..." he commented, stopping just inside the door. The lobby was in a state of severe disrepair. The entire building was unlit, candles lay burnt out in their holders. A handful of the tables had been upended and forced against the far wall of the room. Splintered remains of a few chairs, identifiable only by the graveyard of intact parts, littered the floor. Most notably, the building was still silent.​
 
Ethan regarded Maria as she stood at respected attention for him, "Good." Ethan said, his voice now softer in it's deliverance, now that he had clearly gotten his point across to the woman. Ethan turned back to front and started walking, continuing the trek back to his estate, "As for your question," Ethan spoke as he kept stride, now looking straight ahead in front of him, instead of at the ground, "My estate consists of two floors, and a wine cellar. There is only two windows on the 2nd floor, and one entrance into the building. The material of the estate is made of hardwood, and is able to keep fairly warm due to it's fireplace. There is three bedrooms on the 2nd floor, a parlor on the 1st along with a kitchen and pantry area." Ethan rattled off the qualities of his estate. In honesty, Ethan did not cook much in his house, or even stay at his house too much. His only possessions was a cadre of clothing, maps, and the sweet alcohol in the wine cellar. He was sure there was still good food in the pantry, but he hadn't looked much at it. It was likely every night he spent in Lieda would be spent at a dinner party of some sort, so he never worried about cooking, "It will be prudent for you to look over the building and give it a good once over as to be familiar with it's layout. We won't need anyone to keep a night watch, as it'd be detrimental to me attempting to keep a low cover. Until further notice, I will require you to stay at my estate, so that I may give you daily orders, and so we can begin planning for our operations." Ethan dolled out his commands, speaking quickly as if he had already thought of all the items, and was rushing to get them all out of his head before he forgot them. Eventually, the pair reached Ethan's open estate. A tall building, but not particularly wide. Snow covered the roof and the grounds of the estate, except for a small area around the chimney of the estate. Smoke bellowed from the chimney, giving credence that a toasty fire would be laying inside for the duo. From the outside, the house looked unassuming. Ethan gingerly reached for the door knob, and twisted it in his hands, opening up the door for the both of them. Instantly, a ray of warmth washed over the two. Ethan stepped inside, and began his typical routine of removing his heavier clothing, hanging the cloak and gloves on a rack. Inside the building on the first floor laid a large couch, with overly plush cushions, and two wooden cushioned chairs. The other half of the room sat a table that wouldn't be out of place in a large office, covered in maps, books, and a couple goblets, along with an empty decanter of what seemed to be red wine. The kitchen area also decorated the other half of the room, completely spotless and untouched. A large fire burn in front of the two cushioned chairs and couch, beside it laying the stairwell that obviously led to the 2nd floor. As soon as he had removed his winter wear, Ethan made a beeline to the table, intending to take a seat quickly.
 
Gareth furrowed a brow at Boyd's statement. The absence of the staff of the boarding home didn't sit well with Gareth, and he felt tension rising in him as he stood behind the marshal. Harker stared at the bootprints beneath his person with a frown on his lips, hushed by the odd circumstances. His feet very gingerly tiptoed into the lobby, and he stood just behind and next to Boyd with a shiver crawling up his back and goosebumps rising on his skin. The cold in the lobby matched the temperatures outside, and Gareth could see his breath through the crack of light from the open threshold whereas the interior of the building was dark and disheveled, with broken furniture and blown-out candles. He covered his mouth with his hand, and his eyes watered as he muffled out a shocked noise. What the hell happened here? His heart thumped out of his chest, and although his insides were alert and churning, his bones and muscles went stiff like rigor mortis. The Keilaud diplomat wanted to cling to Boyd with fear. He paled, and his expression morphed with discomfort like he'd seen a horrifying ghost. His breathing paused, and his heart skipped a beat. Whatever happened die not spell out good things for the squire and created an omen, a reminder of an old pain coming to haunt him again.
 
"A shame that there's little to hear about this place. I do hope your employer pays up still." Robert flicked the kid a silver for his trouble, and nodded politely to the girl, Lily.

Duvall very nearly refused to acknowledge the mans approach, biting his lip as he introduced himself. He leaned about, forcing a smile and nodding. "Duvall. I've done business with you and your ilk before. How do you fare under the storm, friend?" There was an almost imperceptive bite to the end of that question. The League had previously stiffed him on a contract for steel, and it had cost him a small fortune to cover his tracks. While they had made it up to him in the long run, he was still ever wary of keeping their company.

Robert pleasantly turned in his chair, nodding politely to the fellow. Young, and familiar, but clearly not hostile. Nothing to worry about from this one. "Robert Breault, and the pleasure is all mine." The serving girl, at last, made her way to the table, planting a pair of plates piled high with chicken breasts and clams full of seasoned meat and fried strips of bacon. With a hushed thank you, barely audible over the din, she leaned forwards, asking of the motley group their drinks of choice.

"I must take my leave, shortly, I'm afraid-" Duvall began, before Robert loudly interrupted him, "Ah, on my tab fellows, drink what you please!" and slapped the table hard. Angrily slumping back to his chair, he held up his finished glass and nodded to the remaining swallow of brew within. Robert poured himself another shot and drank greedily of it, stating to Geralt, "You're welcome to join us for lunch, though the pace is going to be a bit quicker than expected," He glared across the table at his fellow retired sailor, but the gloom was quickly lifted. "By what trade do you define yourself, Geralt?"
 
A list of rooms and possible entrance points. It was enough, she would be there and able to survey the estate with her own eyes momentarily. Trinan marched along behind her charge, eyes searching slowly from side to side in the snow. This was a protective detail, nothing more, it was simply set to go on for a pitifully long period of time. It was a relief which she didn't allow her face to show that there wouldn't be a legitimate night watch. She would be holding the watch regardless of her own desire, but that was an issue for later, just like this living-in business. Without a uniform, life was going to be uncomfortable, the uniform was something she needed. Maybe run a few sets in each morning, that's doable. Something would have to be done about her apartment regardless. As she conducted her own planning phase, Trinan nodded her head and issued a "Yes, sir," at appropriate times to the man she was certain was ignoring her presence again. They arrived in short order, just as her hands were becoming fully numb. She acknowledged the estate with a once-over, fixating briefly on the windows Ethan had already mentioned. It was not a building with many vulnerabilities, maybe someone had been aware of that. It looked warm. After Ethan had entered, she hurried herself through the door and would have forgotten to close it without the cold gusts at her back. She drew the door closed without a sound, ignoring the lock for the moment. Trinan thawed by the doorway as her charge disposed of his winter wear. The fine dusting of snow melted away quickly in the warm home, although the girl continued to shiver. The trembling in her back had developed into a murmur of pain, but she made no move to hold herself or seek warmth. After a moment passed, and her eyes acclimated to the new light, she looked over the room, taking in its contents. Commentary restrained, the soldier held her position at the door in silence as Lindwell sought out a seat. Her eyes wandered everywhere but over Ethan as she willed the cold away and awaited further orders. 'Take a seat,' was what she hoped to hear, but simply standing in proximity to the fire was enough for now.



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Boyd walked slowly, venturing further in the room. He wasn't comfortable enough to go and close the door, but at the very least the majority of the storm was forbidden from entering through the narrow gap. The cold crippled his movements but the snow was gone. As the wind howled by harmlessly, he walked up to the service desk and leaned over the wooden divider. In the darkness, he searched for some kind of note left behind or any explanation for the state of the house. It may have been dim, but there was a distinct lack of the blood that, in his mind, should have been associated with the sort of break-in the room suggested. He sighed to himself at the complete lack of evidence. Ludrick Boyd was not an exceptionally brave man, he would have been the first to simply turn around and leave, but there was a storm on outside and whatever was going on here was easier to deal with than nature. "Sir Traugott?" He called out to the empty building, hoping the man entrusted with its care would make himself known. No response came. Something seemed terribly wrong to him. He had two good soldiers with him, although they were missing in action for the current, they had to have heard the call. Preparing for the worst, he turned around and walked back over to Harker. The boy looked distraught, as he should have, but it wouldn't do. "Come away from the door a moment, we may be waiting out the storm here." He tried to force a smile, but only made it halfway. A rapid series of thumps pierced the silence, dry, wooden aberrations of sound that stood out like thunder against the soft whispers of the blizzard outside. They came from above, up the staircase that Boyd had been avoiding for the time being. A man's voice cried out in surprise, and quickly feel silent. Slow, even footfalls started up, drumming a slow, dark rhythm as they moved about the upper story.​
 
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Geralt chuckled a bit at the boy's response to his jesting. Geralt had known Tristan for two years now, but sometimes he wondered just how his jokes affected the lad. Tristan seemed to take it in stride, as he always does, but after Geralt's teasing he barely touched his drink. Covertly raising a brow, Geralt wondered just what was going on under that mop of red hair before something else caught his attention. The lady who seemed a bit to confident in her security very nearly tumbled backwards before deftly catching herself on the table. Raising his eyebrows in surprise and intrigue, Geralt leaned forward to listen to what she had to say. It wasn't often that you met a lady who could handle herself like that, and it seemed Geralt's earlier assumption of "interesting" was proven correct. "Methinks I'll be stickin' with Lily; was never one fer the pomp n' circumstance." He said with a wink and a grin, before taking another drink from his mead. The smugness in her expression wasn't lost on Geralt, he'd spent his time around too many self-assured nobles to not recognize that look. He shot her a covert smirk that seemed to ask "Are you challenging me to try?"

Although, before his silent conversation with the lady could continue, Geralt was addressed by another man, one he'd been trying not to notice. "Duvall," he stated, raising his glass politely in greeting. Geralt knew who he was, of course. His little makeshift guild had gotten in trouble with Duvall a short while back for not having payment on a contract. They'd managed to finally pay it off after weeks of work, but the almost-imperceptibly subtle tone in Duvall's voice led Geralt to believe that he still harbored a bit of resentment toward the group. "I've managed to stay warm, at least. Seems you're packing pretty heavy, yourself." He took a lighthearted jab at the man's attire, but he was saved from further uncomfortable conversation with Duvall by fortune twofold. First, the older gentleman sitting next to him turned and introduced himself as Robert Breault, to which Geralt nodded and grinned. Second, the serving-lady had appeared with what seemed to be this group's food. He smiled at her and raised his still half-full glass of mead in response to her question. "Already got me drink, thanks."

After the food was laid out, Geralt pulled his gaze away from the plates just before he started to stare and turned to the man beside him, laughing along with the hearty mood he seemed to be in. "Drinks on you, eh? Now I'm regretting sending the barmaid off!" He jested with a chuckle. Though he made his living by stealing other peoples', Geralt wouldn't impose something like that on a group he'd pushed his way into. As if reading his mind, Robert spoke once more to him, inviting him to join for lunch. Stealing another covert glance at the plates of food, Geralt figured it would be unwise to turn down an offer from one such as he. "Ehh, if it's truly alright." Geralt had to put up at least a token resistance to the idea of free food; he'd seem rude otherwise. In the meantime, he'd been asked another question, so he took a long drink from his glass to afford him some time before answering. As he did so, he eyed Breault curiously. Everyone else at the table knew his true occupation. Duvall had worked with his "guild", Tristan knew him personally for the two years he's lived here, and it would be an insult to Lily's intelligence if he didn't think she knew after catching him in the act of casing out her trunk. But Robert was the only one who didn't know he was a thief by trade. Would it be accepted? Geralt figured the company was ragtag enough to warrant speaking the truth. He couldn't know that one of the other three would rat him out, anyway, so he'd lay all his cards on the table. "I do mercenary work," he started, voice lower as he set his glass down on the table. "Most'a me work's thievin', stealin', the like. Mainly redistribution o' wealth, but I've gotten a few jobs that're just straight-up stealin' fer greed. O'course," he added, stretching his neck a little, "Ya don't make it very far without a keen sense o' discretion. I don't steal from government, shops, or people makin' an honest livin'." With that, Geralt shrugged and picked his glass back up, staring into its contents as he swirled the honey-brown liquid a bit more.
 
The silver clattered as it landed in front of Tristan, and at first he simply ignored it, stuck appreciating the save Tosli had executed across the table. It was just one more tiny detail that was building his notion that the silversmith was not exactly run-of-the-mill. "Appreciate it," he said, tucking the money away in one of his pockets. Truth told he had made plenty that day but there wasn't a point arguing against charity. Their food had arrived at the table. Try as he did to stick to his presumption that he wasn't hungry, it was difficult to sit idle surrounded by food in such company. Tristan held firm, abstaining from festivity and continuing to sit in his reserved way. Geralt seemed to be running the routine, and introductions flowed freely from every party at the table. The observer took the time to remain silent, listening with particular interest to the exchange between Duvall and Geralt. While well aware of the thief's chosen occupation, Heuze generally chose to keep a great distance between himself and that half of his friend's life. His head stayed level, his green eyes peering ahead unseeingly as his attentions lay elsewhere. There was a history between the two parties, and not a positive one. He stopped thinking about it. The consideration and privacy he afforded his friend's misadventures came from his own expectations of the same. Today, through misfortune rather than any kind of intent, their paths were crossing uncomfortably close for the redheaded youth. Actually, the thought turned mind turned over, it started dredging the situation for value.

He secured himself a smaller plate from the table, gingerly toppling a piece of chicken onto it and laying it before himself. After that, he hailed the patiently waiting server as she went about collecting drink orders. "Just a pint of whatever is popular," he said, sounding as though he were conceding defeat rather than requesting a beverage. Intuition said there wasn't much other than booze at a place like this. He was pulled back by a question once more, no longer directed at him. His eyes switched back and forth between Robert and Geralt, wondering what kind of answer was going to be given. His nervousness only mounted, straining the smile that covered his face. A tick had developed in the boy, every now and then he turned to glance at the windows of the Pigeon. Of course, it was difficult to see anything going on outside due to the inclement weather. Stressing over and waiting for Robert's reaction reminded him that time was indeed passing. "Like I said, Mister Breault. Many of my friends come from the underside of this city. The academic uniform says a few things about me, true, but the back alleys have always been my home. People there tend to know what they want in life, and they have the will to chase it." He smiled at Robert, pushed by a need to say something. "By the way, Geralt, how is the life going? Everyone in the port quarter won't stop complaining about the law long enough to chatter about you people any more, and I feel like it's been forever since we talked."
 
Ethan took his seat at the table, still not paying any mind to his companion. Ethan set about shifting through papers and maps, as if looking for a specific piece of information. After a moment, the man pulled out a set of rolled up parchment, three such documents are set next to each other. It was just now that Ethan realized Maria still stood, awaiting an order. Ethan sighed, and placed the parchments down. Ethan turned his head around, looking back into the kitchen, looking for the door to the wine cellar that was laid into the floor boarding, "There's the cellar." Ethan spoke, pointing out the fairly well-hidden door to Maria. There was no latch to the door, but only a few groves to allow fingers to fit into to lift the portal up, "Bring up a decanter of whatever you wish and grab two glasses." Ethan turned back to glance at Maria, before starting to unfurl the parchments in front of him, "If you're hungry, you can cook whatever I have in my pantry." Ethan added, now completely engrossed in his parchment unrolling.
 
Wanting to keep the forces of nature from further paralyzing the two, Gareth warily stepped over to shut the door, hand trembling on the handle before he stiffly sauntered to the marshal's side. The wind whistled outside and rattled the walls of the building. Waiting there was the last thing Gareth wanted, but he came to the decision that he was out of options. A weak smile replied to Boyd's with far less fervor as it fell back to a jutting lower lip in a frown indicative of the highest degree of anxiety. Harker nearly clung to Boyd for safety in response to a stomping rattling the rafters of the room. Really, they resounded more like the nailing of a coffin, like death; Gareth had much more ahead in his life, but this signaled an end for him. But he did not want to fall dead here. Every fiber of his being trembled next to Boyd and prayed to a higher power for protection and mercy. He shuddered. Not like this... To prepare himself for whatever was there, the young squire drew his bow and took a defensive stance around the corner from the stairs, with two arrows in a shaky hand ready for quick draw.
 
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The shivering soldier walked off in the direction Ethan pointed, happy to turn away and find something else to do. She had tapped her heels in the entrance, leaving chunks of street snow behind by the door before she made her way into the kitchen. The house felt lifeless, even by her standards. Someone had swept the dust from the kitchen surfaces, but it showed zero signs of any significant use. It reminded her of her own home in its lack of personal effects, only scaled by opulence. The number of superficial similarities between the two had been cheery only shortly before, now it seemed more like she was being mocked for her grievous misstep in the streets. She laughed softly to herself as she knelt in the corner of the kitchen and pulled up the wine cellar door. A blast of dry, alcoholic smelling air textured by cellar dust greeted her, bringing a smile to her face. Relaxation settled on like a blanket, a damp one if her attire had a say. Trinan had only a working knowledge of wines, but doubted that she could do much wrong handling alcohol.

Thudding softly on the cold, earthen floor, she dropped into the cellar. Her eyes adjusted to the dark swiftly, revealing rows of bottles entombed in wooden lattices. This room held the signs of life, gently defined trails pressed in the floor and the occasional empty slot among the bottles. She walked the length of the cellar, pulling a bottle to inspect the label at intervals and gleaning what information she could about the stock. Putting too much thought into this, she decided, before grabbing a red tinted bottle that looked, to her, like a typical color of wine. A worn, faded label indicated the country of Suveia, on the south coast. Close to home, she supposed, and scaled her way out of the cellar. The hatch fell closed ungracefully, trapping away the refreshing smell of intoxicants as she set to work opening the cask and turning out the kitchen in search of a decanter. An utterly pointless piece of glassware, sacrilege against alcohol by her understanding of it. Trinan upended the bottle over the long necked, wide bellied glass, letting the wine pour into its bizarre shape.

Maria emerged, hoisting a decanter and two wine glasses. She set the vessel and the accompanying glasses down at a corner of the table, right next to the other one that still bore the the red smudges of previous use and well away from the paperwork flooding the surface of the table. After filling and setting both glasses and setting one by Lindwell, she pulled up a chair and shoved aside some of the messy goblets on the table. Satisfied, she took her seat and waited, cradling the body of her glass in her palm as if there was enough warmth left in it to matter. The man across the table with the reddish hair seemed preoccupied in his scrolls, but it wasn't going to stop her from moving to the important business. She said, "Whenever sir is ready, I'm prepared for the brief that you mentioned at the House."


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Boyd tensed, and instinctively his eyes went to the ceiling. Each footfall, he felt, was another gray hair for his mustache. The source of the noise waltzed around above them, changing direction erratically. As it drew near the stairs, the sound of shredding wood emanated from the passage. He had a hunch, but only just, that it was not the sound of affected whittling. After a few moments of huddling ineffectually on the ground floor, the noise above the two stopped entirely. The building returned to its hollow silence, interrupted only by the now muffled screeching of the winds outside. Boyd would much rather have had the winds fading and the noises drawing closer, but a cursory glance at his companion led him to believe that the young man was having none of anything at the time. He was a military officer, had served battlefield for his time before he was given his desk. They needed vision and a way out. Slipping by Gareth, the man in the red coat walked back over to the door, condemning himself for what he was about to do. He pulled the door back open, letting the cold, and dim light, back into room where he could. Another tense few seconds passed by while they waited for something to happen, and finally, it did. A final splintering of wood and a crescendo of cracking glass sounded from above. Boyd reminded himself to breathe in, he felt very breathless, standing in the dark lobby and listening for whatever came next. For the moment at least, it seemed they had been left alone on the first floor. This was, as a real leader might have said, an opportunity to withdraw. "I think we might want to leave, Mister Harker," He said, adopting his best fake composure. There was an entire city's worth of buildings to seek shelter in and between, they were not in an open field, and suddenly the thought of braving the weather seemed much more attractive.​
 
Lily noticed Geralt's smirk, catching it's meaning almost instantly. For a moment she looked over the man before giving a quick shrug, complimented by a flash of teeth, as if to say "Maybe." The following conversation between Duvall and Geralt bore the weight of an obvious tension between the two parties, though she was uncertain what exactly had occurred between them. Her eyes flashed back and forth between the two, her fingers drumming quietly on the table. The strain was broken with the arrival of the serving girl, and with Robert's offer of hospitality. She grinned, giving the man an appreciative nod. She wasn't one to turn down a free meal, much less a free drink. She ordered a dark ale from the barmaid, and began helping herself to the baked clams.


Robert's next question brought her eyes up from her plate. She already had a fairly solid hunch of Geralt's occupation, and was curious how he'd reply. A look of slight surprise crossed her face when the man outright admitted his profession. She understood why he'd felt the need, after all, it seemed most of the people at the table already knew what it was that he did, still, the lack of subtlety was intriguing. Her interest grew more focused when he began mentioning what sounded like some sort of honor code. For a moment, her smug composure slipped. "I noticed you didn't mention your fellows in that list." Her voice was less inflected than before, and with a slight tone of seriousness. "So, do you take from your brethren, or is there still some honor among thieves?" Her eyes focused on Geralt for a moment before she shook her head with a chuckle. "My apologies if that's too forward, just something I've always found interesting." With the laugh, her voice returned to it's normal whimsical self, and she took a sip from the bitter drink in her flagon.
 
The unrest in Lieda eventually reached Astoria's ears. Usually she was the type to have her fingers against the pulse of the city, but today she was not feeling the part of self-appointed spymaster. No, today she was more interested in penning a letter to a councilor about his current decision making method, and how it was more-or-less a complete failure.
"Do you think that calling him an 'imbecile' is a bit much?" Astoria asked, leaning back in her chair.
Orson, her bodyguard and confidant, just shrugged. "I would personally advise against it."
"You're right, I am being too soft." A wicked grin passed her lips and she leaned into the parchment with her nib wetted in ink. "'I do apologize to hear of your condition. Hard headedness is quite the ailment to cure. I hear it lasts lifetimes, and passes from family member to family member."
Orson sighed.
"I do believe a temporary poultice would be resigning your vote. It would alleviate some of your moron-induced-fever, and you could be on your way to a full recovery." Astoria finished her letter with a swirl of her pen. Calligraphy had been one of the few maidenly skills that she had taken to completely. For the life of her she couldn't knit, paint, sing, or play an instrument, but she could write with the penmanship of a noble lady if lacking the grace of one.
Her bodyguard shifted, and his arms wrapped only tighter around his chest.
"Aren't you rather vocal with your disapproval," Astoria said. "Do not worry. This is just me releasing steam like a tea kettle. A bit of high pitch whistling, and I'll simmer down and write a more tactful letter. Happy?"
Orson offered no rebuttal or approval.

Astoria wondered why he watched her in the De'Marconias estate. They were in no danger here—at least that is what she liked to tell herself. The streets had become restless. While they had not threatened to bleed into her home, she only felt like it was a matter of time. Arcartus was a brittle old man whose only strength laid in its heart, Lieda. Yet how long would that heart beat on before it failed? Astoria hoped it would not be in her life time, but at the same time she had a feeling that she standing on the tide of change. It would only be a matter of time until it crashed onto the sore. How would she shape it? Honestly, she didn't know. What she did know was that every step she took towards preserving Lieda, two steps were taken back. Talk of rebellion was too frequent. What did violence teach about peace? Nothing.

Orson had once been a soldier. He was well decorated, though not exceptionally enough to find a cozy place amongst the ones elevated in times of war. There was little else that she knew about him. Then again her family did pay him well to keep his mouth shut, and he did so with a passionate conviction. She wished that wasn't case now. She wanted to know his thoughts about all of this, as his view point was far more knowledgeable than her own. As much as it hurt for her to admit this, it was fair to say she knew nothing of the battlefield. There were some things one couldn't learn in books—very few things, but they existed.

Astoria stood and headed towards the window. This wing of her estate overlooked the street, and she leaned against the edge of the cold glass to get a better look at the commotion. "Seems busier than usual."
Orson cleared his throat. "That is because the Grand Marshall was scheduled to arrive this morning."
"Oh?" Astoria lifted a brow at Orson.
"Unlike her ladyship, I have been outside today."
"No, no, I knew about it," Astoria said, waving him away. "I had just forgotten that it was this morning. Things are worse than I thought."
"I recommend you stay indoors today."
"Nonsense," Astoria said, turning to leave the parlor. "We shall tend to business as per usual."
Orson gave a stiff bow. "I shall gather your heavy cloak," he paused, "and my sword."
 
"Should we leave?" The youth took a cautionary glance up the stairs as dim light flooded the lobby, and the whoosh of the wind funneled into the room. "Not even without checking the upstairs?" The image of ripped skin and marred flesh on a stunted and gaunt figure hit his thoughts like the rock tossed at Wolcott that morning. Gareth then felt ambivalence between the door that beckoned and the stairs that creeped. Something was there in the dark silence. That shattering and clamor above the two evidenced that fact. The boarding home was still enough to hear a pin drop. "I don't trust that we abandon ship without recovering our lost." Harker, in his curious fright and wanting to convince himself that they did not have to brave that cold threw a foot into the rackety bottom step of the stairs, and he swiftly fired a scouting shot from his bow into the darkness above. His stuff was up there. People, dead or alive, were up there. Gareth was responsible for either of those things whether he stayed or fled. Somehow, even in the company of fear, he found importance in that responsibility and fought his cowardice to try and even unveil whatever unknown threatened. "Marshal, there are people up there," Gareth said indignantly.
 
Ethan seemingly ignored the glass that was graciously placed next to him, instead opting to sit still as he went over one of the unfurled parchments. After a moment, Ethan reached over to a quill that sat in a small ink pot, and took the quill in his hand, signing the parchment in front of him. After signing the parchment, Ethan placed the quill back in it's place. Going over the document one final time, Ethan finally looked up at his patient compatriot, "This document I have in front of me is over great importance in our relationship." Ethan started to explain, standing up from his seat, and grabbing his wine glass as he did, "I assume you have gleamed some sort of understanding of my aspirations from our meeting with the Grand Marshal." At this point Ethan started a slow walk over towards the great fireplace that resided on the other half of the room, "I mean to make myself King of Keilaudrin by using Arcarti resources. Once King, I will sign a pact with Arcartus to operate as a vassal, but still hold title of King in the land of Keilaudrin." Ethan stopped himself in front of the fire, and placed his free hand up on the mantle, leaning towards the fire, "I've been planning for this for nearly 20 years now, and I've wasted a good part of my life chasing this dream. To hold a title. To hold real power. It's a dream that drives lesser men crazy." Ethan went on, staring into the fire's warm embrace, "Once I gain my kingdom, I mean to surround myself with people that are capable and trustworthy." Ethan implications would no doubt be realized as he continued on with his speech, "That parchment in front of you is a official document of fealty. Not quite as honorable or fit for a painting as kneeling in front of a King to swear an oath, but holds the same power nonetheless." Ethan's true intentions were now revealed, but he still faced the fire, "I can not have you part of my staff without knowing 100% where your loyalties lie, and while you still answer to Wolcott, you're useless to me." Ethan's voice grew more and more somber, now taking time to finally take a deep gulp from his goblet of wine, then placing it above on the mantle. As Ethan righted himself, and stood up straight in front of the fire, he crossed his arms, "You can have much more than being an officer in service of Arcartus, but I'm not asking you to sacrifice your previous loyalties to gain more power. I would never respect you, nor trust you, that way." Ethan started once more, now turning around to face Maria, with a serious-as-the-grave look on his face, "I'm asking you to sacrifice your previous oaths so that you can serve an entity that will aspire to limits previously unknown. To be apart of a machine that isn't as decrypted and corrupted as the Arcarti governments. That make war without thought, and condemn their own people to starve during winter. People don't have pride in their nation here, they only have contempt. I'm offering you a chance to serve with pride and the knowledge you will be making a difference in the lives of people everywhere!" Throughout the speech, Ethan's voice raised slowly, until he finally finished his last words with a tone much akin to that of a proud roar.
 
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Duvall immediately took to his feet at Geralt's very forward statement, no longer worried or bothering with pleasantries. He turned on his heels, a tad drunkenly, and made for the door. The brashness of this man! He thought to himself, angrily tugging on the aged wooden work, thrusting it open and storming out into the freezing blizzard outside. He seeks to mock all the subtleties of this earth!

Robert did not make after him, simply nodding at Geralt. "I've seen you about before, I'm sure. Don't mind him, he's... Picky. He's been nervous these past few weeks, what with the influx of military personnel. Several ships have pulled in and the dock masters have been coordinating with the on-board Master at Arms to keep an almost constant patrol and ear to the city streets. To them its shore duty, and a good time, but to him..." He shrugged, and helped himself to several clams and a pair of chicken breasts. He nodded at Tristan in turn, focusing more on his food than he did the words being spoken. He knew that the boy would be useful, but how to extend that use beyond a meal was what really dug at the back of his mind. Youths were loose of tongue and sharp of wit, and he could certainly use both. Business was slowly growing harder to come by here, even as the crimes mounted. Nobody trusted anyone outside their own circles any longer, it seemed.

Outwardly he did not react to Lily's comment, but inside he flinched. She's trying to incite him into doing something, and I don't like it.
 
Geralt arched a brow at Duvall's abrupt departure, equal parts relieved he was gone and curious as to his agitation. He shrugged and took a drink of his mead, listening to Robert's explanation. It seemed like Duvall took his job a bit too seriously, but that wasn't Geralt's place to speak of. As he reached in for a single chicken breast - he didn't want to take advantage of Robert's hospitality, after all - Geralt retroactively noticed Lily's next expression in their silent game of challenges. He had missed it earlier, but it seemed his mind picked up on it for long enough to realize she had made the gesture. However, Geralt himself had been preoccupied with Duvall and wasn't paying much more than cursory attention to his surroundings. He chuckled silently as he took a bite; this lass was quite a bit more than "interesting", Geralt decided. She was fiery, and didn't have the dainty air most ladies of Lieda bore. However, her next question had a serious undertone to it, something that Geralt's keen ears picked up on all too easily. Quirking his brow slightly once more, Geralt chewed on his answer, or at least his food. She seemed to be personally interested, despite her explanation after the question. In fact, the way she switched from serious to lighthearted either suggests she's finally beginning to feel her drink, or that the answer to her question was of more than just idle curiosity. Swallowing the tender fowl, Geralt washed it down with another swig of mead before finally answering Lily's question.
"I don't steal from me kin," he answered simply, "an' that includes me mates. As fer other thieves... They got a reason ta be doin' what they're doin', aye? They'd be likened ta makin' an honest livin', even if the means ain't so honest. Better'n bein' rich an' takin' more from the honest folk 'round here." Geralt added that last part almost as an afterthought, but let it hang nonetheless. He took another bite and watched Lily for a reaction. After a couple of seconds he turned his gaze and continued on his lunch.

Geralt had only just swallowed that second bite before Tristan asked his own question, and Geralt grinned a bit at it. It wasn't his usual coltish grin, this one was more a subdued smile. "Well, I've been livin'. That much is well enough, ain't it?" He chuckled a bit before continuing. "The gang's doin' alright as well, though I feel with the bigwig's arrival things'll be a lot easier or a lot tougher." As he finished, Geralt took another drink of his mead, and his expression swiftly flashed to a look of dismay and back as it drained out. Setting the empty glass on the table, Geralt silently panned his gaze across his company once more, waiting for more conversation or a chance to flag down the barmaid.
 
Tristan's eyes followed Duvall as he departed, his demeanor relaxing as the roguish stranger took his leave. At that point, his chances of walking into something untoward had diminished almost entirely. With Robert's friend gone, his attention fell back on the mounting exchange between the blonde girl across the table and his old friend. He had a feeling about what was occurring between the two, but his understanding didn't extend any further than knowing that something was being said under the surface. The change in Lily's speaking was too playful, the kind of word mincing he expected from someone unwilling to put every detail out. Of course, he thought. In actuality, it was incredibly consistent with the enigmatic silversmith's antics up till then. No matter what she did, there was an accompanying sense of greater, hidden complexity. In this city, that usually marked someone dangerous or ambitious. Usually both. As for his friend, well, that was Geralt. The one person at the table with whom he knew the score, or at least the persona he adopted in Tristan's presence. It's not paranoia, he reminded himself, just an appreciation for the kinds of behavior the thief's path often demanded of its wayfarers. After that, he checked the window one more time. "You're one of the lucky ones, then. I can only imagine that the Grand Marshal's presence will inflame things further," Tristan said. Noting that conversation had begun to slow, and betting on the nature of his current company, he decided to bring up the topic on his mind. "I am glad to have been at the arrival today, it was quite the eye opener. You know how it is when things get rough, the weak bow out and the eccentric get bold." He shook his head, smirking to himself. "Matter of fact, there's a lot of talk around the docks now of a new face come up from the south. A woman calling herself Sacamede and hiring 'talent' left and right out of the streets. I'm no expert, but it sounds like competition to my ears."​

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Trinan watched the man cautiously as he rose from his seat. Their conversation was beginning with what looked suspiciously like a contract from her side of the table. Until then, her resentment for her situation had been raw, merely simple displeasure at being reduced to the servant of someone Wolcott found interesting. It was a life she had left behind, but was capable of returning to if her purpose demanded it. The first time he bothered to speak to her as a person, however, was to request an act of treason. Wine didn't deserve to be spoiled like this, she took the glass from her hand and placed it back on the table for a later time. Was his ensured servitude to Arcartus supposed to appease her? It did not, but in his words Maria sensed a dark, ugly thing she knew to be opportunity, long shunned. Hope glimmered in her eyes but a moment, and then she shut them, willing herself to calm. Inaudibly, Trinan stood from her chair, turning a hollow gaze on Ethan's back as she heard the rest of his confession. He wanted power, of course, sought to acquire it through title. Her left fist clenched as Lindwell's placations stacked against her. It had been years since such a sensation had taken her. She was tossed freely between disgust and sorrow as the man's argument mounted. Her thoughts turned to her comrades, and what was sure to come between them given the nature of this agreement. There was a knot in her stomach, tissue writhing and tearing at a body it no longer wished to be part of. She still had her respect, and allowed Ethan to conclude before she replied to the myriad of things he had put upon her at once. What left her most upset was that some of his complaints were actually legitimate. During her time in the military, she had seen plenty of the corruption and callousness he spoke of, but never enough to warrant abandoning her purpose. As he turned to face her, she steeled herself, suppressing her growing nausea to move forward. There was something there more important than her feelings on the matter. Neutral faced, her glaring eyes bored through the man without regard for his presence. Maria was gone, the captain was speaking. Composed, she gave her thoughts aloud, "I have served this country since the time it became my home. For every man I let die... I have never once felt as though I was 'making a difference.' Pride, Money, Power, all of them mean nothing to me. The common good, if such a thing exists, is what I told myself to fight for, all along thinking that as an officer I could make that change." She gritted her teeth together, hanging on the words that came next. "Give me that chance, I will accept it. Loyalty is the only thing I have to give. If you can give me a fraction of what you speak of, I will pay any amount."



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The sudden change in the young man caught him by surprise, Boyd's eyebrows raised as Gareth suggested that they press inside. They were much safer calling the authorities to deal with whatever was happening, but he made a solid point. The two guards he had pulled from the House were most certainly here, their footprints, or what he assumed was their footprints, were at the door. Boyd hadn't been a front line officer long enough to develop that particular heroic drive but in the presence of the young Gareth he felt inspired to live up to the reputation that preceded the title Marshal. Already convinced, he nodded as Harker repeated his point. "You're right, we're going to have to look at least. Keep that bow ready," he said softly, walking over to the base of the stairs. The arrow sent before them had now drawn a reaction from the upper story, the thwack and creak of the shot striking wood only proving the violence behind the earlier noises. Boyd began to make his way up the steps first, feeling out each noisy step in the darkness and waiting for whatever noise would come from down the hall and signal the beginning of chaos. Moments passed, carefully scaling the stairs, and with each test of the waters nothing would reply. Eventually, he claimed the last few steps altogether to reach the top floor. It was not as open as the base of the building, two hallways running off into smaller rooms where guests stayed, capped at the end by windows. Both hallways had been thoroughly assaulted, deep gashes cut into each door as if to mark them. At the end of the hall facing the street, the window had been utterly demolished, yet no glass laid on the floor beneath, just a fine powder of encroaching snow. Boyd waited for his ally to join him at the top, looking back and forth between the hallways and trying to discern a sound from the silence and the wailing outside.​
 
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