Trinan slowly reclined in her chair, letting her arms hang limp at her sides. Lindwell had seemingly run out of orders, she was now consigned to whatever rest period was deemed suitable. Denied the ability to distract herself with activity, she fell into a lull and prepared to wait the day out. Her head tilted back, and she found herself staring at the ceiling. Nothing came to mind that would make her situation more bearable until she was released, and the implications worried her. Her purpose was clear, something she could devote absolutely to, but the degree of restraint the road to it would require was daunting, especially to her. This was day one, a handful of hours in, and it hurt more than any wound she'd ever suffered. Her only consolation was that the major hurdle was behind her, she was sworn to her mission, and even if it destroyed her she had removed the option of escape. Trinan grinned stupidly at the wooden beams overhead, holding back mirth at the idea she'd ever thought it was possible distract herself from the things she had done. Turning olive eyes downward, she found Ethan looking across the table at her again. Thought hung over the man's face like a raincloud. He had been looking to her often since they left Wolcott's office, certainly a part of why she felt she was constantly under scrutiny. Whatever those blue searchlights still sought in her, she hadn't the foggiest. The soldier's head slowly panned aside, looking over the materials on the table and finding the empty glassware scattered at its end. An idea crept in to her head. "Should I get another round, sir?" She asked, remembering to tack on the honorific as she sat up. "Actually, I wanted to ask something. Is there anything besides wine here?" The girl's sight fell back on Lindwell, conducting her own evaluation as she waited for an answer to her sudden question. She had been told nothing about her future charge. Not even a proper messenger had been allotted to the task, instead, the letter had shown up at her office, claiming that it was calling upon an old, owed favor. From the day's exchanges, it looked as though he had been told nothing about her either. She decided immediately that the less he knew the better.
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Boyd had remained standing by in the doorway, watching over the hallway like the watchman he had never been. Unarmed and trained decades prior, he wondered exactly what he was going to do in the case the soldiers' attacker returned. At the very least, there was a strong indication that the assailant was a merciful one, but he had his pride as an officer of the state to defend as well as a foreign dignitary. The said dignitary's voice pulled him away from his focus, and the mustached marshal turned away from the darkness to look into the room. He considered Gareth's words behind a worried visage for a moment, and then turned back out into the hall to look through the window. The storm was fast subsiding, for what little good that new did them. It served for the guardsmen, however, now that their duties were concluded. Done, he looked back to Harker. "They are proud servants of the state, Mister Harker. The corporal here can attend to his comrade, or I can assist them, but for now the primary concern here is for your own safety." He spoke with solemnity he didn't feel, but the sensation of command slowly brought him back to a past life. Boyd's eyes fell back on the standing soldier. "Get him back to the House of Affairs. Open an incident report with the Gendarmerie, and have them send an investigatory group here. Waylay the group in front of the House, if need be."
The soldier, having been brought up by Gareth, nodded his reply. "Yes, sir," he added, before bending to pluck his comrade off the ground. He shouldered his similarly garbed partner with ease, as though the younger soldier and the rugged cloth of his battle dress were a sack of potatoes. "Thanks much," he added, tilting his head in respect to Gareth and departing from the room. The sound of boot heels on wood sounded outside, slowly fading into the distance as the man descended the stairs and made away with his slowly awakening compatriot. Boyd was quite ready to be along with them, himself. "We really can't be lodging you here, anymore, can we?" Boyd asked, shaking his head as he surveyed the battered room and considered the untold property damage hinted at by the marked doors. Where exactly was the group staying here? There wasn't a chance they were all locked away in some room, no, a sane world demanded that they were absent. "Would you be willing to head back to the Pigeon? It's certainly safer than here. I'll pay your expenses there for the time being, after that, the government will be funding your accommodations."
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Tristan's face remained Even as Lily repeated the name, feigning indifference. Hearing the name spoken back was strange to his ears, but it may have just been the woman's accent. "Judith Sacamede, is what I've heard. Came up with a gang of her own and is still shelling out money to any cutthroat and thief with a pulse that strikes her fancy." He stopped talking, out of the explanation that a reasonably street savvy academic would be able to supply. His chicken sat largely ignored in front of him as he continued to consider Lily. Robert seemed to have the good sense not to touch the topic, or perhaps his line of work put him at odds with it. The way Duvall had stormed off without much consideration for his supposed friend spoke to notion that the man was simply a contact. He was an observer, deducing or at least reasonably inventing the truth was part of his job, as a student and as other things, but it certainly wasn't his hobby. Theorizing pointlessly about a man he could just as easily ask questions to wasn't going to concern him for at least a while. The woman across the table seemed peculiarly interested in the business about Sacamede, and it was an inconsistency he intended to point out to her, delicately. "Not exactly the kind of person an honest silversmith wants to mingle with. I haven't heard any horror stories yet, but usually to get attention in this city you have to be a dangerous sort of fellow."
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It had been a long day, and it was only a few hours in. It seemed the House's various keepers had all found better things to do than their own jobs, which left only him. The arrival of the Grand Marshal in Lieda, followed immediately by the attempt assault of the Grand Marshall in Lieda had colored his morning. The recovery of a corpse from the grounds of the capitol was now currently marring the day. At the very least, the storm that had settled over the city was now fast in fading. The rains that battered the city incessantly whenever it was warm suited him much more. He had lived in Lieda long enough that they were a familiar fixture in life, even an underrated comfort. If anything, inclement weather made the streets safer, something about getting soggy in the middle of a mugging dissuaded quite a few potential bandits from plying their trade. Mugging appropriate weather or no, vulnerable was not a quality he felt pacing the city. George Stovall was too lost in his work to care about the icy grip of either winter, or death, or what ever terrible thing was lurking the streets that day. Instead, it seemed as though he was the one doing the lurking. A young man, a child in the political world, he frittered away the prime of his life as a nameless courier to the government of Arcartus. In recent times, this meant miscellaneous administrative work around the House of Affairs, but very rarely it still took him to the far reaches of his city. The storm had come during his watch, and it was making to leave before that watch was over. Snow, death, and a near riot had seen him to his current predicament, which was standing before the door of an office he hoped he knew the owner of. He was certainly in a state to be representing his country, the winter had marred his appearance with damp patches all down his lengthy coat, colored basil green ordinarily. Two things remained pristine upon him. The first was the badge of his office, an oval silver stamp over his breast bearing a depiction of a pigeon, and the second was his hair, black and combed back. De'Marconias, De'Marconias, De'Marconias, the name had repeated in his mind as he had searched the room out. Only standing before his primary choice in door did he ponder whether or not it was an invocation. Relieved to have found his mark, the man put his arm out and rapped upon the door, three times precisely upon his knuckle. In his other hand, a letter burned for delivery, bearing some indiscernible noble's seal or another.