Burning Away

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Gareth nodded his reply to Boyd. He steadied another arrow for fire in case of emergency as the duo scaled the stairs, and he plucked the other arrow from the wall into which his first shot lodged itself between the splinters of wood. On the top floor, an interesting picture that only a sentient being could create: the doors had been gashed each deep as if by claws. That act was intentional. Tensely and instinctively, he stared back down the steps with his bow aimed. Even if they weren't being followed, sight would be helpful. The squire veered around and scouted the hallway, looking for some sign of entry. There must've been some room where something happened or where some evidence lay, he surmised. If the gentlemen were lucky, they would find a body or two, Gareth's personal items, or some other incriminating thing. Conveying this idea to the marshal, Gareth told Boyd, "I recommend that we, uh, investigate, so to speak." Harker felt around for an unlocked door in the dim light, and he chose a door near the broken window. Passing the threshold, he revealed whatever was behind the door with another preparatory aim.
 
Ethan did not react to Maria's answer at first, instead holding her gaze for a few moments of silence before righting himself, once more. Ethan gingerly took his wine goblet from his mantle and finished off the goblet with a quick, but deep, gulp. As Ethan placed the goblet back on the mantle, he turned to face the fire, and face his back to the young warrior, "The document on the table is not a document of fealty. I'd never ask someone to sign a document that seemingly declared their loyalty. Loyalty is something that must be proven, and you've done well to prove to me the kind of person you are." Ethan started, staring with his pitiless eyes into the roaring fire, "Without loyalty, a person means nothing. Loyalty is the only thing that matters to me, Maria." At this point, Ethan glanced over his shoulder back at the woman, taking a moment before speaking again, "You'll soon come to see that I don't aspire to don a crown on my head, for I already have a crown that resides atop my heart. Your trust in me is well placed, Trinan, and will not be forgotten." Ethan said, his naturally authoritative tone gone, and instead turned to a gentle and soft tone. Ethan once more turned back to the lively fire, taking his time before speaking once more, "The document in front of you is a paper to an appointment to my personal staff. As the Grand Marshal has appointed you as my retainer, I have it in my power to appoint positions of power to my retainers. You shall be my Seneschal, and will be paid accordingly. Since I am an official government entity, and I have appointed you to an office now, the Grand Marshal, and any others would would see me robbed, can not take you away so easily or persuade you to do differently than my orders, either by force or bribe." Ethan's tone now seemed triumphant, as he showed his expertise in finding ways to manipulate the Arcarti government to his own will, "Our first order of business will be to gather more retainers. Since Arcartus has deemed me a lesser priority, I will start building a retinue of people I can trust, or at least people that you can trust or use." Ethan now turned back around to Maria, locking eyes with her, possessing a deep and thoughtful gaze as he did, "This will be a long journey, but I trust you won't lose sight of our ultimate objective, no matter how far things change."
 
Lily leaned back in her chair as Geralt explained himself. A smile, more honest and sincere than her previous expressions, held for a moment. Evidently she was satisfied with the man's answer. "I guess that's a fair code, then." Next, her eyes drifted to Robert as he explained the reason for Duvall's restlessness. It seemed these were troubling times for most. The girl took a long drink from her flagon before Tristan spoke up. Her ears perked up as the young man began speaking. Though it was slight, she seemed to notice a slight change in the young man's countenance. What it was, or why it occurred, she couldn't decipher, but whatever he had to say, she was interested. She leaned forward, propping her elbows against the table and intertwining her fingers together. "Hmm, Sacamede, eh?" She looked at Tristan more quizzically. There was more to the young than met the eye, and despite his claim of ignorance, she had a feeling he knew more about this 'Sacamede' than he was letting on.
 
Robert remained bent over his plate, pointedly not paying attention to the silent exchange between the girl and the young thief. He did acknowledge Geralt's retort to Tristan's prodding with a mild chuckle, sucking down another shot of the rum and grinning a bit at the rough taste. "You're right, staying alive is probably the best we can hope for until the locals die down a bit in their protest of.. Well, anything they can shake their fists at." He nodded at Geralt's panning over them, silently mulling over the gang's recent alright doings. On the one hand, more organized crime in Lieda was about the last thing that the city really needed. There were enough rising stars as it was in his home city, and one more in the fray would bring trouble from both the long, blind grasping of the law, and the various organizations, gangs, and families competing for good and 'honest' work, as the roguish fellow had so quaintly put it. More blood would fill the alleys and the gutters, and it would convince people to lock their doors all the tighter.

On the other hand, for him, collecting good sums of pay for standing watch and splitting the prices on simple baubles might not be a dying business after all. He finished off his plate, finding the bottle mostly full. He thought about offering it about the group again, but at the sight of Tristan's somewhat paranoid looking scouting across the room after his first drink, he figured he'd save the boy what trouble he could, be it real or imagined.

On the other side of the room, a pair of particularly drunk fellows attempted an exchange of insults, followed by a failed attempt to trade blows, managing only to knock themselves off of their bar stools and their drinks to the floor, denting one cheap metal mug even further and cracking the glass of another. A few decidedly more sober individuals heaved up the perpetrators, and, with hardly any remorse for the poor folks, the drunken duo were heaved outside, into the storm. With the door securely bolted behind them, the two disappeared into the haze in opposite directions. The owner was strict on his rules, and a no-tolerance for fighting was typically strictly adhered to. Nevertheless, the jovial nature in the room never missed a step, as a well practiced tune filled the air from an ancient, worn out guitar. The room was over the incident scarcely before it began. The people of Lieda weren't known for tolerance of fools, and quiet murmurs about the room slowly let it slip that the two wretches were naught more than homeless, and given the storm outside, might be dead by morning. Another long, knotted log was tossed upon the fire, and the wretches spot at the bar was quickly filled. To the residents, it was as if nothing had changed at all.
 
She had passed, some kind of barrier had fallen away. Sickness lacerated her insides, but Trinan refused to acknowledge discomfort as she stood before the ruler. He obscured the fire, where she would have much rather been standing. The flame cast the room in dancing, distorting the silhouettes of everything she could see with long, flickering shadows. A daze had come over her, Ethan continued to talk into the fire, but she heard little of it. Instead, she could only nod her head to the beat of his voice. Sick and tired, the only thing that came to her mind was a terrible urge to retire and put distance between herself and the room she was currently standing in. Seneschal, she had been called. That's his scheme? It seemed to her that he was either avoiding a risk, or did not trust her enough to resist previous authorities. Playing politics was foreign to her, the kind of technicalities he hinted at in the system gave her pause. Lindwell was a dangerous man of frightful ambition, willing to pervert the concord of society. The reason for her selection by him, at that moment, became clear to her. She was mundane in her lethality, none of the intricacies of the system mattered to her line of work. "Of course, sir," she said after Lindwell, forcing vigor into her drained voice and snapping her heels together in recognition of a new command. "I have few contacts in Lieda, but all of them can be trusted as much as they are paid." She stopped a moment, sifting her thoughts for something useful as best she could. "Trustworthy people are hard to find here. We'll be combing and grooming mercenaries more than anything else." That, in itself, posed a bizarre risk. Care had to be taken to keep the right people both in and out of the roster, that was something more than likely left to luck.


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Boyd only nodded back to Gareth, reluctant to add more sound to an environment he was trying to discern the slightest of noises in, and more or less already in the execution of what he was proposing. He followed Gareth down the hallway, the length of his greatcoat obscuring the miniscule, quiet steps he took. The act was made difficult by the military boots he wore, despite his largely civil position, and no matter what he did they clicked out a countdown in his ears as the duo made their way down the hall. At the end, the winds outside carried fine, dusty snow into the hallway. It had begun to slowly cover the floorboards, but outside, the covered city of Lieda was slowly becoming visible as the storm started to ease off. As Harker opened the door, and light fell into the dingy boarding room, Boyd's eyebrows raised. Inside the room, the two trunks laid out in the middle of the floor, one sat respectfully perched on its side, the other was chipped at one corner, from some unseen offense. Both, however, were still securely latched and undisturbed. Two swords, straight and regal looking, were haphazardly piled on the floor next to the trunks, one of them tinged with blood. Less apparent for being shoved up against a wall and lost in the shadows of the room, the Arcarti guardsmen. They were untouched, by the look of things, their clothing unstained and intact. In what appeared to be peaceful repose, the two were slumped in unconsciousness. Two spots in the wall had been torn away, the wooden panels missing in action, and the men's bound hands were secured within the confines of the wall. The surprised marshal filtered in behind Gareth, taking in the room in silence.​
 
"Oh dear..." Gareth's eyebrows raised, and his eyes grew large and astonished at the sight behind the door. The two guards were tied by their hands to the wall, and the squire's two trunks were somewhat tampered yet unopened, the locks still firmly fastened and no apparent holes on any side. He stepped into the room and took another cautionary scan of the quarters before he walked over to where the guards lay. Gareth knelt next to the guards' unconscious bodies, and from there in the small room, he pulled the trunks to him one at a time. Harker pushed two shy fingers to the throats of each guard and found the soft drumming of slumber. They'd been clearly incapacitated, but they had not been maimed or injured. "They're alive!" he exclaimed with great joy. Whatever the case, it seemed as though Gareth, too, would need an escort in Arcartus to guard him. Like Sophia. Gareth missed her so, and his current predicament reminded him of that forgotten one. A shiver ran down his spine again as he remembered that week, and he sneezed, instinctively shoving his nose into the crook of his arm. "Excuse me," the boy apologized. Harker shook one of the guards a little forcefully to wake the guard. "Perhaps they could tell us something, Marshal."
 
Ethan glanced back at the drowsy Maria, eying her up and down and watching her sluggish form, "Luckily, I have enough money to buy the loyalty of one of these hired muscles you talk about, but I need to do more than buy loyalty. I have to earn their respect." Ethan replied, glancing back towards the fire, as he grabbed his goblet. Ethan then slowly made his way past Maria and to the table where the wine decanter sat. Ethan poured himself another glass, and began to sip on the beverage, "I need you to go find whatever people you can, contacts or not, and bring them to me. I'll hash out whatever payment they wish, and we'll use them as we seem fit." Ethan added, as he took a seat at the table. Ethan held the parchment in his hands that was the official document of Maria's appointment to her new office, "I am grateful for your trust, Maria, so, as a man should, I will put my trust in you." Ethan sighed, as he took a long draw from his wine goblet. Despite the amount of wine Ethan had drank, it looked as if it hadn't had the slightest effect on the man, "Once upon a time, a well-mannered and impossibly skilled knight killed his father, who was the king of the land they lived in, so that he could be king. Then the dead king’s wife, who was with child, disappeared, on account the baby would’ve been king, so the son probably would've killed them, too. They do that kind of thing all the time, kings do. They can kill anybody they don’t like, without remorse or second thought." Ethan started, his gaze had fallen to the table in front of him, watching the numbers of papers in front of them as if they held some hidden meaning, "The King-Knight overplayed his position, and his own people were to raise an army to march against him. The son fled the land, killing all those who stood in his way as a farmer would cut down wheat in the field." Ethan's voice began to grow low, and gravely as he spoke now, as if he was deep in thought, "The King-Knight eventually found himself in a far away land, where he earned honor and fame for his skill, and eventually was named amongst the King's Own. Eventually, the King-Knight found himself once more overplaying his position, and killing those that he did not like, or those he saw as a threat." Ethan's eyes now traced their way back up to the young woman that stood, tired and sick, in front of him, "They called the events that transpired the Days of Bleeding, where a mad King-Knight, a shrewd regent, and foreign interest torn apart the political landscape of a nation in the course of 4 days." Ethan's voice had now stiffened as he spoke, as if his voice was rising along with the climax of his story, "The King-Knight was lucky to leave the land that he had turned into a battleground of egos, but he learned a valuable lesson from the both events. The King-Knight had grown, and lived his entire life believing the chase for power was a corrupting journey, and that power destroyed good and honest man, which caused him to play the games he did. It wasn't until he was well beyond a grown man in life that he learned the most valuable lesson life had to teach; Power doesn't corrupt people, people corrupt power. So that King-Knight set himself off, to right his wrongs, and fight for a greater cause than his own, determine to never stop in his pursuit of cutting away the cancer that ate at the world, by making himself a shining example, and fighting for those that couldn't fight."
 
Trinan continued to acknowledge the flow of instructions with appropriately timed nods. The recruitment fell on her, which made sense, despite her age she was probably the more experienced between them in that regard. Being afforded such autonomy was not what she had expected, but it didn't worry her. Rather, it was a relief that there would be times to step away and breathe. Even as Ethan took a seat, she remained standing at attention, awaiting her clearance to leave. Sick or not, her resolve would not falter. As it was, it had ceased to be tested, as the leader before her began his tirade. She listened to his story, seeking to scavenge what knowledge she could from the information he chose to entrust in her. Realization slowly began to unfold in her mind: Whether or not the events described were factual, they were clearly illustrating his claim. There was little doubt in her mind as to who the man in his story was, Trinan was certain that she was currently looking upon the unnamed figure of the legend. She withheld commentary, unable to relate to his perspective and wary of letting that be known. Two different paths through life had lead them to different answers for the same question, but she had no desire to contend for her beliefs in intellectual squabbling. Especially, in the tense atmosphere the room held for her. His eyes came back up from the table, burning points of light in the dark. She had the vaguest feeling of being evaluated, the sensation of tiny fingers wriggling under her skin in search of something indistinct. "It's a great burden you're shouldering, King-Knight, with a great tragedy to drive you. I think your cause is noble enough to earn any soldier's respect," she said, cracking a weary smile for Lindwell.



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As Gareth moved to check the soldiers, Boyd returned to the doorway and kept watch over the hallway outside. Through the blown away window he could see the fall of snow outside further dissipating. From the lack of interruptions, he judged that they were finally alone. The lack of a window suggested, to his mind at least, an escape of some sort. The fall from the first floor to the ground wasn't something he wanted to attempt, but especially with snow covering the bricks, it wasn't something he was ready to write off. From inside, the youth confirmed that both were alive. They looked the part, slumbering peacefully in the corner. From the looks of things, and the timing, it had been quick. "That's good," he replied tersely, switching to the other side of the door frame to peer further into the building. The marked doors extended on into darkness, the opposing hallway was unlit and its features were obfuscated under shadows not far from the stairwell. "Perhaps they could, if they wake. It might be best not to move them too much..." He trailed off, glancing inward long enough to see Harker shaking one of the men. The soldier groggily stirred to life, groaning uncomfortably as he was shifted. Half open blue eyes settled on Gareth, slowly focusing as he approached lucidity. "What?" He he mumbled woozily, looking between the two upright figures in the dim light uncertainly.​
 
Ethan did not reply to Maria's response, instead allowing his eyes to find their ginger way back to the decanter, and filling his glass once more to the brim. After a few moments of silence, Ethan took another sip of wine, and allowed time to past silently between the two, "I'm going to have to earn a lot more than a soldier's respect if I am to achieve my goals, Trinan." Ethan stared down at the huge map that laid tacked to the table underneath the baubles, tools, and papers that had been placed on the table. For a moment, Ethan allowed his mind to wander. For a moment, the sickening clash of metal entered Ethan's head, as he remembered events from his past life he use to live. Various names flashed through his head, poisoning his mind with a sick tinge of regret, and momentary nauseous. The flash of the past reminded Ethan of the times when he was a warrior, before an aspiring king. Those times were much easier and simpler to him, when he lived under a different name, and was a much better swordsman. Ethan glanced back up at Maria, with a near inquisitive look on his face. No doubt, the woman could beat Ethan without much trouble as it was, but the thought of how well Ethan would stack up against the woman in his prime crossed his head. After a moment, Ethan shook the needless thoughts from his head by taking a large gulp of wine, once more. As Ethan polished off another glass of wine, he sat down the goblet with a heavy hand, keeping his eyes on Maria, "It may be hard to believe, Trinan, but I'm a soldier before a King. I always will be. I used to be very good, I'm sure just much like yourself right now, but I never achieved anything of note with my skill. Being good with a sword, spear, or lance never made someone more than a temporary idol. It's taken me nearly 30 years to learn that." Ethan's words seemed more of a reflection of himself, than advice to Maria, his voice trailing off near the end of his small burst of sage-like advice. After a moment of contemplation, Ethan returned back to unfurling one of the parchments, "You can wait 'til the morning to began recruitment, or you may start now. As now, you're not fit to be out in cold weather. I'd prefer my retainer to be physically fit for anything that we may come across. You're ordered to stay in this house until I've found you proper warm clothing, and you've rested." Ethan spoke, keeping his eyes down. His tone seemed to transition back into it's perfectly normal authoritative tone with the utmost ease.
 
Gareth bit his lip as Boyd cautioned the squire on moving the soldiers a bit too late. Yet the man that lay before the Keilaud woke slowly and came to cognizance, and Harker's also-blue eyes bidded a reciprocated, warming greeting. "Sorry for waking you," Gareth said contritely to the soldier. "Might I ask, are you alright, sir?" He rose to his feet and quickly traipsed to the guard's other side in order to kneel by the wall. There Harker tested the knotwork that bound the guard's hands into the wall, and finding the bondage fairly crude and extricable, he loosened it fairly fast. It seemed impromptu; no fancy locks or chains or keys, for whoever did such a thing did not target these men. Indeed the target was more high-profile, but nevertheless the men were important witnesses—Gareth hoped. "Might you recall now what transpired here?" If the man remembered, then circumstances would be more suitable. If, however, the man could not remember, then Gareth and Boyd would have to wait longer for information and investigation. The guards were seemingly the only persons who could offer testimony in the absence of strong evidence.
 
The soldier remained silent through Ethan's observations. Her face, as it had been, was a lifeless slate. The thought of seeking fame with her abilities as a soldier had never occurred to her. She had no desire to be glorified for her power to kill, only to conduct her work as quietly and responsibly as one could. Her immediate want was to get underway with something that could distract her mind before it wandered too far. No sooner than Lindwell had dangled hope of release before her, he yanked it away with some claim that she was unfit for the cold. "Ah..." Trinan opened her mouth to speak and found herself caught out, protest caught in her throat. Is that how it looks? Just the thought of spending the rest of the day locked up inside was abhorrent enough to send a chill down her spine. Anyone was apt to freeze wandering the snow blown streets of Lieda in a dressy vest and a shirt during such a storm, and she had shivered as the cold demanded. Even after six years of life in Arcartus, the west and its sunny days remained imprinted upon her. No matter how true her discomfort had been, it wasn't the reason she felt so heavy and sluggish while standing in the well warmed foyer. The cold did not make her so sick that her vision began to split. Her will held back wave after wave of nausea, but the interior of Ethan's home served only to focus her agonies. No matter how she wanted to get out, the man had clearly termed it an order, and rejecting it outright having so recently spoken of loyalty was out of the question. "Understood," she said, finishing her word. "I'll be starting today. After the storm dies down, the cold won't be an issue, and I'll be able to bring my clothes from home." She fell silent, but bristled. Hopeless before the final two items, but absolutely indignant at the thought of being found proper, warm clothing. Out of options, she sat back down to stare at her untouched glass of wine. Carefully, she fetched the glass and took a sip of the tart beverage to test both it and herself. Who was she kidding? Alcohol always helped. She tilted her head back, pulling most of the glass before setting it back down. Out of words, her eyes fell back on Ethan to watch for his next move.



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Realization struck the man like a fist upon him, the soldier shook suddenly and his eyes shot open as his mind finally decided on where he was. The sensation passed quickly, as he rapidly reclined back to the wall to allow Gareth to dismantle the bindings around his hands. "I'm fine," he rushed, and immediately turned his stiff body to get a look at his comrade. "Shit, Lusevet, you almost had it too," he remarked, looking over his intact comrade with a faint smile of relief before resuming his old position. Finally satisfied with the situation, the stubble marked soldier opted to respond to Gareth's question. "Don't know how, with the knock I took, but I know how we ended up like this." He took a moment to rub his jaw, hoping to work some of the soreness out of it to no avail. At the time, it felt as though the first hook had taken it clean off. "When we showed up the building was empty, but the door had been broken in. No footprints or any such things. Somebody was here though, lurking in the dark. They kept a hand over their face, which ain't much but it was dark, and had a damn big knife on them." He approximated the size with his gloved hands, a forearm length span that may as well have earned the weapon the title of sword. "I heard Lusevet go for his sword, and then there was a fist in my face," He shrugged away the end of his account. There wasn't much else to say that wasn't about how spectacularly two soldiers of the state were utterly trounced by a hoodlum fighting with a handicap.​
 
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Ethan listened to Maria's dull words of acknowledgment without much interest. She confirmed she would indeed start looking today, a bit of good news for Ethan. Without glancing up from his parchment, Ethan emptied the last bit of the decanter into his goblet, placing the decanter back down on the table with a soft thud. Today had been fruitful for Ethan, but he still didn't have an army. Glancing up from his paper, to look at the ever-waiting Maria, Ethan took inventory of what he had. Vague promises, a talented warrior, enough money to hire a few excellent warriors, and a wine cellar. Ethan held back a smirk, ~ Kingdoms have been made by less. ~ He thought, absentmindedly keep his gaze on Maria, thinking about his next course of action after the hiring of mercenaries. Would he then ask Wolcott for any army, once more? No, he would not beg at the feet on a man not fit to clean a King's armor. Ethan would have to act as if he would never receive the army he wished. He would have to make his own, through any means necessary, but the actions measured by Ethan would take more time before he could enact them. Taking his gaze off Maria, and back to the paper in front of him, Ethan took a long draw from his goblet, once more. After placing the goblet back down, Ethan glanced up at Maria, still in his deep thought.
 
Gareth performed the same thing on the guard's comrade, Lusevet, whose hands Harker untied as he did for the other. "Thank goodness," he remarked on the other man's condition. The diplomat allowed Lusevet's arms to come to rest at Lusevet's side while the young squire inclined his ear to the guard's retelling, vague and not very insightful. He frowned at the simplicity and blur, but regardless he saw fit to catalogue things that the guard noticed: no footprints, a hand over the face, a big blade, and an incapacitating punch. Very strange, but very familiar to the survivor of a young man. "Hmm..." Gareth kept his thoughts to himself. If things were as he suspected, he still resolved that he ought to silence himself until his suspicion had more support; however, the situation stood yet grave, for danger continued to lurk around the corner. Harker rose to his feet, and with genial consideration, he offered his hand in pulling the guard off the ground. Weighing their next course of action, Gareth said, "Um, I suppose we might deposit you, and, er, Lusevet and report this incident. If you need to wake him, do so."

After, the squire turned to Boyd. "Sir? Marshal? What shall we do with these gentlemen now?"
 
The snow painted Astoria’s cloak white, one small fraction at a time. On occasion a flake would fly into her face and melt against her dark, warm skin. She hid her smile every time that happened. Orson hung behind her like a shadow. Well, if her shadow was head taller than herself, broader, and wielding a sword. He was so quiet, that sometimes she had to turn around to make sure he was still behind her. Those cold gray eyes of his would meet hers for a moment before he focused ahead of him. Which was something that Astoria should have been doing, because at that moment she was slogged with a snowball.
“Blighted noble!” a high pitch voice rang. Laughing followed, as did the patter of footsteps as the owner of the voice ran away.
Astoria frantically brushed the snow off of her face—no longer enjoying its coolness. “Who dares?” she asked. Unfortunately the perpetrators were long gone.
“They were children,” Orson said. “Do you want me to chase them down and give them a taste of my blade?”
Astoria looked back at him, her cheeks pink from the suffocating cold. “No, of course not.”
“I was joking, milady.” Yet Orson’s face remained stony and indifferent.
“Then you truly need to work on your inflection,” Astoria said.

She continued on to her offices, but her mind stayed back there. Orson had pushed her to take a carriage, but Astoria wanted to walk. Walking helped get her blood pumping, and her head cleared. Now it was all muddled again. She couldn’t alleviate this problem, no one noble could. Truthfully not even an entire room full of nobles could, or a ship full, or any large gathering. The problem was deeper and meaner than that. Some days Astoria felt like she was just pricking a beast instead of slaying it. What did her attackers know anyway? They were just children. Probably emulating their fathers when the old man has had too much to drink. Or maybe it was a dare. Who knew? Astoria didn’t need to dwell on it.

When Astoria reached her offices, Orson took his leave. In her estate and on the streets, he was a much needed thing. Here, he would just take up space where other guards could stand. Instead he went about his business, whatever that was, and came back to escort her later in the evening.

The commotion from this morning seemed to have died down, and Astoria met very few people on the ways to her office. They were meager things, but comfortable. She penned letters of opinion, met with other Parliament members, and dealt with delegations. Never had she written anything inflammatory in these smallish quarters. No, she left all the frothing at the mouth, or pen for that matter, at her estate. With or without Orson those writings were safe, there were four dogs as large as miniature ponies ready to rip out the throats of anything that dare intrude on their home. Here there were only easily accessible doors and the occasional snarling noble.

She removed her cloak and sat it by the hearth to dry. Then she tapped her snow laden boots against the ground to loosen whatever slick ice may have attached itself to them. After that pomp and circumstance was through, she sat. The cluster of her papers seemed larger today. Astoria eyed them momentarily before slipping a book out from one of the many shelves that lined the back of her office. It was a bit of fiction, but it would whet her eyes before she had to squint at poor handwriting and flimsily written demands.
 
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.​
 
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Lily leaned back, listening keenly to Tristan's explanation. Judith Sacamede, a name she wasn't familiar with, not yet anyway. She watched the young man's face closely. She couldn't help but feel his knowledge on the subject was just a bit more than what the average student would be privy to, even if he was passing it off rather well as common conversation. She continued puzzling over that fact until he made his second comment. Lily shook her head with a laugh. "Oh no, of course not. But a girl like myself has to know what sort of people to watch out for. You'd be surprised how many bad situations I've gotten into on accident." She giggled, casually tousling her curls. Outside of 'on accident' she wasn't lying. She had a knack for getting into trouble. Luckily, she also had a knack for getting out of it.


The girl turned up her flagon, draining the remainder of her drink with a sigh before placing it on the table. "In any case, I like to learn things about the places I visit. It never hurts to have a bit of information, after all." She glanced towards the tavern's window, noting that the snow storm seemed to be subsiding. That much she was thankful for, she'd never been particularly fond of the cold, especially after being away from it for so long. Lily pushed her now empty plate away from her, again leaning her elbows against the table. "Oh, thank you for the meal, Robert. It's nice to know there's a bit of hospitality in the world." She glanced over her companions at the table. It was far from the group she'd expected, but then things rarely went according to plan.
 
Watching the silhouette of Boyd guarding the doorway, Gareth nodded to Boyd's words. The marshal was correct; the guards answered to the state and thus would tend to the business of reporting the incident. Harker's priority was then made to seek safety at the Golden Pigeon. As the pair of guards made their exit, the dignitary conferred his blessing on the two, namely the conscious one, with a nod of respect and a polite wave. "Take care, soldier. I hope to see you again." Harker saw them out the door, and he returned his attention to Boyd as the squire placed his bow on his back again. "Sir, I'll be off now," Gareth informed, conveying his intent to depart with immediacy. He dragged the baggage outside the door and pulled on the hood of his cloak. Harker turned around and placed a gentle hand on Boyd's shoulder. "Be safe." He gave a tendered countenance of his troubled quandary with pressed brows and lifted cheeks into a halfhearted beam. Then the boy removed his hand hesitantly and immediately weaned Boyd off his caring glance with a turn. When his physiognomy morphed into a disconcerted frown, Harker hoisted his things in his arms and departed with silence in his steps.



After some navigation—and admittedly, a few wrong turns—, the consul found himself in the Pidgeon with a light beer to tend with his lowered tolerance for heavily alcoholic beverages. Not a drinker of any kind, Gareth sat with his fingers steepled under his jaw, deep thought storming his mind although the blizzard outside had since receded. Already the morning had turned a little grim and sour by bones and blood in Lieda and riot and discord in its crowds. Civil unrest, from Gareth's studies, might have resulted from Arcarti negligence, hence the outrage. Some other demonic slave had done its work just a while ago. Government help for Harker in the form of financial aid, lodging, and, hopefully, security personnel was pending, but in the meantime, he'd take up a stay at the Pidgeon until details smoothed with the state. With that going on, he was alone at a table, drinking, eavesdropping on whatever conversation topics caught his ear, and, of course, shamefully and shyly eyeing whatever handsomeness crossed his view.
 
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Ethan's eyes flashed up as Maria addressed him, but once it was evident it wasn't actual business, his eyes flashed back down to the contents in his hands. After a moment, the man cleared his throat before speaking, "Another round would be well." Ethan replied, letting out a heavy-handed sigh before he spoke again, "There is a gift I received from Boyd downstairs. A type of sour mash. I wouldn't recommend it, though. It could peel the paint off a ship." Ethan warned, seemingly completely serious in his words of caution. Ethan held back a shudder as he recalled his first memory of drinking the mash. It had been at a dinner party, and all the present members were testing their mettle against the strong drink. After watching a mountain of a man vomit the contents of the drink onto the floor, Ethan had been cautious, but decided he was up to it. Ethan held back one more shudder as the taste of the drink fully came back to him, from that moment. It had stung, as if fire was on his tongue, and nose. It left him dizzy and temporarily blinded by pain. Ethan shook his head, shaking the memories out of his head.
 
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Trinan's brow furrowed as the man explained the situation. . The question of whether or not to attempt the bizarre, failed alcoholic blend Ethan promised gave her about the same pause as any other that evening. She was already sick, and her preferences laid with more delicate brews. The physical reactions the mere memory of such a hellish drink elicited in the stoic figure of Ethan Lindwell were enough to put her off. "That's a desperate times kind of drink, perhaps later tonight," she said, finally speaking up. Decided, she left her chair and walked into the kitchen. A brief foray into the wine cellar left her with a bottle in hand once more. Without much concern for how close she had gotten to finding a similar wine, Trinan flipped the bottle over the more recently used decanter and dumped out its contents into the glass vessel. This time, she left the wine untouched, and returned to her seat to continue presiding over her mostly empty glass. "I never thought of Boyd as much of a drinker," she said, looking down at her wine. "It's strange that your case was left with an interior officer like him." She fell silent on her observations, saying nothing for a long while. It was tempting to simply let silence sit in but that was counterproductive, it only meant more waiting around. Trinan grabbed her glass off the table, drinking the rest of its contents and holding on to it. "I will not disobey an order, but I will ask. Can I convince you to let me leave now?" There were no precedents they shared to argue her point, which was probably going to mean trouble. Trinan held no interest in boasting any degree of physical or martial prowess but she had it as an absolute certainty in her mind that her health made no difference in her ability to protect. Her glare settled on Lindwell, her unintentionally violent aura once more on display as she postured for the crucial maneuver. Whether or not clearance to proceed or condemnation came next, the conversational novice had no clue. She was out of place, sitting around a table dreaming of treason and fantasy, and needed to return.
 
Robert quietly considered the name. He'd heard it once or twice, vague rumors, nothing worth following up on. He remained silent, finishing his clams and chicken with a relative sigh. The conversation had been stagnating for some time, and Duvall was no doubt gamely limping towards his usual hidey-hole. There was a hole in the wall pub a stones throw from this place that was all but silent in the last year or so. It seemed to be barely clinging to life, with only the occasional codger desperate for drink dipping in, but the truth was much different. It was a front for one of the small time gangs that Duvall consorted with, one of the several he assisted with bookkeeping and wares collection. He knew right where he'd find him, perched at the far end of the bar, rubbing his temples and stressing over a ledger or one of the shipyard's L-56's that ultimately meant nothing to him. Still, the company was good, and he figured he could stay for another drink, perhaps figure out which of them would be useful to him in the evening.

The Tristan fellow, in particular, seemed a useful option. His dropping of the name Sacamede as if he knew her personally was most likely an accidental slip on his part. He was young, and while most didn't care what youths heard on the street, the youths in turn were free of tongue and often possessed the gift of gab. Having a spotter would help in more ways than one, as it would most likely give him free reign to harass one of the other gangs for infringing on his turf. The silversmith seemed interesting, but not the type for an extended brawl. She looked more like a gut-stabber than a true fighter, and Robert preferred to keep his body count to a minimum. Less headaches that way. Geralt was a thug, honorable though he seemed to be, and while thugs were useful, they often were loyal to their supposed 'family'. While indeed the chances of running into a fellow gang member weren't the highest, it would be safer to take someone with no affiliation at all than to take a competent fighter and have them turned against him.

He stayed quiet, listening to the youths, a smile slowly creeping across his face as he poured himself a final shot, rolling it between his hands to keep it warm.
 
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