One bright and golden morning.

One bright and golden morning.

Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed Jun 27, 2007 2:26 am

This is Myrkentown at its very finest, if one regards it with a gentle eye: a sprinkling of morning rainfall has left eaves and streetcorners damp, so that they glisten and sparkle beneath the morning sunlight; a faint haze of warmth already hangs in the air, so that all the world seems slightly wavering, slightly bewitched. One can safely ignore the fact of what this heat-wave means for Myrken, just for a little longer yet. One can safely ignore the meagre displays of food and produce upon these streets, because the streets themselves are somehow so lovely, and the morning so very pleasant.

Oh, such mornings as these! Their golden rarity suits them to lover's songs and assignations, to easy work in sundrenched fields and to good spirits upon the roads. To almost anything at all, really, that's not the damaging and questioning and murder of two very deserving men, so that it's doubly unfortunate that Ariane Emory's business today is precisely that. Lately come to an appreciation of such irony, she has travelled to the Constabulary with a small smile upon her lips, and it's very likely that every passerby has mistaken it for an appreciation of the morning's delights.

It's safe to believe that, too.

In any case, this is so uneventful a journey: Horse is given a place not far from the doors, and a moment is given to smooth back the hair from her brow, for red spinel and blackened steel glitter at her ear, and she will have these things seen, today. Like everything else, they have a particular meaning. When she moves for the door, this grey sliver of a thing, it is to greet Constables with that lingering smile, for she is as pleasant as the morning that's brought her here, and inquires so politely as to the High Constable's presence that she surely will not be refused an answer.

'It is time,' she adds at one point during this very short conversation, because that guarantees the response she requires.
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Postby Betzalel » Wed Jun 27, 2007 10:21 am

Aithne is gone and with it its lord.

This was the statement of one elderly gentleman, forcibly retired from his position of service within one very stately mansion by a set of entirely devastating circumstances. Leveled, he had said of that place; burned, he explained. And so extraordinary were his descriptions of the destruction that Euri Betzalel, gripped by horror and curiosity, went to that place... took his friend and employer's long and winding lane, crested that last hill, and looked on the rubble with his own two eyes. It was gripping, apalling, stimulated something in his soul which both hardened and wept. Even here, where men had brought their families as refuge, the damage of Nnurian ambition was felt.

So that he took up the duty of translator without hesitation and even now rides, that he might help to leech men of their contents, words and blood alike.

The Constabulary is found, as all roads lead to its cells in this hour, for some, and the builder reins in his mount, peering up at its structure as this young and shifting horse works at its bit and froths, continuously eager. Betzalel dismounts, loops reins 'round a rail, and offers his thick belt a hitch of adjustment as he walks for the entrance. Takes his hat down after his eyes adjust to the somewhat more dim interior. Darkenhold's adept builder is present, willing and able.
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Postby Cinnabar » Thu Jun 28, 2007 9:18 pm

Even at this hour the Yard bustles with activity, grey-clad Constables moving to and fro, clerks and runners and stablehands going about their business while a few members of the public wait in the entrance hall for the attention of this or that Constable in particular; a rumpled and hungover-looking man is quietly escorted from the direction of the holding-cells by a Constable with a rather long-suffering expression. The atmosphere is one of calm efficiency, the machinery of law and order in Myrkentown rolling along with a kind of polite inevitability.

The desk sergeant is cooperative enough, though even the morning's kind warmth has him ruddy-faced and uncomfortable in his grey tunic; by the time the day's heat is at its peak one might imagine him melting into a puddle beneath his desk. In any case he takes the names of the swordswoman and the builder with an impassive disinterest typical of minor officials everywhere, and checks them against a list; Ariane is expected, it seems, and a runner is sent to the High Constable's office. Meanwhile the builder is not, and will need to explain his presence in more detail.

Either way, both are required to make their mark in a weighty ledger upon the desk before they might proceed further; a formality, the desk sergeant insists, but a necessary one. It appears that the High Constable will be available in but a few moments; in the meantime, might the visitors want a cup of tea while they wait?
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Jun 29, 2007 3:29 am

Even at this hour, there is activity here, and it does make a woman fond: there is anonymity in crowds, and while she doesn't require that for their business here today, it is still welcome. There is value in being nothing but another face in a crowd of so many; there is value in this sea of grey-clad bodies. Their movements describe the Order which is so dear to her spirit.

She moves into the building with some very faint note of regret.

But this is a necessary prelude to the business they've travelled here for: this matter of papers and names and explanations, the last of which she leaves in Betzalel's more capable hands. In this matter there is little apprehension at all, for they've sent a man to Calomel's door, and she has reason to believe that he will approve the presence of .. why, of almost anyone she might think to present to him here today.

From tea, however, she will demure. After all, the woman is not by nature a sadist, and the prospect of what is yet to come leaves the stomach unsettled.
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Postby Betzalel » Fri Jun 29, 2007 4:04 am

The goings-on of this place are summarily observed, some suspicious glance through faces that he might check for one or, perhaps, even two of his more notorious employees. Seeing none, this relaxes the tension in his posture in degrees, though there was no denying the man was coiled--being here was a grim business. The reason for their being here was grim, considering the wholesale destruction which had gone on some time before.

A respectful nod for Ariane Emory, with whom he has become acquainted, as she has spent such time in the presence of Darkenhold's rising construction, and perhaps there had even been questions and answers exchanged between them. And here, a deft scratching of his name into that thick ledger, the scrawl betraying some education. Eurian Betzalel eases his hat under his left arm. "Miss Emory asked my presence, to translate for prisoners who know no Common." Blue and gray-tinged eyes turn in the swordswoman's direction, some grim conviction haunting the edges of his face. They would question; they would break. And they would learn the why of Bad Days.
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Postby Cinnabar » Fri Jun 29, 2007 8:59 am

On days such as these, at times such as these, one might think that all could be well in the world and that merely wishing it would make it so. Unfortunately in this, as in so many other things, Myrken Wood is not as it appears.

While wishing might be the start of it, there is also a need for action, for direct effort to shape the world into a more tolerable design. These grey-clad men and women are part of such an effort, their deeds and endeavours working to keep the madness of Myrken at bay, to provide haven and safety for the populace. And today there is a particular series of actions which looms, something that must be done in order to unravel a mystery, to find out why, and on whose orders an elegant and opulent mansion was reduce to a pit of charred rubble.

The visitors have a few minutes to wait, in which the bustle of the Constabulary's headquarters goes on around them; there are benches against the walls of the entrance hall which are relatively empty this morning, and allow somewhere for those waiting to see some particular Constable to rest their feet without getting in the way. The atmosphere of the place buzzes with purpose, with intent directed towards a common goal; to maintain the Peace, to protect the innocent, to bring the guilty to justice - this is what these grey-uniformed men and women of Myrkentown work towards, and it lends a confidence to their movements, direction and meaning to their daily lives. Each knows what he is doing, what is required of him, and how he plans to go about it; it is Order and Structure and Stability. It is Law.

The minutes pass, and finally a grey-uniformed figure moves to approach the two visitors, and with an amiable grin and an outstretched hand to each in turn, High Constable Calomel greets swordswoman and builder.

"Ariane, good to see you. And you are Mr Bet-za-lel, is that right?" Some care in pronouncing the unfamiliar name, and inquiring brows raised to check that he has the sound of it correct. There is a layer of formality to his demeanour which might jar were one to only know him from his visits to the Broken Dagger; the uniform lends a certain dignity and seriousness to his appearance, for all that his features are those of a young man barely into his twenties; nevertheless, he is unfailingly proper as he nods and holds out a hand to invite his guests to come this way, pleasant but not overly familiar. If the looming grim business fazes him, he shows no sign of it at all.

"They're in the secure holding area at present, each to his own cell; we can conduct the questioning there, or they can be brought to one of the interview rooms if you'd prefer a more private conversation. The holding area is safe, but tends to echo somewhat; all the stonework, I believe." Friendly in tone as he speaks, making sure to address the builder as much as the swordswoman that he might not feel excluded from the discussion. There is, however, a moment's thoughtful regard of Ariane, and a highly pertinent question.

"What do you have in mind for this session?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Jun 29, 2007 9:33 am

There'd been a time when this disgraced guard had enjoyed the benefits of a reputation worth something. It had inducted her into the work of training Straka's swordsman, a duty she shared with one of their more able-bodied lieutenants, and their days had become stretch after stretch of drills, of formations, of dark-clad men and women who were very solemn in their rigorous business. It had won her some liberty in the Janeiro barracks, where they'd reckoned the swordswoman free to come and go as pleased her, and should she take an interest in some young body's swordsmanship, then all the better. Oh, such spars there'd been! And real coin won and lost and won again, and she'd found herself quite comfortable with such company, as she had been with Straka's: soldiering types, purposeful types, even if one lot was far grimmer than the other.

An echo of this exists here: the experience is one of embracing nostalgia, an immersion in things that she'd not thought to pine after until this day had confronted her with them all over again. The deliberate movement of bodies this way and that. Eyes that sometimes glance, and seldom linger. Orderly purpose, so that it is a solemn thing which greets the Constable when he moves to join them at last, but a pleased one as well: there is some half-echo of his smile, a firm clasp for his hand. Hers betrays no tremor.

She is a quiet guest here yet, and one quite easily-led, and for a time they will continue in this manner: Eurian Betzalel is let to make conversation with Calomel if that's what they wish, and undisturbed, at that. It's only near the end of it all that she has paused, and quite literally, too; a hiccup to the easy smoothness of her stride, a briefest stutter --

"Answers," she supplies, and rediscovers an ability to move; to speak, as well. They may continue as before, she with some slight deepening to the corners of that smile. "I require two names: that of a man, that of his home. I would be glad of directions, but I don't much expect to receive them. I will discover the cause of this, or at least the lies that have been given to these men."

With hands gently folded at the small of her back, she keeps pace with foreman and constable. With placid porcelain for her features, and some wordless dignity to the slender line of her spine. And this: the narrow smile, turned upon both men now as glances sidelong towards them.

"We will require one of those rooms, then. Both men must be present, one to watch the other.

"And afterwards, to speak."
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Postby Betzalel » Fri Jun 29, 2007 12:05 pm

A single courteous bow of the head, for the pronunciation of the name all the while the handshake is given. A quiet smile. "Precisely, High Constable."

And then this walking, this deepening into the belly of such an ordered facility. It had been a long time since Euri had found himself in a place such as this, a place from which law and order were dealt and maintained. He had had a tumultuous youth, so that he knew a cell for all its detail, inside and out, and knew one cell to be very much like another--he found himself in trouble in more place than one. There was this matter of fists, of liquor, of women. There was this matter of men who knew how to convince a youth he was indebted, men with a mind for coin, and gamblers who bet great money on great fights. A severe combination.

On the particulars of this event, this interrogation of prisoners, he would defer to those who had initiated it all, from the arrest to the confinement, to the act of questioning itself. A nod to the prospect of placing the two prisoners in the same chamber. "There is reverence for rank," he says, with this accent Ariane will find familiar, as it echoes the warrior-brother's, as it echoes the scholar's own faded remnant. He looks from one to the other. "There is dependance on it. Soldier of small rank, he will be watching? for his officer to be either strong or not. Convince him his officer is weak..." an open-ended comment, but with promise as its punctuation. The builder offers them a discreet smile, with an as-discreet lift of the shoulder.
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Postby Cinnabar » Sat Jul 07, 2007 11:23 am

The Constable's pace is brisk, an easy navigation of corridors and turnings; nods exchanged in passing with other grey-clad officers as Calomel and his guests walk on deeper into the building.

"That we will require answers is something of a given. I was more asking after how you expect to procure those answers." A sidelong glance to the swordswoman, pale eyes flicking to her features for a moment. "Such matters require some forethought if they are to be carried out successfully, and I would hope that you will not allow your personal opinions on the events at Aithne to prompt you to... rash action."

There is a pause here as he stops at an open door leading off from the current corridor, sturdily constructed of iron-bound oak. Through the door a Constable sits behind a desk looking disinterestedly at a few pieces of paperwork, and beyond are further sturdy doors set into the wall, and barred from the outside. The cells, it would seem. The Constable at the desk eventually notes the visitors, and rises hastily as he recognises the High Constable, his air of boredom evaporating with astonishing quickness.

"High Constable! Can I help you, sir?" The man seems... not quite nervous, but quite clearly not wanting to give a bad impression to his commander, especially not in front of visitors.

For his part, Calomel nods in answer and offers a brief grin. "As a matter of fact you can, Channing. We now have an interpreter who apparently speaks their language, so I'll need the two outlanders tidied up and brought to, hm... to the downstairs interview room, please. And if you could have a washbasin and some towels sent down with them that would be most useful - our visitors have travelled some distance to be here, and no doubt would like to freshen up." He nods cheerfully to the swordswoman and the foreman, and while the gaoler pales a fraction he nods in acknowledgement.

"Anything else, sir?"

The High Constable considers for a moment, but eventually shakes his head. "No, thank you. That will be all. Quick as you can with the prisoners, please." And with that the conversation is apparently finished, and Calomel turns back to his guests. "They'll be ready in a few minutes. If you'll follow me, the interview room is this way." And with that he's turning to head down the corridor again, waiting until out of earshot of the gaoler before looking to Ariane once more.

"Another thing: you knew Mr Duquesne fairly well, I believe? Did he ever mention expecting such an attack, or speak of any who wished him ill in this way? I would like to know his circumstances, and why you think someone might have wished to burn his house to the ground."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Sat Jul 07, 2007 12:12 pm

Their brisk pace is gratifying to a body grown restless some time ago: it has been possible to conceal the very real need of muscle to move, but the effort is far from pleasant. Better, this way. So that she has fallen easily into step at the man's shoulder, slim and precise with hands folded so neatly behind her back. Some sliver of smile is afforded his questions, which must at first go unanswered -- for after all, they move past listeners, they move through corridors accessible by the common man. Or the common Constable, at least.

But in time they are arrived to this very sturdy door, and this has meaning even to a woman unfamiliar with the Constabulary's works. This is no inner sanctum, but it is something like it: nothing has smacked so richly of streltsy before this, so that Ariane knows they have necessarily arrived at ... their place.

There is some very small inclination of her head to the accompanying Betzalel, as Calomel and constable speak of interpreters and preparations; perhaps, during the detailing of the latter, the swordswoman's features exhibit some passing flicker of hurt. If so, it is only the briefest allowance, and her small chin is lifted in its wake, the slim line of her jaw adopting a set that permits no mercy whatsoever.

If nothing else, let it be said of Ariane Emory that she knows how best to harness her grief.

It is only after Calomel speaks addresses her so specifically that the swordswoman pauses, now that they are set off upon this corridor once more. It is only in the wake of this particular question that she must summon up a reply, and discovers her voice functions well enough yet.

"M'Ser anticipated a threat. But it was not of this sort, and it was not from such men as these." There is the matter of a brother, after all. And there is the certainty that he does not play his hand in this way. And of course this is nothing that she can describe in Betzalel's presence, or indeed at all; Calomel is spared such intricacies. "He has encountered trouble of some ... political sort before. But perhaps all such men do, who hold land and wealth; I do not know. I cannot. Of these things I am told very little, and I did not press m'Ser for further details. Nor are they for me to repeat, save that I'd reckoned them done with, long-since passed."

Pauses, then. With considering eyes, where she glances between Betzalel and Constable.

"As for the other -- ah, you've my word that I will not murder these chyort padlo upon your floor. Does that satisfy? I favour other ways."

Which is so very vague an answer, except that her eyes are for him now, for Cinnabar Calomel - who might remember what she had demonstrated to him weeks ago, in a bakery loft. Who might draw certain conclusions from the sickly creep of quicksilver across her iris.
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Postby Cinnabar » Thu Jul 12, 2007 8:40 pm

"What sort of threat was it, then, if it was not from these soldiers?" A sidelong glance to the swordswoman as he leads the way down another corridor, turning a corner and coming to a halt in front of another sturdy iron-bound door with a heavy-looking lock. "Any information you do have, however irrelevant it might seem, may be useful. I'd rather not find out something from these men that changes the whole situation, only to have you say oh, but I knew of this trivial thing already. It may seem a trifling detail, but even trifling details can be important." He fishes a large iron key from inside his tunic and busies himself with unlocking the door, tumblers clicking and shifting smoothly within the lock.

"And I'd hope that you would not murder them, thank you very much. While they are suspects in the destruction of Aithne, they're also the only witnesses we have, and I do not think it likely that we will find fresh ones if you break them beyond repair." The door is swung open to reveal plain plank stairs leading downwards into darkness - perhaps an old storage cellar with a new door. The air smells slightly of cold stone, as such underground rooms often do, but not oppressively so. Calomel steps through the door without hesitation, leaving the interpreter and swordswoman at the top of the stairs as his boots can be heard descending the wooden steps. After a moment he calls up from the darkness.

"Bear with me, I'll get the lamp lit. Don't want you to take a tumble on the stairs." A little longer, and the sound of striking flint is rewarded with a warm glow that illuminates the steps, the High Constable standing at the bottom of the flight with a lantern held up for the benefit of his guests.

"Alright, come on down."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Jul 13, 2007 12:39 am

"There was some -- "

She is not made for such moments, this swordswoman. Hers is the room below, hers is what lays behind locked doors and blackened staircases, and she does not look towards that dark depth longingly, but with something that borders upon relief. Better the fist than the speech. Better almost anything at all but treacherous words, which have done her harm enough that she's wary of damaging the heir as well.

Must she add insult to murder?

"There was some matter of a grudge, of an -- assassin, or a duel; I know not which. My service was bought on account of this, and its time did not come. But this I know for certain, mn? That it was but a single man, and not such forces as these; that it was not political."

There is the click and fall of tumblers for Ariane's accompaniment, and this is not a sound that displeases. Oh, she must remember hands that had worn ink and far more than that, must recall the unnatural acuity of green eyes and the subtle rasp of coming death in ruined lungs, and find meaning in the music of locks. Must find a certain ironic satisfaction.

Dark places. Secret places. It would be something, to let them rot down there.

"Ah, smotri, poslushay ty -- the murdering of these men, what does it gain me, mn? Nothing that I want. So I leave their lives to you, and I think perhaps when the last of truth is wrung from them, you will wish those to be so very short."

Dark places. Dark descents, and the stairs which lead through them, and Ariane is moving towards the threshold of this blackness before flint has been struck. This, too, is necessary: that she embrace the whole of what they mean to do, before some comforting light has been shed upon its unkind edges. That she dare this staircase, that being one of the swordswoman's very few superstitions: haven't they always led to momentous things? Changing things, terrible things. It is Influence by which you have been seasoned, the heir had once said, of something very much like it, and she had only halfway rebelled at the notion.

Not today. Today, she moves half-blindly down into that waiting darkness, and with something like regret, like relief, when warm light stutters into being at the end of it.
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Postby Cinnabar » Sun Jul 15, 2007 7:07 am

"It may have been a single man at the time you were in Duquesne's employ, but it is possible that it later became political. We shall see." A shrug, casual, unconcerned. "Meanwhile, what I might wish and what is required by the law are not always in accordance." A wry quirk graces his lips at the deliberate ambiguity of this comment, and he steps aside from the base of the stairs to allow his guests into the room beyond.

It is not a large room by any means - roughly square, less than a dozen paces from one side to the other. The walls are whitewashed stone which meet in a low vault overhead; the floor covered in cheap straw mats laid edge-to-edge, deadening the footsteps of those who tread upon them; no windows in sight, the High Constable's lantern providing the only illumination, though a couple of recently-installed iron grates at head-height in the walls provide ventilation enough. Two sturdy wooden chairs stand in the middle of the floor, each bearing iron rings to which rope or chain might be affixed. A corner of the room is concealed by plain screens of canvas stretched over wooden frames, Perhaps surprisingly, the room is clean - neat paint, neat flooring, no clutter or filth to be seen. Even the air is clean, if slightly chill.

Calomel takes a few moments to glance around the room, then nods as if all is deemed to be satisfactory. His attention returns to the swordswoman and interpreter, and he offers a pleasant grin.

"Everything seems to be in order. All that remains is for the prisoners to arrive."
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