For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Of Penmanship and Forethought

Postby Katie » Tue Feb 19, 2013 6:02 am

It had occurred to Radeorin in that moment that he would not always understand the words he wrote; individually, yes, perhaps by definition as he had grown to understand them, but the political intent was not for his mushy brain to understand. After all, it was not within his scope of duties that he would be able to grasp the intentions of his employer; he was merely to write the words she spoke.

Perhaps Gloria was right then, he considered, that he would be the best scribe in Myrkentown, for the livelihood of a secret depended on the mouth that would set it free. Since he had none of that to offer, he was a secured, locked safe for the Marshall's business. And this engendered pride in the boy, as well as purpose -- that he was convinced was for Jernoans, and not his people, but fine enough, nonetheless. Therefore, he wrote carefully.

Dashes were drawn with the quick twist of the quill, and he was careful with his ink; he would not want the recipients to think that his employer was not calculating enough to avoid creating ink splotches on parchment. His handwriting was small, yet clear, with his grasp on letters and their wholesome words a gift he could better sell than eight pence, something he would understand when he was much older. He wrote her name properly, and he misspelled the second name with divine flourish: "Alecksy." Strange, it was, that the boy had not studied her mouth when he wrote it. Arguably, his eyes had been so keen when he did look up to watch her mouth -- his eyes carefully wide and fluttering in lashes -- and yet, his misspellings were subject. Perhaps after all, he read lips, not heard words, and such phonetic spellings with the mishaps of his disability.

Still, he questioned nothing. When the Marshall explained the purpose of the letters -- an explanation that, he realized now, he did not exactly need and that made the Marshall kind in his mind for gracing him with such extra effort -- he looked down at the papers and continued to write. He looked up occasionally, writing while watching her mouth, and other times, he did not. Seconds passed and words were written.

In the end, Radeorin of No Last Name ought to be considerable in his carefulness.
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Mar 04, 2013 6:02 am

This is - almost - a place for formalities.

There are exceptions, of course. The half-hour which precedes the Militia's morning drills, for instance, during which her room is host to a steady stream of volunteers: farmhands, masons, indentured labourers; the occasional landowner. Heavy-shouldered things crowding the doorway, mumbled Thank-Yous and 'Scuse-Me's and sometimes a grunted apology for someone's trodden foot; simple needs - things forgotten, things outright broken; simple checks - was it today? tomorrow? a transfer between teams, an extra hand with the barricades this week? And by the end of it they've tracked drying mud from one end of the room to the other, a thing which secretly appreciates - because this is not a Councilor's room, and neither is it an office of the Constabulary; their business is, at its core, crude and straightforward stuff, and it seems well to have a very visible reminder of that.

Still, she has someone in to mop it all away each evening. A swordswoman's sentimentality has its limits.

"He will do very well, I think," replies a woman who has quietly approved of the seamstress' formalities; who liked immediately that the girl was painstakingly precise with her words. In this intention, they are alike, but oh, Gloria's execution of that aim is so utterly superior... "He has in fact," and this with a tilt of her chin down towards the page which he's readied, the ink which he sets upon it, "already begun to. A day, mn? Perhaps as many as two." And a sudden want to express some particular, peculiar thanks of her own - but this, too, is sentimentality, and unlike dirty boot-soles it has no place in this room. Or even this conversation. "Be well. Yes?"

It is not until the seamstress has left their company that she drags another chair towards the desk.

"Accompanying this missive," mud dried on her boots, too; the toe of one nudges restlessly at the heel of another, dislodging dried dirt and fragments of matted grass. "Is one sample of a potion, submitted for your analysis. Do you know that one? Analysis?" And quite imagining that he does - this boy half her age and entirely more literate - she's bending a moment, has a crude little knife free to dislodge something stubborn from the corner between heel and sole. "Its purpose, as described by its maker: When thrown down upon the ground, the owner is imme - "

It's only then that she realises her mistake, straightening with a small groan, to turn her face clearly back towards the boy.

"There. Better? Three minutes of this and I have already forgotten," and the voice is all dry amusement edged with subtle strain. "So. From where do I begin again," and she's leaning a moment now to peer at the page, corrects: "Aleksei. He does not understand how to spell his own name, but he is competent and we will humour him. A - L - E - " as she reads from one line to the next, and this takes time, for she's better at reading words than writing them - but not by much. "K - S -E - "

And she pauses, when her eyes reach the end of that second sentence.

"Radeorin."

Really realising.

"Now is - "

And making two essential decisions very quickly indeed.

"...the owner is immediately transported a small distance from where he had stood." Quietly, now. The quiet, flat tone of a swordswoman who has given the urgency of this message precedence over this jarring discovery, but although the dictation continues, her posture does not. Sometimes he will have her face, all sharp angles and colourless features, turned directly towards him; increasingly, he will not. And when she straightens from her seat -

"This is submitted for your analysis."

When she strolls a pace or three across this room -

"Any information that you provide is of use; we must know most immediately if this poses a danger."

When she sets her back towards him like this, the boy will certainly know.

"My name at the bottom. The date. Sand it and seal."

When a turn of her head fixes grey eyes upon his own, he will understand.
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