For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Carnath-Emory » Tue Jan 29, 2013 3:42 am

"I place trust... in my understanding of Niall, and my capacity for managing difficult circumstances."

Her face is better when animated by laughter, by amusement of any sort at all. Too broad a smile will do ghastly things to her scar, of course, but something is necessary, lest she seem a colourless winter thing, all thin-boned angles and mean about the mouth. It was a steady gaze, all raincloud pale, that had settled upon the other woman; it was a subtle cooling of her features, of her manner -

"I do not hold with breaking a thing so that it will be docile to my wants. I do not hold with forcing a thing unless the need is urgent - and sera, here you sit this moment, mn? By - the grace of Niall," and it is a narrow smile; it is already passing. "Understand, Glour’eya, that I share your hatred for - terrors - "

Here. Here is where it stops. As abruptly as that, with a subtle straightening of her spine and the cool, long watch of her eyes, and simply because they have reached a point at which she does not care to explain herself further.

"They cannot be seen." This is how the Marshall begins, when she chooses to begin again at all: echoed words all edged with quiet curiosities, and a sip from the cup to warm the throat and loosen its words. Perhaps Gloria will not wish to answer a swordswoman's curiosities - not after that, not after that sudden, firm silence.

She asks the questions anyway.

"And to examine them closely - that is 'dissection', yes? - to examine them closely is forbidden. They are in every sense remote," and it's the cup for her lips then instead of words; it's soft steam to warm her cheeks and smooth ceramic for her palms, and the everywhere scent of tea-leaves and subtle spice. "And I mean to ask if they would actually have you eat sands, but there is a more important thing, I think."

And it is inevitable but so unfair, that the seamstress would make such an offer, such a precious assurance - an adventure - only to discover the swordswoman's lips slightly clenched in memory of it. That she would be answered not with delight but the tiniest shake of the head and a small, tight smile. That when she speaks it is not to approve of the notion and not even to thank her for it, but to echo Gloria's own words:

"'For in Pursuit, we are given purpose.'"

A thing which resonates. A thing which she cannot help but explore. "I like it. I do not know that I understand it. But all the same I wonder - "

A grey-eyed glance at last.

"What do you pursue?"
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Rance » Tue Jan 29, 2013 7:28 am

“You pursue what you are meant to, and always with the Nameless in mind,“ she said, approaching final questions first. Doing so was a political measure, and the girl was very political, though not in galvanizing her emotions. “A woman’s place is in the home, giving suck to babes, and if they have no little ones, then to the messa’jost — the workhouses — with them; and if they are very bright, then to the choirs as well, so they might one day become a Sister.

”I would have been fine Sister,” the seamstress said. “In the interest of Pursuit, I have — I have given more of myself than most children or women ever will to the Nameless, Marshall.

”But what is pursued by those who are not a woman,” she said, “I would not begin to know. I do not have a daa’rak—“ underneath the skirts, knees spread only so much beneath the fabric so she might motion between them, as if holding a greatly-weighed stump or a plump sausage in her ink-dirty fists, “—so the truth of a man’s Pursuit is lost on me.

”Some purposes are not great, Marshall. Yours is, whether or not — whether or not it happens for the Nameless. Mine, in Jernoah was—“

A sudden truncation. It could not be said that this girl, who picked her words so carefully in the Marshall’s presence, had no mastery over them. Quite the opposite: she had a quiet control that when incubated in these surroundings was uncanny. The product of Mother Proctor’s martial teachings, the result of a brutal Jerno education. Potential Sisters were not fools.

“I wish to be a good woman in Myrken, and do good things; this is why I have written to Darkenhold. And it is also why I have come to you this day, Marshall.

”I fear for my friend. But what I do trust, Marshall, is — is putting the matter in your hands, and knowing its resolution will be right.”

She had so many words, always so many things to say. And though the scar on the Marshall’s face received a moment of attention — a flick of the eyes that almost tried to peer beyond the side of the bonnet, to get a better look — she did not question it. A thing earned in war, perhaps; a thing awarded her in her Northern Dauntless.

Her tea had been done for some time. She lamented its absence. The seamstress stood, her mud-hardened skirts rustling underneath her. She leaned over the bureau, resting threadbare elbows on the carved wood. The girl brought with her the smell of Jernoah – burnt sand, smoky glass, and the reek of sour tarsweat. An offense to Myrkeners; a pride in Jernoah.

”Your Dauntless may be fit for leaving,” the girl said, “but I venture to say that what is of Dauntless in you, that is why you are who you are, yes?

”My tea is done, and I should be off before it becomes too dark, you see? But before I go, might I — might I see your palms, Marshall. Please?”
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed Jan 30, 2013 4:15 am

Like a father's word. Like the voice which commands the House. Like the culture within which that House thrives or falls; it's in such terms as these that Gloria describes the Nameless. It raises more questions than it answers; at the same time it clarifies, and perhaps it due to this that the woman's countenance has begun to thaw; perhaps it is simply that the seamstress chose to answer at all. Despite - this. Despite a swordswoman who very often is not kind at all.

"This is also the Dauntless way," she begins, as a subtle ease begins to work its way into her mouth's corners. "For womenfolk, mn? As good a reason to leave as any. But there is not this - mysa-shost; no. Everyone works, sera. Everyone. What is - a Sister's business?" There was a point, small years ago, at which she had begun to find such questions interesting; there was a point, far more recent, at which she'd begun to ask them a little more freely. This one slides so easily from her lips, but already there's a curl of her fingers half-concealing the mouth which spoke it; already a slow shake of her head, chagrin in the stalling lift of her hand.

"But no. I would hold you here for hours with this - well into the night and longer yet. Massa-hoste. Sisters. Sand and skinned knees. This matter of Pursuits, which you describe as I have heard others describe - destiny, fate," but no, even that's not quite right; the quirk of her lips confesses its inadequacy. And it's more than that, of course; it's the hundred tiny hesitations, the fleeting gaps between the center of one sentence and the beginning of the next, things that casual listening mightn't notice -

The Marshall is never a casual listener.

"I would like to speak with you of these things - another time. And not here," with a gesture encompassing an office's austere interior, "for its business is - militant, mn? A place which you would prefer. That tavern. Somewhere else. Anything at all, although not," and the mouth yields a tiny smile, "while upon some 'adventure' to cold Dauntless, although you're kind to offer it. That place -" and the girl's abrupt statement has hovered dangerously near to things which she does not discuss, never casually; has had her to think upon questions which are familiar, which are difficult despite that familiarity. But into the gap made by unspoken words she adds:

"You have written to Darkenhold?"

And this is nothing but pleased bewilderment.
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Rance » Wed Jan 30, 2013 12:00 pm

This is also the Dauntless way.

And perhaps it is that which linked a Marshall, stitched so through with violence, and a seamstress, who had such specific words. They were not unalike, but also wholly different: a sword and a brilliant bracer, a needle and glass words; warm as Jernoah, cold as Dauntless; in one, a faith in things she could not see; the other, a faith in questioning what could not be seen.

”A Sister, she has given herself wholly to the Nameless,” the young woman said, and then added with a pace almost wholly formulaic: “She oversees the feeding of the sands to the choir-children. She is never meant to be given to a man for his uses. She prays her Four Points very proper, very well, like so—“ and she straightened herself, to touch her sternum, “P’zot,” and then her left shoulder, “K’hu’ut,” her right, “T’zos,” and then, without shame, a point just below her waist, where thighs met, “E’doz.

”That is what they do, you see? All those things.”

And yet, a Jerno would have found humor in it, for her innocence, in that moment, was visible: the young seamstress had no true idea what these Sisters actually did, but had once aspired to take their red robes and find her way in Jernoah.

"Yes, in the tavern, or in a place that is not so much meant for business, we will speak, no? I am grateful to have a friend," she said. "I have spoken far too much; if you deem it proper, I would like to know more of Dauntless, in a way that does not -- that does not displease you, and more of other places -- this Dairy I have heard so much about, and perhaps what things a Marshall must see on a regular basis. Also, I have acquired the finest poem of love and war to ever be written in Jernoan; it is called H'zlz ar G'leuse, I think you would find it quite enlightening, and we might analyze it from -- from a tactician's standpoint, and--"

She was standing, still, awaiting the Marshall's hand, but it was only momentarily refused, a realization that perhaps she had been overzealous in her want to show kindness. Instead the girl put her palms together, reassessed her excited possibilities of future conversation, and then slowed her words so that the accent did not bleed so much, and that she was answering the question levied to her. "Darkenhold, yes, per Master Regent Burnie's suggestion.

"I have written a notice to Messa Duquesne," pronounced doo-kwiss-knee, a regrettable inability for the clever seamstress to have truly understood the difference in dialects, inflections, and appoprite comprehension. "One day, Marshall, I will be a great orator, though I fear Messa will think me inadequately prepared. Regardless, I will try, for these things are possible for a lady in Myrken Wood.

"You have come far, Marshall. I admire you. I too will be a good woman."
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Carnath-Emory » Thu Jan 31, 2013 8:44 am

They are alike in the ways that matter; they differ in the ways that matter more.

'That is why you are who you are', the seamstress had announced. Knowing. Presumptuous. Judgement passed upon a woman she'd known for scant hours; no-one else would have dared. The tone had offended; the words had stung; in their wake two hands were folded so carefully upon the desktop, two hands schooled to stillness because their want was to hit, and she would not, would not -

"Something like a Sister of the Faith," she begins, when she can speak again, and it was the mention of two particular names which startled her from herself and made this possible; so unlikely a mention that she will answer other matters before approaching that one at all. "But in only the smallest way. This sands, this 'Four Points'; you see? To learn one thing is to find ten more to ask," and it was stung coldness just moments ago but it can be something like laughter now: this small motion at her mouth's corner, these eyes...

"I would like to hear this poem." She will not embarass herself by attempting its name. "I would like to know what the Jerno makes of war, of - but Glour’eya, I am no tactician. For that, you must look to - " Who? Kerrak, clearly, except that she's not free to guide young visitors in his direction; the General, if he weren't years absent and not likely to return. " - a better mind than mine," she must conclude, and it is no coincidence, no coincidence at all, that what she asks then is:

"You would learn this oration of M'ser Duquesne?" And the seamstress will discover that her pronunciation of that name was not much mistaken at all. "It were the Governor who steered you toward this?" A month ago, this would have been cause for immediate, furious concern; this evening it has startled and silently delighted by turns. And amused, the idea that she has filled the man's ears with so much talk of Jernoans and tailoring and colour and sand, but that never once had she mentioned her seamstress' name; for days, they'd both discussed Gloria without either of them quite realising it. "But I think you do not need this concern. He's had students less adequate by far."

The idea of it all has gently warmed her; its strangeness has very quietly delighted, and she will return to her home this evening with unexpected questions and some very unlikely news indeed. But she is hours yet from making that journey, and this moment is very much Gloria's - who at each available juncture does the unprecedented as if she meant to earn her way in this world by exercising her knack for sheer audacity. That is why you are who you are, Marshall. You have come far, Marshall. Might I see your palms, Marshall.

Because that, too, is a thing that no-one ever asks of a weapon who would never allow it.
With a sole, singular exception, and that - that was -

It's taken her all this time to decide what to do with that request. The skin is pale, worn rough at the edges of fingers, across the base of the thumb. Thin streaks of uncommon smoothness make for some discrepancy in its texture; a broad circle of angry old scarring bisects the wrist. In one side and out the other, and this is what she has extended to the other woman, palm upturned and fingers slightly curled, and she is so quiet as she does this; the eyes are so intent in their watch.
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Rance » Thu Jan 31, 2013 10:53 am

I do not hold with breaking a thing so that it will be docile to my wants.

Jernoah was not so kind.

If the seamstress knew that her compliments, her platitudes, were unappreciated, she might never have displayed them so openly. There was admiration there, no doubt, for that the Marshall was a woman of success, for that she was a woman of strength and authority. It was due deference, calcified in her young veins like so many minute grains of sand -- and in a land of the Glass Sun and Glass Sands and glass words, it would make only sense that their praise, their reverence, be as transparent.

"A Sister of the Faith -- and those are from your Dauntless? I have not had my mind adequately boggled--" a tilt of her hand backward, to motion shakily to her temple, "--by Jernoah's history to know if perhaps it is a distant relative of your--no," she corrected, for the Marshall had explicitly left that place, for that was all it was good for, "--of Dauntless, perhaps in many years fossilized. The similarities, they are almost painful and bittersweet. Yes?

"And as for this poem, I would be glad to discuss it with others, but this I owe to you, Marshall. I owe it, that we should meet in a place of lighter purpose, and I will recite to you my favorite parts over a good ale. I hope you remember the letter?"

When the more weathered woman, the more political woman, the more Myrken woman of the two finally extended her palm, it was not a motion that the seamstress took lightly. She was standing, her thighs against the front of the bureau, her attention of unwavering granite.

He's had students less adequate by far.

"I pray, Marshall, that you know him well -- if I do not have good work beyond stitches and seams to do, then I might burst, and that would be a mess for which no fellow should ever feel responsible." The smile was slight, her humor just as bony and as ineffective as the Marshall felt about her own.

Her focus, though, lingered on that trusted hand -- and perhaps Ariane's expectations were too great, for all the young woman did was cradle the offered hand, curl the athletic fingers into a fist with her own dirty digits, and then lower her forehead down, down, to gently press itself upon the Marshall's upturned knuckles. That was all, a simple motion, a sign of respect and reverence. Sometimes, stahls or high-ranking Jernosta returned the gesture with a kiss upon the scalp or the back of the head.

Or sometimes, the greater would take that moment to drive a sharpened sidearm between the highest two segments of the subject's spine.

She stood again, and with her teacup resting against her stomach and the apron of her outer skirt, the seamstress said, "At'chemso, Marshall. That is how we say thank you; my heart is at ease to know the situation is under your eye. I will assist how I may, if you inquire.

"Are you done your tea," she asked. "And if so -- may I take my leave?"

For some lived pliable to the wants of those they deemed their betters.
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Feb 01, 2013 3:59 am

One day, this will become a question between them. One day she will have to explain the difference with which she accepts a kindly word from a friend, an acquaintance, a lover, a stranger, because to leave that explanation unspoken will make the trait a hindrance between them. What she will not explain is why, why it is so crucially significant at all, because she'd said those words in Glenn Burnie's office a month ago - brow to brow, the pen in his hand like a knife - and once, just once, was enough.

She will not flay herself bare a second time.

"Ah, no." And in this simpler moment she is quietly smiling. "We Dauntless have no time for - gods, for such things at all. But the One Faith, there are two churches for this right here in Myrkentown." What is fossilized? What actually is oration? She does not ask, but they will be the subject of the evening's letter; the morning next she will receive a response detailing definitions and pronunciation, synonyms and context - such context as will suit a weapon whose experiences are odd; whose education is ... unconventional. When next they speak she will have an answer to the seamstress' implications; for now she can only smile it away, but not without echoing: "Painful. Bittersweet. I do not know that you will like that I say this, but Glour’eya -

I think I am very glad that you have left that place."

That place. That Jernoan place. Of which she owns only the most meagre understanding, all filtered through Gloria's experiences and her own prejudices, and yet - and yet - a swordswoman born to glacial brutalities imagines herself so very good at recognising cruelty. It is as simple as this: imagine sending the seamstress back. Imagine exiling her back to unforgiving sands; to Sisters and choir and rat’vak -

To do this is to feel the heart lurch, sickened.

"I - know him well enough, I think." That, then. Because such talk is like a balm to abraded nerves; it has warmed her smile. "You will find him exacting - and patient. And kinder than I," she's laughing then; really laughing, some comfortable blend of pleasure and chagrin, and very much in remembrance of years-ago times: the architect who was so obliging as two girls pored over his designs and his diagrams, asking of that, and insisting to add this, and filling the library with so much excited noise when they found ladders with wheels. Who had quiet answers for the boy who would one day be Governor, the boy who'd happened inevitably upon a thing he was never supposed to see... "Do not have no fear for this, mn? He is a good man. And I think - that is where I will hear your poem." The idea is suddenly so obvious, so very appealing. "If you wish? I will show you the gardens if the cold allows; the very best ale."

All of this so brightly, so rich with delight, that it might seem jarring somehow that the simple act of extending her hand to this girl could quieten her so. But then, what she had expected was only what had come of it: her palm upturned, the hand cradled in Gloria's own, and -

she does not breath, she really just cannot

- it is another moment, years ago and darkly-lit and strange and fine; it is now, a seamstress' touch curling thin fingers into the fist to which they're best suited. It was a terrible vulnerability; terrible and terrifying. It was something else entirely when Gloria bent her head to -

And she wants, really wants to jerk back that hand, not because she fears but because this is some sort of obeisance and it is beyond inappropriate. This is something which borders upon the girl's willingness to abase herself and she will not have this: not of anyone, not of Gloria, with her plump cheeks and blackened hands, with her oration and aspirations and dreadful, wonderful sincerity - not ever - not at all - and the voice means to shout -

But when the seamstress straightens, it is to discover a swordswoman who wears features schooled to placid calm, and when that woman speaks it is only to say: "At'chemso, Glour’eya." Quiet and imperfect; fervently nonetheless. "Of course you may. With only one thing, one small thing - "

A slow breath.

"Blake Caplin. We will speak of this if you wish - now, later; you choose the time. But this much must be said: that I know this secret of which you speak. That I know he does this thing largely without malice. That nevertheless I would have you - cautious in his company. Like - the cat that does not mean to blood you, mn? But still - it has its claws."

This is not the point at which she'd wanted to speak those words: ill-timed and, in the wake of what went before it, almost disrespectful. This is not at all how she'd wanted to make her farewell. That she says what she does is surely the clearest indication of what the swordswoman knows herself to be.
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Rance » Fri Feb 01, 2013 7:08 am

“While it is always a part of me, Marshall, I am glad I have left that place,” she said, “for I fear if I had actually been given a choice in the matter, I might have never left.”

The seamstress was a girl who could provoke intense disquiet in those to whom she spoke. Perhaps it was the trill of her words, the way she chose them with equal parts carelessness and exaction. Maybe it was the truth she wielded, to always say what was in her mind, to handle words like a hammer instead of a deft paring knife.

A fine orator, she would make; a finer politician, even, who might give words to incense while smiling, missing a tooth, always gentle, always pressing, wielding obeisance as politeness.

But that was a hope for future years. Many lessons. Tens of thousands of stitches later.

”And I, too, am glad that Dauntless is your history, and that alone. You see? For forgive my observation, but there seems to be…disquiet in you,” she said. “Disquiet of it.” The way she laughed as if it were not a concern, the occasional disdain that seeped through her accent, the steely questions that seemed to compare.

”But no matter; we are Mykeners. Yes? We are—“

—sixsteen-oh-five-four? she will be in the third row, seventh column. those are the sixteen-oh-fifties. fatter girls. hips can withstand a great deal. their breasts will swell like water-bladders and feed many babies for many proud jernos. after all we are in the good work of choosing the right girls for the pens. yes, we are—

“—Myrkeners.

”Perhaps,” she said, tightening her fists around the sweat-blackened hips of her skirt, as if she were wringing the very fabric into powder, “we will go to Darkenhold first as one, yes? I would not know my way. Might that I could acquire through some means an ass or mool beforehand — I am not a lover of horses, Marshall, by edict of Pursuit and my own personal fears, but there, I promise to give you the finest most inspired reading, and—“

Blake Caplin.

She worried her empty tea-mug for several moments, examining the white porcelain with her fingers, her sun-bronzed skin. The nubs of her fingernails tapped against the ringing surface. Her dirty knuckles clenched and unclenched. Considering. “Messa Caplin was, beyond all things, a moment of – of self-examination,” she said, with conservatism. “I was forced by the moment to question what is greater, the value of loyalty to a friend, or the value of loyalty to state.

”I shared his secret against his wishes. Sometimes I do not feel the best for that.” She looked down into her empty cup of tea, looking for some kind of answer in it, rolling around a single remaining droplet as she tilted the little mug back and forth, back and forth.

”Marshall, I have learned in my short time in Myrken two things: one, that I love to live—“ her words, reflected back to her, an adage by which she lived, “—and two, that the happy cat and its violent claws will one day find everyone’s skin at some point, and that we must take our scars and grow with them. Seamstress,” she finalized, “or better.”

Then, she reached the mug over the table. Beneath her bonnet, a grin erupted, breaking through her thought-wrinkled face, showing off shattered tooth-gap.

”To friendships. To good travels to Darkenhold, where new futures may bulge under the surface like happy infants. To saying to the Veldt with Dauntless, and to the Veldt with Jernoah. Yes?

”And to the Marshall,” she said. “And to us. Yes?”

A girl’s smile, happy to please, sullied by pockmarks from burning sand. Jernoan in nature, but maybe — almost — Dauntless.

sixteen-oh-five-four, you have a very nice smile.

She tilted her mug to Marshall Emory.
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Katie » Mon Feb 04, 2013 2:50 pm

Meanwhile, as adrift as the boy had been, Radeorin had clung to this new realization like insecure babies do to their dolls: he had a job. By far, this had been different: this involved skills that not everyone had had, skills he had not realized that made him special. Radeorin was likely one of the very few children, and perhaps even few adults, who was literate. Nevermind that he couldn't hear the cock crowing in the morning; careful discerning eyes could memorize the shape of lips and formulate those words into sentences.

It was the Marshall who founded this talent in the boy, whilst dealing with a matter not of her office: a precious glass marble was stolen, none other than the wretched Elliot, a boy who ought to be his friend, not enemy. In doing so, she had become aware of not only his small, but orderly handwriting, but also his grasp of spelling, grammar and the precise wording that, in time and training, would make him a fine deputy or otherwise politician. By the goddess. Maybe the governor in some twenty-years times.

But that was not for the eleven-year-old to determine. Clothed in a tunic accompanied by the aroma of body odor and staleness, the boy swiped some of the messy tresses of black hair from his equally black eyes. Hands at the ready, he brought both with a quill pen -- that he either found on the premises or stole elsewhere -- and some parchment. When he stepped forward, gleaming eyes ready to assist, to do the work he was hired to do, for the extravagant eight pence that he was promised, he would be the perfect scribe.

Well, he would, but there were more important things to do first: he waved at the Marshall with long-stemmed fingers, and greeted her with a smile equally displayed on his mouth and eyes.
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Carnath-Emory » Tue Feb 05, 2013 4:03 am

Gloria Wynsee, puzzling and delightful by turns. She has stunned a swordswoman with her ready friendship, has counfounded a brute more accustomed to the company of men like Kerrak, like Feuls; blunt things with a ready hand for violence, the sort of manner she finds easier than any other at all. She has sometimes provoked quiet, wordless shock, and sometimes a generalised vexation that has less to do with the girl's nature than her circumstances -

But Gloria Wynsee has never managed to disquiet.

"We are," when her hand is her own, and her thoughts are as well, "what we have chosen to be. There is no denying what is passed, mn? There is no refusing it. But neither must we be ruled by it, I think. I certainly do not care to be," and this is the narrow grin of a woman who does not much care to be ruled by anything at all. "Mm. If you would have me travel with you," and the very idea of it has her halfway smiling, all unsure, "then - mm. Are you easier with a carriage than a mount? It is still horses, but not near so jarring, and you need not so much as touch your hand to them."

Horses. One day, perhaps, she might commiserate with that Aleksei.
Of course she mightn't much like his solution to the problem...

But it's back in her seat that the swordswoman has settled now, the one hand drawn almost protectively into her lap; the other occupies itself with the mug and its last lingering warmth. See how the fingertips turn it, light upon the tabletop, something to keep the hand busy when the rest of her is required to sit so still. It does not stop as the seamstress speaks, this soundless bit of distraction. Not even when she mentions self-examination - although that's drawn her eyes back to the girl; has provoked a very solemn gaze indeed.

"Blake Caplin is - difficult." Ruinous. Grasping. "I have no answers to the question you're not asking," and the statement is so convoluted that she wants to laugh at it; wants to and cannot. This is a familiar conversation, these are familiar sentiments; she has been here before -

And does not mean to repeat the mistakes of the recent past.

"What I have for you is this: that Glour’eya, what you chose was right." The hand has slipped free of its mug; has reached across that tabletop to touch fingertips to the back of the other woman's wrist. Light, necessary contact from a swordswoman who means to engage in every way possible, to hold her with this even gaze. Because this is important. Because she will have no mistakes, no misunderstanding. "Right for you, right for him; right that you came to me with this news of him." That she already knew mattered not at all. That it was Agnieszka as well matters less; she can manage that girl, has and will. "Were it other circumstances, this might not be so - there is no - rule for this, you know? You - choose, every time. And each time that choice means something different."

A pause. For breath and to gather her words before they become so many that they mean nothing at all.

"He means to live a good, kindly life, Glour’eya; he makes this attempt sincerely. Be a friend to him if you would, if this sits well with you. Do it cautiously if you wish; it is wise to, I think. And I will ask this of you: that if there should be another - problem with him," and what a broad term that was, "you bring it to me."

Because Blake, too, can be managed.
One way or another.

"To friendship, then," and it's easier now; it can be the very beginnings of a smile, her mug raised as well - awkwardly, at first, as awkward as those words; it doesn't last. "To scars," and that's a sudden grin indeed. "To - us." Despite a swordswoman's awkwardness with such warm and ready friendship; despite a weapon's regrets and inabilities and quiet apprehensions. Because Glour’eya Wynsee -

in this moment she wants nothing more than to salute the warmth of your smile.
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For the Secretary, a Storm of Industry.

Postby Carnath-Emory » Tue Feb 05, 2013 4:17 am

This is what young Radeorin has stepped into: this very genial interval involving two young women and their raised cups. There might have been an innocuous charm to it were it not a Marshall's office, and if the women were any but these...

"Radi," and the voice is soft but the name is so deliberately shaped; her habit in the boy's company, and one that she's already grown to like very much indeed. This, for greeting, and the lift of her mug will suit to salute Radeorin as well. "If you have your things then sit you down; there's work for you already, two letters and two deliveries, and we may begin at once."

And why not? This is as much the seamstress' business as hers, so that already the Marshall's straightening from her seat to rummage through a very dented cabinet. "The letters are identical. It is only the names which must change and Radi, I hope that you can spell Inquisitory, for I suspect my best guess would be - "

A sudden smile across her shoulder, for Gloria as much as him.

" - disastrous."
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Rance » Tue Feb 05, 2013 4:57 pm

Her response came without giving much of a thought to it.

"A carriage? Yes. That way, we might ride together; though I am sure the name holds no truth, you must forgive a seamstress her natural fright at the idea of going alone."

She imagined that being so far away from the jerethedrals, the Sisters and Brothers would not mind so greatly if she relied on horse-drawn transportation. While the edicts after the Second Calamity might have denied her willing contact with the beasts--

a horse is a weak creature, glour'eya; we learn this because we must

but i think that they are pretty, Sister, they shine so nicely when they are hard at work

that is all, that is the only reason that you like them, you are a fool girl, eat your helping and--

why should i think they are wrong, the choir-girl asked, why should i--

--because the black smoke and the horsehead brought jernoah to its knees, once, almost destroyed our beautiful city, the one in which you play, the one in which you praise Them, and you would not wish your parents long dead before you, would you, would you

but the choir-girl said, those are just old stories and i do not think horses are so bad--

and the Sister struck her so hard, the choir-girl lost

one

of her growing-teeth.


"A carriage," she repeated, with a modest, smiling pleasure. "I would be excited for the company, and we may learn words together. Marshall, we shall be speaking one another's language in such a quick time, it will be as though I am you, and you are me; might that we would confuse Myrken Wood so greatly, except that--" There was a relieved and merry laugh from the girl, "--they will all wonder, Marshall, your bottom has grown so greatly, what must you be eating!

"To all those things," she said, before raising the mug high, imagining what it would be like to learn oratory, and if Messa Duquesne would think her jovial or juvenile, whether he would be a soft-worded tutor, or like Mother Proctor with her capital cane -- but no matter, no matter; the journey she eagerly awaited just as much, to spend a good bit of time with this fascinating woman and her scar. A living weapon, yes, or so it seemed, but she had skin and no sharp edges, not any that the seamstress could see. It was the sharpness of things that startled her, and though she was brave around an efficiently-pointed needle, her petticoats shook at the sign of a knife, and at the idea of an arrow--

When the deaf-boy entered, she gave him only a tilt of the bonnet, and a smile that was amicable, but not wholly pleasant. It was the smile she gave when selling poque-bags in the square. Stern. As business-like as a young woman might be, for while she did not know matters of business, she knew that cold coin in the palm was the result of much warmer eyes.

So, the smile twitched. A greeting, and a wave that was more palm than fingers, for this was the Marhsall's office, and not her room to decree what belonged and what did not.

The matters of Blake Caplin were not discussed again. She had done right; she would continue doing right by him, according to the Marshall's measurement.

"Is he -- is he a writing boy for you," the seamstress asked, as she watched Radeorin. "Oh--"

Inquisitory.

"It should have a letter k in it. Yes?" For q was a mystery, faux-phonetic, an adventure of the literary on which she was not fully ready to embark. And in the vein of embarkation:

"When you decide the date of our first trip, Marshall Emory, you need only give me a day's notice. I will await the notice eagerly."

For few things excited the seamstress more than a good, straight row of running stitches, and this was one of them.
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Katie » Sun Feb 10, 2013 2:44 am

Radeorin was not a boy who hid his emotions well. His fondness for people happened seldom, as it had not seemed apparent that he was a natural local nor did it seem that his family and friends that were either. He was a lonely boy, and so when his company was desired -- no, needed -- it caused his smiling more readily than the fake ones when he was simply trying to be pleasant for pleasant's sake.

And yet, while he was aware of the Marshall's welcoming company, there was something she had said that caught the deaf-mute's attention. In her company, it was rare the boy studied her eyes; instead, it was her mouth, his only method of hearing. It was a specific word, more than "inquisitory", that he knew was spelled with a 'q' and not a 'k', and his right hand, that was thankfully empty, immediately sprung to movement. His index finger circled his face once and then the hand dropped, to thumb and pinky extended and then moved from left to right once. His mouth accompanied the movement: "Identical."

He fell into his sign language like a speaker does to his native language, unaware that he had even used it at first. His black brows furrowed. For what reason would two identical letters need writing? Was the Marshall mistaken or were his secretarial duties so unrefined that he had never heard of such a request before? He did understand well enough that these sorts of questions need not be asked; it was that he did as she asked and so when he placed the papers down on a nearby table, quill resting comfortably atop, he looked back at her with the same thoughtful confusion that was accompanied by an assumed shrug.

Oh, yes. Gloria. He had many nicknames for her, none of which she had ever made herself aware. The fat one. The dumb one. The goody-two-shoes. The suck-up. The make-believe royal. The one who managed to smell worst than he did. He was quite fond of, 'the fat one.' It caused him to smirk, so highly humored with himself, but he was not rude; after all, the Marshall did keep the girl in her company. So he waved again, more fingers than palm, and offered her a more cordial smile of greeting, instead of the meanly colored school-boy one. The one who would've bullied her, if the Marshall wouldn't find implements to knock on his head.
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Feb 11, 2013 5:53 am

We did, she might have said, intend that its name intimidate.

But to say that much would be to explain a fraction of how it was, the fraction that mattered the least, and as she'd discovered over and over so long ago, to explain the rest is quite impossible. How does one describe two sisters pouring over an architect's plans, curling paper stretched out across the ground and pinned there by three stones and their own bruised knees, the two of them laughing, engrossed, shouting words like doughty! and cunning! and home. How on earth does a person explain how one simple idea had tumbled into the next until nothing was simple anymore at all? How does one express the breathtaking swiftness with which this had become an idea too large for the three of them to hold within their hands at all; larger than their grasp, larger than what any of them might have accomplished alone - without implying madness, insurrection or both?

Impossible. For all that she'd tried; that she'd suceeded at all with Helstone - who'd heard 'stronghold' and understood 'insurgency' - only taking him to the place as their week-long guest had calmed any of those fears. That he'd emerged smiling, that he'd emerged as a friend, had required every single hour of that strange, wonderful week and all the simple wonders with which she could fill his eyes. So that when Gloria mentions the name of this place, this very daunting name, the very most that a swordswoman can do is -

Quietly smile. And nod her head. And murmur: "You'll see. And learn more words than only mine, I think. It likes to surprise. But only in ways that are very safe."

When she returns from her business at that cabinet, it's with a tiny glass pot in each hand.

"Radeorin," she explains, setting these things down upon her desk. "They suggested a secretary, for that there are so many written things come into and out of this room, and young ser Radi here commands a most excellent penmanship. So." And it is a sudden, small smile glanced back towards the seamstress now. "A day's notice, mn? Expect to receive this quite soon."

When I am you, and you are me -

What a thought. What a thing to suggest to a girl who, in the months following her own strange death, had devoted so much time to the slow reconstruction of her self. Gaps remain; a thousand sudden questions had never completely filled them. Broken corners, fragments of was and could-have-been. What a thing to suggest, so startling that she hadn't even thought to laugh at the bit about bottoms -

"We address the first: to the Office of the Inquisitory, from the desk of Marshall Carnath-Emory. There is a C. There is a little line - do you know?" And an illiterate who's had nothing but praise for the boy's skills is nevertheless standing over his shoulder now, just to sketch a hyphen with her fingertip upon the desktop. "We address the second to Aleksei River - who does not properly spell his name but we will bend to his wishes on that matter, even atrocious as they may be. The letters will be - identical, yes," and here she's mirrored the boy's gesture. Inexpertly, but with a small smile despite it and there's delight hidden there in its corners. "Because we will require the same service of both recipients."
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Re: For the Marshall, a Martial Matter

Postby Rance » Mon Feb 11, 2013 6:55 am

It was all so formal from her, always yes, menna and no, menna; sentences that ended with tiny, rhetorical questions like you see? as if she were afraid someone would not see at all, that she would be universally misunderstood, or her words taken in the most unpalatable way.

So in this, and by way of the Marshall’s own words – it likes to surprise – was she able to understand the idea of Darkenhold at all. It was why the Sisters and Brothers wore cone hats ten feet tall; it was why you never took the braided thorn branches to a rat’vak alone but instead dragged it through the sand-mud and refuse, out in front of its fellow women and maybe some of its children; it was why you told a young choir-girl do not cry when you strike them, they will see you are weak, and it is you they will seek out first when they revolt, and to take their revenge they will pummel you bloody with their big hands, they will blast hot breath on your neck, spread your thighs with their knee, and—

Just strike them as hard as you can, Glour’eya, and do not show them your tears.


And like that, the seamstress knew well why the name was so imperative.

”A secretary,” she said – no, corrected herself, for what the Marshall said was natural law, and she would abide by it: words, the slightest opinions, titles all. “You will find no better keeper of secrets, Marshall, than one who cannot speak or hear. And additionally, it will – it will give the boy a good purpose, and we must all have a good purpose if we are to complacent and happy with who we are, whether it is slight, or whether it is great.”

For that was Jernoah; that was how you kept a country that has nothing in the finest spirits.

If she knew the Marshall’s thoughts, her history, her tribulations, she would be stuck there for hours asking about the home that was made, the death, the scar, Dauntless, the bracer, and the innumerable qualities that endeared to her, this girl who was everything opposite of the Marshall. She would have insisted that the tea never stopped flowing, that they should keep talking, and laughing.

And if she knew Radeorin’s thoughts, how she might have told the boy how wrong he was about her, how wrong he was about it all—

—and how right, too.

”Quite soon,” she said, with her plump-cheeked smile, with mugs emptied of their tea in her fists, and her back against the office’s door. She dropped down into a vulnerable bow, and said, “By my leave, a very good night to you, Marshall – to both of you.

”Thank you for your ears, Marshall; I look forward to your findings regarding my friend, and to your letter.”

Formalities. Always, when the moment served them, the formalities.

And if the Marshall needed nothing more of her, she turned and was gone, for there was no more tea, after all.

Some things could wait for carriages.
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