A Seamstress, a Guard and the Marshall meet Rodel's Rogue

[Rance]

"Ser Woger," the name wielded like a weapon, a shameful reprimand. "I should appeal to have your station removed," she whispered, laughter in her eyes, the mischief of a near-child who'd gotten too much humor out of his unfortunate slip. "Were I not to die from it, as it were. Were I not liable to wonder if I could do better." Another drive of her elbow against his rib. He was a poor influence, this fellow rider, this traveling protector of hers -- and with discretion, the way one might shuffle away an annoying fly or discredit a foul notion, she flapped a hand just in front of her nose until the welcome aroma of minted tea was prominent once more.

The Marshall had a patience for the story that the seamstress did not. It was not that she did not listen, or that she did not understand -- but rather, they were matters better suited to a Marshall, whose inquiries were sharper and more deductive. As Ariane questioned--

And if he is the Knight, and you the Rebel - this Cashile. What is he?

--and Rain retorted, perhaps without an answer clear enough for the dark-skinned girl to understand, there was one particular phrase that caught her attention directly enough for her to inquire, to doubt:

...she can grant flight to some around her. Terrain is no issue.

"A human cannot fly, Messa Rain," she said from Woger's side. "They've no wings to. Their bodies are not meant for it. We have got bones that are far too dense. But let us suppose that they could." The image was fantastic to her. Curious. Intriguing. She had seen this very man snap into existence by way of a roiling mass of power and magic, and yet, even that had seemed more plausible than the idea of seeing parties, batallions, armies spilling over the mountains, the hills, the Ringwall like so much overpoured ale.

"If they sought to kill Aleksei, why -- why would they announce their coming by flight, when it might better serve them to employ stealth, to never be noticed or even discovered?"

[Duquesne]

"Trust ye won' tell m'lord Duquesne," Woger says quietly a moment after she elbows his ribs -- and he thinks the girl might have done damage had he not been wearing his tough jerkin. "Some things ain' meant t'be known, as it were."

He did not expect she really would tell his employer, but there was always a chance and the old soldier was never prepared for the studious and sometimes critical gaze of that man whose generosity keeps his family healthy.

Though there was also a chance that Duquesne would be concealing a smile of his own, were the truth told.

The soldier clears his throat lightly and focuses on the conversation at hand, or as much of it as he can follow at this point -- he had become rather distracted -- and listens to Gloria's questioning. Minutes later, his narrow mind has stunningly imagined what someone would look like with real wings in their back. Would it not appear grotesque?

And his stomach grumbles again, complaining of its empty state.

[Carnath-Emory]

Cashile was to question certain friends of Aleksei River. What words these are, for a woman intimately acquainted with the look of such questioning; knowing what she does of Rodel's ways, it is all so unsurprising. She has it in her mind as he speaks the words: the way in which the crown had slowly tightened its grip about one House and then the next, the way in which slow realisation lit alarm in the eyes of men with secrets -

"How long." A quiet, cool gaze for the man who'd half-drained his cup as if he were a brute in his barracks on the eve of war. And really, that's not so unlike the truth... No time wasted, for this one. And never mind that he's now-and-then wasted her own with details that were anything but inconsequential; they've styled him a Knight as well as a soldier, after all, and a Knight of Rodel, at that. This is to be expected. "How long before we may expect them to reach us? Days. Hours. Your best estimate."

And even as she speaks the words, her hands are reaching for quill and inkpot and fresh paper. Even before the final word she's bent her head to write. With a flick of the hand towards Gloria in the midst of it, that he might occupy this quiet interval by addressing her question.

The work requires time. But in its wake there are two letters for two destinations, two sheets of parchment freshly sanded and fixed closed with a government seal.

"Cashile. Giesella." Her pronunciation is unapologetically awful. "The rest of this escort. What are their capabilities? Be as detailed as you like. Woger," with a beckoning hand towards Wynsee's guard; by the time he's approached, both letters are in that hand, extended like an expectation. "There ought to be a runner out there in the foyer; ginger-haired thing, there's no mistaking him. Hand these over and have him make it quick."

[BetaFlame]

He watches the woman prepare carefully, even as he reaches up to rub at an ear. There is a slight pained expression for a moment, then he is back to steel. It might not have even happened, so quick was it to pass. "How long, you ask? Aleksei left a.. marking here, do not doubt otherwise. I can still feel his Resonance of power. If they come here, it will be to question. They have not been given orders to put your little town to the sword, believe me. I would not risk being here if it were." She might not like the truth, but he spoke it plainly. She was a solider, he could tell. No politician. He spares Gloria a glance and a quirked brow. "You truly believe that? I wish I had your upbringing where magic was not so invaded in my life I cannot imagine someone not flying."

Then his gazes is back on Ariane and he is leaning back in his chair.. arms folded over his chest as he considers. "If, if they make straight here a week at the soonest. Likely, they will stop and question others to make sure he has not been with them between Roland's departure and their arrival on the main land. So two to three. I tried to give as much time as I could."

Then she is asking about their power? "Oh gods. Cashile is.. almost unknown. He is a Bound Demon no longer bound. His plaything is fire. I know little about him beyond that his demon devoured his soul and challenged the Sun King. I know he wounded the Sun King, then lost the fight. But if he could challenge and wound the King..." He tilts his head and gives a one shoulder shrug.

"Giesella is more tempered. She is a spy at heart and prefers to observe rather than to confront. Bound to her is an air elemental.. granting her powers over that element. She is weaker than Aleksei was when he housed his Celestial. I suspect she is actually one of the Kings chief assassins, but I have no proof. Then again, if I had proof, she would be a terrible assassin, no? She is call the Frost Wind by the King.. and she lives up to it. Everyone she has ever fought with has died with their liquids frozen in their bodies. She uses a weapon that is basically a long curved blade at the end of a chain. She likes to cause others pain. " That draws a rueful turn of his lip and another shrug as he downs the rest of the tea. "My thanks." At least he doesn't slurp.

"Second in command of the Knights is Tellar. He is a former Priest, which makes him doubly dangerous. He specializes in blood magic and binding rituals. I know not what monster is wrapped to his soul, because he has never bothered to unleash it. He prefers to use his inborn magic, which makes me suspect he has nothing bound to him, making him a Knight in name only. If that is true, he would be the weakest of the bunch. If he has found a way to have both his magic and something? I don't know. I confronted him once.. clearly we both walked away, but I was not well for a long time there after. His is called the Plague for a reason I suspect. I do not remember much."

"The last is Moroua. She is Aleksei's replacement. She has another, weaker, Celestial bound to her... and she is a fanatic. She has the fire of a new recruit, loyal to the death to the King with no thought to her own advancement. She is also intelligent and cunning. Not as bright as Aleksei, thank the gods, but smarter than I. She can draw on the power just like Aleksei could.. improving her speed, physical strength.. wings even. She is a master archer, and likely has orders to put an arrow in Aleksei's brain if Cashile cannot capture him.

He leans forward, waiting to catch Ariane's eye again, "Make not mistake, Marshall, they mean to capture him. He is not of this world anymore. They will try and Bind him like the creature he freed. If they fail at that, they will kill him. Giesella and Tellar are here to make sure Cashile stays under control. Tellar has the second job of Binding Aleksei. Moroua is Cashile's backup in case you 'mortals' attempt to save him."

His cool gaze is still on her, and now he has a question. "I've answered yours.. now I need mine answered. Aleksei River took in a new monster. Can he control it?" What would he do if she answered no?

[Rance]

The seamstress was no battle-hardened creature. She was out of place, wholly uneducated in any of the matters Mikael described; the Marshall approached the topic with such smooth indifference, and it inspired the girl, strengthened her, brought her about to thinking of numbers.

"It is too much, Messa Rain," she added, as Woger was delegated a task. She'd no time to ensure him that she would keep the secret of his transgression among them. Perhaps she might tease him later, or laugh in regard to it, but now, all that mattered was that the Marshall had not told her to step away; she was enclosed in this little room with them, subjected to the secrets brought forth: a swarm of fellows bent upon the murder of one--

--which might lead to the murder of others--

--which in turn compromised what was already a very tender and vulnerable Myrken Wood.

Giesella. Moroua. Tellar. Cashile. All the names of deathbringers.

"Myrken Wood is -- is no place for these fellows. You come to warn us of them, that the Marshall might offer assistance? I am not a strategist, just a seamstress--" she offered, tilting her head in respect to the Marshall, "--but inviting these warriors to bring their grudges and vengeance here is welcoming a -- a certain terror to the town."

She'd no ill will for Aleksei River, no desire to appease, for she'd seen enough of appeasement lately, but these foreign dangers sounded formidable, mind-spinning, dangerous. "You should take Aleksei River to the outside of town, to the woods where you came to us, Messa Rain. Settle your pasts there with these people at his side; should you die, should he die, it would be a loss, but a noble one. Better two than hundreds, where blades are concerned."

It was so easy, in this little room, with their tea and their talk, for a fourteen year-old girl to say such things.

"There are children here, and -- and we've lost enough lately. This is no place for old vendettas--"

--said the girl, who could not shake the feeling of betrayal or the smug satisfaction Rhaena Olwak had seemed to garner from putting the seamstress and her ineffective rhetoric on display in the Meetinghouse proper.

[Duquesne]

When his name is spoken in command, the soldier's mind and body coalesce, producing a state of obedience invaluable to any authority. His movement is immediate, so that a swordswoman need extend her hand for only a fraction of a moment before his hand closes upon the letters whose proximate delivery has just been delegated to him. "Marshall," he confirms, with a quick bow of his head in deference, and then he is turning for the door.

As he opens it, he'll offer the gentlest wink to his young charge. And then he steps out, closing the door securely behind him. As he moves for the foyer, a knot of passing militia wisely separate their group, choosing to flow around him instead. The man was large and had fought bravely in and had survived a great many battles -- he was as leathery a beast on the inside as he was on the outside. Aside from his family, the only other soul who'd witnessed kindness in him was his lord's student, the young Gloria who'd begun slowly to soften him. And because he privately cared for her, he would protect her at all cost, and not only because he had been commissioned to do so.

Woger was not a good soldier -- he was an excellent one.

"Boy," he commands, and his voice is a rough projectile, parting the air in its passage to spear that ginger creature which the Marshall had described, and Woger is pleased when the lad responds with due haste. The letters are put in his hands, but Woger pinches them a moment longer and solely to a elicit an upward glance from the youngling, that their eyes might connect. "Be quick about 't, aye?"

And the soldier does not budge until he's seen the lad running to execute his task.

[Carnath-Emory]

If there is anything the Marshall likes more than clarity, it is plain-spoken truth. And why not? He's right, after all: the woman is no politician, for all that her office might be located in a government building; the woman is, if one's to judge from the mutilated features and the sparse, almost clipped manner of speaking, every inch a soldier. In the end, a uniform's absence sometimes means so little.

"This - 'marking'. Deliberate? Or only some by-product of his magicking?" He is allowed a moment for his answer, before she continues on. "Two weeks. Three. A single week at the very worst," which places their arrival at some point after the Governor's return. "And then we must manage the arrival of several beings with ill-intent, with a talent for magicking that well surpasses casual reckoning. Yes? Approximately?"

The departure of burly Woger, careful with the door and prompt enough about his task that the sight has lit some silent speculation in her eyes.

"My responsibility is the preservation of this province." When she turns her gaze back towards this problem who presently sits across the table. There's this much, at least: that if his self-interest has troubled her, she conceals the fact remarkably well; that he's received, in addition, a moment's respite from all those questions. "You tell me that their business here is not genocide, and I am glad to hear these words. I am also - exceedingly aware of what an earnest confrontation between several Knights and all their warring magicks will do to Myrken, should it be Myrken that they choose for their battlefield." A tilt of her chin towards Gloria, and all the fierce emotion of her plea; time enough allowed him to answer that matter as well. "That said - "

Back a measure in her seat then, one hand sliding the last of those pages well aside.

"Aleksei River controls his monster very well. By my reckoning, and I wonder what that is worth to you. I am no Knight, mn?" This small, small smile. "Tell me. This - Tellar, this former priest. You've confronted him once, yes? With mixed results. Were it in earnest, if you meant to have his blood, a week from now, were it he and you alone - could you vanquish this man?"

[BetaFlame]

Slowly a pair of blue eyes drift to stare at Gloria. He just gives her a long cold look for several long moments. Its no more than a few heart beats, as he tries to convey silently to her how repulsively stupid her 'idea' is. Meet them outside and fight it out? Really? He sighs slowly, and just waits for his mind to calm before he answers, "Girl.. Gloria, I believe? They don't want to kill Aleksei. They want to enslave him. Turn him into a magical power source for some Knight. The two of us standing and fighting these three would surely lead to defeat. I would be dead, the rebellion on Rodel dead with me and Aleksei would be a slave."

He turns back to the Marshall to answer her question. First, the marking. It causes him to shake his head slowly, "No, its not. He probably doesn't even know it happens. Its a by product of the magics placed on him. if you know how, you can use to to find someone. Tellar has the knowledge for certain, and I do." There is a faint smirk and a casual shrug, "In less than a months time you will have three people of power here that view you as insects. The Knights reckon themselves Gods, you see."

Her assessment of Aleksei makes him nod a bit. "Your protect this place.. you would drive him out or kill him if he was a threat. Which is why I asked." Her last question makes his eyes narrow a bit. Was she asking this to gauge his power? To see if she could stop him? His paranoia gnaws at the back of his mind now making him question her intent. "Possibly. Tellar, and the Knights, are almost stagnant. They do not think they need to grow and evolve. I know that I must to win. The new one, Moroua, I could certainly kill. She is young and truly barely trained." He leans forward a little now, eyes never leaving hers, "What is Aleksei to you? ... Are you lovers? You sound as if you mean to fight."

[Rance]

Soldier that Ariane was, she had been fired in this kiln of politics, in these debates and considerations of what is right and what is best. In moments such as these, whether or not she might have doubted it, the Marshall gleamed -- she was more than a needle-thin blade or a scar that traced from ear to lip; she managed, with precision, these precipices that separated whole cultures and collections of knowledge. Myrken Wood. Rodel. Jernoah. The Marshall navigated their differences with grace.

They don't want to kill Aleksei. They want to enslave him.

"I beg your pardon," the seamstress said, gripping the back of one of the room's sturdy chairs, "for not being informed of -- of what are otherwise your homeland's barbaric rites of war. Perhaps you should consider yourself to blame for bringing my ignorance into this in the first place.

"I was riding. You," the girl punctuated, "so rudely interrupted me."

She had nothing to offer their discussion, their information, their debate. Her mind was not a thing sharpened for strategy or the measurement of danger. The Marshall did this work because she excelled in it -- My responsibility is the preservation of this province -- while Mikael did it because, presumably, he lived by the sword and knew death as a means of stable economy. They spoke a similar language in that regard. Ariane inquired of Tellar, of the odds for successfully combating him. She was business and matter-of-fact. Yet--

What is Aleksei to you? Are you lovers? You sound as if you mean to fight.

"He has a lady already," the girl said, leaning forward until the chair-spine creaked. "The -- the Marshall is not a strumpet, nor is she a runabout--"

(Would you have guessed, Ariane, that you had an advociate standing before you today?)

"--and if it would please you, it might be wise to keep your tongue on a leash and not suggest such things."

The look she gave to Ariane was hearty with both apology and earnest, as if to say, did you hear him. But the girl had heard of the question what she desired, had sought it out as an excuse to interject and express her displeasure. For his forwardness. For this talk of men who thought themselves gods. For bringing it upon Myrken Wood at all.

[Duquesne]

*Three pieces o' string walk into a tavern. Th' bar-keep he say, 'we don' serve yer kind.' They be angry an' they leave, see. Outside, one o' the strings has a wee notion. They twist an' tie themselves together an' go back in. 'Oi,' the bar-keep say, 'Aren't ye them pieces o' string wot just left?' 'No,' they say, 'We're a frayed knot.'"

Silence follows the joke.

And then rough chuckles erupt as the meaning sinks into slow minds, though one blinking militia-man leans to his comrade and whispers, "I don' get it."

Woger, pleased with his moment of glorious humor, opens the door of the office and enters, glancing to the stranger and the Marshall. He nods to her to signal her command had been followed successfully and he steps aside to resume his place near Gloria, offering her a fond nudge of his elbow when he does.