Coats, Swords, and Answers

Re: Coats, Swords, and Answers

Postby Rance » Mon Dec 22, 2014 2:35 am

Gloria's perspective was simple in scope: she hadn't men, couldn't know the pain of seeing soldiers lost or compatriots cut down in battle; Egris and the two holding audience with her shared some bond of understanding and patience that was entirely foreign to the once-needleworker. And though she was left scrambling for purchase in the conversation, cutting her way through the underbrush of earlier conversations, the leer she leveled upon Castor had teeth.

"Her -- her name is Jig," she brusquely corrected. "She's a dancer, she's a fine dancer, and she's not dangerous."

Egris measured the rising tensions in the room with grace and poise. Castor and Michta spoke -- or so Gloria believed -- with arrogance, with a finality in their tone that forced the commoner's jaw to set like a steel trap behind her cheeks. Likewise, Gloria's nose wrinkled like a prune, her ears flushed red, and her lips tightened into a small bow. A cork for her undisciplined rage.

What if she isn't the woman that you're chasing anymore? Assuming, of course, they are one and the same.

There was a reason Egris Verreaux was the Lady Warden; there was a reason, too, that Gloria Wynsee never cleaned the shit off her boots.

"What do you mean, capture?" she asked the pair. "What do you mean, poison.

"And what do you mean, someone like me?"
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Re: Coats, Swords, and Answers

Postby CherryStatic » Thu Jan 01, 2015 8:52 am

He had waited, patiently, for the girl to reign herself in since the moment she had barged into the room. He had sat indifferently in that chair and been glared at, been accused of abusing the Lady Warden's hospitality, had been labeled as callous, and, perhaps the worst thing of all, had been told to his face that he was wrong. That he didn't know what he was talking about. He was more than used to this treatment in court, when he spoke out against political adversaries of the king, exercising his talent for being one of the most knowledgeable and therefore disliked aides to Branson.

But that was at home. After the sessions at that long conference table that seemed to yawn on for hours, whittling away at his composure and self-esteem, he was free to retire to the massive library and read in a dimly-lit corner, perhaps send for a pot of fresh mint tea and breathe in the dusty smell of the old books until his frayed nerves were once again intact. In the evening, Branson would insist, as he always did, on a walk through the gardens, which he would accept with the usual air of aloofness about him. The would speak quietly of the day's proceedings, Branson boldly declaring what he intended to do about the men who had essentially spit on Michta in court, the half-elf calmly explaining the repercussion of each action to his friend. They would go and sit beneath the willow under which they had first met, bowing over a steam so that its branches trailed through the water, and the seer would realize that he was smiling. There, away from the eyes that hated him and demanded so much of the man he was devoted to, they could be more than king and aide. He could be with Branson.

And yet, here he was. Being treated exactly the same across the sea, in a foreign land, in a town where the guards challenged your presence at the gates, the inn served tea in a way that suggested no one within a hundred miles knew what a proper cup tasted like, and seamstresses covered in animal feces were allowed to sweep into the office of an official and say whatever they bloody well pleased. To top it all off, while this girl was standing over him, telling him what she thought of him, his companion, and their intentions, there was a viper in the woodwork of Myrken who was, at that vey moment, smiling as she plotted how to send each of them to an early grave.

It was because of this that he gave Gloria a look, his composure falling away just enough that both the seamstress and the Kestrel would see a glimpse of Michta Vess those thirty-eight years ago, before he was aide to the king, when he was a starving shadow of a man in the back alleys of the kingdom, cursed with visions and labeled as a lunatic. When he was nothing. With this one look, he was able to perfectly communicate the pangs of hunger, his disgust of the way the world worked, his hatred of formality, and his understanding of what it meant to be judged by others. It contorted his pretty face into something momentarily unrecognizable.

"I would ask you to sit while we spoke," he ground out, acid on his tongue, "but you would no doubt accuse me of possessing some nefarious intention for doing so. So stand, then. Or sit. I care not."

His rose from his chair, one delicate hand slipping into the folds of his robe and producing a sphere of perfectly rounded quartz, entirely clear, the size of an orange. Castor's eyes widened.

"Put that away, elfling." he said, his eyes trained on the orb.

"Be silent." Michta replied without looking at him, his eye on Gloria. He extended his hand, proffering the crystal ball on an upturned palm, so that it was level with the girl's face. "My patience has worn thin."

And with that, light and voices bloomed from the orb. If either Gloria or Egris so much as glanced at it, that would be all it took before they were whisked away into the vision.

.............................................................................................................................................................

They raced towards the ajar bedchamber door, leaping over the disembowled corpse of the guard who lay sprawled across the narrow hallway, their heart hammering and their breath coming ragged from their lips.

"My lord!" they cried, in a voice that was Michta's, Gloria's, and Egris' all at once. Their hand threw open the door and they froze where they stood, the sight before them almost incomprehensible at a glance.

The king's body was in pieces. There was no better way to put into words what they were seeing. His broad-shouldered torso was skewered to the far wall, behind the four-poster bed on which his severed genitals were neatly laid, almost carefully arranged on the pillow with the utmost of care, staining the ivory sheets a dark crimson. His legs and arms were nowhere to be seen, but the head sat in the very center of the room, transfixing whoever walked through the doorway with the grin of rigor mortis, the glassy eyes staring blankly at the walls all around, covered in bloody handprints and neatly scrawled words.

SUCH FUN WE HAVE one wall read. Across the room: I'M RUNNING OUT OF PAINT

Bile rose in their throats, and they had to turn their head away, leaning against the doorframe. Behind them, the clank of armor indicated the arrival of the guards, who pushed past and filed into the room. The men stared openly, one losing grip on his drawn sword which clattered to the stone floor. Another retched, doubling over.

A woman's scream erupted from somewhere behind them, the acoustics of the castle veiling the source. Managing to suppress their urge to vomit, they turned and ran the way they had come, intent on finding the witch before she escaped. They didn't know what they would do to stop her, only that they had to try. They had never been assigned that duty, but it was their responsibility all the same. Their jaw clenched with conviction as they left the guards behind, gawking in the king's bedchamber.

They raced down the first tier of the grand staircase, passing the chambermaid whose throat had been sliced cleanly open, whose hand stretched weakly, hopefully, toward them as they rushed by. They froze when they reached the foot of the stairs, the entrance hall in clear view.

There she was, the Blood Dancer, a demon given human form. She wove like wind through the blades aimed at her heart, the Hidden Hand falling around her like wheat before the scythe, their weapons skittering away as they crashed to the ground. She looked for all the world to be dancing, nothing more, her long fiery hair fanning out as she pirouetted, but the glint of torchlight against the blade of her weapon, the snap of its cord as it snaked through the air and coiled upon itself, cutting through the men and women and the weak points in their armor like a hot knife through butter, gave her away. She spun, her bladed whip twirling around her, a part of her deadly dance, blood arcing away from the eye of the storm and pooling beneath her.

She had already killed nine of them without trouble. The others held their weapons out in front of them, a safe distance away, holding their ground. None remained between her and the door of the castle. She turned and glanced at it, and someone took the chance to fire a crossbow. The bolt cut the air with a hiss, audible in the abrupt silence, and, watching from the foot of the staircase, their breath caught as they waited for it to find its mark.

She bent over backwards, fluidly, her back a perfect arch as the projectile shot through the space she had occupied a fraction of a second before. Her legs continued the journey, over her head and touching down neatly, precisely, opposite of where they had started. She pushed against the door with one hand, turning her head to look at those assembled.

Her smiling face, covered in blood, was unmistakably Alcara's.

Vixen's.

Jig's.

She grinned, winking at them, and slipped through the door. The guards pursued her immediately, maneuvering over their fallen comrades.

Unable to use their magic to assist, they watched from the foot of the stairs, wondering how many more men and women would die before she was caught.

.............................................................................................................................................................

The vision ended abruptly, dumping them back into the present with an anticlimatic flash of light. Michta, more than a bit accustomed to the process, closed his eyes to let them adjust.

Castor opened his eyes cautiously. He had closed them the second before the light had filled the room, having a good idea of which vision the half-elf was offering to the two women. He couldn't bear to watch his soldiers die. Not again.

"My Lady." Michta spoke calmly once more, the bitter anger that filled his voice moments before replaced by his usual demeanor. "In my experience, people do occassionally change, for better or worse, sometimes for reasons that I don't try to understand. But only rarely does a person's capabilities change."

He let his words hang in the air for a moment. When he spoke again, it was to the girl.

"Miss Gloria, I do not know this Jig, the dancer. I know Alcara, the murderer. I know that she is dangerous. I know that she does whatever she likes. And I know that she would not hesitate to kill you if she felt the need to do so." He paused, regarding her with his visible eye. "I did not mean to offend you. I am attempting to bring a killer to justice."
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Re: Coats, Swords, and Answers

Postby Kestrel » Thu Jan 01, 2015 9:45 am

The Lady's eyes narrowed just so, focused on the angry pair before her. She cleared her throat in a warning manner and her lips parted as if she she wanted to interrupt. "Now just one moment," she began.

When Michta drew the orb forth from his cloak, the woman was quick to rise against perceived violence. Her hand stole down to her side, where no blade at all hung from her hip. It was not necessary here. This was a place of civility.

Abruptly, she was swept up into the vision of the past, only partly to her feet. When she regained her senses, her lips were thinned with ire as she cast a glare at the elf. "That was hardly becoming of an envoy of peace. It is at our whim that you seek this woman within our borders at all. In polite company, one asks to thrust magic visions at one another," she remarked, with a note of dark humor, fists white of knuckle as she leaned them on the oak surface of her desk. "You would do well not to make that mistake in the future," she offered, sharply, virtually falling with a certain lack of grace to her backside into the cushion of her seat again.

She reached up to busy her hands with reordering her desk. She ignored the fact that her hands trembled a little, obviously rattled by what she had seen.

"Was that the friend we are seeking, Gloria?," she asked, the familiarity between them unmistakeable. Her words were far softer, kinder now that she had her hard-earned composure in hand again.
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Re: Coats, Swords, and Answers

Postby Rance » Thu Jan 01, 2015 11:30 am

Michta's eyes were chiseled through with history, a hardness, a necessity learned over cruel decades. Patience, combativeness, measurement, calculation. The crystal came into view. At the seamstress' side, Lady Egris moved, bird-like, for where her blade would be; Gloria, meanwhile, took one, two steps backward, her muddy boot-heels scraping across the floorboards. Her remaining hand darted for the handle of the longknife sheathed in her dress's sash, not knowing exactly what she'd do with it, but that if the Kestrel poised herself, she would do well to mimic the motion.

Then, the orb. Michta held it up like a valuable bauble. If Gloria had leaned forward, taken a few more steps, she could have put her nose into that sphere, could perhaps press her eyes into its milky depths. Wanted to, knew she wanted to...

Radiance. Light, blinding. Sounds, deafening. Voices.

Somewhere else.

(Words on a wall in fingerpainted blood and
--oh nameless, nameless, those parts used to be a man
living and breathing--
seeing the aftermath of slaughter: mouths and nostrils erupting
with the sickness of shock; somewhere, a woman's cry
rends the night and

--i know that face, i know it
how its lips pucker a little when it smiles
how the eyes shine when it looks out
from the intoxication a dance.

Jig!)

Reality.

Egris retained her grace in separating from the harrowing vision, ever-cool and careful. But Gloria? The girl's wretched teeth clacked together. The skin of her face flooded with sickly pallor. From the shelf of a lip dangled a gleaming comma of saliva shaken free of an awestruck mouth. Was that the friend we are seeking, Gloria? asked Egris, the words dancing around her like motes and moths. Blazing with confusion but smoldering with ire, those rocks-for-eyes dashed toward Egris. Trusting. Desperate.

"Yes," Gloria told her.

No matter Michta's apologies, the girl in the road-browned dress and filthy bonnet did not hesitate to drag the longknife from its wooden scabbard. The point fell to her hip, its toothy edge brushed by still-swaying skirts as though the fabric was asking the knife to calm itself, to be still, to be civil. Egris may have been beholden to an economy of manners and etiquette as the Lady Warden -- In polite company, one asks to thrust magic visions at one another -- but Gloria was scarcely burdened by the same cultivated decorum as politician, royal, or noble.

"You do not tamper in brains. You do not meddle with thoughts, with sovereign minds, unless you want to bleed. My mind is mine," Gloria whispered, as if just saying the phrase guaranteed her freedom. "My mind is mine."

Quieter. A few more times: My mind is mine, she mouthed. My mind is mine. Setting everything right. Then--

"How do we trust these visions as truth?"
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Re: Coats, Swords, and Answers

Postby CherryStatic » Thu Jan 01, 2015 3:42 pm

While Castor's hand had drifted instinctively to the hilt of his rapier at the appearance of the knife in Gloria's hand, Michta remained entirely unperturbed by the weapon held defensively in his direction. He calmly placed the orb on the flat surface of Egris' desk, his hands disappearing into the opposite sleeves of his robes. The orb remained exactly where it was, not rolling across the wood and shattering onto the ground, simply balancing perfectly and staring silently up at the Lady Warden.

"I apologize for upsetting the both of you." he said, not looking at all sorry, or, for that matter, proud of what he had done. He looked to be his usual self, albeit utterly spent. His narrow shoulders had lost their conviction and were slumped, there was a somewhat dark circle under his visible eye, and, if anyone had noticed in the seconds before they had disappeared within the confines of his robes, his delicate fingers were shaking slightly. "I do not normally resort to using my powers in the presence of others unless specifically asked to. I find it quite exhausting."

"I asked you to wait until you were recovered." Castor said quietly, the stern tone in his voice belied by the soft look of concern in his eyes. He glanced at Egris. "I assure you, my Lady, it won't happen again. I'm sure he had his reasons."

"I do indeed." the half-elf muttered, looking at Gloria. His gaze was devoid of hostility, impatience, contempt. He hoped she could see that, but didn't plan on devoting words to the cause; she had so far proven to be extremely stubborn in the face of his sentiment. "Miss Gloria, the question you pose is one that I hear every time I allow others to look into the crystal. The answer is quite simple, whether you choose to believe me or not: no one can change the past."

"Not even Alcara, with her powers." Castor said, frowning.

"Her Manifestation prevents me from seeing events in the future in which she plays a part. But the past is something else altogether, some small shred of proof that I did not travel here to spread lies." He looked at Egris. "And even if I were to lie, for reasons I personally cannot fathom, the simple truth is that the Lady Warden has no choice but to believe what we say. The Bloodletters have already made themselves known in Myrken. They have attempted murder in the streets and promised more still. Do you honestly think that people who treat killing as a sport will simply have their fill and be on their way?"

"We have no reason to involve an innocent woman in this situation." Castor said, speaking to Gloria for the first time. "Alcara has always been convincing. It's part of who she is. It's only because of my position in the king's court that I know what goes on behind that pretty face of hers. The bloodlust that fills her mind."

Michta glanced at him thoughtfully, then looked at the orb. "My sharing the vision was nothing more than a gift. The magic will not affect you if you choose not to acknowledge it. You simply needn't look into the crystal if you do not wish to see what it wishes to show. In my...frustration...I neglected to mention that. Again, my apologies." He sounded a bit more sincere that time.

"As for the orb itself, my Lady, consider it a gift. I possess a second, the orb's twin, both of which can be used to communicate at a distance. They are considered useful tools amongst the officials of Mixalydia. Think of it as a token of goodwill or, failing that, a boon of sorts. With this, we can cover more ground in our search for the Bloodletters and receive word from one another that much faster." He paused. "And keep in mind that anyone can use the orb to contact it's twin. They need only concentrate. Magic is simple at times."
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Re: Coats, Swords, and Answers

Postby Kestrel » Fri Jan 02, 2015 12:42 am

Egris' eyes grew a little harder at the appearance of one weapon and the threat of another. She held an appeasing hand out to both Castor and the Wynsee girl. "I would thank you both to keep your blades sheathed," she suggested, calmly. There was a warning in her gaze. "If you do not seek to keep your tempers, you will be shown to the door." There was a wary glance at the balanced orb, but she made no move to lay hand upon it.

Michta's insincere apology drew the powerful woman's annoyed glance. The Lady Warden noted his weakness and might, on any other day, offer him a reprieve in the form of sustenance, but she wagered he deserved all that he got, after that stunt. Castor's gentled words earned him a hard glance. "It did add a note of drama to the day, I will grant you. I will overlook the matter, but any further visions given without permission might well be taken as hostile actions."

Magic made her teeth itch. The wary manner she was now holding herself revealed that much. Michta and Castor were welcome allies moments ago; now there was caution. "Those in Myrken have experience with others changing their minds, bending their wills. You understand her unease," she remarked, nodding towards the unsettled Sera Wynsee.

Finally, "I believe them, Gloria. Bern and I have seen, first-hand, how callously the Bloodletters disregard life. Their leader throws her people against us as pawns aimed to kill and then claims their lives by magical means when it suits her. I can only hope the elf will not see us as additional enemies against her task of protecting the dancer. Bern is formidable and we are virtually strangers." They might have had some friendly interactions, but Egris was not certain how much favor she might have gathered in the course of those events.

A wary glance at the orb, but she nodded graciously in acceptance of the gift. "If necessary, could you share the vision again, should we require it? Once you have rested and once we ask their permission," she amended, pointedly.
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Re: Coats, Swords, and Answers

Postby Rance » Fri Jan 02, 2015 3:32 am

I believe them, Gloria.

"I don't," she said, flicking her eyes to Egris. "Not implicitly. This is no small thing. It ought to be qualified with more than visions forced unwillingly upon unprepared minds."

Warily, the point of her dwarven knife sought out the mouth of its curved scabbard. She was no warrior, no trained combatant; the stump of her left hand uselessly sought to help guide the blade toward its home. Once the blade had been entirely sheathed -- Do you remember when you hated knives, Glour'eya? When they frightened you so badly you thought closing your eyes in their presence would make them vanish? -- she turned her head to Castor and Michta.

"Whether or not you say this is a past doesn't -- doesn't mean it's not been cleverly fabricated. Your rule isn't absolute. A know a man, a boy, who lives a whole life structured entirely around a false past some bitch put -- put into his mind. No," she more sharply retorted. "You bring proof. Documents, historical record, anything tangible. Until then, what you're showing us is bull's shit.

"Someone took a girl. My friend. Jig. There oughtn't be time wasted peering into tiny bits of glass for truths some sorcerer finds it fit to bestow upon us."

Her lip curled at both the Mixalydian envoys. Finally, to Egris:

"We would be smarter to confirm it with Bern," she said, "before believing anything."
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Re: Coats, Swords, and Answers

Postby CherryStatic » Fri Jan 02, 2015 8:32 am

Michta simply listened to Gloria speak, watching her through that single, tired eye. He sighed to himself, silently, his shoulders falling the slightest bit. It was obvious the girl didn't understand, that she was refusing to see what was right in front of her. No amount of non-hostile magic would get her to change her mind, and would only serve to endanger himself and his companion. So, he said nothing. Just remained in his chair, without anything to say in response for the first time that day. He longed for a few hours of sleep.

"We'll do what we can." Castor said to Egris, his hand leaving his still-sheathed blade. "The elfling will have recovered by tonight if he rests, but I should warn you that, apparently, it becomes increasingly difficult to share the same vision more than once. One more time shouldn't harm him, but magic can kill someone. Even the user."

Michta nodded absently, weakly. "I am afraid that, beyond our capable men and ourselves, the vision and the orb is all we have to offer, as well as an apology for my behavior today. My Lady, we are far from home, and I miss my people. My king."

He seemed distracted by the last bit, dropping his gaze. Castor quickly picked up where he left off.

"Lady Warden, Myrken is your domain. We will, to the best of our ability, assist you in keeping it safe, but we will need direction from you in this unfamiliar territory. I would first suggest posting more guards at the gates. It would be a small measure to take, but it would nonetheless be harder for the Bloodletters to leave or receive help from outside."

Michta raised his eyes to Egris. "My Lady, there is one more thing I should mention. It is possible for me to locate Crucia through magical means. I simply need to scry her location using the orb. However, because of her attunement to the forces of mind and magic, she will know the instant she is being spied upon and be able to follow the thread of magic back to me. Put simply, I will know where she is, and she will know where I am. I expect you can see why this might complicate things."

He rose to his feet, mostly managing to appear graceful throughout. Castor stood as well, ready to give the half-elf an arm if her needed it.

"My Lady, I'm afraid that we must take our leave now. Otherwise, I fear I might pass out from exhaustion on your office floor. A most undignified consequence, I wager." He extended his hand towards her, much the same as when they had introduced themselves only minutes before, his eye on hers. "I honestly wish us to be allies in this, and friends, if such a thing is possible between officials. I pray that the delivery of my message has not tainted the kingdom of Mixalydia in your eyes. The actions of the few should not reflect on the whole."

He turned to Gloria then, his defenses down. The damage had been done, he saw it in her eyes, but there was nothing to be done about it. After all, the past was the past. And no one could change that. "Miss Gloria, I pray that your impression of us can be salvaged. I apologize for any perceived threat my magic caused, and though you do not acknowledge it as such, I thought that you deserved the truth."

He reached once more into his robe, producing two more gems, albeit much smaller ones with lovely shapes. "You were correct when you said that your mind is yours. No one has the right to strip you of your mind. These gems are known as Anchoring Stones, and they will assist you in warding off mental attacks and retaining a sense of self simply by having them on your person. I hope that it is a step towards forgiveness."

With that, he dipped his head once more, pulled the hood of his cloak up, and turned to leave. Castor, offering Egris a hand for one more strong handshake, bowed at the waist, and when his eyes came up, there was a dazzling but regrettably unprofessional grin on his face. His eyes were mischievous, but not in a malevolent way.

"Lady Egris, it was truly a pleasure. I am looking forward to working alongside you to end this threat. And you as well, Miss Gloria. We are staying at the Floating Dragon if you have need to call upon us." He tilted his head at the desk. "The orb is always an option, as well. Let us do our best to protect Myrken."

With that, he trailed after the half-elf, who opened the door and stepped outside, past Smith and the woman at the desk, not looking at either. Castor gave a smile and a nod to the Lady Warden's bodyguard, as well as the secretary, before he too stepped out into the cold Winter day that waited for them outside the meetinghouse.
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Re: Coats, Swords, and Answers

Postby Kestrel » Sat Jan 03, 2015 4:16 am

Egris gave a brief nod at the lack of trust, understanding and accepting. Myrken was a land of stubborn fools. That was part of its charm.

"Rest well, sers. The Floating Dragon is entertaining, if not particularly safe. Stay on your guard," she warned. It was convenient, since Bern would likely be found there.

Michta's more sincere apology made the woman's startling eyes soften slightly. "It is forgotten," she vowed. Water under the bridge, as far as she was concerned. "Your hearts are troubled and you are far from home. Take some time," she offered, kindly.

Castor stepped forward, caught her hand with a firm shake. She could not help the sudden grin and gleaming curiosity at the look in his eyes. "Charmed," she remarked, with a wry tone. Castor was simple. It was refreshingly intriguing.

She reclaimed her hand and watched the two go. As they left, they would see Smith vanish into her office to gather his orders.

More guards on the gates. More men on the streets.

Watching the people in red.

"Gloria, can you send message to Bern? I want to see what she knows."
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