Signed, sealed, delivered.

[Carnath-Emory]

It is somehow gratifying, to see another mind struggle with this -- or another person confronted with the facts of it, at least. It is certainly reassuring, for a woman who has more than once, this last year, questioned her own wits, her own sanity ... and not without cause, perhaps. Ah, but they will come to that part of it in time; in very little time, as it happens. For now, she must answer the man with a nod, must replenish both their cups, the moment warranting no less. After a sip, after two, she continues.

"'They'. Not cultists -- perhaps; I have never been certain of that. That night, it seemed they were farmers, and I did not question that until much later. If you wish it, I will lead you to the shed in which they'd set his corpse, yes? Except of course, it was not Bromn's. As you say, ser: an error."

And here the recitation pauses a second time, for she will see what he makes of this, quick-witted youth that he is. Will see does he question his own conclusions, but only for a limited stretch of time. This thing must be told: it has made a grim creature of her, has lent a cool edge to her eyes, will silence her utterly if she does not continue...

"I sent word immediately to Captain Kerrak: following the Priory, you might guess, such a thing was easily explained. This death, this murder. The Council was informed, and helpless. Janeiro was of course informed. Of its Captain, I made a single request, which he granted without question, without complaint.

"What I asked of him, ser, was blindness."

Phinneas Ansgot, in small, neat letters upon the list which Dhrin's name heads. The quill pauses; hovers; sets a precise x at the name's end.
"Recall what had gone before this moment. That for close to two years, the Order had preyed unchecked upon Myrken Wood. That our own Governor had been savaged, and ultimately murdered. That two women had been seized from a tavern lawn, that bodies had been dumped there like so much dross, and we had not touched these cultists. We scour their caverns, and still they continue. We scorch their lair and behead their leader, and still they continue."

Sasha Rou. By side of it, another small x.
"They torment, they murder, they terrorise, and Janeiro cannot answer this. The Judiciary cannot answer this. No force can answer this, no conventional means. Recall that six men held my arms, as they sacrificed that girl before me. Recall in particular, ser, that they did not shroud their faces."

Alwyn Swithin. x
"That during this gathering, a great many of them did not shroud their faces from me. We are a small town, this Myrken." An upwards glance, a moment's pause for the quill; a very mild smile. "It is not so difficult to find a man."

Gorje Swithin. x
"It seemed likely to me that Dhrin had survived his beheading, and the fire which followed it. It was certain that Fawn had, freed as she was of the General's grasp. It seemed likely to me that as Fawn said, Dhrin could not be killed, but that perhaps his followers might be ... persuaded from their worship. If they feared what might come of it. If the cost were unbearable."

Cordwainer Beucol. x
"And were Fawn to show herself, I would not be adverse to dispatching her for certain this time; were Thadius to make himself known once more, I would not hesitate to murder him a third time -- perhaps I might have reckoned the trick of making it work this time, mn? But what could coax these two from hiding?"

Dyer Halfplow. x
And here her head lifts from this work, here Cinnabar is met by that slight smile once more, that ironic tilt of the lips.

"All of these questions, I realised, led me to the same answer."

[Cinnabar]

There is a certain stillness that comes upon the man, an uncharacteristic quiet that has him making no sound, no movement at all save that of his eyes as he watches this list of names grow, and beside each placed a neat black x, as if the deed that she now circles around naming might be so tidily reduced to two scratches of ink upon a piece of paper, a mere tally.

A chill grows in him as she speaks on, listing horrors, atrocities, foulness spanning over a course of years, but he cannot truly tell whether it is due to this nightmarish catalogue of murder and fear, or the matter-of-fact tone with which she explains her reasoning, her thinking, the rationale which led inexorably to that small mark of x beside each name. And when he at last glances up to her face with eyes that glitter with specks of silver, it is that smile which has the words a town of naught but monsters fleeting across his thoughts while his lips instead murmur:

"...full of surprises."

He regards her for long moments after, as if by doing so he might peel back layers of appearance and behaviour and mannerism to look upon the true essence of her; and yet, while he does so he cannot help but grow to understand the reasoning she outlines, to see the obviousness of it.

He must speak again, must have her say it for herself:

"And the answer?"

[Carnath-Emory]

A certain stillness, and it begets a certain wordless relief in the woman who observes this, now. A monster would have reacted differently, might have taken pleasure in this growing list; might have nodded at the sentiment it implies. Cinnabar evidences thought, instead, and will surely not realise how this reassures the swordswoman. Myrken Wood is largely human, but not very often humane...

But there is no rushing the story now: having come to its most sickening point, Ariane is able to allow Cinnabar the quiet that he requires to digest what he sees. There is a nod, when at last the man answers this, and still that smile lingering: a subtle bleakness in its contours, an acceptance of inevitabilities. He understands the need for one of these pardons, now. He understands some aspect of the exchange they make, of what it means when this woman places her piece upon a chessboard, and states that it acts as it must.

A matter of scope.
A matter of dedication.

"But you see it before you," she replies at last, and a fingertip describes it for him: traces the line of those names, from old Phinneas to furious Halfplow, and then takes its quill up again. There are more. Perhaps there are always more.
[INDENT]Macha Luain.[/INDENT]
"Eight men and women, dead before this sword. I keep nothing from you, ser: I tell you plainly that they died very badly. That what remained of them afterwards was ... very ugly. Had it not been, their deaths would have been wasted: I meant these zealots to fear, and I meant to draw a man from where he safely hid, and nothing else would do this. You see, yes? That I knew this for certain, because nothing else we'd tried had."
[INDENT]Bea Kanaya. x[/INDENT]
And here, an anomaly: a swift, brutal turn of the quill obliterates this name, once Calomel's had time enough to read it. A thick score of blank ink erases it from this growing list. He might wish to avert his gaze from Ariane's face, in this moment, for what he'll find there is nothing that he has any right to see. Revulsion looks like this. Grief most certainly does. Horror, and the whole of it lasting a heartbeat's measure, before she has schooled herself to composure once more.

"Eight men and woman. Who had held my arms, or who'd held that girl's. Who'd held the children as they wept, or the parents as they struggled; do not ask me to pity these chyort things. I do not expect that you will sympathise with me, for it ... it is a terrible thing. But in time..."
[INDENT]A small x is set beside Fawn's name at last.[/INDENT]
"...it succeded. She had a knife for my chest," a fingertip describes the spot, just between shoulder and collarbone, "but not before we'd ended her, the General and I. He would not make a mistake with her a second time, you see? We burned her corpse: she was dead, and did not return from that death.

"It was July of a year ago. And within the week of her death, Altias Bromn returned to Myrkentown."

It is a long recitation, this far. It is heavy with details of the sort that a man mightn't much wish to consider, mightn't wish to dwell upon for long. Such an excess of filth too easily taints a man. But there is this, as well, and it had begun some moments ago: that once the quill was laid down, her palm had come to rest by side of that page, and her fingers to run gently to and fro across the name of Bea Kanaya. They do not obliterate, they do not marr, but simply... linger.

[Cinnabar]

He is still a time longer before speaking, before thinking out loud.

"The purpose of Law is to promote and protect justice. That is its reason, its entire point. Law which is founded in Justice, Justice which is supported by Law, these are fine things. Justice without Law is prone to error, and can become corrupted. Law without Justice is an abomination. And when the forces of authority cannot stop horrors such as you have described, when they cannot protect their people from such things within the bounds of the Law, it implies that the Law is... flawed, or incomplete, perhaps; it does not cover every eventuality. One must sometimes look not at what is Lawful, but what is Just. Because it is always that which is Just that should take priority."

And were one to believe the litany of outrages perpetrated by these cultists, one must inexorably agree that those small black marks are nothing but just. He glances up to her face, watching her thoughtfully.

"This must not be undertaken lightly, however. The Law is filled with requirements that must be fulfilled to ensure that justice is served - the need for evidence, for proof, for due consideration of circumstances. To pursue what is Just without observing these strictures and requirements is... dangerous. Mistakes can occur, and if they are not corrected what happens then is not Just." His gaze is steady, silver and steel glinting within it. He can imagine what might have occurred with Bea Kanaya, how information might have been misinterpreted, deliberately or not.

"You should know: these names you give me must be correct. They must be certain. Because I have every intention of moving against them, and seeing them brought to justice. Their being on this list may well be their death-warrant." A glance down, and a wry quirk of his lips. "Though it seems to have served as such already for many of them." He looks back to the swordswoman, solemn and intense.

"I will do what I can to make sure that their guilt is proven, that there is no error that might lead to... injustice. I trust you to speak truly in this matter, but errors occur. Mistakes are made. I would prefer that they do not, so please do not take offense if I seem to verify your accusations myself. In the meantime, the more confident you are that every name you give me is indeed one of the Baie's followers the less chance there is of someone suffering an undeserved fate." A slender finger is extended to tap lightly once, twice beside Bea Kanaya's name, and is then withdrawn. He is sure the message is clear enough.

That done, it is time to return to her account, her testimony of the darkness and horror she has seen from so close, has been immersed in for so long.

"How did Bromn return? Cast upon the tavern lawn like the others?"

[Carnath-Emory]

A woman more prone to tears might have wept at this; a year ago, even Ariane would have, for excepting Captain al'Nerun, this is the most clemency she has known, for these murders. And the Captain a victim of encroaching madness, so that it is a very quiet thing which listens now, and one with its gaze particularly intent upon the Constable as he speaks. A sip from the wine-cup, now and then; a stilling of fingertips upon smooth parchment. Oh, she heeds, and with a nod at the end of it all.

"But ser, do you not realise? I undertake nothing... lightly. I do not do such a thing without that there is need of it; we do not speak of it now, ser, without that I perceive a need. You understand my stake in it now, of course, but there is far more, and -- "

A pause, then. A gentle stroke of fingertips across Kanaya's name.

"This. She was not amongst the ones I saw in that cavern. I do not explain how I came to know of her: it is another story, and a very different one, and there shall be ... such questions of it. Perhaps you will not wish to hear it at all, mn? But be assured of this: that I was deceived, with purpose deceived; that there were others mentioned, by her side; that I do not give you their names. Verify what you are able, mn? I am glad that you do, I would ask that you do.

"I grieve this error, ser. I do not repeat it."

It costs, to speak of this in any fashion, costs even to ellude to it. For a small stretch, they deal in the passage of time, rather than words; their accompaniment is the subtle tilt of wine in its cup, the brush of skin upon parchment, of breath in its lungs. On finding herself able to speak again, Ariane continues.

"Altias Bromn returned to the tavern as most people do: through its door. A little hastily, mind, for he was cautious of what we might say upon seeing him. There had been trouble in the town, on account of his face, you see?" A delicate gesture encircles the bruised contours of her own. "On account of its wounds.

"You remember that Thadius' back was marked with ink, with old scars. So too was the Governor's, except of course there was no ink to it at all: perhaps they'd not had the time for that, mn?" There again: the ironic tilt of that smile, the dry bleakness of its curve. "There was a -- ah. It was extensive. Were you to put your fingers to his cheek, you might move them ... an inch, perhaps, before they set upon new scars. There was a pattern to it, it was deliberate. Like the way a woman might em, embroider the edge of her sk --

"Excuse me."

A sip of wine; a clench of the jaw. She continues.

"After the first day, I learned not to question these wounds, for he was very well-pleased with them. After a week, I learned not to question his memory of them, for he found such questions insulting; he had aquired them far from here, some small village in which he dwelled for a time during his journey here. Within the month, most had learned not to call him Altias, for that he had grown tired of the name, and rather resentful of its owner.

"For he, you see, was named Okulari, and he was a scholar recently arrived from Derry, and not finding Myrken very welcoming at all."

[Cinnabar]

And confusion laid down upon confusion in thick layers, in which nothing is as it seems, nothing straightforward or simple exists, only these continual twistings of expectations. As soon as one has accepted a horror or wonder as possible, there comes another to test one's credulity with its strangeness.

"You are certain that this was Altias, of course. Not the creature wearing his face, or some other trick or illusion." He finds it regretful that he must keep asking this, asking are you certain, are you sure? to every fresh revelation that she describes, but it is necessary to be certain - or at least, as certain as one might be of anything in this whole accursed business.

"He was... what, he had been made to believe himself to be someone else? Made to forget himself?" There is an uncomfortable pause for thought at that, and he reaches to top up both their cups from the wine bottle. "Why would such a thing be done?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Confusion upon confusion.
Nothing is quite as it seems.
Cinnabar Calomel, you come to understand what it is to have dealings with these zealots.

"I am certain. What might Baie gain from such a pretense? He has appeared to me a single time, and then very briefly; he wore such a guise only to gain easy entry to my room. That night, I was of more use to him alive than dead, you see? But there is more to it than that, there --

"Ah, there will be evidence enough of it soon. What matters, I think, is that we were certain that this was Altias, and many people saw him, amongst them two Councilors. That he was made to ... forget, I suppose, or simply to be, for I fear that since this time, he has never quite -- he has not -- ah, thank you."

Wine for her cup, and it is a timely addition. A moment is required here to regather herself, to set thoughts into order, to include only what is required for a Constable's use, for a friend's understanding. Lips that remember the taste of a man's blood want for apples, fiercely so, and must content themselves with liquor instead, and after a time of this, continue with their tale.

"I do not understand how this was done. I am not even sure why, except that it horrified us: that a man might be so transformed. Perhaps that was their intent, mn? But this is how it went for some months, this very angry Okulari, this very vulgar creature who grew weary of our confusion. Who grew bitter with his, for during the second month of his time with us, he confided to me that at times he could not recall how he spent his nights. Not so surprising, mn? He'd already forgotten how to be Altias; perhaps now he'd even forgotten how to be Okulari."

It is fine, Dauntless humour, to say such a thing: bleak and cruel, and acknowledging the world's capacity for just such traits. It recognises these things as inevitable, with a wry tilt of the lips, an instant's hard glitter in the eyes.

"Of course, it was not so simple, and I think that I am glad of that. I saw him return one night, you see: in some dis -- dis -- ah, his garments rumpled, his hands -- " Long fingers have retrieved their quill, and hesitate, hesitate, before listing a name just beneath Dhrin's own.
[INDENT]Okulari.[/INDENT]
When she lifts her head, it is with a smile that yet lingers; it is with tendons drawn tight in her throat, a gaze that does not swerve a hairsbreadth from Calomel's own.

"You recall that I described Thadius' back to you: the scars, the ink, the many eyes. That at the small of his back, there was the broadest of them all, that its shade was a brilliant violet. You will forgive me, I hope, for I had forgotten that your experience of Altias is so slight; that of course you would not recognise the resemblance. Thadius Dhrin wore a recreation of Bromn's eyes upon his back, because Altias Bromn was reckoned their Chosen One.

"Their Harbinger."

[Cinnabar]

There is a certain light in the young man's eyes at this revelation, a certain eagerness. Though there is still confusion galore, other things are starting to fall into place.

"It would be interesting to know the method of it. But the intent... perhaps to render him more tractable. Harbinger or no, Bromn would not willingly have cooperated with them, not after his companions and himself had suffered for so long at their hands. So... change him, into someone who is not Bromn, hm? As a pruning-hook will not serve especially well as a weapon, let it be re-forged into a sword. It may not make a particularly fine sword, but will be wieldable, and will hold an edge for long enough to fit its purpose."

He takes up his pen once more, pouring forth ink upon his journal's page; notes and more notes, and perhaps some kind of picture forming from the information contained therein.

"So he was changed, from Bromn to Okulari. What then?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Cinnabar addresses a very silent creature, one which observes the man almost expectantly, as he speaks. Several months under Starr's tutelage have made a swordsman of young Calomel, but he might still lack the experience necessary to recognise such details as these: the adjustment of her weight, upon that narrow chair; the very slight tension in spine and arm. The readiness of a woman who does not anticipate trouble, but reckons it a possibility nonetheless. It's a shame, not least because as he continues in this line of questioning, he would see these small preparations melt slowly away...

For the most part.

"As you say, ser: he would not have cooperated; he would not have ... participated, mn? So that it went as you say, this reforging." Will he recall the last time they'd spoken of such things? He and Ariane, and Altias besides, and the swordswoman's reaction to the analogy had been ... excessive, really. Perhaps they happen upon an explanation for that now.

"It is a good way of saying it, I think. I wonder sometimes if it was not quite successful, for his memory was so poor, and at times he seemed so alarmed -- as if even Okulari did not like what he was made to be, you see? But so it went, for week after week, his absences growing longer and more frequent, until at last he did not return."

He must expect this dispassionate quality, by now. Having come so far in this tale, having heard so much, Calomel must surely understand the necessity of such tight control. Liberties are taken of the wine-cup. After a time, it must be filled again, and it's then that she continues.

"Were we to grieve? I was not sure. I was sure of very little at all, by this time, except that he was gone beyond retrieving, for I could not -- " a tilt of the chin, down towards that list, that litany of murdered monsters. "Not a second time. There was trouble yet, in any case, but of a more familiar sort: drow. And other things, less simple, less terrible." One morning, I awoke to the sight of one hundred paper swans... "Old monsters, mn? And new friendships, for Renne meant to minister to mind as well as body, and while I did not place trust in the man easily, after a time ... I began to."

A sip from the cup, because the doctor has that effect upon a person. This time, perhaps, Calomel will realise what is to come, when he sees her fingers moving slowly towards their quill.

"Began to. Sufficiently that I welcomed his company, when he set himself to my table, last ... July. Yes. This brings us to July, and he to my table so quietly, for I had a student then; she sat not far from us, and what he meant to say was not for her ears. As for that... I remember the very words: will you write them? You may, if you wish. He said to me:

"Altias Bromn is not dead. I know exactly where he is, and I know exactly what you must do to have him back again. And you will do exactly as I say, because I have worked a very long time for this, and now it all goes precisely as it should."

At the top of the page, a fine half-inch above Dhrin's name, the quill gently adds another:
[INDENT]Michael Renne.[/INDENT]

[Cinnabar]

His own pen keeps moving as she speaks, noting dates, names, events, details and comments thought relevant or pertinent. As she comes to mention the Doctor again he nods, writing his words into his own notes with smooth curls and loops of ink. As she takes up her own pen, though, he looks up from his writing, listening carefully, watching with growing incredulity as that name is added to the list. So, then. The final pardon.

Ariane Carnath-Emory, swordswoman and bodyguard, for her hunting of the Baie's followers and her mistaken slaying of an innocent.

Altias Bromn, former Governor of Myrken Wood, for his involvement with the cult as Okulari the scholar and harbinger.

Michael Renne, healer and confidant, for...

He sets down his pen, taking up his cup and sipping slowly, watching the swordswoman over the brim. The control, the desperate restraint, a wall, a moat, a defensive distancing from the events that she recounts. Setting the cup to the table once more, a measured movement, careful and precise for all that his gaze does not leave her, he nods.

Explain, Ariane. Explain what he did that only a pardon signed by the Governor himself might save him. Explain why you requested such a thing for him, if he is one of the Baie's followers as his name on your list would indicate. Explain why you feel him worthy of such clemency.

"Go on."

Explain. And make it good.

[Carnath-Emory]

Growing incredulity. Which is not quite alarm, and which is certainly not malice. Not at all unaware of the gravity of what she details, the swordswoman had reckoned this amongst the mildest possible responses. Except that of course there is much yet to come, so that even now she is adjusting her grip upon that quill, a forefinger lifted to request a moment's stillness yet. That the Constable quietly attend, as she makes an ammendment to Renne's name, so that instead the page is topped by:
[INDENT]Michael Renne / Brother Prime [/INDENT]
Her head lifts then, bruised features curtained by the dark gloss of her hair, and it is a knowing gaze fixed upon the young man. Because now he knows, too. Now he sees.

"The terms which Renne described were simple: that Altias had fallen wholly into the Order's hands -- his Order, that is." We hold nothing back. We do not disguise this point. "That only with Renne's aid might he be wrested from them. That an assault upon them would surely doom him, and us as well. That he was in any case damned, but that Altias might yet be saved --

"Ah. You must think on that for a moment, as I did for ... weeks. You must ask yourself: what does this gain a man such as Michael Renne? His guise was flawless; none suspected him. His Order flourished, celebrated, for their god was soon to come to them. He had no love for Altias Bromn at all, nor even Harbinger Okulari. He had lost his sister to my blade, just months ago."

A brother and his younger sister. Fawn, her fingertip explains.

"What might he gain?

"In the weeks before our journey began, Michael told me the tale of these two children, who saw their parents fall to the Baie's hand, yes? How, elder of the two, he would gradually assemble this Order of worshippers, how he meant to exalt the beast -- or perhaps to end it. He -- will you believe this? I wonder -- he was not sure which it was. He was not certain, except that he had come so far and now, these many years later, it was ... salvation that he meaned to attain. For his atrocities were so many, he said, and so grievous, and that truly he was a damned man no matter what he did, but that he meant to try ... this much, at least.

"He meant to betray his own Order."

Oh, the moment does demand wine. And there has been far too much of that already, cup after cup of the stuff so that the bottle's contents have grown quite diminished. A glance acknowledges the fact, and dismisses it at all, for the moment requires: she must lift her cup, must tilt its rim in small toast to the Constable, and imagine that her hand does not slightly tremble. Even now, it is difficult to speak of Renne...

"In very late August of last year, with white robes in our saddlebags, we rode to the Order's lair."

[Cinnabar]

Those strokes of the pen draw breath sharply into the Constable's lungs, as the scope of what she has done becomes clear. Confusion in his gaze, mingled with disbelief, and no small amount of angry betrayal. In the time between heartbeats the implications sleet through his mind, and he tries to imagine what might cause her to seek pardons for these men.

When it was merely Altias and Ariane, that could be understood as people doing desperate things in circumstances beyond their control. But this third addition, Renne the Doctor, Renne the Brother Prime, how is it possible to understand this? Responsible for the suffering of Ariane many others besides, more responsible even than Dhrin, and yet she has won him a pardon for his sins.

She is one of them after all, as is Bromn, as is Renne, and now that he has played his part like a good little pawn and saved them from the consequences of their crimes, Cinnabar Calomel is no longer needed. The thought has his eyes gleaming like twin mirrors and he is every fibre alert now, every sense straining to provide warning of the treacherous blow which must surely follow, a hair's breadth from rising swiftly to draw steel against such.

All this in the space of a few heartbeats, and she must surely detect it; but she speaks on, explaining more, and an alternative explanation is presented. He listens, decision balanced upon a knife-edge; she speaks of salvation, and redemption, and Renne's planned betrayal of the horror that he has wrought. he begins to understand, and though the silver does not retreat from his gaze, his tension subsides a touch, backing a pace or two away from the brink of furious action. Wine is forgotten, pen and ink and paper also, his attention upon Ariane like the sun's rays through that spyglass of hers.

"What did you find?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Oh, the sheer scope of this, its breathtaking audacity. Hours from now, Altias Bromn will receive news of this gambit with a lukewarm gaze, with very little interest at all, but everything that she'll fear to discover in that man's eyes she sees now. This very minute. In Cinnabar's.

It is a difficult moment. It is a very quiet one. Eyes which miss nothing note the realisation which riots through his own. Ears which know how to hear mark the halting of his breath, the unsteady flow of its resumption. Cinnabar anticipates treachery of the foulest sort, and grows taut with a ready answer to it. Ariane anticipates retribution of the swiftest sort, so that there is silver alight in his eyes, but there's more of it glittering across the back of her hand, and the wrist where it meets the cuff, and the hollow of her throat, and the corners of her mouth; oh, her flesh is finely-sweated with the stuff, and it lingers glittering and caught in the pores of her flesh, until Calomel begins to breathe more easily.

The cup is very gently set down. The recitation continues once again.

"We found zealots engaged in their finest moment.

"I must explain, ser, that I have no gods; that I do not understand the want for such figments. You will understand that I reckoned the Order's god to be no more than that: an imagined thing, a fancy. So that when stood before i -- ah. We come to that soon.

"On the day of Renne's choosing, we rode to the Order's caverns. Our first expedition to that lair had not cleansed them from it, not in any lasting fashion: they had merely dug deeper into the stone, you see. So that there we cells and altars, there were -- ah. Many things. It was not for map-making that I trod there, mn?" Some small quirk of the lips; a shake of the head dismisses it. "We left our horses far from the entrance, lest they draw notice; there were robes for my disguise, and Renne of course wore those of Prime.

"I must explain that, very quickly: that for two years we had thought Thadius Dhrin was Prime, that he behaved in this fashion when they ki -- when they held that girl there, mn? It is the virtue of hooded robes, you see. One man may perform the other's task, at his convenience. One man may ... borrow ... the other's place. Ah. We continue:

"I was to play the part of Prime's aide, Lily; I was to follow where he led, and this was not difficult, for his robes were a ruddy crimson, a violet eye embroidered upon their back. As Thadius wore upon his skin, yes? I held my head bowed as we stepped through the men and women gathered there, and -- I cannot describe it well, what it is to see so many bodies garbed in silver silk, what it is to -- It is like the ocean, I think. Like a blistering sea. Still, I saw almost immediately that in place of an altar, they had erected a platform, and that upon it stood three men. Thadius Dhrin. Okulari. And Baie.

"Their god, you see, had finally come to them."

[Cinnabar]

"You knew it to be the Baie on sight? Or did such become apparent later?" A point worth checking. He is by no means relaxed, by no means at ease, for he has spent the morning with the swordswoman telling him of betrayal, and trickery, and deceit, and mind-games and horror of all sorts.

He would like to trust, he would like to listen plainly, unguarded and open to what she relates, he would like to return to that easy assumption that things are as they appear, but he dares not. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"What face did it wear?"

[Carnath-Emory]

"At first, ser, I knew very little at all.

"Does this surprise you? It should not. Thadius Dhrin stood upon that stage; stood within the reach of my hands, and you surely do not imagine that I was unarmed beneath those Order robes. By his side stood Altias, who was Okulari, of course -- within my reach, and if I had strayed a foot from Renne's side, I'd have doomed us both. I do not suffer frustration well, as I reckon you've realised already. Ah, but soon everything changed, for Thadius cried something about their Chosen One, a prophecy, and then Baie ... dashed at Okulari. He was the taller of the two, and Bromn fell beneath him, and he did something that I could not see, but whatever it was...

"His own worshippers meant to murder him for it."

Throughout these few moments, her fingers have wandered back and forth between wine cup and quill, most recently setting the latter to its page once more. Where once it had described the distance between altar and cells, now it details the path that Prime-who-was-Renne and Lily-who-was-Ariane had trod, to reach a stone platform. Three small dashes of ink indicate the places upon it where three men had stood, and now she lifts her gaze to Calomel's, continuing.

"They were outraged, and when Baie rose from Okulari and turned towards us, I realised why: his shirt was thick with Bromn's blood, you see? And behind him, he'd left their Harbinger was a corpse. He held ... something, he flung back his head, and then ... ah, at first I was not sure what I saw, for that it began so slowly. The lightening of his hair, the pallour which set into him -- ah, have you guessed it? It was Okulari's face that he wore, and his flesh, and muscle and bone and the whole of it: there was no difference between them, none at all. Without a word, he bade Renne and Thadius to lift up the corpse -- to crow over it, I'd reckoned, to savour his triumph.

"But you must know already that I was wrong, mn? I do not know what I saw, ser, except that Baie touched his hand to Okulari's face, and the blood stilled its flow. He choked, he breathed, and clung to Thadius as if his legs scarcely supported him. Prideful of this, Baie turned back towards the crowd which had reviled him, and as he smiled, his face became another's. And then another's, and more of them, and yet more, until I could not tell one from the next. Men's, women's; there was not the time to know did I recognise them or not, so you see, ser, you ask me what face he wore, and I answer you that he wore...

"Everybody's."