Signed, sealed, delivered.

[Cinnabar]

"So, a... sacrifice, perhaps. A demonstration. The creature's own harbinger, slain so that it might show its power to its followers by restoring him to life." A cynical grin quirks his features. "Showmanship, to win their hearts and souls. If their god can slay a man and restore him to life, what need has any cultist to fear death now that their god walks at large?"

A tilt of the head, considering the inkscratch map, digesting what she has told him; that the beast might not only heal itself of grievous hurts, but others also.

"Wait. You said that that was not its first appearance? It had been present in Myrken before, it had killed townsfolk and taken their eyes long before this event. Its followers had emulated its habits. If this is so, what need had it for a harbinger? Had it not already made itself known to the cultists, long before Bromn became Okulari ?" His brow furrows at this puzzle, this apparent contradiction, for while the beast's and its cultists' actions have been horrors that only a mad thing could countenance, they have at the same time been rational, methodical, a motive and purpose to each atrocity, guiding it towards a goal.

"You were in the cavern, surrounded by the cultists, near enough face-to-face with the thing, and with Dhrin." Hm, now that's a point to note. "It confirms one thing, at least: that Dhrin and the Baie are not one and the same. Not... that time, at least." Thinking aloud, laying out the pieces and putting them together to see if they fit.

"The creature is a thing of deceit: it seems able to take any face or form it desires. Even its actions reek of subterfuge and dishonesty - the secrecy, the lies, the games it plays with those who oppose it, capturing them, toying with them, releasing them again." An apologetic glance to Ariane, acknowledging that it is perhaps not entirely tactful to speak of grievous injuries done to her and those close to her in such a way. Still.

"The creature is exceedingly hard to kill: it took no harm at Townsedge, you say, despite facing an army. It cut its own throat before your very eyes, and yet lived. Why should a blade to the heart or to the neck inconvenience it any more seriously?

"Consider these things together, and apply them to this puzzle: you have dealt or seen dealt to Dhrin - one of the Baie's most favoured followers - a fatal blow no less than three times, and yet he still lives." He watches her closely, to be sure that she follows his reasoning, that he is not misapprehending any detail of the situation.

"The puzzle answers itself."

[Carnath-Emory]

Ah, sacrifices and showmanship, so that initially the woman is nodding a silent accompaniment to these suggestions. It is Calomel's turn to speak, and hers to listen: it is a role which the woman embraces with undisguised relief, however slight. There are questions near the end of it, of course; there are always those, but she reckons with these at her leisure. It is a puzzle for true, and Calomel is by far her superior in the untangling of those: it is better to see the directions from which his mind approaches the matter, for this is familiar ground, and all the swordswoman's answers had led her ... exactly nowhere.

It's amazing, what a fresh perspective can accomplish.

"What need? What prophecy? To this day, I do not know. But I must be clear on this: Harbinger was not their word. It was given to me by a -- there is a third element." The quill. The second page. Ink outlines the oval of a face. "It is of great importance, to ... me. Not to this, I think. It knows of the Order. It knows of their god, of Baie. It co -- it -- I haven't the word for it, but ... they are as children, by its reckoning." The eyes are empty shapes, round and filled with featureless ink. The mouth is a doll's dainty curve. "It does not care what befalls them. It reckons them fools. But Belief ... is of importance to this thing. And it named Altias as their Harbinger long before the Order ... changed him."

A pause here, as she sets the quill aside, turning the page that Cinnabar might see what she has drawn there. A face, but so very stylised that there's little humanity left to it. Look long enough, Calomel, and you may recognise it for what it really is: a mask.

"But we return to this, mn? For it is as you say: what need might Baie have for a, a 'Chosen One'? It has done its will in Myrken Wood unchecked. It has taken the guise of whatever man suited it -- even of Bromn himself, that day. I do not understand it; I never have. What might such a beast want? It had satisfied its every desire, or seemed to, and -- "

... a fatal blow ...

"And now it has even this, this audience for its games, mn? 'He lives amongst us,' Dhrin shouted, in the midst of this. 'Come and rejoice with us' -- "

.... exceedingly hard to kill ....

Is it apology that Ariane had read in the man's eyes, some moments ago? Not for what comes now, surely, but it must suffice for it anyway. For there is a very sharp gaze fixed upon Cinnabar, whose every word deepens a frown which somehow searches. He is fixed upon by narrowing eyes, he is gazed upon, gazed through: oh, as if mysteries capered upon the wall directly behind his back. Lips tighten, caught between gnawing teeth; hidden a moment after as a hand claps over them, and there is some sound, some small and choking sound...

Of a sudden she's up from her seat, and without explanation. Of a sudden, unsteady legs are carrying her at stiff speed for a corner, where screens offer some small privacy. A clatter of fallen wood; some sound. Some small and choking sound.

[Cinnabar]

Raised brows at mention of this "third element", this new influence on events. He glances to the simply-rendered picture, frowning his perplexity as he attempts to understand... he is aware of her silence for a time, and it suits well enough - let both of them mull over these things for a moment or two... but then, no, she is rising, rising precipitately and stumbling across the room; distress writ clearly in her features, in her movements, in the small, stifled sound that escapes her throat.

"Ariane--"

He is rising with her, uncertain, but wishing to aid in some way; but she moves away, seeking privacy, distance. A pace or two taken in her wake, but halting, and soon he stops to stand and to try to work out what might have prompted this... reaction. He looks briefly to the wine, and to that crudely-inked face, replaying in his mind their last few moments of conversation. About the Baie's propensity for deceit, its resilience... ah. Dhrin.

She had mentioned being held prisoner by the cultists, being taunted by Dhrin there, and before, and after. And sparing him, as many times as she had apparently slain him. Except... perhaps it was not Dhrin she had spared.

He frowns helplessly, listening to those small, choked sounds, and his fears of her being somehow in league with the cult slowly dissolve. But that does not solve the real problem.

[Carnath-Emory]

It is more than this, of course. It is far more, and hadn't the woman said as much? That there were details he did not require. That there were moments that his grasp of the Order's work ... did not require. For Cinnabar, they change nothing. For Ariane Emory, they had changed everything, however briefly, and they hold her in that screened alcove for some time.

When she emerges, it's with her mouth wiped clean again; it's with features as cleaned of expression. Some incline of her head acknowledges the man's rising, and in time she resumes her own seat, hand set down neatly by side of its quill. Twin spots of hectic colour hover high in her cheeks, a silent testament to the severity of the moment. When she can trust herself to speak, she does.

"Excuse me." The wine is quite necessary; still, it is a sparing sip that she takes.

"So. We continue, mn? Prime -- who is Renne -- has stepped up onto the stage at the request of Thadius: like young lords they stand there, the three of them, and with a strange-faced god at their side. It is their finest moment, and they are prideful in it. After a time of this, Prime turned to me, entrusted Okulari into my hands, for that he required rest, you see? This was how he would enable our escape: that I would lead Okulari to the lower chambers, and from there to the rear tunnel which led to open air. 'His part in this is fulfilled', Prime said, and I accepted Okulari from Thadius' own hands."

There is a pause to the dispassionate recital; there is the lift of that fingertip a second time, the request for close attention.

"This was not what I had anticipated. I have said that I was armed beneath those robes, yes? Very well armed, ser: with burning powders and throwing-knives, with the schiavona and Renne's own dagger. I had reckoned we would be fighting our way free of that cavern, and that we might not well succeed, and then -- ah. Renne had spoken of damnation, and in that moment I realised the truth of it, for he meant to have us gone from that place, and the only way in which he might ensure this would be to stay behind himself.

"Think a moment on what would befall him, when they realised his treachery."

And perhaps she does, this pallid swordswoman; perhaps she always has. True or not, it has her silent for a time, has her fingertips restless upon the rim of that wine-cup, but not quite seizing it. Not yet. After a time, it continues.

"His plan was successful. Thadius did not see my face beneath the hood I wore. Baie did not. I took Altias from them -- for it was Altias by then, he had begun to be himself again -- and we were hasty down those tunnels. We were away from them without a backwards glance." But almost, almost ...

"A man was sent to pursue us, of course: they must have realised Renne's deceit very quickly. A great giant of a man, and we were spared his wrath by a stranger's intercession -- ah, I know not his name, except that it was the second time he had aided us in this way -- perhaps it does not matter, mn? We were free of them, we had survived this very bold gambit, and Altias Bromn was at last returned to his own home." An upwards glance.

"He remembered nothing of himself save for his name."

[Cinnabar]

Cinnabar remains standing for a moment after Ariane returns and resumes her seat, but eventually indecision is overcome and he takes his own seat once more. A nod to deny any need for apology or excuses, slender hands folding in front of him on the table as he listens.

A momentary loss of control, it seems, a realisation enough to crack that armour of dispassionate distance she has worn so well during this recounting; significant indeed, but the Constable can only guess at the details which remain untold. Can only guess, and listen on, and attempt to fill in the gaps as best he can. The escape, the pursuer, the mysterious interloper. But her last words have a chill crawling his spine, and he cannot help but lean forward a touch, intent, intrigued. Not anger or outrage or shock in his gaze, but a curiosity that is more than that, an almost desperate need to know.

"Nothing at all? Not even prior to his abduction, before he was made into Okulari?"

[Carnath-Emory]

A momentary loss of control, but not an absolute loss; they would not still sit here if that had been the case. It's all continued well enough, in its aftermath, except that now there comes this question, and ... ah. It is just as difficult, in a very different sense.

"Nothing. Or very little, at least: he had the simple things -- he knew to write words yet, to ride a horse; remembered enough of himself to recall that he did not like horses. He was yet able to read, to count, but he knew nothing of me, except that perhaps he recognised the look of me; when I spoke my name to him, he was not sure of it. Do you see? He had not forgotten how to be a, a person. It was Altias that he had forgotten."

She is not quite an insensitive creature, this swordswoman. Quite the contrary, for she deals better in the language of tone and expression, comprehends these things far better than the words which accompany them.
So that it's a testament to that lapse of control, to the intensity of her distraction, that Ariane only now realises what she is saying. Or more precisely, what it must mean to a man like Cinnabar Calomel, who wears such an extraordinarily fine sword at his hip, and such a vacant expression on his face when you ask him about it.

There's curiosity in its place at the moment, though. There is sharp intrigue, and realising this, realising the meaning of it, she is already shaking her head, is lifting a hand as if to forestall despair, for:

"It did not continue so. Ah, you have seen this, yes? You know this. But it began still slowly. He was willing to confide some small things in me, for that there was no-one else. He began to share with me the things that he wrote, for you see he had -- when he began to remember, it was names first of all. Mine was amongst them; Michael's; several others. He would give a page to each of them, would write whatever came to him. Within a week, there was so much that his room was carpeted with these papers, and within the month -- ah. Would you know how he described it to me?

"It sorely frustrated him, that is what he said, for that he'd come to remember so much -- but as if it were a book he'd read, as if it had been another man's life. This is how it is, he might say, to sit in the Governor's room, but... in fact this was how it seemed to him that it was. He remembered, but ... it meant nothing to him."

[Cinnabar]

There follows a moment's thoughtful silence, turning over this information in his mind. Take a thing, and examine it, consider it, scrutinise it; then take another thing that appears similar, and place them side by side. Compare them, seek out the points that they share, where one resembles the other, and note them well. Then seek out the aspects in which each differs from the other, where they contrast and do not match. Draw what conclusions you can.

Slender fingers absently untwine to rest upon that journal, its most recent pages filled with Ariane's recounting of the cult of the Baie; but it contains plenty of pages which were already filled when he started recording her story, line after line and page after page of elegant black script. This he knows, for he can recall filling those pages with his own hand - all except that first page, with its cryptic inscription and unreadable signature. And all bound together in skilfully embossed leather, stylised forms of legendary creatures tangled together in intricate knotwork.

There is little relief in his gaze as it returns to the swordswoman from some distant contemplation.

"Has he yet recalled his life fully? Or does it remain as something that happened to someone else?" Hopeful? Seeking his own answers in hers? Or perhaps seeking differences, points of divergence such that he can be sure that his situation is not a result of the same horror that made Bromn into Okulari. But more pertinently: "Does he recall anything of his time as Okulari? Of the names, faces, identities of the Baie's followers?" Such would surely be a treasure-trove for the Constable, the prospect of which has him already planning to interview Altias at his earliest convenience.

And another thought. "What of Renne, and Dhrin? You have encountered them since."

[Carnath-Emory]

That journal. Oh, she is returning to herself now, from that distant and angry place to which shock had flung her. Cinnabar cannot know that his puzzling has irrevocably sealed Dhrin's fate, but he may know this much for sure: that her gaze has dropped towards that slender thing, that a woman realises a similarity. Ah, it somehow pains, but then all of this does. They speak of months which she'd longed to fill with murder, with violence, with anything but a void of aching questions...

"He has -- perhaps. I cannot be sure of it, you see; I can never be sure, for only Altias can describe what is his mind, and perhaps his describing is not accurate, yes? He -- mn. It grows complicated." Her hand gently lifts, a mute request for patience as she sets those months into order, for they had been very quiet, and they had been furiously busy; lethargic and rich with havoc ... Ah. A starting-point is found, and a caveat as well, when she lifts her gaze to Calomel's once more.

"This ... is not for your reports. This is not for your Governor. Are we agreed on this? It is for you; I trust it to no ears but yours. So. He did gradually come to remember some of that time, some of his time in the Order's care. He told me a great deal about Michael and Fawn, of the children they were; he -- but you -- " A pause, an assessing glance. She begins again. "It was not by his own means that he came to recall, nor was his memory at that time ac -- no, I -- " A second, frowning. "I -- think -- "

And she is from her seat like a shot, so that one might almost forget that the woman's crippled; is returned to the pacing almost immediately. The arm is wound about her abdomen for a time, and when it lifts, sends fingers combing through the dark gloss of her hair; such a glance is shot towards the man now, once, twice, and with a shake of the head:

"No. These things are -- this is not a matter of the Order. There are things you wish to know, and I understand your questions, I know .. that you've questions, and they are not for me to answer."

Pauses, then; fixed upon him.

"Do you see? You will question Altias on these things, if you wish it, you will question Michael, and you will have care with that one. He is ... not always himself. He has played the monster's role, ser, since he was a child, and you cannot expect kinder things of him. But Altias ... he once knew nothing but kindess, and perhaps it is still so; him, ser...

"Ask him of Kylerryth."

[Cinnabar]

Keen gaze upon her, as if to tease the information from her as one might tease yarn from wool. She holds keys, she holds answers that he needs, some of which having little to do with Constabulary business.

"I have every intention of questioning them. Both of them." He nods firmly, then quirks a grin a moment later as if to soften the determination in his tone, to dispel any concerns on the nature of that questioning. "If I can pin them down for long enough. Bromn, I imagine, is easy enough to find." A hand waves to take in the room, Altias' own chambers. "Renne, however, I would guess is likely to be more... elusive. Where might I seek him?" He tilts his head to regard the swordswoman and her distracted pacing. After a short while he retrieves his pen, a quick note scribed at the foot of the current page:

[indent]MEMORY: Ask Altias Bromn of Kylerryth.[/indent]

That done, he returns his attention to Ariane. A touch more settled, perhaps, more confident. He has a lead to follow now, something to trace and investigate. So, back to business, as he repeats his question:

"After this rescue, what do you know of their movements, of their activities? Renne, Dhrin, the Baie."

[Carnath-Emory]

Keys. Answers.
Here is what it is to be the one who holds such things, to be the one who's regarded in so keen and searching a manner. It is a strange sensation, heady with the scent of blood and amber. It intoxicates; it lends a particularly unusual quality to the glance she directs towards Cinnabar. This ambigous grey, this very steady gaze. These eyes which glimpse eternities, which search a man, a friend, for signs of lurking teeth...

"Be kind to him. Will you?" As she rediscovers herself, this woman who shares in a monster's dreams, who tangles with a saint's lukewarm nightmares. "You understand now why I would ask this of you, why I would demand it, yes? You see how far he has come, what he has suffered for that journey. You may reach him here, of course, or perhaps through the 'Dagger's wait-staff. As for Michael..."

A moment's pause, small shoulder rested against the wall; Ariane has paced its circumfrence as if it were a cripple's cell. The thin smile she sets upon Calomel acknowledges this fact -- or perhaps simply marks a moment's regret, a moment's bright relief, for:

"I have no answer for you. He comes and goes as pleases him, mn? And very cautiously, for his own Order would have him a corpse. Or if he lies, if there is collusion, then... it is we who must be cautious of him -- ah.

"It is always so. It is ... his nature, you see? He means to be -- no. We continue now, mn? But we are come mostly to the end of it. Does the Order yet thrive? Perhaps, for Dhrin yet lives, Baie yet lives, and with no patience for my interfering. But of their murders, I have heard nothing."

[Cinnabar]

A nod to her request. "Of course." Kind, yes. Trusting? Not entirely. The darkness of this story cannot help but sow doubt in one's mind, the players engaging in such deeds that one cannot rest entirely certain of their motives, of their goals. So... caution.

The swordswoman's confirmation of Renne's reclusiveness has him shrugging lightly. "As for Renne, I shall not hunt him down, but I am very much interested in speaking to him." A slight smile quirks his lips. "If you encounter him before I do, I'd appreciate if you could steer him in my direction."

He flicks back a few pages in his notes, checking on something. "So they are both still at large, but... quiet. The Baie visited you to threaten you into the pretense that he is gone from here... and Dhrin I have seen for myself, albeit briefly. Has he been seen since the time in front of the Rememdium?" Since he was stabbed in the throat and healed, that is.

"Has he displayed any signs of repentance, or sought redemption as Renne has? Has he tried to make amends? To put the chance he was given to good use? Or does he simply continue in his old ways?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Caution. Were they to set the chessboard back upon that table, were they to have at a second round of that game-which-is-world, how easily might Calomel ascribe one colour or another to these pieces? Who are sometimes as ambiguous as the swordswoman herself; whose allegiances are frequently less straightforward. One hopes for caution, and ensures meantime that Bromn will not know cruelty at this man's hands, a caretaking which Altias would like very little indeed, were he to learn about it. Such recriminations are familiar, and a woman swallows down their inevitability like... ah, like the sweet savour of a Constable's voracious curiosity.

"Michael Renne," she muses for a moment, this pawn who's colour is not always so pale a grey. "It has been weeks since he has shown himself; he will not heed me, do I direct him. Do you realise this? But if you wish it still, I will speak the words, and as for Thadius .. ah. I have. He brought a warning to the very tavern where I keep a room. It will mean little to what you mean to learn, it is of little use, but..."

A pause to the pacing, now; she is diverging from this simple circling of the broad room, is returning at last towards the bedside table where Calomel sits.

"There is a thing which I will show you, if you will consent not to lay your hands upon it. Have I your word upon it? It is quite remarkable, and of particular use to you, I think, if you mean to question that man. Ah, does he repent? Constable, he has no reason to! Warm in the love of his crazed god, most favoured of the Order now that Renne has betrayed them -- and he plans that one's death even now, of course. He is drunk and happy with such power as Baie's granted him -- ah."

For she is bending now, with grave care for the welfare of a much-abused hip: is setting aside a gilded book, a crudely-carved wooden mask. When she rises, it is with a loop of some thin, glossy substance caught between her fingers; on closer inspection, Calomel will recognise braided hair. Crimson, ebon, brilliant white. Her hold upon the thing is reverent.

[Cinnabar]

"All I ask is that Renne be made aware that I would speak with him. He has his pardon for what has gone before, so." A shrug. "That at least is closed. For what is yet to come... I think we share objectives, in some regards, and could aid each other.

"Dhrin, meanwhile, has had all of the mercy he is likely to receive. If he will not change, he must be ended." A finality in his tone that brooks no disagreement, though with perhaps not so much outrage as determination. One might speak this way of the need to put down a mad dog, or burn a hornets' nest before it wakes in the spring, or otherwise put an end to something which is dangerous by its nature, and cannot be left to imperil good, right-minded citizens. Is it curious to hear the amiable young man say this thing, in such a way? To hear him decide that yes, this man is a menace and must die, and that is all there is to it?

But the swordswoman is rummaging about amongst her possessions to retrieve something, something flimsy and delicate. He leans forward, eyes narrowing to regard the thing for a time, before flicking back to her face.

"What is it?"

[Carnath-Emory]

"He does." Ah, he does, and for a heartbeat's measure Ariane is smiling past bruises, past the hurt that bending drives through legs and pelvis. There is that, and there is some quiet relief, as she carefully resumes her seat. Wine does not kill the pain, but it is medicating in its own way, and a woman has come to appreciate Duquesne's admirable use of the stuff.

"Have care that you do not share ... too much, mn? Remember what he was, what he has been for most of his life. I do not say this because I doubt your wits, ser, but because Michael has a -- " Her meagre grasp of the common tongue proves limiting. "He is persuasive.

"This, though, is Thadius' work. A magicked thing, made of -- ah, do you see? This red, Bromn's hair, taken during his time as Okulari, of course. The black is Michael's, the white Dhrin's own, for its purpose was to weave their fortunes together. You recall the day you came upon us on the Rememdium's lawn, of course. This was the day I wrested it from him: it was the whole of my purpose there, although his death --

"Ah, I was not adverse to that."

It is not a kind smile that she wears, but Calomel has grown accustomed to that by now, perhaps; he has surely come to understand the cause of it. If an edge of that revulsion lingers, well, what of it? Circumstances demand no less!

"Its purpose was to bind them, as I say, but also to ward me from him. Do you see how that might be? I would not spare his life, he knew this, but I would preserve Michael's, and Altias of course was -- Ah. You know these things. So did he, and so this ... this trinket. Its workings were simple: the harm that befell its wearer would be suffered by all three. His death would be theirs, as well, so I meant to beat him until he gave it to me, or until he'd fallen limp enough that it might be taken.

"But there is ... one more use for it. I say that he came to me with warnings several nights ago, yes? This was the last he said to me: that were I to wear this thing now and speak his name aloud, he would know it. He would find me."

This kindless smile. It very slightly broadens.

[Cinnabar]

Thoughtful gaze inspects the thing again, this twisted loop now obvious as being made from human hair. He listens, and nods as she explains its purpose, its provenance. Hm. A cunning play by Dhrin, and so effective - probably the only thing likely to keep the swordswoman's blade from his throat, and astute of the cultist to realise this. Worrying also that he might have the arcane wherewithal to put it into effect, of course.

His brow creases at the explanation of this last use of the bracelet, the way it might be used for summoning its creator. He peers at it closer, then looks past it to Ariane.

"He told you this himself? That it could be used to call to him, to bring his attention to you?" Uncertainty on his features, and mistrust. "Why... why would he tell you this? He knows you would happily kill him, yes? Why would he thus provide you with a splendid way to lure him to his own demise?" He shakes his head slightly. "It makes little sense." A few moments' rumination on this inconsistency, this flaw, and he frowns more deeply.

"What were the rest of his warnings? What did he tell you? Threats to still your hand? Lies to cloud your mind?"