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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 09, 2007 6:47 am

"I was certain of what I saw," she corrects. "I still am. And ser, I was deceived. I was purposely deceived. And to this day, I know not to what ends, for what reason, except that ... ah. I suspect a thing. I reckon myself educated."

Think on that a moment, Cinnabar Calomel, for you might find the texture of this notion familiar. When set beside the arrogance of the phrase she'd just now spoken, when illuminated by its condescension. But the young constable needn't dwell so very long on this matter, for its resolution is swiftly arriving, now. There is reluctance in the swordswoman, clearly. There is hesitation. And should he look carefully, should he prove capable of discerning such subtleties, there is an unspoken eagerness lurking behind the whole of it, for this is a matter she'd breathed no word of to her sister, with whom she shares everything. Nor to Renne, who might actually have made some sense of it, nor even to Altias Bromn, who'd suffered on account of it all -- if indirectly.

This very subtle eagerness, as Calomel turns that page upon their tabletop. This very quiet relief, tainted by the slight smugness of a woman who is not always kind; coloured bleakly by the mind of a woman who, in this manner, knows herself already bested.

"I do not know who he is," she begins. "Not his name. Nor even his face. He does as he pleases. He takes what he wants. When he is denied, the world -- " Becomes sick and distorted and strange, but oh, the tilt of her shoulder confesses an inability to describe such a thing. Instead, a hand is lifted to request patience, as she bends in her seat. As she lowers herself to the stack of gilt-edged books and smaller keepsakes. As she removes one particular thing from that pile, and the constable will remember it, because he'd glimpsed it very briefly already. This wooden mask, small and crudely-fashioned. It is a good enough fit for her face, a good enough match to the likeness set upon the page between them. And it is set directly atop it.

Ah, Cinnabar. All this time, it was right under your nose.
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Postby Cinnabar » Wed May 09, 2007 7:05 am

The Constable considers this, gaze upon the mask briefly before returning to Ariane, regarding her from beneath brows lowered in thought. The spaces in her recounting remain inadequately filled, even now, though for what reason he cannot yet tell. So.

"He is the one who named Altias as Harbinger?" Precious little information so far. A mask. A naming. A few opinions held on the Baie and its cult. Some hints as to capabilities. "The one who values Belief?"

And then a slender hand is reaching to take up this thing, this mask of rough-worked wood, to examine it more closely. An odd thing, crude and unpretty, and strangely curious to one who so clearly values the finely-wrought and well-crafted.

"He gave this to you?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 09, 2007 7:28 am

For a time, she is a particular inert thing: content to observe the man as he takes in the meagre facts of this new playing piece, as he explores its prickly contours. Of which the mask, incidentally, is a particularly awful stretch. Oh, those eyeholes gape, the chin of it juts almost obscenely; its lips are vividly red, curved into a grotesque half-smile. It is a wonder that Calomel is willing to touch the thing at all, but not a very surprising one, and he will discover the swordswoman capable of some swiftness of her own.

For there is very suddenly a hand set atop the back of his own.

"I think perhaps you do not need to touch this. Knowing what placed it into my hand, mn? It is not so simple as it seems to the eye. Nothing of this -- " of Hajmat "-- is simple. I have seen a good man made damaged by this thing. I have seen -- ah, worse yet than that. So ... I think you do not touch this. I think ...

"Perhaps you will trust me to describe to you the use of it. And of the one which came before it, for this was not the first, and nor is it the worst of them. They are each of them an ... education, I think. From this very man. He tells me that I must tread lightly in matters of Belief, and Cinnabar...

"He has given me reason to do just that."
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Postby Cinnabar » Wed May 09, 2007 7:44 am

Her hand atop his own, and a brow raising in mute query of same. She might feel a tightening of the tendons beneath his skin for a moment, a reflexive tensing that is suppressed quickly, until his hand lies upon the table, comfortable inches from the mask. Relenting for the moment.

"I am not sure that I do know what placed it into your hand. No name, no face, precious little information at all. And I am quickly discovering that nothing in Myrken Wood is as simple as it appears to the eye." Not exactly peevish, no, but carefully pointing out how much she hasn't told him of this... this thing's provenance. Of this third element. How can he know things unless someone first informs him of them?

He nods towards the mask, then, grey gaze upon her face. Patient, curious, alert.

"Tell me of this thing, then."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 09, 2007 8:21 am

A tightening of tendons beneath the flesh her palm weights down; a very subtle gloss of chill, thin and clinging, if Calomel is apt to notice such a thing. They each of them have their reflexes, it would seem. But this effect is kindly short-lived, for her hand lifts from his once she is certain that it means to move away. Back upon her side of the tabletop it sets itself, and with fingertips rested vigilant upon the mask's ugly edge, for ... it had worked such terrible wonders on Bromn, after all. It had made a panting fool of the man, and if such as he could fall to it, why -- who might not?

"Nor do I. No name, no face -- and you will understand, I think, that I have strived very hard to learn both. Beneath its hood there is," a tap of fingertip upon wood, "simply another mask." There follows some wry twist of grin, now, for all that a glance is shot towards the loft's door; oh, it's a haunted creature with which the constable speaks, but one from which the boldness has not quite been frightened.

"When first we spoke, he whispered to me upon the street, near where -- where a man had died." Cordwainer Beucol, pinned to a wall; Calomel is spared these details, which he'll discover for himself later in any case. "'Assassin', he charged me. 'Great Killer of All', and his voice smiled as he said it. A terrible voice: I have heard men whose throats were gone sick with disease, and they were as, as songbirds compared to this one, mn? We spoke for a while, that he might grant me the warning I've described to you already.

"When I awoke the morning next, it was to find such a thing as this by my pillow. But not quite of this sort: a fine porcelain, you see? Quite delicate, very lovely. I wore it as -- " forgive a woman's cowardice: she hesitates here, tightly swallows "-- as I slew Bea Kanaya. Through its eyes, I saw the whole of her heart, and knew that I had been deceived. This one ... it is less kind. Its way is to give its wearer a -- "

A pause; her gaze lifts to Calomel's, slightly narrowed with speculation. He may well recognise the moment in which slow realisation begins to fill her.

"It ... mm."

Slow. Sickly. Her fingertips tighten upon the mask's wooden edge, withdraw it across the table towards her, as with a shake of the head:

"This is not for you. It matters to this not one whit. Shall I describe to you that deception?"
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Postby Cinnabar » Wed May 09, 2007 8:36 am

"In a moment."

And now it is the Constable's turn to be quick, moving to still the hand which moves the mask away. Careful not to touch the mask himself, as warned, but deliberate in the placement of his hand over hers. A swordsman's callouses upon palm and fingers, the potential for a crushingly strong grip for all that his touch remains light but firm for now. A neat reversal of mere seconds ago, head tilted slightly, a faint smile curling his lips in recognition of this.

"I think this matters. This... person who gives masks that are educations. He would appear to be involved in this affair; another player, moving things to his own ends, and I would dearly like to know more. The other mask, what, it showed you another's heart?"

He leans forward, just a touch; resolute, poised as if to forestall any hasty movement on her part.

"What does this one do?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 09, 2007 9:00 am

That reply condescends; the grasp which follows it does not. There is a hand atop hers, of a sudden, light upon skin which knows hurt very well, which expects it, in that first instant of contact. And perhaps this is not unjustified, for there is a warning in that touch, however gentle it remains for now. There is a threat, potent for all that it's been so politely phrased, except that what's sat at the constable's table is a woman who perceives threats as imminent realities. For a time, Ariane is very still in her seat. When she speaks it is in mild tones, even and well-measured, and with a gaze that swerves not at all from Cinnabar's own.

"He is involved... perhaps. If you reckon this a chessboard again, he has no piece. His is one of the hands which moves them. As you say, mn?"

Calomel leans a fraction towards her. His palm will discover that fingers tighten slightly on the mask's edge, in answer to this.

"So. I hope you think on this: that this thing was not given to you. That it is not meant for you. That it was once taken from my hands, by a -- That it was taken, and reduced what I hold most dear to a, to a ruin."


[INDENT]he had roared his demand down upon her, had meant to wrest the crude thing back from her at any cost, any cost at all. His fist was like sudden thunder, lashing her face with force enough to dizzy the world and knock her staggering into the corridor's wall, and when her stunned hand let the mask fall, he chased after it with a cry -- [/INDENT]

"I hope you recall this, when I say it is not for your hands. The first... ah, hearts, yes, but only if the person were dying, you see? Else it was simply a mask, one which did not easily shatter, one which did not like to loose its hold upon my face. This one, ah... this one does not show you a man's heart, but instead ...

"Its wearer's."
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Postby Cinnabar » Wed May 09, 2007 9:16 am

"...I see."

And as simply as that he's sitting back in his seat, hand removed from Ari's own, looking to the mask with the the regard that one might reserve for the bizarre or the peculiar, but little more than that.

"I know my own heart." Little need, then, for such an object to show it to him. Were it a matter of idle curiosity perhaps he might be inclined to investigate further, to press the point. For now? Not particularly. He can only speculate as to what Ariane might have been shown by the mask, but her unease towards it and that crossed-out name on her list seem to support the theory that she did not find it a pleasant lesson. His attention lifts from the carved wooden face, meeting her gaze once more.

"This player though, the hand that moves. He reckons himself far above the Baie and his followers? What have you seen that might support this? Masks aside - they might be enchanted, yes, but I would suspect that there are magicians of unremarkable talent who might create something similar. I doubt that meddling with someone's mind would be as taxing as conjuring fire from nothing or shooting lightning from one's fingertips, and from all accounts those seem to be standard tricks for any magician worthy of the name." His head tilts a touch, inquiringly.

"Does he oppose the Baie? Might he be inclined to act in our favour against the creature?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 09, 2007 9:51 am

The bizarre. The peculiar. The slightly off.
Myrken Wood bids you welcome, Cinnabar Calomel.

But whatever the facts of that matter, he will discover that the sharp angles of her have gradually relented, on discovering his withdrawal a certain thing. That fingertips linger upon the mask's edge might be reckoned an undue paranoia, but only a short-lived one: once Calomel is settled back into his seat, her hand is seizing the mask for true, a heavy dash of it against the table's edge serving to shatter the ugly thing into a cloud of coarse splinters. That quirk of a smile which follows this is undoubtedly smug, and just as cautious; for a time, bleak hours are written into her gaze.

"Very good. So do I now, mn? Ah, this hand... he reckons himself above the all of them, I think; I cannot be sure of this, of course. Nothing is sure, as concerns this man. At his bidding, the world becomes ... strange and uncertain around me..."

Ah, a small shake of the head dismisses this as so much conjecture, as fantastic beyond the point of being useful. Her hand lifts, her head bows to blow sawdust in a fine cloud from its palm...

"Does he oppose the Baie? Perhaps. He says nothing which suggests that he cares. He -- ah. I tell you how I come to know of Bea Kanaya, mn? Then perhaps you understand a little of it. For he comes to me in the night, this masked thing, yes? With his terrible voice and his ragged robes, and says to me that I must follow, that the Order's time is at hand, the hour is now. So I follow, mn? Down through the tavern, into its very cellars, where a wall folds aside to reveal their new meeting-place."

A pause here, to watch what he shall make of that, this very clever man. This man who knows his heart.

"There we saw ... ah, such a gathering: you can imagine it, yes? A hundred and more of them, each in their robes. Faces that I recognised from my first visit to their gatherings: Beucol, Halfplow; the others. I walked amongst them, but only for a time: it was the slab for me, you see? Only that very soon, I did not, for there stood Thadius with his knife for my eyes, and such faces stood at his sides: oh, Council and Straka and all such sorts, and others besides. And Bea Kanaya as well, you have realised this, yes? And -- "

There remain some things yet which are not for the Constable's hearing. One of them is omitted this very moment, and with hardly an instant's pause the narrative concludes:

"-- so I died.

"I would not petition this thing for his aid, ser. I think he would find it ... oh, wond'rous if I did, as one finds a child's pretense with swords such a marvel, mn? I think I might not hear the end of his laughter, and even if it were not so, how do you propose to manage such a thing?

"For ser, he cannot be found."
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Postby Cinnabar » Wed May 09, 2007 10:20 am

Cinnabar blinks with undeniable surprise as the mask is smashed upon the table-edge, hand raised briefly to ward off flying sawdust and splinters. Confusion, then, as the thing does appear to be truly destroyed - spectacularly so, in fact, more than might even be expected had it simply been worm-eaten wood. Hm. But she speaks, and so he listens.

His frown grows as she describes this nighttime journey, until he can only shake his head. "Some... illusion. A trick." One might imagine that he says this because she quite evidently didn't die, but that's proving to be no guarantee. Instead it is her previous mention of how she was deceived that brings him to this conclusion. "A false image of the cult, with incorrect faces mixed into the crowd; deliberately placed for you to remember them, and hunt them down. So that you might then be proven wrong. A harsh lesson." He takes a moment to pick a couple of stray splinters from his sleeve before looking back to the woman.

"Nevertheless, it implies that while he might not care about the Baie, he would seem to have some sort of interest in you. Enough to weave this deception for you, to grant you masks and painful lessons, and so forth. You amuse him, perhaps? You entertain him? He finds your education to be an enthralling project? If he is as powerful as he seems, that might be a fair guess." Another glance to the scattered dust of the mask-that-was. A slight grin, then, a thought that amuses.

"In any case, I would hazard that perhaps he is more the sort who finds, rather than the sort who is found. So the best way to speak with him might be to be... interesting enough to gain his attention. To draw his eye, to intrigue him." The grin broadens as he glances to Ari.

"Isn't that normally how gods work?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 09, 2007 12:46 pm

A sweep of the hand tumbles dust and splinters to the floorboards: it is a striking contrast to the ordered existence which the woman has so far demonstrated, to the passion for cleanliness which defines this broad room. The dry smile lingers throughout it, that uneven tilt of the lips, and even as she dusts the last of it from her palms.

"Some illusion. A dream, I reckoned it, much later -- but that is, uh. That is a complicated thing. Dreams become strange sometimes, here in Myrkentown. They sometimes become far more than they ought. As you say: it was deception from beginning to end, and with purpose, I think, but ... not quite in the fashion you describe. I had questioned this masked man upon the matter of Belief, yes? Perhaps it is better to say that, that I challenged: I've no gods, nor much need for them, and to this day I do not understand those who do. Hah, worshippers and their Belief; what matter of it? So... there came this necessary educating.

"For Bea Kanaya yet lies dead, and while it was my hand that struck the killing blow, it was Belief that led me to her."

The woman's gaze has been level upon Calomel's throughout this, and it does not swerve away now, not even when the blood colours her cheeks so fiercely -- and at mention of Bea's name, it most surely does. It is one thing to speak a fact unflinchingly; it is another altogether to feel nothing at the sound of it, and this is a trick that Ariane Emory is yet to master. So that her cheeks blaze hotly, and tension pales the corners of her mouth, but still... it continues.

"So he did well, mn? No more did I write of Belief upon those cultist's corpses. No more did I question his use of the word, having learned it very well beneath his hand. 'Belief is not for you': this was how he judged me; these are his very words. So I think perhaps I am not so interesting, so enthralling. But that what I did -- hah!

"Will you go in this fashion now, Constable? Will you write bloody condemnations of his Belief across shopfront walls?"
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Postby Cinnabar » Wed May 09, 2007 10:30 pm

He only nods silently as she speaks of dreams, mute agreement, but her description of this mysterious masked figure's actions only deepens his frown, perplexity clear in every line.

"So he... feels Belief to be important. Or perhaps lack of Belief? You spoke scornfully of Belief, so he gave you a lesson in how Belief is not restricted solely those who worship gods, and how misguided Belief might lead anyone astray. Was that his intent, do you think? His lesson?" He can only shake his head at the man's judgement.

"It was deceit that led you to Bea Kanaya. You were provided with evidence that something was so when it was not. A lie. Did you have any way of knowing that it was false, a deception? No, if it was plausible enough for you to act upon it, I do not think that you did. Would he have it that you doubt the evidence of your own eyes and senses? Would he drive you mad with such doubt?" He waves a hand, dismissing the masked man's claimed intents. "As much a creature of lies and deceit as the Baie."

Then a grin at her challenge, and a casual shrug.

"I doubt that such would be necessary. There are many ways to attract attention."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Thu May 10, 2007 1:02 am

A palm set flat upon the tabletop between them: even when they speak in the most abstract terms, the woman strives to make the words tangible. Even unconsciously, strives.

"And if I did not Believe this thing? Then all would have continued as it were, yes? Perhaps it would have been Macha, instead of her; perhaps another; to the life of Bea Kanaya it makes little difference, for I'd no interest in her at all. We would fetch cookies from her this very morning, if not for this influence, do you see? And it is not he who I mean, but simply that I was made to Believe." A second hand joins the first; the pattern they form upon the tabletop is transformed. "And a woman died who ordinarily never would have. That is the power of Belief:

"Limitless."

The hands are let to draw apart now; the bandaged is set back upon her knee, the other finding new occupation in the quill it discarded so long ago. It spins this way and that upon the page, a faint rasp of feather upon rough paper. Restless. They speak of difficult things, and perhaps it's with some very small measure of relief that her head lifts now, pale eyes narrowed with speculation.

"Mm. The shopfronts are spared: Myrkentown will raise you as their hero come dawn, do you realise?" A twist of wry grin. "So. What do you propose?"
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Postby Cinnabar » Thu May 10, 2007 2:52 am

"Limitless, and yet apparently not for you." A slight smirk at that, as if to disparage these words, this assessment. Heh. At her question, though, he can only shrug again.

"I'm not sure. I do not have a great deal of information to work with, just yet. Perhaps the removal of a score of Believers from Myrkentown might be enough to draw his attention, without needing to daub their blood about the place. Whoever he is, he doesn't seem to have much difficulty in knowing things if he could identify you as the assassin, hm?" He cracks a grin, eyeing the scattered splinters and sawdust so deliberately brushed onto the floor.

"I'm not even sure he's someone I want to talk to, in any case, given what you've been able to tell me about him. Dangerously powerful, and deceitful to boot? Doesn't sound like someone you'd really want to have dealings with."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri May 11, 2007 1:49 am

"Nor is he." Such immediate agreement is a rarity in any setting, and all the moreso in this one. A wave of the hand casts some gesture down towards the splinter-laden floorboards, as: "He would have this back from me in an instant, were that choice mine to make. I would be done with him utterly, for I've questions yet, and many of them, but...

"I think I do not like their cost."

That terrible list, set still upon the tabletop between them, a little the worse now for sawdust and smudged ink. That stricken name. And so much more than that, so that the air hangs heavy with half-spoken things, but those stories are a matter of Janeiro record, each and all. That is where he will find the true measure of the blood already spilled on account of these matters. And sadly so, perhaps, for there's something very terrible in such clinical documentation...

"But I've one for you, I think. Do you reckon that fair enough? For I've answered so many of yours... "

That page, upon which the undamaged hand has set itself so very gently. This very mild quirk of smile, this almost absent expression, head adopting a slightly quizzical tilt. This is not the fervour of chessboards and metallurgy, but it is something very closely related.

"You have heard these many things now, mn? You have been inducted into this this: ah, were you to burn this list now, this very instant, it would not change that. But you have heard this: these years of deceit, these very clever deceptions, each one turned aside to reveal yet more awaiting beneath. So that I must wonder this:

"How you can trust a single word that I speak."
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