A Surprising Guest.

A Surprising Guest.

Postby Kylerryth » Sun Apr 13, 2008 4:04 am

During the afternoon of April 12th, 208 AR.



It did not take long for word to get out, even from the Rememdium.

* * * * *


The nurse seated in the reception area did not immediately look up at the sound of the door opening. She just said, "Welcome to the Rememdium. Have a seat, and the doctor will see to you momentarily."

"No," replied a hollow, flat voice -- a man's voice, devoid of any feeling, of any warmth. "The doctor will see to me
now."

The nurse, having dealt before with insistent (and, sometimes, outright rude) people, had a response prepared before the man even finished speaking. But something in the man's voice, or perhaps a distinct
lack of something, gave her pause; and then she looked up...

She bolted to her feet, shouting for help.


* * * * *


Coran had visited the Rememdium in the past, when friends had been wounded and were recovering. Too, he and another channeler -- Pasi -- had both worked the miracle of Power-based Healing in the building. As a result, his face was not unknown there -- just uncommon. So it was something of a surprise to see the tall, young channeler in the Rememdium...

... particularly as a patient.

* * * * *


"This," said the doctor, "is going to hurt."

"Do it," Coran told him. Still wrapped in the cold comfort of the Void, he was distantly aware of the pain in his shoulder, the warmth of the blood trickling down his arm, chest, and back; but he did not actually experience these things. They were happening to someone else.
Light, Coran thought, catching a brief glimpse of growing weariness, of dwindling shock. Why? Why me?

Coran glanced at the arrow protruding from his left shoulder. It had gone through cleanly, so far as the doctor had been able to tell. An inch or two lower, however, the doctor had said while pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose, and we'd been having an entirely different conversation. The arrow head -- a sharp, triangular thing -- had narrowly missed scraping his collarbone, which would have introduced Coran to a whole new realm of pain. Bone pain, the doctor had said while gently touching the exit wound, ensuring the skin had not already begun to seal around the arrow's shaft, was the worst possible pain for a human being to experience.

Coran did not wince; he did not even blink. The Void was all. The Void enveloped him in unfeeling solitude.
Aislinn, Coran thought, an image of his wife flashing through his mind. Light, she must be hysterical by now. Surely she felt something through the--

Pain. Pain erupted around the Void, first a dusky red cloud, then a violent, bright carmine, like arterial blood. It poured itself over the Void, covering it completely; and it pulsed quickly, harshly, threatening to collapse it. Coran held on, though, clinging to the protection the Void provided, mustering every ounce, every scrap of willpower he could to maintain the calm focus required to even summon the Void into existence.

He did not utter a sound. He barely seemed to breathe.

Coran stole a sidelong glance at what the doctor was doing.

The doctor had retrieved a small saw, and was now cutting off the rear quarter of the arrow. The doctor was obviously being careful, but that did nothing to lessen the pain. Without the Void, Coran knew he would have been in absolute agony. Another swift, sharp pulse; the Void trembled in response. Coran looked at Ariane, who was seated on a three-legged stool across from him, and he could only wonder how strange, how unsettling, it must be to watch this.

The doctor, apparently finished, placed the saw and the severed piece of arrow on a nearby tray. Removing a kerchief from a pocket, he wiped the protruding end of the shaft to clear it of any dust and debris. Then, to Coran, he said: "Alright. That was the easy part. For the next part, you'll want to take a deep breath. It'll be quick, but it's still going to feel ... unique."

An interesting choice of words, Coran thought. He sensed a flicker of wry humor flutter across the surface of the Void.

Already the pain was dissipating; too, the Void had solidified. Regardless, he exhaled slowly ... and then closed his eyes and took in a deep, steadying breath, as the doctor had recommended.

The doctor took it as a sign of readiness. Placing one hand on the young channeler's shoulder and gripping the arrow's shaft at the point just in front of the exit wound, he paused for a split-second to check his grip ... and then, in one swift, smooth motion, pulled the arrow out.


* * * * *


"I know that young man," said one of the nurses.

"So do I," said another, checking the freshness of a vial of ground herbs. She was older than the first, but had started working at the Rememdium only in the last year or so. "I remember the flood, too. That boy saved a lot of lives."

"I've seen him in here before," said the first nurse. "Never as a patient, though. I thought, maybe, you know, considering..."

"What? Because he can channel, he's invincible? Faugh!" said the older nurse, shaking her head. "If that were the case, girl, you'd have every would-be hero lined up to learn. Yet there's only a handful of them, or so I hear, so there must be some kind of risk to it."

"Couldn't he just ... I don't know, fix himself?"

The older nurse shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know how it works -- and to be honest, I don't want to know. I like the boy for what he's done, but..."

* * * * *


Later on in the day, around the time for dinner, the nurse from the reception area would tell her family and friends about the man with the strange voice and an arrow in his shoulder, and how that voice had frightened her when she later thought about it. It had sounded ... cold, empty. Soulless.

The first, younger nurse would tell her family and friends about him, too -- but that she had recognized him, and knew him to be a channeler. His name was Coran, but that was all she knew aside from the extent of his injury. Out of curiosity, she'd taken a look at the doctor's record of the channeler's visit. He would be fine, she surmised, just sore and weak in that shoulder and arm for a good, long while.

The next day, their family and friends went on to tell their family and friends, and they then told their family and friends -- and so on, until the word had spread like ripples on a pond.

The other, older nurse, however, had told no one, for she knew better. She knew what kind of trouble that news might stir up, at least among the common folk.

What she did not know or realize, however, was the deeper, more important problem...
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Postby Vanidor » Sun Apr 13, 2008 12:50 pm

One of the most major of problems would appear the very next day, even as the sun was threatening to fully make itself known to the province. While the families and friends of the nurses of the Remedium were spreading the tale amoungst the general populace, that problem was making itself known at the doors. There were nine of them in all, eight of them dressed in somber clothing, one in garments that were brilliant as the coming dawn.

Four, quite visibly, were wearing the black and crimson and gold of the Companions, the Duke of Thessilane's personal guards. Swords and hammers and axes adorned those men, who would place themselves outside of the Remedium once the Duke himself gained entry. They would not seek to keep any out, not at all, but they seemed to be on edge. The other five would leave them behind without comment, the Duke full of ego and arrogance limping his way through the Remedium in search of his young friend and vassal.

It did not take too long, for Nils Fjellstroem flanked him to one side and Pasi Holoipainen stood to the other. The other two members of Third Squad, Tuomas Koivusaari and Joacim Hjelm followed close behind. Their passage was a cold one, perhaps, for while Burel was no channeler himself, he knew of the Void and how to attain it. He floated in it now, he was sure the channelers did as well. Especially now as they came to the door that led to Coran's room.

One of the nurses stood in their path, as if to block their way into the room. She made a case, saying that the young man needed his rest. Needed time to recover. Burel arched one of his eyebrows, the brilliant blue eye set therein focusing upon the woman a moment. Burel had to check in on his friend, said in a voice that was frigid as ice. The men around him remained quiet. At least for the time being. Finally she relented, making Burel promise to not stay too long. To not upset Coran or over strain him. There was a moment that his mismatched eyes flickered with concern, showed the strain behind them that the visage of the Duke attempted to keep hidden. He agreed readily.

A nod of his head next, and Tuomas opened the door allowing the five men entrance to the room. He let Pasi and Nils step in first, then followed after, eyes immediately sweeping the room quickly. The room. The Bed. Coran. Pause. His eyes remain upon the young Count D'zir. Burel looked furious as Joacim stepped in and closed the door behind him. He let the visage of the calm and collected Duke fade away, allowing emotion to seep into the Void and over come it.

Eyes glanced a moment at Pasi, eying the almost gentle looking older man, then returned his look towards Coran.
"Coran. What the Hél happened last nig-" He stopped, moving towards the edge of the bed, a hand fell and landed lightly upon the post at there. "This is my fault. I... should never have gotten you and your companions involved in this..."

He went silent then, glancing at the other Channelers in the room with him. Nothing else to say, for once at least, he simply waited to see what the other men would do.

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk. - Charles Baudelaire


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Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Apr 21, 2008 12:33 pm

It had been a long vigil, and for the most part it had been a quiet one.

The swordswoman is keenly familiar with the rhythms and routines of this place, and it had been a simple task to insert herself into them. Lacking the hindrance of personal authority, of any declared loyalty at all, she had not suffered those obstacles which a Duke and his men were to encounter. Rank intimidates, or rank proves to be an obstruction, when staff are not willing to be intimidated at all, but a simple sellsword lacks such intrusive qualities; during her visits to this place she makes a point of not becoming an intrusion, so that nurses quite naturally continue in their ordinary work as if she were not entirely there at all.

It had been this way for hours. A small stool was found in a neighbouring room and secured for her use. A pitcher of water and some trio of accompanying mugs were obtained from those hospitable souls in the foyer. Word ought to have been sent to her student to warn that she might not be present for the following morning's lesson, and at some point this would surely happen. But there had been other things first: a sleepless night, a period of quiet watching. The soft scratch of charcoal upon a page, because she had been instructed in quietness for the patient's sake, and so turned herself to writing instead of conversation.

Her concerns had been very few, Coran being who -- what -- he is. They had been almost wholly political, and she realised for sure that this was appropriate when she returned to the channeler's room with food, and found its population increased.

The door is closed gently behind her, and there she will linger for now, her back pressed to the doorframe and an apple held loose in the hand low at her side.

These grey eyes, they could not be any wider.
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Postby Kylerryth » Fri Apr 25, 2008 3:40 am

[indent]An abrupt, and very loud snap; and then pain, and he was spinning, falling to the ground, all the while wondering what had just happened, why was it happening; and, Light, the pain -- the pain...[/indent]
Coran stirred, waking from an uncomfortable sleep. His shoulder throbbed, but it was a slow, dull ache. It was bearable; he decided against calling for assistance. Twisting his head, Coran saw that it was not even an hour past dawn -- the sun had barely risen above the treetops, and was now gradually drenching the sky in shades of blood and gold.

After the doctor had cleaned him up, administered a cool, soothing salve, and stitched and bandaged the wounds, he had then given Coran the option of a dose of poppymilk -- "To help with the pain," he said. "It will help you sleep, too." Coran had refused; he knew the inherent dangers of the stuff. Coran had told the doctor he would rather cope with the pain in a different way, and the doctor had merely nodded and said: "If you change your mind, let myself or one of the nurses know. Someone will always be around to assist you."

Then the doctor had departed, and in his wake there had been a long, deep silence that neither Coran or Ariane felt compelled to break. Exhausted, Coran had laid down -- very gingerly, and on his unhurt shoulder -- to rest, and eventually he fell asleep.

Not long after that, the dreams came -- and with them, the memories of what had happened.

[indent]A single, horrible snap.[/indent]
There were voices, soft yet urgent, outside his door.

Coran moved slowly, deliberately; he moved with tender care and considerable uncertainty, ensuring he did not aggravate the injury. It was a process of trial and error, because the tiniest wrong movement could bring a fresh stab of pain, making him groan through his teeth. It was during this process that Coran also realized Ariane was not in the room. Likely she stepped out to get something to eat, Coran thought. If she were leaving, she would've left a note. Something to let me know. After a minute or so, however -- just before the Duke and the Aegis' Third Squad entered the room -- Coran managed to achieve a seated position on the bed.

The arrival of the Duke and the Third Squad came as no surprise. Coran had known they would show up sooner or later, as it was likely that Nils and the others had sensed him channeling. Too, there was no doubt they had discovered the faint residue of the Traveling weave he'd used to come to the Rememdium -- and had seen the blood spatter on the ground nearby, along with a number of abandoned packages. In all likelihood, they had assumed the worst and immediately went to inform Burel.

Burel, who was clad as if expecting to read him the Thesil last rites; Burel, whose severe calm and collected cool gradually melted upon seeing him alive. Nils, Pasi, Tuomas and Joacim were silent statues within the room, yet there was a visible, nearly tangible sense of relief among the channelers, and their faces said more than any words could have. To Coran, it was surprising to see them clad in the solid black coat of the Aegis -- usually they played down their association with the unit, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to themselves. That had to be Burel's doing.

"Coran," Burel said, his voice slightly touched by emotion. "What the Hél happened last nig..." The Duke trailed off; instead of speaking, he came closer to the bed and laid a hand on one of its short corner posts. He was quiet for a time, obviously affected by the sight of Coran -- his vassal; his counsel; his friend -- so wounded. They had had their disagreements, certainly, some of which had devolved into shouting matches, but they had always remained friends. Even after the worst of it.

"This is my fault," Burel went on to say, frowning and shaking his head. "I ... should never have gotten you and your companions involved in this..."

[indent]Snap -- quick as lightning, loud as thunder. Pain -- hot like fire, intense as inferno.[/indent]
There was a subtle movement at the door; Coran's eyes flickered toward it, catching a glimpse of Ariane around the other bodies in the room. She gently closed the door behind her, not wanting to disturb them, and lingered there by its frame, an apple in hand and her eyes as wide as saucers. Coran tried to offer her a reassuring smile, but knew it was something of a pointless gesture, a meaningless comfort. He then regarded the Duke, a tiny frown marring his young features.

"Probably," Coran replied, sighing a moment later. "But, well -- you did. We involved ourselves, too. However," Coran said, lifting a hand to brush a bit of stray hair from his face, "it's too late for that nonsense, Burel. No one can change the past, not even us. We need to focus instead on the here and now, and the future."

The members of Third Squad nodded in understanding. This attack on Coran would create a new kind of tension; too, it would create many unforeseen political ramifications -- something Ariane had been considering while she was here, watching him rest and recover.

"Joacim," Coran said, looking at the man he'd named, and the bearded channeler stepped forward. "Travel immediately to Calael and inform my household that I am well. Aislinn and I share a bond through our rings, so she will have sensed my pain and suffering; she will likely be hysterical. Bring her and the baby here if you have no other choice, but the situation is still delicate and volatile -- try to convince her that it would be best for her and the baby's safety if they remained in Thessilane for the time being, and that I will come to them as soon as possible. Remain there if you think it necessary, but you will be needed here, too."

"Understood, my Lord." Joacim saluted, fist over heart, and then departed the room with urgent swiftness, pausing only to excuse himself past Ariane.

"Nils, Tuomas," Coran said next, looking at them; they, too, stepped forward and waited for their instructions. "You're the detectives. Go to the Constabulary and inform them of what's happened, and work with them on the matter to the best of your abilities. Speak directly with Cinnabar Calomel if at all possible. They will want to interview me, and Ariane as well, I suspect -- tell them I will be available in a day or two. Offer whatever assistance you can -- anything that will aid their investigation -- but do not do anything they do not ask you to. Observe and learn, and report to the Duke and I. Also, be sure to get the bolt the doctor removed from my shoulder. The Constabulary will want to examine it as evidence."

"Understood, my Lord." They saluted and then exited the room, sparing only a moment to close the door behind them.

"Pasi," Coran said to the last member of Third Squad. There was an unspoken question in the man's name, or so it seemed; the gray-haired channeler's response confirmed it.

"Of course, my Lord," Pasi answered, moving to Coran's bedside. Pasi laid a gentle hand on Coran's bandaged shoulder, and for a long moment there was an unnatural, almost palpable silence in the room. To Burel and Ariane, it seemed like nothing was happening. They knew better, though. They knew without asking what Coran had requested of the other channeler. And, within a few minutes, the result of that request was evident in him: his features smoothed, his body relaxed; he even went so far as to test the arm connected to the wounded shoulder, and he smiled at the complete lack of pain and discomfort. Pasi stepped back, giving Coran a bit of room; and Coran tore off the bandages covering his previously wounded shoulder, revealing uninjured, unblemished skin. There was not even a trace of a scar, save for what lingered in the younger channeler's memory. That was beyond the scope of Healing.

Brushing away the remnants of his stitches -- they had been removed by the Power as a part of the Healing process -- Coran straightened in the bed and looked again at the Duke. At Burel. His friend. Those blue-gray eyes were cool, but not cold; they were focused, as if the young channeler were viewing some distant target.

"You have a lot of work to do, Burel," Coran finally said. "If you thought the Aegis was on edge before, wait until the rest of them hear about this. They'll find out one way or another, so you may as well be the one to tell them. From now on, you will need to be exceptionally diplomatic. As for me..."

Coran swung his legs to the floor and rose, stretching his limbs; and when he settled with a yawn, he was gazing at Ariane with a small smile.

"Ariane had somewhere she wanted me to see. So, I think I'm going there to lay low for a day or two.

"That is," he added, blinking and looking down with a frown, "after I find a shirt."
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Postby Vanidor » Fri Apr 25, 2008 11:50 am

"You think they are the ones that this province has to worry about?" Burel shifted his eyes a moment. A slight change in his stance that brought blue and green eyes upon Ariane. What had he promised? That he would never harm Myrken, unless Myrken harmed him first? And here. Here his favoured vassal. The man in whom Burel confided the most, beyond the ancient Thane Erebus. Perhaps his greatest personal friend. Injured at the hands of Myrken. By the fear stirred by rumourmongers and hatespinners. It had made Burel seethe before even coming here.

The coat he was in the midst of unbuttoning was the fourth one he had had to don after hearing the news. The shirt under it, an elegant thing that he was now removing as well. It hung low, once out of his waistband. Almost to the middle of his hip. The sleeves were wide, to accommodate the massive shoulders and heavy arms of the Duke. Large enough to fit his barrel torso. A fit man, the Duke was, even nearing the middle of his life as he was. The last buttons undone on the shirt, and he'd hand it over to Coran. Simple as that.

The damned thing was made of silk!


"I will contain them, they know what is at stake in all this, and we cannot allow such an incident to come to pass. Adon and the Gods help those who were responsible, though." Burel seemed ready to cut heads as well. For all that he looked calm and collected, now that he'd seen in on Coran and witnessed the Healing done by Pasi, he still stood on the balls of his booted feet. Bare shoulders were tensed, and as he pulled his coat back over arms, surely one of the muscles there trembled and twitched.

"I have sent a dispatch to Count Abram in Meadowford, a detachment of the Meadowford Guard will be prepared to transit to Calael aboard the Talon. If you wish it, of course. And if the others in the Aegis do not take it upon themselves to form a sort of guard for themselves." He was sure they would. Almost a hundred percent sure. "Wherever it is you go, Coran, I will pray for your safety." This, with another short look towards Ariane from the corner of his eye. "For the both of you, I will."

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk. - Charles Baudelaire


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Postby Carnath-Emory » Sun Apr 27, 2008 12:16 pm

If she were leaving, she'd have left a note. Her return could not have surprised the young channeler at all. The Duke and his Aegis, however, could well have been another matter entirely.

Within minutes of that return, on hearing the first words spoken amongst these men, the swordswoman comes to understand just how badly it could have gone.

No-one can change the past.

... pain and suffering ...

Exceptionally diplomatic.

A man had once accused her of naivety. In such moments as these, Ariane is inclined to recognise the charge as accurate. Political maneuvering does not entirely escape her, years spent in service of various Councilors and Governors having proven educational in this regard. The ways of Dukes and men of power are not entirely known to her, Orvere having been nothing if not instructional. In the moment that she turned her head and saw an arrow's shaft protruding like blunt violence from her friend's shoulder, she understood that there would be reprisals of some sort. After all, she'd moved immediately to enact them herself.

But it was only when she saw these men in Aegis garb, only when she heard the quiet exchange of directives between them, that she realised how severely she had estimated the willingness of mages to respond. Mages. Dukes, perhaps.

Except that Ariane -- recalling very well the man that is the Duke -- is not willing yet to count that likely.

So that it was a silent exchange of gazes in those early moments, a mild edge of grey for the blue-and-green of the Duke's own eyes, and not a word yet; not a one. She'd found a resting-place for her back at the doorframe, from which she shifted only slightly to allow Joacim, Tuomas, Nils their passage past. That much, in deference to the fact that they'd bothered with doors at all, when other and vulgar means were readily available. She had averted her eyes from the sight of Pasi's healing, but no longer: a Duke holds her interest; two friends surely do.

"And with my thanks," she is answering Burel now, as he describes this matter of prayers to a channeler and an atheist. From few other men would those words have meaning, but Burel is an exception to many things, and this is surely one of them.

"I think they will not be necessary," the swordswoman adds a moment after, and features which had quieted from their initial shock, they betray an edge of quiet amusement, there at the corner of the mouth. Amusement and other things as well, for there is subtle pride in the slight lift of her chin, implacable certainty bright in the grey eyes. "Armies may break themselves upon Darkenhold walls; I think such streltsy rabble as this may do the same, mn?

"And you are welcome there, Coran." With a turn of her quiet gaze towards that one now, and a smile that has gentled by warm increments. "For as long as is required, you are welcome. The Aegis," she adds, after a silent moment, "is not."

The warmth which curves that smile is genuine, after all. But so is the quiet tension that courses the stretch of her spine.
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Postby Cinnabar » Sun Apr 27, 2008 3:05 pm

For Nils Fjellstroem and Tuomas Koivusaari, their arrival at the Constabulary's offices is met with a rather mixed reception. While the desk sergeant is as competent and professional as ever, the atmosphere changes somewhat once this pair of outlanders make their identities known. To his credit, the desk sergeant pauses for a span of only a few heartbeats before he continues with the business of asking that they sign the broad ledger that serves to record the arrival of visitors. This does little to cover the tension that fills the following few minutes - the subtle but undeniable distance that those present maintain from the channellers, the way that very few seem willing to look away from the Duke's men for any great length of time.

But when one belongs to a cadre of war-mages wielded as an instrument of destruction and terror against whichever target Duke Burel chooses, one probably grows used to such things.

Unfortunately the Governor is on a leave of absence for the immediate future. Yes, the investigation will be pursued to the extent of the Constabulary's abilities; yes, they are viewing this as a very serious matter, and appreciate the grave threat posed to the life of Count D'zir; thank you but no, there's not a great deal of practical assistance that the men of the Ducal Aegis can contribute to this inquiry, but thank you for reporting the incident nonetheless; yes, Count D'zir and Miss Emory will be contacted presently in order to take their statements. Meanwhile the pieces of bloodstained arrow are accepted with careful thanks, and taken elsewhere to be examined for maker's marks or such.

Never anything less than polite, and yet never anything more than civil. It is clear enough that they are not welcome here; clear enough that they are feared, resented, unwanted. There are those in the Constabulary who recall a winter's day when eight of the Duke's war-sorcerors had stood on a hilltop overlooking Myrkentown and its new-appeared wall, as clear a gesture as one might wish for. There are others who kept watch on a Myrkentown inn where a number of those same men had boarded, somehow trusting that merely by forsaking their black coats they would go unnoticed.

There is little love for the men of the Ducal Aegis here; little impression that any tears would be shed if every man of them was shot full of arrows tomorrow. But a crime has been committed in Myrkentown, and the Constables are oathsworn to apprehend the culprits, and they are diligent in upholding these duties.

That doesn't mean, however, that they want any more contact with the Duke's men than is absolutely necessary.
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Postby Kylerryth » Mon Apr 28, 2008 2:34 pm

Somewhat ironically, the Duke's men wanted even less to do with the Constabulary than vice versa.

That was not to say they did not want the Constabulary uninvolved, or to do nothing -- quite the opposite, in fact, particularly when the issue at hand was the attempted murder of one of their own inside Myrkentown itself. Too, they respected the Constabulary and what it stood for, and had witnessed the gradual change the formation and implementation of a law enforcement body had brought about in the citizenry of Myrken Wood. But they were not naive -- they knew what was thought of
them, here and elsewhere. The bolt they had been ordered to deliver to the Constabulary was proof enough of that.

A mixed reception had been expected. A cordial invitation to discuss the incident would have surprised the two channelers, perhaps even alarmed them, and presently that would have been a tremendous error. So the desk sergeant's brief pause; the sudden, subtle tension that manifested in the Constabulary and the people within it; and the constant stares, as if everyone were uncertain what the two men in black coats would do next and wanted to see it for themselves, were, in their own strange way, familiar, and therefore comforting.

One grew used to such things, after all.

Nils spoke for the both of them, and like the desk sergeant he was civil, if a bit concise in his wording of events, people, and places -- which, truth be told, might be considered a boon of sorts, as it avoided the tedious necessity of trimming the fat from the meat of the report and saved each of them considerable time and effort. There was a flicker of irritation in the channeler's eyes, though, at the news about Cinnabar being unavailable. It would have to wait, Nils supposed. At least Coran was
alive.

After providing any and all pertinent information regarding the matter and receiving the desk sergeant's assurances, Nils bade the man a polite farewell and then turned to leave, the hem of his black coat briefly flaring, swirling behind him. Tuomas, a blue-eyed youth of no more than eighteen years, gave the desk sergeant a silent sidelong glance before he followed his companion out of the Constabulary.

* * * * *


"Thank you," Coran said to Burel as he accepted the shirt, pausing a moment to make a small, somewhat amused face at it. Then, while tugging it over his head and sliding his arms through its voluminous sleeves -- he was not as thickly built as the Duke; as a result, the shirt was visibly loose on him and baggy in places -- Coran spoke.

"I do," he said. He began rolling back the shirt's sleeves so they did not droop over his hands. "I think they need to worry about you, too. But," Coran added while adjusting the collar, "as I've told you before, the men obey and follow you because I do; they obey and follow me because I am the strongest of them. One day, Burel, that could change for any reason at all. This attempt on my life may be one such reason. The men of the Aegis have minds of their own. They don't always agree with you or I."

As he tucked the shirt into his trousers, Coran searched for his boots, eventually finding them just beneath the foot of the bed. He talked while pulling them on. "Pasi," Coran said, and the gray-haired channeler came to attention. "After you return the Duke to the Crook, spread the word about what happened to me -- but tell them I'm well and already back on my feet. Tell them they'll have new orders soon, too. Report to me at the Dagger in two days. For now, please wait outside."

"Understood, my Lord," Pasi responded. He saluted and then departed the room, leaving the three friends alone.

Coran stood silent for a moment, then, and suddenly looked very weary, as if a tremendous weight rested on his shoulders. It was fleeting, however; he recovered himself a few heartbeats later, his blue-gray eyes flickering from Burel to Ariane. Finally, they settled on the Duke.

"I hope the Constabulary does their best," Coran said with a sigh, scrubbing a hand through his tousled mass of reddish-brown hair. "For that matter, I hope they do something. But, regardless, I don't think there's much we, or the Aegis, can do to help them. I told Nils and Tuomas to offer assistance as a formality -- I know they'll turn it down." Coran grimaced faintly, as if he'd just thought of something unpleasant. "Burel, you'll need to talk to Cinnabar, too. He's likely going to wonder how long it will be before you and the Companions march on his office." A slight, teasing smile at that; it faded with his next words. "Again: it's time for diplomacy. Let's extend a bit of faith and trust to the Constabulary, hm?

"As for Abram," Coran went on, "inform him that the offer is a thoughtful, welcome gesture, and I accept it. Aislinn may not like the thought of armed guards on the grounds, but for now she'll have to live with it. Fourth Squad will be posted there, as well." Which, unfortunately for the Thesil forces in Derry, would subtract four from their numbers. It was something they, too, would have to live with.

"My thanks," Coran said, in response to the Duke's mention of prayer. He offered a hand for Burel -- for his friend -- to shake; and, following that, he said to Ariane: "And my thanks to you, as well. Though you needn't worry about the Aegis -- they don't even know where it is. Light," he said with a laugh, "neither do I! So let's be on our way, for I'm curious to see this place you treasure so much."

And then he was gesturing for them to leave the room, to be gone from this place. For already it had imprinted itself indelibly in his memories; it, and the experience he associated with it, and the arrow that, had he not turned in the split-second before it was fired, would have surely pierced his heart and ended him in an instant.

So let's be on our way, Coran thought, following the two out of the room he'd briefly occupied. And let's never return.

The Light be praised, please, let's never return for
any reason.
I'll either find a way or make one.
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Kylerryth
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