by Sister Elrin » Fri Jul 13, 2018 3:55 am
Elrin found herself wondering how long it would take to grow accustomed to the informality of Myrken's people and their dealings as she was irreverently lead to a back office, the door of which was slightly ajar. Sounds issued from within that vertical strip of the unknown: the scratch of a freshly sharpened quill, the brush of parchment-on-parchment, and what she could only compare to a light breeze gusting through treetop leaves, rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
The aide, his objective reached, showcased the door with a flap of his hand that more-or-less said Wow, would you look at that? So easy to find, and you still bothered me before turning on his heel and returning the way they had come without a word. That manner of casual dismissal of her station would have played out much differently in Dornant--the man would have been dragged outside and made to kneel in the middle of a crowded street before her proffered lantern, to recite a supplication to Goddess learned in his childhood, asking her (and Her) forgiveness while the heat of the flame inches from his nose coaxed beads of sweat from his forehead and parched his wide eyes. Onlookers in Fonte adored this sort of spectacle, this public shaming that reduced a person to a groveling wretch for all to see, and so often the clergy within the Illuminated Faith aimed to wield that perverse interest as they would any other weapon, often to great effect.
But there was no one present to witness any punishment she might administer in that silent hallway, with the exception of the man who sat a few yards away in his office, and she highly doubted she would be given a warm reception were she to make an example of his employee out of foreign custom. More importantly, the aide would not understand why he was being forced to apologize, and that, at least in Elrin's mind, was of paramount importance when correcting others. She was a guide, not a schoolmarm.
So, instead, she gathered her thoughts, summoning all of the bearing and authority that was associated with her title as an Illuminatrix and delivering two sharp knocks to door, pushing it open and entering the room without waiting for an invitation, intent on establishing the idea that she was not to be trifled with before any words were exchanged. She felt the familiar confidence, the self-assuredness, that went hand-in-hand with doing Goddess's work begin to unfurl in her chest, fancying herself ready to face the world itself as the man behind the desk was revealed to her.
One would think Mayor Treadwell had thrown a bucket of water in her face, the way her preparedness sputtered out in an instant.
She was shocked, frankly, unable to fathom the creature that sat behind the desk. Every inch of him was expansive, rotund, gratuitous excess. A mass of flesh and white hair that mocked the human--is this a human being?--form in a way that she had never imagined possible. She knew a prelate within the church, Dellinea, who looked much like the overstuffed furniture her guests reclined upon while working their way through the never-ending courses of her famous dinner parties, but even Dellinea remained within the realm of realistic proportions despite her appallingly ravenous appetite for fatty cuts of meat and sweet red wine. This was something else entirely.
The flame whipped about in a lively dance within the confines of the lantern, curling madly as the mayor embarked on the arduous journey from seated to standing, something she might have considered a remarkable feat worthy of praise if her jaw had not turned to stone, her tongue as heavy and lifeless as an ingot of steel. She still held the handle of the door in her left hand, clutched in numb fingers--I can turn and leave--when he spoke, an introduction broken into pieces by frequent pauses to resupply his abused and overworked lungs. His words were met with an unblinking stare.
An amiable creature despite his monstrous appearance, he offered her a seat. She glanced hesitantly at the chair he indicated, mind blank, and back up the length of his pudgy arm to those jovial eyes which peeked out from above the frame of his spectacles. There was a long and awkward silence before she realized that she had to do something, be it step further within the room or flee through the doorway, and she swallowed thickly. Slowly, with the outward appearance of being at ease, she closed the door behind her before traversing the room atop wooden legs, stiff beneath her skirts. She ran the very tip of her tongue over her dry lips, keeping her eyes on the desk rather than the man behind it.
I will have what I came for.
"Tha--" she started, fingers moving to alight on her throat as a surprisingly high-pitched syllable issued forth. She tried again, clearing her throat as her cheeks colored. "Thank you."
Normally, she would insist on standing when offered a seat during such an encounter, as much to prove that she could as to renounce material comfort and hold herself to a higher standard. In this case, her knees gave her little choice in the matter as they essentially surrendered and deposited her into the plush chair behind her. She stared at the desk and the stacks of books, charts and maps upon it for a moment longer, the cedar portfolio balanced squarely on her lap, the silver chain on her wrist draped over the arm of the chair to where the lantern sat, quietly observing the proceedings, having calmed since she had first opened the door.
"Mayor Treadwell," she said, more steadily than before, forcing herself to look him in the eye, "I am Sister Elrin of Mershe, Illuminatrix within the Church of Dornant. I have come to Myrken on behalf of his Holiness, Pontiff Raleigh III, to spread the message of the Illuminated Faith to the good people of the Amysinian Province, in hopes that they too will welcome the light of Lumistè into their hearts."
A pretty speech said in a pleasing tone, utterly rehearsed and obviously so. A pinprick of frustration over the clockwork nature of her own words pulsed in the back of her mind. She pressed on, attempting to sound more natural, less like she was reading a public notice aloud.
"I have in hand a number of documents detailing the nature of the work that I wish to accomplish during my stay in Myrken, an amount of time which is still unclear to me at this point." She lifted the portfolio a few inches from her knees in indication. "Within you will find writs of approval signed by the pontiff and the members of his council that validate my representation of the church, as well as legal documentation defining the terms of the included promissory notes which are intended for the purchase of land in Myrken", she inhaled, "upon which I fondly desire to construct a house of worship."
As she spoke, she regained a modicum of the confidence she had felt before, and she visibly relaxed, the initial shock of the other's appearance fading by the second. This was a man, whatever his form, and he was the gatekeeper to the only course of action that would see the church constructed.
"I would very much like to discuss the details." she said, offering him the portfolio across the desk, "And of course, answer any questions you might have."