The Art of the Possible

Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby catch » Mon Dec 16, 2013 11:39 am

Cherny's touches, his pinches, will turn him. And Noura's hands - had he been crueler to anyone, save Noura? for once her shadow had left her, his eyes passed over her, disinterested - she was just another girl, without an exciting scent, without an exciting feel. The cries of Lunatik!spur him, for he is frightened, frightened and angry, and Glenn was little pieces being swept up by Genny and the Worwoman upon the stage. There is his name, and Catch's head comes up again, the keening sound a vibration in his throat, not knowing what Genny meant - what she said - what she asked, her words to soothe and angry crowd.

And Gloria's to incite it.

He was docile, under Cherny and Noura's twin urgings. He turned, a whipped dog, towards the alley that would hide them from red, angry eyes, from any further call of witness, things that Catch could not say, for he was no liar. His head was low, his chin tucked, led by the pulling and pushing of his brains, the pulling and pushing of his back.

Until this.

A shattering. A Wormwoman.

A threat.

Look at her, a foreigner - the color of her skin - a spy - worm, worm, worm.

The bellow that comes from him is something that comes from the very heart of him, a giant's bellow, brassy and hollow like church-bells, so that the howl of his Truth was a cowering thing next to it, a sound that fills the milling crowd and the Square. Cherny would find himself on a creature with a single mind, a single purpose. Back into the crowd he crashes, a towering ship among fleshy seas, his strides long and loose and full of purpose, his eyes a wounded rage, lips drawn back and writhing over his cracked teeth. Eyes that focused only on the Wormwoman, the Wormwoman with her lies and her words and her worms -



And those that dared, those who were the leanest, the hungriest, those that did not flinch from Glenn's accusations - who needed no money or coin to cause trouble with their anger - eddied after him, like silent, terrible wolves, smelling the impending blood.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Dec 16, 2013 11:44 am

There is time for this, in the midst of it all:

A startled jerk of her head -

Of the whole of her, when Catch gives a shout that she knows so well -

Sudden motion, hard through the crowd.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Cinnabar » Mon Dec 16, 2013 11:47 am

They'd been arrayed discreetly around the edges of the square - heavy woollen coats in storm-grey, steel helms, stout batons on leather straps at their belts. The men and women of the Myrkentown Constabulary are charged with keeping the Governor's peace, and - despite recent events, despite a quite reorganisation in the aftermath of Rhaena Olwak's fall - they take that duty very seriously. Moreso than before, even.

Their initial intent had been to maintain order; to keep an eye on the crowd, to contain or quell any unrest, to be a visible presence of the forces of Law. But despite such expectations, despite the preparations - squads of men with stout shields waiting in nearby streets, mounted Constables loosely encircling the neighbouring streets - trouble comes from an unanticipated direction. So there is a delay, as the Governor struggles and the Chairwoman emerges from a stunned crowd; a brief conference among some of those officers assigned to keep the podium safe, to keep the crowds at a respectful distance from the worthies there assembled. They had been reserved, up to this point; satisfied to watch, and have their own vigilance noted by the crowd. This, though, this risks becoming dangerous.

There is some dispute, some indecision among the Sergeants who bear responsibility for this quarter of the proceedings, all of them veterans of some of the worst Myrken Wood has to throw at those intent on keeping its streets safe. Dubious glances for the Governor and his red-haired aide, but he seems to be having trouble enough keeping his feet, let alone issuing orders.

When Agnieszka River singles out a member of the crowd - a girl, foreign and disshevelled though she may be - the balance tips. These are men who'd seen the aftermath of the Civils' brutalities, who'd had to stand by while swaggering bullies had spread fear and violence through the streets. And they remember whose name had been on those posters, those declarations that had appropriated and immediately befouled the title of Constable.

Three of them mount the stage from the side, grim-faced and deliberate in their movements; they do not yet brandish their clubs, but their hands do not stray far.

"That's about enough, Missus River. Come with us, if you please." The foremost of them, a stern man of middle years, old burn-scars that creep from his collar up the side of his face. His voice is quiet, pitched for the Chairwoman's hearing and perhaps those nearest the stage. Except then, from the far side of the square, there comes that sonorous shout, that roar, which drags the Constable's attention away from the Chairwoman for one brief moment. When he turns back to her he is already reaching for his truncheon, his other hand indicating the steps off to the side, and the officers at the foot of the podium are moving to close ranks in anticipation of the crowd's surge.

"Quickly, now."
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Cherny » Mon Dec 16, 2013 12:24 pm

At first, things are going well; Catch is amenable to being guided, to being directed, a gentle touch to take him out of harm's way - to see him clear of the crowd, whose anger the boy daren't attempt to predict or anticipate. That hand grabbing at his ankle has him starting in brief alarm, but there's a cheery grin to follow as he peers down at the wildling, and a friendly little wave of greeting.

"We're g-going. It's j-just words." Unsatisfactory words, words that do little to soothe the townsfolk's anger; he replaces them with his own hoarse murmurs for Catch's ear, softly encouraging his ambling flight from the marketplace. Not f-far, n-nearly there, you're d-doing fine. The Governor speaks, Miss Genny speaks, and he lets their words fade into the general hubbub - except for mention of a name, his sister's name, which has him turning to shoot a glare towards the podium.

In time to see new figures take the stage; he stares, at first uncertain and then afraid; long enough to hear the Wormwoman's voice lifted to berate the gathered masses, as one might whip a snarling dog.

Perhaps the press of his hands to Catch's brow falters; perhaps he'd never have kept the madman's head turned away, no matter how hard he'd pulled or pinched or shoved. That roar shivers in his bones, and Noura has time enough to glimpse the whites of the boy's fear-widened eyes before he is swept away from her on the madman's shoulders, ash-blond curls clutched in his desperate fists and his wail of dismay a pale echo to his mount's outraged howls.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Rance » Mon Dec 16, 2013 12:28 pm

Months ago, in a damp cellar saturated with the stink of coppery indigo and shit-strewn hay, Duquesne had told her--

Imagine inspiring people to think, to look more closely at their circumstances, to begin to talk about what is right and good for themselves and their families, and reminding them the power is ultimately theirs.

She had no contest to Agnieszka's proclamations, but for once in her short, tarsweat-ridden half-life, the girl said nothing, nothing, even when she'd so much to refute.

For Agnieszka Kazmerrik had said more than enough.

And so did Mister Catch.

(A Song of Creation; a Song of Destruction--
was this what it truly sounded like to mundane ears;
were this its notes outside the fetters of a Dream? Or was this simply rage,
was this her fear inflecting his noises with what she believed to be
finality?)

Months ago, in a wet farmhouse basement drenched in the mildew of neglect, Duquesne had told her--

Those who rule by distraction and fear know not what slumbering beast lies beneath their thumb.

She turned, away from Genny, away from Glenn. She ought to have said glass words, screamed them, driven her finger into her mouth to awaken the black oil and administered some shackle of control over Catch, but no, no -- instead, in her weakness, she shouted her brother's name, Noura's, and those couldn't help anything, couldn't cease anything.

A Constable's thick arm wrapped around her, dragged her--

No.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Tolleson » Mon Dec 16, 2013 2:36 pm

Focus. It was a constant whisper, Rhaena’s sweet voice in the back of her head the small bell now accompanied by the cacophony of the crowd. It swelled and her grasp on the focus, on the present, was slipping. Green eyes, wider, afraid, were darting between the verbally abusive Agnie and the overly vocal Gloria. And then there was Catch. She had hoped for peace, she had even said all the words she’d intended to in the order she meant, but with no more words she grasps and finds only fear and upset between and caused by the two friends who argue now.

Truth and justice are two different things, but they must never be separated.

Oh how she wanted to flee now, to shake her head and leave it, hide under broken shelves and scattered books. Bury herself under the dusty tomes who had no thoughts, no voices. She sways, threatening to drop herself and fail as a support for the man who leans upon her.

Don’t go in, you’ll be seen.

Put whole sentences together.

Listen.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

Carefully she knelt and took the cane from the floorboards, returning it to the governor as a worried glance is spared for the ranting Agnie at the other end of the stage. Quickly she stood and slipped beside Glenn Burnie, under his arm unless he protested, as if to be a crutch, one arm wrapped around and the other free that he might take. Her hand was always open to him, even now. The handsome constable she’d only just called upon was now distracted, a bit too busy closing in on Agnie to be bothered with assisting the disabled.

“I’m sorry Glenn,” her voice is barely a whisper, several hot tears welling up as soon as her face had turned from the audience, her tall frame hunches down to make him comfortable, to shy away from the crowd, to hide.

Best appear busy, out of the way, and not suspicious. There was a right and a wrong way to handle this, or rather a way that could save everyone and a way that would get her killed. And there was little hope, without help, that she could calm the entire crowd but Agnie and Gloria, the most vocal jeerers. Perhaps.

James, help me. The pleading thought was small and wishful, as Genny had never attempted such a thing across so great a distance, let alone with more than a single person. And for her friend, the thought never even occurred to ask if she should.

Her mind reached out across the space and tried to link to Agnie and Gloria. It only needed a moment, the span of thought, though she hadn’t the training to separate the one from the other, to send different feelings, and even then, she could barely speak this way. So it was that she stretched and impressed upon them, not thoughts or changes to who they were but her own calm, concern, and an awareness of all that occurred around them. It is a sort of love, a friendship and pain at seeing them quarrel, feelings that blended and coalesced despite how hard she now tried to meter them, to separate her own from that she wanted to share.

For Zilliah, when she first learned, it had been primal; it had been a flood of raw emotion as visceral as if she had been there, as if the felt and experienced first-hand all that was contained within a memory. Keenly aware of what was happening here, she was certain that their continued bickering would lead to an all out riot, flames, and perhaps even innocent people dead. Perhaps they felt as the fae felt or perhaps they felt nothing. Be at peace, were the words she wanted to say to them though she couldn’t materialize in the mental space or form words over such an unpracticed link, but these were the feeling she fed into them. Apologize, understand, you are loved. Be at peace.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Guppy » Mon Dec 16, 2013 2:43 pm

All was going well and she took note of that fact with a healthy dose of surprise. She found that she was almost pleased with how things were coming along. Catch was passively allowing the two of them to guide him into the relative safety of a nearby alley. Noura was a gentle guidance at his back, her hand pressed there as she shot nervous glances towards the angry group of people. Cherny seemed willing, an eager wave and a grin shot towards her. He was gifted an answering wink before they moved, the boy dictating their direction, using his high perch to his advantage. She wanted to laugh as they neared the edge of the townsfolk, relieved.

Everything was altered in a moment. They had been so close.

Agnieszka bounded onto the stage and lifted her voice to be heard over the shouts. She spouted her sacrifices, her accomplishments with fervor. She belittled the crowd of mostly-adults like a disappointed guardian. Then, abruptly, she attempted to turn the hatred upon Gloria Wynsee like a petulant child. Defensive and angry. Noura's brows lofted high into her hairline before her eyes narrowed. Did she not understand that if she were successful, they would wish for Gloria's death? Things were volatile within the crowd. Had she really attempted to set the bloodthirsty horde upon a child? She felt the familiar pulse of restrained fury, an emotion she had always attributed to the creature that had once been housed within the darkest corners of her mind. There was a strain of magic, a tightening in her spine. She gritted her teeth, eyes flashing. She did not know what the seamstress had done to anger the other, but it did not matter. One did not turn to strike Gloria unless they were prepared for the full fury of those who loved her.

Catch whirled, howled like the wounded, and only then did Noura's calculating wrath die. She managed to get a glimpse of the wide-eyed terror of the boy perched astride the addled man's shoulders. Abruptly, a cold wave of terror allowed her anger to sputter out entirely. Her slender hand groped for his, perhaps was able to brush against his skin. Just for a moment, then he was gone. He held on for dear life as Catch pressed against the unruly crowd. "Catch, no!," she shrieked, her voice holding a bleat of panic as she gave chase. The two were soon lost within the swirl of the group as they eagerly pressed after the man. Noura kicked and shoved at the wall of people, she screamed at the helplessness that assailed her.

"Cherny!"
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Glenn » Mon Dec 16, 2013 3:29 pm

It happened so quickly, one thing after the other, or maybe it wasn't quick at all. Maybe it was the exertion. The world seemed to spin around him. Glenn Burnie made mistakes. He could have called someone else to him other than Genny. Gloria. Oh, Gloria Wynsee. Didn't you see? He knew what was happening. He'd lived all of this before. He'd seen what the truth brought and he knew the cost of such lies. He knew the cost of alienation. He had lived your role, in his own way. But then the young never realize it and he felt so, so old. Optimism was no longer an innate thing. It was only what he could make it, what they could make it.

Catch had begun to move.

Then there was Agnie. Something to punch, he had written, and something to punch she had. It was never him in the end. She might have been frustrated by him and he might have said the most horribly true things at the most horribly necessary times to her, but ultimately, she was on the same side as him and wanted for the same things, deep, deep down. They were the children of Myrken Wood, one native and one anything but, both grown up. The first speech was something to be proud of. The second? The second was going to change Gloria Wynsee's life. It had changed Glenn Burnie's so many years before. "We don't return hate with more hate, Ag'ny." He muttered for a mutter was all he had. Exhaustion was overtaking him in every way.

Catch was coming closer.

Genevieve was supporting him now. She was the one who he called for, the only one he'd talk to before acting, before doing something to stem the tide because he had a need to act after months of helplessness, because there was no time for full counsel. He had called her to him for a rebuke, to tell him that his methods had been wrong, to tell him that there was still idealism out there. Instead, she condoned his actions but not their unilateral nature. Instead she called for a community of corruption, a plurality of whatever worked. We work with what we have and we do whatever works and she was fine with that so long as it truly was a we, and there she was, crossing lines. She stepped right into the hole left by decay and death.

And here was Catch before them.

"Truth." Burnie pushed forward past Genevieve because he must. He stood before Agnieszka, because there was a need. He stared down the bestial madman, the eldrich creature that they had adopted as their own as he raged forth through the crowd that he had adopted as his own. "A truth, then. Catch, heed me." There was a weight to lies. There was a weight to standing before so many people and speaking so brazenly. It meant when you turned the knife, when you unsheathed a real truth, it shined all the brighter. "Look around you. I saw the posters. I heard of what you did, the large and the small.

"Think back over the last few years. The Ball. The violence, against one or many. You with your hatchet. She," and he would nod to Wynsee. "Acts because she cares. So does she," another nod, this time to Agnieskza, quick, his words the same. There was so little time. "Sisters. You act because you feel so strongly. It hammers in your head. I know. The world isn't right and it isn't fair. It's old and it's been rotting since the day it was born, like all of us, like you. You heard her though. You heard her first speech. You heard her second. She had no reason to snap at her. It wasn't smart. It would just anger the crowd. Why did she do it? Because she's alive, Catch. She's the most alive person in this entire town, her and her sister there. It's because she cares so much all the time.

"Just like you. Everyone is here. They've had their whispers. They've asked their questions. They wonder about you. They wonder now. What are you? Are you good? Are you bad? Are you man? Are you something else? People know. People whisper. They provide kindness or they fear you. You've hurt them. You've helped them. But they're all here and they're all watching Catch. If you do this. If you keep going, they'll see you for nothing but a beast, for an uncaring brute, for a monster that could kill them all. It'll be the end. There'll be no going back and damn it, after all we've been through the last few years, don't you want something more out of life than that? Don't you want to be better than that? Haven't you earned something more than that? It's not going to happen here like it did other places. We're not like them. We're different. Let us be different and we'll let you be different too. We can be different together, Catch. We can find a better way. Just stop. Just stop. There's no going back from this, from them, if you don't, but I know you can. I have faith that you are more than you've been before, more than a simple, selfish beast of generations ago. I have faith in how much you care."

Three speeches and this his third, this his last. There was nothing left in him on this day. The cane had fallen off the stage in the chaos. If he was to stand to face Catch's onslaught, it would be only with Agnieszka or Genevieve to support him, but at least he could be a flimsy flesh shield for one of his brave women or the other.

He would stand before his people, even to the end.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Dec 16, 2013 4:40 pm

Like young Noura, she knows how to navigate a crowd: the well-aimed elbow to push a body aside; a dart of the heel for the back of someone's ankle, when she needs an agitator's body to fold. Hours from now, when she murmurs this tale to an architect's ears, she'll speak this passage as if it were a confession: that yes, yes, there is not a moment in which her eyes do not consider such things as posture and stance, in which her mind does not assess in terms of capacity and willingness. That there is hardly a moment ever which she cannot picture erupting into sudden violence somehow, and these people, their balance is nothing and they're all so soft -

It's right that he should know. Isn't it? Right and just, that he should understand exactly what has become entangled in his life.

Hard, through that crowd - careful when she can be, all deft sideways twists of the narrow body, a quick hop-step between twin clusters of staring onlookers. But forward of them rushes a knot of men and women who are all empty eyes and livid hate, and what plunges into their midst is something increasingly callous, less interested by far in the soft vulnerability of skin than the speed at which she can make it move. Because - hells with these streltsy fools: up on the stage staggers a gaunt-faced student forced to denounce his own heart, and an inquisitor who is nothing but gentle and good-hearted and strong and afraid, and that - those two, right there - is perhaps the bravest thing that she has ever seen. They are each of them so beautiful, and in this moment she loves each of them so very much -

She carves through that clutch of agitators like a cool-edged blade.

Far behind her, a Militia which is un-uniformed and still organising has begun to turn its attentions towards the remaining crowd. Persuading, where it can. Reassuring, where it's able. Moving, section by section, with words and suggestions and the occasional nudge. Sometimes a man shoves clear of them, insistant upon joining the others that rush that stage. Frequently they call after him, but they never give pursuit. Agitators are the Constabulary's business; the onlookers, the bystanders, the vulnerable, are what the Militia was always to address. There has hardly been time for barricades, for solid little clubs and rooftop archers - but this, they can do, in hopes of reducing what harm might yet come.

"Truth,", the Governor speaks - as directly as if into the heart of bellowing Catch. As Constables reach for the Chairwoman's limbs; as a quick arm seizes hold upon the silent Gloria. "More," the Governor says - and she slips from this tangle of shoulders and knees, surrounded in her student's words and intent upon Catch's fierce eyes. Because - let it be this: as it was always going to be, as it always has been, in one way or another, throughout the months since her return to Myrken Wood. This: the Governor aloft upon his stage, and here a narrow presence that does not begin to obstruct his voice or his self - but might, might yet, if it should come to that. Which intervenes but does not threaten, not with the hot turbulence of living steel yet harnessed beneath her skin -

It's Catch's name upon her lips, as she raises her eyes towards his livid gaze.
It's her hands held out towards him - in offering, in invitation, in mute indication, this thing that's never had the Governor's talent for words.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby catch » Mon Dec 16, 2013 4:59 pm

Cherny is a passenger upon this ship, a torn-brow beast who is ignorant of his wails, ignorant of the hands grasping his ears, his curled hair, his anything, anything to keep a tenuous grip on shoulders that lurch and bounce, an unsteady seat, with the ground so far below and full of milling, uncertain, booted feet. Noura's calls are similarly unheard, her grasp shaken free by a jerking arm, the lusty cries of those eager for blood, who find, in the young giant of a madman, possible anarchy, possible chaos, a way to breech the Constables who stand, ready and grasping truncheons. Grasping arms. Reaching for Agnie, for Genny.

Every breath that comes, hot and thick, is a breath that is visible, a silver smoke that sticks to the air with greedy, fat tendrils, grasping and squabbling at faces that pass by before their lives are taken by that cold, winter's wind, a smell of flowers that pierce the nostrils. Glenn sees him, and he speaks, and still, still, Catch comes on, implacable, terrible -

He reaches over, over, the nearest constable, and Glenn's words were molten letters against his hand, a molten wind, something hot and thick to push through.

It grabs, roughly, for that collar.

Surely, the tendrils would come -

And if Airy Ann would look at him, see him, she might not mind that hand -

What comes is the fist of a man, a hard blow, but by no means possessing of supernatural strength. It is the way one man may hit another, with no worse desire than to bloody a nose, to smash some teeth, to silence a mouth that knows nothing, nothing, of what it speaks, and does not care that the other man is too weak to stand

"I am a man," the lunatik gasps, his throat bulging, swelling, with each pant of animal breath, his words harsh and guttural. "I am different. I am terrible. I am a lunatik. You, you never showed me that, Glenn. I learned it. I learned it, learned it f-f-fair and square, and it weren't f-f-from you."

It was harsh. It was true. Glenn had failed, utterly failed, in this one project. And now Catch looked at him, not with awe, or timidness, but with utter disgust - as if he were a worm - a maggot - a thing so far beneath himself that it was hardly worth noticing, save for that passing disgust. What Catch held in his hands was a liar, a weak, flesh-filled thing, a thin and ragged Man who tried to whisper and dodge and slither his way. Catch would push Glenn away, but it would be a calculated push, a thrust of the Governor into Genny. To break her thoughts. He felt her dancing, dancing -

"Miss Genny, don't you do it," was his only warning, as tight and rage-filled as his bellow had been, and a subtle throb of blood and mud, the kind that envelop his mind, the kind even Cloud-hair had trouble shutting away.

Mismatched eyes passed over Agnie, and his face was a disgust that was, once again, too deep for the words he possessed.

Liars.

"Get out," he tells them all, all, everyone. Constables and Governments, and the men who had followed him, tasting blood, and now milled on the border of uncertainty. Some, who had had coins, took the moment to flee. Others, who did this for no coin, still hoped, still yelled.

But Catch was a lunatik. And who would brave that?

"Airy Ann." An answer, finally, for her. An answer to his name, coming from her lips. Suddenly, he could hear, a great and crashing wave on him. His eyes turn to her, and she would see how much he needed this - and how much it pained him - how his eyes were swimming in tears, and how he wanted nothing more than to put his hand into hers, to let their mingled silver writhe and twine together. But he couldn't. Not now. Not with his Gods, shattered, before him. His hand comes up, and it reaches. But their fingers would not touch. It was gesture, only, and reluctant along all lines.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Tolleson » Mon Dec 16, 2013 5:23 pm

She doesn’t dance. It is different, this is no trick taught by Rhaena or Zilliah, it is all her own, an accident that she had stumbled across whole and well within herself. Not that it mattered. It had been done, and she would have continued for as long as the hate bled out. But Catch is upon them, pushed aside she is little more than a fleshy shield. Wide doe eyes follow the madman, a trembling green, as the rest of her remains frozen, utterly terrified. Without a sound she would break Glenn’s fall, catching him as the stage catches the edge of her boot, then a slipping heel, and then her skull in a sharp crack. There is no more dancing from Genny, at least not today.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Rance » Mon Dec 16, 2013 6:11 pm

The Constable was not rough with her; he did not wrangle her even as he dragged her back away from the crowd. She had a mouthful of his forearm, not by intent, but by circumstance. She could taste the firesmoke and sweat clinging to his skin, to the bristling hairs on his arm.

An egg of thought hatched in her mind. It was miniscule, delicate, thin-shelled; it seemed to blossom, ebb, bulge from within when Glenn said the word sister, the knots of little threads in her mind frayed, realigned, twisted together like milk-laden vines--
why such anger

liar, she's a liar, she's such a liar but she's--

sister? no. did you hear what she said?
did you

hear.

forgive it; you're better, you're better than--

apologize.

A flurry of motion. Catch, striding forward, a mountain with legs; Genny, falling back, back; a crowd dispersing, some lingering, others fleeing like crickets seeking darkness and moss; Noura trailing behind, crying Cherny!; the boy -- her brother -- perched, a gargoyle on the great, addled spine.

She wanted to shout out -- At'chemso dos derra; im'padel mar vik garrou'th, garrou'th! -- to show that glass words were what mattered, not deep-rooted histories and proclamations of the benign; no, glass words, for she could heel him or wield him with a hard and regretful tongue, and--

Catch spoke as a man, as a citizen.

Deserved his fists. Deserved his agency and intelligence. His power over himself.

She was no stal'vak.

He was not her rat'vak.

(But if she'd known of the fingers that had touched her mind in those moments, invisible and surreptitious, slithering ghosts crawling through her scalp and into the membranous matter of her skull, how she would have screamed, thrashed, protested; never again, never again!)

Pliable in the Constable's guiding grip, the seamstress looked on, Glenn Burnie's ring burning in her palm, saying nothing.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Glenn » Tue Dec 17, 2013 12:45 am

These people were not fools.

Oh, some of the loudest were, certainly, some of the most angry. Genevieve, much against the wishes the governor would have had if she had asked for them, had silenced some of those. No, they were wide-eyed witnesses all.

Glenn Burnie had spoken the truth to Catch. All of these people were watching. All of these people had been watching. They had long memories and he stood out like no one else.

Catch was not a project, failed or otherwise.

Myrken Wood was ever the project, ever the focus of his attention. Catch was part of Myrken.

Glenn had witnessed a dream, third-hand, months before. It had been a distant, blurred thing, but in it, one element was clearer than any other. Catch, the golden guard, tamed, focused, channelled. He was a tool in this dream, the ultimate tool perhaps, a building block that would allow for any creation. Glenn didn't want that. He had never wanted that, not truly, not when he was himself. No, all he wanted was for Catch to be the best man that he could, not the best god and not the best tool.

All he wanted was to protect Catch from Myrken and Myrken from Catch.

That is what the people watching saw. He was, with his own life, shielding Agnieszka: Agnieszka who could tromp most of them in a fair fight and more than half in an unfair one. He was emaciated, weakened. They knew what a healthy Burnie looked like, as when he returned in fineries to argue with Rhaena Olwak. This was not that. He was weakened, scrawny even, and Catch was so large.

He stood his ground as the madman came forth and he tried to reason with him. He tried to explain the stakes.

A failed project? There were no tendrils. There was no explosion. No one died in Catch's wake. Myrken was not leveled. Every day that Myrken stood in the face of Catch and every day that Catch continued to live out his existence in the face of Myrken, there was no failure.

That Agnieszka lived through this all meant that there was no failure.

There was a punch, but then Glenn Burnie could take a punch. How did it look for this monster of a catch to snap out at an infirmed, barely recovered mapmaker who had not even brought his sword to speak to them today? Some cheered, yes, some cheered still, but others gasped. They saw Burnie standing in front of two women. The image they would remember was of him sheltering a piemaker, hardly a fighter at all, certainly not Agnieszka, since it was her body that he ultimately was tossed into.

Glenn Burnie had been punched so many times before, by Selenthis on the steps of the dagger, by the Ashfiend both with fists and its dread pain spell, by the very worst Myrken had to offer. Sometimes you protected people with a sword. Sometimes with words, and sometimes, just by drawing attention and creating a focal point. He had channeled Catch's hot anger into cold resolution. He had turned the tide away from others and unto himself.

Can you tell me in truth that you do not intend to martyr yourself.

He had come to this gathering to villify his beloved, to spend all the political capital that her death had earned. Why not? She was gone. There was no changing that. Why not get every bit he could for Myrken out for it? Why not try to stave off the terror that she had left in her wake? She was dead. She was gone. He had promised Ariane he would not be sacrificing himself here.

A fist needs something to hit.

He would have to apologize to her later. Circumstances changed. No plan survived Myrken Wood, after all. It was worth it, the pain and the blood and the moment of defiance in the face of something stronger, in the face of a god who deigned to come down to your level to send flesh and bone against itself. When it came to those he cared about, those he shielded, the teeming masses, and the very fist which struck him, when it came to them, to all of them, it was always worth it.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby Carnath-Emory » Tue Dec 17, 2013 5:22 am

She might not mind that hand - if it was not applied as a fist to her student's face. She has placed herself here like an interrupt, in case one should be necessary. Like a mute call to reason, the delineating line between violence and outright cataclysm, and she might not mind that hand -

But face-first it staggers that boy. And he can take a punch, and he knows how to fall, and all the same in that moment there's no mistaking her flinch.

"Done, now."

Genevieve Tolleson. The swordswoman had bloodied her fists on a rough stone wall once, because it was better that than the Inquisitor's face. Genny, who she'd liked very quickly; who had come to her with nothing but brave intentions, and had deserved far better than all that indirect violence. Genevieve, hitting the stage-floor that hard - there's no mistaking that sound - and it echoes in her ears as the swordswoman advances this single step.

His hand. Hers. It might have been that, in a quieter moment; would have been. But this is a roaring simplicity: a single punch that could have been so much more, a single command that could have been a call to arms instead of a rough Go Home. She hadn't minded that hand, because it was only a hand. She'd hated what it did, because that man was once a boy, a boy who was once a student, audacious and frustrating and alarmingly precious, and her heart is, in the end, what it is. But what she feels is what she feels, and it does nothing to change the fact that that punch was fair enough, just that one and

"No more."

Because he'd staggered that man - not in the fashion of a monster, but in the way that men do. And because a Governor had fallen, in gaunt defense of what his heart holds dear. And because two girls had spat their outrage into each other's ears - and for a crowd, besides - but now they are gone quiet, by one means or another, and what crowd remains is as much Constabulary and Militia, as general population. Their hands do not touch. Her palm lifts to face him - a second mute gesture to answer his own - but grey eyes confess that her words hardly warranted speaking at all. With a small, quiet smile at her mouth's corner; with a subtle nod of her head -

"It's alright."

As she turns, at last, to see to a girl who'd fallen and a man who'd bled.
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Re: The Art of the Possible

Postby channe » Tue Dec 17, 2013 5:38 am

On a better day, if Agnieszka was healed from her wounds, this wouldn't have been a question.

All she can do is fall correctly. With her body the way it is, that's it. She needs to fall in a way that won't hurt too badly, fall in a way that will keep the Governor from harm. And she tries, she tries very much to do so -- and when she hits the deck with a shout, it's a scramble to grab the Governor's arms and shoulders, to make an attempt to move him so that she is in front, so that she's doing her job, even in this situation. He protected her, now she moves to protect him.

The pain of it all causes her to cry out, and at the end -- "No more!"

And Ariane is advancing, and so is her guard, against Catch. "Done," Ariane says, and the two guards make it certain that her words are heeded.

So here it is, Myrken Wood: a broken, stammering girl, unconscious and bleeding and innocent. Two hurting people who had been half-dead for months. And there has to be a portion of the crowd that thinks this is almost a sad thing, to even think that any of them were capable of great evil. Just great loyalty, and great sacrifice for Myrken.
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