A Missive Received at Calomel Hall.

[Carnath-Emory]

Myrken Wood, left in Ariane's wake when she could no longer bear to stay her sword; when she couldn't quite stand the weight of a quill in her hand and all the responsibilities it drags in tow. It had seemed to her, somehow, that two years' passage might have done something to change that.

Hasn't, she's discovered. Not even slightly.

This is how it comes that one Darkenhold window is lit well into the night; that a swordswoman reckons to have paced the colour right out of her rug, and regrets it only because a damaged leg's begun to burn. That a corner is filled with trash, the attempt still sitting on her desk being not much improvement on the rest, and that in the end she's swept all of it aside, quite certain that she's approaching this wrongly. Because she shouldn't be pacing when her leg's still tender with burns, and she shouldn't be scowling for want of help with letter-writing when anyone she'd approach for help must be approached via the letter she'd ask them to write. It is so ridiculous a predicament that she couldn't laugh at it even if her mouth weren't an aching wound. It is so ridiculous that only one reasonable conclusion exists: that she's approaching this in the wrong way. In deed. In thinking. She has not suited her mind to this moment, and perhaps has forgotten what this moment even means. For instance:

If she is the doom which threatens Myrken, then a bit of poor phrasing is surely the smallest damage of which she's capable. And:
If her very presence spells such disaster as to warrant a government's assassins, then the one who she approaches must be the one she's least able to harm.

Simple, blunt reasoning. Possibly even foolproof regardless of whether she's right or Giuseppe is.

Quill, then. Paper. And a rider dispatched within minutes, with some instruction regarding the wisdom of untraveled roads.


Cinnabar

I haf a dusty chesingbord. It wud like some exersise.
I haf some very unoosul teas. Perhaps Cambree wud like to sampel. You shud bring her if she wud like to however she wud not like to come alone.
You are welcome very soon.

Ariane

[Cinnabar]

The courier finds the once-Governor at work, as is his habit, in the small forge among the farm's outbuildings; dressed in sturdy clothes well-suited to such toil, he bears the souvenirs of some recent altercation, a fine pair of black eyes, the bruises around his lips and nose growing lurid as they fade.

The letter is accepted with some curiosity, then no small amount of surprise. An offer is made of tea, of small cakes while the rider waits; meanwhile Calomel steps inside the Hall to share the news, and some discussion.

It is a favoured game between he and the swordswoman - not chess, but symbols. To say one thing with the understanding that one means something else, to the point where it becomes a code of sorts, a secret language of references and allusions and layers.

To hear from the swordswoman is unexpected, but pleasant given the long silence between them. That she put ink to paper is interesting; she has always resented words as uncooperative servants to her needs, with written words despised as especially surly and obtuse. That she so deliberately mentions the chesingbord is of particular import, and it's that which has a letter for the messenger's hand within the half-hour. Neatly folded and sealed with wax bearing a thumb's imprint, the penmanship smooth and elegant for all that it is written in some haste.

Ariane

Cambree would much like to visit, but chessboard dust is not a good companion for tea. If it pleases, I would be delighted to help exercise the nobles and their pawns as soon as you like. We might then sample the tea more enjoyably another time - perhaps a day later?

It is very good to hear from you. You have been missed.

Cinnabar

* * *

A day later, mid-morning, and a rider approaches the Darkenhold gates, one perhaps not unfamiliar, but certainly absent for a span of time. Of years. Neatly-attired, clothing more respectable than that used for forgework, but still tending more towards hard-wearing than strictly smart; practical, sturdy fabrics in rustic colours and comfortable cut, well-suited to walking, or riding, or sparring. Quite the unassuming country gentleman. There's little dressing up that'll smarten those bruises, unfortunately, but he wears them with as much dignity as is available; the swordbelt perhaps helps with that.

"Cinnabar Calomel, for Sera Emory."

[Carnath-Emory]

A courier had returned to Darkenhold with a haste tempered only by cautions, and there explained such things as pleasant refreshments and the familiarity of a forge's warm interior. In softly-accented words, she'd explained that the wait was brief and the journey uneventful. And these are things which please a swordswoman very well, but nothing so much as this: that there is a letter in this courier's hand; that its seal is intact; that its contents describe a hospitality deferred until more militant things are resolved -

Which is to say that he understood - a realisation which left the woman with a grin that tasted like blood.

***

All the same, there is no swordswoman to meet Calomel at Darkenhold's gates. Nor in the courtyard - where he'll be received almost immediately, his look clearly known those few who attend to the area and have had his way made clear. Courteous, these. Armed, but subtly so. And does he know his way to the kitchens? He'll be escorted to their door regardless, past sunny windows and unlikely artwork; Darkenhold, as ever, is a contradiction of coarse stone and strange beauty.

What he finds waiting within does not stand to greet him - with good reason. But keeps to her halfway-sprawl upon one of the benches, lifting a hand to wave the man to her - and lifting a brow, when he's near enough to that her eyes can make out what's happened to his.

"That's not fresh - is it?"

It's a terrible way to greet a friend you haven't seen in years.
But then, he can't have expected much different.

[Cinnabar]

It's been a while, so an escort to the kitchens is appreciated, once his horse is handed over into the stablehands' care. He'll hold onto this satchel, though, thank you.

"A few days. It looks worse than it feels." Even so, it does look fairly horrifying up close; deep violet in the hollows of his eyes, blending to mottled blues and yellows and greens around nostrils and lips. It's only thanks to his wife's skill that the swelling doesn't make a ghastly mask of his features.

So, facial expressions are subdued, limited, tone and gesture slightly emphasised to compensate. Grey eyes - startlingly pale, swimming as they are in livid pools of bloodshot red - are as keen as ever, and there's a wry cast to bruised lips as he moves to take a seat nearby. Close enough to comfortably speak, and quietly if need be. A few moments to observe the swordswoman - that posture, those uncomfortably constrained movements, that terribly careful set of her hair.

"And yours?"

[Carnath-Emory]

That posture - which has its cautions; one boot-heel balanced like so, its fellow completely missing.The terribly careful set of her hair - which is damp enough yet to cooperate, and to curve just so about the angle of her cheek. The slight lift of her head's done nothing to dislodge that, and she has shaped her words with the necessary care. It's possible to ignore such things, if there are ample distractions: the few colourful studs pierced through an ear's edge might serve, or the sparkling rivalry of silver chain and russet scarves at her throat, as if a swordswoman hoped not to offend the eyes so very much. Still:

"Mine - feels much like it looks," she's answered Calomel, with some small, wry humour to her tone; tilts a hand towards the kitchens proper, then. "Do you still have your appetite?" With a look towards bruises which suggests that he mightn't; which acknowledges that pain will sometimes intervene. "There are fruits, wine, cheeses; always too much bread. Breakfast things. But no foreign things, no strange teas - "

And here she pauses. Rested back a little against the heel of one hand, water at her side and blank paper near her plate; with the head tilted just so, that she might watch without being too closely observed herself. Really watch, with no attention at all for whether a moment's silence has stretched to awkward lengths: it is important to take in the severity of that bruising, to examine the quality of pale, pale eyes.

Some slowly-drawn breath, then; satisfied.

"There will be another day which is better for Cambree and teas. I am glad you did not bring her on this one - " pauses " - Constable? Councilor? How do I say it?

I know it's not Governor."

[Cinnabar]

Small things, small adornments, and each one with meaning. That much he remembers well, that and a table of similar meaningful things. But distractions are noted for such, and it's to the pained angles of flesh and bone that he looks. For his own part Calomel lacks such things, save a band of such pale gold upon one finger, and an inked mark hidden beneath his sleeve. A scant few things, but each a token of what he prizes the most. Silence for a time, a mutual inspection, a mutual appraisal perhaps. There'd been things said, when they'd last had reason to speak like this, such things, and the echoes of that conversation still linger. Matters of humanity, of nature. Difficult, painful ideas.

That question, though, that matter of title, is enough to permit a glimpse of teeth in amusement. Bruises be damned.

"Cinnabar." Amused and perhaps slightly rueful. "You heard the news, hm? It was a surprise, but not an especially unwelcome one." No bitterness, no rancour; if anything a touch of embarrassment, contrition in his eyes as they look to his hands for a time. They can talk more on that matter as well, and almost certainly shall. His gaze is clear enough when he looks up again, and there is perhaps a greater part of the man he was before taking up a Constable's badge or Governor's seal; more open, quicker to smile or laugh. Less burdened. Younger.

"Cam and I suspected as much. We'll have to have that visit soon, and make a more pleasant day of it." Perhaps bring the children, though old echoes forestall that idea as soon as it is even considered, let alone spoken.

"For now, though, wine would be welcome." It's early in the day, but there's a sense that whatever conversation follows will require it before long. So, perhaps best to have it from the start. He stands again, smoothly enough that it's clear his face took the brunt of... whatever it was. Leaving his satchel on the bench for now. "Perhaps fruit. Can I get you anything?" A nod for the plate, though there's an eye for that paper as well.

[Carnath-Emory]

How audacious, to sit here as if those words had never been spoken at all. How awful, to address letters to a man she'd condemned, to make invitations to a wife whose children she'd described in - such terms. How unforgivable, to imagine that there can be forgiveness at all.

Still, never let it be said that Myrken doesn't welcome such qualities.

So that she's sat precisely so, throughout this exchange - of words, of observations - and at its conclusion: "I've heard very little at all." A sip from the mug. "I did not think to listen. Not for such things as that." Some tiny frown admits an error: that this was purposelessly cryptic; that, perhaps, these are the words of a woman who does not know where to begin at all. So that she is a dozen warring impulses, and that most of them lead her to wishing she'd hit Giuseppe a little harder and for much, much longer -

is nothing unusual, actually. And of a sudden, she's found her mouth wearing the barest smile.

"It looks to suit you." A pause. "The simplicity of it. Yes? Not - " and some very vague gesture towards her face, to indicate the damage done to his; yes, definitely a smile now. "Not that. I have an intuition, though, mn? That you would rather that, than an office; better to go in fists-first than direct others to it from - some office. Some room. Yes? So it is good that you have found someone else for it, although I wonder at your choice -

Fruit for us both, then; would you bring the plate? All of it. I think - I missed Myrken foods."

[Cinnabar]

A nod, and unhurried steps to the kitchen to return with refreshments - a cup and a bottle of what he guesses is quite decent wine, and a platter heaped with fruit.

"I'm not well-suited to politics." A surprise, perhaps, coming from one who'd risen from newcomer to Constable to Governor in so short a time. But always by straightforward means. First by asking, later by taking, each title seized only for its value as a tool, as a weapon against whatever threatened those for whom he cared. And always that insistence on direct involvement, meddling, badges and titles useful only as long as they put weight behind his words or, when words failed, an army at his back. "I've little patience for it. It's a board where you can't even see half of the pieces, nor even rely on the colours of those you can."

Setting the platter down within easy reach of both of them before he takes his seat and pours a generous cupful of wine. "In all honesty it wasn't my choice. But had it been, I don't know that I'd've chosen differently." And there, the first note of uncertainty; a gaze too brief, a voice that rings faintly hollow.

"Things change, hm?"

[Carnath-Emory]

There are grey eyes intent upon his own, when the man returns; there is a sudden, small nod - immediate, unhesitating agreement. "You're suited for v - " And all of it coming to a halt right there. "V - " Fingertips tap some light, impatient staccato upon the tabletop; no, a shake of her head. "I misremember it. It is for the person who sees a need and chooses himself to meet it, over and over again. Do you know? To that you are suited, and all the politicking was just - " A wave of her hand dismisses it. "I've never known a man who relished it. Not you; not even Helstone. Perhaps Ser Phuri."

And note her tone: it's possible that a swordswoman still rather mourns the passing of Gad Phuri - hopelessly corrupt and ruthlessly competent.

But there's a peculiar quality to his, as well, a quality not gone unnoticed by a woman who defaults to sound when she cannot make sense of words. This has her attention - as he pours his wine, and as she finds an apple upon that platter. Here is a knife loosened from its place at her belt, but - no; only for cutting with, and a moment's awkwardness follows as she arranges a hand with which to hold the fruit steady, for that shoulder is very bad and its arm cooperates only reluctantly. One thin slice. A second. And on an upward glance: "I've a secret thing to tell you - but its time is not yet. I think," as she sets the knife aside, dipping a fingertip into her glass, "that you will not like it. So. We do this instead."

This: the fingertip sketching dampness upon the tabletop; a broad, glistening square.

"Things change - as you say. Things change so much that this is what I know: the outlines of things. Are there pieces on this board? I cannot see them. No black. No white. No squares at all, nor beginning nor end -

This is the shape of my ignorance."

When she settles back into her seat, it's with the fingers dried against a sleeve's edge, and a sliver of apple selected - no, halved again. Because that is what the mouth will accommodate, and as it vanishes beneath curtaining hair: "So. Governor Burnie. You do not need to begin there - with him. You do not need to begin with Jons Feul, although I would like to know how that went awry. You need to begin where you see fit to begin, and if you don't mean to speak of these things at all, then - " ahh, the faintest edge of smile; a moment's real, sudden warmth. "Then you need, Cinnabar Calomel, to tell me now so that we can find you simpler amusements."

That fleeting smile, from a woman who can hardly bear to hope he chooses against the easy route. Who has to anyway, because there'd been something so strange in his tone, just moments ago. Something almost like regret.

Something almost like a plea.

[Cinnabar]

The talk of a secret has him glancing across from his drink, certainly intrigued. An unpleasant secret, even. But then there's an echo of a long past conversation, traceries in water upon the table, and he can't help but smile slightly at that, thoughts of the unpleasant, unlikeable secret thrust aside for later. Nodding as she explains, as she outlines the extent of her knowledge, of its limitations.

"I'm still filling in the gaps myself. The board's the same shape. Many of the old pieces are gone. Some older pieces are returned. And of those that have stayed throughout, I've yet to find one that has not changed." A moment's consideration, and a small grin. "Save perhaps Treadwell. His wider waist I don't count as a true change." He sips his wine, gathering his thoughts.

"Understand that I've been away. Not from Myrken Wood, but from... what goes on within it. I have a home, it's set at some remove from the town, it has stout walls that protect everything I love the most." She understands, surely; the whole of Darkenhold is a vast monument to that understanding, the need for a safe home for precious things. Precious people.

"You recall Governor Bromn's absence? His silence while the Fiend spent each night steeped in murder?" A void where Myrken needed a leader, and one into which Calomel had stepped. Necessity. "After our first child was born I withdrew, to a degree. I still dealt with Council business, but less and less in person. Letters, seals and signatures were safer. You know the sort of things that happen to a Governor whose face is too well-known." Or to those the Governor loves.

"From what I understand, Glenn came to attend matters more directly, on my behalf. He had some authority - a small staff, a warrant vague enough for him to do what was needed. He took to addressing problems before they crossed my desk. A kindness, hm?" Others might have viewed this as a slow and subtle coup, powers and responsibilities usurped one at a time, as the need arose, until only the barest thread still connected the Governor to his office. Others more cynical, perhaps more politically astute, would have ascribed a less-than-benevolent agenda to the once-mapmaker.

But to the young man here, he has no doubts for the new Governor's motives. It makes sense, given the situation, given the friendship the two men had shared, given the man he knew. Given his own failing. There is trust, and yet some barely-realised doubt now gnaws at it, crawls through it like tiny worms through a stout timber beam.

"Over time, the reports I received grew... routine. Humdrum. Because the other things, the threats and perils, those Glenn resolved." Absently turning his cup this way and that between strong fingers. "Giving me a happy ending, as he said - paying for it with his own hide but giving it to me. So that I wouldn't have deal with... all that." Waving his hand vaguely towards the door, towards Myrken as a whole. Myrken the damned, land of horrors and monsters. But then a small smile, and a small mercy offered with it.

"The word is volunteer."

[Carnath-Emory]

She is very quiet throughout this. But then, Calomel is mindful of so many things, and has surely recalled how a swordswoman can become a student; how a thing might sometimes engage her to the point of such acute stillness. So it is now, her attention hardly interrupted by the occasional reach of her hand for fruit, for water, and when her mouth moves at all it is on account of her breakfast and not for words at all. That she cannot answer his smile with one of her own will surprise no more than had her silence - except that when they reach a space in this recitation, she fills it by writing a word down upon that paper and then there's a small amusement for her mouth after all. Taps a fingertip by the word:

"'Volunteer'. I will remember this."

Writing-things set aside, she is free to take the glass again - and does; a throat which remembers smoke and flame finds itself often parched, and for no practical reason at all. "He has done well, your Governor Burnie. Yes? I am told certain things, and I am not sure if they are quite true." Except that Giuseppe had no reason to tell her false; his words had seemed as earnest as his blades.... "A school. Foreign visitors, journeying for that they find Myrken pleasant. A committee for defense upon which he has seated Agnieszka Kaczmarek - who has not had the Militia march upon Thessilane borders. Re - appro - priation." Awkwardly, that; the word must be a recent acquisition. "Marvels, Cinnabar. By any reckoning. Are these things true? I have wanted them to be."

Silence, now. Silence, drawn out for entirely too long, and all because a swordswoman with no sword at all has refused to speak a single word further. With the head half-bowed, features quite lost within the dark curtain of her hair; with fingertips that trace some small, meaningless pattern upon the tabletop and - ah; when the head lifts again it is with a breath half-drawn and some improbable smile.

"This is where we should finish. Schools. A well-governed militia. Years of prosperity, the sort that can be measured. Don't you think so? That is how it should read upon a book's final page. That, and then: The End. That is what he'd choose you to have: let you lay down your burdens, let no more foulness trouble your desk. Cinnabar - "

Curious eyes. Quite, quite solemn.

"Do you think that Glenn Burnie actually believes in Happy Endings?"

[Cinnabar]

A greater amusement from her guest as she so carefully scribes that word; a bark of laughter, no less, a broad and lopsided grin for all that it aches.

"I've missed you." Undisguised sincerity there, earnestness, and it's a few moments before that mask of sombre maturity settles back into place. Nodding over his wine as Ariane lists what she's heard of the Governor's achievements, though he can only offer a faint shrug at that difficult word, divorced of its context.

"Some of them true, from what I've heard so far. The school, certainly so. I've heard of it, and that Rhaena will be directing it. Or overseeing, or whichever the word is. The visitors I don't know much about, though it wouldn't surprise me. Things seem... well, stable. Mostly. The farmers are left to farm, the merchants to trade. There's less fear." Barring a few strangenesses, a drained lake and demolished gaol. Things that would be reckoned as dread portents elsewhere become background in Myrken Wood. Certainly no armies of corpses marching across the countryside, nor months-long campaigns of terror and bloodshed, and for that they might all be thankful.

"The Defense Committee leaves something to be desired." A great deal, says his tone. "The Marshall is, in all truth, an insufferable ass, so saying the Militia is well-governed is generous. I've little time for her at all. Agnieszka has been away to Rasazan for some time, and I've no idea what happened there, save that she now calls Chedwry her lord." A sip of wine, and as much of a grimace as bruises will permit.

"Last on the committee is the Thessil madman who burned down the Meetinghouse, and has apparently spent some time dead." No, he really has no idea what's going on there, and that visibly annoys him. "He wouldn't have been my first choice. Nor my third."

That last question, though, earns a sidelong gaze, and a long silence to match the one preceding.

That one question that cuts to the heart of the matter, of the doubts that gnaw at his hopes and his trust in the new Governor. Entrust such a thing to the swordswoman, to circle for a time before making so piercing a stroke.

"I can't tell."

[Carnath-Emory]

Real, honest laughter; the breath catches in her throat at the sound of it, and for an instant she is some naked-eyed thing, a hundred careful cautions abandoned. Because he has surprised her, this weapon whose return Myrken had answered with fire and knives, and real work is required to recover something like composure. Water cools the throat. An exploratory taste of green melon quiet the senses.

"Does this seem strange to you?" When Calomel has said the things which he must say; when he has answered a terrible question with such a quiet, quiet truth. "That we sit here, you and I. That we speak of such things as if two years have not passed, as if nothing has changed at all; as if we are instructor and Constable again and between us -" fingertips upon paper "- lays a page filled with names. Do you remember?"

Of course he remembers.

"But everything has changed. You tell me this yourself, and you are not the first that's spoke it to me. Your children do not tremble for fear of cultists and Baie. Your people do not take to their streets in hunger and they do not suffer beneath blight. Stable, you say. Prospering, that is another word. Earthquakes," she counts calamities on her fingertips, "fire, poisons - but these things are managed and the suffering is slight. Perhaps you do not like this Committee, but its people, they do not doom Myrken. They just offend Cinnabar Calomel." The mouth yields this tiniest smile. "This is not Myrken of three years ago, infestered and dying. This Myrken thrives -

So. Do you not find this strange? That its former Constable might travel all this way to discuss its government with a - " there's no fitting word " - a mercenary? And so solemnly. When there is no need for this. There should be wine for each of our cups and we ought to have raised toasts an hour ago - to the prospering of Myrken Wood beneath its most successful Governor. To - to your children, growing without need to fear; to Darkenhold, where - you see? We can safely unshutter the windows," and that is surely laughter now, muffled or no. "And yet."

And yet.

"Glenn Burnie. If you cannot tell what he believes, perhaps you can tell if he is well."

[Cinnabar]

"Anywhere else it might seem strange. Anywhere else. Here?" Brows raised a touch, before he shakes his head firmly.

"No. Elsewhere when things're quiet they say, oh, peace, how pleasant. You and I? We've lived here too long to believe in Happy Endings. We know what those names meant, why they were listed." A mouthful of wine, held for a time before being swallowed. "When things are quiet we start looking for the horrors we've clearly missed."

A nod for the mention of those disasters - she's heard some things, then. About as much as he has, from all accounts. Though there's mock hurt at that talk of Myrken's most successful Governor, a wince of wounded pride. But... well. It's hard to argue. Because yes, there is that sense of safety, of prosperity, of unaccustomed calm. And yet.

"I can't tell that either. I've spoken with him for... well, maybe an hour or two, all told. That's all." And that was more akin to a briefing, rather than two friends catching up after so long.

"He's not as I remember, but as I said, people change. Two years is a lifetime in Myrken Wood." Considering for a time, stealing a small cluster of grapes to pick at, easily eaten without need for cutting or biting.

"An example: during my absence, he was taken by the Drow." The details are sketchy in the extreme, but can be guessed at. "For something like a month, before escaping. By himself. I was not there to bring him back - I could have been, but instead I was at home enjoying my Happy Ending." The difference could not be more stark. On the one hand, Calomel on his farm in the sunlight, surrounded by those he loves; on the other, Burnie in the lightless depths of the Underdark, alone, at the mercy of pitiless creatures renowned for their mastery of everything that is cruelty. Eyes downcast to his wine cup, his tone carefully controlled.

"When we met again, just recently, I apologised for not being there. I knew nothing of his time with the Drow - that came later, and only in passing - but I knew I'd been neglectful, and that he'd not have taken the office if there weren't a need. So, consider the Glenn Burnie you know - after such an ordeal, facing the friend who'd failed him so badly. Imagine what that Glenn Burnie might've said." A time allowed for the exercise, a span measured in slow breaths, before he continues.

"I'm glad you said that, Cinnabar. And, I hope it's brought you peace." A helpless shrug, a lost gaze. "That's all."

[Carnath-Emory]

Two years' spent at ocean and horseback and distant, forgotten shores have not lent much colour to her features; as if winter-born creatures were made to be glacial, she's not lost much at all of her natural pallour. So it's quite possible that Calomel won't notice when she blanches, won't realise at all until her eyes have grown wide and frowning; until her lips have fallen soundlessly parted, mouth drawing into some uneven shape that describes nothing so much as stunned incomprehension. Until she's up of a sudden from that bench, climbing back over the thing to remove herself by one step and then another....

"You were his friend," and by this time she's turned half away from him; he has her shoulder, lumpy beneath soft cottons. He has a tumble of dark hair and a cheek's narrow edge, and sometimes a hand flies to cover her mouth for a time; sometimes it lingers there for long, uncertain moments. "You were his friend before he was my student; long after, as well. You know him. So why - explain this to me, Cinnabar, because I would like to understand it - why would you not tell me this immediately?"

Some tiny jerk of motion has grey eyes dancing a glance his way; hard, searching, and lost almost immediately in the turn of her shoulder.

"'Taken'." A hand through her hair; a hand briefly clenching. "You say it like that. Like he were a toy. Mislaid. Stolen. Later everyone makes up and once they're friends again he can be had back and no harm done - "

Back again; her eyes and his.

"How long. For how long was he taken."

She cannot hope. She cannot even hope that it was only moments. Only hours. A shake of the head; hurried, furious: "This is not your fault. You could not have known."

Jirai. Sarayn.

The back of one hand pressed hard into her mouth, as if the clench of her teeth were enough to hold back sickness, hold back sound; enough to banish all the stinging hurt from her eyes.