The virtues of resignation.

[Carnath-Emory]

The previous day had been a single, unmitigated disaster from beginning to end. On climbing the inner stairs of the Meetinghouse, Ariane Emory has cause to reflect that really, there's nothing to suggest that this one will be any improved.

Still, there's been some work accomplished this morning, most of it in the Marketplace, and nevermind the stares. Kerrak's sound trouncing had left the woman with more than her fair share of bruises, with a stiffness to her back that a night's restless sleep had done little to ease, but most of this can be disguised -- and in any case, don't they expect the Governor's guard to be flaunting some wounds now and then? Or once-guard, perhaps, but that remains to be seen, and in any case... the stiffness is worth it, the dull ache of her bones is absolutely worth what it had bought her.

It was only that absolute exhaustion that had made sleep possible.

But good work this morning, despite it all, she having found the trinket she'd promised Sawyer two long days ago, and something a little more... practical, for Agnieszka. That remains bound and strapped to the back of her saddlebags now, as she climbs these long steps, and it's a comfort to know of the thing's presence. It is an imperfect gift, but these are dangerous times -- and will smile for the having of it. A woman could hope that she could leave someone in a state other than despair, this horrible week. And admit, when she finally reaches the Governor's open door -- open, at such a time as this! -- that it will likely not be him.

"You should not do this." Oh, excellent greeting, Ariane; so courteous, so gentle! So completely inevitable, as she pauses on the threshold of that room. "Leaving it wide -- it is an invitation, to the very worst things."

One might imagine, perhaps, that the host of monstrosities the woman refers to includes herself.

[Altias_Bromn]

Great piles of paper reached from the desk to the door. Crumpled balls of parchment stained with ink. The governor was hunched over his desk, scribbling madly across another piece, before it too was crumbled and thrown at the doorway, just as Ariane spoke.

"I should not do a lot of things."

Altias did not raise his face to meet her, instead another sheet of paper was pulled from the thick stack, the quill skittering across the page.

"I have already seen the worst of things. What more do you think will rain down around me this day?"

With this he is fairly stabbing the quill back into the inkwell, before leveling a stormy violet gaze in her direction. His hair was unbrushed, splatters of ink covered him, from cheeks, to his bare chest.

"How can I help you today, Ariane?"

A long pause, before he rises from his desk, leaving the partially written letter to Kerrak on the desk.

"I should get this cleaned up...in case someone comes calling. Someone who needs to see the bleeding governor. Or maybe Jirai will stop by the play "hide the knife" with me. "

A quick stop at the basin, dabbing a damp cloth over the ink drops. A black silk shirt, presumably the one from the night before, hangs on his chair, it is captured and wrapped round his ivory flesh.

"I would assume you have come to finish what we started last night..."

And he is dropping into his chair once more, bare feet then propped up on the desktop, waiting.

[Carnath-Emory]

She's bending as he first speaks -- having not quite dared to expect that he would -- to start plucking up some of that crumpled litter. Assume this to be habit, the inevitable response of a woman with a love for order: there's a place for everything, there's everything in it's place, and anything that doesn't fit correctly must be manhandled and beaten and crushed until it does. This does, incidentally, explain many of recent difficulties between them -- and her near-inability to form lasting friendships of any sort, really. But handily, it's also getting his floor cleaned.

"These Koltists," she suggests mildly enough, as she works on collecting a good armful of ruined paper. "That 'priest' with the scarred skin -- we Dauntless have no gods, and now you see why." Her head lifts, briefly; his is still turned away, which allows her certain freedoms; she needn't, for instance, trouble to hide the bruises. "They are trouble. They create men such as he."

And lowers that head back down, when he glances her way; perhaps he will think that she doesn't care to meet his eyes. Perhaps he'll think her simply attentive to her work, this guard-become-chambermaid. There's certainly enough of it to do: she's only reached the first corner, by the time he questions her, but at least now there's something of a clear trail amidst the clutter. "I received your letter," she begins; quietly, still. "I agree with what you wrote."

The armful is dumped in that corner, a great heap of crumpled pages, and she pushes herself to her feet with a brushing together of bandaged hands. There is a minute wince for sake of stomach muscles that still ache, a twitch of the head to send dark hair falling over her bruised brow; old habits, easy ones. She rests back against the wall then, crosses one heel over the other, hands folded neatly behind her back once more. And: "So. Talk, if you will."

Make sense of this for me, she'd all but pleaded, the night before. Make me understand. And, in the clearer light of day, is quite aware that this may simply not be possible.

[Altias_Bromn]

He looked at her, stance the upright equal of his own, a soft chuckle on his lips.

"Talk? If I will? Was it not you who had so many words last night? Was it not you who said things like, 'this is what I feared'? I think that perhaps I have done enough talking. I should have stopped before I got to Quincy."

And his is in motion once more, a flurry of silk and crimson. Pacing back and forth like a man possessed.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble I am having even penning the letter to find a replacement for you? Forget about selecting a new guard, training a new guard, trusting a new guard. This is very....time consuming."

Painful, heartbreaking, exasperating, unneccesary, ridiculous. All valid words to describe the situation.

"What happened to you?"

Apparently the bruises were showing, the wraps on her hands noticed. For a brief moment, the growling governor was simply concerned.

[Carnath-Emory]

"Jirai will do no such thing," she offers in the meantime, is if there were any real assurance of that. But then, he will recall the previous evening, however unwillingly; might guess, at least, that the two women are not unaquainted. But now his gaze is firm upon her, now he challenges with that hushed little chuckle once more, and there is no more avoiding the subject at hand.

"I did," she begins slowly -- if with little real hesitance. The difficulty is not reluctance, but the need to choose her words carefully, as she had not done the previous evening. It had, as ever, been her undoing, and nevermind that each clumsy phrase was spoken in earnest. "I spoke too many words, and few of them ... appropriate, I think. So now I would like to listen, in case that I am mistaken. I would like to know my error, if I have made one. Or several." I would like to know my crime, but that's unfit to be spoken, and likely as unwarranted as anything she'd said the night before. Said. Whispered. Shouted.

"I will consult with Councilor Kerrak on your behalf, if that will prove simpler for you. You've surely better occupations for your time than," a wave of her hand encompasses the room and its piled litter, "this. It is ...ridiculous, that you waste your time upon -- "

His question forces her back into silence. Captain Kerrak was good enough to clear my mind by bludgeoning my head, she might say, and alarm the Governor completely. Made the hurt less painful, but that is not quite accurate, and he'd never understand anyway; certainly, it's too personal a thing to describe at this juncture. Gave me some much-needed exercise, but that would be misconstrued, there's no doubt of it, and she's hardly about to worsen the situation between them. If that's actually possible, and this remains to be seen.

"Councilor Kerrak invited me to spar," she settles upon at last, it being as good an explanation as she can think of; it might even explain away the bandages on her hands, which would at worst be a sin of omission. "He is an excellent fighter; I welcomed the opportunity." With a wry shift of the head, the shoulders, as she adds: "He had the better of me, obviously. But it helped me to sleep."

Nothing else could have, save for a thing which was, at that point, quite impossible.