I write this to inferm you that it is with reegret that I resine from your emploiment this ninteenth day of Disember.
Ariane Emory.
That much, Altias Bromn will find upon waking, if not sooner; she'd penned it at the barcounter of a tavern that has become suddenly inhospitable. A generous quantity of coin had ensured that Jirai would conduct it to a courier -- Jirai, for there'd been no-one else save Starr. And he'd already become busied with particularly savage work.
That much, scrawled poorly upon cheap parchment, because there'd been nothing else and so little time. Straka has lately been a study in anarchy, and even stalwart Captain Daniels has shown a peculiar prejudice; it would not surprise her if they were to fault the Governor for what murders his guard may commit -- regardless of whether they were by his command or not. That a desperate Daniels might seize on this, might somehow indict the Governor for murder of Mikhail, O'Neill, Elil, was not a risk she dared take... and so this precaution had been penned. Of course, it was not sufficient explanation, not for a Bromn who would read this and draw obvious, terrible conclusions; something more was necessary. But what? She'd been insufficient to the task, which fact Mikhail's incessant drone of a confession had helped not at all (Had he meant to insult her slain sister?). The enormity of it defeated her, the scope of it was simply beyond her, and so the quill had hesitated, had scratched out one attempted word after another.
"Now, Ariane...How do you plan to protect Quincy from these things? From even herself?"
"As I ever have: with my company."
"As I ever have: with my company."
Such moments, concepts, memories, do not lend themselves easily to the written word -- particularly when the writer is Ariane Emory, illiterate sellsword with a heart bled halfway dry. She could say: Dog-Ears (a monstrous name; she'd refused to inflict it on him) once asked a reasonable question of me; I gave him the most honest reply I've ever spoken. She could say: the sky was blue, that day; the grass was generally green. Both statements would come equally close to capturing the gravity of that moment. She could say: I swore that day to guard her life with my own, but in truth, I made that vow years before. But the quill had refused to write those words.
"And what am I? I am a sword, that is all. I have been chosen by your sister and I will do as she wishes. But she is so young, so...wilful. She's going to need help wielding me. Can you not provide that help?"
Yes, she'd said, as if it were such a simple matter, that having been the extent of her arrogance in those days. Yes, as I always have, as I always will, there being none that I love better in all the world, and --
"Your place, when the time comes, is to protect Quincy from all threats. And that includes me."
Yes, again. And --
"Ari, if she must fight, let it be with a proper sword in her hand then. Me. That's all I ask, and I see now: I am asking for your permission. One word from you and I will say nothing more to or of her."
Yes yet again, from an Ariane who'd been so free with her permissions that day, but the quill could not describe that, either; the quill had spilled black ink across the page by way of protest, the quill had refused to speak of guilt or pain or anything substantial whatsoever. Lacking eloquence, lacking courage, it had instead inscribed:
Altias,
My sister is slane. I know not what trouble will come, so you must have that resignayshun in case of the werst. I feel you will understand.
Ariane.
