War! What is it good for?

[Altias_Bromn]

As the return messages arrived, Altias sat in his make-shift office above the bakery contemplating replies.

As he read the reply from Malaroth Deucalios, he shuddered. He was certain he had heard the name Zayken before. Whispers. Wide-eyed proclamations of fear...of Perfection.

In fact, he was somehow familiar with the name himself, though he was not sure why.

To see her name there on that page brought a tightening of muscle, a fluttering of heart. Why must it be that she always find her way into the heart of the struggle, despite his attempts to spare her?

"Emmit!"

The normally soft voice of the governor rose and shook the windows in their frames, assuring he would be heard above the bustling activity in the kitchen below.

The pounding of boots up the stairs and a hearty rap upon his door, was his answer.

"Come. I have something for you to do. It is most urgent. Find Ariane Emory and bring her to me. Do this immediately, and without fail."

Words were hastily scrawled across the parchment, before it was folded and dripped with wax, to accept the governor's seal.

A sterling colored rose was plucked from the vase on his desk, as if it waited there for just such an event. The note was tied to the rose with the violet ribbon from his braid.

"Go. Now."

The young man accepted the note and ran from the room, not once hesitating to ask the governor where she could be found. Good thing, as he had no earthly idea.

The note would read:

Ari,

I need you here. I am told you know more of this Lord Perfect than any other known to Myrken. I seek your council. Swiftly now, for time is short.

Always,
Altias

[Carnath-Emory]

It is possible that the unfortunate Emmit had travelled first to the construction site, for it's there that she'd been lately spending the most of her days -- and more than a few of her nights, as well. It is far less likely that he would have taken himself thereafter to Aithne, for that place is a smoking wreck -- but still, she'd escorted physician Savoy and mapmaker Glenn Burnie there just days before, and had failed to return with them that night. As concerns the swordswoman's whereabouts, this would not have been an unreasonable guess.

Neither would it have been an accurate one.

All of these errors are possible, but Ariane Emory will never know if they occured or not, because when this youth arrives at her tavern door at last, she does not ask. To the contrary, sends him away with some shouted curse through her closed door, and a splash of bathwater to explain her reasoning; he moves as far as the corridor's end, and not one step further. Sends him away again upon emerging damp and well-clad, because there are friends in that commons below, and there is business as well, and most of all because that letter and that ribbon inspire a woman to drink.

Which she will, before accompanying you to that bakery loft, young sera.
Which she does, before taking to saddle and to road, so that when the two of them arrive at last, the shadows have begun to lengthen, the skies to grow golden and grey. What arrives at that loft door is clad in neutral greys, and an expression as mild as her knock upon that door had been.

[Altias_Bromn]

"Enter"

The voice which answered the mild knock, was soft. Altias Bromn was curled in the high backed chair behind his desk, fingers covered in ink, smudges upon his face. Three candles burned. White, red and black. Incense was heavy in the room. To one who knew such things, the smoke was scented with Vervain, fennel, lavender, sage, valerian, mint, basil, rosemary and hyssop. Parchment and broken quills littered the already cluttered surface of the desk.

The candles were burned halfway, and they seemed to have intricate carvings in them. They lit his mismatched eyes sharply as he looked up at his entering guest. The thick braid had begun to unwind, as he had let the ribbon go with the note early this morning.


"Ariane. It is good of you to come. Thank you."

A look to dismiss Emmit, before he begins to pour two cups of tea.

"Please. Sit."

The second cup of tea is set across the desk from him, in front of the offered chair.

"I am sure you know what threatens us. I wish to ask what you know of this...Lord Zayken. How much of a threat is he really? What must we do to stop him? Surrender, as Lord Aldred has noted, is not an option."

"Myrken, it seems, is in a constant state of suffering. I am certain this man's offers of Perfection must be becoming quite tempting to some. What must I do to take care of this situation, Ariane? How can I stop him?"

More incense is fed to the glowing charcoal in the bowl on his desk. The smoke billows thick, choking, dimming the glow of the candles for a moment.

The man who sits across from her wears the face of resolve. This is not a man who will take this lightly, nor will he accept surrender as an option. If Ariane had no answers, he would have no choice but to find this Zayken himself.

[Carnath-Emory]

When she enters, it is into a room steeped with memories, into an atmosphere which is as heavy with recollection as with incense. It is a complicated scent which her body intersects, on moving towards the offered chair; it is something far more complex than Bromn's habitual lavender, and this is somehow ... appropriate. So too the carvings of the candles, the litter of this desktop, and she has eyes for these things, but no words at all: they are for observing in some detail, they are for giving to memory, for speculation hours from now.

But in this immediate moment, there are simply this chair and these questions, and liking neither of them, Ariane nonetheless sits.

On the very forward edge of that seat, she perches herself, and answers the offer of tea with a demonstration of the apple she'd brought with her. A bite from its surface makes her preferences upon this matter clear.

"I do know," she begins at last, and with pale gaze set levelly upon Bromn's own; perhaps the mismatched eyes do not trouble her quite as they once had. "Your Constable questions me on this, mn? So I am glad you discard this, this surrender.

"Because surrender is not what Zayken Perfect wants at all."

He is set to moving about the room then, this tall Governor, and she is the quiet observer once more; is the attentive audience, a role which suits her very well in any case. Smoke billows forth at the Governor's deft touch, as if to demonstrate how willingly these surrounds bow before his touch, and for a time she is enveloped by the grey of it, by its stifling, consuming scent. Tart and half-sweet apple is the cooling remedy for this moment. The taste of it clarifies her world, and in time the swordswoman is able to continue.

She rises from her seat to do so.

"Your Constable moves his men against Zayken: I tell him there must be hammers and axes, and things which will cut chain, and he sees to that. Ser Deucalios -- do you know that one? He proposes a plan which ... ah, I leave that to you and he. Best you speak with these men: they have minds suited to murder, and an appetite for sharing their ideas. But how is Zayken Perfect ended? I do not know. We'd slain him twice already, and yet he returns to Myrken now, mn?

"What severity of threat does he pose?" And she slightly smiles, as her pacing pauses; as her narrow body turns again, to answer: "Absolute."

But here the pause lingers; here some quiet and speculative light enters the subtle grey of her eyes, and the thin lips fall still awhile. Perhaps Bromn might find this a pleasant interlude. It's unfortunate that when it resolves into speech again, there come words with more challenging an edge to their tone, for turned upon him again, apple dangling loose at her side, she adds:

"But ... I wonder at this. I do wonder. Baie swears that it will end you, mn? And the notion amuses you. Ser Vraal and his blad'stvo Galacia intend a malicious end to you, and you have no answer to that threat, no interest at all. The Ashfiend lays to ruin your library, steals a girl from the 'Dagger kitchens, near murders your Constable in this very town --

"I've answers for you. But I'll have some from you, before I speak a word of them."

[Altias_Bromn]

Oh a moment of silence, the two of them engulfed in the thick smoke of the incense. The soft crack of a bitten apple. For the governor, a sip of tea. As she moves, so does he. A comfortable distance kept between two who had once been much closer.

"What happens to me is not of consequence, Ariane. What happens to Myrken matters. I have been gone these last weeks, in Xanth Grange. I did not go to visit my dying father, or my braggart brother. I went to bring food for the people. In my absence, it seems, the food shortage has ended."

He turns, looking over one shoulder as crimson and raven tresses continue to unravel from the once intricate braid.

"I was not aware of the library, or the girl. I have only just returned yesterday afternoon. Not everything has been read yet."

He motions toward the pile of missives upon his desk.

"I answered the letters from the councilors first. The threat against Myrken as a whole eclipses that of books, or one girl. As much as it pains me to say so."

"What answers do you require of me, Ariane Emory? Once I would have known how to answer you, how to make all of this right. Now...I know nothing of the sort. I know that Myrken faces yet another great threat, and I know nothing of our enemy. You do...and it is why I have asked you here. I would not have troubled you otherwise. I know you have better things to do than take tea with the bloody governor."

He watches the setting sun from his window, fragile fingers clasping the heavy velvet drapes.

"Even now...I can't save everyone. For once, I would like to help them. For once I would like to offer more than my good intentions."

[Carnath-Emory]

They've been here before, haven't they?

No. Ariane has, and it is a very fine irony that it had been Helstone who spoke words so similar to Bromn's own, who voiced a sentiment which bore a shocking resemblance to the present Governor's. The fact is so striking that he's paused her over again, has inspired a moment's genuine disbelief from the swordswoman's features. Some time is required to regain her composure, and this is very much because some portion of her does not wish to, some aspect of her which recognises its own tumbling anger and does not wish to restrain it --

"Not of consequence? Mm."

And here is a hand that sets its apple down quite gently upon the edge of that desk; it will be their half-gnawed witness to what comes next. Here is a hand which, rid of its burden, aquires a new one in the shape of a quill left remarkably intact: this is plucked from that tabletop, is dropped back upon it a little nearer to where Bromn stands.

"There. Make use of it, mn? You've the Governor's seal, and you've ample parchment to pen a resignation; you've certainly the time to do it, and you have my word that I will fetch it with all haste to the person who must receive it. And I will not do it gladly, but ah .. you reckon the position you hold is worthless, mn? You imagine it of no consequence if Myrkentown should lose its own Governor, you imagine it of no consequence if a man dies for whom men fought and bled upon Myrkentown streets."

A backstep, then, because the body is restless; its limbs require motion, and send it to pacing over again -- but with eyes that remain intent upon Bromn's own.

"So. By all means, write this thing: discard this Governorship as if it were yours to do with as you please. Helstone meant to do the very same, did you know that? Helstone cared as little, and I fought with him on account of it, and now -- "

Pauses a time, then, uneven at the lips, at the slant of hip.

"Sign it away. Ignore the crowds that shouted your name. I do not waste my time and my words on a man who puts no value on his life. Or reconsider your worth, and then..."

These palms are light upon the backrest of that offered chair: they are expectant things, waiting things.

"Then I aid you in every way that I am able."

[Altias_Bromn]

There is a strange sight upon the features of Governor Bromn. A slight smile, a blush upon those high cheekbones.

"For a woman who finds herself no artist with words, you have worked a masterpiece just now."

A turn from that window, as nimble fingers pluck up the quill so recently discarded by Ariane. It is raised, dipped in the inkwell, drawn high once more...and snapped in two.

"I do not believe I have ever looked at in that light, my dear. You have the right of it. It is a poor governor who places no value on his own well-being. I do not wish to be a poor governor. I want to help Myrken...but you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Tell me then, what must be done to save Myrken from Lord Perfect. Or ask what questions you must to deem me worthy of such answers. Time is running out...and I wish no more to die. Bromn the Bloody is already a rancid taste upon my tongue."

Long fingers full of grace, passion and tenderness pluck up the teacup once more, as a slender hip finds the edge of the desk. A sip, no more.

"Help me, Ariane. Help me save them. Help me save myself."

[Carnath-Emory]

There is some symmetry here, some persistent strain of parallels, so that in one moment Bromn echoes madman Helstone's own words, but in the next --

"You have a very moving command of language," a man told had once told her, "of voice and look." So that the Governor's slow smile is deeply gratifying, and the resounding *snap* of that quill's murder is a relief so great as to slightly shock the woman. But it was six weeks and two days ago that these words were spoken, so that when Ariane's grey gaze lifts to Bromn's own once more, it is a quietened thing, and haunted at its edges.

"I knew that," comes her answer to what was surely a rhetorical question; it is possible that such nuances escape the swordswoman entirely. Possible, too, that she recalls the conversation which had preceded this meeting: for an hour and more, she and Calomel had discussed what might come of it, and in terms that were not always kind, that were not always optimistic. "I hoped it was still so," she continues now, and perhaps that's indication enough of what had come before. But she is straightening now, this woman, is quite literally dusting aside what had haunted her: a tilt of the narrow shoulders manage it, and the slight lurch of a body set into pacing motion once more.

"I've spoken my questions already, and you give me all the answer I require. So I tell you a thing you will not like, mn? I tell you to seek out m'ser Calomel, and grant him all that he requires to meet this threat. I tell you he will serve well, and Knight Deucalios with him -- who has fought Zayken Perfect already. And he will do it again, I think, for I know nothing that Zayken despises more than my sister, and he will set himself against the 'Dagger to reach her."

Pauses then, because Bromn's question is a difficult one: there are so many answers, and none of them fill the requirements that he has described. For a time she is held motionless by nothing more remarkable than careful thought, and with a hand that's reclaimed the discarded apple; which works it like s shining touchstone, from one palm to the next.

Perhaps she means it to replace the necklaces which she once wore like charms, like living memories. No hint of them glitters at her throat.

"Zayken Perfect has the capacity to .. transform men and women, to make them over into a shape that best suits him; perhaps he meant to make another Village of this town. This was what befell the place of his birth, mn? The whole of them, made over into monstrous things, terrible things. We have seen one of them already, and I leave the describing of that to m'ser Deucalios, who saw it more closely than I, save for this -- that perhaps he fetches an army with him, and Janeiro... Hah, Aeryn will be glad to march his men against that. But ser..."

And here she must turn fully upon the man now: with patience, with what very thin sliver of hope that she dares to entertain lit earnestly in her eyes.

"You must say that this is done. We see these words upon Myrken walls, mn? We see this Zayken's offer, this threat. And we see a Council which is silent, and we think that surely we are abandoned. If that is not so, you do well to make that fact known, for they are strong stuff here, but this ... this frightens.

"Men wait to serve you, men wait to hear what you wish, what you intend. Use them kindly, but use them now."

[Altias_Bromn]

"Then the council meeting shall come, but not before Myrken knows she is protected. Letters shall go out this night to Janeiro and The Constable. Also to this Knight, Deucalios. I shall ask them, in the council's name, to aide us. If the council wishes to dispute it, they can do so after the fact."

He is a quite creature for a time. Many things he wishes to speak of. To ask, perhaps, of the bit of glass which no longer hangs at her throat. Now is not the time.

"Would you have me also hang notices about the town as Lord Perfect himself had done? Would this calm the people? Or will the arriving troops be enough."

"This is much more your arena than mine. With letters and support, will Myrken be soothed?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Now is most assuredly not the time. And in any case, she has not cast away all of these things: a fleck of blackened steel clings at the edge of one ear, but there's a dot of crimson spinel still beside it, and it shines, shines in this candlelight...

"Notices. Speeches. Something. Do you see that this is necessary? I speak with these men: your Constable, this Knight; I have the liberty to do this. But this is not so for most, and they know nothing but a Council that is silent."

There is a pause here to her pacing, however, and it is filled with a bite from that apple, a grin around the curve of it, as: "But this Zayken, mn? He is no Lord, was barely his maker's tool. Do not flatter him."

Just this, before she becomes motion once again, with boot-heels quiet upon the floor and fingertips that trail across walls, tabletops, the slender edges of some shelf. This tactile creature, this prowling person in such neutral greys, and with an earnest gaze turned back towards the Governor at the end of it all.

"This will not satisfy them. You do not want to hear that, and I speak it still, because it is the certain truth. They are far from soothed, and they will cling to their suspicions for a time yet, because all that can soothe them is time. Time for the actions you describe to prove a thing to them, you see? Time enough to learn what it is to trust a Governor once more.

"Remember what they have had before now."