Signed, sealed, delivered.

[Carnath-Emory]

This twisted loop, this delicate, gleaming braid: the edge of her thumb smooths the subtle curve of it, back and forth, back and --

"With his own lips, his own words. 'You need only wear it,' he said, 'and speak my name. I will find you'. Do you wonder at what other charms it might hold? Do you imagine that it might hear more than just its maker's name? And perhaps it does. Perhaps he hears us speak of this even now, except that I do not ... wear it, of course. Not yet. Ah -- he would like me to fear such a thing. He would like for you to grow anxious of it. We must not satisfy him, mn?"

It plays back and forth across nimble fingers, for they have taken this bracelet up in the quill's stead. It dances from one grip to another, circles fingertips that almost tilt so that it will meet their wrist, almost, almost...

"He tells me this for that he has ... proposed a thing to me, and a warning, and even a request, you see? And perhaps he reckons himself beyond murdering, and perhaps he Believes that I will reckon it so. In any case, he has his god's favour, yes? As for his warnings, they were ... complicated. With Dhrin, they often are. That Baie watches Michael closely, that he grasps the fact of his treachery. That he means to end that man, and that perhaps Dhrin's would be his hand in this matter. That I -- That I must -- "

A pause, here, for Cinnabar is fixed by this very steady gaze once more. Upon the tabletop before them, long fingers have ended their toying with that bracelet, have pinned the delicate curve of it to the edge of her page.

"You speak of allegiances, yes? Of serving this side or that, this colour or the other. Your Governor does not like the direction of my loyalties. You do not like that they lack clarity. Neither, you see, does Thadius Dhrin.

"I needn't describe how he'd have me colour my piece."

[Cinnabar]

Pale brows raise curiously. "A request? The gall of the man knows no limit, it seems." He watches the bracelet dance around her fingers, as one might watch a snake that may or may not be venomous. "It is not so much a matter of fear, or anxiety, as being suitably cautious of something which is of such dubious provenance. He has enacted gross deceits before; I would not trust the man further than I might comfortably throw him."

He smiles slightly as she speaks of allegiances and loyalties and sides, and shrugs. "They have gained some degree of clarity this morning, I think. Or at the very least, the reason that they might seem unclear has become more apparent." Then a blink, incredulous and perhaps a trifle amused.

"He still thinks he might sway you to his cause? Even now? Even after all that has gone before?" He shakes his head. "How forcefully must you make your position clear before the man understands?"

[Carnath-Emory]

A lift of long fingers for pause, some small shake of the head.

"A request that he knew I would heed: the delivery of that warning to Michael, yes? I would not be deaf to this, and he knew it well. Ah, but you set me at ease: fear is a gift to this man. A moment's weakness; vulnerability. He will seize such a thing like a dog at the rabbit's throat. He will not hesitate to, to devour." It is a terrible thing to say, of course; in light of the dream they'd once shared, she and this cultist, it is an obscenity. But perhaps one might consider this a reasonable vengeance...

"It is good that you do not trust him, for he is made of such deceits, mm? So too was Michael, but I shall tell you such a strange thing: that since his pretense was abandoned, that man has spoken not one lie to me, not one single falsehood. To this day, I wonder what to make of that, for I cannot say the same of most which I call friend."

A moment's silence follows now, as she examines the wine-bottle and finds its level lacking; oh, there's real amusement in the woman's smile as she realises it. A shrug accepts the fact, the grin broadens; two cups are refilled with the dregs, and her own lifted in small toast to Calomel.

"I am glad of this: this clarity, mn? I am glad that you have ears for this, and so I ... hesitate now, do you see? But ... ahh, it is not to the Order that Dhrin means to draw me. He does not mean to ... aquire, but to remove -- Ah! I do not speak these things well. What I mean to say, ser, is that he reckons me as much the chyort monster as Michael Renne, in heart if not in deed.

"What I mean to say, ser, is that perhaps he is not incorrect.

"Still," a tilt of the cup, a smiling sip of its wine, "I think it not much likely. I assuredly hope. Lies to cloud the mind, mn? They are his best talent."

[Cinnabar]

"Ha. A monster." He grins wider at this, taking up his own cup. "From what I have seen, Myrken has many such things. But not all of them act like it." A light sip, and a shrug. "Monsters do that which most cannot, or would not, or will not. Sometimes it is turning from man into beast; sometimes it is summoning fire from nothing; sometimes it is bending another to their will without words or touch; sometimes it is merely stepping beyond the bounds of acceptable behaviour; sometimes it is being able to see with a clarity that most would rather not." He peers into his cup thoughtfully. "In all cases, it is something which sets the monster apart, makes them different and often frightening." A pause, and his gaze flicks up to the swordswoman, a slight shift to the angle of his grin. He leans forward a touch, conspiratorial. Perhaps the wine's influence, which has not manifested elsewhere in his demeanour; perhaps something else.

"Consider: I am faster and stronger by far than anyone I have yet met - I have noticed this, and so have you, I think. Meanwhile, you can summon forth armour from your skin. Dhrin can engage in the grisly murder of innocents, and rejoice in it. The Baie can wear a man's face like a mask, and change it as easily. Tell these to an everyday man of some place - some place that is not Myrken - and he would think us all monsters. Each one of us. And Dhrin would have you think that all monsters are the same, that all are utterly black of heart and iredeemable of spirit - that if one is to be a monster, one must also act like a beast, and to deny that is an exercise in futility." Brows raise as if to dare her to disagree.

"But you and I are different from Dhrin and the Baie. Because we choose to be. Because we can be."

[Carnath-Emory]

Monsters do that which most will not...

Ah, one does not say such things to so ambiguous a woman. One does not make these suggestions to a woman in so potent a state of flux. Particularly since, in the light of recent events, there seems to be such wisdom in this. A woman must consider her sister, tiny paragon of strength that she is; must consider Syl Duquesne, who sees with a clarity to rival even the looking glass he'd given her. And of course friend D'zir, and Kerrak al'Nerun after him, who might have scorched the very Myrken sky with their wild talents; garish Demonsbane, terrifying Rhaena, whose mind is so hungry that it devours the secrets from everyone else's. And at the heart of this maelstrom, such men as Bromn and Helstone: these very fine men, these very mortal men --

Oh, such a gaze is set upon young Calomel now, as he leans a little across their table. Perhaps wine is to blame, perhaps the advice of his nameless benefactor is; perhaps the gravity of what they discuss, which they likely have no business discussing at all. Whatever the case, he is fixed by sharp, pale eyes for a time: he is examined, is judged, before she breaks away with a frown. Restless, this hand upon the tabletop. Molten iron pools beneath its palm.

"I think ... that I understand." Why a woman such as she would dedicate herself to Bromn's preservation, to his protection. Why such a man would chafe beneath it; how it might awe, might smother. How he might furiously reject such a thing: oh, to be guarded from monsters -- but by more of their sort!

"I think that ... ah, I have noticed this, yes." This matter of speed, of strength. This shockingly dextrous creature who suffers such lapses, who is lively with such questions. "But .. how do we choose, mn?"

And as quickly as that, she is set upon him again: with thoughts that are a tumbling tide, and just as changeable. Some tension about the corners of her mouth, some vivid intent within her eyes. Iron claims the base of that cup.

"As your book says? Do you trust such a choice to a thing so unreliable as your heart?"

[Cinnabar]

"What else would you trust it to?" He shrugs, then shakes his head slightly. "Not so unreliable. At least, not for me. That... hm. Do you really find your heart's guidance to be so unreliable?" Curiosity there, as if made aware of something that he had not considered.

He thinks for a time, then grins. "Try this: first, close your eyes. Go on." He waits for her to do so before speaking on, voice pleasant, conversational, strangely soothing. "Now, draw an image in your mind, of yourself as you would wish to be - with all the aspects of yourself of which you are fond or pleased or proud shining out; traits that you have admired in others present also, because you are capable of them.

"Meanwhile, all the things that you dislike or are dissatisfied with - all the things that you despise in others because they remind you of your own flaws - imagine them stripped away, in the same way that smelting gold can drive out the impurities to leave only that which gleams. Form this image of yourself, and consider how this ideal-Ariane would act, would think, would speak, would behave. She is you, as you would like to be - admirable in all ways, despicable in none. A paragon of Ariane."

He takes a sip of wine before continuing. "Hold this picture in your mind, and whenever you might face a decision of which you are uncertain, try and imagine Paragon Ariane following through each path. If it seems that one path rings false, or is not something that this Ariane - who is you, but as you wish to be - would do, then there is a good chance that it is not the right path to take.

"Do this enough, and it will become easier, like learning to hold a blade, or ride a horse, or walk, or breathe. You won't need to think of what Paragon Ariane would do; you will know, because you are the same person."

[Carnath-Emory]

"On that matter? Absolutely. It wants what it wants, it heeds what best pleases it; it does not care about right nor wrong, nor practical, nor sensible. It is in every sense unreasonable, and to entrust to it anything of importance is folly, by my reckoning; perhaps yours is wiser than mine, yes? I am willing to concede it flawed." It is a particularly wry twist of smile which she turns upon the man then; her shrug is a wordless confession.

Cinnabar will note that the swordswoman closes her eyes only reluctantly, that in time it comes to soften the harsh angles of her features. But only after some time, for first there must come a frown of increasing uncertainty, and lips drawn into a troubled line; it is a difficult thing which he asks of Ariane, and not only because her imagination is still not so very sharp.
[INDENT]...you are capable of them...[/INDENT]
Oh, this ideal Ariane, this Paragon -- which is what they'd called the Emperor's Hand, behind his back. And less kind things as well, of course, but that most of all. There had been too much to admire, too little to despise. Such thoughts run in accompaniment to the even tone of Cinnabar's suggestions, and they are not unpleasant; others are, but oh... a woman sets them aside for now as irrelevant, unnecessary. This is too immediate, and it is too interesting, and -- look closely a moment, Constable, for dark patterns shiver into being just beneath her skin. Delicately flowing, intricately extensive, a stutter of colour that stands in black relief even beneath bruised flesh.

The moment cannot linger for too long, of course: at some point she must determine that Paragon Ariane is almost identical to sister Quincy, and the realisation of this startles sufficiently to draw the woman back to herself. And then he may witness it again, this alchemy of the flesh, for her eyes open and the dim patterning recedes --

"Mm. It is ... interesting. But I wonder if this person, this vanka ukrepljonnyj': I wonder how well they might survive the likes of Myrkentown, mn? I think ... not so well. Maybe not so well." A pause. Something occurs.

"Is this how you live your new life?"

[Cinnabar]

Those patterns regarded curiously, another point of strangeness about the woman, though he decides not to mention them for now. Still... intriguing. And then it fades as she opens her eyes once more, to see him grinning with an air of satisfaction about him. At her question, he shrugs.

"Something like that. But it is more like... like instinct. It is hard to explain. But it is a feeling that one path is correct, and others are less so. It is still possible to choose, to take the less-correct paths, but it seems... awkward. Not right. Unpleasant, like wearing one's boots on the wrong feet, or putting on a hat such that it presses the hair to lie in uncomfortable ways. Like having filth on one's hands and choosing not to clean it off. It is a small thing, but with time it is maddening. It might be possible to learn to ignore such discomfort, but why would you want to?" He shakes his head, clear that such an idea does not appeal.

"So, I follow the path that feels right. Not the path that is easiest, or most convenient, or most profitable, or most pleasurable. The one that feels Right. That is what I think it means to act as your heart advises." A shrug. "Perhaps this feeling is... not so clear for other people - I think it's not unclear to most, as otherwise why would they feel bad when they do something wrong? But I do not know, I am not other people."

For her other point, he considers for a moment, regarding her keenly. "What about the Paragon do you think would not suit her to Myrkentown? What about her would not allow her to survive?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Instinct.
Monsters.
Oh, here's a game that this one's learned to like: that wine-cup's broad base is still awash with hardening iron, and now it's given a purpose other than decoration. The trailing ends of it still cling to her fingers, after all, and a tug of them sends the distant cup to tumbling -- ah! A deft sweep of the splinted hand sets it aright once more. There's no mistaking her grin for anything but smug, conspiratorial pleasure.

"I think... Ah. Perhaps I lack this instinct, mn? I do not like to do such a thing, I do not like to do a thing for that it feels the best. Or even the most right, for I find that sometimes the thing which feels immediately right, will not ... remain so. Do you see? This Michael Renne, mn? When first I discovered his deception, when first he revealed himself to me, it would be... just to dispatch him, yes? But it would have been the death of Altias, so... it is not the right thing.

"And then, once Bromn was retrieved, then he might be slain, yes? As all the others had been: yourself you named this justice, yes? But then he could not have recanted, he could not have made this bid for, for salvation. So ... I tell you this thing, I tell you why I do not always trust what my heart feels. I think that it is ... a fine thing to be good, to do good things, right things. And," some small lift of the chin, some level gaze...

"I think that goodness is not always nice. In fact, I am quite certain that the right thing is often cruel, is often inexplicable. I do not like this. But I say to you that my role, my being, is to do what is necessary. And sometimes I wonder if this is how Renne has always felt."

This is a sobering notion; for a time, it holds her quietened, so that she answers Calomel's question only slowly, and after considerable delay.

"Hah. This vanka, mn? I think that she would do a very right thing, a so wonderfully right thing that she would sacrifice her life to it. Almost all that I love share this trait. Why else would I dedicate myself to guarding them?"

[Cinnabar]

The answer is quick in coming, with a pleased grin.

"Because you love that they are so devoted to what is right, and to be near such people is like basking in the sun - they shine, it is like a radiance about them. In protecting them, you allow them to continue being who they are, and doing what they do, and the world is better for it. And that in itself is right."

He regards the overturned and replaced cup for a moment, brow raised in curiosity. Heh. Interesting trick. "Good is not often nice, that is correct. Sometimes there are... difficult choices. Sometimes you can weigh up such things and pick the least-worst option. Other times, it is not so clear." It's a tricky subject, and one in which he is wary of putting a foot wrong.

"You do what is necessary, so that others may continue to do what is right. That is... almost exactly the most difficult thing that I can imagine. To do things which are bad in order to protect the good, so that they can remain good. The things that are distasteful, unpleasant, that would taint the goodness of those you love and ruin that which you most admire in them." He regards her carefully, watching her reaction to this. "There is risk to it, however. In doing these things, you risk becoming something that they can only despise or loathe. You must constantly watch yourself - must make sure that what you do is necessary, that it serves what is right, that there is no other alternative - in order that you do not become precisely the sort of monster that they oppose." Curiosity in his gaze, a burning need to know, to find out.

"What does guide you, Ariane? How do you decide what you must and must not do?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Blind a woman, and she will stare like this. Dazzle her with talk of chessboards and metallurgy and masks, stun her with a glimpse into a world upon world upon world, and this will be her reaction: this stare, this stiff-spined stillness. Like lightning to the face, it chokes her, and for a moment her head must turn aside entirely, features averted behind the dark curtain of her hair, as the eyes hotly sting --

The moment passes. Exalted shock resolves into a dry-eyed grin, broad and very well-pleased.

"I do. I could not say it in this way; how do you kn -- mm. No. That is not so important. But there is this: that it is sometimes a burden upon them, it is sometimes very terrible a thing that they must endure. I have asked you this thing once before, you will recall it: whether you would better see to a man's heart or his mind, mn? But this is how the question should have gone, or my answer to it, at least: that these things which I love, I will spare their body at expense of their will, even when they do not wish it so.

"And that sometimes I am not careful. Sometimes I neglect... that they are loved, and think only to guard them, as if they were not whole people, but ... things, prizes to be kept safe. It is difficult for them, you see? It is sometimes very painful."

Perhaps wine makes such a confession possible, or perhaps it is simply the nature of this very strange morning. That having said so much, having come so far, it seems only natural to add this to the rest... and to nod now, when Calomel continues.

"It is ... difficult, but it is not always terrible, mn? It is most often not, except to know that were it demanded of me, were it necessary, I would -- ah." There is no need to describe this further. Cinnabar has the evidence of it before him: eight names, eight small marks by their sides. "And were they to come to detest me, perhaps I would reckon it well enough, yes? Were they able yet to continue, to be.

"I think," she nods slowly, "it would be a good enough exchange."

It must be, for this is familiar ground; this is a path already trod. Within the space of two days, this room will be emptied of her belongings, in mute acknowledgement of that fact. But for now there remain looking glasses and gilt-bound books; there are chessboards and empty wine-bottles, and a woman who glances up from a moment's solemn reverie, to discover a question for which she has no answer.

Perhaps the slow shake of her head will explain that.

[Cinnabar]

Her grin is echoed in his own, pleased at having apparently got it right.

"I am not so sure, myself. To become that which you would oppose is... it would be a bitter thing indeed, I think. It's something to be wary of." He shrugs, gaze passing from the now-empty wine bottle, to the similarly drained cups. Hm. A glance to the window and... heh. Hardly even noon yet. Not exactly a brilliant start to the day, were it a matter of wine alone, but the conversation has been most enlightening; he can consider himself substantially better-informed than he had been the day before, more knowledgeable about this particular threat to Myrken Wood's people.

At her inability to answer, though, he tilts his head, pondering. "It is an interesting thing to think upon. To look at yourself as if from outside, and ask why you do the things that you do. Why you make the choices you make. It can provide clarity, I think."

[Carnath-Emory]

"It is."

As simply as that, and spoken by a woman mindful of Bea Kanaya's name, set small and grievous upon the page before them. A year and more later, this memory haunts; it will always haunt -- ah. Some slight shift of the shoulder, some small motion that means to dismiss this, and really almost manages to. Perhaps this is why she takes up the quill once more: perhaps she means to drown away the memory of that name by the addition of so many others beneath it. Like any flood, it begins slowly...

"I have ... looked, in this way, yes? And not always by my choice, and not always with pleasure at what this, this clarity reveals, so that ... perhaps that is part of it, mn? That one must make such choices as will please the eye to later look upon -- ah, but I think upon what you ask. I do not forget it, and having thought, I find I must recant. For I've said that perhaps yon advice," a nod towards the slender journal, "is not so sound, yes? To begin with the heart, and let all else to follow."

Three names become five, become gradually eight...

"But I think on these decisions which you describe, I think upon what I must not do, what I will not to do. And I think that my heart is a fickle thing: I do not much heed its wants, but... there are things which my mind will permit, that my heart cannot stand."

... become eight, and then twelve, and here an upwards glance; the quill pauses.

"I do not do those things. I cannot be compelled to."

[Cinnabar]

Listening, watching those names scratched across the page, and nodding slightly. "That is perhaps the same thing. Or something similar. It might be worth listening better to it, when it does not want to do a thing. Because while the things that it does want to do may be rash, or ill-advised, or hasty, the things it will not, cannot countenance are likely to be the things that it knows to be wrong." Which is encouraging, really.

"In the things it wants, the heart can be flighty, or irresponsible, or frivolous. But in what it refuses, it is steadfast like iron."

He can't help but lean over to regard that list of names, each on its own line, each devoid of the small x that marks the ones written before. A veritable bounty of names, something that will please Governor Helstone no end. Progress indeed.

"So where do you draw the line?"

[Carnath-Emory]

He will wish to have particular care with this, of course: the woman's spelling is frequently atrocious, for so many of these names are not familiar. But it's a moderately legible job, at least, and it's evident by now that Ariane had not exaggerated the sheer number of names which might be supplied. Fifteen, at this point; midway through the next, the quill is pausing for a time -- and jabbing briefly into the air between them now, as she nods her assent.

"Ahh -- in such matters, I heed it very well. Or perhaps we would not sit here now; I would have no names left to write upon your list, you see? If my heart detests a thing, I do not give myself over to it, unless the necessity is ... khue'vo, uh. Very terrible. Desperate." Her gaze accepts that such a thing is possible; does not flinch from the implication that precisely such moments have come and gone, and in precisely this fashion. In time, however, the quill continues.

In time, so does she.

"I think... that I cannot answer this question. How am I to know, when the time for it has not yet come upon me? I detest cruelty, but I have found myself capable of it. I do not like murder, but -- this too, mn? It sickens me that Helstone will have me choose between these two men, and so I do not abide it: I will not make that choice, he will not have it from me. It costs. I do not care. I loathe deceit and do not practice it, I value discretion above almost anything else -- hah! You have it again: far more than the answer you sought, far more than you required. Mm. Here."

The quill pauses; diverts.
A delicate line is drawn through the name of Bea Kanaya.

"I will always draw the line ... here."