The Quiet House.

[The Baie]

The sense of smell is perhaps the least consciously utilized by man. However, it is one of the animal kingdom's most useful tools.

In the interrogation room, the scents that tangled in the air and oozed from the walls and floor told a specific tale to anyone who had the ability to decipher them. There were, of course, the natural, ambient smells in the room--smoke, burnt wood, and pitch to name a few--almost all resonating from the sources of light within the sealed room. Masked beneath this dominating fragrance were the scents of blood and death, which seemed to rise like vapor from the floorboards. Fresher yet were the fragrances of sweat, fear, tension, adrenaline, and other pheromonal subtleties; an ever-changing cocktail emanating from the pores of the six men comprising the room.

Each of the men shared similar feelings but each gave off their own unique scent and signature, identifiable to those with noses keen enough to understand their subtleties. In fact, with such a talent, one needn't even see their faces know each man by scent alone. It would also be possible to tell where every man stood in the room; their scents were directional and their intensity spoke of their distances from one another.

Each constable, save Cinnabar, wore a hood and mask, which kept their identities a secret to the prisoner, Thadius Dhrin. Of course, they all knew who the other was; only the prisoner was in the dark. Cinnabar faced Dhrin from the front. Two constables--Stuart Lawson at the left and Wil Hecker at the right--held Dhrin's arms. Another constable, Devid Crogan, stood with a crossbow in the corner of the room, near the door. The fourth, also armed with a crossbow, stood behind Dhrin, his weapon trained to the back of Dhrin's head should the prisoner try anything foolish. This fourth man was Constable Lyle Livesay.

These four constables had supported Cinnabar throughout most of the interrogations thus far. At this point, they were well aware of the procedures and hardly needed the hand gestures and instructions from their leader to inform them on what he would have them do next; it had become routine. Of course, the fact that they were handling Thadius Dhrin himself--rather than some blathering, begging farmhand--did make the men a bit more tense. But since the prisoner had been so docile, so seemingly accepting of death, and now had the noose secured around his neck, the men were starting to calm. In just a moment Dhrin would be dead and a significant blow would be struck to the Order of the All.

Dhrin had been secured by the men; the noose had been lowered around his neck; and Livesay's crossbow was trained upon the prisoner. This freed up Crogan to put down his own crossbow so that he may cross the distance of the room to the lever, which controlled the trapdoor. Crogan's gloved hands wrapped around the wooden handle. It was with this handle that Thadius Dhrin would be sent to the afterlife. It would all be over in a moment. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breaths at once.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. There was a solitary click that seemed to echo through the room. It was quickly followed by a loud foomp. Then, the man fell. But the man that dropped was not Thadius Dhrin. It was Constable Devid Crogan.

The man's expression was mainly hidden behind his mask, but his eyes, which were about to move to Cinnabar to await the man's command to drop the floor, were now wide with shock. His hands left the lever and clutched at his throat, trying to stem the flow of blood which gushed through his fingers. The crossbow bolt, which had severed the man's voice box and throat, slammed into the wall. Crogan's eyes shot to Constable Livesay, eyes begging for the answer to why he had shot him, but no words came.

Livesay was no longer looking at Crogan. The used crossbow was already discarded, tumbling to the ground. Livesay's hand reached up to mask which hid his own face, pulling it away. But the face that appeared from beneath was no longer Lyle Livesay's. It had changed and continued to change. His cheeks expanded as if being pushed from the insides by his tongue. Then the skin immediately split open. What looked at first to be long, black horns shot from his cheeks but then rapidly took on the appearance of insect-like mandibles. Without a moment's hesitation, Livesay attacked again.

Constables Lawson and Hecker were frozen in shock by all that had transpired in the blink of an eye. They didn't even have time to process Livesay's treachery before the young man had revealed his changing visage and was already on top of them.

The mutating Livesay sprang at Hecker and spat at Lawson. The spit was a wide spray of gelatinous venom. It was milky, viscous, and basically unavoidable at their close range. The poisonous, necrotic liquid would eat flesh, blind eyes, and once inside the body, would palsy and kill within minutes. Lawson would be protected a bit by his mask, but he would have to be blessed by Felicitas herself, if his eyes were not struck, burned, and blinded by this quick attack. His death was likely to be imminent.

The venom hit Lawson the same moment that Livesay reached Hecker. Livesay moved behind the other constable, wrapping him up in his arms. Livesay slid his left arm around Hecker's middle and his right across the man's throat in an effort to subdue him from behind. Livesay's insectival pincers, which had extended to nearly two feet in length, clinched the struggling Hecker's head between them.

Livesay held Hecker, but did not end him. Livesay's human eyes starred at Cinnabar from just above the head of Hecker.

One thing was clear, the attacker that stood before Cinnabar Calomel was not Lyle Livesay. It was the being that the Order of the All worshipped as their Living God. This was a creature that had killed countless people and many had seen fought the Order of Straka by itself. Had he wished to kill every being in the room, he likely could have. The fact that any were spared, albeit for a moment, was surprising in its own right.

The Baie's arm tightened around Hecker's throat, quieting the man's scream to a whisper. The pincers tightened around the man's head, blood trickling down the Hecker's cheeks and ears.

The Baie continued to watch Cinnabar for a moment and then spoke. “Sit. We have much to discuss.â€

[Cinnabar]

There is shock. There is undeniable shock, startled cries from the Constables at first, then the impact of bodies dropping to the floor; Crogan kneeling on the rough timber planks, choking and gurgling and drowning in his own blood; Lawson gasping and clawing at his face, leather mask and flesh beneath corroding together; Calomel, meanwhile, taking a hasty step aside from that sprayed venom, eyes wide, instinctively dropping into a fighter's stance, dagger plucked from his belt with impressive swiftness.

Pale grey gaze moves between the two fallen Constables; the one now held as an apparent hostage by the... not-Constable; Crogan's discarded crossbow, useless on the other side of the creature; ;Thadius Dhrin, still standing there with a sack over his head and sturdy rope around his neck; but most of all this thing, this chitinous abomination that has claimed the lives of three Constables at the very least this evening. This has grey eyes narrowing, glittering mirrorsilver in the room's lamplight, some expression not of fear but of revulsion upon the young man's features; loathing, outrage, and no small desire to see this creature ended, here and now.

It is a long and motionless instant, save for the feeble struggles of the dying men. Good men, well-trained, well-disciplined, and loyal. Myrkentown's finest. Yet here, three of them, armed and armoured, killed or disabled in less time than it would take to name them.

Eventually, seconds and lifetimes later, Calomel straightens. His features compose themselves into a more controlled expression, an impassive mask in which only that fierce gaze betrays the fury so carefully reined in. There is a meeting of his gaze with that of Hecker, some subtle but resolute nod, before his attention returns to the monstrosity that holds the Constable captive. The dagger is returned to his belt with a smooth and practised motion. When he speaks, his tone is ice and steel, not bothering to conceal his contempt for this shapedancing blasphemy that he has heard so much about.

"I stand. What do you want?"

[The Baie]

As Cinnabar relaxed his stance, so did the Baie. Once Cinnabar had sheathed his blade, the creature's insectival mandibles, which had held Hecker's head like a vice, withdrew, oozing their way back into the attacker's cheeks. The Baie's cheeks quickly knitted together, leaving no marks, no indication that the pincers had ever been.

Although the Baie had greatly diminished his outward aggression, he did not release Hecker completely. Baie continued to hold the constable firmly with both arms. They stood there for a moment until the Baie whispered in Hecker's ear for a moment. Then the pair slowly walked forward toward the interrogation table. Once the pair reached the chair that Dhrin had been made to abandon, Baie forced Hecker to sit.

Baie pulled the hood from Hecker's head. The constable made no effort to speak. His eyes were shut tight, jaw clenched, chin quivering, and breathing heavy. Fear was evident. The Baie stood behind and put a single hand on Hecker, where the man's shoulder and neck met.

Through all of this, Baie watched Cinnabar. If Calomel made a single move of aggression, Baie was certain to act in kind.

"I want peace."

[Cinnabar]

It's a careful stand-off, between the High Constable and the creature that some claim to be a god. Still, as the Baie pulls his hostage back towards the chair, Calomel keeps pace with his steps for some of the way. Steady, unhurried movements, glancing down to step over Crogan's motionless form, still leaking blood from that treacherous throat wound. Nothing to startle, hands kept in plain sight, gaze moving watchfully between Hecker and the thing that wears Constable Livesay's face. Finally, as the creature presses his hostage into that chair, the High Constable stops.

The thing speaks, and Calomel listens intently. His brows rise slightly at this statement, but no immediate answer is given; instead, he raises a hand smoothly, index finger held up as if to request a moment's pause, the motion unambiguous, forewarned through posture so as to be as unthreatening as can be managed. Equally smoothly, almost casually, his other hand lifts to one side in an easy, natural gesture, coming to rest lightly atop a smooth length of timber jutting from the floorboards, as a man might rest his hand atop a walking cane.

The lever that Constable Crogan had been about to pull, the lever that would activate the mechanism to send Thadius Dhrin dropping through the floor to his death.

The very slightest of nods at this, gaze flicking to the fearful Constable Hecker, the meaning clear enough. Now we are on more even footing. Now we can discuss.

"Killing three of my men is not the best way to open the conversation." His tone is level, determined, his posture resolute. "How much do you desire this peace?" Not rejecting the monster's implicit offer outright, but not agreeing to it either. Calculating, considering, weighing up the situation both inside this room, and in Myrken Wood beyond.

[The Baie]

Cinnabar's movement to the lever was tolerated by the Baie. However, when the man's hand came to rest upon the element, a cacophony of voices erupted within the beast's mind. Such an occurrence was rare for the beast these days, but here it was once again. The snarling roars echoed in his mind, demanding that the Baie attack the High Constable, tear his arms from his body, rip his eyes from his skull...

The Baie drew a slow, deep breath through his nose. The voices immediately quieted and within moments were silenced once again.

The Baie gave little outward indication of his momentary mental turbulence. In fact, the corners of Livesay's mouth turned up slightly, showing amusement from Cinnabar's idle tit-for-tat, as well as his dissatisfaction for the Baie's method of introducing the concept of peace.

"Is there a standard of measures for desire? It is a difficult thing to quantify." The beast wearing Livesay’s face paused to mull the concept a moment. "Perhaps, this would be a better way to explain it. I desire peace more than I desire to end your life. Though, killing you would likely be a fairly successful way to achieve it--albeit potentially temporary. That said; I think it fair to assume that there is most probably another way to come to a peaceful resolution and most certainly one more beneficial to your health. Would you agree?"

[Cinnabar]

There's a certain difficulty in attempting to read the body-language of such a creature, or trying to interpret the gestures and movements of something so strange, so alien. The High Constable tries, however, grey eyes flicking about the not-Livesay's form, with limited success. Still, there's speech where posture fails, and he tilts his head lightly as the Baie makes its threats against the young man's life. That has a small, snorting breath pushed out through his nose, some slight deepening of his frown. That the creature speaks with him at all might be taken as some sign of... desperation? Fear? Why else would this thing, this monster that cares nothing for the lives of mere humans, attempt to sue for peace? Something stays the horror's hand, and that is perhaps comforting and worrying in equal parts. Still. While they're on speaking terms, the silver-haired young man might as well speak.

"The standard measure would be how much you are willing to give up for what you want." He settles his posture a little, fingertips tapping lightly on the end of that lever. "What you would sacrifice." A faint and humourless smile at that choice of words. Moderation in every movement, restraint in every gesture and expression and syllable. Controlled breaths, for all that his heart pounds in his chest. There is risk here. There is very real danger. But there is also opportunity.

"You want peace. And you can have it - but I want something in return." He licks his lips, gaze flicking briefly to Hecker's face, the fear that squeezes his eyes shut and creases his brow.

"Conditions. Terms, if you will."

[The Baie]

Cinnabar's fear was alive in the Baie's nostrils. The constable's quickened heart thumped in the creature's ears like war drums. The eyes of the Baie shifted toward the fingers tapping upon the lever. The meaning was not lost upon him.

The lawman made every effort to compose himself before the Baie and he did well. The monster's mind couldn't help but recall the last man that he had tried to speak to in this way. The Baie had received only stammered, one-word replies, interrupted by sessions of vomiting. Needless to say, it was a short conversation and, by comparison, Calomel was a grand oratist...and an audacious one.

The Baie's hand rested upon the skin of Hecker's neck and shoulder and there it stayed. The beast did not move it nor indicate toward it. But, were Cinnabar to pay attention, he would notice that the skin of the Baie's hand and the skin of Hecker's neck were starting to become one. The gap between palm and neck began to fill, taking on the appearance of the skin between webbed fingers. It continued to become more solid until the hand that rested upon the skin was, in many ways, no longer a foreign body at all; rather the two men were like conjoined twins, attached at the hand and neck. If there is pain, Hecker expressed none. It was as if the man felt nothing. Only fear.

"And what would you have, Cinnabar Calomel?"

[Cinnabar]

Calomel is, if nothing else, observant. Something about that tableau changes, some subtle shift, and though it takes a moment to notice that blurring of lines, when he does notice it his posture freezes for a moment, a second or two in which no breath is taken, no muscle moves, there is only revulsion and anger in his gaze. The moment passes, though, and pale eyes flick back to Constable Livesay's features, worn by something altogether wrong. A few breaths before he might trust himself to speak, but speak he does.

"I would have the names of your followers. All of them. I would have them pay for the atrocities they wrought in your name." Cold, his gaze, the pale grey of clouded ice over deep water. "I would have you gone from this place, or so deeply buried and for so long that it is the same thing. I would have your touch upon Myrken erased, your name lost, the fear of you faded and diminished, every trace of your presence scattered and forgotten as if you were never here." Quite the speech, and delivered quickly as if he dares not trust his own voice, but clear, level words falling into the still, blood-scented air once after the other. And when they are done, when there is a pause for breath, he holds onto that silence for a time before offering one more thought.

"Isn't that the sort of peace you seek? Obscurity?"

[The Baie]

The Baie couldn't help but laugh at the litany of "terms." Audacity, indeed.

"Perhaps we cannot have peace after all." The face of young Lyle Livesay grinned at Calomel. "For, I assure you, if your goal is the erasure of my existence, then hunting and killing those who follow me is the wrong means by which to achieve it."

"Have you spent any time in the countryside, Constable? In the fields, in the inns, at their dinner tables, all they discuss is death. Whether it be by war, by man, by monster, by disease, death is their constant focus, it seems. I am folklore to many now; a demon appeased by cutting the eyes from a goat before sewing seeds. The Order, as it remains, has dug deeper underground and I have stilled their murderous hand. Yet still you hunt for them.

"It is you, Calomel, who keeps this alive. You and a few other Myrkenfolk. You should focus on the larger troubles at hand--war and the like. Allow the Order to exist in peaceful silence. There will be no more death by its hand--at least, not upon my altar.

"What say you?"

[Cinnabar]

The High Constable's jaw clenches at the creature's mirth, but anger remains contained for the moment. A sharp shake of his head, though, at that proposal.

"That won't work. As long as there are members of the Order walking free, you will not be forgotten. You cannot be forgotten. It's... like a man in a room with a venomous snake; his trying to ignore the serpent doesn't stop it being there, and it doesn't remove his fear that it will bite. Especially if it has struck before." Does that work? Does that explain things?

"Once bitten, once that pain has been suffered, the fear becomes a sort of madness; he cannot rest until the serpent is truly gone, is found and destroyed, because the first wound was too deep, too painful, too awful to risk suffering another like it. You see?" Firm on that point, trying to convince this horror, this abomination of the facts of the matter. Almost earnest in his attempt to convey the truth of it.

"Your followers have caused too much hurt to be allowed to go free. No number of assurances and promises from you can provide the certainty that comes from their deaths. That is the only reassurance that can be accepted. And it is only with that reassurance that there can be peace."