Sventon's Decision

[Sventon]

He stood in the cold outside of the Governor's office door in a long, olive-and-grey coat with his eyes on the ground, heaving like he'd been racing. There was a glaze of snow across his hunched shoulders, the wind tossing his dark hair into a frenzy of distraught patterns. He was as thin and pale as he was when Cinnabar released him back into the world all those months ago; not only had he been released from the small room, deep ruminations and long conversations -- but he'd also been set free of his blackest, most desperate fears.

Hans Sventon had not returned until this very day, until this very moment; he found himself leaning on the door as he earnestly knocked. There'd always been an air of young, raw impatience about him. During his captivation, it had stemmed greatly from terror and hopelessness. Now there was something else, something that drove him forward rather than backward.

"Sir?!"

It was a wonder how he was pounding to be let inside this time, rather than screaming to be let out.

"Sir, are you there!"

The town wall gave the sun a new horizon, and its lifeless, winter rays were barely high enough to brighten the streets. It was very early. He knocked fast, and without so much as a pause to listen for footfalls:

"Is anyone there at all?!"

[Cinnabar]

"Hans?"

It's early in the morning, and so in truth the Governor's only just arriving at his office; fresh from blade-training, and wrapped up warm against the still-falling snow and chill north winds. He approaches from the street to this smaller door, one of the side-entrances to the Constabulary buildings from which Calomel performs his duties, and is reaching into his pocket for a key as he regards the young cordwainer curiously, though not unkindly. Sventon is one of the Governor's more successful projects, weeks and months of painstaking work to strip away the layers of the cult's teachings and indoctrination and fear. To give him the resolve to make his own way out of that dark place.

"It's been a while, sir. How's your mother doing? Excuse me." A nod towards the door at last, waiting for the young man to step aside so that he can put that key to use. Some closer inspection of the young man's demeanour in the moment after, smile fading slightly.

"There's not any trouble, is there?"

[Sventon]

The fist stopped pounding.

"My mother - !"

The young man quickly turned about to see Cinnabar Calomel, and his lanky features filled with relief. He forced himself into awkward composure.

"She is doing very well, thank you."

She would not be alive today if not for Calomel's concerns during the last, brittle winter. Hans felt certain of this. On sight of Cinnabar's diminishing smile, he lifted a hasty hand to dismiss the worry.

"Upon my honour: there is no trouble, sir," his dark eyes - previously engrossed with everything but contact - finally raised to assure this promise. Then he shuffled from the Governor's path, as not to keep him from gaining entry into his own office, while voicing a frosty mumble of an afterthought: "At least, not the lawless kind."

"I am sure that you are very busy, and I know that I should have sent some sort of request for a visit - " He rushed on while Cinnabar went about the business of key and lock; his fervour, at least, was a constant -- before and after all that he'd been through at the hands of cultists and constables alike.

In truth, Cinnabar was lucky that he'd not found the door to his own house plagued by fists and shouts several hours ago -- for it was hours ago that Hans was compelled to see him; fortunately, he had some distance to cover and at least a moderate amount of restraint.

" -- but I need so very much to speak with you, sir."

[Cinnabar]

"She is? Good to hear." A pleasant enough lady, and one fortunate enough to have a caring son. One that she'd not lost to the Baie's cult, or to those who'd see that cult eradicated no matter the cost. Not the lawless kind of trouble, he says; that warrants a curious glance, wondering exactly what the lawful kind of trouble entails.

The door's opened in the meanwhile, as the Governor listens to his visitor; an intense young man, perhaps all the more so nowadays. A renewed appreciation for what he has to live for, following a timely reminder of such. A shrug at that mention of appointments or whatnot, hand waved with a grin as he pushes the door open and steps through.

"It's first thing in the morning, I've got some time before things get busy. Please, come in. We can talk in my office."

[Sventon]

"Thank you," he breathed and followed Cinnabar inside with a humbly lowered head; his apparent failure with a comb was no longer punctuated by the wind once they were indoors. There were two possibilities that might have explained the calm that came over him: being assured of an audience, and a peculiar power that Cinnabar had gained over him during their time together. This power had nothing do with foul magicks and everything to do with confident charisma.

Hans smothered a cough into his grey-gloved fist and peered around the office. Now that he had his attention, he did not rush the matter; he waited for the silver-haired Governor to situate himself.

Even if he was offered a seat, he would politely decline - shifting his feet in mild discomfort. The weight of this matter influenced him with restless motions, and he began to draw some crushed shape of parchment out of his coat's pocket.

[Cinnabar]

Inside, up the stairs and into Calomel's office, shelves and cabinets and a sturdy desk in the middle of it all. There's a moment as the Governor shrugs off his coat and hangs it up, hat and scarf to follow, then he's moving around the desk to take his seat, shuffle a few papers out of the way and then focus his attention upon the young man before him.

Hans' opting to remain standing prompts a raised brow, but a shrug soon after, before he folds his hands on the desk in front of him. Quiet, composed, and more than a little curious. A glance for that parchment being retrieved from his pocket, which may well be the reason for Sventon's being here.

"So, how can I help?"

[Sventon]

"I will tell you my trouble, sir. When I finally put my head down on my pillow at the end of a long day, I can not sleep a wink," he confessed. "My experiences, between you and the Order, have left me with feelings that I can not ignore. I can not go on this way! There is but one remedy, If you will allow it..."

Hans glanced down at the partially unfolded parchment, then up at Cinnabar with a determined expression; he went on, perhaps interupting forthcoming questions or statements from the Governor. He placed a fist to his heart.

"I, Hans Sventon of Myrken Wood, do solemnly swear upon my name and upon my honour that I will serve the Governor of Myrken Wood in the office of Constable of Myrkentown; that I will uphold the laws of the Territory ... "

It really wasn't the proper way to state his intentions; perhaps it was to be reserved for a special ceremony. He assumed a great deal with this recital.

" .. of Myrken Wood with fairness, impartiality, honesty and rigour; that I will do all in my power to keep the Peace, and to prevent all unlawful acts against persons.. and property; and that while I continue to serve as Constable I will faithfully perform all duties thereof to the best of my skill and ability."

[Cinnabar]

Concern and sympathy at Sventon's talk of sleeplessness, of troubled feelings. Given what he has seen, what he has witnessed and experienced, this is perhaps unsurprising. Unfortunate, but unsurprising.

At this next, though, the reading from the scrap of parchment, the recital of the Constabulary Oath... that prompts a blink from the Governor, and an altogether more curious appraisal of the young man. Now this is interesting, and encouraging as well; it had required careful effort to draw the man away from the cult's teachings; it had required taking him apart, scouring him of the Order's tainted views before he could be put back together; a rebirth, of sorts, to turn him from fearful zealot to something - someone - more himself. More his own person, rather than the servant of a monster that would be worshipped as a god.

This, though. This would seem to imply that Calomel's efforts were considerably more effective than first impressions would indicate, now that the young man has been given a chance to return to his life, to consider how close he came to losing it. Something stronger shines in Hans Sventon's heart now, fiercer even than his fear-born devotion to the Baie had burned.

Quiet for a few moments after the cordwainer finishes his oath, grey eyes keen upon Hans' own. Considering, weighing, measuring.

"I see." Solemn, as this moment dictates; one does not speak such a vow lightly, after all, and so it deserves a certain degree of respect. Eventually, though, a nod, and a small smile.

"I accept your oath, Hans Sventon, and believe that you will be a credit to the Constabulary. What sort of duties do you feel most suit your abilities?"

[Sventon]

I accept your oath ..


Hans' shoulders heaved with scarcely concealed relief, and he carefully put the paper away in his coat. He did not smile at this news, but his face held a look of very sincere gratitude.

"Thank you, sir," was his controlled reply -- done with monsters, done with false gods; he wanted to make sure that others had the same chance that he'd been given, and help the Governor in his efforts. Dark eyes betrayed nothing but his honest desire to be a part of something better.

"I am not the strongest of men," he stated after some hesitation; even now, his chest was rattling with a winter cold. No amount of meat and potatoes had ever managed to broaden his size. "Perhaps I could serve you by finding out those who would not be found out. I know that the past says otherwise, but I am not a fool."

Not much thought had been given to how, precisely, he meant to be of use to the Constabulary; he hadn't expected to get this far this quickly. He's anticipated at least a small amount of convincing, if not outright pleading for a chance. Not just any man would have given Hans, of all people, an opportunity like this. He did not lie to himself, either: he did want to help this town, but he was also searching for some form of redemption.

"I should like very much to do something like that, sir."

[Cinnabar]

Calomel nods at the young man's words, thinking for a time. "You're not a fool if you can realise when you've been tricked." Encouragment, perhaps. Or at least understanding.

"I'll speak with the Chief Detective Constable, in that case; I'm sure he can find a use for you, though I can guarantee it won't be easy. There's training that all Constables have to go through, and even as a Detective you'll be expected to put in your time on the streets like the rest." Businesslike now, briskly setting out the pertinent information. "I can't promise that you'll be on the exciting cases straight away, of course - that's the luck of the draw, for the most part. But you'll be assigned to a partner who'll show you how things are done, so the first while will be a matter of learning what the job involves, which is interesting enough." A wry smile at that, as if the word "interesting" hides a multitude of things.

"Talk to the desk sergeant in the lobby downstairs, and he'll be able to point you towards the relevant people to get yourself properly signed up. That's one thing you'll learn quickly enough - procedure is king. Keeps things running smoothly." A broader grin there, and then he's rising from his seat, hand held out across his desk.

"Welcome to the Constabulary."

[Sventon]

"Detective," he excitedly echoes, before he can stop himself. Hans then lifts an apologetic hand and nods repeatedly throughout this length of information and instruction, careful to restrain any more outbursts that threaten to present themselves.

Once Cinnabar is clearly done and reaches across the desk for his hand, he quickly reaches out to shake it - mouthcorner twitching, but not quite cracking into a smile. "Thank you, sir. Thank you. I'll make you proud."

With that, the young man turns around and shuffles out of the office with his coat, pulling the door closed behind him -- as not to keep the Governor from the far more pressing duties that he can imagine must encompass heaps and heaps of paper.

As instructed, he heads to the man down the stairs so that he can begin his first day as a constable!