A Letter for Cinnabar

[Tolleson]

A letter would be sent, in fine but clearly left-handed script, sealed and addressed to one Ser Cinnarbar Calomel.

Dear Ser Calomel,

First, I am to apologize - that I should have come to see you in person regarding this delicate matter. Catch is a dear friend and has long been a concern for me and for our friend Glenn as well. Glenn seems to think you and I are aligned in disposition. If I have understood your approach correctly, it is a method stoutly support. I should like to meet with you at your earliest convenience and coordinate our efforts. It is my earnest hope that you allow me to assist with forthcoming endeavors.

Sincerely and may the Gods be good to you,
Genevieve Tolleson

Post Script - I should be with the Inquisitory. Though, if not Glenn's office, find me at the library.

[Cinnabar]

Miss Tolleson

Thank you kindly for your letter. I shall call upon you at the Inquisitory in order that we might discuss matters in more detail.

CC

It's not without some degree of wariness that the once-Governor knocks at the Inquisitory door, in the clean but hard-wearing garb that's almost becoming a new uniform for him.

His correspondent's describing Catch as a dear friend is perhaps a sign of potential difficulty, because no doubt she would hold her own opinions as to... well, the man's nature, the threat he poses, and how best he might be treated. Aligned in disposition or no, there would almost certainly be points on which they disagreed. It could only be hoped that they would not be irreconcilable.

The door opens, and he lifts his hat politely.

"Cinnabar Calomel, for Genevieve Tolleson. I believe I'm expected."

[Tolleson]

Just inside the door stands a woman, dressed well but in clothes that show winkles, a testament to hours of study. Creases in the gown lay over where her lap would be when sitting, and down her back from leaning in a chair. Though overly tall, she is much less awkward and more a woman now than when last she met the former Governor, years ago now. When the now-Govenor was just a young mapmaker. Still, her hair has been put into a messy bun, strands of red jutting out, her freckled face stuck in the book she carries open in her left hand. Clean and smelling pleasantly of orange and spice, she is none-the-less a hapless mess.

It is a moment still that she continues to read, until the knock is answered and it's cause identified. A measure of apologetic surprise strikes her and wide, green eyes jump off the page, up to find the source.

"Oh, I am so sorry... Mister Calomel, yes... yes, I am Genny. Please... uh... please come in."

Opening the door wider, she leaves a space that he might pass, before she can return it shut. It might come as no surprise that the extension of the Govenor's office was bustling, though sparsely populated. Everyone had something to do and somewhere to be.

"Or... if you prefer somewhere else, I... I can get my coat?"

[Cinnabar]

"Miss Tolleson, good morning." Well-mannered as ever, a small bow offered for her and a glance for the rest of the room, perhaps a nod of acknowledgement to those researchers he recognised. There's a notable absence, though, which has him fearing the worst. "Is there any word on Maxwell's condition?" With luck his absence only meant that he was on assignment; perhaps out investigating something... quiet. Undemanding.

As to the venue for their talk, he considers alternatives for a moment but shakes his head. "It's rather cold out; I understand Glenn's moved his office to the Meetinghouse, though - is that room free?" He nods towards the door at the back, a little more private than the main room.

[Tolleson]

Delayed, she bows her head in reply; recovering with a meager and sweet, yet still apologetic smile.

"Maxwell," a slight lift of her brow at the inquiry, curious if there is some new information she does not yet know.

"He is to Westenford to... with Councilor Treadwell," a measured, standard response and the one she knew was likely not at all the information he sought.

It is perhaps his glance to the rest of the room or her desire to get to the meat of their conversation that she slides her open book, some small thing regarding old children's stories, onto what one can only assume is her desk. Several towers of tomes at least six or seven high create a wall at the edges of the littered desk - while one of the more impressive displays, hers will not be the only workspace donning a similar scene.

She would return her attentions to the man and with a slight fall of smile and a nod, begin leading him back to room. "If... if you mean his mind. I think it is... difficult to say."

Opening the door for him, polite, if not in the least ladylike.

"I for one am very curious to... to... speak with him upon his return."

[Cinnabar]

"His mind, yes. If he's well enough to make a trip like that" - And in company like that - "then he's doing better than last time I saw him. I'd not be surprised if there were, ah, lasting effects, though." Assaulted by Catch's tendrils, much as Cinnabar himself had been some months ago; to a greater extent, though, to the point where he'd been ranting shortly before he collapsed. It was a small wonder that he was even safe to be allowed out at all.

"In any case, hopefully the time away from Myrken does him some good. It's draining to be too deeply immersed in it all, hm?" Draining, maddening, dangerous.

The office door opened, he nods his thanks and steps inside.

"What sort of state was he in when they set out?"

[Tolleson]

Lips pursing, she stands at the door as he passed; the uncertainty of Maxwell's state is perhaps a point of contention as she mentions, "Glenn believed... he must have thought him well enough." Though what wrong he could have done to deserve such a punishment as traveling so far with Treadwell, well there was something she knew very little about.

At least he had gone down ranting, Genny herself had said nothing at all - her encounter with the madman's mind left her comatose upon contact. And the long-term effects, well, the full extent of the damage was yet to be seen.

"Yes...time... I should think time away from Myrken might do him good... though I," delicate, long fingers curled around the knob of the door and would pull it shut behind them as she gestured to a seat. Her pause somewhat more introspective than her usual difficulty completing a sentence.

"Rather than where, I-I am concerned that it is with the Councilor... if his mind... if he... Catch... C-Catch is not incredibly fond of Mister Treadwell." The door would be abandoned as she automatically went to the tea tray to find if the pot was still warm.

[Cinnabar]

Tea, and the former Governor's demeanour instantly brightens at the prospect. A civilised conversation, then. Excellent.

"I'll be honest and say that the Councilor wouldn't be my chosen travelling companion, but at the very least Maxwell will probably be, ah, well-provisioned." If not straining at the seams of his scholar's robes.

Direct mention of Catch provides an opportunity to open that discussion, in any case, and he accepts the offered chair after only a moment's hesitation - he's the visitor rather than the host, so providing hospitality isn't his responsibility. The thought is strangely liberating.

"How much else do you know about Catch?" A chance to test, perhaps, how her understanding of the addled man compares with his own. Almost certainly each will find gaps in their knowledge that the other can fill in.

[Tolleson]

A small laugh is concealed, not well, but the notion of being fed in the company of Treadwell is by far an understatement. How appropriate that the very meat shortage Maxwell was sent to remedy may well have been caused singlehandedly by his travel companion. That wasn't fair, it was even cruel to think it silently. So, her small chuckle aside she just flipped the cups and made no other comment.

"Likely... as much as you," her reply concerning Catch is not guarded, but her back it turned to him so while her words are mild, he might not see her expression. Holding the lid of a pot and pouring two cups, she stands near the wall, before a large table. The tea tray is well equipped, no cucumber sandwiches or anything, but sugar and honey, several delicate teacups, saucers, and spoons.

"The Gaol and ensuing quake, the statue, the horn... the grand underwater expedition," could one hear eyes rolling? "I witnessed first-hand at D-Descant's Ball... the light streamed out of his head. And again in the Dagger, when Gle-- Mister Burnie seemed to cause it... it... the light passed through me," head head shook slightly at the memory and the teapot was set down.

"I have read the files and... Aleksei's reports... even researched vague references to strange... old... i-impossible creatures in children's fairy stories," an amused sort of tone as she turned in place to face him, small silver prongs in hand. "Sugar?"

[Cinnabar]

He lifts a hand and shakes his head slightly at that offer of sugar, content to take the tea as it is. He listens politely, a slight sharpening of interest as she speaks of the light passing through her, a note made to explore that more thoroughly later on. For now he nods briskly.

"Mm. That's a narrative, certainly, and for the most part those reports focus on what he's done, what he can do. I'm interested to know what you've gleaned from those accounts - specifically with regard to what Catch is, or who he is." A test, of sorts, to gauge how well the young woman has analysed that information, whether she has drawn her own conclusions. Perhaps how closely she has considered the addled man's mind and motivations.

"Imagine that I know nothing of Catch - how would you explain him to me, without recounting his entire history? To help me understand him."

[Tolleson]

Sugar is not added then; not to his, nor to hers. Ever so carefully she would slip the cup, resting on it's saucer, from the tray; carrying it in both hands as though the thing were volatile and the slightest agitation would cause unimaginable tragedy. The distance to him was covered slowly, each step deliberate and measured. While in winter her bruises were covered, her well made boots with their numerous scuffs were some proof she is accustom to the perils of being clumsy.

Preceded by a thick aroma, the tea is black, hearty, and just warm, prepared sometime before their arrival. Not another word escapes until she has come to stop before him, holding out the offering with a small smile and an arched brow.

"An... interesting quandary." Interesting was a base description, the matter of explaining the enigma that was Catch was beyond complex, it bordered insanity itself.

If he took his tea she would turn to pull a chair near and prepare it, before going to gather her cup from the tray. Unlike a proper parlor or tearoom, the accommodations are less than ideal. A general purpose government space, it is far more utilitarian in purpose than comfort.

"I suppose... I think of Catch as... he is a being in a man's body, with recollection... the memories of ages and the... life experience of a child..." His motives were often noble, but ill-informed and based on fundamental needs. Which to her, at least, illustrated some basic developmental deficiency. He'd simply become what he was, unlike most every other person who had grown into themselves; made mistakes, been taught or learned right from wrong, witnessed, felt, and experienced joy, loss, frustration, sorrow, or love.

He was and he wasn't a child, just as he was and wasn't a man.

[Cinnabar]

The once-Governor accepts the teacup gladly, sitting up and reaching to spare Genny the last painstaking step or two. A murmured thanks, and he sips at the brew a moment after, listening carefully. For all that the room's amenities are sparse he seems entirely at home here, surrounded by the accumulation of knowledge represented by files and cabinets and books and reports. The Governor's eyes and ears, searching and sifting through all sorts of information in the hope of uncovering something useful.

Her explanation is simple in the extreme, to the point that his brows crease in a frown over the rim of his cup.

"That's very vague. He's an idiot with memories of ancient times - is that all? Why is there so much attention focused on him? What makes him so interesting to everyone, so important? Go into as much detail as you like." A moment's thought and he offers a few more questions, a few prompts. "Is he dangerous? What reason is there not to, say, lock him in manacles, or throw him in a dungeon, or simply execute him? Is it simply a matter of not having the strength, or is there a moral aspect to it?"

[Tolleson]

Again near the tray to recover her cup, she listens to the barrage of questions. At first the inquiries seem to trouble her as well.

Her attention snaps immediately back to the once-governor from where it had been lost in her teacup, deep in thoughts concerning the madman. The boiled down interpretation of him was such that she couldn't help but ponder the terms of his humanity, morality, and concepts the man himself would likely fail to grasp. Thinking, perhaps, that she was sparing Cinnabar details which he certainly already knew. The realization of the contrary has her brows relaxing but a moment later as she eases the saucer and cup free from the tray and begins her journey to join him. She had intended to answer the prompt succinctly, when in truth, Cinnabar had no need for the simple explanation. Just as he dissected the room from where he sat, he was studying her.

Her retort was almost reflexive, "he's not an idiot." Somewhat defensive, but on behalf of Catch rather than herself. Being called vague was far better than naive, and much more so than being downright ignored. After all, cooped up in the library or being sent on research errands, Genny was no Aleksei, and certainly no Glenn; try as she might.

The distance is crossed slowly before she came to her seat across from her guest. "An... idiot can't know better... I-I think Catch is very capable." Looking twice and sliding into the seat with great care, she let out a relieved yet somehow burdened sigh before jumping into addressing the prompts.

"He... the reasons, I believe, for the attention he gains... well they are not so different from why people think him important. He is... different, trusting, powerful... malleable." There is an angry pull at the corner of her lips, not for Cinnabar, but the memories informing her words. "We... he is easily manipulated, but ... unpredictably so."

The tea she holds in both hands, one for the cup and the other for the saucer, is ignored; frozen and abandoned just above her lap as all of her attentions are focused elsewhere.

"And... he is also important because he is dangerous... Any... any man with a weapon is dangerous, he might well be both... an ability to heal, an ability to destroy... capacities for great, unknown, ill-informed actions... a-affecting anything from one to ... all the people of the city," perhaps more. His reach was one among the many unknown things. There is a deep breath then, as if to conclude her rant; but ever a student of Glenn Burnie, she continued. "Here is a man... confused, constantly misguided. A-Aside from... the mere fact that we... lack the necessary resources, if any such actually exist, to-to... to restrain him. I very much doubt he can be killed."

A truly troubling thought for her, judging by the building of her pace, the anger and frustration growing in her voice, and the red burning under freckle dusted cheeks. The last wave comes after a short pause and a composing breath.

"You speak of... you...question morality as if it something we can simply discard. Passing whims... justified for whatever suits our purpose." Her eyes divert then, aside to the tea tray, as if accusing it of failing her. Though it is much more likely that despite her physical statue, she lacks the confidence to stand up and convey her beliefs, especially to the former Governor. "I... Mister Burnie is in a difficult position... I hope to help Catch understand who... stands with him, to teach him... to keep Glenn from ever having to make a choice I... I cannot agree with."

Returning her eyes then, more curious, somewhat deflated by her own inability to be subtle and observing. "Is this ...not your intent?"

[Cinnabar]

Ah. Now this was more like it, a much better insight into the young woman's thoughts on the matter. The former Governor visibly brightens, watching keenly as she speaks and nodding encouragement now and again when it seems she hesitates.

"Much better, thank you." He sips at his tea in thought for a moment as he considers her words and formulates his reply. More animated, pleased, even.

"I'd disagree in some regards. First and foremost, Miss Tolleson, he's not a child. He can be childlike, in that his understanding is often limited and emotions frequently dominate his actions. Emotions which are primal and intense - fear, anger, sadness, affection." The bewilderment, the flashes of petulance or rage, childish defiance and testing of boundaries. "He has the life experiences of a madman - it's how he's most often treated, hm? An oaf too muddled in the head to understand the world around him, which draws kindness from some people and cruelty from others."

Another taste of that tea, strongly-brewed and invigorating, before settling the cup back in its saucer for the moment.

"I've made some observations in my own experiences with him." Laid out as a list, of sorts, fingers unfolding to count off the points.

"He's a creature of substantial power; he's mad, to a greater or lesser extent from moment to moment, and is thus erratic; this is likely due to some ordeal he's suffered in the past - quite likely the same one that got him that scar; he talks of men going into his head with glass knives; he is old, quite possibly one of the oldest living things in the province or beyond. I'm aware of some rivals he may have in that category, but even so."

Memories of a Golden City lost to history, conflict - perhaps the first conflict - between those who chose civilisation and those who chose the wilds. But a digression, and he continues counting, hand closing in a fist and starting over when he runs out of fingers.

"He is generally well-intentioned - it's not his nature to hurt others deliberately, but if threatened or agitated he may lash out, and for a being of his ability that is incredibly dangerous for anyone nearby. There are also things which, innocuous in themselves, remind him of past hurts and he reacts accordingly; I'm not sure it's possible to anticipate or avoid those before the damage is done. Other times he has beliefs - that the Governor is full of worms, for instance - and doesn't understand that acting on those beliefs will cause harm to others. And, as you say, he is malleable - or at least, he's very trusting, and that can be abused. To the peril of those making the attempt, I believe, because it doesn't always give the desired results."

Quite a speech, a detailing of the addled man's distinguishing aspects - or those most pertinent to discussion of what to do with him.

"As for morality, no, you're quite correct; it's not something to be discarded for the sake of expedience." Not what she'd said outright, but her tone had been clear enough. "I don't believe Catch should be imprisoned or executed, for both practical and moral reasons - partly because we can't, but mainly because we shouldn't.

"But neither should we allow him to remain a danger to the people around him."

[Tolleson]

A great relief washes over the slightly younger woman and it is apparent in the relaxing muscles of her face, her posture, down to the very tea which is finally brought to her lips. Sips are taken here and again as she listens; the gesture is idle, almost mechanical. Every now again she’ll nod as well, finding the man’s understanding of Catch to mirror her own in most respects.

There is a nod at his thanks, content that she has provided a more useful response this time.

“Indeed, I rather agree with you... I-I do not think it is wise to… mistake him for a child either.” Though she had explained him this way to those who knew little about him, there was a distinct difference. A difference Cinnabar seemed quite adept at outlining, his eloquence turning the redhead’s frustrated frown to a small, amicable smile.

Lowering her tea into the paused state, she hesitated before speaking again. “I suspect, much like our… our dear Renea, p-people do not know what to make of him… how to… interact with him. As you say, he is erratic, well-intentioned, and… very like a child,” because of his traumatic history and the memories that haunt him. “He is susceptible to … for lack of a better term, tantrums… that are escalated due to his substantial power.”

The tea’s potency does not surprise her, perhaps because it is the lifeblood sustaining her. She is thin by nature but lacks a healthy presence – her eyes are tired and a slight hollow in her cheeks shows the early damage of insubstantial and infrequent meals. The likely culprit is absentminded neglect rather than poverty or intentional starvation.

As for Glenn being full of worms, “his beliefs… I… I often find myself thinking he truly sees more in people.” It is an off-handed comment as she lifts the tea to her lips and takes the smallest of sips.

“I-In Thessilane, before… the Lady’s child was born,” she spoke here of Lamai, with the assumption that the birth of the heir was widespread news. “Catch …appeared and murdered innocent guards, he… he attacked house staff and… nearly killed Christoph… and I… he does not even recall it as more than a dream.” Idly her left hand will abandon the teacup and touch her throat before continuing.

Her words are impassioned but with every attempt to remain composed. Recalling the addled man’s wild eyes and vice like grip on her throat is a potent memory, enough to make the tea tremble as she shudders.

“He speaks often... of fixing people, and I... I am not sure that such a thing can truly be done.” A sigh, because, well, wouldn’t that be so much easier – just make people how one thought they ought to be.

“He is dangerous and… I-I have no great certainty that there is a way for us to help him,” it was a devastating and troubling thought; if he couldn’t be killed, and shouldn’t be restrained, and refused to learn. What more was there? No, it was a string of conjecture she didn’t dare follow for the dark and hopeless future that it foretold.

“I have done some research and… I think it wise to learn his origins,” as best they were able of course. “And… document as we have, his… triggers. “ There is doubt in her voice, but still the words come out; as naively optimistic as they may seem. “W-we can also help him… t-teach him how to control his own mind.”

It was a great risk, was it not? Showing the man the weapon, finding and then explaining how to use it. What other options did they have?