A visit to the new Marshal.

[channe]

It was beyond time.

A conversation on a cold, windswept night, near the forest fence; an exchanging of words. It wasn't enough, and the newly-minted Missus River (and, oh, doesn't that still throw her for a loop) has been on horseback with a small patrol, looking for the promised refugees from Derry as the days grew more and more bitter. And today the patrol takes them near vast, bustling Darkenhold; today, the patrol, all four of them, ride straight up to the door.

"Chairwoman River, to see the Marshal," she says.

[Carnath-Emory]

Two weeks ago, they'd have had a better welcome. Four months ago, it might've been an occasion for feasts and general celebration, Darkenhold at that point being a simpler place and so steeped in quiet industry that almost any excuse for festivities would have been acceptable. But today the Chairwoman's entourage is visited with something other than confetti and tall cakes; it is a cautious and considering welcome they receive, due largely to an excess of assassins and thieves, and the instructions of a 'Siris who has lately grown rather dour.

Still: might the Chairwoman's accompaniment care for some sort of refreshment while they wait? The stables might be found over there, of course, a direction towards which this leather-clad creature will escort them, but once the mounts are seen to they will find him all too willing to lead all three of them to the kitchens. A lunch has been filling hungry stomachs there for the better part of an hour, do they see? And is likely to continue doing so for some time yet, so perhaps they will all head in that direction - directly through the foyer, where a storage rack awaits their weapons.

The Chairwoman herself is another matter entirely, and not only because the title draws more recognition than the name does. River? Really. But no-one anticipated - really? Imagine. Might her visit involve the refugees? For there are some preparations made and perhaps later she might care to tour these; in the meantime, she need only step into the foyer's sudden warmth herself, a place of abundant torchlight and windows shuttered against the winter chill, and if she will just follow a kind lady down this corridor she will be led to an unassuming door, a room of such modest dimensions.

Its hearth is already high with flames.

[channe]

A hearth with flames; a welcoming heat. Agnieszka Kaczmarek River didn't expect a ribbon-parade when she arrived at Darkenhold for the first time, but then, for a woman who has spent the entire morning patrolling the freezing borderlands, a fire is welcome enough.

Her visit, the woman says graciously, only tangentially involves the refugees; she is absolutely thrilled that Darkenhold will shelter so many desperate souls wishing to escape from the awful regime of Duke Burel. But her visit, she says, is primarily to speak with the new Marshal. A social visit, then; socially professional. Agnieszka has learned professional from Glenn Burnie. Agnieszka has learned professional from Aleksei River. A few years ago, Agnieszka would have punched them both in the face numerous times for being, ahem, "asshats," but now she serves one without question and has married another. Razasan, of course, fell between --

-- but here, she is thanking them, and taking off her coat, and entering the room with a quiet smile for the fire.

[Carnath-Emory]

Fire is always welcome - confined to the hearth where it belongs, of course. Warmth is excessively welcome, in this place which is sometimes a stronghold and always a home, and at any time of the year at all. But this she knows, of course, this Chairwoman River, for whom this is not precisely a first visit. Nor is it likely to be the last, for there are certain odd mechanisms involved in the generating of this place's pervasive warmth, means which extend far beyond an excess of fireplaces, and there is a swordswoman who wishes very much to have this Chairwoman's husband to visit a second time, just so that Betzalel may give him a tour of these things. "Engineering", Aleksei River had said, and for this word she'd required no explanations at all; her smile had been immediate and delighted.

But that is for later, and this is to be a meeting which tends towards very different purposes indeed. So that the Chairwoman has been given a good room in which to wait, but nothing so imposing as the library might have been - and in any case, her wait is not to be very long at all, for see? The door's already opening to admit a swordswoman who is all loose linens and too-long hair, and under one arm such a bundle of fabric.

"Chairwoman." The smallest motion at her mouth's corner, something like smiling as if just days ago they hadn't been shouting treason. "Come. The coat can be anywhere; sit you down and we shall have something warm for your throat. This winter is already intolerable. You won't object if I work a moment as you settle? For you see," explanation, as she marches to one of the room's longer walls, there to catch up a stool with a spare hand, "this is but newly arrived and I cannot quite resist it." There's no mistaking the smile this time, even as she climbs herself up onto that stool, there to shake fabric loose from its folds; it is a sudden shower of pale cream cotton marked over in thin ink.

[channe]

"I know, right? Chairwoman." Unbelievable. Ridiculous. Hadn't she just been an upstart, barely fifteen, walking around with her mother's long kitchen knife? "And you -- Marshal." Completely unbelievable. But yet --

-- and so she's dragging off the coat, placing it nicely by the fire to dry it; and as she settles herself comfortably in the chair she watches Ariane. Templing her fingers, leaning forward a bit, she turns her head to one side -- "I didn't know you were one for seamstressing," she said.

[Carnath-Emory]

Hadn't they both been? The upstart with her mother's kitchen knife; the very young bride, fleeing her father's House and already bloodstained. Perhaps their view upon Myrken Wood is peculiar by common standards. 'Nightmarish', she'd said to the new Governor and more than once, but - 'Opportunity', she'd said as well, over and over. Imagine, that a place so steeped in bloodshed had bestowed upon errant two girls something like legitimacy.

A flicker of a grin, right across one shoulder. "Nor am I. I think to such a thing Calomel would have me say: 'I have people for that'," and if nothing else the swordswoman's a good mimic; it's a decent Cinnabar, right down to the little twist of the mouth when he says something he finds particularly amusing. "Sera Glour'eya. Do you know her? But I think everyone must," as she bends to tug upon a drawer, and what her hand emerges with is a short, stubby hammer and a palmful of dull gleam. "She writes the most singular letters."

Straightening then, with some of those nails bit between her lips and the last of them applied to fabric: two solid thumps secure its leftmost corner up against the wall.

"What will you drink? There are several things," thump! "some of them good, some of them, mm - " thump! " - acquired," and it's laughter then as she smooths fabric with a sweep of the palm, dropping down from the stool all over again. "But I imagine this is no casual visit." It never has been, not between these two. There's not laughter nor mimicry nor liquor enough in all the world to quite disguise that fact. And despite it - or to spite it - she's dropped into a loose crouch here against the wall, tugging fabric until the thread threatens to pull and warp: "So. Begin when you're - " thump! " - when you're ready to."

And this might be the time, for the swordswoman's straightening and setting that hammer aside at last; is withdrawing to examine the handiwork with a speculative tilt of the head. With the smallest of satisfied smiles, as well, for what has she hung upon her wall but a map of Myrkentown? Ink upon fabric, except for those blind areas where there's nothing marked at all; detailed down to the street-names where it can be, and the whole of it encircled by that ringwall, dark and stern.

Oh, considerable satisfaction.

[channe]

She lights up immediately, her eyes wide. "Oh," she breathes, "that is awesome -- I need one of those, with tacks --"

But before that, first things are first things, and she pauses that thought, saying something about whiskey will do, thanks, and then Ariane basically says that they can move on past the small talk. Well. That's fine -- Agnie's not one for small talk, either. Funny, that they share so much, sometimes --

-- "Thessilane," she says, after hesitating. This was obviously not the first thing she wanted to say. "Kerrak says the Duke won't try to take Myrken. I think he's full of bullshit. He wants Amasynia, he has to go through Myrken. He wants Heath, he has to go through Myrken. Even if he gots the channelers. It's just sound tactics, you know?" She takes a breath. "And you know why we gotta talk alone before we have this conversation with him. You know that."

[Carnath-Emory]

"It's incomplete." But oh, the satisfaction; it lingers, small and fierce in her eyes, in the straight lines of her spine, even as she backs away a pace or three to properly view what she's hung; it shapes the sudden grin lanced back towards the other woman. "But you see that: these empty spaces. The storehouses," fingers brush lightly across featureless fabric. "Large and small; you know the district, I imagine. There's a maze of alleyways there, knit as tight as winter wool, and they leave it unmarked because they're unsure of the lay. They do not quite dare explore properly, mn? And who could fault them that. Other things - here, and here, but this, they tell me, is only because the rows are never quite the same from one month into the next: homes change hand between one family and another, homes become compounds, compounds fall to flame; no, that whole area is more the Constabulary's business than mine.

"This - is a beginning." As she backsteps towards the other seat, one slow step and then another, small with her nod now. "A well enough start."

After a time there comes a person to the door: a light tap of knuckles, and her hand will pause Agnieszka's words just long enough to echo her request; they will not resume their conversation until the door has closed again in a sweep of woolen skirts and tiny beads. It is, in its way, a welcome respite for a swordswoman who in the very same moment knows too little and far too much. There are lips half-parted upon the verge of an interruption; which close against those words after all, uneven with thought as the Chairwoman continues. Channelers. Tactics.

Myrken as a byroad.
Myrken as the steel upon the anvil.

"I'd thought," she begins slowly, "that you'd come to speak of Renne." It is the smallest smile. "Did you know this? That sometimes, Agnieszka - mm, often - I am so very glad to be mistaken. To be absolutely wrong. Amasynia," and there is a musing sound to it, soft and solemn. "Heath. You're right: I speak of this with you before I address Kerrak at all. So.

"Tell me your thoughts on this."

[channe]

A guilty look crosses the girl's face -- she can't help but look away, then, before she focuses her eyes back on the map on the wall. Not on Ariane, no, not yet -- "That's next," she says, quietly.

A pause. Her eyes fix on the Marshal's. "But we'll give that a moment. I --" she pauses, as if she's not sure, and then she shakes cobwebs from her mind. "My thoughts. You don't get to be as batshit as the Crimson Fuckin' Duke without wanting to take over the whole shebang. Anything that's our lord Chedwry's -- anything. And as much as we're the redheaded stepchild o' Trae Kelsa, we still belong to him."

She rises, walking up to the map, letting her eyes rest on the town. The undrawn alleys; the market spaces; the ink surrounding the rich, quiet streets where Kelsaen House lies. "The battles'll all be won before they begin. You agree?"

[Carnath-Emory]

It is not the words which have left Ariane's features so solemn. It is not even the quietness with which they're spoken, although that takes its toll. It is the look which the girl wears as she says this small, small thing; it is that she averts her eyes as she says it. And it is only a hammerfall disguised as gentleness, and that is a thing so familiar that she can make her own words into a sentence which required completion; adds, smoothly as this: ".. but it's not very often that I'm mistaken," and like the quietness of what laughter follows, this has the ring of old inevitabilities.

"Batshit," when she's returned to her seat; the narrow body finds some slouching angle there, all long boneless lines and eyes fixed quiet upon the Chairwoman. "Really. Its meaning? But I think you may have the right of it. There are two ways to look at what Derry has become. The one perspective: that a years-long siege was everything the Duke had wished to avoid; if that's so, be assured that he'll have learned something from it, that he will not have his advances stagnate so dangerously a second time. The other - "

A necessary pause, as a person returns with glass things and plates: a small clutch of these set upon the worn tabletop near where Agnieszka stands, all amounting to decanter and water-pitcher and an assortment of winter fruits. A necessary pause. Also a welcome one. By the time the door's swung closed again she's already reaching for an apple.

"The other - mm. Complicated." It's an echo of a smile, worn by a woman who's already taking a knife to this fruit. "You imagine it will be the Aegis, then? The channelers?"

[channe]

"Derry --" she exhales, annoyance crossing her face. "Derry. Derry has -- had -- everything we don't. A strong fortress a' the center of all things. A professional military. Clear support from Razasan. Well." She pauses. "Not so clear. But more than us at least." Her own fingers reach out to snag fruit of her own, and she stares at the map, searching for something. Finally, she'll look to Ariane --

-- "Why wouldn't he? It's what I would do. Send in the Aegis. Try to get a bloodless surrender. If not --" she sighs, biting her bottom lip. "Make it bloodless on my own side. The Aegis."

[Carnath-Emory]

Derry. The Aegis. Words that hint at a hundred small, crucial details and most of them yet to be mentioned at all. She is content for the moment to let them be what they are; to defer questions in favour of watching, for that girl has fixed such a studious frown upon the map which spans that wall. It is not what one might expect from Agnieszka Kaczmarek, but then hadn't she always been underestimated? Except for in her worst aspects, and then opinion typically swung the other way entirely...

It has, for a very long time, been the swordswoman's habit to avoid repeating that error herself. And so: these eyes, this quiet, which a Chairwoman may fill with any words that she likes; these questions, when it seems they might be useful or when clarification is actually essential. Now, for instance:

"And that is the other perspective. You imagine that he would use the Aegis as a weight upon scales, mn? As information: this is what awaits you, province, should you choose against capitulation. You might consider Derry as a second such weight: not information but a practical demonstration." It is speculation. And it is only the half of where such thoughts lead, but that is not for conversation - not in this room, not with this Chairwoman, and very much because the Crimson Duke is so many things - but he is also her friend.

In that light, how bloodless this conversation feels.

"A conflict which has lasted overlong costs. But in that respect it also becomes valuable. The eyes of each province fix upon Derry's refugees, and when they calculate it is with the sight of them in mind. As you said: the battles might be won at a table before swords are ever drawn."

[channe]

Bloodless.

May the Bright One keep it so.

"Yes. But I'm worried." She bites her bottom lip and looks back at Ariane. "One thing I've never understood about Burel is -- well." She pauses, searching for the words. "He has such power at his fingers. Such -- death." Destruction. Oh, Agnie has taken those field trips to Golben, and Ariane had seen the ruins of Orvere with her own eyes. Both of them watched the madness consume Kerrak. "My lord the King is powerful indeed. He has forces at his beck and call that nobody don't know about. But the Aegis." Another pause, and seriously, now -- "Why hasn't he gone straight up against the King? Why play around in Derry like this?"

[Carnath-Emory]

My lord the King.

And that is the question which hangs unspoken between them. Perhaps Agnieszka feels the weight of it; perhaps she does not know that it exists. Perhaps they have silently circled it all this time.

It will have its place. Not in this moment, but perhaps the next...

"What the Duke has told us is that he has no wish to lay waste to Trae Kelsa. Yes? Not in whole; not even in part - if we accept that Derry is a demonstration. So."

The pitcher in her hand; she fills Agnieszka's glass and then her own, leaving a third empty yet in case the Chairwoman might want for something more invigorating than water.

"So. Today, you are the King. You have permitted one province to fall to the Duke's long efforts, and now the Aegis is come upon you with all its terrible might. You are powerful indeed; you have forces at your mm - beck and call, yes? If you have not prevented the Aegis' approach then you must answer it with force - now, here - or else you must fall. The only question left to you - my lord the King," a small, hard smile, "is whether the capital will be crushed during the Aegis' annihilation."

Some easy lean against a wall covered with maps; the water-glass lifted like a small salute.

"Do you not suppose the Duke shares this concern? Oh, Agnieszka, I give your question back to you: your lord the King is powerful beyond reckoning, but he has given away Derry like a gift."

[channe]

That's a very interesting question, isn't it?

"I --" she stops, and her eyes go unfocused for a moment, searching back through the two years she'd had in Razasan, of what she knew of the King, and of Constantine Kostroma, and of the things that still rage in her heart -- and finally, she looks back at Ariane. She reaches for the third glass; and, yes, something dark amber and a little more potent than water.

"I can only guess," she says, narrowing her eyes at the map, "and my guesses are shitty, so -- um. The King doesn't care about Derry? But he does, so --" a pause. "I can only imagine he has something up his sleeve to counter the Aegis."


(OOC note: I love how "because nobody was playing Razasan at the time" works into delicious plottiness. )