Edification

[Glenn]

Another day passes and another letter is written. It is an enjoyable new hobby for the young man, recently returned to Myrken and one that his Lady encourages thoroughly. In this case, she encouraged him to write it three times until he had all of the spelling right and the handwriting smooth.

Mister Duquesne,

Please excuse any clumsiness in this request. I am but recently returned to Myrken Wood after years away and I am still growing in my letter-writing. My name is Elliot Gahald and I am a knight in the service of Lady Rhaena Olwak. A fine gentleman, Mister Marek Waldemar, has suggested the following book for me to read: Kroup's De Historia Amasiniensis. He has said there is value in many translations so I would be interested in borrowing any translations that you might have at Darkenhold. I would be happy to come get these translations. I am eager to see Darkenhold.

Thank you,
Elliot Gahald

[Duquesne]

The boy finally found his employer in the forge and, as it is his job here at Darkenhold, he delivers a letter. For his diligence, he receives his shiny silver coins and nearly trips on his way out, for his eyes are eagerly glued to his palm -- three shiny silver coins, square and fine, glitter there. Strange coins from distant places.

When the lad has gone, the man's attention finally rises from the gear-shape he had carved from candle wax. He lowers his tools and takes the letter, opens it and reads. The characters are well-made, practiced, though their composition is unfamiliar among the banks of his memory. Thus when this mysterious writer introduces himself in the second line, the architect straightens somewhat upon his creaking stool.

A subtle knit forms on his brow. Elliot wrote as if they were unacquainted, as if he had never seen the Hold. Elliot wrote asking for books.

After reading it over three times, the man lowers the letter to the workbench and stares at the personality of the penmanship, and the voice of the text. He stares upon the names mentioned, eventually focuses on the first: Lady Rhaena Olwak, the governor's woman.

He makes a brief sound in his throat and leans, blowing out the candle's flame which he used to heat his tools and shape the wax gear -- like a cog from a clock's guts -- and collects the letter and his jacket on his way out. Minutes later, he sits down at the desk in his study to compose a reply.

Mister Gahald,

You are most welcome to the resources of Darkenhold's library. An original edition of Kroup's De Historia is available, along with three translations. One of these, being rare and in a state unsuitable for travel, must remain on the premises. The others you may borrow for the time allotted all items in the collection.

I would be honored to receive you myself, though I ask you send word in advance of your coming, that our acquaintance may be assured.

With regards,
Syl Duquesne

Elliot Gahald might be attempting a prank. If so, his intentions would be met in kind. If not, something was assuredly wrong with the young man and the architect would know for sure by meeting with him.

[Glenn]

It would take a bit, but yes, another letter would arrive, this one as carefully written as the last.

Mister Duquesne,

Unfortunately, I cannot visit Darkenhold at this time myself. I am recently returned to Myrken Wood and currently responsibilities force me to remain in the town proper. However, a fine young gentleman, Cherny, who takes lessons with Miss Ariane Emory at Darkenhold, has offered to pick up one of the less rare translations for me. Please treat him with the kindness you've shown me when he comes to make the request.

my most sincere thanks,
Elliot Gahald

[Duquesne]

When the second note is delivered, the man is again found in the midst of work in the smithery.

The time-consuming process of casting the wax gear has been concluded, so that as Elliot's response is left on his bench, the architect is carefully hammering the mold until it fractures and breaks, exposing the metal gear inside. As it is still too warm to handle, he pinches it with short tongs and holds it up, examining its teeth for uniformity.

Satisfied, he sets it carefully down near a stack of other such gears of various sizes and reaches for the note. He reads.

No encounter with Elliot. Not here at least. Perhaps it was time to make a casual visit to town.

Mister Gahald,

Mister Cherny will be made most welcome in your absence, and as he is acquainted with Darkenhold and its residents, it is sure he will find no trouble in the fulfillment of his task. I will personally ensure his receipt of the texts in question.

S. Duquesne

[Cherny]

It has been a while since Cherny last passed through the gates of Darkenhold - before the unfortunate business at the carnival, and in the woods nearby. A span of weeks since he made the journey, but he is still remembered, recognised and admitted.

He is a different figure from the boy who first arrived a couple of months ago - still short, still skinny, still huddled in that oversized coat for all that it's now full summer, but with a few changes; beneath the coat he wears a rough-crafted vest of black leather scales; on the middle finger of one hand, a gleaming ring held in place by a leather lace wrapped about his wrist; at his hip, despite the Governor's dire warnings so long ago, a brutal little shortsword in a sturdy little scabbard.

This last is less of a concern, as he's not here for ethics - he would not have a lesson today anyway, Sera Emory will not be expecting to see him. He can avoid her for this visit. The thought gives him a pang of guilt for not attending his lessons, for not even writing to explain his absence, as a good student should. Each day that passes compounds the transgression, and makes him ever more reluctant to face the Adjunct and explain why. He does not wish to see her angry, and can only imagine that by this point she must be furious.

So there is some caution to him now, some care as he steps into the fortress proper, a patchwork of bright sunlight below the windows and stone-cool shadows between. He peers around corners before committing himself to them, lest he see a figure with loose, easy strides and steel-grey eyes. He moves with intent, knowing where he's going, knowing his reason for being here. He has given it a couple of days since his meeting with the new Elliot, time enough for word to be sent and an agreement made, and has come to see it fulfilled.

To the library, at last, the tall doors pushed open only enough to allow his scrawny frame to slip inside. A temple, a cathedral, the air rich with the scents of paper and leather, shelf upon shelf stretching to the ceiling overhead. He pauses, just inside the threshold, to take in the sight of it and wonder where his search should begin.

[Duquesne]

This was the very chamber in which a young man had challenged him on the value of books. And here was yet another youth, come to select and deliver books into those very unlikely hands. For Myrken Wood had yawned and generated another peculiarity among its denizens, its breath a wash of muddled and wondering minds for the strange transformation of Elliot Gahald.

This is the matter in his mind as Cherny's careful footsteps carried him in the hallway, and the man is aware of every step... for the maker of such sounds -- however quiet -- is unfamiliar to him and the architect is ever-diligent with his environment. When the hands fall to the doors, when the mechanisms inside the latches give, when the doors are free to glide, each sound occurs in his hearing as if he were the one causing them.

After the doors admit this stranger, the silence of his pause describes a moment for Mind... a moment for eyes to look over the features of the space and for thoughts to emerge.

The man lifts his eyes from a text and his pupils shift as he examines the figure there just inside the door. By the look of him, this was the fellow appointed to the task, the one Elliot spoke of in his correspondance. The architect is wordless for the duration of the youngling's study of the large chamber and then makes his presence known in a quiet manner, that he not startle the lad.

"Are you Mister Cherny?"

[Cherny]

The intruder's steps are hardly quiet, for all that he treads carefully - wooden-soled shoes, stout peasant footwear, has clacked its way down the tiled floors to get here. But in this moment he is quiet, not quite daring to breathe at first safe for a few lungfuls of book-scent; he's visited the Library of Mudd and found it a far drearier place - many of the books still holding the musty smell of damp from its years of cobwebbed half-neglect, even after it was rebuilt. This is different - a proper library, worthy of the title, its contents respected and treated properly. What a library is meant to be.

When its occupant speaks, though, he starts in surprise, having perhaps assumed from the quiet of the place that it was empty; he recovers quickly enough, though, ducking a polite bow in answer to that question, thin hands wringing his satchel strap for want of anything better to do.

"I, I am, s-ser." Of course he is expected; Elliot has written ahead, made his requests and told them who to expect. "I'm t-to collect a, a b-book, ser." Beyond that he's not entirely sure; a glance about in case the tome in question has been made ready, set aside, but among so many weighty volumes how might he tell?

[Duquesne]

Astute green eyes lower from the boy's face to examine the activity of his hands -- a moment's work -- and then return to his face. He closes the small and stout book he had been reading, a work of fiction recounting the exploits of a villain whose antics unexpectedly lead him to some poignant introspection, all within a realistic dreamscape, and he leans to stand.

The architect is a tall man, of a well-bred constitution in manner and physique, these being evident in his composure as he musingly approaches. And being ever darkly clad, he will seem a stately shadow as he nears Cherny and pauses before him, gazing down at this youngling. And to be watched by him, for however long a duration, is a special experience... for it seems his eyes possess a quality uncommon among the human species. He could see in far more detail than one might expect.

After a moment, he extends his hand in gentlemanly greeting, here as the edges of his mouth give in to a smile's subtle action. "My name is Syl," he offers, "well met, Mister Cherny."

And after their introduction has concluded, should they progress as these matters ought, the man will remove himself to a shelf and there replaces the book he read to its residence. Then he takes some steps to the ladder on this wall and grasps it, rolling it along its track perhaps fifteen feet before he pauses and uses his toe to flip the wheel brake. "Kroup's De Historia..." he murmurs as he climbs, has ball-spurs that flash above rugged boot-heels -- a horseman's real trademark -- and he hesitates as he searches titles now, on a shelf perhaps twelve feet off the floor. "An interesting selection. I would not have expected Mister Gahald to approve of the subject. Then again," he adds, reaching finally to draw a book out by its spine, "many different things meet his approval now, it seems."

[Cherny]

The boy's features are not fearful, but cautious; an animal wariness about his dark eyes, how his attention fixes upon his host as the man rises, approaches. He holds his ground, however, gradually remembering to stand up straight, to comport himself respectably rather than slouching or cringing. He's meant to be here, he has a task to attend to, it's not like he's intruding or trespassing. Even so, there's an uncertainty to him - the man is a stranger to him, the room is unfamiliar and intriguing, and he's not entirely sure what is expected of him. He rarely meets the architect's gaze, instead preferring to sneak glimpses at his features now and again when he presumes the man's attention is elsewhere.

On closer inspection there's not much more to be seen of him - a young boy, black hair cut short and carefully combed into some semblance of neatness; his coat, a grown man's threadbare cast-off, bears a collection of patches and mends, the cloth creased and wrinkled where it has been drawn back together over cuts and tears; subtle stains mar one breast, darkest against the once-black fabric where several lines of stitches meet; braided leather thongs wrap about his wrist under the cuff, revealed only as he carefully takes the man's hand in greeting; the other hand, bearing the ring, he tends to keep at his side. His grip is firm enough for a boy his age, palm toughened from his work at the mill, stubborn smudges of charcoal in the grain of his fingertips, healing scabs upon the knuckles. A slight edge to him, a detachment to his manner; he listens, he observes - not only his host but the room around him, a discreet watchfulness.

"At y-your service, s-ser." It is the polite thing to say, the boy having been taught the basics of good manners, at least, for all that it's mainly recited by rote. He trots after the architect at a respectful distance - close enough to be on hand should he be required to hold or carry anything, but far back enough not to be underfoot.

It's the rolling ladder that provides a first glimpse past the cautious politeness, the cleverness of it seizing his attention, sparking a quiet curiosity in his features; he looks to the brass rail above, where it affixes to the shelf, then to the tracks at the bottom, with the brake-lever and clever little wheels that let it roll back and forth. As the architect climbs he turns to look about the room for similar such ladders, wondering if there's perhaps some cunning mechanism that lets them navigate corners, but his gaze returns to the man as he speaks, far overhead.

At first the mention of Gahald prompts a frown of confusion and another glance for the door; perhaps the man thinks he's here on someone else's behalf; perhaps he's fetching the wrong book, and will only have to haul it back up there when the mistake is realised.

"B-brown, ser. Elliot Brown." It's only a moment after offering that tentative correction that he realises his host probably means the same youth. "Thinks h-he's a, a knight n-now, ser."

[Duquesne]

"Ah... yes, Brown." The book he has selected and drawn -- this with a familiar whisper of leather against leather -- from among its brethren is not a large book but it is a thick one, stout in a way befitting its meaty content. The man takes a moment to lean on the ladder's dark-stained rungs to admire its cover, which is fit with some ornamental tooling in the midst of the work's title.

"Brown, Gahald; identities change, but can they change so much?" Green eyes move a mere fraction, from the book's cover to the features of the youngling waiting below. Holding the book against him, he descends the ladder and uses but one hand to guide his easy passage, and once his boot-soles meet the cool floor he turns toward Cherny. "May I ask, Mister Cherny, do you know what has caused his change of heart?"

[Cherny]

The boy watches as the proper book is picked, treated with care, with reverence. A sturdy volume, all gilt lettering and good leather, a proper book. His own meager collection is culled from a scruffy bookseller in the marketplace, his stall laden with a random assortment of the neglected and abused; bindings frayed and failing, pages loose, torn or just missing, marked with moisture, mildew and - on occasion - fire. A sorry thing to behold, all the more for being able to see books as they should be - well-tended, respected, arrayed on neatly-ordered shelves.

The first question the boy takes as rhetorical, because clearly identities can change in this way - Elliot brown's has, after all. The second question he can only answer with a shrug, perhaps having suspicions that he'd rather not voice aloud.

"Can't s-say, ser." A noncommital answer, which he corrects: "I mean I, I d-don't know. M-magic, probably." Some enchantment or spell, some talent that enslaves minds or sculpts them like clay. "H-he says it's everyone else wh-who's been b-bewitched. Says h-he's been in L-Lothaine for years." Entirely sceptical as he recounts that idea, nose wrinkled dismissively. "S-says they've b-been bewitched to r-remember him different, n-not as a, a knight."

[Duquesne]

Some subtle motion occurs at the fringes of the man's features, here at the mouth-corner, here at the edges of the eyes. It is the product of motion in the mind -- a thought, likely more than one. He studies the boy for moments here, as though this young face helps to foster his considerations on the matter.

"If that is true," he replies, with an accent as subtle as the character of his expression, "then someone or thing has a freakish creativity." A single mind capable of generating an illusion containing such vast and disturbing details as his own recent experiences, or the experiences of every other individual who had prior contact with Elliot Brown, would have to be a stunning mind indeed, its components being much larger, much more advanced than what is common or known of brains in modern society. Though it is possible in the physical world, such hypothesis is improbable for a variety of reasons. He dismisses the notion, but will spend time musing upon it in detail at a later hour, if only to better understand the former lock-genius and his new mentality.

The architect loosens the book from against him and rotates it, so that when he offers it to Cherny its lettering can be properly viewed and read by the boy. "Whatever the case, it is more disconcerting that such a change has occurred than it is that Elliot is now suddenly socially moral. The matter cries of motive."

But, with a light shrug of one shoulder, he liberates them from the subject and here offers the boy a smile, quiet and true. "Do you enjoy reading, Mister Cherny?"

[Cherny]

The architect's comment is greeted with a shrug and, after a moment, a nod.

"'S just what h-he said, ser. Elliot. D-doesn't mean it's t-true." After all, which was more plausible - that one boy had his mind changed, or an entire province?

"Seems to, to m-me it's more l-like he's th-the one bewitched. Someone w-wants him a knight, s-so they bewitch him to th-think he is. Else if h-he's really a knight, what's th-the point m-making everyone f-forget it?" Oh, it might sow some confusion, might make it awkward for him to attend to his knightly duties - but if he dresses like a knight and acts like a knight then eventually he'll be a knight, in fact if not in law.

On the matter of motive he is quiet, not certain it is entirely his place to speak. He has suspicions as to who might be responsible for the change, but also, at this point, certain loyalties.

Any further such pondering is interrupted by the gentleman offering him the object of his quest - Kroup's De Historia Amasiniensis, as he murmurs slowly under his breath on accepting the weighty tome; he's spent enough time picking through battered old texts to have learned that there is often a certain flexibility in spelling from one author to the next, and that sound is often the quickest way to discern meaning.

"The... h-his, history... Amasynians?" Another language, older, but a with roots close enough to the common speech that he can make an almost-accurate guess. He glances up to judge from the architect's reaction how close he is to correct. Another question, unrelated to their previous topic, and he gives it a few moments of consideration, dark eyes taking in the well-laden shelves, the history book held carefully against his thin chest.

"I enjoy l-learning, ser. Books are g-good for, for that."

[Duquesne]

"Amasiniensis," he will offer in a murmur, lending only that slight correction to a boy who has clearly spent time with written language. And the man's eyes betray a quiet ease, visible evidence of the approval that enters his thoughts. There was something about a curious mind -- it never ceased to lighten his spirit.

Having been a boy somewhat weak in body, he had gravitated toward more thoughtful pursuits. While his brothers played with wooden swords and wrestled and bullied other children, he had found a nook in the household library and hid there, reading by a pathetic candleglow to avoid the notice of a father who --

But those were the days he remembers most distinctly, first feeling the gradual awakening of wonderment, the excitement barely to be contained, for there was so much to learn about and he believed he had all the time in the world. The edges of his mouth tighten for a subtle smile, though the expression is reflected more in the personality of his eyes here. "What subject interests you most at this moment in time?"

[Cherny]

"Am-a-sin-i-en-sis" He echoes quietly, murmuring the words a couple more times as he looks back to the book in his arms, a fingertip tracing the gilt letters as he breathes the unfamiliar syllables, learning the cadence of them, where the weight falls, committing it to memory.

This boy's hunger for books, for learning, stems not so much from being unsuited to more physical activities - for all his martial aspirations in the form of scale-vest and shortsword, he is hardly a robust lad - but from a certain ambition, a recognition that knowledge might readily trump strength alone, that knowing the right thing at the right time might open paths which would otherwise remain resolutely closed, or even entirely invisible.

He finds comfort in the act of learning, in approaching something unknown and gradually, by the application of eyes and mind, feeling that he has been able to master it, or at the very least to gain a useful understanding of it. So when the architect asks his question the boy's answer is prompt, requiring no rumination at all.

"M-monsters, ser. And b-beasts. I've a, a b-best-yeary I've been r-reading to, to learn." A note of pride in his voice at that, that he has a book of his own, that he has been pursuing his own studies without need of a teacher's instruction. It's been his project for weeks, months, an obsession to which he has begun to add his own observations in painstaking charcoal script, loose pages slipped in between dog-eared leaves barely still associated with their battered binding.

But there is a nuance to the man's query, a subtlety that does not entirely escape the boy's attention - the qualification, at this moment in time, more specific than it need be - and that does require him to treat it more carefully, fixing the architect with a thoughtful gaze for a span in which he considers how much he might safely say.

"But at this m-moment, ser, I am, am interested in h-how a thief b-becomes a kn-knight."