The Quietest Storm.

[Carnath-Emory]

In this, you are being charged for eight murders.

It's not the sort of memory one much likes waking to. But it had done its job well: she'd woken with the dawn, and nevermind that she'd spent three hours in interrogation the night before. That much had been inevitable, the moment that Straka had made their approach to the Dagger's lawn, to inspect the eight corpses already laid out for their perusal.

That they'd come running when it was those bloodthirsty villains that were dying: oh, that was inevitable, too, in her judgement. There'd been good reasons that she'd avoided Straka for so many years.

But dawn saw her waking, with that old mantra drumming through her mind: So much work to do, and none of it to be accomplished here. A message had been sent to Ser Helstone, which would perhaps prove fruitful. Jons and Aeryn were surely in need of rest, after a night spent outside the Governor's door; good men, both of them, and richly deserving of what little leisure they could have. So it was swiftly that she dressed herself this morning, and prepared a bag against the possibility of arrest; quickly that she made her way with it into the corridors -- to find Kerrak's men absent.

If the governor has decided to rest here, his death would be his own failing in judgement.

Masaccio's words were a condemnation, judgement passed and executed. That the Governor's room was inspected with some haste need not be detailed; that her flight down the tavern's stairs was another inevitability, in a long string of the same. Oh, a hurried search, and all of it wasted, the moment she spies a head of crimson hair, a man half-slouched in his seat by the cold hearth.

He lives. She does, too. Proxenus and Mikhail are safe from judgement for another day, Molly's name has not been brought up yet in this farce, and her missive has surely reached Helstone by now. It's a decent beginning. So more quietly now, she can take herself to the bar, there to request what foodstuffs can easily be transported, and what water they have to spare.

[Altias_Bromn]

Altias had risen early, surprised to find two guards posted outside the room he had fairly collapsed into the night before. After a short conversation with the men, he thanked them for their attention, and gave them their leave. He was a bit disoriented from the events of the last evening, he thought the guards had mentioned something about Kerrak. If so, he would have to thank the man.

Soon enough he had found his way downstairs, liberated a piece of bread from Proxenus' kitchen, and headed down toward the lake for a bit of a swim. What he found there had been disturbing to him.

Lamai had been sitting on her rock, speaking with a man of such snowy hair that it could only be Thadius Dhrin. There was a feeling in his stomach that could at once be discribed as disgust and jealousy. This was two that the man would have for his own if he wished. Altias knew that Lamai was gone from him, more a little sister now, than the strange love/hate relationship they had shared before. Still...Thadius. Anyone but him.

Well, that wasn't exactly true either, he could think of a few he would not wish her to involve herself with. Tyralor, Kilborn, Daniels...Well..there was a long list...but this one...

Discretion being the better...well, so he wouldn't find himself with yet another broken nose,, the idea of swimming seemed suddenly less appealing.

Returning to the inn, a piece of dry bread in his stomach, a sheen of sweat covering him, along with a gentle coating of dust, Altias flopped into his chair, turning sideways to kick his feet over one arm of the chair, leaning his heaed over the other.

His mind swam with the events of last night, Ari's return, and her subsequent mutilation of a deserving corpse. Mikhail and his wraiths, both comforting and frightening. Proxenus and his strong and sturdy battle methods. Even the sharp tongued elf and her defense of Aislinn. All of them had a part to play...save for him.

It was with those thoughts that he returned to slumber. To sleep, perchance to dream...for what it was worth.

[Carnath-Emory]

Oh, a great deal of rummaging behind that barcounter, this morning: when she is done with the work, her small bag bulges with the burdens it contains. The tavern's quietness, this early morning, is not quite as unsettling as it might ordinarily have been. At the very least, it means that there are none of Straka come yet to arrest her.

It suits her then, as she finishes her business there; she is a silent thing, as she takes up parchments, quill, ink, to make her way to a table located by the Governor's seat. That he yet rests is likely just as well, for he'll surely need what strength he can muster, over the days yet to come. That he lives is a marvel for which she'd pray her thanks, did she have gods to hear such things. This not being the case -- and with a moment's pause, to touch a gentle palm to the man's shoulder -- she simply seats herself down to begin at the loathesome writing. Commences the endless *scratch-scratch* of quill upon parchment -- and restrains herself from curses, when her hand slips and threatens to knock the ink-pot awry.

Vornheim's passion for the work has never baffled her quite so much as it does today.

[Altias_Bromn]

Altias kicked restlessly in his chair, the touch to his shoulder causing one amethyst orb to slowly be revealed as lashes fluttered. Again it closed, a soft smile on his lips.

The rustle of parchment, the scratch of quill on paper, the muttered curses, theses were enough to bring him closer to waking. Feet slid from the arm of the chair, to rest roughly on the floor. A hand brushed back wild crimson tresses.

"Whatchudoin"

Muttered nearly incoherently as he tried to surface from the dreaming. It had been a rough night, on many levels.

There had been the dream of a slaughtered Ariane, a lifeless corpse returned by pale riders. Mikhail run through by more of the same. Proxenus and a dozen of his Militia slaughtered by Straka for their intereference. Thadius Dhrin, hugging Ariane, and then walking her upstairs, arm in arm, the woman so suddenly alive again.

A shake of his head, eyes nearly crossed. It had not been a restful night. Blinking, he waited for her answer.

[Carnath-Emory]

He stirs, as she slaves over the tiny words: her penmanship has necessarily improved in recent months, but this remains a skill which does not come easily to her, and frequent glares are turned down upon the hostile page. The words dislike her, whether written or spoken aloud, and the sentiments are quite mutual.

He stirs. He wakes in that chair, and she spares him a glance that's bright with apology, with inevitable regret, for a man sorely in need of what rest he's capable of. Inkstained fingers are wiped on trousers already soiled with the same, before she pushes certain of the pages aside.

"Writing. It seems there is little else that can be done." Her head bends, as she blows cool breath across the fresh ink of the parchment before her; the lettering is bad enough already that her fear of smudging is a potent one. It's fussed over for a while, this latest piece of work, straightened and dotted at with ink -- before being pushed aside in simple disgust for its existence.

"Your Straka seem to care little for reason. There are some who I feel should know of this."