Even as Ifris Lanvaldan opens the cell door and answers Johnathan Jackson’s questions, the group “leader” Anya Landreth shoulders her reloaded musket for a moment and withdraws a small hand-sized writing board with chalk, crossing two lines through names she has there of Shale Branch, and circling one other on the list. Though she is very businesslike in her bearing, she does reply out loud to Johnathan’s question about other survivors. ”Two constables of your Unremitting team perished at the docks to afford escape to the other four members, who went underground here in the city sewers but three nights ago – their contact was invaluable in the formation of this rescue mission. Of the other Shale Branch survivors…we have just rescued a great many of your captured researchers and compound guards down below, but no constables yet except for you. ACI Sutton leads a small team to where we believe some were held in a lower dungeon, with this prison tower being the other likely location.”
”Mum,” interrupts Constable Arthur Wilde, who peeks in from the tower landing after inspecting the blown-out guardroom nearby. ”No survivors in the guardroom and no R.H.C. goods, though a handful of blades and bows if you need ‘em.” He thumbs towards the stairwell and says with a note of urgency. ”Window from there shows some movement in the Blackwatch outer courtyard and I hear some shouting…best to move along to the rally point.”
”Understood, Constable Wilde.” Constable Landreth tucks away her tally board and checks her scabbarded sabre before hoisting up her musket, looking in the direction of Constables Rayne and Lanvaldan. ”I am loathe to say it, but we cannot claim CI Lawrence’s body at this time, for we must move quickly and need all hands to fight. If there's nothing else, let us get down from here before we are trapped. Constable Rayne, you have the prisoner. Constable Jackson, stay close to Constable Lanvaldan.”
”Good and reliable nicknames? Only in your book perhaps. Although I did call Gemma Heaves once and the look she shot me was priceless. Heh.” Emerson is relieved Devinn isn’t another suitor but quickly thinks maybe that is better than an over protective older brother.
”Hey, I’ve got one. How about guns?” Emerson pulls his pistol at his last word, his firearm out before he finishes his sentence. He spins the pistol backwards and down so that it seats nicely back into its holster. ”Or how about Face? he gives Devinn a roguish grin. ”You know, because I’m just so good looking?” He lets out a big laugh at his jokes regardless of Devinn’s reaction.
Gemma doesn’t even pretend to feign a smile at her sister’s latest endeavor and motions the server over for drinks. She does, however, smile nicely enough at the young man who brought them the tray of food earlier and was now back. ”I’ll have a hard cider, if you would, and she’ll have…well…whatever it is she’s having.” As soon as her sister is done ordering and the server has left, Gemma takes an audible deep breath and straightens the cloth napkin on her lap. ”I would think you would know after all these years that hard liquor is never going to pass my lips. It is out of my love for you that I’m even going to tolerate the cider.” Despite her cold demeanor, Gemma can’t help but return the coy smile that her sister inevitably passes across the table.
”So…your new endeavors. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about all that. The messaging and deliveries don’t make me terribly nervous, since the very city itself seems to watch out for you, but the escorted sight-seeing…now that’s something entirely different.” Aside from the obvious reasons why Gemma finds the whole ordeal distasteful, there are now more immediate concerns. "I know you’re cautious and all that but there are those that would find it very interesting that you’re my sister." She can’t help but pause at the thought of the possibilities. ”Being a constable comes with its own advantages and disadvantages. The idea that someone might harm you in order to harm me is a very real one.” Gemma takes her sister’s hand across the table, squeezing it lightly and smiling gently. ”You do understand me, right? I have good reason for you to be wary.”
Johnathan nods to Constable Landreth and keeping the pistol to hand, falls in behind Ifris. "Ready to move when you are, mum." He looks at Ifris more curiously now. Never seen anything like that light blade before. Wonder where she learned to do that?
Chrystine Waking Up
Willem playfully frowns, "Time is not fair to us." Then his frown turns to a smile, "At least we make the best out of the time we have together! Perhaps one day, we will not have to hide our relationship so I do not have to play thief in the night and we can continue to do what we love?" He embraces and kisses her as she wakes up and after she gets out of bed.
Civil War
Willem smiles at Chrystine's compliment and playfully replies with a wink, "Just doin' my job ma'am"
Willem smile ends, "I never thought we would be in a civil war and it is really terrible! This may be a wake up call for the abusers to treat the unfortunate a little better than they have. If more people are treated like I was in Shale district or worse which they probably are, I can see why they are revoltin'. However, they are goin' 'bout it the wrong way. I know for one thing, citizens in yer district will not revolt because of the way I see you treat yer citizens! The way you take care of yer citizens should be a model for the rest of the kingdom to follow! And if they do revolt, I know for a fact it will not be because of you and yer safe?" Willem looks outside, and starts to get dressed. Then he continues, "What I worry about the most is the rebels that do not know you or generalize so you still need to be careful. When you go to yer governor's meetin' and all future meetin's, don't always use the same way if you can help it. This way if the the rebels are goin' to ambush you, it will be harder for them to do so. Keep your body guards close and even though you probably will not do this, but carry a small derringer flintlock pistol with ya. And if you need a better body guard, I know one you can request for?" Willem winks and as he finishes getting dresses, "I promise you, my love, my team and/or I will do our best to bring this Civil War to an end as quickly as possible makin' sure the loss of our brothers and sisters are at a minimum. I wish I could promise zero casualties but that is already impossible." Willem throws on his sneaking around coat, scarf, and hat, then looks outside, "Oh this is so unfair, I need to go since we can not spend all day cuddlin'! Should I take my usual route out of the house?"
It takes Anneca a few minutes to read the letter. Her eyes run over it time and time again, barely able to keep tears from coming out. For the last few days, she had been engrossed in the possibility of Makala being resurrected - but her logical mind knew that such hopes were folly. Resurrection is hardly more than a legend or, less generously, an unproven theory held by the Clergy. Reading the contents of the letter forces her to face the fact that Makala has already crossed through the Bleak Gate. It takes her two full passes through the letter to process it, and a third before she speaks. "She intended to give me her house as a gift, but it seems to have changed into a will. I'd gladly sell it for coin if that coin could bring her back to life." She looks up at the pair of constables who cared enough to deliver the message. "Thank you both. This last week has been too difficult. Makala was always looking out for me. Even now. I wish I'd been able to tell her how grateful I was for her friendship and her faith in me."
Devinn LeMont gives Emerson Hill a mirthless frown, his arms crossed at his chest in displeasure. "The first law of nicknames, Hill, is that one does not give oneself one's own nickname. Even I have proprieties on such things, and that is simply not done."
The pair of men, now somewhat eased by their recent understanding over Talyssa Dane, spend the next several minutes chatting idly. Devinn and Talyssa both have flats in the Bosum Strand District it seems, and often take time to meet at a local tavern for evening meal, sometimes with Devinn's uncle. They chat about the looming civil war, the possibility of the Duchess's fleet attacking Flint and the whereabouts of several of their fellows who went abroad on mission, including Alastair Rayne and Arthur Wilde.
Finally, Talyssa emerges from belowdecks wearing her R.H.C. dress uniform, her face and arms hastily cleaned up and her hair tied back to reveal more of her face. Devinn whistles crudely and briefly catcalls at her as a Docker might, causing her to blush and shush him in return. "Stop it Dev, or I'll call Skimmer down on you!"
"Mmmm...can't have that now, can we whirlygigbird? Besides, I need him to act as chaperone tonight."
"Where are you headed off to then Dev?"
"I'll wander by Thinking Man's and see what dreary poetry is going on with the war brewing...that or I might get lucky and rile up an Eschatologist or Millerite if I'm lucky." Though Emerson doesn't know his establishments in the Bosum Strand, even he has heard of the Thinking Man's Tavern, one of the foremost Docker locales and often a beacon for debate of philosophy and other academic matters...though considered too rough-and-tumble for the prim and prissy Pardwight types to frequent.
After making their way through the various security post checks of the Royal Shipyard isle and Royal Square across the bridge, the three constables (and Skimmer) part their separate ways. "Jet, Hill-until-I-find-a-real-name-to-call-you, don't stay out too late mind you!" Devinn turns up a broad street northwards in the direction of the Strand, whistling a jaunty tune as he reverses the color of his half-cloak and ties on a scarf of a deep crimson color.
"Well now, Mister Hill," says Talyssa Dane with a brief giggle of embarrassment as she takes his arm. "Onwards to a real meal then? I probably haven't seen such fine fare since the Coaltongue maiden voyage...and I was so nervous then about the tours that I didn't eat a bite..." The pair walk southwards towards the eating establishment that commands a view of the Lower Flint Bay just past the Governor's Mansion.
"I'm afraid so, Willem," replies Chrystine with a tired but pouting tone of voice. Even so, she gets out of bed with a nimbleness and grace as she dons a lace-fringed shawl over her nightgown, pads over to Willem and falls into his arms so that he is forced to catch her. Yawning and laughing at the same time, she plants a playful kiss upon his lips before leaving his embrace. "I am sorry, dear man, but I promise I'll make it up to you when matters are more normal, whenever that may be. I'm thinking a trip on the steam rail to Bole, for you and I. How I marvel at trains, at traveling so far a distance in such speed and comfort! One day I should very much like to see the famed Avery Coast rail, though I don't know how I would manage it with all the duties of Mayor." She sighs but gives Willem a smouldering look. "Oh well, the rail to Bole and a secluded stay in the high eaves of a fine inn shall have to suffice - I've made connection to an exclusive tailor in North Shore to have some new evening attire made, of silks and lace and the like, such that I think you shall approve most wholeheartedly!" Chrystine gives another brief laugh at her enticing innuendos to Willem, yet relents in good nature as both have another long day ahead of them.
An hour later as dawn takes hold on the eastern edge of the smog-covered city near the backdrop of the Cloudwood Mountains, Willem Muhnee finds himself astride his sturdy riding horse on the cobblestone streets passing into the Central District from the East Bank of the Stray, heading towards Flint R.H.C. Compound, musing over the rapid change of his fortunes. He knows he should spend time this evening attending to his woeful new living quarters, with most things still in boxes and bags left unpacked in the center of the main room. That's what he should do, though his mind keeps returning to the prospects of newly rekindled romance, North Shore lingerie fashions and trips by rail to Bole where anonymity might be afforded for a time. If only the twisted machinations of the King's traitorous and murderous sister weren't so pressing, Spring in Flint could turn out to be a fine Season of this new century, indeed!
"Of course I do Gem," answers Bliss with a returning squeeze, her countenance momentarily serious and wise beyond her years. "I know what your place in the Constabulary means, including the notion that you could make many enemies and unwelcome acquaintances. Perhaps more than you even realize, for I often hear the gossips of the neighborhoods I pass by, the talk of the streets and what the walls retain. The R.H.C. is not universally liked nor respected, I know."
Bliss withdraws her hand then, looking at her sister with a quizzical expression. "Yet should we live in isolation at our shared loft in such a predictable manner, waiting for one of your enemies to come to us? Should I cut myself off from the wonders of connection to this city and dwell with the pigs and the plowed fields, where I cannot hear or feel with my talents? We both know the answer to that, but I will be more careful and use a greater degree of discretion in my dealings - for no other reason than you have asked it of me."
Just then, Gemma sees that their servingman returns from around the corner with a polished silver tray of two drinks, yet also two younger men her age of Battalion Academy dress peer from a standing place by that very same corner, as if looking in the direction of their table but trying very hard not to be conspicuous about it. Her tactician's mind puts it all together as the servingman reaches their table with the drinks, the coy smile on her sister returning to confirm her suspicions.
"Downsberry Cider for the lady...and Ambershine Mead for the young miss, as you requested," says the serving man as he sets each upon the table in front of them. "Compliments of the gentlemen officers there - if not too bold they have asked if they could provide introduction to you, mum and miss."
Bliss looks at her sister with mock surprise. "Oh my, how oddly wonderful and utterly unexpected!" Before Gemma can offer a polite decline, Bliss responds to the man first. "Please do ask them to come over so that we may thank them properly!"
The two young Battalion Academy men seem to be senior cadets by their dress uniforms and citations across the shoulder - most likely just a Season away from graduation and formal commission into the Risuri Army as junior leftenants. As they approach, Gemma can tell they have already met Bliss before by their hasty looks to her, clearly a setup for Gemma. Both young men are very polite however - the taller athletic sandy-blonde haired one with a boyish face is named Gaston, the shorter but broad-shouldered one with an easy smile is named Dawes. They remain standing and chat pleasantly for a few minutes on the weather and the prospects for deployment if a war is declared, both clearly intrigued by Gemma's clear status as a constable. It's all very pleasant, yet Gemma cannot help but think there's a catch in all of it somewhere.
That catch becomes all-too-apparent a few minutes later before the men excuse themselves politely to depart. "So, uhh, Miss Atherton...and Miss Atherton," says the taller cadet Gaston with a bit of hesitation and stammer, "Dawes and I were just on our way to Madame Minuet's over on Allandra Street, and would ask for your hands on one...or two...dances if you were so inclined...when you arrive there and have had a proper chance to acclimate, of course!"
"Of course - no need to rush on our account ladies!" chimes in Dawes pleasantly, looking at Bliss with a smooth expression.
Gemma knows that Madame Minuet's is a dancing hall in the livelier portion of Central District that many of the debutantes and young professionals of Central's families frequent, as well as some of the Battalion Academy senior cadets when given extended passes away from the Academy grounds. Though respectable enough for a public hall that does not require chaperones or letters of quality as exclusive North Shore cotillions often do, it was never something Gemma had the time or inclination for before.
"How lovely!" Bliss turns to her sister with a smile that could almost be considered devious. "Why, I do believe we were just talking of heading in that direction, once we finish here. Weren't we? What do you say to that, dearest sister?"
Gemma pauses in mid-swallow of her cider with her sister’s question. She began sipping more of it and more frequently since the young men walked up, mostly to avoid having to speak much. Damn you, Bliss
She looks to the young men, noticing that they aren’t unattractive, in particular the taller one, who very slightly reminds her of Alastair Rayne. Points given for being decent conversationalists and easy to look at. Points taken away for being there in the first place.
Gemma casts a hard look to her sister but then softens it a bit when addressing the men. ”I’m not sure that that’s what we were discussing particularly but perhaps we may walk that way later and join you. However, if you’ll excuse us gentlemen, I believe we’ll finish up our meal here first.” She tries to imitate a polite smile but honestly isn’t sure how it comes across in the end. No matter. Small talk and social games were never something she was gifted with. All of that went to Bliss.
After everyone gives their niceties and the young men politely excuse themselves, Gemma raises an eyebrow to her sister. ” You have to be kidding me. Please tell me you’re kidding me. Really? I maybe could have handled a stroll, but a dance? You know I don’t dance, and with the few dances I do know, I’m fairly certain that barn jigs are frowned upon at Madam Minuet’s."
Gemma takes another few bites of food before continuing. ”What is it with you and thinking my life is lacking without a partner or social exploits in it? I truly don’t have time for it nor the abilities to sustain it. You know that most men are reluctant to give me the time of day or even a second glance, let alone try and dance with me. I'm not like you. I’ll just end up embarrassing us both.” The very thought of dancing and small talk is enough to make Gemma’s appetite wane. She starts pushing the food around on her plate before touching on an earlier point. Her admonishment of her sister isn't harsh but made more out of fear and discomfort than anything else.”But, no, I don’t expect us to hole up in our flat and wait for the worse to happen, and obviously moving back to the farm isn’t an option; it’s even more unsafe there.” Gemma doesn’t have to elaborate on the point. Her sister knows all too well what she’s referring to.
”I just get worried now with everything that’s gone on as of late. It’s difficult to be suspicious of everyone and no one at the same time.”
Thirty yards…
A cacophonous series of shouts and battlecries goes up from the rebel soldiers as their ragged formation of some twenty men prepares to charge; some are armored in chain jacks while others are in leather jerkins or no armor at all, an assorted collection of tabards and uniforms befitting their defecting company colors. Bearing a motley assortment of pikes, halberds and spears, some with blades or maces only, they ready for the assault – all the while the crackling of musket fire merged with the higher-pitched whistling of arrows and bolts echoes across the two main avenues that lead into the hemmed-off intersection, the taken merchant hall compound just beyond it. Here and there across the intersection with its two main avenues and numerous alleyways, wisps of dancing lights mingle around with more pronounced magical globes of light, continual flame torches and alchemical sunrods, casting confusing shadows across the area; some are extinguished by competing cantrips of darkness, only to be countered or new motes of light appearing somewhere nearby.
”YOU STUPID SODS! STAND DOWN! STAND DOWN!” Two R.H.C. constables crouch defensively behind cover of an overturned wagon shout angrily at the rebels at the other end of the avenue – Josiah Crux and Drake Wellingham. They are prepared to fire and have done so several times already with their expert marksman weapons, but even they are not keen on killing misguided Risuri countrymen if it can be helped. In response the constables receive a splintering of wood from musketballs and three crossbow bolts embedded in their wagon, causing the pair to curse all the more. In another section of the intersection square, a loyalist Risuri soldier cries out and goes down from a bolt into his leg, followed moments later by a fog cloud spell from an arcane officer to cover him, with two other soldiers dragging the man away to the compound for cover and extraction.
The rebels work themselves into a frenzy and charge the covered positions…
Twenty yards…
Funneled as they are in the avenue and focused on their objective of “taking” the intersection square ahead of them, the rebels fail to see the prepared crossfire of two squads of hardened Risuri First Army rangers of the Fourth Regiment, dubbed ”Boyle’s Boyos” after the famed honor guards that fought with the old king during the time of the fall of the last Dragon Tyrants of Ber. Setup in elevated positions in taken warehouse buildings and artisan shops on both sides of the avenue, the sounds of arrow fire becomes disturbingly loud, now mixed with the horrible screams of dying men. Still, the charge continues…
Ten yards…
Josiah Crux opens fire with his deadly accurate Drakran steel pepperbox rifle, even as Drake Wellingham snipers a charging rebel officer in the head with an enchanted electric bolt from his heavy crossbow, the officer’s shocking death clear for all the rank-and-file to see. Elsewhere in the square, Arthur Wilde fires his more routine Pemberton musket in a covered position with two other Risuri soldiers similarly armed. The charge has mostly been broken and routed now, with only three or four rebel soldiers reaching their lines and stabbing with polearm or blade. From somewhere to the rear of the square a series of magical missiles streak by and slam into the largest surviving rebel wielding a bloody halberd, wrecking his chest to a smoking heap as he falls backwards to the cobblestone street. Here and there, a few badly wounded and dying men in the avenue try to crawl away, their former battlecries now piteous moans and horrid shrieking, some crying out for loved ones.
”HOLD FIRE! ALL CLEAR!” A weathered and grizzled ranger-captain of Boyle’s Boyos with longsword in hand strides forth waving his free hand to his men, stopping momentarily to prod a dead rebel over onto his back with a boot. Several other men stand up from their positions of cover, surveying the carnage of another disorganized charge, the third so far in the past hour…
Johnathan Jackson and Ifris Lanvaldan stand just inside the low-walled compound of the claimed merchant’s hall, just off the reinforced intersection square, looking out at the futile carnage of the last charge. They were becoming more numerous…and at some point it’s obvious to them some rebel veteran is going to get smart and try a coordinated assault from both avenues at once with full-company strength, instead of these sloppy half-formed charges with less men on the attack than the defenders in prepared cover. What is most surprising is that the rebel soldiers they’ve seen tonight – both in their escape from Blackwatch Keep as well as the coordinated retreat to this location – suggests militia soldiers or city watch types and not true veteran soldiers oppose them. Yet they know the Duchess had almost a full regiment’s worth of crack companies that defected to her banner just days before, as Johnathan directly witnessed in the fall of R.H.C. Shale Branch. So where were they?
To Ifris and Johnathan, the answer seems to be tied to the current discussion they both overhear just a few yards away from them in the receiving foyer of the merchant hall. There, Slate Branch’s Assistant Chief Inspector James Sutton, Constable Anya Landreth and Risuri Army Major Gleason discuss the results of tonight’s raid upon Blackwatch as well as their current tactical situation at the extraction point, with magical sending communications from three other R.H.C. teams coming in as well. Most notable is the fact that their discussion is with Principal Minister Harkover Lee himself, who has taken a direct “hand” in the raid on behalf of King Aodhan. Assistant Director Cyneburg is the highest ranking R.H.C. officer present, though she is currently absent from the talks, having just teleported five more rescued R.H.C. researchers back to Slate and the Cloverdelve Circle; Ifris and Johnathan heard a nearly identical report given to Cyneburg before she departed, with Lee having just magically returned from teleporting four other rescued prisoners minutes beforehand. It is not lost upon any of the constables that Cyneburg and Lee represent most the two most powerful arcane casters in all of Risur, the mission to rescue the survivors of Shale Branch given the highest priority.
”Basil Dawson sends word that his Unremitting team is enroute to the extraction point now, just a street away.”
”Good. Let the Boyos know we have four incoming and to provide cover if needed.”
”Indefatigable team reports they are in view of the harbors – no presence of Western Fleet in port confirmed. They have firsthand accounts of captured officers that the Duchess and her five elite companies have sailed with the fleet at high tide, night before tonight.”
”What about Resilience? Are they ready to sabotage the outer armory?”
”Yes, Principal Minister…Constable Sparhawk sends that they are in position now, and the firedust cask rooms are rigged for detonation.”
”Good…use one final sending to tell them to wait for my signal before sabotage, then make their way to their rally point in the Old Market, and I shall come collect them after we are finished here. What is the final tally of R.H.C. rescued or confirmed killed by the rebels?”
”Twenty-two researchers and support personnel rescued, with no word of casualties or abuses amongst them. Only eighteen compound guards rescued…the number of slain guards from the assault of 1 Spring stands somewhere at thirty-one perhaps, with another executed tonight up in the tower. As for our constables and inspectors…notwithstanding Basil Dawson’s Unremitting with their two slain and four surviving, we stand tonight at two rescued, three executed just tonight, and four slain from the 1 Spring action. Lucas Lawrence was one of those executed by the rebels tonight before we could reach him. Also, six captives from Blackwatch that can identify those responsible for atrocities…”
As the briefing continues on, Johnathan looks down at the near catatonic form of Miranda Lenshire having poultices tended to by Constable Alastair Rayne, she being the only other rescued constable of Shale Branch besides himself; Miranda and two of their colleagues had gone out late in the afternoon of 1 Spring to investigate a reported disturbance with a wagon supply train that had caught on fire, clearly understood now to be a planned ambush. Miranda and the other two were badly burned in their capture but all taken alive. However, before ACI Sutton’s team could rescue them in the lower dungeon of Blackwatch tonight, two rebel jailors bayonetted the other two constables before being subdued by several other wavering rebels in their midst, leaving only Miranda alive. Johnathan cannot help but believe the Duchess – or one of her top commanders – had given explicit instructions to murder the constables instead of allowing them to be freed…
Ten minutes later…
A brilliant display of azure, green and gold appears above the fortified intersection and merchant hall several hundred paces up in the nighttime sky, boldly clear for the entire city of Shale to see. It is the flag of Risur, with the golden crown of the King displayed just above it. The entire flag-and-crown illusion in the sky spans tens of yards, sending a direct signal to all rebels in the city that the loyalist presence is amongst them. As if that wasn’t distinctive enough, Ifris and Johnathan watch as Principal Minister Lee makes writing strokes with his hand, causing the name of ”A O D H A N” to appear in fiery letters across the bottom portion of the illusionary Risuri flag. Lee chuckles to himself and then speaks an arcane incantation to a large golden orb in his other hand, causing it to flare with mystical light briefly. ”That should gain their attention for a while!” he says mirthfully to no one in particular. Major Gleason looks up at the flag with a note of pride and satisfaction, but says nothing in reply to the esteemed archmage.
Occasionally outside the compound walls, the constables can hear the sounds of musket and arrow fire, though the action seems to be limited to one or two at a time and not an organized assault as before. All the Slate and Flint Branch constables except ACI Sutton and Ifris Lanvaldan have gone out to reinforce the Risuri Army soldiers in the intersection, and Johnathan Jackson represents the last rescued Shale Branch member left in the walled courtyard – Miranda Lenshire and the last Shale researchers and compound guards had been magically teleported back to Slate’s Cloverdelve Circle by both Lee and Cyneburg, each taking turns with innate arcane prowess.
For Johnathan Jackson, he would be one of the last to go, one of the last to leave his city, his post. ACI Sutton was clearly at fits with him for not being evacuated with Miranda and the other wounded; he was about to give John a direct order until AD Cyneburg told the Assistant Chief Inspector to leave him be. ”Let him alone if he wants to play defiant and dig in his heels, Sutton,” she said irritably to the ACI, ”However, keep Lanvaldan there to mind him so he doesn’t try to retake Shale all by himself with but a pistol and truncheon.” Lauryn Cyneburg had a knack to even make concessions sound condescending and sarcastic, but every constable in the R.H.C. knew the name Lauryn Cyneburg, and knew enough to never quip at her openly.
With Lee returning just moments prior at a faintly glowing silvery circle on the entrance hall’s floor with a now-familiar snapping sound, it meant they were down to evacuating the R.H.C. rescue team and the Risuri First Army ranger squads of the Boyle’s Boyos. Apparently, the “signal” of attention was meant to help cover the other R.H.C. teams on their separate objectives – Slate’s Indefatigable and Resilience, and Shale’s Unremitting band. ”Inspector Sutton, Major Gleason. Begin to bring in your people except for your covering and rearguard forces, if you please.”[/b]
At that moment, another similar sounding [i]SNAP! heralds the arrival of Assistant Director Cyneburg, she nonchalantly tossing aside another used-up teleportation scroll of lesser power for her own individual return trips. She looks up briefly at the huge Risuri flag in the sky with its golden crown and flaming letters of the King’s name and scowls at it. ”That large enough for you, Harkover? His Majesty’s name sloppily written below is such a nice addition to the glamor.”
”Yes, yes, I thought so as well! It should stir them up and haul them in from all around the districts. I estimate we have…oh perhaps just another ten minutes or so before they show up in enough force to matter.”
”Then let’s get this business done with,” Cyneburg answers simply.
Another ten minutes later…
”ENEMY UNITS FORMING UP! FROM BOTH AVENUES! HALF-COMPANIES OR MORE EACH!”
They were down to just about a score of them now, with the final eight rangers plus their grizzled captain retreating in pairs back to the walls of the merchant courtyard, conceding the avenue intersection and square. Yet even as the rebels from both directions begin to surge forward, arcane conjurations of heavy fog appear across the square, blocking line-of-sight completely; this is followed by a massive snaking wall of fire from Lee that erupts across the edge of the square on three sides and fully twenty feet high, blocking entry altogether. A collective groan of anger and frustration echoes from the assembled rebels who were just about to charge.
Covering the courtyard walls are the R.H.C.’s final nine personnel not already evacuated, the “rescue” teams assembled from the various Flint and Slate Branch volunteers. Inspector James Sutton and Constables Josiah Crux, Drake Wellingham and Joren Ettevand for the primary team – the last a deva sorcerer who had provided many of the defensive arcane spells that helped cover the square in the last hour. Constable Anya Landreth and Constables Alastair Rayne, Arthur Wilde and Ifris Lanvaldan for the secondary team. And Johnathan Jackson of course.
With Principal Minister Lee grunting in satisfaction at his wall of immolation covering their retreat for the time being, he turns away from the obstructed square and walks towards the hall’s entrance just as Assistant Director Lauryn Cyneburg appears once more with a SNAP!, discarding yet another used-up parchment upon the ground. In the eerie light of the illusionary flag of Risur above them, mixed with the shadows from flames and fog just outside, both Ifris and Johnathan notice that she bears a slight trace of elven heritage in her ears, something her utilitarian hairstyle often conceals. She seems fatigued, but straightens her grey uniform and strides forward towards Lee. ”Time’s short, and I have but two incantations left before I…”
Her comments are lost in a thunderous BOOM! that echoes across the city somewhere to their southeast, followed by an immense column of fire and smoke that billows up in the sky. ”That’s it – that’s Resilience and the armory. No time to waste now, as you were about to say.”
”Which first, the rangers or the constables?”
”Constables first, rangers to the last pull,” answers Lee crisply. That earns an utterance of disagreement from ACI Sutton and the “capabilities” of the R.H.C. to hold the courtyard until Lee and Cyneburg return, but he is interrupted by the grizzled captain now in command of the last Risuri Army soldiers, with Major Gleason having been teleported in the last wave.
”No disrespect, Inspector, but this is our mission to get you lot out – you and yours were the point of all this, and we’re more expendable when it comes to it. Army will hold the ground.”
Though Sutton doesn’t like the objection he has nothing to counter it with, and curtly nods once in reluctant acceptance. Meanwhile, John and Ifris overhear a very different conversation between Lee and Cyneburg, as they are the closest pair to the powerful magi.
”When we return for the rangers,” says Lee in a tone that contains no mirth to it, ”I shall let down the flames and deal with the assault myself. A tragedy, but less to kill and die later by our rank-and-file during the siege.”
Cyneburg pauses a moment before nodding, ”Then I shall do so as well, with killing fog that can cover the…”
She is interrupted, however, before she can finish. ”No, Lauryn. I do not wish for you to mass-murder your own…to sully yourself in this. Nor any of the Constabulary, should rumors survive tonight. I will take this upon myself only.”
For Lauryn Cyneburg, a denial to her of any kind would assuredly earn the denier a bold refutation in response, something on the order of a verbal emasculation. Yet in this case, she only frowns and says, ”You do not have to do that, Harkover. It will affect you as well, you know, to slay so many indiscriminately. You have come so far to…” The last she leaves unspoken, glancing furtively at both Ifris and Johnathan whom she realizes can overhear their conversation.
”I will pay the price for Aodhan,” Lee answers simply.
There is a nod of respect and understanding between them, as only those who have served for long years with each other can have. The Principal Minister turns to Constables Lanvaldan and Jackson, giving each a broad smile and putting out his hands in expectation. ”Well now, Miss Lanvaldan! Did this mission after the Coaltongue meet your expectations? I expect not, as one cannot have such excitement as all that within the passing of a mere moon’s phase, but then again these are interesting times we live in! Do be so kind as to introduce me properly to your Shale comrade here the next time we meet.”
”CONSTABLES! Assemble for evacuation!” ACI Sutton gives the official order. With that, the final soldiers take up positions on the walls while the constables collect into two groups around Lee and Cyneburg. There is a twin murmuring of powerful arcane syllables from the pair of Risuri archmagi, and then the sights of Shale disappear from view…
Bliss Atherton sits across from Gemma with her arms folded, frowning. She lets her sister finish her thoughts however, and calmly takes up a sip of her drink in its fine chilled goblet before setting it down and answering her, leaning forward for emphasis.
”Which is why you need to get out every so often Gemma! The things you see in your duties, the threats and bad people that want to harm us…if you always see life like that, you’ll let it seep into you like a poison. I don’t want that to happen, and you need to have just a little…well…normal in your life! Maybe if you stayed with the Army and been shipped off somewhere where you just had you and your mates to rely on, away from the trappings of city life, maybe that would’ve been enough for you. Then again, maybe you would’ve been in Shale when the city fell, and forced to swear to a false-queen or die on your oaths. Anyways, you didn’t do that, but you’ve chosen a path where you have to interact with people, in towns and cities. So how are you going to get on about that if you never, you know, get out?”
Bliss takes another drink of her goblet, nibbling a piece of cheese absently as she gauges her older sister’s reactions. It annoys Gemma that she does so, but Gemma has never been able to hide her feelings and thoughts from her younger sister – wall them off yes, but never has she been one for bluffing or obfuscation. Just as Gemma is about to reply, Bliss takes on a plaintive, higher-pitched tone and pleads with her.
”Come on Gemma, please? Please please? Just a couple of dances, a brief measure of talk that doesn’t involve plots and killings, and we’ll leave well before midnight I promise! Just an hour or two – even I know that it is unseemly and improper to go to Madame Minuet’s or any dance hall by my own self, but with you there it will be perfectly respectable! I’ll even teach you a dance or two…it’s not hard once you know the pattern of each, though you’ll have to let a gentleman hold your hand of course…and put a hand on your side every so often for the swing-abouts. You can do that, Gemma, can’t you? For me? Please?”
”She knows, dear,” says Serena simply, yet sincerely. ”I know that somehow she knows it.”
”You honor her by accepting her last gifts unto you, for her…passing…does not diminish the intent of those wishes,” says Kaea with some difficulty, her eyes downcast to her lap. It is clear she does not want to say any more, but Kaea Than’dil saying much of anything is unusual unto itself. She looks up furtively at Anneca, then over to Serena on what to do.
”Yes…quite right Kaea. Well then...” Serena Taflis tries in the next several minutes to engage Anneca in a bit of lighter talk, musing what Anneca may find is very different at the new townhouse as opposed to her current dormitory quarters. Yet with each attempt, it is clear the awkwardness and melancholy of the encounter is simply too much to overcome; Kaea says almost nothing in her own afflicted and socially inept manner, other than a brief amount of praise to Anneca over her efforts to attune the Capacitor and Brand so successfully, something the sylvan elven wizard seems to find genuinely impressive.
Still, the talk trails off – even Serena’s love of technology does not lift the mood of the occasion. With a slight sigh and forced smile, Serena carefully withdraws a small parcel of papers tied with ribbon and sealed with wax, placing it on the rickety wooden table. ”Anneca dear, here is the deed to the townhouse, ready to sign over to your name, along with the necessary letters to the district magistrates and tax purveyors and other items the bureaucrats must burden us with.” Serena withdraws a separate parcel from her vest pocket, handing this one to her directly. ”This has the main key…and most recent codes for her wardings that you must learn before you enter. Should you need assistance with the wardings or anything getting settled, you need only ask.”
Kaea Than’dil murmurs her goodbyes and makes her way to leave the dormitory room, polite but almost as if she is trapped in a cave and struggles for air. Serena Taflis is much more stately about it, thanking her for her hospitality on seeing them without notice. Yet at the last moment she pauses in the doorway, asking Kaea to leave them briefly and head on out of the building. When it is only the two of them, the Senior Constable pauses and clearly considers her next words before speaking them. ”Makala asked me to keep an eye on you, Anneca. To help you where I possibly could, as she could not. She told me some of your story…your issues of trust…and truth to tell I know a great something about trust. That it must be earned, for one. That those you think you know can commit the worst betrayals, for another. One surety is that Makala and I trusted each other implicitly.” Serena smiles sadly then. ”Wartime can often be a catalyst for that sort of thing, when trust in another means the difference between life and death. In some ways, the war made those matters simpler to understand.”
Serena smooths her dress and continues on. ”You should know there are matters that Makala knew, that I too know. Matters concerning you, dear, but Makala was concerned about rushing this too quickly with you. I agreed to withhold these secrets, as she desired to bring you into certain understandings slowly, to make sure you were prepared and could handle it properly. Now she’s gone, and I am burdened with it alone. I should very much like to earn your trust someday, Anneca, and then on that someday we can talk of the likes of Logan Milsup, of his special dealings and connections with those of interest to the Constabulary. Concerning which, I too was put on the same assignment for a time, the one that ultimately brought you under Makala’s discerning eye.”
”Until such time that I can earn such a boon by the rules that guide you, please consider my assistance in getting you settled to have no strings attached, other than that I am carrying out the wishes of a dear departed sister-in-arms. And you may count on me professionally in Flint Branch, of course. Goodnight to you, Anneca Summers, and may the Heavens guide you.”
Gemma dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin and then places it beside her plate, signaling to the server that she is finished with her meal. She then takes another long drink of her cider…and another…before setting the glass down and speaking. ”You know that I’ll accompany you. You knew that even before we sat down. You also knew that I would never in a starseer’s span of time like it, but that I’d do it any way.” Gemma takes another quick sip of cider, making a mental note that she should try and remember the name for next time. ”And what is normal anyway? Each person’s normal is another person’s strange or different. I wasn’t trained, nor inclined, to interact with people the way you do…a bit of reason why I went to Battallion. My interactions, so far, have involved sabre, manacles, and near deadly explosions…which, oddly enough, is fine by me. I wasn’t made a constable for my gilded tongue. I’ll leave the chit-chat up to Hill or LeMont. “
She looks across the table with a genuine smile at her beautiful, younger sister, taking her hand gently and giving it a little squeeze before releasing it again. ”But I will go to your little dance and I will grin and bear it, despite the fact that the men will be drawing straws to see who can dance with you and get out of dancing with me.”
As Gemma goes to get up from the table, she has to stop short and grip the edge for a moment to steady herself. The memory that pushes its way into her head is brief and disjointed but substantial. An idyllic forest grove, twinkling lights, like fireflies, strange music, dancing fey of all sorts. A familiar party it seems, but there is pain and intense longing mixed in somehow, enough to make the memory very uncomfortable. Then it’s gone, as quickly as it came, seemingly stirred up by the discussion of dancing and then released because of reality. Gemma, despite being a bit jarred and shaken, stands up and smoothes out her clothes, fairly confident she caught herself and recovered before anyone saw, including her sister. Not that Bliss hasn’t witnessed episodes like this (and far worse) hundreds of times, Gemma is truly loath to have anything interrupt her little sister’s fun. For Gemma, just one of her smiles is enough to soften a month of nightmares.
”CONSTABLE! HEY! HEY YOU, WITH THE HORSE!”
”LASS! WITH THE RED HAIR! HOW ‘BOUT A WORD AND A SMILE FOR YOUR SKETCH ON THE DAILY! NO? WHAT ABOUT YOUR LASSY FRIEND THERE…”
A large and burly Risuri Army guard of the R.H.C. detachment with two bands on his shoulder withdraws a truncheon from his belt and strides off from the main front gates to confront the accosting scribes; the size of the guard befitting a brawler that could be making coin on the side in the pugilist arenas of Bosum Strand. Telling the scribes that they can pose for their own dailies with a mouth of missing teeth if they doesn’t stop accosting constables, the scribes back down amidst a entire group of scribes and sketchers, many of them laughing at their admonished colleagues. A small group of citizens on the public street take turns cheering and jeering the R.H.C., the scribes, the guards, carriages passing by on Gladson Way, and pretty much anything else that catches their attention. The entire scene in front of the front gates of Flint Branch compound has obtained something of a carnival atmosphere. The prospect of civil war generally - and the looming threat of the city’s invasion specifically – tends to do that. It is no coincidence that the guards at the front gates to the entry blockhouse have doubled to a full squad, with elevated alert on all the walls and watchposts. For the same reasons, many of the constables come and go on their business in enclosed R.H.C. carriages, precisely to avoid the chaotic scene camped out daily now in front of the main gates.
”There ya go Griggs, good man!” Sergeant Hunley Stiverson gives an emphatic nod to the burly corporal who coolly steps back to his post on the left side of the main double gates, his truncheon still displayed in his large calloused hands. Sergeant Stiverson, who usually mans the smaller “Constables Gate” next to the main gate for preferred entry into the compound, seems uncharacteristically agitated this morning with the whole business. He shakes his head ruefully and apologizes once again to the constables waiting patiently for admittance. ”My apologies, constables! No needin’ for all this rudeness and bold talk directed at your constableships! Gots me right buggered up this morn’ they do!”
He makes a check of each of their R.H.C. badges for authenticity as is his duty, though Sergeant Stiverson knows each of them now by name with but a glance. ”All this hustle and bustle about, pretendin’ they’re doing the “people’s good” as they say, but really just an excuse to shop rumors and gossip about nuthin’ for shills, all the while spreadin’ fear and untruths.” He looks to Willem and his fine horse and seemingly appreciates that the steed is handling all of the people and sounds without panicking. ”We’ll open up the main gates for you to pass through, Constable Muhnee, but I got to confirm we’ve got no carriages coming down Gladson Way first – word is a carriage with the King’s Seal is comin’ in this morning from Slate.”
Lowering his voice to where only Anneca, Emerson, Gemma and Willem can hear, the morning gate sergeants adds furiously, ”Somethin’ grand goin’ on this morn alright, as there’s already a V.I.P. carriage in - from the Danoran consulate if you believe it! Right at dawn it was when I came on shift. Top priority from Lady Saxby herself it was, with no halt at the gates and no checking of the occupants.”
The stagecoach carriage rolls at full trot down the main Stray Turnpike to Flint, the roadway raised up akin to a levee, higher than the ground to either side of it and properly angled to runoff water from a storm. The specialized travel carriage bears the King’s Seal in addition to the Risuri flag, denoting high-ranking Slate officials or special envoys of the King or his court. In addition to the driver and his journeyman assistant up top on the front bench, two fully-armed honor guards ride with the carriage at a rearward platform, with four other cavalrymen riding escort fore and aft. Only two passengers are seated within the plush confines of the stagecoach, this being the fourth and final day out of the capital city to Flint. Constables Ifris Lanvaldan and Johnathan Jackson are dressed in the full-dress uniforms of the R.H.C., afforded every courtesy and sign of respect by all they encounter. Just last night they were at the well-known Rose and Thistle wayside inn that is often the resting place for travelers on the Great Slate-Flint Turnpike before it turns northwards, just outside the charming roadside village of Wickleby Fare on the banks of the Sidherun River. The night prior they stayed at the finest inn in the larger town of Corbington, a commercial hub for fine horses and livestock, and the night before that at an equally fine inn in the town of Daventry. All throughout the first three days of their journey on the well-traveled Slate-Flint Turnpike, they could see the lush verdant hills and rolling pasturelands of some of the finest farmlands in all of Risur, with countless small villages and rustic hamlets outlined with well-tended hedges and post-and-rail fences that dot the countryside.
Now, on the last leg of their journey to Flint, the countryside seems to be a fair bit more ominous. Roadside villages and fair hamlets are non-existent here. To their right are the forested hills and low mountains of the Cloudwood, with much of the forested valleys and spaces between craggy peaks packed in a dense fog. To their left stretches out a broader plain of marshy ground with high grasses and only small patches of denser pinewoods, it too covered in a low-lying foggy haze that could hide an entire army in it – though both constables know that an army slogging through that ground would be disastrous for both it and its supply lines. Ahead of them looms a darker, massive haze that clings to the mountain ridges, distinctively unnatural. Occasionally they can spy out the broad, winding Stray River that emerges and disappears on the marsh side with the fog, winding inexorably towards the Lower Flint Bay. Equally noticeable is the raised earthen rampart with iron rails and reinforced wooden beams that appears every so often to their right when the turnpike gets close enough – the impressive and more recent Flint-Bole Rail.
Soon now, the constables will be at Flint Branch, with orders from Director Price-Hill himself to form up with a Flint team on a top-tier mission that was being hatched by the leadership, though the details of that assignment were not relayed to either of them. That was perhaps not unusual for a constable of the R.H.C., nor was the high degree of fanfare afforded to those of their station. What was unusual was that they could have shaved off an entire day to get to Flint if they had taken route to the coast and then by ship, but there were apparently no ships available to take them. So they travel by the land route, anxious perhaps to be rid of the stagecoach and their honor detail, and finally on to some real business.
For close to a week now, Anneca has been making the trip from Makala's townhouse - thinking of it as hers is not a step she is willing to take yet - to the RHC compound. Every day, the crowd has grown larger. It is unsettling to her to see the ever-growing mass of men and women, though she can understand the desperation of the citizens to seek out some information. It is the rumormongers that she doesn't understand. "Say nothing, and they'll assume that it means the worst. Say something, and they'll twist it beyond recognition to snatch a few coins away from the people. Maybe they could actually do some real research, rather than simply beg us for information?" She looks up, realizing that she has been speaking to the rest of them and no one in particular. "Maybe the special carriage was filled to the brim with firegem powder. It's been a few days since we've nearly been vaporized in a deadly explosion," she remarks to Emerson. He has always seemed to appreciate her dark humor.
For the last three days Emerson has monopolized Talyssa’s time after her work on the Coaltongue, much to Devinn’s chagrin. The first evening at Victoria and Albert’s was amazing. Somehow away from the other constables, Talyssa’s normally quiet demeanor disappeared. They talked and laughed for hours before he walked her home to her flat on the Strand. In fact, the pair had stayed until the doors closed.
Fortunately Talyssa had finished her repairs on the Coaltongue so she was able to sleep in. Not so for Emerson, whose reward for helping save the king and the finest ship in the Risuri fleet was being chained to a desk burdened under a hill of Sorgenson’s paperwork to file. Ugh.
By the end of the day Emerson needed a distraction and was pleasantly surprised to find Constable Dane looking for him at RHC Headquarters. Devinn’s Uncle, Landon had invited her for an evening at the Thinking Man and she knew she couldn’t refuse. They spent that evening sampling fine wines and listening to Devinn mock the various speakers of the night.
Morning.....and mounds more paperwork. Evening, and this time Emerson took Talyssa to Madam Minuet’s at the urging of Gemma Atherton. Emerson truly wondered if she was getting back at him for the whole “Heaves” remark. Needless to say, Talyssa bunched up her nose at all the dancing taking place. Instead they walked through Central before finding a small coffee shop named the Steam Room. They spent another few hours before retiring.
Three late nights in a row had Emerson’s head aching this morning. Although in his opinion it was a small price to pay.
Anneca’s comments brings his attention back to the present and he answers her without a break in step. ”As I hear it, there are a couple of fire sorcerers in there as well to really liven things up. Maybe blow another hole in Willem over there.”
The threat of civil war brews in the proud Kingdom of Risur, unheard of in the long tale of years except perhaps by the scholars of Mitchell and Pardwright University. Even as the front pages of all the morning dailies on 2 Spring headline the momentous ‘King’s Speech’ of treaty and lasting peace with Danor, events begin to unfold throughout the day of an insurrection unfolding in both Slate and Shale. By nightfall, special “extra” dailies spread like wildfire across the kingdom. All along its well-traveled roads, river towns and coastal ports, tales are told and retold of a foiled sabotage by Duchess Ethelyn upon her brother’s newest flagship in a play to prevent his peace declaration, a botched attempt by her rebellious forces to take Torfield Palace in the capital of Slate, and the much more successful takeover of the great western city of Shale - now the base of Ethelyn’s power as she rises to supplant her brother for the crown. That same day the King’s court openly charges the Duchess with treason and attempted fratricide, foiled the night before by the actions of the Royal Homeland Constabulary.
It is said that fully seven of the ten regiments that make up the standing corps of Second Army in Shale defected to her side in the initial stages of the uprising, along with nearly all the captains of the Western Fleet docked in Shale’s well-fortified harbors. Bloodshed on the night of 1 Spring and into the second day by rival factions of Risuri companies is the greatest since the end of the Fourth Yerasol War over seven years ago, with hundreds of reported casualties. From her the Ironcross Tower in Shale Castle, Duchess Ethelyn speaks of the demise of her brother’s faculties since the death of Queen Avilanne four years prior, hastening his perverse desire to emulate Danor by the introduction of “foul and unseemly technologies” that “poison the lands and waters which weaken Risur’s kinship to magic”, as well as “shattering the ancient traditions and bonds of nature” the Risuri peoples once had relied upon as their strength. She asserts the Fourth Yerasol War was lost precisely because Aodhan forsook these traditions and turned to the “false ways” in fighting the Danorans, leading to countless defeats and needless deaths. Further, she declares her brother’s policies of “appeasement” with Danor threaten to turn Risur to a “puppet state ruled from Cherage” and that his actions will lead to “the deaths of millions throughout Lanjyr, and enslavement for the rest that manage to survive.” That she has “seen” this as a vision of the future by her loyal group of Skyseers is cited as both proof of her right to rule by her supporters and abject madness by her detractors. That the Duchess seemingly has the backing of so many of the Skyseers is a shocking blow to King Aodhan, lending true legitimacy to his sister in her denunciations of his ability to rule and speak for the people. For the first time in recorded history, the Royal Conclave of Skyseers in the Dome and Tower is split by the issue, and promptly disbanded by King Aodhan.
Throughout the days of 2-3 Spring, King Aodhan is boldly out amongst the people in the capital of Slate, said to be as vigorous as he had always been in his youth. It is said he personally cowed the upstart commanders of three intact rebel companies of the Second Auxiliaries to surrender, bottled up as they were in the Iveshade Keep after the failed attempt on Torfield Palace. In a single day Aodhan made no less than seven speeches in various capital districts of his views on the insurrection and reiteration of his right to rule, as governed by ancient traditions since the time of King Kelland. In the modern age of dailies and political pamphlets, the competing views of King versus Duchess are spread throughout the kingdom, hotly debated in taverns, town squares and social clubs, sometimes erupting into violence and riots in the major cities and towns. All local militias are assembled and put on alert, though the King stops short of requiring loyalty oaths from town mayors and militia officers, perhaps fearful that an overreaction would cause the very civil war he is actively trying to prevent.
By 4 Spring, leading elements of the loyalist First Army from Slate is on the outskirts of rebel-occupied Shale, blocking the main Shale-Slate Turnpike and most other major roadways leading out of the city, preparing for a protracted siege with its two corps to Shale’s one. Much of the news concerns a possible direct confrontation between rebel and loyalist forces…as well as sheer gossip on the prospects of Ethelyn and Aodhan actually dueling each other directly if the battle is joined.
Then, a curious series of events comes out of Shale by 5 Spring. A great conflagration guts large parts of an entire city district during the night, killing an untold number of inhabitants. Rumors suggest that the terrible fire was caused by loyalist forces in an audacious attempt to take the city during the night, though those reports are unconfirmed and unsubstantiated. What is clear, however, is that the Duchess and almost a full regiment of her most elite companies are gone from Shale, apparently departing with the entirety of her naval Western Fleet somewhere during 4-5 Spring. It is unknown where the battle fleet is or what their objective will be, though many suspect she intends to sack the eastern port city of Flint, seen as the symbol of Aodhan’s progressive acts that so many of those who revolt in the name of the Duchess Ethelyn find abhorrent to “true” Risuri traditions and values.
In Flint, panic settles into the bones of its citizens during 6-8 Spring, as the dailies publish various rumors and accounts of the Duchess’s fleet and its likely attack upon their so-called “upstart” city. Governor Stanfield proclaims the rumors and reports are false, and does all he can to calm the citizens and reassure them that they can hold if such an attack comes. The smaller Eastern Fleet is readied and out visibly in Flint Bay, reinforced by the mighty flagship R.N.S. Coaltongue, now repaired from its dastardly sabotage and ready for battle by 7 Spring. Though tensions are high with the threat of attack from the sea…and a resurgence of rumors that the eladrin terrorist leader “Gale” Soliogn is in league with the Duchess against the city by land…the common Flinters take heart that their newly constructed marvel is easily worth ten ships to their one, and can keep the Duchess at bay long enough to gain reinforcements. Flinters begin to setup makeshift iron barricades in the various neighborhoods and districts, readying themselves for a street-by-street fight if need be.
The Royal Homeland Constabulary mourns the loss of fully ten of its constables and inspectors, roughly a sixth of its trained agents. Not since the R.H.C. lost the entirety of its six-man Indomitable team overseas in 496 A.O.V. has incurred such losses, the largest toll it has suffered. Constables have taken to calling it “Ethelyn’s Massacre” and Viscount-Director Price-Hill lodges a formal request of attainder to the High Council against the Duchess. A roll of the names of the R.H.C. fallen have been read and posted in the High Hall: Makala Fileccia, Hayden Grady, Manfred Cooke, Corbin Spears, Winston Watkins, Cecil Crawley, Bartholomew Stafford and Lucas Lawrence. Two other constables, Abner Cosgrove and Kilian Platts, died in a last-stand in order to allow Basil Dawson and the rest of the Unremitting team to evade capture, and given special citations by the King for their sacrifice. A separate list of the thirty-two Risuri Army honor guards killed at Shale Branch are all awarded posthumous military honors, small recompense for the destruction of their two platoons. Shale Branch for all intents and purposes is all but eradicated, with but six surviving constables originally serving there.
In response, the R.H.C. mobilizes all of its constables for upcoming assignments, even those at the oft-neglected Bole Branch. The King’s Bodyguards team is disbanded by Aodhan, its constables given assignments of action each according to their measure. Slate Branch’s top teams, Indefatigable and Resilience are pulled from existing assignments and put into action on the home front immediately, supplemented by a volunteer force of constables from mixed branches. Though the full threat to King Aodhan and the close-call of the destruction of the Coaltongue were not disclosed to the public, the R.H.C. finds a ray of promise in the foiling of those events by a combined team of constables from Flint and Slate Branches. This premise is used to put together two new temporary assault teams for a rescue mission of surviving Shale Branch personnel by 4 Spring, given the highest possible priority. By dawn of 5 Spring the rescue is considered a qualified success; the assault teams turning to infiltration and sabotage missions in Shale in preparation for an eventual invasion of the city itself.
Back at the home branches, remaining constables work to round up rebel infiltrators, informants and potential terrorists in support of Ethelyn – in Slate Branch even the Inspectors and Directors take on assignments they would normally relegate to the constables, a display of solidarity in the Constabulary. Bole Branch, typically quiet, is sent into the countryside to sniff out potential plots in the rural commodity hubs, mines and logging camps that could be vital to a war effort. Flint Branch finds itself rooting out the remnants of the rebel group that attempted to assassinate the King and destroy the Coaltongue, as well as to counterstrike Gale Soligon’s terrorist band should they attempt anything from their havens in the Cloudwood. By 6 Spring, however, the constables also begin to prepare for the prospect of imminent attack by the rebel navy, which has not been sighted since their abrupt and secretive departure from Shale.
Routines change drastically for the constables of Flint Branch - and particularly for the “four-double-nines” that were relegated to bureaucratic administrative work just days beforehand. Though Lady Inspectress Saxby does not disclose the actual names of the constables who prevented catastrophe on the day of 1 Spring, the city’s leading dailies are quick to discern that its newer constables were involved – thanks to shrewd interviewing of many of the V.I.P.’s on the Coaltongue after disembarkation. Rumormongering and gossip are rife across even the most respected dailies, but there is a general sense that Carlao Ven and the other “senior” constables were on the trail of the plotters in Pine Island, leaving open a threat to the King had it not been for the timely action by its newer members. As is often the case, Lady Saxby dismisses the “rumors” as idle speculation, and Constable Ven seethes at being upstaged in the dailies.
On 2-3 Spring, fully seven constables are given top-tier assignments and rushed off to Slate to impending actions: Anderson Sperring, Josiah Crux, Gaethan Blackwater, Drake Wellingham, Alastair Rayne, Arthur Wilde and Francis Kane. Devinn LeMont and Alastair Rayne successfully hunt down and capture alive Dafton Marne as Delft demanded of them after the Royal Square incident; after a day of resistance in the R.H.C. HQ basement holding cells, Marne cracks and confesses he was a willing associate of “Garrys Tranth” – the deva rebel terrorist – who had Marne hire Docker men of reliability and fervor to take down the King’s rule.
Devinn LeMont stays behind in Flint to use his Docker sources with Thames Grimsley in order to ferret out any remaining rebel cells in the Docker community. The “seniors” of Carlao Ven, Serena Taflis, Dima Sorginson and Kaea Than’dil are assigned as a counterstrike force against Gale’s terrorist cell, just in case she is in league with Ethelyn and the rebels after all. Talyssa Dane continues to safeguard the Royal Shipwright Geoff Massarde and assist in efforts to get the Coaltongue back to sea, which they manage by 7 Spring. Jaevin Darjudin and Wilhelm Coin are assigned to watch the Danoran Consulate in North Shore and run down the “usual” list of known Danoran spies, just in case Danor sees the upheaval as an opportunity to cause additional mayhem.
As for the remaining Flint Branch “four-double-nines” in Anneca, Emerson and Gemma, their tremendous achievements on 1 Spring are promptly downplayed by Lady Inspectress Saxby, who forbids them from speaking to the scribes directly. None of them are selected for teams headed to Shale, and in some ways it seems their tremendous efforts on 1 Spring are not to be acknowledged as raising them beyond “associate” status. Most of their assignments by Inspector Delft are administrative and in support of the senior constables puzzling out Gale’s intentions with the rebellion. To not be put into the field is disappointing, to say the least. At least Constable Ven’s request for a “black mark” reprimand on Gemma is promptly squelched and never heard about again, which is some small comfort to her. Another comfort is that the transfer for Willem Muhnee is approved and enacted; in return Francis Kane intends to remain at Slate Branch after the business of the Risuri Rebellion is concluded, whenever that may be.
By 6 Spring however, all constables are given word from Saxby and Delft that the rebel fleet under Ethelyn is abroad in the Avery Sea but with whereabouts unknown, and may be heading to Flint to deal a death blow to the symbol of Aodhan’s progression over the last four decades. Constables are treated to daily tactical briefings on the city’s defenses and likely avenues for invasion. Should Ethelyn bring her forces to assault Flint, the constables will be assigned lethal-force missions to target and eliminate rebel officers and leaders. It is not lost upon them that foes such as Sorkana Dell and the halfling assassin Ilton would be amongst her leadership cadre.
On 7 Spring, Flint Branch receives a “special” guest to grace its basement holding cells, picked up in an outer patrol by Risuri Battalion cadet cavalry – Garrys Tranth is found alive and renewed in the countryside as only devas can be, yet confused and lacking any knowledge of what had transpired six days before. As he is brought under heavy guard to the Flint Branch compound and its holding cells, the constables who were instrumental in stopping him are asked to confirm his identity. Indeed it is Garrys from the Royal Square incident on 1 Spring, but it is clear to each of them that he has no recognition of them or of the events that led him to a fiery end. His requests are polite and lacking vehemence, though he retains a spoken proficiency in both Sylvan and Primordial that even Garrys doesn’t understand the significance of.
After the rescue mission of 4-5 Spring and evacuation to Slate, Johnathan is evaluated and rated to return to full duty, cleared by none other than Director Price-Hill himself. Yet he denies Johnathan’s request to return to Shale with the strike teams that prepare to return for infiltration and sabotage missions. ”We already have one noted war hero at risk with Constable Landreth, so we do not need to risk another” is all he will offer on the matter. When pressed, the Director declares Constable Jackson is too close to the events of “Ethelyn’s Massacre” and needs a change of venue to be at his best. Whether or not there are other motives involved in the Director’s decision is unknown, but it is clear that Johnathan Jackson’s time in Shale Branch has come to an end. Yet Price-Hill tells him not to fret, for he is to be given assignment on a mission being formed and planned just that day, something where his solid skills will be of immense value to the entire kingdom. Though he does not know the particulars, his insight and naval training suggest the mission has something directly to do with the disappearance of Ethelyn and her rebel fleet.
For Ifris Lanvaldan, she is lauded for her steady demeanor in the rescue mission – even given a brief private audience at the King’s invitation on the afternoon of 5 Spring, to sit and speak with him privately over afternoon tea. What is said is not known even to the R.H.C., but she is to take part in a critical mission for the Constabulary, representing Slate Branch.
Both constables leave on the morning of 6 Spring by stagecoach carriage with full honor guard, bound for Flint. A three-night journey, they expect to reach R.H.C. Flint Branch HQ by the morning of 9 Spring…assuming the city has not been attacked by rebel forces by then…
Johnathan spends the time waiting divesting himself of all the unnecessary parts of life. He pairs his possessions down to what he can carry on him, and doubles his daily regimen on physical fitness exercises. When he hears of his new mission, he spends time quietly in his chambers, focusing his mind for the tasks ahead.
As the scribe asks Willem for a moment of his time, Willem simply just grabs the edge of his hat and nods at them as a whole, "Good morning ladies and gentlemen." And continues to ride towards the main gate without a slow down in the horse's gate. Willem knows he is not a public affairs officer and has learned terribly what happens when he lets his ego do the talking. At the front gates, he looks at Corporal Griggs and Sergeant Stiverson, "Thank you Sergeant and Corporal. I hear ya 'bout scribes spreadin' rumors but don't be too hard on them nor the citizens unless they become too rowdy. Some are scared, some want to know them facts, some are doin' their job, and some probably enjoy the fact that we are plungin' into civil war."
Willem shifts in his saddle to see if a carriage is coming ...
I understand, let us in when you are ready.
He then looks back at Sergeant Stiverson and leans down to only address the same group, "VIP Carriage you say, that does not sound good?"
After Emerson comments on how the fire sorceress blew a hole in Willem, he laughs, "She didn't blow a hole in me Emerson, she fried me like a piece of burnt jerky." Then continues to laugh a little more.
While waiting clearance, Willem looks over into the crowd and does a basic scan of the crowd looking for those that appear to be casing the RHC compound.
"I remember my last thought before I passed out: 'is that stew I smell?' Now I know what was making me so hungry." Anneca smirks with her jest. "Should we run out of food, I know who to eat first!"
"Will you stop that Anneca? You're making me hungry."
After the Coaltongue fiasco and with the threat of imminent civil war, Gemma has been doing what most of the other constables have…working through mounds of paperwork. Yet, for her, it’s not been such a bother. Having little-to-no social life, except for her forced chaperone engagements at Madam Minuet’s with her sister, Gemma’s happy to catch up with reports. The writing and filing does get tedious at times, but it helps put everything in order, and order is a welcome thing these days. When she has been out and about, the tension in the air has been almost palpable, but there have been a few things that have brought a smile to her face, namely the frustrations of Carlao Ven. Despite his prior persistence to get a black mark put on her record, Gemma was never worried. She knew that if it came to it, her side of the story would prevail.
The rest of her free time (when she has it) has been devoted to personal growth. She wasn’t at all pleased with her performance when fighting Garrys Tranth, so she’s spent as much time as she could with both Johanna Durrance and Nya Lockley. Johanna to improve her sabre skills and Nya to help her work on her limited understanding of Primordial. Anything that might give her an edge in the upcoming days and months.
The daily grind of the circus of scribes and the crowds is starting to wear thin. After her experience with Ven, she’s been used to not speaking to anyone while waiting to get into the R.H.C. compound. There is little difference today. The only exception is that she’s starting to notice she has a difficult time making small talk with her fellow constables. Ever since they all spoke with the king on the Coaltongue about siblings and comrades, she’s noticed it. They all spoke of feeling as if their fellow constables were “like family” or the closest thing they had to it. Gemma’s been waiting for that bond to happen; the one that should inevitably form out of shared crisis and yet it’s remained latent. Hearing the constables talk now at the gate is only reaffirming her concerns. She found no humor in their near death experience or the almost-immolation of Constable Muhnee, and finds it curious how the other constables can see it differently. She knows she must try to connect on some level though. After all, these are her comrades-in-arms, so she starts with something benign.
”So…Willem…your horse is quite impressive. Most would bolt in a crowd like this or, at the very least, prance about nervously and then kick like a mule. Although, when it comes to some of the scribes, that might not be the worst thing. Did I hear correctly that your family raises them? Did you combat train him?”
Emerson leans in a little and whispers to Gemma "You can't ask that many questions of Willem at once. He's a little slow if you hadn't noticed. You might confuse him."
He then stands a bit straighter and calls out to Willem. "Hey Wil, I think that is the most I've ever heard Constable Atherton speak. Especially to one as dashing as yourself!"
"You haven't spoken to her about our dress covers, then?" Anneca adopts a high-pitched falsetto. "Oh, if only they had a ballgown to match!" She glances over at Gemma, hoping that her gentle teasing wasn't taken the wrong way. Their conversation on the Coaltongue was actually something that made her feel much closer to Gemma, closed than any of the others.
"You two in ballgowns? Yeah, that will be the day..." Emerson shifts his weight off his bad leg, the constant pain starting to wear on his patience. "Hey Stiverson, who do we have to arrest to get through this gate?"
"For the first time in my life, I might consider putting on a gown if it meant getting through this gate faster each day."
Gemma's stomach is starting to grumble. She ate a little for breakfast but the longer she waits here, the more she's reminded she should have grabbed an extra muffin.
Sitting across from Johnathan, Ifris has had her feet propped up on the bench next to him off-and-on for the majority of their trip. While their encounter during the evacuation in Shale seemed to exude the attitude of a proper soldier—a career soldier—that decorum dissipates out of watchful eyes. In spite of that, Ifris has remains markedly terse during their journey across the countryside to Flint. Ifris isn't one to spark up conversations, and her one-word answers to even the most casual of questions hasn't helped reveal much about her, other than her general distaste for small-talk.
After three days of "confinement," in her own words, the normally stuffy constable has become somewhat more relaxed, and in equal measure more frustrated. "This would've been faster if we walked," is possible the first full sentence she's uttered in Johnathan's presence in days. Her stare flicks from out the carriage window to Johnathan. Though she makes eye contact, Ifris struggles to find the right words, chewing on the inside of her cheek in pensive contemplation. It is an awkward moment between the two, her lingering stare and the silence punctuated by the clunk and rumble of the carriage.
"Marine?" Ifris finally thinks to ask, though from her expression (and inability to hide her thoughts from being plastered across her face), Johnathan can tell there's an ulterior motive behind the innocent, and obvious, question.
Wil shifts in his saddle and laughs, "Hey now Constable Hill, I was 'bout to answer Constable Atherton. Granted, maybe I am still growin' new skin and it has made me a little slow to respond." He rubs the horse on the mane, "Thank you Constable Atherton. Ta Wee is a beauty isn't she? She is indeed one of the finest combat trained horses from the Muhnee Star Ranch. As for trainin' her, my mother did."
Wil smiles, "Nah Constable Hill, I think she likes the horse more than I."
Willem laughs at the ball gown comment, "I am POSITIVE the guards would let you in without delay Constable Atherton."
Sitting across from Johnathan, Ifris has had her feet propped up on the bench next to him off-and-on for the majority of their trip. While their encounter during the evacuation in Shale seemed to exude the attitude of a proper soldier—a career soldier—that decorum dissipates out of watchful eyes. In spite of that, Ifris has remains markedly terse during their journey across the countryside to Flint. Ifris isn't one to spark up conversations, and her one-word answers to even the most casual of questions hasn't helped reveal much about her, other than her general distaste for small-talk.
After three days of "confinement," in her own words, the normally stuffy constable has become somewhat more relaxed, and in equal measure more frustrated. "This would've been faster if we walked," is possible the first full sentence she's uttered in Johnathan's presence in days. Her stare flicks from out the carriage window to Johnathan. Though she makes eye contact, Ifris struggles to find the right words, chewing on the inside of her cheek in pensive contemplation. It is an awkward moment between the two, her lingering stare and the silence punctuated by the clunk and rumble of the carriage.
"Marine?" Ifris finally thinks to ask, though from her expression (and inability to hide her thoughts from being plastered across her face), Johnathan can tell there's an ulterior motive behind the innocent, and obvious, question.
Johnathan can easily match Ifris in her capacity for silence. He feels no need to push the other veteran to words. Smalltalk is a luxury meant for the normal sheeple of Risur. Soldiers know that all the talk in the world doesn't matter in the end. It always comes down to two things - blood and iron.
"Aye. I was a Spine-Taker through most of the last war," Johnathan says. He reaches up to tap the grisly patch which shows a human spine bent into a bloody circle on the shoulder of his uniform. "Army?" he guesses in return.
”Apologies constables,” replies Sergeant Stiverson to all of them, though he offers his reply to Emerson’s question. ”If it were up to me you’d all be in yer HQ offices by now, but we’ve got extra procedures for the time being, and I’ve got to follow ‘em. Else Captain Umurn will have my hide.”
Just beyond the port-side entry gate and to their left where the port guardroom is housed, the constables spy out an R&D type in his uniform greys and white researchers coat, seated on a rickety wooden chair, peering at all of them with a violet-hued glass monocle rimmed with brass; he scribes hasty notes in a ledger balanced upon his knee, murmuring to two Risuri Army compound guards which carry Pemberton Twelve muskets and metal signal whistles. The way they are positioned is meant to be inconspicuous, though Hunley Stiverson makes them all too apparent as he glares at them and raises a hand in irritation for them to hurry up.
”I haven’t finished the aura spectrograph on the horse yet, Sergeant!” The R&D man is young and has an unpleasant petulance to his tone at being rushed.
”You haven’t...on the horse?…boy you will get a move on and not delay these good constables further! Else I’m gonna walk over there and help you along with the toe of my boot!”
”That…but…well they…” sputters the researcher as he frowns and removes the monocle, writing one last entry into the ledger with a annoyed flourish of the pen. ”Fine, they are cleared to pass.”
”Could’ve told you that by simply talking a few words to them,” mutters Stiverson. He shakes his head irritably, turning back to open the port-side gate wide and letting them in. ”All this terrible business, what with the rebel fleet out there somewhere, the terrorists in the Cloudwood ready to sweep down upon us, and who knows how the Danorans will try and take advantage of it!” As the four of them (and horse) are admitted into the entry block, the good Sergeant nods to each respectfully and says, ”Be careful and keep a sharp eye in there, constables – no good comes from dealings with Danor…I know we’re all to be friends and all now from our good King, but that lot is as slippery as marsh eels in spawning season.”
As the four of you make your way past the outer yards and through the central blockhouse into the inner courtyard, you see a four compound guards around a fine black carriage, gilded in gold and bearing the insignia of Danor on the door; the team of horses are unhitched and being given water by the stable hands, suggesting the stay for whomever has arrived will be for most of the morning.
Their halting conversation amidst long periods of silence is momentarily broken up by an announcement of the driver, who speaks down through a small brass tube to them from his bench seat atop the carriage. ”We should be there soon constables – less than an hour now to the Central City Gates I reckon, though I expect we’ll have a brief stop or two with sentry posts stationed on the road.”
With his statement done with, the stagecoach carriage drives on, leaving the two to resume their conversation.
Before continuing inside, Willem lowers his head down to where Sgt Stiverson can only hear him and to let him know he was once in his boots, "Walk my post from flank to flank and take no sh?? from any rank."
Then sits up and grabs the edge of his hat and nods, "Good job Soldiers, Keep up the Good Work!" Willem makes very settle changes in his weight on Ta Wee and that is all he needed to do get her to begin walking forward. He walks Ta Wee in slowly into the court room amid his fellow constables so they are not in any danger and since Willem is relaxed, so is she.
Emerson walks through the port side gate with the others but halts momentarily next to the Sergeant. "Thank you Hunley for moving that along. My best to the missus." He walks swiftly to catch up with the others and exclaims "After briefing I think we need to have breakfast." He looks to his old friend still riding his horse and adds "With lots of bacon."
Surprisingly, there is no standard briefing as of yet this morning for the constables – unusual, but perhaps expected given the dramatic events over the past week. Upon arrival for those of Flint Branch, they find both Assistant Chief Inspector Delft and Chief Inspectress Saxby unavailable, both in a closed-door meeting with the Danoran consulate V.I.P. in Lady Saxby’s office. They did manage to briefly observe two Danoran “bodyguards” of the ambassador downstairs, both given the courtesy of keeping their arms, but under guard by several Risuri soldiers who tried their best to pretend the situation was not awkward. Interestingly, neither Danoran bodyguard was human. One was a large plate-armored half-orc male with a close-fitting open-faced steel helmet, a strange two-pronged trident securely stored in a custom satchel across his back. The other was a much smaller handsome half-elven male in a high-collared coat of Danoran style, well-groomed and wearing fine black leather gloves, bearing a metal baton holstered at either hip. Both men looked bored, observing the constables only briefly as they pass by without much interest.
Upstairs, Gemma and Anneca find Devinn LeMont shuffling papers of theirs in their shared office – apparently his cover for loitering around the hallway that leads to Saxby’s office, for their small makeshift office is the closest to the closed door. Talyssa Dane tries to get him to relent but to no effect, though LeMont is finally shooed away by Dima Sorginson, who grows that he’ll give the bard a stack of real paperwork to file with the secretarial pool downstairs if he persists. Not long afterwards, Carlao Ven stands menacingly in front of Saxby’s doorway, waving off anyone who comes to that hallway altogether.
The constable’s floor on the second level feels sparse and empty compared to just days before at the end of Winter season, with so many of their own out and away on assignment. Renzo Moreschi and Bridget Sharpton were already away on extended mission, with Anderson Sperring, Josiah Crux, Gaethan Blackwater, Drake Wellingham, Alastair Rayne, Francis Kane and Arthur Wilde all departing by 3 Spring. Unspoken is the fact that Makala Fileccia’s desk has been carefully packed up and cleared, she having shared one of the largest offices with Kaea Than’dil and Anderson Sperring. Francis will not be returning either, his transfer to Slate Branch completed – Willem Muhnee finds his shared office with Renzo Moreschi to be tidy and quiet, the Clergy-trained man not having been there for a full lunar cycle or more.
About an hour after the Flint Branch constables are all present and just a half-hour after Constables Darjudin and Coin have left for investigative work in the Parity Lake District, another V.I.P. carriage arrives in the inner courtyard, and is announced to the constables by Risuri compound guards. Senior Constable Ven departs downstairs to see about the visitors, arriving just a few minutes later with two new R.H.C. Constables in tow. For the Flinters, one is immediately recognizable and one is not. Constable Ifris Lanvaldan is well-known by the senior constables and the likes of Talyssa Dane, for she is a fellow “four-nine-eight” from her time in Flint before her transfer to the King’s Bodyguards team in Slate. Serena Taflis, Dima Sorginson and Talyssa Dane all greet her warmly, for her discipline and good reputation are held in high regard by them.
Less thrilled is Devinn LeMont, who hangs back in the hallway, glaring dourly at the “reunion” of one of his fellow “four-nine-eights”. ”Wondrous. Look at that – Rails is back after her tour covering the King’s backside. Such a pleasure. So nice to have you grace us with your witty demeanor once again – Rails – and I expect precisely on time as usual.” With an infuriating smirk and mock bow, he withdraws from the hallway and heads down the stairwell.
The other constable is not known to them, a man of similar military bearing and reserved demeanor to Ifris. Constable Johnathan Jackson of Shale Branch is introduced to them all. Of course this raises eyebrows by more than a few constables, given the current state of Shale Branch and the reports they have all read on its fall and subsequent rescue. Only two constables are said to have been rescued alive from action on 4 Spring.
Yet before they can inquire further, the door to Saxby’s office opens and Stover Delft emerges, moving down the main hall with his cane and customary limp, not saying anything but pointing at Anneca, Emerson, Gemma and Willem in quick order to follow along with him to his own office. Apparently Inspector Delft is none too surprised by the recent arrival of Ifris and Johnathan, nodding to them both and saying, ”Welcome back, Constable Lanvaldan. This is Constable Jackson I take it? I’d inquire about your trip but I’m sure you found it overly tedious, so I won’t ask. Follow me to my office you six, and we’ll get started on a special briefing for you.”
”You don’t need me then, Chief?” asks Constable Dane, looking as if she’s missing out on something.
”No, Talyssa, I’m afraid you’re sitting out on this one. If you don’t mind however, I need a priority requisition form from Quartermaster Babcock if you want to get that for me…I talked with him about it early this morning, so he’ll know which one.”
”Yes, Chief.” Talyssa smiles at the rest of them, her eyes lingering briefly on Emerson before she heads downstairs to the Quartermaster’s Offices. The senior constables – Ven, Taflis, Sorginson and Than’dil all excuse themselves from the hallway – clearly interested in the unfolding events but seasoned enough not to inquire about it openly or rudely from their boss.
The six invited constables make their way into Stover Delft’s office, finding exactly six wooden chairs arranged for them in front of his large desk in a semicircle. Interestingly, they find an additional plush chair set next to his own on the other side of the desk facing theirs. The Assistant Chief Inspector sits down and motions for all of them to do the same; he moves some papers around absently, clearing waiting for something.
After a few minutes of attentive silence, the door opens and Chief Inspectress Saxby enters, causing all of them to stand up in respect. As Saxby enters the room, behind her another woman enters also, this woman very different from what they are normally accustomed to: A striking woman dressed in a rich embroidered silken coat of reds and purples, yet cut and fitted to allow for freedom of movement – both Gemma and Ifris note the tailored style is that a martial swordswoman would wear, one who has trained in the art of the mastery of the blade. Her hip bears the scabbard and blade of a fine sabre, but with greater width than customary. Yet what is more striking is the fact that the woman is no mere woman, but bearing horns on her forehead of a rare Malice-born elite, with amber-orange eyes that peer intently at those within the room. Despite the horns that mark her as a Malice-born, considered by Danorans to be the ruling class of their nation…and by the Clergy as “The Cursed”…she is young and quite beautiful in her facial features and lithe athletic build. It is also somewhat obvious that she knows she is both striking and beautiful.
”Constables, I present to you the Danoran Minister of Outsiders, niece to Sovereign Jierre of Danor, Lady Lya Jierre.” Lady Saxby conveys the introduction crisply and expertly, allowing for all to give proper respect to the woman’s rank before continuing. ”Lady Jierre, I shall leave you in the capable hands of my second, Inspector Delft, whom you have already met. As for these others, I believe you shall find their qualities to be more than adequate for the task at hand. I shall leave you to make your assessment on the matter.”
”I do hope so, Lady Saxby. We shall see.” Lya Jierre regards them all with a smug smile and raised eyebrows, walking across the room to seat herself in the plush chair next to Delft’s own. Saxby nods to Delft and then exits the room, closing the door behind her.
For a moment there is nothing but awkward silence, until Lya Jierre speaks first. ”What are your names, and supposed qualifications then, hmm?”
Johnathan grunts in his mind as he feels his pants suddenly growing tighter at the sight of the martial beauty. Damn, never seen a bird like that before, he thinks to himself. Too bad she's a f!@~ing dirty Danorite...stand down, soldier! he mentally orders his manhood. He blinks a few times and refocuses his attention on CI Saxby's words.
When the royal Malice-born demands their names, Johnathan sees the others hesitate to move. He snaps up to attention, and says "Johnathan 'Spiny Jack' Jackson, mum. Former marine in the 84th," he says, using the Spine Taker's formal designation. "I was also a combat instructor at the Battalion School of War and a Constable of the late RHC Shale branch."
He holds the woman's gaze for a moment longer, and then can't resist adding, "Nice sabre." His cheeky quip released, Johnathan offers a shallow bow of his head and retakes his seat.
Gemma sees the tiefling stroll in and listens to Lady Saxby’s words of introduction. All of this seems very unusual and unsettling given Risur’s most current events. The fact that a Danoran would be allowed in the R.H.C. headquarters without halting or gaining clearance at a check point is both disturbing and irritating. Authorized by Saxby or not, there’s still protocol…especially so for a prior sworn enemy, and the irony that this is the Minister of Outsiders is not lost.
She listens as Jonathan Jackson introduces himself to the Minister and is glad to finally make acquaintance, in a manner of speaking. Making a mental note to ask why in the world he would include his moniker ‘Spiny Jack’ in his introduction, she casually studies the tiefling, the same way she did King Aodhan before.
Gemma can clearly see she is martial, given the sabre, but she is looking for more. Already, she quickly surmised on the way in that the half-orc and half-elf, who were surprisingly allowed to keep their weapons, were probably body guards. More than likely, both could easily overpower the Risuri soldiers watching them if need be. Stupid. Plain stupid.
Unfortunately, though, she can't really determine much more from the Minister. Maybe it's because she hasn't run across many tieflings. Maybe it's because her horns and station are distracting. Whatever the reason, she waits her turn and then decides she will go next…
Watch yourself, Gem…don’t want to aim directly at the black mark…maybe just shoot a bit to the side of it.
She stands at attention, faces the woman and nods respectfully. ”Minister. You’ll please forgive me for my impropriety.” Then rather than introduce herself straight away, she turns to Stover Delft. ”Constable Delft. Before we go giving away our names, rank and specialties, may I respectfully inquire as to why? Given that it is my duty as a constable to ask questions and based on historical reference, it might only be proper to start with that.”
Gemma knows that she might has well have brought in one of Arthur’s bombs and dropped it in the middle of the room. The probable fall-out would be the same. But seeing as how all constables are chosen based on their merit and unquestionable loyalty to Risur, the inquiry (to her at least) seems fair.
Anneca stops just short of blurting out her surprise that she might be taking orders from a Danoran. Even if they aren't taking instruction directly from her, Jierre's presence is a strange one. It isn't her first dealing with a tiefling, but certainly her first briefing with one. She tries to keep the slight disapproval from crossing her face. Leaning back in her chair, she waits for Gemma's question to be answered. She is a little thankful not to be the blunt, cynical one for once.
The corner of Ifris' mouth quirks up into the fairest bit of a smile, her head cocking to the side as if to regard Johnathan a bit more carefully. One brow raises, and there's appreciation there. He doesn't know her. There's favor in anonymity. "Marine," she clarifies, raising an empty hand as if to toast. It will have to come later.
That, as it turns out, is the extent of their conversation over that hour. Two soldiers, discovering similarities on and off the field.
LeMont is muttered internally as Ifris watches the smirking docker slip out of sight. She'll have to reconnect with both he and Talysa later, if nothing else than to bond over the fact that the three of them are still alive after all this time. Those two, one more so than the other, may be her only true friends—to whatever extent that is actually the case.
"Ifris Lanvaldan," is her terse introduction to the minister. Her mother would make her chin-up, her father would straighten her posture just so. Neither of them are here right now and her distaste for government officials–especially ones with an air of superiority–is hard to suppress. "First human psion," comes whip-crack fast after, as if delivering it with a snap of punctuation. ALmost challenging the minister's own race's claim to that status.
"I'm just here to stop bullets and fill graves, Ma'am." Slightly more proper, slightly less disdain. She wants to be here, even if it isn't with this person.
_______
"Well, another tiefling with a corncob shoved up her a$%. What's new?"
Emerson stands up straightens his jacket and says with a slight smile and bow"Emerson Hill, formerly of the Risuri Navy." He then sits back down without a by your leave.
Stover Delft sits back in his chair with his hands placed together at his chin, watching the exchange with what could be thought of as a bemused expression. He seems neither pleased nor displeased at the reactions of Gemma, Anneca and Willem to not answer Lya Jierre’s inquiry, and raises no eyebrows at the “flavorful” introductions of those who do. It almost seems as if Delft is more interested in gauging the reaction of Lya Jierre herself. However, he turns his head to answer Gemma Atherton's question first. ”You may answer Minister Jierre’s inquiries – or not – as you see fit Constable. As for the good Minister’s qualifications and clearances to be discussing sensitive matters here…let’s just say that she has given us this mission assignment on a silver serving tray. She has already been briefed on the Coaltongue events of 1 Spring that are sealed to the Constabulary, including your roles in it. The King, himself directly, has given his assent. You may therefore consider Minister Jierre the equivalent of a ‘guest-expert’ for the specifics of this mission briefing alone.”
It is interesting that he uses the term ‘Minister’ as opposed to Saxby’s emphasis on her noble lineage, as the House of Jierre could be considered the de facto royalty of Danor since the early days of the Great Malice five centuries ago. Then again, Danorans are said to eschew titles of nobility, considering themselves enlightened and beyond archaic forms of address.
As for “Lady” Lya Jierre, scion of House Jierre and the so-called ‘Minister of Outsiders’ for Danor, the flash of emotions across her pretty face belies her irritation at Gemma’s open questioning of her right to receive an answer, though she recovers quickly with a practiced air, turning instead to nod to Johnathan in appreciation. With her left hand that happens to be adorned with a golden signet ring bearing the Danoran insignia, she twists her scabbard slightly to give him a better look at its hilt and handguard – interestingly there is a small steel cube expertly just past the hilt, with what appears to be thin sharpened metal wire coming out of it at either side to extend down each side of the blade that is much thinner than what the scabbard suggests, more like a widened rapier – very odd as one would think the wire would obstruct the cutting surfaces of the weapon. ”My compliments to your keen observations, Constable Jackson. It is not a sabre, though I understand the mistake of viewing it as such with the width of my scabbard. This is, in fact, of my own design, the very latest in arcanotechnology from Cherage. I respect those that have taught in your Battalion School of War, as I myself routinely offer lecture at the war academy of my homeland. Perhaps you have heard of my thesis, no?” Lya flashes a quick look at Ifris then, nodding to her respectfully. ”I have heard of you, of course. Your reputation precedes you, Ifris Lanvaldan. The academy has a copy of your first papers, though we have not heard of any published works from you since then. Psion of the blade indeed – I should say your blade is rarer than my own, yes?”
To Johnathan Jackson, he recalls nothing in his Battalion instructor days regarding papers of academic war, that serving little purpose in his mind as opposed to readying naïve cadets for the rigors of real warfare. To Gemma Atherton and Ifris Lanvaldan, however, a connection comes clearly to mind.
Smiling, Lya Jierre now claps her hands in a display of excitement. ”And now, a test I think. Inspector, would you reveal the contents of the bag I brought in earlier?” She turns to regard the six constables arrayed before her. ”You Constables are very much used to tests, no? Having to go through a great many examinations to be chosen for what you are? I should like to see the famed wit and intellect of the Constabulary put to a small test to see this.”
”Is this really necessary, Minister?” Delft seems somewhat perturbed now, his hands spread wide to express his questioning irritation. ”It changes nothing for the selection, for or against.”
”True, true. Yet I have gone to considerable lengths to bring you this “silver tray” as you call it, and I have conditions that must be met in this. I would like to better understand the mettle of those whom you praise so highly, for my own reputation is at stake.”
”I think they passed the test eight days ago, Minister”
”Indulge me, good sir?”
”Fine.” Delft reluctantly pulls forth a burgundy velvet bag from his desk and opens the drawstrings, displaying out several objects upon the table in a somewhat random fashion. When finished he tosses the bag aside and leans back in his chair to watch the constables, saying nothing further. There are three ivory “towers,” each three inches tall with a steel plate on its base. Next are three stone rings—one red, one green, and one blue—each just slightly larger in diameter than the towers. Each ring has three strands of pliable copper thread clipped to it, and each of the nine strands ends in a small silvery magnet, which can stick to the bases of the three towers.
Lya Jierre says, “The three towers are about to be attacked. They must be reinforced by magic that flows forth from the three circular arcane portals—fire mana is red, earth is green, water is blue. The wires are conduits through which the mana flows. But if the mana streams cross, they’ll destroy their respective portals. How do you arrange the portals, towers, and streams of mana so that each tower gets all three types of magic, without any of the streams crossing?” With her explanation of the puzzle finished, she takes a step back to watch them.
Johnathan looks at the puzzle for a few moments, and then picks up the pieces and arranges them.
Ifris leaves the minister's comments about her written work aside, and that only her blade is the only thing called out as a specialty is kept between her teeth, held to be used at a later point. Right now, the odd assortment of cylinders and wire is what gains both Ifris' attention and ire. Any indignation she might have suffered is instantly washed away when Johnathan swiftly and deftly assembles the puzzle components into—as it appears to Ifris—the proper configuration. An amused smirk creeps up on Ifris' lips, one brow raising as she looks up to meet the minister's eyes, head tilting to the side again.
"Marines," Ifris quips with the subtle hint of laughter in her tone, "always a surprise, yeah?"
Johnathan winks at Ifris. "I've always been good at these kind of puzzles. That doesn't mean you should mistake me for a book worm though."
"Perish the thought!" Ifris feigns a gasp of indignation.
"Well well," responds Lya Jierre with a look of surprise and admiration on her face towards Johnathan Jackson. "Indeed you have solved it most adequately...and in such an efficient fashion too." She points to the completed puzzle and takes on a more clinical tone of instruction, stating, ”The arcane portal ring does not have to be rested upon the tower to be solved, nor does only one ring need to be raised - or lowered - for success. Similarly, the towers could have been raised or lowered instead, though this is even less intuitive and more difficult to simulate. The key is to use more than one 'plane of the horizon’ to achieve the result, as you have done here. Well done.” She nods again towards Johnathan with a look of interest. ”Most have difficulty in viewing a tactical dilemma beyond more than one plane of the horizon, namely beyond that of the ground their feet stand upon. Then again, perhaps you are a student of your own history then, yes? Of Risur's Griffon Riders and their famed exploits, prior to two centuries ago with the fall of the great aerial beasts and their subsequent extinction?”
Delft clears his throat loudly and interrupts with a smile of a cat eating a canary. ”Will that conclude your testing of my constables, Minister? If not, perhaps I can recommend a jig for them to dance to, or some riddles I seem to recall from my upbringing at the docks of Bottesford Cove…”
”No, Assistant Chief Inspector, I am content.” She primly retrieves the velvet bag and places the puzzle into it, then takes her seat with an elegant motion and says coolly, ”You may continue.”
”Lovely.” Stover Delft ignores the minor slight and leans forward with intent to the six constables arrayed before him, all business at hand. ”Constables, as you know, Duchess Ethelyn left Shale approximately five days ago with the bulk of the Western Fleet and roughly a regiment of veteran troops under her direct command. We’ve speculated on where her next strike might be and readied ourselves in case Flint itself was the target, but the rest of our fleet was not able to sight her in the Avery. As of yesterday, however…and in gracious thanks to Minister Jierre here…we now know where she made of to, and what her target was.”
”It seems your "Duchess" Ethelyn has not only caused a great deal of trouble for Aodhan and your own citizens,” interrupts Lya Jierre with interest, ”but now intends to start another war between our two nations. I am here to see that grim prospect prevented. You will be assisting in a glorious mission to stop her nefarious plans, take back that which was wrongfully stolen from us, and thereby prevent war between our peoples. Time, as they say, is of extreme essence in this precarious matter.”
Emerson shifts forward in his chair and sits up straight before inquiring. "What exactly has Ethelyn stolen and how could this start a war between our nations?"