”The ship might blow apart but you’re not going to get off of it either.” Arthur takes another step back and throws another flask of acid at the Halfling assassin. This time this aim is true and the glass vial shatters across Ilton’s face, the acid burning deeply into his skin.
The combination of make-up powder and acid upon Ilton conjures an image of a half drowned circus performer. He can’t help but laugh.
”Are you sure you don’t want to give up? I’m game if you are.
”I dunno,” answers Corbin as he turns to look at the status of the barred front doors. The orcish constable watches the six unwounded Army soldiers as they take up positions several paces away from the doors without complaint or panic, calmly checking weapons as they are and loading muskets. ”Don’t think so, as this place was built mostly to keep soldiers and prisoners in.” He turns to their Chief and says in a louder-than-normal voice as if the man was partially deaf, ”WHATTA YA SAY, CHIEF? ANY PASSAGES WE CAN TRY HERE TO GET YOU AND THE WOUNDED OUT?”
For his part, Chief Inspector Lawrence does his best to stare back at Corbin, though it is clear from the continuing drool off his lip that part of his face has been paralyzed by the electrocution – Johnathan also notices now that the man’s left eye is badly bloodshot, perhaps no longer giving him proper vision. Lawrence shakes his head back and forth in an erratic gesture of 'NO', and then looks up the stairs to the tower where Constable Watkins is trying to make arcane contact with R.H.C. Headquarters at Slate HQ.
On brief recollection himself, it does not surprise Johnathan that Shale Branch doesn’t have such a contingency. Though the compound walls are old and thick and formerly a military garrison during the war, the buildings were built mostly to house several companies of Risuri Foot Dragoons – mounted infantry - and their horses. After the war when the R.H.C. took over the compound it was repurposed for the Constabulary, including the housing of R.H.C. prisoners and suspects taken into custody. Generally speaking, efforts were made to ensure enemies of the kingdom did not get out as opposed to in. The compound sits on the south side of People’s Park and near the temples of the Greenfaith Quarter, the park across from the Duchess’ seat at Ironcross Tower and Shale Castle; it is part of the overall inner defense of the city, but never intended to be a standalone bastion.
Corbin gives a shout up the stairwell. ”WATKINS! WHAT WORD? GET IT DONE AND GET YER ARSE DOWN HERE WITH ANYTHING YOU CAN FIND TO HELP HOLD OFF THESE SCUM!”
A higher-pitched irritated voice responding to Constable Spears with expletives elicits a chuckle from Corbin, who then turns back to Johnathan. ”So then. It’s the bloody stand for us lot. Well, we’ll make the stones slick with their death-juices, but am I to see the famed “Spiny Jack” in action at the last? You Marine Spine-Taker pu$@^&! always got the leads by the dailies and the street-hawkers for your raids before bein’ whisked away by yer ship. While it was my Hammerfall Guards and the other Army ground-muckers who had to hold the real ground and take on the charge! Now I guess we’ll see eh?” He pats his axe for emphasis, a wicked gleam in his eye as he seems to relish the inevitable fight coming.
Willem gets up on his feet while drawing his gladius and stares at Sorkana without saying a word but his face is clearly filled with anger.
"You'll probably meet 'im, but I'm not sure you'll like him," Johnathan returns. "I sure as hell don't..." he whispers to himself as an afterthought. He takes a moment to consider how they might best survive this.
"Any snipers in the room? If so grab a bow and musket and get your arse up into the tower. I anything rebellious shows its head, put steel into it!" Johnathan shouts at all the fighting men milling about making preparations. He is not any sort of commanding officer, but he hopes his reputation and tone of voice will make his fellow soldiers react without thinking.
Meanwhile, he himself heads up the stairs. "I'm going to follow my own advice Corbin. If I hear them breach the door I'll be back down, don't worry."
Coaltongue Map
Coaltongue General Info
Ilton shrieks in tremendous pain as the acid mars the left side of his face, neck and arm, eating through the servant’s coat across his shoulder. Letting loose an enraged, almost feral-like snarl at Arthur for his words, Ilton answers them with a quick slashing of the air with his blade, crouching for the next attack.
Yet Arthur can see that the halfling assassin is badly wounded just as he is now, and a tinge of fear plays across his face as he weighs his options. For both man and halfling, the deadly duel comes down to one final and perhaps lucky strike, the outcome no longer perceived as certain or predictable. Desire to gut the constable is weighed against his own life on the scales in his mind. He makes another menacing slash in the air between them, though his eyes quickly glance at the open window of the aft quarters that the Duchess had left from some time before. The cool and salty night air fills the room, the loud sounds of the orchestra’s anthem still playing in naïve fashion just two decks above them. Another long moment passes.
”Just you see Flinter! Even if you manage to make it outta here, I’ll be there to find you! One day I’ll be there to collect my smile!” With his face burned and still slightly smoking from the reaction of the acid, Ilton smiles menacingly at him and nods his head up and down, drawing a finger across his throat for emphasis. Then he shifts to his right and runs headlong for the window, jumping up and through it with a diving leap that carries him off the ship and down into the water.
With her last sprite dying and both her female enemies under the protection of the intact fireward charm, Sorkana is clearly weighing her options. Blood drips freely down her back, shoulder and arm, marring the once-beautiful silken dress. Her head snaps suddenly to her right, seeing through the glassteel chamber of the Capacitor that Willem Muhnee has just stood up on the stairwell and drawn his blade, a foe she thought she already dispatched. She takes an involuntary step backwards, the grip upon the vial tighter now. A uncharacteristic wave of fear crosses her beautiful but determined face as she quickly looks to the port-side stairwell behind her, as if expecting more foes to show up there at any moment and trap her. She then makes her decision.
”ILTON! IF YOU CAN HEAR ME – WE’VE DONE ALL WE CAN DO HERE!” Sorkana nimbly retreats around the port-side edge of the Capacitor chamber and hurriedly moves back towards the middle of the ship, keeping distance from the stairwell while using it as cover against a possible reckless charge by the golden-armored constable she considers as her most serious opponent, never fully taking her eyes off of her where she stands by the ladderwell. ”I feel the fire of this wretched beast of a ship, ready to burst asunder and burn! A fitting end for your King! You have run out of time, well-trained dog!” With that, Sorkana whips her free hand up and around her in a twirling motion, her azure eyes glowing brightly once again as she speaks a rhyme of arcane syllables to enact her sorcerous powers. Then she disappears from view.
Divianne Athel lets out a curse as she goes through the motions of setting in the contents of a firedust paper cartridge into the barrel of her musket, ramming it down with the musket’s rod accessory in practiced fashion. Once done she moves quickly to the port side to the limit of the protective fireward charm. ”Damn,” breathes Athel as she scans for a target of Sorkana, but cannot find one to fire at.
Tactical Map, Berth Deck Aft
Tactical Map, Berth Deck Fwd
Tactical Map, Engine Deck Aft
Anneca moves to the other side of the panel, analyzing how to use the device to save the ship. She swiftly moves the controls into the proper positioning. With the arcane and scientific aspects united, Anneca can drain the energy out of the furnace - but she still needs to master its ability to focus the fire, lest they are all consumed by an explosion of her own making. "Did either of you happen to look into the sky tonight?"
That's what I thought you little s@#$. Arthur could see on his face that the Halfling was done after that last hit. He couldn't really blame him. A pint of acid to the face is sure to ruin anyone's day.
As Ilton races to the window Arthur calls after him. "I'll be waiting for you, you FETHING COWARD!!!"
Emerson gets to Gemma’s location only to have her step 5’ away from him. Unsure of what she’s up to he opts to grab a shovel next to him in the pile of spilled Firegems. He turns 180 degrees and slams the spade end into the handle of the left most door and heaves with all his might. ”Aaarrrhhh!!!!!!!!!”
The rusted doors are shut tight and Emerson thinks he is going to wrench his back out when another pulse of heat emanates from within the furnace. He sees a few flakes of rust start to fall away from the edges of the door near the handle. Hill relaxes for a split second and then pulls again with everything he’s got. The door peels back slightly and then explodes outward knocking Emerson back in a searing gout of flame.
____________
Even as Sorkana is disappearing into a heat-mirage, Ifris is moving ever forward. The determined constable advances, though as she does her blade-wielding hand flexes open and the bladed wedge of energy protruding forward from it disappears in a glittering flutter of hexagon-shaped motes of light. Hand freed, she reaches up as she moves to withdraw a tempered glass flash stamped with a copper seal from her bandoleer. Ifris pauses a few feet from where she saw Sorkana disappear, then hurls the flask down to the ground with as much force as she can muster. The glass shatters and the tar-like fluid inside bursts into flames the moment it is exposed to the air. Shards of broken glass, sparks, and a tongue of flame erupt from the deck and briefly craw and dance up Sorkana, casting Ifris in a fiery glow.
Raising her shield slowly, Ifris' brows furrow. Her expression all but screams her determination, paints her as the relentless hound as Sorkana herself noted. Even though she is injured, Ifris remains unwavering.
"You can run, but you'll die tired."
Even as Emerson's successful attempt to pry the furnace doors open bathes him in a gout of orange flame and terrible heat, all three constables in the furnace room can now easily see the source of the sabotage...
The interior of the huge furnace is almost blinding in a mixture of orange and white-hot flame. Clearly it has been overfilled with firegems nearly to the very top of the furnace chamber, excess gleaming orange-hot firegems falling in small piles across the metal deck where Emerson stood just a moment before being pushed backwards.
Yet what is able to be made out even amidst the roaring flames and distorting waves of heat emanating out from the furnace is a single pulsing gem of varying hues - blue-white at its center with alternating colors of orange, crimson and yellow around its edges. Small streams of blue flame streak out at almost steady intervals, turning to orange as they touch the furnace roof and sides and leave impressions wherever they touch. Around this gem even the other firegems have turned to slag and ash, forming a congealed nest on which it blazes. Rivulets of molten metal drip down the interior of the furnace, sizzling across the relatively "cooler" firegems that continue to burn hot and steady, the temperature inside the furnace ever increasing. It is almost as if the bluish-white gemstone is alive somehow, for with each stream of flame that it sends out the constables can hear what can only be described as a mixture between a high-pitched keening scream and a low rushing roar; it comes from inside the gemstone, if that is possible.
The pulsing grows with ever-greater frequency and intensity. The gemstone seems to be growing with every second, building up to unleashing its full potential for which it was made. It is only a brief matter of time before the furnace's interior melts down completely and explodes like one of Arthur's fiery bombs. Even without this arcane source of blazing energy, the interior of the furnace is well too full and too hot already, making a meltdown under current conditions inevitable.
As soon as the red hot doors open, the heat of the furnace hits her and Emerson full on. The blazing fire is almost overwhelming and Gemma can feel the super-heated air scorching the exposed skin on her hands and face. Through the waves of heat, though, she sees the gem pulsing and arcing and knows what has to be done.
I knew it! B~~*+ put the gem in the furnace!
She briefly looks to Emerson before then turning her focus back to the furnace. ”I’ve got this but I don’t think it will be enough. See how much and how fast you can shovel some of those gems out. If Anneca can figure out that machine, I think we’ll have it. If worse comes to worse, breaking the coupling on that other steam pipe in the engine room will buy us some more time if you can get to it.”
Gemma then maneuvers the tongs to reach the Jiese fire gem and pluck it from its molten nest. She yells over to Anneca before she runs to find a port hole. ”I wish I could help with that contraption, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do. Don’t worry…you’ve got it!” She hopes her words of encouragement help to bolster Anneca’s resolve and allow her to figure out the control panel. She knows that getting the furnace cooled down is their way out of this.
With gem in hand, so to speak, she quickly makes her way across the room and over to the stairwell in the engine room, making sure to keep a strong grip with the tongs. The last thing she wants to do is drop the thing.
Two of the six army guards shout out an affirmative reply to Johnathan’s call for snipers, though they both look at Corbin to see if he will let them leave the defense preparations in the downstairs hall. ”Whattyda need an invitation or somethin?” answers Corbin irritably and waves them off to go join Johnathan. ”You there, wounded man! Can ya brace a spear or hoist a shield?” Two of the wounded soldiers – one in the leg and one in the shoulder – slowly start to get up to join the defense, though the third soldier’s injuries is most likely mortal and does not rise. Johnathan leaves up the stairwell past his injured boss with the two soldier-snipers following along behind him.
The main tower to R.H.C. Shale HQ is a large structure in the center of the two-story main building. After rising past the second story they make it to the third level, which has one of the main briefing chambers for the constables as well as several storage supply rooms – one of the soldiers salutes and breaks off to find a location here from which to observe and fire. Johnathan and the remaining guard head up to the fourth level, which has the offices of Chief Inspector Lawrence and Assistant Chief Inspector Grady. Both offices in the hallway are lit and the constable hears rustling of papers from the CI’s office. Above them on the fifth floor is a well-stocked R.H.C. study for the constables and inspectors, as well as a secured thaumaturgic chamber for divination magic and keyed teleportation use. The sixth floor is the top of the tower itself, used as an observation deck and signal post for mission status.
A well-dressed man in scholar’s attire and spectacles steps out from the Chief Inspector’s office and sees the pair of men, waving for Constable Jackson over to him in a hurried and insistent manner. The other soldier points upstairs to indicate he’s going up another level, while Johnathan makes his way to Constable Watkins. At first glance a somewhat effete man that looks only cut out for R&D section work and not that of a full constable, Johnathan knows Watson Watkins is much tougher than appearances suggest. After all, they both were selected four years ago as worthy of apprenticeship to Shale senior constables.
”Jack! Jack we’ve got a problem here!” He motions for Johnathan to step inside the CI’s office to where Lawrence’s large desk sits predominately on the far side of the room, a nice warm fire in the hearth lighting up the office in addition to the soft steady globe of illumination on a working sidetable. It’s not surprising that Watson calls him by his shortened nickname – about half the men who know him well call him so, something he no longer considers odd. In low urgent tones Watson Watkins continues on, holding a scroll for emphasis. ”I’ve got just one more sending I can do Jack, but I’ve made contact with some R&D bloke nursemaiding the communications at Slate HQ. That shouldn’t be, but he says the Directors and Inspectors are all gone and mobilized! All of them! Even Director Cyneburg, which she never goes anywhere! Lord Price-Hill is off in Flint with the King and that blessing of the new flagship, but the R&D man let slip there was some sort of trouble, though he wouldn’t say what. Chief Hopkins, Chief Hart, the senior teams of Indefatigable and Resilience…they’re all out on tier-one type missions. Something bad is happening in both Flint and Slate, and we have no reinforcements that can get to us.”
Watson Watkins, though not a soldier or warrior, is usually cool under pressure and a constable Johnathan would trust his back to on a mission. Yet he seems clearly rattled now, the prospects that an overall coup could be taking place across all the major cities of Risur unspoken in the air between the men. It was a chilling realization. ”Jack, the bloke asks how long can we hold out here. This is the last sending scroll. What do I tell him?”
Still wounded and feeling the pain in his chest from the fiery ray that nearly killed him, his pepperbox pistol still lying on the stairwell, Willem watches the actions of Sorkana and Ifris on the other side of the Capacitor. Sorkana is invisible now, yet Ifris seemingly has pinpointed her location by throwing down a flask of alchemist's fire. Frustrating to Willem is the fact that she is only twenty paces or so away from him, but he cannot run through the Capacitor chamber to get to her.
Hearing Emerson's voice from just moments before, Willem decides the true threat is the sabotage of the ship itself. So he moves as fast as he dares to inside the starboard magazine room, ready to retrieve the dropped fireward gem under the assumption that it may be needed down below in the engine deck.
Coaltongue Map
Coaltongue General Info
The licking flames of the alchemist’s fire briefly silhouettes one side of Sorkana’s face to Ifris, though to the constable’s dismay she discerns the fire has no effect upon her visage. ”I am the flame of Jiese and the void of the Heavens between the Spheres – your paltry alchemy has no effect upon me!”
With the last glimpse of Sorkana’s face a sneer towards Ifris, the handmaiden of the Duchess disappears from view. Soon after an empty glass vial appears as it hurtles towards the constable’s feet and shatters in a final act of defiance.
Ifris can hear footsteps upon the metal grated deck, but does not know where exactly Sorkana has run off to. A moment later however and despite the echoing sounds of the anthem being played topside, she hears the splash of water from the port side, as the berth deck she is on has several portholes opened to provide a cool breeze for the tours held earlier.
Tactical Map, Berth Deck Aft
Tactical Map, Berth Deck Fwd
Tactical Map, Engine Deck Aft
With Ilton gone, Arthur takes stock of himself and his surroundings. He is bleeding but not bad enough that he risks losing consciousness if he exerts himself a little more.
Even from his location at the aft of the ship, Constable Wilde can feel and hear the muffled explosion caused by Hill opening the furnace door. Arthur decides that he better get down there and help as best he can or the little runt of a Halfling might be right about not making it off the ship.
He runs down the hall to the Port Stairwell and is about to take the steps two at a time when he sees Gemma holding a glowing gem before her with a set of steel tongs. ”What the feth?” is all he can manage before making a hole for her to run past him.
”Willem! Where the hell are you!?” Emerson coughs while trying to escape the searing heat of the now open furnace.
Before he can retreat, another eruption of flames engulfs him. Hill drops the shovel in the pile of fire gems behind him and makes his way towards the Port side stairs. He puts his hand on the bulkhead for support and conjures forth more energy from within. A wave of healing again emanates from the Constable closing wounds and shrinking burns…
Star charts and astronomy... The subject was taught at Mitchell in addition to the arcanum that she had only marginally mastered. At the time, she found it to be a useless and vestigial topic. Magic, in her opinion, was a scientific phenomenon much like chemistry or physics; the idea that it was influenced by the position of stars in the sky millions of miles away seemed superstitious to her. Fortunately, she paid attention to the topic, forcing herself to appreciate the study of astronomy based on its scientific merits instead of its application to magic. The well-rounded education might save every one of the souls on board the ship. She tinkers with the controls, putting them in the proper place to reflect the constellations and planets above. She slides the gems into place, knowing that this gives them a chance to survive the sabotage.
She looks up at the bracelets in the cabinet and their etched runes. She knows what she has to do, and she might just even survive it. "Where the hell is that eladrin traitor? I'm going to turn her into ash!"
Gemma quickly makes her way up the stairs that she originally came down. On her way up, she feels the healing wave of energy from Emerson, but it is simultaneously replaced by the searing heat from the Jiese gem at the end of her tongs. As she gets to the top of the stairs, she spies a haggard-looking Arthur heading her way.
"MOVE!"
Rushing past him, she realizes that she could have taken the door closest to her at the top of the stairs. It might have taken her to a closer port hole, but that’s also the way to the Capacitor, and she’s not as familiar with the layout. Instead, she makes her way to the porthole she remembers and gingerly places the heavy tongs through, being careful to keep the gem firmly clasped until she’s sure it’s over water. Despite being removed from the blazing furnace and now at the end of a long pole, the gem continues to pulse and burn as if something is alive inside and desperate to burst out. And the heat of it continues to blister the skin on Gemma’s hands and face, despite the cool, evening, sea air.
Willem disappointed that he could not relieve some of his burning pain by carving it out of Sorkana, he remembers that Emerson wanted the Fireward Gem. Before running over to the gem, he picks up his Pepperbox Pistol, shoves it into his belt, then runs as fast as he can to the gem, picks it up, and heads for the closest ladder or stairwell to the engine room. He sheathes his gladius before descending the stairs since he has to hold the gem and climb down. Once he gets down stairs, he avoids any of the real hot materials and machinery, he yells out, "EMERSON, I HAVE THE GEM. WHERE ARE YOU?!"
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Ifris seethes, pivoting where she stands in a futile attempt to discern which direction Sorkana fled in. The sound of water off the port side of the ship. Reflexively, Ifris turns to Divianne Athel with an outstretched hand, "Rifle!" But when Ifris' eyes level on the severely wounded young woman, the rage is replaced by a heady mixture of guilt and concern. While Ifris doesn't vocalize belay that order, her deflated posture and averted eyes conveys it more clearly. There are more pressing matters at hand.
As Ifris approaches Divianne, her focus fades from the shield on her left arm. The shield breaks apart into weightless motes of firelight, each piece uniformly hexagonal and glittering. Eventually, the motes dissipate entirely into a briefly distorting haze, then nothing. "Stay here," isn't spoken like an order—even if Divianne might take it that way—there's too much compassion. "I'll find someone to tend to your injuries. But, I've gotta make sure we don't blow up first." There's a smile there, fleeting, but still an expression most don't often see from Ifris. Half of it is from nerves, the other half is some awkward attempt at being reassuring. Ifris herself isn't sure why either is necessary right now, and yet there it is.
Turning from Divianne, Ifris hops onto the ladder and slides down into the engine deck. She lands with the clatter of her psychic armor, its muted orange glow not the only source of firelight down here. Heat, smoke, and the crackling snap of flames assaults her senses. The temperature difference between the engine and berth decks immediately obvious. "Emerson!" Ifris calls out through the engine deck, "You dead!?" She knows better.
Emerson can hear both his friends calling him from the forward engine deck. He yells back hoping both can hear him through the mechanical whine of the ship.
"Willem! Over hear by the furnace. Bring that Fireward gem and drop it in front of the furnace doors!"
"We're all good. I think Anneca has figured out a way to bleed off all this heat and Gemma's about to throw a Jiese gem off this blasted ship.
Did you guys get Sorkana?"
Coaltongue Map
Coaltongue General Info
Marine guard Athel wearily salutes Constable Lanvaldan as she heads down the ladderwell. She then turns to survey the two intact fireward charms and begins to double-check that the vicious fey sprites are dispatched. Even as she does so, all three downed sprites disappear – most likely back to the Dreaming from whence they came.
Tactical Map, Berth Deck Aft
Tactical Map, Berth Deck Fwd
Tactical Map, Engine Deck Aft
Willem looks at the hot furnace, "No, Sorkana unfortunately sounded like she abandoned ship. As for the Fireward Gem! Right! Once I figure out how to place it without being burnt further?
Willem looks for a way to get get the Gem in front of the furnace without being fried and places it there once he figures out a way to get close without perishing to the extreme heat.
Anneca gives one last glance at the control panel. She knows that she is taking her life - and probably the lives of every person on the ship - in her hands by activating the Brand. She hesitates for a moment. What if her calculations were wrong? What if the controls are in the wrong order or jostled by a hasty and nervous hand? Her insecurity gnaws at her. If she is wrong, she could be incinerated by trying to channel the incredible heat, or detonate the furnace early. It is too much for the young constable to hold on her shoulders. As she tries to remember everything that she knows about the ship and the Brand, her mind drifts to poor Petty Officer Aughtbrook. The young man had given them the tour of the ship, then given his life to the country. His sacrifice would mean nothing if she does not act decisively. Makala's death would mean nothing if Anneca fails.
Decisively, she snatches one of the runed bracelets and slides it over her wrist. Immediately, she can feel the overwhelming energy and power. It courses through her veins like the first drink of a strong spirit. She gasps as knowledge and power flood into her. She can feel the entire ship, all of the pipes and lines and the arcane connections. The ship is truly a marvel of technology and arcana - and she can control it. She can feel the fire pulsing in the furnace and the boilers straining to hold in the heat and pressure. She can feel the Capacitor that runs through the ship to the stern, all of the exquisite connections through the decks. For the first time, she truly understands magic on a fundamental level. The power opens her mind to new possibilities as she harnesses and channels it. She shouts to the others through gritted teeth, "Get back!"
It takes all of her strength and willpower to force the fire through the funnels. The system is designed to siphon power, but she needs it to actually drain all of the fire from the boilers before an explosion occurs. With so much heat built up, she strains to pull it upwards into the Capacitor. She can feel the device heating up, shifting from silver to red as it fills with fire. She drops to her knees, mentally screaming with the terrible effort and toll that it is taking. No one is meant to hold this sort of power and survive - but there is a part of her, deep in her mimd, intoxicated and hungry for more. It should burn her out, but the attunement keeps the channeling from consuming her.
She keeps pulling the fire to the Capacitor, even as she mentally begins to aim for its discharge. With so many ships docked around them, she knows that the only direction it can go is up. She would love to send a blast of power into the Duchess and her tentacles sea monster, but she does not have any idea of where to shoot it and not enough time to find out. "Now or never," she groans as the pain threatens to overwhelm her. She holds the energy within the Capacitor for a long moment, getting the last of the heat from the boilers, but she cannot hold onto it forever. With a scream of pain, she purges the ship of its fire and collapses to the deck.
Even though the sea air is cool and refreshing, the radiating power and fire of Jiese is still searing into Gemma’s skin. She is just seconds away from dropping it into the drink when a moment of unexpected doubt creeps into her mind.
What if this doesn’t work? What if this thing hits the water and explodes into the hull? What if there really is something trapped inside, some horrible fey creature waiting to get out and the water splits the gem open? Or maybe it will just kill the damn thing.
The mental image of a fey stuck in the gem being exploded into a million pieces or withering and dying is enough to kill all the other worrisome thoughts. Suddenly, Gemma can’t drop the gem fast enough into the ocean. Good riddance. As soon as she drops it, she throws the tongs behind her. They make a loud, steely clatter on the wooden deck, but the action of it gives her room to lean out of the porthole, allowing her to see what her actions have done.
The rousing Risuri anthem is well into its second stanza when the Capacitor Dome begins to change. Even as the orchestra began to play for the King and all assembled on deck a couple of minutes beforehand, the soft motes of silver light began to dance and grow brighter, glowing with greater intensity with tiny sparks of lightning becoming more frequent and apparent. Yet this simply seemed to be part of the overall grandeur of the occasion, as if another means of prestidigitation to entertain the guests and show off the might of Risur’s mightiest warship.
The Navras House Orchestra is in perfect harmony with the inspirational music echoing across the deck and surrounding waters, the steady beat of the percussionists and sounding of the horns amidst the steady rhythm of the strings masking any odd rumblings from below decks. With all at attention on deck to the anthem and their monarch, the fact that the Duchess was lowered to the back of a great beastlike squid at the aft of the ship moments earlier went completely unnoticed, a strange and beautiful Lady of the Unseen Court personally come to the rescue and retrieval of the Duchess. Similarly, the plain fact that steam and smoke no longer billows out of the aft stack goes unnoticed as well. Though both a liveried servant and honor guard by the port-side railing notice a pod of dolphins surface near the ship, they are quickly shushed by their seniors and motioned to turn their full attention back to the playing of the anthem for their liege; thus two other saboteurs who left the ship in haste are met by the clever sea creatures and taken away from the ship in short order under the waves.
As the hues of the Capacitor Dome change from a bright brilliant silver to a deep angry crimson however, men and women begin to take notice. A deep thrumming sound from the ship grows in intensity and in frequency, as if the ship itself is awakening. The silvery light with its lightning arcs is suddenly subsumed by the crimson energy of dancing flames, the glassteel glowing in full intensity as if a hot bar of iron extracted from the forge. Those of the Navras Orchestra falter and stumble in their playing of the anthem, looking at one another in worry and confusion. Nobles, dignitaries and guards alike all begin to point and gawk, their soft polite whispers turning rapidly into cacophonous worried babble. King Aodhan’s weathered face with its deep worry lines of age grows grim, his eyes widening to the effect; both Principal Minister Lee and Dame Knight Jillian step in close to him at the same moment, their eyes searching for answers.
Yet before either Lee or Jillian can take any further action, the massive arcane runes of the Brand at the very bow of the ship flare to life, a great roaring humming sound engulfing all lesser sounds of the babbling assembly on deck. The red glow of the Capacitor Dome flares to bright fiery orange, a matching glow now apparent from the Brand at the bow and its etched arcane runes. Cries and shouts faintly ring out amidst the crowd, some clinging to one another in abject terror. When it seems the glassteel of the arcane Capacitor can no longer possibly contain the energies held within, the deep ominous sound of the Brand lets forth a higher-pitched screeching roar. Then it fires.
It is a cylindrical column of pure fiery energy, as if the Skyseers claimed it came from Jiese in the Heavens itself. The column is as large as the circumference of a greatoak tree of Bole and the southern forests, firing from the Brand directly upwards into the nighttime starry sky above. Five-hundred feet. One-thousand feet. A half-mile now into the sky and climbing. A lazy cloud a mile above them is evaporated with its remnants pushed outwards in a circular ring; surely if all eight accompanying warships were arrayed in enfilade in the path of the Brand they would all be instantly incinerated. The Coaltongue shakes noticeably as the energy continues to discharge, arcane runes of focus and protection light up all across the edges of the main deck and top portion of the hull under the railings, casting an eerie flaming glow across the frightened assembly. On the foredeck it should seem that Constables Anya Landreth and Cealena Kirby would be burned alive from the proximity of the Brand’s power, each throwing up a feeble hand and arm to shield their faces. Yet it does not harm them, the arcane runes of the ship protecting them from harm.
Just as suddenly as it started, the Brand’s energy discharge ends. High above them, the intensity of the fiery column weakens and is carried by the high altitude winds across the sky in a developing pattern akin to a parasol. The fiery light above is now the intensity of a fading dusk, providing illumination still for all to see one another. As it fades the arcane runes of the Brand fade back to imperceptibility, the light of the Capacitor dome turning once again to a soft silvery light devoid of lighting arcs, much weaker than before. The sounds of the ship fade to silence – only the sounds of the winds and ocean can be heard.
For a long moment, no one aboard dares speak. Then one nobleman starts to clap, followed by another, then another, then several more. Soon the entire assembly of nobles, dignitaries, scribes, servants and even many of the soldiers themselves cheer and applaud enthusiastically, looks of embarrassed relief and delight upon their faces.
”Bravo! BRAVO!”
”HUZZAH! Glory to the might of RISUR!”
”Wonder of wonders to behold!”
”Glorious! Fireworks of the Goblin Pyrotechnics Consortium cannot even begin to compare…”
On and on the assembled guests cheer and remark at the sheer power of His Majesty’s warship. King Aodhan, after giving a glance to both Principle Minister Lee and Dame Jillian, steps forward with a hand raised in appreciation to the assembly. This has the effect of prompting the crowd to cheer and applaud even more thunderous than before, and the King stands there basking in the sheer adulation of his surprised and delighted subjects.
Not all have been fooled however, though they clearly maintain the fiction that the firing of the Brand was planned and expected. Director Price-Hill and Inspectress Saxby look to each other and both step forward to the front of the crowd, their smiles practiced and not reaching their eyes. Principal Minister Lee gives a brief look and nod to Assistant Chief Inspector Delft near the front of the assembly, who in turn limps past the cheering crowd to where Constable Dane and Royal Engineer Massarde stand, saying something succinct as they all then extricate themselves from the crowd and head towards the wheelhouse. Neither Lee nor Jillian can leave the King on the foredeck even if they wanted to, their leaving being too noticeable to raise some sort of concern or suspicion. Yet even as King Aodhan begins to wave his hands in a cordial way to quiet the applause down, both Constables Kirby and Landreth curtsey in a display of “getting off the stage” and quickly descend the steps to head down to the decks below…
Gemma watches with grim satisfaction as the Jiese Gem drops into the ocean with a satisfying plop!, instantly churning the cold waters into a frothing boil with steam and vapor rising upwards. For a moment as it sinks she believes she sees the pulsing heart of the gem flare and lash out at the water in energetic enmity, almost as if from some folk tale told by the traveling Skyseers of the contest between Jiese and Mavisha as they pass by one another in the Heavens. Yet quickly it is clear the gem cannot withstand the sheer mass of the ocean, and with one final flare at its heart it seems to be squeezed and diminished, the very center glowing like a dull ember from a near-extinguished bonfire. Then it is gone, lost to the depths of the sea.
Strangely, Gemma knows she is the only one to witness this, for the sheer magnitude of the energy discharge from the Brand has overshadowed everything else, the column of fire lighting up the sky above her in an impressive display of power. She brings herself back in from the porthole, her arms and hands red and blistered but the pain dulled by her training and the sheer thrill of what they have just accomplished.
Willem and Ifris are closest to Anneca Summers as they watch her slump over and fall to the ground. The glassteel bracelet that Anneca wears perfectly matches the hot crimson glow of the Capacitor Chamber above them, the roaring sound of unfathomable energy rushing throughout the ship making any attempt at speech between them impossible. For long moments the shaking of the ship makes it risky to even try to walk, and it is all they can do to grab a railing or part of the wall to steady themselves, hoping the ship doesn’t rip itself apart. The blazing near-molten intensity of the furnace seems to groan in protest as its excess heat and energy gets pulled up into the Capacitor above like some swirling vortex of a violent storm. As a final screeching roar of the ship sounds all around them, a blinding flash of fiery orange light from the furnace disorients all of the constables on the engine deck, filling their vision with fiery dancing motes as if staring at a candle too long. Then it ends.
A chill runs across the constables as the air is no longer superheated from the furnace, feeling cool by relative comparison. Darkness momentarily overtakes the engine deck as the furnace’s inferno is snuffed completely out. In the passage of several long breaths however, the constables discern the soft silvery light of the Capacitor Chamber above them through the grated deck, matching the same hue and intensity upon the unconscious Anneca’s glassteel bracelet.
”…and that is why, my citizens and subjects, there must be more change to come, to break the cycle of war and destruction that we have locked ourselves into these past two centuries. We have fought Danor for centuries now, called them ‘cursed’ and ‘unnatural’ as the Crysillyiri bid us to do, while they called us superstitious primitives in return. We despised Danor for their break with the traditions of magic and severance with the Old Faith, yet their lands cannot feel the blessings of magic since the Great Malice, and their ways were never our own to begin with, historically tied more to Crysillyr or even Drakyr than our own. Yet we fought them all the same, flush with pride and might from the destruction of the last Dragon Tyrants of Ber that we vanquished, determined to teach Danor a lesson in humility for their ‘upstart’ ways, the contest for the resources of the many and varied tropical jewels of the Yerasol. Four wars and two-hundred years later, I say both sides have lost more in blood and treasure than they possibly gained in land and resources, the original reasons for our conflicts lost to the baser notions of sheer hatred and pride! All the while the ‘righteous’ Crysillyiri, who had the greatest cause to see the downfall of those they label heretics and usurpers in their ancient holdings, did nothing to aid us! And Drakyr? Well the Drakrans profited greatly from the wars of course, their cold coffers growing fat from Danoran gold, their experimentation in newer and more powerful weapons achieved at the cost of Risuri dead. Do we blindly give them a Fifth to do the same?”
”I, Aodhan Lesterman, helped to end the Third Yerasol War as you well know, and a dozen years later I eagerly began the Fourth War, as my predecessors eagerly began the three wars and countless skirmishes before me. I had no love for Danoran ways mind you, but saw in my time as a soldier that Risur must change their ways if we were going to survive as a power to be respected and feared in Lanjyr. As Danoran tactics and military prowess changed – added newly learned arcane prowess mixed with their ever-progressive technology to counter our traditional advantages, so did I strive to change our ways to both match and best theirs. Flint, obviously, has been at the heart of this change, itself changed to show us the way forward, from the time I sailed the Danoran steamship into the harbor some forty years ago. Now, this mighty ship the Coaltongue, named after the tough fiery king of the old tales, has come to symbolize the many changes of Risur since I was appointed your King. You have just seen the demonstration of its immense power, the symbol of the symmetry of our traditional magic and modern industry, each making the other stronger than what they could achieve alone.”
”My citizens, my friends, what I have come to realize after these forty years, is that the true reasons for Danor and Risur to go to war with one another are no longer necessary in this changed world we find ourselves in. We have changed. Danor, has changed. Our efforts to arm for war have, ironically, brought us to a better understanding because of that change. Our industry, their magic – the lines of division are blurred now. So what do we seek war for? Trade and commerce of the bountiful resources in the Yerasol have been plentiful in these past seven years for both sides, as has our access to markets all along the Avery Sea. Archaic mercantilism and guild monopolies have given way to better methods of commerce that profit all. What do we seek war for? To kill and maim yet another generation of Risuri men and women for old notions that no longer exist? To repeat the cycle of pride and hatred at the cost of so much blood and treasure spilt? No. No more. The old hatreds and assumptions must be broken, lest we be slaves to them.”
”I am an old king. I hope that my successor – whoever that may be – will not have to lose any more young men and woman to another pointless war. And so, my citizens of Risur, it is my declaration that I seek to forge a permanent peace treaty with Danor and their sovereign of House Jierre. In one year’s time from now, I declare that a peace summit shall be held here, in Flint, the living symbol of the changes that were started in my youth. I shall sit down with Jierre of Danor, and we shall reach an accord that benefits both our nations. In good faith of this proposed summit and to embody the change which I expect my people to follow and uphold, I myself shall take into the bonds of marriage a Danoran of appropriate rank and station. In that blessed union, the old prejudices and divisions that once divided us shall be sundered forever, a new age of acceptance and prosperity to begin for all our peoples…”
”Well, you all have had a very interesting day today constables, haven’t you?”
Stover Delft smirks at the understatement of his own remark, seated in a plush chair of the aft guest quarters with the other five constables all seated around him. Emerson, Gemma, Willem, Ifris and Arthur have just finished a near hour-long verbal debriefing session – mostly led by Delft but in the beginning with Inspectress Saxby, Director Price-Hill and Principal Minister Lee asking a number of pointed questions to them. Understandably, it is not every day that high officials of Risur have to process news of the near-death of their King as well as themselves.
The only constable of their group not present is Anneca Summers, still unconscious but resting comfortably in one of the port-side guest rooms adjacent to the aft room where they are currently. The room where they last saw the Duchess and the final resting places of her four courtier handmaidens as well as Elian Aughtbrook. Arcane cleansing has made the room look much like it never happened, though if examined carefully enough they can still see the burn marks on the wood paneling and one of the armrests where the young petty officer was murdered. Besides the Assistant Chief Inspector and themselves, both Chief Inspectress Saxby and Director Price-Hill are still in the room on the far side, talking quietly to one another. Assistant Director Cyneburg arrived not long after their briefing began, examining Anneca’s condition before heading down to look at the configuration panels of the Brand and Capacitor. Talyssa Dane is down in the engine deck with Geoff Massarde the Royal Engineer, while Anya Landreth and Cealena Kirby are in tow with King Aodhan, along with Principal Minister Lee and Dame Jillian.
In the last two or so hours since the end of the conflict and the deliverance of King Aodhan’s historic speech, the full import of the treachery has been made clear to the limited number of those that absolutely needed to know. Still unaware are the vast numbers of servants, soldiers, officers, scribes and elite guests that, even now, stroll upon the main deck and limited sections of the gun deck – the return journey “tours” had been cancelled due to declared “technical complications” that occurred after the awesome display of firing the Brand. King Aodhan himself stated this lie to the assembled guests in good humor, professing that the Coaltongue was not quite ready yet for active duty, and he had “pushed” the Royal Engineer and the crew to initiate the pyrotechnic display for their benefit. It was a lie that was all too easily believed by those assembled - including the scribes who were certainly enjoying the wrinkle in the King’s otherwise “perfect” and “historic” day, eager to write about the technical mishap to their respective dailies in Flint and Slate for their readerships. They were steaming back to Flint Harbor at one-third power, more than doubling the time they had onboard until disembarkation. Little did they know that by the next morning, the truth of Ethelyn’s treachery – and the very real prospects of civil war – would claim all the headlines.
At one point it was overheard by the constables that King Aodhan did not want to leave the sabotaged ship after discreetly learning the full import of the sabotage and assassination attempt upon his life. He had never been a man – soldier or monarch – to run from danger. Yet troubling news by recently-arrived Assistant Director Cyneburg to him, Lee and Price-Hill implied his sister had touched off coordinated coup attempts in other key cities, requiring him to bolster morale at Torfield Palace in the capital of Slate. He finally relented and consented to go after an appropriate cover story was made up, but embarrassingly the teleportation attempt failed to return him back to the capital. Later it was divined by the Royal Starseer Conclave that a member of the Unseen Court – most likely Lady Beshala – had cursed him from being able to leave in that manner while upon the open seas. Thus, the King had to waste precious time onboard the Coaltongue as it slowly steamed back to Flint, even as a potential insurrection brewed
For his part, the drunken and arrogant Geoff Massarde took one look at his precious furnace and boiler engines and started to curse the constables for the “breaking” of his ship, only to be backed down by the undeniable furious intensity of Principal Minister Lee. Allegedly, Harkover Lee told the tiefling engineer that if he did not get them all back to harbor safely and forced an embarrassing evacuation of all of its guests to the escort ships, he would be put on public display in the stocks for a week where the public would have direct access to him. That shut the drunken master shipwright up readily enough, though his expert inspection of the damage to the furnace interior and boiler pipes concluded the ship could not handle more than one-third speed safely. Talyssa provided the steady hands to his expert instruction, with select burly Risuri soldiers manning the shovels in the light of all the ship’s engineers being slain in the initial phase of the sabotage. Impressively, both Massarde and Cyneburg concluded that the Brand and Capacitor had been configured “crudely” but correctly enough for mass-discharge by Anneca, though the Assistant Director added that the “fool girl” could have snuffed herself out like a candle if she had erred even slightly or attempted more than she had done already. Still, it was the typically gruff and unforgiving Lauryn Cyneburg that insisted Summers be isolated and left in her unconscious state, taking an atypical amount of time and interest attending to her personally before returning back to monitoring the Capacitor’s energy flow rates on the return voyage.
Petty Officer Aughtbrook, Engineer Luckshore, two other junior engineers and a lone army honor guard escort constituted the body count for the Duchess’s clearly planned betrayal, along with four of her courtiers whom each had ties to the Risuri minor nobility. Divianne Athel, the lone marine guard of the magazine rooms on the berth deck was resting in another of the guest quarters nearby, though protesting that she could return to duty if needed. Of the saboteurs themselves, both Jenner and Ostman survived their injuries and were now under heavy guard in the forward room of the engine deck by trusted marines who were sworn to keep them alive for questioning.
”I suppose this means you’ve elevated yourselves out of untried status and should have the 'Associate' monikers removed from your internal readiness files, eh?” Delft chuckles and looks to the three “four-double-nines” in amusement before turning to Willem and Ifris. "Well, not you two of course, but it was a pleasure to have you loaned out to me for this day of days, Constable Muhnee. Lanvaldan, it’s good to see you again after a year – be sure to get some time with Dane before you depart…and I’ll be sure to let both Rayne and LeMont know you resolved the crisis since they couldn’t be here to muck it up themselves.”
In response to Assistant Chief Inspector's "interesting day comment" and in a patriotic tone, Willem responds, "All in the Glory of King Aodhan, Risur, and the Constabulary!" Willem nods in agreement when Assistant Chief Inspector Delft recommends to remove the Associate moniker from Emma, Anneca, Emerson, and Arthur. A hopeful Constable Muhnee continues, "Assistant Chief Inspector, Sir! It has been a great pleasure to be attached to your detail! Since some of these devious saboteur leaders were able to escape RHC justice and the threat is still very real, I was wonderin' if we can all remain a team to hunt down these miscreants to the ends of the known world and bring them to justice? We worked very well as a team thus far and we will only get better as time progresses. Of course Sir! if you and the rest of the team agrees? It would be a great honor to continue workin' with you'll!"
Quiet and subtly having positioned herself apart from the other constables during the meeting with Delft, Ifris finally speaks up after Willem makes his bold suggestion. With one gloved hand waving in Willem's direction, Ifris inclines her head towards Delft and raises one brow. "Muhnee has a point," she notes rather matter-of-factly. "I hate to come off as a dog with a bone, Sir, but I'd rather not go back to my—ah—routine, until I'm certain that the responsible parties have been apprehended. That woman," Ifris hadn't known Sorkana's name in the heat of the moment and felt awkward even now saying it, "was highly trained and dangerous." The implication being that the constabulary needed to fight fire with fire, so to speak.
"Provided I can still get some time to catch up with Dane," Ifris adds as a request atop a request. "We owe each other a drink after all that." Then, brows furrowed, Ifris crosses her arms over her chest and looks askance towards Willem, then back to Delft. "Oh and... that officer who helped us, Athel? She's got iron for guts and black powder for blood. I'd like to thank her personally for her help."
Willem nods to Ifris regarding her angry look at him but he obviously has more to say but that should be between them later. However, he does back up Ifris regarding Athel, "I agree, she is a da** fine Marine! I believe she deserves a commendation besides one for being injured in the line of duty."
”Mmmm.” Stover Delft seems unconcerned about Divianne Athel’s status, though he shrugs and answers nonchalantly, ”Well, there’s plenty of admirals and naval captains onboard who I’m sure will jump at the chance to promote her as soon as they learn more of what happened here tonight. Especially when the King himself is personally aware of her heroic actions – she’ll be a sergeant in no time and two pay grades higher I’ll wager.”
Stover leans back in his plush decorative chair, clearly enjoying the comfort that the fine furniture provides. He taps the fingers on his right hand upon the armrest, looking at Willem and Ifris with something akin to bemusement. He does answer their shared request however.
”Not my call.” He nods slightly to them and then looks pointedly to where the Director of the R.H.C. and Chief Inspectress of Flint Branch both stand. ”And not my jurisdiction either, as I expect the Duchess and her ilk will be focused mostly on Shale and Slate. That’s not to say that we all won’t be very busy here in the Spring season…after the events of today I expect the Constabulary will have a full board of missions to take on. Still, if there’s an opportunity to put together a multi-branch team or coordinate across the branches, I’ll keep you both in mind.”
To those collected there, it seems that both Price-Hill and Saxby are unusually quiet in their discussions, almost as if they are trying to discreetly listen in. Lady Saxby makes a show of deference to her boss and states she’s going to relay something to Assistant Director Cyneburg down in the engine deck, nods curtly to Delft as she passes by, and leaves the room.
After a moment or two of inspecting some nondescript seascape paining on the wood-paneled wall where he stands, he pulls forth a monogramed silken kerchief from his vest pocket and begins to clean his gold-rimmed monocle. ”Constable Muhnee, a word in private if you please?”
Willem nods to Stover Delft, "Thank you sir! Much appreciated!" Willem looks to see who is calling his name, he excuses himself from the group, and quickly makes his way over to Director Price-Hill. Worried that he is going to get in trouble for boasting earlier with Kirby but he keeps his cool and acts normally when someone is summoned by the Director, he bows from the neck, "Yes Director Price-Hill, Sir!"
"Tell him we'll hold out as long as it takes. Until every last one of us is dead, and we killed so many of them that they regret ever coming here," Johnathan growls in reply. His normally cheery mask slips off and a cold fire burns in his eyes. "Now, I'll be on the roof making sure whoever is doing this regrets their treason. Seek me there if you have need!"
Constable Jackson whirls and dashes up the staircase. He draws an arrow and holds it in his knock hand as he hustles upwards. His heart surges and he can feel the adrenaline hitting him hard. It's been a while, hasn't it Johnny-boy. Time to do what you do best. Johnathan doesn't stop until he makes it all the way to the sixth floor, and the observation deck. He checks himself at the doorway to the rooftop, listening and glancing about before exiting onto the roof.
"Yes...Muhnee." The Director re-dons his monocle and stares through it with a practiced neutral expression at Willem, eyeing him up and down briefly with his hands behind his back as if reviewing the troops at inspection. Like most military men of high rank, he lets the junior man stand there expectantly for a moment, as if waiting to see if he will break the customs of rank. After that moment hangs in the air, Lord Viscount Nigel Price-Hill, Director of the R.H.C., continues.
"Constable Muhnee, you should know that I brought you along on this detail to...well quite frankly to determine what I should do with you in the Constabulary. To weigh and measure you, as it were." Price-Hill smiles in what the inexperienced might consider in an ingratiating manner, but Willem knows it is a false smile that is donned to bear unpleasant news. That, and the tone of his voice that always seems like Willem is being talked down to by his childhood schoolmaster, always sets his teeth on edge. "Now, normally I do not get involved in such matters - as you must know from being at Slate Branch - yet it was asked of me in a direct meeting with Chief Inspectress Emilia Hart, after she discussed your service record at length with Assistant Chief Inspector Hopkins. Quite frankly, they do not believe you are cut out to continue on at Slate Branch...and your record - past promising efforts in your first year - does not refute their claims. Are you following me so far, Muhnee?"
Yet before Willem can stammer out a reply, the pompous Director takes some motion of his head for acceptance and continues before he can make one. "Good, good. You see Constable Muhnee, despite your family upbringing and your excellent record in the Army during the war, your service with the R.H.C. after so much early promise has been, well, rather disappointing to say the least. Black marks in your file for insubordination with your training superior, improper displays of unprofessional behavior at HQ, a lack of confidence by your peers - particularly in matters of tact and subtlety during investigative missions...the record does not lie. In coming here to Flint, I was to evaluate you on whether to take your commission and offer it to a new prospective candidate in the year, discharging you from service. Yet, I am a man not without compassion - especially for those men and women who have served admirably in the last war for service to our nation. I am a believer of second chances, as you may well know. So an alternative at my disposal was to approve a transfer to Bole Branch, and see what Chief Inspector Burke could make of you there."
Nigel Price-Hill pauses to wipe his gloved hand across the lower frame of the seascape painting. Checking for dust but finding none, the Director turns to Willem and huffs slightly as if irritated his plans to dismiss him or relegate him to backwater oblivion in Bole have been disrupted. "Yet now you have proved your worth and loyalty to the King by foiling a terribly clever assassination plot, followed up by preventing a calamity that would have taken all our lives and marked Risur as weak to its enemies for all of Lanjyr to see. So, what am I to do with you, Willem Muhnee?"
The first thing Gemma notices is that her head has started to hurt. It started at her temples and is now slowly working its way around the back of her head. She inadvertently pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to bring some quick relief, but to no avail. She and the other constables have been going over the evening’s adventure for hours and it’s starting to wear thin. She’s tired and still hurts a little, despite the healing that’s been administered. It's true that the blisters are gone, but there’s still an inexplicable burning, tingling sensation just underneath the skin on her hands. Maybe it was the nature of the burns, maybe it was because the burns and blisters came from a magical, living gem that was pulsing and arching electricity, maybe it was because it was something fey. She could only guess why, but it felt like ants crawling through her arms.
Doing her best to hide her fatigue and irritation, she eventually makes her way over to Stover Delft.
”Senior Constable? A word if you would?”
She gets closer to the man, pulling a chair over so that she doesn’t hover.
”If I could be so bold to ask … how in the known world could this have happened? It wasn’t some lone saboteur. This was a planned, coordinated attack by the king’s own sister. And she didn’t just upset the apple cart … she upset it, set it on fire and then catapulted it through the front gates. She’s either exceptionally good at subterfuge or we’re all not up to par on intelligence gathering.” To emphasize her definition of “all”, Gemma makes a small sweeping motion that includes the whole room. But before Delft can answer, she makes a quick aside. ”Oh, and if I had a say, and I don’t pretend to think I do, I would be agreeable to have Muhnee and Lanvaldan continue to work with our team to resolve this. I wasn’t there to see their actions but clearly they did well with their side of the fight.”
For the next hour or so, Johnathan wages his own personal private war against the traitors to Risur, who gather in the Shale Branch compound amidst the darkness and the rain. The soldiers of the two or three companies that have overrun the compound are well-trained and hardened to battle, and do not flinch or panic when the arrows come their way. Johnathan continues to move quietly, observe, take aim and fire, then moves again – a cat-and-mouse game that he and those like him in the war know well. The two Risuri army guards wage a similar campaign on the two floors below him, the fire keeping the rebels in the compound from simply walking up to the front doors and attempting a breach of the HQ building. Yet it is three versus three-hundred, and the constant rain makes for erratic fire, for arrows both outgoing and incoming. All the while, the grip upon and around the defenders tightens.
It is hard to see for Johnathan in that hour, but what he sees makes his blood burn with anger, though he is well-trained to keep it in check. Soldiers in the park unopposed, soldiers at the palace and the main buildings in the center of the city also unopposed, seemingly under direction from the palace of the Duchess herself. The heart of Shale has already been taken – only at the fortified military harbor does the sound of battle seem to be apparent, a series of small fires seen in the distance from possibly one or more docked warships. Perhaps, Johnathan hopes, the resistance at the harbor is due to the Unremitting team having foiled the ambush they were surely setup for earlier in the day, perhaps leading some resistance of loyal forces there. Practically, however, Johnathan doesn’t think so. Otherwise they would have found some way to alert HQ of the treachery before it came to their very doorstep.
Over that hour, despite the dark and rain and constant pursuit for cover and position, Johnathan scores three confirmed kills by his reckoning, and possibly hit at least two more unconfirmed. Two of the kills were Skystrikers attempting to counter his sniper fire with their own, though they neither good enough nor fast enough. The third was an arrogant Gale Rider who was calling up some sort of awfulness against him on the top of the tower – an arrow through the traitor’s mouth tends to disrupt a mage’s arcane ritual. However, that kill seemed to rally the enemy to putting their full attention against him and the other snipers in the tower. Bolts of lightning started to crash down upon the top of the tower and its observation deck, forcing Johnathan to dart and dance away wildly in an attempt to keep from being killed – with all the water he couldn’t escape it for long, and finally had to retreat in the face of such dire magics that his bow could do nothing against. He did manage to get a glimpse or two of several squads of men moving forward towards the front entrance of the building, properly covered with shields and obscured by magical fog to cover their advance across the courtyard. The final assault would be starting soon, and he had to warn Corbin and the others to be ready. As Johnathan went down and firmly closed and bolted the deck hatch, he could hear the flapping of wings and the screeching of numerous hawks that apparently came up to deal with him where the bolts of lightning had not succeeded.
Making his way down the main staircase, he found both of the Risuri snipers who went with him had not fared nearly as well as he. On the fifth floor stairwell lay a torn and bloodied soldier barely alive – missing one eye that was pecked out and his face and arms rent in terrible gashes from a flock of raptors that nearly found him up top. ”Go on I’m allrihgttt…” gurgles the man to Johnathan and gives him a feeble salute with an arm that has been gashed to the bone. He dares not move him now, and can only nod and relish the man’s bravery as he heads down to find the status of the other floors.
The fourth floor offices are still lit but empty now, with Constable Watkins surely giving their last communication and then heading down to join Corbin in preparing the defense. On the third floor Johnathan finds the other soldier dead in the briefing room in a pool of his own blood, the victim of no less than three arrows which found his neck and upper chest as he probably remained too long at one of the windows - a sniper’s fatal mistake. There is not much to do other than close and lock the door before heading down to join the others.
Johnathan reaches the bottom floor to see that all the surviving men have formed a makeshift barricade of tables and storage supplies across the center of the room, preparing it as their last stand if the main double doors are breached. Corbin Spears has rallied the soldiers well, invigorating them with stories and expletives to bolster their courage and prepare them for the onslaught. On the far left side, Winston Watkins has formed a small barricade of his own to stand behind, preparing a wand in his hand as well as several foreign components with which to cast his own spells when the time comes. All look determined.
”So, you claim a few for us while you were up there Jack?” Corbin seems eager for battle, asking the question to John in a manner that suggests he desires to know they have taken some blood for their side.
”Jjaaaaaakshhunnn…” slurs out Chief Lawrence at the base of the stairwell next to Johnathan, his head rolled to one side as he looks up, a partially charred hand lifting off the flagstones to gesture to him.
"I got a few Corbie, but not as many as I'd like. It won't be long now. I saw them coming," he informs his friend. Jack seems to be ready to say more, but then hears the call of the CI.
Johnathan nods to Corbin, turns and walks quickly over to Lawrence. He squats next to the man and says, "Sir?" He leans in close to hear the man's response.
Keeping his bearing and not arguing with the pompous <politically incorrect word> Director, Willem changes it up on Director Price-Hill and replies with the utmost tact and respect, "Director Sir, since the person you speak of is worthless in Slate Branch and has proven themselves to be more than worthy in Flint Branch, an intelligent man, such as yourself, Director Sir, would transfer that Willem Muhnee to Flint Branch, effective immediately, so as not to see his ugly mug day after day and be reminded of his short comin's. Perhaps, that constable's callin' is here and not in Slate Branch? Director, Sir!"
Emerson for his part, has been lost in thought about the day’s events but still listening in on the conversation. He’s having a hard time reconciling the fact that the King’s sister would do such a thing. No time to worry about that now. I’m sure Minister Lee is divining what he can.
”So Chief.” Emerson says nonchalantly ”Since we’re all heroes now, can I make a formal request to have the ‘Associate’ moniker placed upon Rayne and LeMont’s files? That way we could justify a transfer request for Muhnee and Lanvaldan here.”
Director Price-Hill stares at Willem for a long moment, obviously surprised at the man's actual reply to his inquiry as opposed to what he was expecting. He blinks twice, then slightly smiles to show his pleasure at the young constable. "Good show, Muhnee! Humility and understanding - I can see that you are not obtuse to the matters at hand." He clears his throat and nods with approval before answering more fully. "As I said, I am a believer in second chances. Sometimes, a change of scenery can do wonders for a man where an impasse is concerned. Not that Lady Saxby shall be any more lenient or tolerant of gaffs and failures than Inspectress Hart or Inspector Sutton, mind you, but Inspector Delft is one of our best at developing talent. As it so happens, I have a need for one of Flint's newer constables with investigative talents in Slate, though Margaret was none too keen on losing him so soon with nothing to show for it. I shall pose the arrangement as an even trade to her, and conclude the matter satisfactorily."
Nodding again and clearly pleased with the outcome of his "fatherly" talk, Nigel Price-Hill pats Willem awkwardly twice on his shoulder and then returns to his more typical stiffened posture. "Good, good. I shall handle the rest...no sense in returning with us to Slate tonight then - write me a list of the effects you wished sent on to you from your quarters and I shall see it done."
Anneca's whole body seems to be on fire. She lays alone in darkness, barely aware of herself except for the blinding pain. As the hours pass, she slowly returns to awareness as the pain fades. Her mind begins to race with patterns and formulae, working out the details of discharging the Brand safely. In her mind, she tries time and again, succeeding sometime and failing often. Each time, though, the arcane power burns her from the inside out. She attacks the problem from every angle that she can, again and again in a restless dream. It seems that days pass with her facing the same impossible challenge over and over, faster and faster with less room for error each time. In what few moments of mental idleness she gets, she wonders if she is already dead and this is her path to the Bleak Gate.
She awakens with a groan of pain as the mental fever breaks. Her body aches with terrible pain, not responding to her at all. She tries to reach out, but her arms and legs fail her. "Uhh," she manages in a croaking whisper. Her eyes flicker open and closed, trying to make sense of what she can see around her. She isn't on the floor of the furnace room anymore. A pillow sits under her head. Her wounds have been healed and bandaged. She is in a darkened room, laying on a comfortable bed. They must have survived, she concludes quickly even in her somewhat delirious state. She reasons that she was successful in firing the weapon and draining the fire from the furnace. It was a desperate move that could have doomed them all, but she can't second-guess success - even her own. "Is anyone there?" Anneca manages from a hoarse throat.
She summons all her remaining strength to sit up, sliding her feet to touch the ground off the side of her bed. She sits there for a few moments, breathing heavily and trying to find more strength. Someone seems to have taken her boots off, along with most of her formal uniform. She has on just her underclothes and various bandages. She spies her half-shredded formal trousers on a table, along with a scorched undershirt. She lurches off the bed, nearly tumbling to the ground, and painfully puts both of them on for a little bit of modesty. Weakly, she has to lean on the wall to dress herself. She considers donning more of her uniform or her boots, but pants and a shirt were enough of a challenge that she decides to forego. She grabs her belt and holster, making sure her pistol remains secure inside, and puts it on.
She opens the door, noting that she is still on the ship. Hearing voices on the other side of the door to the Duchess's quarters, she presses forward. She doesn't bother to knock before opening the door and stepping through. "I miss something?" Anneca asks wearily.
”The fireworks apparently.” Emerson strides to Anneca’s side and gives her an arm for added support. ”According to the Chief, when you released the power of the Brand it looked like a spectacular display to kick off the King’s speech. Chair, or couch?” Emerson asks, waiting on input from her to direct him.
"I'll stand," Anneca replies defiantly - but she does not turn down Emerson's help at keeping her upright. "Did somebody kill Sorkona Dell? Please tell me that someone killed her."
"Unfortunately no, she got away. Ifris, Willem and marine Athel managed to stop he from blowing up the ammunition stores, but Sorkana proved slippery enough to evade capture."
"I'm sure we haven't seen the last of her and I would dare say we might be hunting her down in the near future. Apparently we're no longer 'Associates' so we might get some more interesting assignments."
Up until now Constable Wilde was content to feign sleep in a lounge chair with his feet up on a small table. After Emerson's response Arthur chimes in. "And that rotten bastard halfling Ilton got away as well. Almost managed to kill him but he had multiple healing potions stashed away."
He sits upright with a smile. "We will definitely see him soon. He wants revenge." Arthur gestures a circle around his head and says "Acid to the face, hah!"
Willem stands at attention feeling much better and things are beginning to look bright for the Constable's future, "Thank you Sir!. Right away Sir!." Willem sees Anneca, looks happy to see her among the living, nods to her with a smile. Then quickly walks over to a table keeping his smile, takes out a notepad of paper used for investigation gathering notating everything remaining at his Slate Flat, mostly furnishings, to be transferred to his new flat which will be in Stray River. Then quickly runs back to Director Price-Hill making sure not to interrupt, "Here is my list Sir! It is very humble in quantity. Thank you Sir!" Stands at attention and quickly leaves to only give the Director his list and not to bother him further or overstay his welcome.
Mention of Sorkana's escape paints Ifris' expression darker than usual. HEr eyes, which had been downcast for much of the meeting, flit up to Anneca after Emerson explains her fate. There's a storm of emotions churning behind Ifris' eyes, but none of that manages to boil to the surface. Instead, she turns her attention back to the floor with arms crossed.
Nobody's killed her yet remains unsaid.
Stover Delft watches the other constables around the room with his typical astute-while-amused expression, all the while sitting comfortably in his comfortable chair. "I must inquire who made this and see about having one made myself..." he murmurs to himself, watching with some interest the goings-on between Willem Muhnee and Director Nigel Price-Hill. Though the conversation was held privately, it seems Delft has a particularly acute sense of hearing.
"Well now, it seems I'm about to receive some transfer papers from Home Office HQ, so it would seem." He peers over to the Director and asks respectfully, "Sir, may I inquire as to whom you're taking from my fold this time? Unofficially, of course."
It seems to the rest of the constables that Price-Hill and Delft have a long comfortable history with one another, despite the formality of their rank. "Yes...well I have just discussed the need of another investigator in Slate with Inspectress Saxby, and she recommended Constable Francis Kane, whom I believe acquitted himself well today at Royal Square. Muhnee here has expressed a strong desire to serve with you at Flint Branch. That is, if you agree?"
"Fine, fine choices Director," answers Stover with good-natured aplomb. "Oftentimes I don't get one in return for one going off."
"Excellent. If you will excuse me then, I shall go and seek approval from Lady Saxby." Price-Hill says it as if it were true, even though everyone in the room knows Saxby would not dare oppose the wishes of her direct superior. Evidently, proprieties are important to the R.H.C. Director. He leaves the room, leaving just the Assistant Chief Inspector and the six constables.
"Well now, Summers, I'm glad to see you up and about - Assistant Director Cyneburg was most concerned that your tangle with the Brand had dire consequences for you - now that she's taken a personal interest in you...well I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not!" Delft chuckles at his inside joke, adding, "Oh and my personal thanks for the fireworks display up topside as well as keeping me from turning to ash."
Delft taps his fingers on the armrest of the plush chair, pointing at Gemma on her earlier inquiry, but addressing all of them. "I suppose you could look at it that way, Atherton, but you've hinted at the "why's" already. It's the Duchess of Shale, the King's own sister - a war veteran of the Third just as Aodhan was, and leader of Shale during the darkest days of the Fourth. She had a hand in the formation of the R.H.C., and knows many of its top people from their time in military service. That she knew how to keep her treachery versus her own brother a well-concealed secret is not surprising. That she..."
Stover Delft's voice trails off as he clearly struggles with the full import of her treachery against her own brother, something that simply could and would not be believed if the evidence wasn't so full-proof. "Let's just say that the Duchess and the King having a rift in their relations in the past decade or so is well-known, as are her views on the progression of industry and adoption of innovations in both society and the military. That she would conspire to kill her own brother, however...I could not have believed it before today. Perhaps that's a lesson to learn well, constables; we spend so much time tracking our enemies that we sometimes forget to keep an eye on our so-called friends."
Stover seems to mull that grim prospect a moment and then adds in a deadly serious tone, "We won't know fully until tomorrow, but I'll wager Makala had uncovered it before she was killed. She was undercover investigating a trail of improper funds to Flint from Slate that had connections to black market materials. It was in her last report to me that a noble family was involved, assuming they were looking to profit off of some mischief in Flint. I suspect now those source accounts ultimately lead back to Ethelyn Lesterman."