Somehow Anneca's ill-advised speech has resulted in her speaking (almost) alone with the Duchess, free from the sycophantic aristocrats that believe themselves better than others. She turns away from the horizon, looking her squarely in the eye. "I'm aware of the world. I try to see it with clear eyes, and I don't think the world is something that it isn't. As unfair as things are to the Dockers and most of the commoners, it's better than the alternative. I defend Risur out of loyalty to its people, not to its aristocrats. I'm not looking to offend you, but most of the nobles here don't have any idea what goes on in the world. Any protection they give to the common people is by accident, if at all. Lady Catherine was a princess, was she not? What would she know about the troubles of the working class?" She stops herself this time from saying something else insensible. "If people like me don't fight for Risur, it would be overrun by criminals and zealots. The aristocracy may be self-interested and largely useless, but they serve a purpose in providing a framework of laws that provide what few protections the people enjoy - the right to keep most of their own property free of legalized theft, the right to trial, the right to speak their mind. Should the government of Risur fall, anarchy would reign and laws would have no meaning. The possibility of death in the line of duty is very real for the constables, as much as it is for the soldiers who fight to keep our foreign enemies at bay, but that sacrifice would be meaningless if not for the aegis of the law that shields the people from those who would abuse them."
She takes a deep breath, having worked herself up a bit in her impassioned speech. "Perhaps this is why I take so poorly to speaking ill of my comrades, and to those who would look down upon me because of my station. There was a time when you were a simple soldier, Duchess. Your so-called friend would not look at you twice - except perhaps to push you out of the way as she sought to curry favor with someone else for her own purposes - if that had remained true."
Ambassador Brakken nods slightly and has a deep rumbling in his throat, apparently considering her words. ”No forgiveness needed, Constable Atherton. Any Risuri that has branched out beyond the tomes and lore of her own homeland to study the ’Declarations of Reo Pedresco’ and its impact on Mirroth Roslarb is to be congratulated. Why, my own copy of ’The Annals of High Mark Diplomacy’ is well-worn and no longer travel worthy, yet I have committed all the main passages to memory.”
”While I cannot say that I agree with your notions of Panoply, I am delighted to speak more with you on that philosophy if you wish. Yet I myself am intrigued at your practical area of expertise - a martial scientist you say? Hmmm….”
While the massive Beran minotaur nods and considers his next words, Gemma cannot help to overhear the ever-increasing pitch of debate between Risuri human and Drakran dwarf with their varying philosophies, each attempting to out-duel one another with some irrefutable display of logic…
”…the point of Millerism is to prevent war before it occurs, Tuvuere! Those who truly understand others have no need to fight because war at its most basic principle is based on a lack of understanding…”
”Bah! Miller was a fool to think that peace could be achieved by the other nations understanding one another. The last four wars between Risur and Danor should have proved it even to the likes of you!”
Brakken watches the two for a moment longer, though it is impossible for Gemma to tell from his snout if he finds their debate interesting, amusing or childish. Before she is left to wonder much more on it, he gives a brief snort and turns back to her. ”I have recently come across a work from one of your colleagues here in Risur, entitled ’Transcending the Limitations of Humanity’ I believe. Though originally written as a war journal from your last war with the Danorans, the work itself is groundbreaking. Do you have a thesis of your own work penned, Constable Atherton? If so, I should like to receive a signed copy from you at my offices in Flint if it pleases you.”
"To the future! Here here!" Pemberton, Goodson, Dane and even a murmuring Massarde all agree to the toast, each drinking with varying degrees of relish.
It is Benedict Pemberton who answers Emerson's inquiry first. "Well now, you may indeed inquire, and I shall have an answer for you!" He looks down briefly at the holstered pistol at Emerson's belt and nods with satisfaction before continuing. "I see that you are a man of some small taste in firearms...and perhaps a might bit of skill as well? The way you carry your pistol suggests one who has worked out a thing or two, and knows at least which way the end is pointed. Good young sir, if you indeed look forward to the latest innovations in firearm technology as I do, look no further than the Kaybeau Arms and Technology Exposition, comin' right as rain to Flint in the Fall-time! Well worth a pass off of work from your boss to come down and see it I assure you."
"Yeah and I am very much in the works to seeing the next phase of the district rail-line project completed this year," blurts in Guy Goodson in a crude attempt to not be outdone by Pemberton. "Rails for Central both above and below outta King's Station, and time from Central to North Shore in under half an hour, why don't you disbelieve that!" He snaps his fingers for emphasis.
As those two men look to Geoff Massarde, he takes a deep draught and shrugs his shoulders at them, as if bored of the direction of the conversation. "Royal Engineers do what the King wants, though I expect it'll be another two or three full steamers."
“When a person’s belly is full and their head is heavy from drink, there can be both exceptional reason as well as none. With some, there is simply no talking to them. With others, hunger is satiated, inhibitions are gone and true dialog can begin.”
Gemma manages to remember one of her favorite passages from The Annals and speaks it aloud for the ambassador. Her reason is not to impress but simply to connect on a shared matter. Then it suddenly clicks in her head exactly whom she is speaking to. Ambassador Brakken is not simply an ambassador. This is the Minotaur that stared down an angry bear when his own was wounded in the arena, hence winning him his ambassadorship. She remembers reading about it some time ago in one of the local dailies; a small but clearly memorable snippet of a story supposedly witnessed firsthand by a Risuri traveler.
She tries to hide her surprise and near-overwhelming excitement and to continue the conversation as if she is talking to a regular person. “But in answer to your question, Ambassador, no I have not. I have been currently reading The Treatise of Mander’s Rake and have yet to come across the work you speak of. Unfortunately, I have yet to write my own thesis either." She hangs her head slightly, hoping for the day when she will. “Much of my energies have gone to training and, now, active duty. Although I do have aspirations to write one eventually. Perhaps after I’ve had more experience in the field, since that should help to better define my own techniques.”
Willem quickly retracts his arm like a mother catching her child in the cookie jar but smirks to keep the mood light, "Ok, we can keep our "patrol" and story tellin' close by." As the servant with the tray approaches, he looks at the drinks to see if any are non-alcoholic and takes one to keep his throat wet for his story telling.
Willem takes a sip and then proceeds telling the story, "Our story begins in the streets which I will keep short because it's the boring set up to the good stuff." Willem continues, "We used our RHC skills of observation during the events which eventually led us to the warehouse where the terrorist were planning and setting up their attack. There, we were met by (2) thugs armed with ancient weapons. Unfortunately, they didn't get the message of not bringing a knife to a gun fight. They ended up meeting an explosive, knocked unconscious, and handcuffed for later questioning."
Willem looks around for anything suspicious ...
Then continues, "Next we entered the main warehouse and found two more thugs that didn't like our nice looking uniforms. So they started shootin' at us tryin’ to improve them. We decided that we really didn't agree with the idea, so we returned fire. The first armed suspect fell to a good friend's, Constable Emerson's Hill, good shooting. Then, I gave the second suspects a third eye but since they didn't have much up there, they somehow survived to be question later or end up vegetables. At least they learned two valuable lessons today, we like our uniforms the way they are and do not get in a gun fight with the RHC.”
Willem takes a drink, then continues, ”All of the racket we were causin', drew out their boss from the back, a Deva, to give us a babblin' monologue about the usual terrorist bull. We wanted to shoot him but he turned himself into a bomb and were not sure if it was safe. He tried to cast spells at us probably trying to turn us into somethin' unnatural. Unfortunately for him, the bomb apparatus kept interferin' with his spell castin'. By this time and after a couple of pot shots, Constable Arthur Wilde became sick of him, he threw a grenade at the Deva ignitin' the bomb in a safer manner, and ended the monologue for good. And now we are here with all of these fine people continuing to keep what we hold dear, safer.”
Willem looks from side to side again.
The Duchess in her exquisite silken gown of green and golden hues watches her intently, even as the other puffed-up Risuri human handmaidens behind her scowl or quietly huff and roll their eyes as Anneca describes what she thinks about nobility versus commoners. Only the sylvan elf maiden, Miss Dell, seems to regard the constable more dispassionately than her human counterparts, though also unlike the others she seems to be melancholy in some way that Anneca cannot precisely describe or clinically diagnose.
For her part, Duchess Ethelyn waits for her to finish and does not attempt to interrupt her, showing a respect for Anneca’s words that perhaps she did not expect. Her reply, however, is direct. ”Intriguing views, and insightful. So you have an intellect after all, young woman, and strive to better yourself with it. Excellent. Yet you made an errant assumption that I shall now correct of you. The Lady Romana is neither a friend nor a confidant to me, even though we share views on certain Risuri traditions and values of a political and cultural nature. Most of those I called friend…died in the Third War…which you yourself admitted you have no direct knowledge of, given your age and experience. The few I had remaining either died in the Fourth, or through more mundane rigors of age and mishap. Risur’s graves and pyres are littered with the bones of generations of promising youth and talent that were snuffed out well before their time, with only a few of us now who still remember, who keep the flame alive of what they truly died for.”
Ethelyn pauses as the mistreated halfling servant from the earlier passing of Romana’s entourage finally makes his way to their location, bowing humbly and offering sweet confections on his silver tray to them. Two of the courtiers smile and fawn over the selection, while the other three hold their posture with practiced grace, hands clasped before them.
”Ah. Good servant,” says the Duchess even as she declines what is offered on the tray, ”I have need of you for a special request. My handmaidens and I shall be retiring momentarily for a brief rest prior to the King’s speech. In the ’Wizard’s Room’ I believe. Do you know it?”
”Yes mum…yes Your Grace.”
”Good. Please take requests for refreshments and have them brought to my quarters as soon as it is made ready. If necessary, you may confer with a…Master Aughtbrook I believe his name is.”
”Very good mum.”
The servant bows low once more and then starts politely asking Ethelyn’s entourage of courtiers what they desire as they gather around the short fellow, leaving the Duchess to continue her direct talk with Anneca undisturbed. The wrinkles and lines around her weathered face do convey the age and potential frailty of the elderly woman, though no fatigue or dimness touches her eyes. ”So now, young woman, since you possess such a practiced intellect, what conclusions do you draw from this gala, and what do you make of this so-called wonder that you now stand upon?”
At the mention of the Exposition Emerson’s ears perk up but he replies to all of in his company.
”Mr. Pemberton, I would be most intrigued in the Arms Exposition. You can count on my attendance. I have been somewhat out of practice in the realm of gunsmithing since my discharge from the military and would appreciate looking at all the newest technology.”
”Rails for Central you say Mr. Goodson? Well my leg will surely appreciate not having to walk throughout the city.”
Emerson is actually rather surprised Massarde had the decency to speak. He follows the tiefling’s remarks with ”And I am sure Ms. Dane will be as delighted as I to see three more steamers constructed to bolster the might of the Risuri Navy.”
Willem is met on each side of him with stares of utter surprise, tinged with disbelief. Cealena Kirby nearly spills the drink she holds onto the deck, her eyes wide and mouth agape, which she abruptly closes upon realizing it. Ifris Lanvaldan’s eyebrows are raised openly in surprise; the former marine's eyes are sharp and darting as they stare at Willem, her rigid military bearing now tensed as a large cat ready to strike at an unseen danger.
It is Cealena Kirby who speaks first, the curls from her hair swaying slightly as she shakes her head back and forth.
”You…you can’t be serious! You’re…spinning a yarn to toy with us…to try and get back at us for some reason!”
”A foiled assassination attempt by multiple terrorists? Five of them? With a bomb? Before the Fleet Square parade?” Ifris turns from side to side to see who is near to them, then jabs a finger hard at his shoulder and hisses, ”You’d better not be stringing such a lie, Muhnee – there’s only one scabwart I know of in the R.H.C. that would dare invent such a thing for jesting, and he's not on this ship.”
Cealena leans forward to look to Ifris directly, stunned disbelief still upon her face. ”It cannot be, Lanvaldan! I…I would have heard of it – the Flinters apprehended three rabble-rousers in Royal Square, with a separate report of two policemen wounded that were to be questioned after being treated. I was where the dispatches were coming in and being read to the Director! There would have been a debriefing!” Cealena Kirby nearly stamps her foot in irritation.
”I’m not so sure, Kirby. I saw the Flinters and Willem circled around Inspector Delft for a time before the blessing ceremony,” answers Ifris Lanvaldan with her eyes still locked onto Willem’s own, her finger still at his shoulder. ”You know Emerson Hill is a friend of mine as well, and I could easily find him on this deck and verify it. Last chance to come correct with me.”
”Well?” Cealena withdraws her arm from Willem and crosses her arms in a stern manner, admonishing him like a schoolboy though her voice is low so as to not be easily overheard by passersby. ”Out with it! Did this really occur, or are you just having your “just” desserts at our expense for all the times you’ve been treated ill at Slate HQ?”
Anneca listens intently as her host opens up to her about losing comrades in a time of war, sympathizing with her for her losses. It is hard to put into words - but it is what she needs to hear at this moment. The questions stirs her mind, and she sets herself to answering it properly. "The variables are many, and with any collection of people, the motivations overlap and contradict. The King may have his intentions for the gala, but some might have the opposite. That said, it's general purposes can be guessed at. The first and most obvious are the revelation of the Coaltongue , a marvel of technology. The revealing has two audiences in mind, of likely equal importance: the people of Risur, for obvious propo - er, morale-raising - purposes, and the military leaders of Danor, for deterrence of another war. It is a display of wealth and of military might. I suspect that many of the nobles are financing it, in one way or another, and are being given a view of their investment. For them, it is an opportunity to jockey for position." She stops short of predicting the opportunities for attacks by enemies of the state, remembering Lee's warning. "There are as many agendas at play as there are people on this ship. My agenda is keeping it safe." She concludes her assessment awkwardly, distracted by thoughts of another attack. Something gnaws at her, but it is below the surface. Every time she tries to focus on the thought, it slips away like an eel. She taps her foot, twice on the heel, once on the flat, as she thinks, repeating it as a metronomic rhythm to focus her mind.
"Well certainly my boy, certainly...it will be a grand affair indeed...yes mmmmm..." Benedict Pemberton raises his glass to Emerson at the interest, though he doesn't seem to have much more to say on the subject.
The same holds true for Guy Goodson concerning the Central District rail project, and perhaps in line with Emerson's expectations Geoff Massarde simply shrugs at the polite comment and doesn't bother to say anything else as he sips his drink intently. Guy Goodson coughs once and looks around in feigned interest as the conversation seems to die off in pleasant awkwardness. Talyssa looks to Emerson with her eyebrows raised to him, not knowing what else to speak of.
Pemberton, however, smiles and finds the next topic of discussion, turning to look at Emerson with amused interest. "Say now, Constable Hill, why don't you illuminate for an old man such as myself the mystery and excitement of the R-H-C. Why certainly you have a good tale or two to tell, mmm? Somethin' excitin' and full of dangerous chaps that you've taken down in your time?"
"Yeah yeah...that's right Pemberton!" Guy Goodson's interest is fully restored, and he snaps his fingers in remembrance. "Just yesterday in the dailies there was a scribe-up on the R.H.C., with some emergency a goin' on and the place all on alert...and something about a sickness that was plaguing the constables! What's the inside on that, Hill? Poison? Fey curse? Danoran spies spoiling the meat? C'mon Hill, let's hear it!"
Ambassador Brakken rumbles his throat and nods to her, his great horns dipping slightly. ”Mmmm…I shall look forward to it, Constable Atherton. Duty bears great importance of course, and we all have our duties. Yet if I may offer my own advice to you - do not tarry too long before setting pen to parchment for your discipline, even if you feel it is not fully completed, else you risk slipping into the comfort of not doing such…and the years pass by ever more swiftly before you realize it. I have often wondered if the greatest works to the world are in the minds of those that never bothered to share them, for whatever reason of circumstance.”
Brakken looks over at the pair once again, noting where they are in their respective arguments before turning back to you. ”Mmm you do me great honor with the recitation of the passage from the Annals, Constable Atherton. I am delighted in the unexpected encounter of one who seeks knowledge outside the works of her homeland. As a traveler of some many leagues now, I am interested in what places of Lanjyr interest you, either from published accounts, or firsthand knowledge of your own travels?”
”Indeed.” Ethelyn nods slightly at Anneca’s assessment. ”Logical and well-thought out, drawing from sources both learned and observed. I daresay I cannot disagree with your piercing the 'veil of propaganda'…it is all right to say such a thing constable, for it is precisely that - no matter how well intentioned.” The Duchess turns her head to look at her collection of courtiers still giving refreshment orders to the servant; Anneca cannot help but notice the extravagant diamond cluster earrings she wears, their ancient and unfathomable expense all the more curious as she wears only a simple silver necklace with three small pearls otherwise, and no rings or bracelets on her as many of the courtiers and noblewomen wear.
Catching the attention of her mistress is the elven courtier Miss Dell, and she comes over without so much as a word to serve her. ”You have need, Your Grace?”
”You have been paying attention to the conversation thus far?”
”Of course.”
”And what do you think of our young constable here with the flame-touched hair?”
Miss Dell looks at Anneca directly, clearly evaluating her quality with her piercing blue eyes. ”She has a formidable mind, Your Grace. Though I cannot agree with her words on this monstrosity being a ’marvel of technology’ as she puts it.”
”Perhaps.” Duchess Ethelyn smiles grimly and turns from her handmaiden back to Anneca. ”The traditions of Risur are the foundations of civilization itself, back to the time of King Kelland and the First Pact with the Unseen Court. In more recent history of the last two centuries, the First and Second Yerasol Wars were largely won by Risur, its source of might and power grounded well in arcane prowess and strength of arms honed over a millennia or more. Yet as we have soiled ourselves with this technology of our northern enemies, as surely as we have polluted ourselves as the belching smoke from this ship’s stacks behind us, we have become ever weaker. What then do you say to that observation with your keen and logical mind?”
"If arcane might and strength of arms were sufficient to win in battle, Danor would be a ruin. They are both only as useful as their ability to actually perform, and the Danorans adapted to Risuri tactics. We have arrived at diminishing returns with our current ways, and now we must adapt as well - or the nation will eventually fall." Anneca lays out her argument, not bothering to politely agree. "We lost the last war because their technology and industry evolved, while our arcane abilities and martial prowess did not. How often does someone make a magical breakthrough? Years can go between discoveries of new spells. Yet not a year goes by that technology improves dramatically. Risur can defeat its enemies once it allows for all three, especially if we have any hope of success in Danor itself. A monstrosity? No, the Coaltongue is the hope upon which our success will lay. The future is coming, Duchess, and we must adapt or we will fall."
”I see.” Ethelyn purses her lips in a slight frown, her brow furrowed as she stands before Anneca Summers. Clearly the Duchess does not agree with her sentiments, though the emotion on Ethelyn’s face is not one of anger or irritation. Rather, if Anneca had to guess it would almost seem that the Duchess is saddened or resigned in her demeanor, even though she is clearly skilled in verbal discourse and hard for her to read. After a notable pause, she nods ever so slightly and says to her, ”You and I can at least agree on that, young constable. The future arrives whether we like it or not, and adaptation is essential if we are not to falter and come to ruin.”
Ethelyn’s elven handmaiden delicately interrupts by taking a very small step forward, gaining the attention of her mistress. ”Apologies, Your Grace, but the time is short if you wish to retire a period before the speech.”
”Yes. Quite right, and thank you.” Duchess Ethelyn of Shale motions with her hand in acceptance, even as Miss Dell steps back to the other courtiers and signals them to come to full attention of their mistress once again. To Anneca, Ethelyn says in a tired voice, ”Please do not interpret my closure of our talk as a dismissal, young constable. I rather enjoyed the talk and the chance meeting, but I am fatigued from the long journey and have developed a recent headache. I shall therefore take my leave of you, and rest a while before my brother’s speech commences.” She puts out her hand not in a manner to be grasped or held, but as one giving a pronouncement or benediction, nodding her head to Anneca in recognition. ”May the Stars illuminate your path, and the Heavens guide and keep you, child of intellect.”
With that, the Duchess of Shale moves off away from the railing and towards the broad stairs leading down before the foredeck, her five handmaidens forming up behind her in their usual flock, with a single Risuri honor guard trailing behind them all at a respectful distance. For once since she has boarded the ship, Anneca stands alone at the railing to watch the continued spectacle of opulence and majesty of the historic occasion going on about her.
Gemma smiles a bit before looking down at her boots and then up again to the ambassador. Her smile is not a happy one though, but more one of remorse.
“Unfortunately, I have not had much opportunity to travel other than from my childhood home outside the city and into to Flint.” Well, except for wherever the hell the Fey took me. Not sure where that was and I don’t want to know. “In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever been on the sea. My experience has only been with books and the adventures and accounts of others far more traveled than I. I would imagine that if I do well in the R.H.C. then I will have the opportunity to travel on assignment. Your own homeland sounds quite interesting. Perhaps I’ll make it a point to visit after I’ve written my thesis. Maybe there and somewhere else that doesn't smell of soot.” Gemma smiles warmly at Brakken and, since feeling more at ease, motions for a waiter to bring her one of those pastries that she had intended to eat earlier and never had the chance.
Emerson laughs at the irony of Pemberton’s assumptions. ”While I have indeed had plenty of encounters with “dangerous chaps” while in the Risuri Navy, I have not had the opportunity to “crack any skulls” as it were during my tenure in the RHC. It is true we dispersed some ner-do-wells today before the King’s Arrival but they were Dockers looking to spoil the event. Nothing too dangerous mind you.”
Pemberton slumps his shoulders in disappointment. Then Guy interjects with the story about Gemma. Emerson resists the urge to relate the story to his new acquaintances for he knows Gemma would never forgive him. ”Ah, well you see that was a situation that was completely blown out of proportion. One of the female constables took ill just when the scribes arrived for a tour. There was some commotion but I assure you there is no Fey curse or poisoner afoot. I do promise though, if I come across a nefarious plot, I will share any exploits.”
Willem eyes grow larger and swallows, then looks left and right to search his mind if Assistant Chief Inspector told the group to keep information quiet within the RHC. It was a given not to discuss any criminal matters outside of the constabulary but unless it was an inside job, there shouldn't be things kept quiet within the constabulary especially due to the nature of the plot against the king. He then looks up to the heavens looking for guidance and luck from the "Old Faith." Then turns his attention back to the women trying to back step a little just in case he has already said too much, "Constables, have you ever known me or heard that I am a man of revenge? Also, why would I take my frustrations out on you two? I did liven up the words a little to make it sound more lively. I am guessin' the reason you fine ladies have not heard about it is because of how busy we were today and your very very important jobs during today's events."
”How busy we were…playing at dolls while a real attack transpires! Right under our noses!” Cealena’s eyes narrow and she quickly takes a nimble step back from the other two, her outrage at not knowing clearly evident. She points a finger at Willem accusingly. ”And here’s the chimneysweep to give us the tell-all! I’ll not be the rump on this I assure you – I’m going to hear it from my Director!”
”Kirby,” says Ifris warningly to her counterpart in a low voice, taking a step past Willem to challenge her, ”there’s a good reason why you and I weren’t informed of this, so take your ego out of the equation before you get us all booted.”
”I’m not going to be upstaged by bumpkin here! Stay in the dark if it suits you, but I will find out on my own.”
”Your call, but not Landreth.” Ifris takes another step towards Cealena Kirby, holding up her clenched hand as if she held a weapon, her voice low and menacing. It is not lost upon Willem that Ifris Lanvaldan was the one who slew an entire squad of heavily armed Danoran marines as they tried to take her ship back in the last days of the Fourth War; her accounts of that terrible day suggesting she somehow became a living weapon with her own mind, harnessing some inner powers unique to anyone else in Risur, if not all of Lanjyr. It was no coincidence that Constable Lanvaldan was chosen as a King’s Bodyguard almost as soon as she gained her badge in the R.H.C.
For her part, Constable Kirby tries to maintain her gaze of justified anger and imperious confidence, but the fearful glance she gives Ifris is enough to show she knows the stories as well as he does. ”Course not! I know that. She’ll just go straight to Dame Jillian or Minister Lee, or worse still she’ll make some fool announcement in front of everyone assembled on the main deck. Don’t worry about my discretion, Lanvaldan.” With that, she nimbly turns in a huff and walks off towards the stairs of the foredeck.
After looking on a moment longer, Ifris turns back to Willem Muhnee, her face hard and scowling. Without warning she punches Willem – hard – on the meat of his shoulder, a stinger that will surely leave a bruise mark by morning. She leans into him close then and whispers angrily, ”Muck-dwelling, horse-loving dimwit! What possessed you to…haven’t I told you before that Kirby is no comrade of yours…or anyone’s but herself, and only desires information to better her own status? If you were told to keep that privy, she’s going to make certain you atone for that with Price-Hill! Idiot! No wonder you’re over a year my senior in the Constabulary and yet you’re stuck mucking out stalls in Slate.”
Ifris Lanvaldan does something completely unexpected then, as Willem knows her to be an unflinching stickler for duty and regulations. As a servant walks by with a silver tray of mulled spiced wines, she snatches one irritably from it and downs it in one fell gulp, as if taking a last drink before storming the beaches. "If it doesn't violate orders or oaths Muhnee, then tell me this true at least. Should I be ready for an incoming salvo, ready for a real and imminent threat tonight?"
”Mmmm…I then hope you will journey and see all that you can see, Constable Atherton, and then write it to journal for others to read one day. If I am not mistaken, you are quite young for a Risuri human woman…” The great minotaur ambassador puts up his massive gnarled hand in a gesture of peace, rumbling his throat as if looking to forestall any reaction to his observations as he searches for words. ”Forgiveness, as I do not mean to say this as doubt upon your skills or experience. Rather, being young is a blessing from my homeland of Ber, as the youth are the ones to bravely experience life with little reservation or fear of loss, embracing new ideas and concepts with vigor and appreciation that is unmarred or untarnished by corruption and cynicism. The world changes upon the resolve and ambitions of the young, Constable Atherton, not the old. So I wish you well upon your journeys. In one aspect, doing that would mean you practice a tenet of Panoply, and therefore are closer to that philosophy than you yourself assumed!”
With that, Ambassador Brakken looks briefly over to where Captain Smith and Ambassador Tuvuere continue to go at each other with their displays of self-brilliance in the philosophies of Miller and Eschatol. ”Mmmm…it seems I shall not gain the opportunity to discuss a trade mission with the Drakran Ambassador until after King Aodhan’s speech. Another time then. I think I shall move to the serving tables back over there and see what I may eat, for I did not have much at the formal tables - humans find it unseemly for one of my kind to eat thrice of what they would consume in a single sitting...”
As predicted, the lack of succulent information on the R.H.C. spells an effective end to the conversation, with first Guy Goodson moving on to find more entertaining crowds, followed by Benedict Pemberton saying his goodbyes to see if he can stir up some "business opportunities" with some of the Risuri nobility. Geoff Massarde seems relieved at both of the industrialists leaving him, though he casts an eye askance at Emerson, and says to Talyssa Dane rather rudely, "I'll be refreshing my cup at the back tables, Miss Dane. Join me presently." Then he walks off with a slight lean in that direction.
Talyssa waits until he is well out of earshot before she shakes her head and speaks confidentially to Emerson. "Pompous ass. Horns or no horns, he's truly one of the ugliest, egotistical, arrogant and unpleasant persons I've come across - he makes Carlao Ven look humble and doting by comparison."
Skimmer seems to agree with the sentiment as he lets out a mechanical squawk and flaps his wings atop the deck crane, turning his metal back to the engineer. Talyssa smiles but puts a finger to her lips for him to quiet down. She looks at Emerson with her quirky smile upon her lips and strands of black hair across her face as she brushes them aside, saying, "Sadly, Delft told me to stay with him at all times tonight, to protect him from those that still find an ex-Danoran tiefling inventor not to their liking...and also to try and keep him out of too much drunken mischief. We all have our mission directives, don't we? See you later then, Emerson Hill!"
Willem shakes his head, "Assistant Chief said nothin' about keepin' this quiet within our own ranks and why should we other than to keep glory seekers like Kirby in the dark? It sounds like she is the real problem? And how will anyone in this outfit be well informed to stay frosty and what to watch out for? You know, the lack of communication in the military gets people killed and while there is less combat in the RHC, we are still at war, just on a different front. If I cannot trust my fellow constables, that means I cannot trust anyone in the RHC which includes the higher echelon and that sounds like both a management and background check problem. As for your last question, since you are a friend of a friend, and have been there for me. We are on here for extra security so stay frosty, keep your head on a swivel." Willem's gaze turns into a steely cold gunslinger stare, "As for all other constables excludin' yourself and my group, I am plainly not goin' to talk to them even if it will save their lives. Because of their cheap antics, they are not worth savin' or make anyone of them colleagues."
Willem begins to walk away,
"Now please excuse me, this Muck-dwellin', horse-lovin' dimwit needs to save the day in order to save my hide from an unnecessary dramatic disaster."
He takes out his billy club (sap) and taps his opposite hand with it, "And heavens forbid, the perp looks like or is Kirby herself." Then he moves the sap to a more discreet readied location because that is one thing that Assistant Chief did say to do.
Willem stalks off about four paces on the deck with his boots before he hears Ifris call out to him, her no-nonsense tone demanding that he at least turn to face her. "Muhnee. A moment."
As he stands there with his irritation plain to read on his face, Ifris walks to where the servant with the drink tray is offering them to some seated nobles' wives, and swipes two of the silver goblets without so much as a word. She walks back to where Willem stands, thrusts one into his hands (or else it would've fallen across his favorite boots), and raises her goblet of mulled spiced wine in a triple toast.
"To the true soldiers - you, me and Emerson. To that simpler time when we were all eager and naive and too stupid to know any better about politics, or that most of our superiors were idiots. To the true heroes that fell, whether in a grave of water or sand."
Clinking his silver goblet with her own, Ifris downs the second in as many minutes, giving a soldiery grunt afterwards and wiping her mouth with her sleeve. Though she cannot force him to drink, Willem knows this is as close in camaraderie as Ifris gets with anyone in the R.H.C. With a slight smirk on her face, she nods to him, then looks to her own drained cup and says, "Absolutely horrible. Here we are on the finest warship of these seas, and we can't even find a decent Shale Whiskey or Yerasol Rum to fire our bellies on a cold night. At least this watered-down punch won't addle our wits."
"If you don't mind, ambassador, I would love to accompany you. I can't seem to get my fill of pastries and sweets and I don't get the opportunity to eat so many varieties of them in my daily life." Gemma smiles warmly at the ambassador and walks with him, hoping to continue their conversation, even if it's only small talk, until the king's announcement. In jest, and to show that she is in no way offended or bothered by the minotaur's large appetite, she jokes, "Maybe we can even have a contest to see who can surpass the other when it comes to eating cream puffs." For some reason, eating large amounts of the rich main dinner would have done her in for the evening, but sweets are another matter; those she seemingly could eat for hours with no ill affects.
After a little while she will reluctantly excuse herself and make her way back around the ship, keeping an eye open for anything suspicious along the way. She's hoping to meet up with another constable or Delft before the king's speech.
Willem transitions from an irritated face to a more apologetic visage, "I can drink to our fallen comrades, and more simpler and efficient times!" Also with a sourface, Willem nods, "You would think with all of these dignitaries, they would serve better spirits?" Willem then switches to an intently inquisitive expression, "Alright I am listening and if you have time, besides Kirby, who else do I need to watch out for or am I correct? Stick to you and my team?"
"Besides everyone?" Ifris snorts derisively as she peers down at the now-empty silver goblet in her hand. "I don't trust anyone much besides Emerson Hill and certainly no one in Slate Branch, but I guess I'd say to only trust those that have shown they'd put themselves out for you when the gunfire starts...maybe not even then unless you know it wasn't just happenstance."
Off in the distance of the foredeck, the pair can see that Cealena Kirby has managed to discreetly peel off Viscount Director Price-Hill from his esteemed group, and speaks to him alone near the starboard-side railing. The elder man in his impeccable attire and distinctive monocle nods to her once and says something that apparently ends the conversation; he glares out towards where Muhnee and Lanvaldan stand, a look of disappointed displeasure evident upon his face. Kirby curtsies deferentially and moves off with a satisfied smirk that she attempts to hide as she passes by Anya Landreth without so much as a word to her.
Ifris sighs in reaction. "Well, suppose we're going to hear more about that from the Director after we get back to shore tonight. If I were you, I'd buy yourself a good shovel and rake, 'cause I think your mucking of the Slate stalls just became literal."
A loud steam-powered whistle from the wheelhouse echoes in the chilly night air. All around the assembled guests onboard the Coaltongue smile and clap appreciatively. Risuri honor guard squads of both Army and Navy line all around the railings of the main deck at formal attention, with smaller groups stationed at the stairs to the foredeck and all doors to both levels of the wheelhouse. Occasionally the dome of the Capacitor flickers with silver arcs of magical energy, delighting the crowd around it. The Navras orchestra, with their collection of mostly horns, drums and woodwinds, now lines up to both sides of the stairs before the foredeck, busy tuning their instruments and readying themselves for the Risuri national anthem that is soon to commence. Above, the starry blanket of night hovers overhead, with a quarter moon peeking now just above the eastern horizon. Now anchored at their location north of the Ayres islands, the faint lights of a well-lit gardens or mansion can be seen in the distance on some of the isles, with the gloom of Flint and the mountains of the Cloudwood no more than a vague outline beyond them. At regular intervals the eight sailing frigates can be seen anchored around them with sails all lowered, each ship several hundred yards distant.
The five constables are gathered up together once more, the place reserved for them well towards the rear of the nearly one-hundred assembled nobles, dignitaries, wealthy elites and other officials of Risur – the forward area of the main deck is now crowded nearly to capacity. By contrast, Viscount Director Price-Hill, Lady Chief Inspectress Saxby, and Assistant Chief Inspector Delft are in the second row of the assembly, just behind the Flint mayors and foreign ambassadors, of equal stature with senior naval and army officers of the highest ranks. Yet at least the younger constables will be able to witness the speech directly - for all the servants and common sailors stand at respectful attention on the aft side of the deck beyond the wheelhouse, where they cannot even see the proceedings. Only the collection of invited scribes stands together in a similar group, nearer to the foredeck but off to the far port side next to the soldiers at the railing. As for Emerson, Anneca, Arthur, Gemma and Willem, the group stands to the starboard side of the Capacitor dome structure, within clear view of King Aodhan, Principal Minister Lee, Dame Jillian, Governor Stanfield, Admiral Thedric and the trio of “King’s Bodyguards” forming up to walk the short distance up to the foredeck.
Though not intentional, the five clearly hear King Aodhan chuckle to himself as he seems to lightly clear his throat before they prepare to walk, commenting to both Principal Minister Lee and Dame Jillian on the matter. ”One of the local archfey is upset I parked my ship here,” he guesses, laughing it off. ”One of the many burdens of kingship; the fey can really let me know when they’ve got an opinion. I always get burps that taste like fish when I sail these days.”
With Lee smiling to his King in response, Aodhan raises his hand to indicate his entourage should proceed forward. Soon enough, the King’s party makes their way across and up the foredeck stairs; the King takes his place at the center of the foredeck facing towards the assembly, with Dame Jillian to his left and P.M. Lee to his right, the Flint Governor and fleet Admiral to each end, and the trio of guardian constables well behind them all and closest to the bow of the ship. King Aodhan takes a moment to review the assembly before him, nodding to some and giving verbal recognition to others. After a momentary pause to whisper something to Lee, the aged monarch continues to call out members of the assembly by name, recalling a brief note of a fond or amusing nature about them even as they bow and curtsey at the honor of being recognized by their liege.
In the act of trying to listen to their King from this distance and keep watch for anything “unusual” in the packed main deck, the quintet of constables does manage to notice Assistant Chief Inspector Delft approaching them from around the Capacitor dome, apparently having left his customary position in the second row to come find them. Leaning on his cane, he waves them over to hear him, an irritated grimace upon his face.
”Lee just informed me the King has noticed his sister, Duchess Ethelyn of Shale, is not in attendance,” whispers Delft irritably while tapping the side of his head slightly, indicating the communication to him was magical in nature. ”Some fool Petty Officer was supposed to see to it directly before the nine o’clock hour, but apparently he forgot the time. So Lee wants you all to go down and collect her up here while they play the anthem – wake her up if you have to and make sure she doesn’t embarrass our King by snubbing his big speech tonight, all right?” Delft looks at each one of them with a curt nod, hurried on by the events transpiring around them. ”You all took the tour I take it? Right. Wizard’s Quarters, aft part of the berth deck – take the stairs from the wheelhouse and not the ones by the foredeck, so that you don’t draw everyone’s eyes to you and cause a stir.”
With orders given, you head to the guarded starboard-side door to the wheelhouse nearby, your boss now making his way back to his place towards the front of the assembly…
Anneca leads the way, having been witness to the instructions that the Duchess gave. She explains to the others what they had talked about as they make their way to her rooms. "I spoke with her earlier. I sort of ran my mouth to one of Lady Romana, which I'm sure will cause me some grief later -- but it was worth it," she claims with a grin. "Anyway, she was going to rest in the Wizard's Room with her handmaidens prior to the speech. Five of them, I think. She told a halfling servant to prepare the room and refreshments in conjunction with Officer Aughtbrook." She replays the scene in her mind, trying to recall anything suspicious that might explain her absence.
Emerson follows Anneca's lead towards the back starboard side stairs. "They are probably all having a grand old time not being up on the main deck and just forgot the time."
Anneca frowns, though that is not terribly different from her standard facial expression. "I don't know... She is fairly diligent and conscientious."
"I know what you mean Anneca, it is quite easy to speak too much. I am finding that our team and a few outside are the only ones we can talk to. Everyone else, you have to just be professional or cordial without any real conversation. Willem remains quiet in the rear and then states, "So far, political nonsense aside, this cruise has been quiet. My gut is telling me to be careful especially after our earlier encounter. After all, the Duchess will be a target. Although guarded, she is less guarded than the King."
Gemma suddenly gets a sinking feeling in her stomach mixed with pangs of guilt. I should have been more diligent...not hanging around eating pastries. What if something's happened? Gemma doesn't even want to think of what might happen if the king's sister has been compromised. "With all hope she is just resting, but I agree with Anneca. It would be odd for the Dutchess to be tardy to such an event. Let's make haste, but quietly.
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You took the tour after all...
The constables make their way through the forward door on the starboard side of the lower wheelhouse, where the two Risuri marines at attention salute and open the door for them, closing it behind them afterwards. Inside, they immediately see the starboard-side stairwell down to the gun deck, adjacent to the admiral’s formal stateroom and what must be the captain’s dining room, with the port-side stairwell logically on the other side of it. Heavily guarded is a separate small rear stairwell that leads to the upper wheelhouse and command deck itself; a smaller ladderway set forward and nearer to them also leads up to the command bridge, but is guarded by a burly-looking marine who frowns at them openly. Above them, they hear relaxed idle conversation by several Risuri naval officers under Captain Bryant’s command, who must have a fine view of the formal proceedings on the main deck. The constables do not linger, having their instructions, and head down the stairwell to the gun deck below.
The air is warmer here as the constables emerge out onto grated metal deck plating, designed to circulate the heat from down below at the bottom engine deck so as to be habitable. Other than what may be a pair of Risuri army guards parked at the far forward broad stairwell at the bow of the ship, the gun deck is empty of personnel, though they can still faintly make out the King’s voice filtering down from above. Silver motes of light dance around in the glassteel chamber that is the Capacitor in the forward area of the gun deck at its center, the motes of silvery light and short arcs of lightning dance around randomly within its confines, bathing the area in silvery illumination. Cannons are parked at the ready with open gunports at each one, giving a cool breeze to counteract the heated air from the furnaces below. Though the constables can slightly see through the grating, the grate pattern is tight enough to not allow a clear unobstructed view of the berth deck below them. The constables have but a short walk aft to get to the next stairwell, which leads down to the berth deck and their destination. Farther back beyond the stairs they seek lie the aft galley and storage rooms, but all is quiet with doors closed.
The air is even warmer here as the constables emerge out onto similarly grated metal plating of the berth deck, finding that on this level the forward area of the deck where the Capacitor section should be located is walled off behind metal walls and heavy doors. Instead of silvery light illuminating their way, lighting the rear areas of the berth deck are three magical continual light globes set in decorative brass cages from the deck’s ceiling – one to port, one to starboard and the last in the aft-central hallway of the guest section. Somewhere below them lies the engine deck, the hot air from the ship’s boilers and steam engines rising up around them. As they walk aft to that hallway where the Wizard’s Quarters and four other senior officer/guest quarters are situated, they find the heat dissipates almost instantly here, a small bluish gemstone shining faintly in a brass cage suspended above them next to the light globe. All doors are closed and the area is quiet. In contrast the constables hear the constant monotonous hiss of the steam engines, broken only the clanging sound of clattering metal below, as if a metal pipe or wrench was dropped onto the grating of the deck below them. Logically this makes sense, as even at anchor the ship’s boilers and furnace must still be tended to – Engineer Luckshore and his engineer mates must still be on duty.
The five constables approach the aft Wizard’s Quarters, the decorative wood-paneled double-doors with fine brass handles firmly closed, and simpler wood-paneled single doors closed to either side of them, two to each side. Courtesy demands that you knock to announce your presence to the likes of the Duchess and not simply barge in; three taps on the doors are all that are required to gain a response from the other side of the doors. ”Yes? Yes, the Duchess is still sleeping and feeling unwell…I am afraid you will have to come back later – my apologies on behalf of the Duchess of course.”
"She's lying." Emerson whispers to the rest of the constables as he turns to face them. "Something is wrong."
"What the feth? There's blood on the door-frame." Arthur puts his finger up to his lips and motions for quiet. After a few seconds he continues. " And I can hear them all frantic like in there."
Gemma is also perceptive and the pit in her stomach grows quickly and dramatically deeper. She looks to her comrades and whispers, "Well, gentlemen, then I recommend we get the hell in there. I would imagine that time is now very much of the essence."
She looks to Arthur. "Perhaps you might jimmy the lock and then I can make my way in?"
Arthur doesn't say anything but gives Gemma a wink and a smile. Before extracting his tools, he takes time to load his crossbow and set it on the ground before him. He's kneeling in front of the door, readying his tools and pauses. He looks up at the others, and asks through the ever present but unlit cigar..
"Okay, once I do this, it's going to be pretty obvious to those inside we're coming in. What's the plan?"
Although failing to notice anything for whatever reason, Willem's earlier gut feeling, the blood evidence on the door frame pointed out by Arthur, and (2) of the constables sense lying, Willem makes sure his gear is ready, "First thing we need to do is ask ourselves, is there anyway to make this discreet. Remember what Assistant Chief Delft stated to make all contacts as discreet as possible. Arthur and Anneca, you have anything for putting people to sleep?"
By the time they've arrived at the door, Anneca's blunderbuss is already out in her hands. She won't be taking any chances. When the handmaiden answers, she feels a bit of relief even though the young woman's voice seems a touch out of breath - only to have any relief knocked away with Arthur's keen senses. She takes a position next to the door, ready to make entry in the least subtle way possible. She looks over at Willem while making sure that her firearms are loaded and ready to fire. "Fire puts people to sleep - although that blue gem might dampen it a little. Get it open, Wilde."
"Sorry, Willem, but we'll have to pardon our hasty intrusion later if we're wrong. Right now, the Dutchess may be in danger...or dead...and we have to know either way." Gemma readies her daggers and looks to Anneca. "We'll be as discreet as possible, but we do what we need to do and deal with the repercussions later. Agreed?"
She then casts another look to Arthur and the lock. "If you would, please. I'll open the door so Anneca can go in first with her fire power and I'll go in right after with my knives to follow up. Unless someone has a better plan."
Willem reaches into his vest for his pepperbox pistol, "Aye, but we can always say we discussed it and came to the conclusion we did not have anything in our possession to make this contact discreet. And I will go in last providing rear guard. Make sure to go in far enough forward, left, or right so we can all fit into the room to engage the target or targets more safely"
Arthur carefully inserts the tension tool into the lock followed by the rake. Gently pulling it back and forth across the tumblers, he can feel the lock giving way. Impatient to open the door, he rushes to get the last tumbler aligned but only ends up botching the whole affair.
"Dammit!" he whispers to himself. "Calm down Choomba, you got this..." He shakes his hands loose and tries again. Slower now, he follows the same process. Within a few moments, moments that feel like hours, the lock turns with a subtle click.
Arthur immediately picks up his crossbow and steps back to allow the others access to the door.
Anneca looks at the others to make sure that they are all ready. She hopes that Arthur didn't attract their attention when opening the door, and further hopes that they aren't just being paranoid. "Better to ask forgiveness than permission," she mutters to herself, then turns the doorknob with her left hand and throws open the door. "RHC! We're coming in! Duchess, are you all right?" She shouts a warning as she prepares to surge in with the others.
Armed and ready to foil a potential assault or kidnapping of the Duchess, Anneca and Gemma each throw open the door in front of them. They are just about to charge into the anticipated fray, with both Arthur and Emerson readied to back them up and Willem at the rear to cover them all…
…but even they are stopped in their tracks before they commit to the attack, unprepared for what they now seen before them.
The lavish quarters of the Wizard’s Room they recalled from earlier in the tour is now a scene of the macabre, with bodies laid about on both sides of the now-opened double doors. Both to their left and right on the plush couches and chairs lay four of the five handmaidens to the Duchess, their youthful and beautiful faces locked in deathly visages of surprise, their blush lips and cheeks tinged with a bluish color from lack of air, some dribbling froth down their chins. Their impeccable courtier’s gowns have stains of pastries or spilled wine upon them, the silver goblets and trays strewn about them as clear evidence to the poison that took their lives. To their left upon the floor is a fifth body of a young man lying face up, his eyes with a last look of shock and horror; it is clear the young Petty Officer known as Elian Aughtbrook died painfully in a manner very different from poison, for the entire middle portion of his chest is now a grisly gaping cylindrical hole burned through to the spine yet completely cauterized to spill very little of his blood, parts of his naval coat still smoldering.
Yet the room is not devoid of life. Anneca and Gemma do not barge in partly due to the threat of three small fiery creatures hovering in a line before them, chittering to themselves with overly large mouths while glaring malevolently at the intruders, apparently interrupted in their play of setting a floor rug on fire with sparks of their magic.
Behind these creatures is the fifth handmaiden, the sylvan elf woman referred to earlier as Miss Dell and who seemed the most capable and keen-minded to Anneca; she still wears her purple gown as before but now wields a strange brown-hued wand with a bulbous darker-brown tip, and a tan honey-leather satchel belted at her waist. As they first see her she discards a piece of now-blank parchment from her hand which drops to the floor – Anneca easily recognizes it as an expended scroll recently read. The elven woman is readied for attack by the nature of her guarded stance, yet looks partly to her side to the large opened aft porthole in the rear wall where a soft breeze of ocean air can be felt.
There, just a few feet out in the open night air from the ship is Duchess Ethelyn of Shale, floating in the air through what can only be a spell of arcane means. At first you think she is under some assault, for around her are several large pinkish-grey tentacles easily the diameter of a man’s leg or larger, coming up from some point below in the ocean that the constables cannot see from their vantage point. Yet after a moment it becomes apparent the tentacles are not attacking her, but protecting her. Floating as she is and still in her forest green gown, the Duchess casually grabs hold of one of the tentacles as if to be guided by it. She sees Anneca in the doorway, her look of irritation at being interrupted now turning to one of sadness. ”I had wished this would have gone unnoticed,” sighs Ethelyn. ”It would be easier for those onboard to avoid a panic before the end. I am sorry, young constable, that you need be an unnecessary victim in this dispute. Yet as we spoke of previously, there are many casualties in war, the likes of which do not have preference to those of merit or vigor. May you find peace in the Heavens.”
Suddenly all around them the sounds of music fill the nighttime air, the orchestra on the main deck starting up the Risuri national anthem with a chorus of voices starting to sing the words of its first stanza. Duchess Ethelyn sighs once more but says in a businesslike fashion, ”Well, that is my cue apparently. Sorkana my dear, fulfill your mission and meet me at the rendezvous point. Slay these constables if you must, but the mission must be completed – avenge your love and honor his commitment.”
”Yes, Your Majesty,” answers Sorkana Dell simply. It is not lost upon the constables that the elven handmaiden refers to Ethelyn as her queen and not the duchess. She turns back to the rest, her blue eyes hardened with anger and glaring dangerously at them. "Flee this ship now, and you may yet have a chance to live."
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"What the actual f%$*," Anneca blurts out before she truly comprehends what she sees. She stands in dumbfounded shock that the Duchess would apparently do this. She stammers for a moment, fixating on the fire sprites. "F**%ing fire sprites? On this ship? Are you crazy? Cold air or cold iron, they're not setting anything here on fire."
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Even as the deadly sabotage plot unfolds before them, a starboard-side door ever-so-slowly opens as if left unlatched, going unnoticed by the constables nearest to it. Without warning, a beautifully crafted brightsteel shortword materializes as it lashes out at Arthur stomach, verdant-tinged oil marring its otherwise perfectly mirrored sheen. It strikes true and blood starts to spread across Arthur's dress coat at his middle, the blade turned sharply to create a tearing wound. The shortsword then blurs back to strike at Gemma’s thigh with uncanny speed, but either through luck or instinct she shifts her leg forward by the door, with the blade missing by a halfling's handswidth.
In the shadows of the opened guest quarters door in a guarded stance is a halfling male dressed in the white livery of the servants seen above on the main deck, though this one has blood spattered across the front of his buttoned white coat, a vicious smile upon his face. ”Take that you #$#&*@! guttersnipe! Sorkana! Sick your pets on them and GO! I’ll deal with these ratters!”
”Fey’s luck and fortune to you Ilton,” answers Sorkana simply to her halfling conspirator. She points to the constables with her free hand and in Primordial she utters a single commanding word. ”Slay!” The three fiery creatures in turn extend their overly large mouths threateningly at the constables, revealing an array of needle-sharp teeth. Sorkana’s eyes then flare with light of pure azure, completely eliminating her irises for a moment; without a sound but simply pointing her free hand downwards to the grated floor, she suddenly transforms into a trail of wispy azure mist and moves through the floor underneath her feet. Though it is hard to see through the deck from their vantage point and the weave of the grated pattern, the constables believe they see the blue light shine down below them near the thrumming of the boiler engines.
"YOU LITTLE S%@#!" Arthur staggers slightly at the vicious strike to his side. "I'm gonna murder you for that!"
Sorkana melts through the floor to everyone's disbelief. The shock of the wound and the surprise of this revelation is still not enough to dull Arthur's wits.
"No Fething way! She's a true Eladrin! If she's going down there, her plan must be to blow up the ship!"
Well…the Duchess certainly isn’t dead…although now I’m almost wishing she were. This is not good.
Despite being taken aback by the hafling’s surprise entrance and lightning fast attack, Gemma takes a quick assessment of the situation and runs the options in her head. She quickly discards the ones that might work but that she doesn’t have time for. It’s in her nature to call out what she thinks is tactically best, even though she knows that others more than likely find it bossy. No time to care about that now.
She has a feeling that Anneca’s fire won’t work too well against fire sprites, neither might Arthur’s bombs. It may not hurt them and, even worse, it might make them stronger somehow. She’s not sure, but it seems like a logical deduction. She does know, however, that Willem’s pistols will have the necessary range.
As far as Arthur and Emerson, Arthur seems lucky not be laid out on the ground right now based on that hafling’s strike and she guessing that Emerson probably doesn’t have the speed to get to the boiler room in time.
Her next words are quick and to the point. “Emerson, can you take care of Arthur’s wound? “ She looks briefly to him for confirmation, then back to the hafling while still speaking to her comrades. “Willem? If you wouldn’t mind taking the sprites, perhaps at range, while Anneca kills the Eladrin in the boiler.” And, yes, I do mean kill. Her eyes then harden on the villain in front of her. “I’ll get this one.” Gemma then drops one of her daggers, draws her sabre and advances on her foe.