Please dot in to the campaign.
.
Dotting in.
[dot]
It begins...
Not long ago, you received an unexpected delivery. How did the courier even find you? He had a very accurate description of you to work from, but who even knew you were in the area?
The Letter
Greetings, dark walker.
I have heard of your heroics at Citadel Enferac. I write to you at a desperate time for my beloved Galt. Would you join me at my manor in Isarn? Your particular set of skills might teach some in the country who think themselves above consequences that there is still something to fear in this world.
CD
The note is accompanied by directions to an address in the Galtan capital.
An acquaintance of mine in the Expanse informed me that a shadow had passed across the so-called brilliant sun of Mzali. I looked into the occurrence, but was unable to divine anything else--how strange! I assure you, my source is a Learned One, and it is unusual for him to be in the Dark about anything.
A wandering half-elf bard visited me on his way through Isarn, and informed me that an student of his might know more of the situation. Perhaps you would be so kind as to visit my estate and satisfy my curiosity? You see, I find myself with an intractable problem, and I seek help in resolving it before the sun sets on my beloved Galt.
CD
The note is accompanied by directions to an address in the Galtan capital.
I have been confined to my manor in Isarn with a medical conditional that none of the doctors of Galt have the experience to threat. Would you be willing to take a chance on me? I think it likely you have the cure I need.
CD
The note is accompanied by directions to an address in the Galtan capital.
I'm afraid you may find this letter terribly impertinent, but I was encouraged to write you by a long-standing acquaintance of mine at the Magaambya. You see, I have been plagued with terrible nightmares of late, and while he would not divulge why, he recommended that I consult with you about them.
I realize it is much to ask, but might you visit my estate in Isarn? There is no one here I can divulge the full details of my predicament to.
CD
The note is accompanied by directions to an address in the Galtan capital.
I have a business proposition for you: In Galt, we have a terrible infestation of the most distressing gray rats. I have heard from a close friend and neighbor that you are quite the exterminator.
Please, come visit me in Isarn.
CD
The note is accompanied by directions to an address in the Galtan capital.
Whatever your reasons, you found the letter compelling enough to inspire you to travel to Galt. Traversing the volatile country was safer for you than most, and you were able to steer clear of the interference of any local People's Councils or zealous mayors. Soon enough, you found yourself--by chance or design--on a hilltop outside the capital, Isarn, sitting around a campfire with some other notable travelers.
Kuthek refills Fiorré and Aphotos’s drinking chocolate, then pours the dregs into his mug.
”So, as to the matter of these letters.” His shadow produces the ribbon-wrapped missive from Kuthek’s sleeve. ”Are all of yours like mine? Surprisingly knowledgeable about your personal history, and signed ‘CD’?”
Funmi's mood and countenance noticeably darken at the subject of the letters. "This 'CD' has knowledge of too many things that they should not. Personally, I do not respond well to threats. But considering all that I know...well, I don't think I can refuse my services in this case."
”What are you services, exactly?” Kuthek considers his companions fire lit faces. ”Given Galt’s history, I can assume we’ve all been brought here to deal with something political and violent.”
”Myself, I kill those who’ve proven too powerful and too dangerous to their communities to keep on living, in the same way the shepherd hunts wolves. My duties to the Winnower.” He shrugs slightly, in the same way someone might brush off having to muck stables or do an entire household’s laundry. ”I’m happy to shoulder that burden so that others don’t have to. But perhaps I am in similar company?”
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Funmi seems unbothered by the unprompted confession of murder. She quickly smooths away the emotions from her face in the way that elves do best. She finishes the last of her drinking chocolate, places her mug on the ground beside her feet, and makes eye contact with Kuthek before simply answering, "I am a diplomat."
Aphotos pulls the letter out from his sleeve, staring at the ribbon over it. He holds it near his face for a moment, letting the eerie glow off his skin give him a better impression of the red coloring of it. "You know, truth be told I hadn't thought too much about this letter. This... isn't the first time I've been contacted out of nowhere like this. But come to think of it, it is weird they would have such a detailed description of me, and usually I have drop locations for these sorts of things, they don't just up and find me. Interesting..."
He takes a long sip of the chocolate before placing the mug down on the ground for the moment. Then he slips a dagger out from his other sleeve. "Well... if we're all talking about our job here then; I guess most people think I'm just some aloof dancer who does dock work to fund his creative hobby or whatever." He pulls out a blank looking face mask and spins it around on a finger. "You might have seen this around, Kuthek. I have a bit of a reputation for being someone who helps out to deal with people who control others against their will... I would like to know how they put the two sides of this coin together though."
Fiorré is quiet at first, as seems to be her wont; daintily sipping her chocolate while listening to the others discuss the matter that brought them together. When a lull presents itself, the young woman reaches into her pack, withdrawing the ribbon-wrapped letter and holding it up. "The missive sent me spoke of terrible nightmares enduring. This 'CD' admits no knowledge of my affliction past, only that their acquaintance at that institution referred them me as an expert in ill dreaming. Which," Fiorré sighs softly, "while not the reputation I would first have chosen, is accurate enough. And I do wish to help others who suffer, as Desna and Erastil would have of me."
The young woman pauses, her gaze wandering to meet those of her companions. "I had not thought, I confess, to be suspicious of our host. 'Tis not greatly in my nature. And while I can catch scent of ill intent, to from afar do so is beyond me. So I journeyed here as lamb to stable." Fiorré tilts her head thoughtfully, her gaze briefly distant. Streaks of gray-black flow through the pale iridescence of her hair, and the skin visible between her chaste skirt and her high boots ripples with spotted fur.Then the Iobarian girl is all human again, at least externally, and her attention returns to the group.
"So. Shall we be suspicious of events here unfolding? Or journey on, and let them unfold as they may? Should you like, I can creep ahead to scout the town; my nose for danger is sharp, my steps light and swift." Fiorré smiles suddenly; a daredevil smile, reckless and cocksure. "They've no hope of catching me, not should hound serve them or horse bear them."
[/dice]
Recalling your previous experience with Galt and Galtans, you remember that revolution has been a way of life in the country for more than 50 years. The country cut its ties with imperial Cheliax in the Red Revolution of 4667 ar. The interim government set up to oversee the nation after the ouster of its wealthy nobility, the Revolutionary Council, has been overhauled dozens of times, as new leaders insist they can rule more intelligently, fairly, or peacefully than the last and rise up in bloody rebellion against the prior regime. The former leaders are often sent to the final blades, magical guillotines that trap and contain the souls of those they behead (that the guillotines have fanciful names like Razor Jenni or Sharp-Tooth Hana doesn’t make them any less ominous to the populace).
Whether renamed as the Common Council, the Eye of Law, the Galtcreed Pact, or any other moniker, each Revolutionary Council merely follows its predecessors in an ongoing cycle of chaos and revolution that Galt can’t escape.
Galt’s only stable organization is the Gray Gardeners, its secret police and executioners. They operate the nation’s prisons and own the menacing final blades. Gray Gardeners always wear masks, rarely speak, and perform their grim business throughout all of Galt.
You also remember that the current head of the Revolutionary Council is named Camilia Drannoch. She lives in a humble manor in the city of Isarn.
Fiorré has barely finished speaking when a realization seems to strike her. For a moment her eyes wander, as if distracted, before she speaks again. "I know perhaps who has called for us all. I hadn't put it together until now, when you each mentioned 'CD' as the writer of your missives. The current head of Galt's so-called 'government'—" The young woman, until recently a devout Abadaran, sniffs primly. "—is a lady by the name of Camilia Drannoch, who dwells in the capitol city upon whose threshold we sit."
The young woman tilts her head thoughtfully, sitting up straight. When she speaks, her voice has the prim precision of a schoolgirl's recitation. "Setting aside the broken nature of Galtan politics, though, her 'Revolutionary Council' is only nominally in control. The Gray Gardeners, a cabal of executioners who keep their identities secret and resist all oversight, may perhaps be the true masters of the nation. 'Tis they who operate the final blades, the soul-trapping headsman's tools which forbid the proper judgment for the beheaded." Fiorré looks somberly at her companions. "And 'tis they who we must most fear, most be wary of."
Funmi contemplates Fiorré's words, nodding solemnly along. She was generally aware of the state of Galt, but not too familiar with its inner workings. "Taking all you've said into consideration, we must absolutely be suspicious. And we must absolutely journey on. There is a great cruelty taking place here, and I intend to do my part to stop it."
She stands and looks at each of the others gathered around the campfire in turn. "I don't think you all would have come this far unless you had intent to do the same. But I believe it may be too dangerous for any of us to move alone, at least until we have a better understanding of our position. We should move together."
Kuthek and his shadow quietly pack away the cookware as he listens to his companions - his colleagues, it seems. He then begins slipping on leather gloves the color of sodden soil. ”Together, then. It seems clear this Drannoch means us to collaborate. As for the dangers of perpetual revolution and untouchable executioners, well.” He pulls a full iron chain covered in stout spikes from his pack winds it carefully around a shoulder. ”I don’t care much about these blades. Yes, we should release those within, but I expect that to happen in due course. It’s the gardeners I’m concerned with. Keeping people under their thumb, acting with impunity. That is an affront.”
The stout man’s pupiless gray eyes are as hard as the iron chain.
Aphotos sits taking in the words of the rest of his companions. Slowly but carefully he rises up, taking with him the cane that he always carries at his side.
He thinks for a moment, then seems to look back at the group with a very assured face. "I should mention, if any of you are the least bit unsure of the lengths this Camilia Drannoch is willing to go to over this, well... I can almost assure you she is rather ready to go to the extreme, here. She must have some kind of plan worked out, especially if she was able to track us down so easily. A person like her can be dangerous, but I find myself obligated to hear her out. After all, she did offer me a job."
He deftly tosses his envelope towards Kuthek. "You may all want to take a look at what she wrote to me. It's written with a subtle double speak but if that letter of mine is any indication, she's looking to truly deal with these Gray Gardeners for good. I, for one, intend to find out if this is truly feasible, but I would be honored to have some like-minded allies in the process."
Fiorré watches her companions rise, one by one, and listens to their words in turn. When the moment presents itself, she all but flows to her feet, in grace nearly elemental. "Then together we shall be, through thick and thin. If you'll have me, of course," the Iobarian girl adds hurriedly, flashing a shy smile at her companions. "Sure that I'm no mighty warlord or wise wizard, but quiet and swift I'll be, and I've a few tricks beside."
Taking a moment to read the proffered letters, Fiorré reads them over—not too quickly—and holds hers up as well. "Naught to find in mine, but yours are quite clear as to Miss Drannoch's motives. Ne'er much for bloodshed was I by reputation, though, so little surprising." The young woman's hand drifts to her sword's elaborate basket hilt, and she looks around at her companions, the motion causing her long braid to twitch like the tail of an irritated cat. "But if 'tis that a sickness needs treating, well, I'll happily play surgeon if I must." For a moment Fiorré's voice is faintly chill, that certain flatness which speaks of bloodshed without remorse or regret.
Then Fiorré smiles again, suddenly, like the sun from behind a cloud, and folds her hands before her in schoolgirl fashion. "So. Shall we march for the capitol, and present ourselves by eventide? Or rest here and wait for morning to make our debut?"
Kuthek raises a wry eyebrow at Fiorré. "March on the capital? No, I expect our CD would rather it be a bit more subtle. But yes, I think we should arrive as soon as possible. And it seems like having you along would be best; I think we're in rare company." His eyebrow lowers as the corner of his lip curves upward.
His shadow slithers across the campground to drop the letter back in Aphotos's hands. "Mine is similar. 'Please, come kill someone.'" He shrugs again. "I can't imagine she'd seek me out specifically if it weren't justified, but the sooner we understand the context of this whole endeavor, the better. On to Isarn, I say."
"Well hopefully our diplomat here is still on board. I wouldn't want to drag her into something violent that she didn't sign up for. I try not to make enemies of foreign dignitaries. Well... at least not unless they deserve it."
He places the letter back in his sleeve, collects the rest of his belongings, and pulls on his armor. He picks the sword back up and leans on it, ready to make the move to this address in Isarn.
"How exactly did Drannoch learn how to find me. I guess I'm going to have to ask her that, myself."
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Funmi's nose wrinkles a bit as she glances over the offered letters, but she makes no offer to share her own, nor any comment about its contents. Instead, she collects up the few things she's brought with her and draws her robe up around herself.
"The duty of a diplomat is to exhaust all possible options in the pursuit of peace. When no other options remain to us...we will do what we must. My book please, Quill."
A tiny golden arm emerges from one of Funmi's bag, holding an obsidian black book, quite unlike the one she was reading before, in its talons. She accepts the book with a small 'Thank you' and begins flipping through the pages. "Now, once you have all gathered up your things, you should move in close to me. We will have one hour, so we will need to move quickly. Let us pay this Miss Drannoch a visit."
You make your way into the city, phantoms on the near-silent streets of Isarn. Perhaps there is some sort of curfew in place, for you see no citizens out on late-night business.
Well within the hour-long duration of Funmi's spell, you find yourself in front of a modest but sturdy two-story manor house. Judging by the light escaping the edges of a thick curtain, someone is still stirring on the second floor, despite the hour.
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Fiorré gathers up her few belongings, tucking them into her bag and pulling her cloak around herself. Are we ready? she thinks to herself, gaze wandering to the starry sky. Apparently satisfied by the reply, the Iobarian girl takes one last stock of her possessions—tightening a starry silken sash about her waist, stretching her legs and familiarizing herself with the weight of her platinum-traced greaves, and drawing forth an elaborate pearl-inlaid wooden masque from the bag, though she does not don this last, only holding it for the moment—before stepping quite close to the elvish wizard. "Ready to move, Miss Ozinichi." She only trembles a little as the spell washes over her.
Creeping through the night-dark streets, companions close, Fiorré keeps her eyes (and nose) alert. The mouth-watering scent of Kuthek's drinking chocolate still hangs about her companions, not quite covering up the tantalizing, vaguely-seafood-like scent of Aphotos. Briefly, the young woman bemoans her luck at attracting delicious-smelling people; first that ghoran doctor, now the azarketi. Lacking a proper solution, Fiorré tries her very best to ignore her party's delicious scents, staying focused on remaining alert and silent.
As the quintet arrives at their destination, Fiorré looks the structure over. Were it her alone, she'd creep up to that lit window and have a peek—she's always been as comfortable with vertical surfaces as with horizontal ones—but given the concealment spell and the earlier caution against breaking from the group, the beast-touched girl restrains her instinct for the moment. Instead she steps daintily up to the door and, with careful precision, knocks just loud enough for the second-story occupant to hear. Hopefully.
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Aphotos finishes putting on his gloves and closes his eyes in concentration. Moments later the last visible lights on his skin, the ones on his face, darken and disappear. Even under an illusion spell, best not to draw too much attention when traveling at night.
He finally nods, ready to set out, and slides under the veil of Invisibility. He stays mindful not to veer too far from the sounds of his companions' shuffling feet, yet it ends up requiring quite a bit of attention. He smiles, knowing the rest won't be able to see his sudden satisfaction that he finds himself in company of a group nearly as light on their feet as he usually is. The focus on trying to make sure he doesn't fall out of range of Funmi's spell ends up taking most of his attention for the walk over.
Upon their arrival he stares up at the manor before them. The light on the second floor draws his eyes' attention immediately. He thinks to take a look around the first floor before announcing their presence, but perhaps that would mean a bit too much coordination to keep everyone hidden meanwhile. Fiorré taps on the door and Aphotos steps out of the illusion. "Well, no use staying hidden. We're prepared to speak with her, she just better hope she's prepared for us..." Though despite stepping out of the Invisibility he still speaks in a hushed voice, just loud enough that the other four of the group can all hear him.
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Chance joins her new companions in invisibility. No one can see her as she once again becomes The Catrina and activates her armor’s shadow and glamour. Her very appearance changes features becoming greyer and more sunken, flowers appear in her hair. She quietly mutters a prayer to Nivi for luck and on one to Pharasma for resolve.
As they arrive at the house Chance focuses her eyes outward into the shadows and night. As her companions are scanning the house she will watch their backs.
The quiet knock on the door is answered quickly by a tall human man in neat, though not ostentatious, servant's livery. He seems to take your appearance in stride, apparently not phased by full-armed adventurers melting out of the night.
"Good evening. Visitors for the mistress?"
Earlier:
Kuthek douses the fire's embers with the last of the kettle's water and tidies up the campsite. Man and shadow move with easy coordination, the incongruously gaunt shade flitting about to drop items into the heavy gentleman's hands or pockets. Fruit peels, vegetable off-cuts, and similar debris go up one of his sleeves, while most functional items are deposited in a black leather bag.
He grins at his comrades donning their gear. "I found, over the years, that armor was more of an inconvenience. Best to travel light and look unassuming. In my line of work, anyways." The night-skinned man simply makes sure his topknot is secure and that his boots are snugly laced. He then slinks over to Funmi and readies himself for her magic.
In Isarn:
The city's deserted streets unnerve him slightly. Reminds me of home. Hopefully fewer spiked clergy here. Kuthek's mind wanders as he walks, his silent steps second nature at this point.
I wonder how the eaves are holding up. A twinge of guilt crosses his face as he remembers those he left in Nidal. Memories of murmured greetings and tepid greycorn stew at the mutual aid meetings. Sumptuous feasts at Lady Elaira's table in the manse, with ruby-like tomatoes so ripe they might burst alongside flutes of ruby-dark drink.
Later memories of moonlit rooftops and quiet violence.
--
When they arrive at the house, he waits patiently to see how his companions approach. He's mildly surprised—though amused and pleased, too—to see the young girl simply approach and knock.
Kuthek approaches the door but stops a half step behind Fiorré. His demeanor shifts. He still looks confident, but the easy kindness of his face sharpens into a self-important imperiousness. In his simple but well-made clothes, he could easily be mistaken for a servant.
He clears his throat at the liveried man's greeting.
"Good evening to you as well, sir. Indeed, we're here to visit Miss Drannoch. I understand she's expecting company, several individuals bearing letters?"
Kuthek maintains the servant act as they enter, though he does mischievous twinkle-eyed glance over his shoulder at his companions.
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’Ah, so that’s the game we’re playing, is it? Very well, let’s see how Miss Drannoch reacts.’ Funmi gives a pointed look to Chance, the last of her companions still standing under her shroud of invisibility, and holds up a hand. She waits a beat so that the duskwalker has time enough to hide if she chooses, then with a twist of her hand, the shadows that hide her blow away like mist in the wind. In her mage’s robes and university regalia, she looks almost noble – a perfect counterpart to Kuthek’s working man.
”Would you be so kind as to invite us in? It has been a long journey, and the night is cold.”
Fiorré hesitates as the door opens and the servant appears. For a moment she is quiet, her natural shyness allowing Kuthek and Funmi a chance to speak; then fifteen winter-nights of strict lessons and social education take hold. The Iobarian girl stands up ever-so-straight, folding her hands in front of her, and smiles her sunniest schoolgirl smile at the doorman.
"Fiorré Braska Wintrelle, Rain-Scribe Attendant and scholar-lyrist, Winterveil and Princess of the Pale Moon, at your service and that of your mistress," the young woman chirps. Her voice is still quiet, though, in a slight concession to the surreptitious atmosphere. "Here with servant, teacher, and companions. May we enter? Long has been our journey, and the comforts of homely lodging sorely missed."
Fiorré almost slinks right past the doorman and into the manor unbidden, but remembers herself at the last moment. Instead she reaches into her bag (where she had slipped her masque on instinct as the door opened) and draws out the letter. Lowering her voice further and holding forth the letter, the beast-touched girl murmurs in her sing-song accent, "We are expected, are we not?"
You recognize a faint, well-concealed wariness in the servant at first, though he does not flinch when the shadows billow in the streets. Whether his composure is due to force of will, forewarning, or familiarity with such happenings is impossible to say, but you do note a slight relaxation at your introductions and the production of Fiorré's letter.
"Indeed, I believe you are awaited. Please come inside; I believe the mistress has a fire prepared upstairs, and I will see to your refreshment after you are settled in."
The steward ushers you upstairs and into a gloomy study that has the look of frequent redecoration. (Wooden ornaments show signs of re-carving, the draperies are certainly not original, and the walls look to have many layers of paint.) The current color scheme features the red, white, and blue favored by the present Galtan government.
Despite the oppressive décor, the woman who rises from behind a heavy wooden desk to greet you is cheerful. Dark skinned and vivacious, Camilia Drannoch appears in the glow of good health, and energetic despite the advanced hour. She is dressed in a well‑tailored outfit prominently featuring a bright red scarf around her neck.
"Welcome, travelers. As an initial matter, I apologize for any misdirection in bringing you here. I’m playing a dangerous political game—one in which I hope you’ll join me—and a bit of deception helps us both." She walks around to the front of her desk and leans casually against the edge of the piece of furniture. "I had to call in favors from around the Inner Sea to assemble you, and you all came to my attention at the recommendation of individuals who have my absolutely confidence. I hear you are trustworthy, capable, and...discrete."
Though she feigns a casual posture, you can tell that Drannoch is taut with excitement at meeting you. "Tell me: What do you know of the Gray Gardeners?"
Kuthek adopts the attentive stance but empty gaze of a servant politely ignoring the conversations of his betters—all while discretely surveying the room for any signs of eavesdropping or treachery.
As the servant leads the group in, Fiorré follows close, glancing back at her allies with a distinct look of relief. Taking the fore among her companions, the beast-touched girl does her very best to look like a wise and confident leader. Look at you, banphrionsa. 'Twould do your father proud, to see you lead the pack so. Fiorré's smile brightens a little at the encouragement, once a rare treat from her beastly shadow. Why, we'll make a proper lady of you yet, Miss Mayael.
As the quintet filters into the somber study, Fiorré steps forward, sketching a small curtsy which flows into a duelist's bow. "Fiorré Braska Wintrelle, Rain-Scribe Attendant and scholar-lyrist, Winterveil and Princess of the Pale Moon, at your service," the young woman chirps, in very nearly the same precise cadence with which she had greeted the servant. "And companions... who can perhaps better introduce themselves," she adds, a little sheepishly. I really must ask the others how they should be properly introduced in future.
Noticing Kuthek's stance from the corner of her eye, Fiorré sighs internally. Oh. We're still doing this, are we. She lets her eyes flick to the fetchling, as if just noticing him. "Oh. I've a servant along as well, a valet and..." Her duelist's pride rebels at the thought of needing a 'bodyguard'. The Iobarian girl coughs softly, trying to cover her hesitation. "...ah, cook. Very sweet fellow. Brews the finest spiced drinking chocolate."
"As for the Gray Gardeners..." Again Fiorré falls into schoolgirl diction, clasping her hands behind her as she recites. "They are Galt's secret police and executioners, and 'tis they who operate the dreadful final blades. Their identities they keep secret, such that any Galtan may in secret be a Gardener. They consider themselves not beholden to any, but do as they will, exacting terror and tyranny upon the populace."
The Iobarian girl takes a breath and relaxes. "And thus, one suspects, the reason for which you have here summoned us. I shall do what I can, as Rain-Scribe and scholar, to restore balance to this land and see your nation flourish once more." Fiorré smiles, sweet yet resolute. "And I suspect these others shall say the very same."
"I wonder if perhaps introductions are redundant, given that you were able to deliver this to me." Funmi produces her letter for the first time from within the folds of her sleeve, though she keeps a tight grip on it. ”But I shall keep to my manners. I am Lorespeaker Olufunmilayo Ozinichi or the Uzunjati, and teacher to this most excitable student.”
Funmi makes eye contact with Camilla, holding it for perhaps a second longer than would be polite. Most people wouldn’t even consider it a slight, but those who know her are well aware how deliberate she is with each word and action. ”If it truly was a Learned One who recommended me to you, I must admit, that would sway me towards assisting your cause. He is a man I trust like no other. But I would need strong cause to extend that trust to you. For all I know, you could be a Gardener yourself.”
Only half of a true statement. Funmi is quite confident that Camilla is not a Grey Gardener. If she were, it is doubtful she would have to call on outside supporters. But Funmi does have trouble trusting the woman, and wants to try and set her off balance.
Drannoch gives Fiorré a half smile, "I'm sure you valet is extremely capable, and a handy fellow to have around. No doubt he'll be very helpful here, in your quest for the balance you seek."
She looks at Funmi more seriously, and gives a small sigh. "That is always the question here, isn't it? Who is a Gardener, and who is not? I ham asking you to trust me."
She adds, in Mwangi, "You have the power to teach, to shape our view of the world, and to keep us alive when all else has failed us."
Switching back to Taldane, she adds. "So much has failed us, here in Galt."
Aphotos almost chuckles in amusement at Kuthek's attempt to hide his identity, but he keeps his expression somewhat flattened and devoid of emotion as he looks over Camilia Drannoch. Though, once Funmi makes her statement he nods and nearly sighs in relief that he doesn't have to be the first to sling accusations around.
"Ah yes I should introduce myself as well. I am Aphotos Upwell. Consider me a humble entertainer," he begins, taking an explicitly over the top bow only to come back up and stare at Drannoch with an intense fervor in his eyes, "...Or that is what I normally would say were you not so... thorough in your research."
He flicks his wrist and the letter wrapped in red appears back in his hand, instantly shifting down from inside his sleeve. "I am a bit concerned about the sources of your information, Miss Drannoch. I don't take requests from just about anyone and it does make me distinctly curious why you would need help from someone like myself when you seem to be more adept at information gathering than I could ever wish to be. That being said... I would like for you to share what information you have. I don't like to step into a job as volatile as this one without assurance that I know what's going on. I wouldn't want to find myself taking the side of someone just as bad or possibly worse than those I am called to take on."
Funmi's expression softens slightly at the familiar phrase. It isn't quite enough to make her completely lower her guard, but it is a meaningful gesture. She nods in agreement with Aphotos. Having all of the cards on the table would go a long way towards reassuring her that this is the right course of action.
Drannoch responds to Aphotos, but it's clear that she is explaining herself to everyone:
"It is good that you know something of the Gray Gardeners, and they political situation here in Galt, as those are at the heart of my request. The Gray Gardeners. Galt’s ruthless executioners. They maintain the final blades, magical guillotines of such power that they trap the souls of executed victims within them. The Gray Gardeners have a stranglehold on Galt’s future. Their arrests, executions, and political machinations ensure my country can’t ever rise from the stew of chaos in which it’s boiled for half a century. Because the Gray Gardeners are always masked or hooded, no one knows who they are. Maybe they’re magistrates or shopkeepers. Or perhaps they’re beggars or cultists.
“I have hated the Gray Gardeners from the moment they executed my mother in the final blade named Silent Lenore, many years ago." Drannoch's voice doesn't falter, but she—perhaps involuntarily—reaches a hand up and touches the red scarf at her neck. "But I knew enough to play the long game politically, and I’ve risen to the top of Galt’s messy politics while waiting for a moment to strike back against the worst villains of Galt.
“That moment is now."
“The Gray Gardeners operate out of an old monastery in the riverside city of Litran. I have reliable intelligence that the masquerade the executioners are hosting has an ulterior motive, and their leadership is being recalled to Litran for this. Dignitaries from across Galt are attending, and it’s likely some of those dignitaries are themselves Gray Gardeners. I received an invite, but I’m feigning sickness and staying here for three reasons. First, I want to quell the ridiculous suspicions that I’m one of the Gray Gardeners by not going at all. Second, I have been feigning illness for several weeks to create a cover for agents I trust—you—to visit Litran in the guise of seeking a rare herbal remedy. Finally, I don’t trust myself to keep my sword out of my hand around those responsible for murdering my mother and so many others.”
She pauses a moment for breath and turns her full attention to Aphotos, "Some in Galt have called me calculating, even ruthless in my political maneuvers. But, I could share with you endless examples of the Gray Gardeners’ callous executions, midnight assassinations, mysterious kidnappings, and brutal oppressions. They have kept the people in fear and the country in chaos for years. It is time for that to end, by whatever means are necessary."
The others' concerns do not entirely take Fiorré by surprise, in spite of her trusting nature. Sure that we should be more wary, one supposes, even of our host. Better keep sharp senses here. I miss Nantambu already. Still, the young woman blushes and steps aside, keeping quiet and listening attentively while the others speak and Drannoch responds.
As she listens to the conversation, Fiorré lets her senses wander. In particular she pays close attention to Miss Drannoch's body language and other cues, trying to get a sense of the woman's forthrightness and honesty.
Fiorré also uses Biographical Eye to see if any further information becomes obvious.
As Miss Drannoch finishes speaking, Fiorré steps forward to speak again... then hesitates, glancing back at the others. Come now, my lass. You'll not let them do your thinking for you too, now? Are you not a fine heroine, courageous and resolute? The Iobarian girl returns her gaze to her host and nods, as much to the voice of Sibéal as to Camilia. "While by my nature I am trusting, Miss Drannoch, I appreciate your willingness to explain yourself in this matter."
Fiorré stands proud, head held high, though her voice is soft and sympathetic. "Even should it be that I must fight alone the entire wicked lot of Gardeners, you have my commitment in this matter. I shall see your mother avenged and your people unshackled. And though I doubt my own aptitude in matters magical," here the beast-touched girl's gaze flicks to Chance and Funmi before returning to Camilia, "anticipating the aid of my allies, I shall do all I can to see the final blades shattered and their prisoners sent to their long-deserved reward."
Aphotos listens along deep in thought. He has taken to slinking into a corner of the room, away from a window and partially obscured by the shadow cast over by the wall. "Clever. You have put a lot of thought into this plan, even down to our cover story. Impressive. I rather like it."
He spins the cane he has been carrying in his right hand for a moment. Something for his hands to do while he stops to think about Drannoch's words and her offer. "Very well. Your distaste for the Gray Gardeners comes from a very personal hatred. I appreciate you sharing that. They say that people who are too emotionally attached tend to lose sight of things and become blind to obvious signs but I think to try and be so separated is just lying to oneself anyway." He briefly considers mentioning that very sort of lie is what he told himself for years but decides it would be too dangerous to show his heart on his sleeve at this time. "And frankly, they do sound extremely vile. If your hypothesis is correct I couldn't just let an opportunity to free your people from a reign of terror pass me by."
He steps forward, spins around and tosses his cane in the air, then spins a mask around on his finger and deftly places it over his face, obscuring the navy blue of his skin with a full-face mask covered with a starscape design. "After all, I've always wanted to sneak my way into a masquerade. I daresay I might even fit right in."
”If you’ll pardon the questions from a humble valet…” Kuthek’s eyes crinkle from his wry smile, which quickly gives way to an expression of intense focus. ”I have no doubt these Gray Gardeners have committed atrocities; Galt’s current state is proof enough of that. But unless I misunderstand, they are by design a fractious lot. Are all members guilty? Are there any who, like you, seek stability for their country?”
His expression soften slightly as he spreads his hands apologetically. ”I am more than willing to show the proud and unjust that they cannot escape the consequences of their actions. But given how thorough your research seems to have been, you can see why I believe that taking something like the law into one’s own hands can be a force for good. If any of these individuals are true gardeners, and not just reapers, it would be a shame for them to die. They might even be able to help us.”
”Guilty or no, I personally have no intention of acting as a silent executioner. That would merely be using their own tactics against them,” Funmi interrupted. ”However, I agree that these blades are an affront to nature. No soul should be denied a true and honest death when its time has come. I shall see to it that they are destroyed, and without the source of their terror, the people of Galt may decide how to deal with the gardeners.”
The mage glances away and taps her chin, as if suddenly remembering something important. It’s a well practiced gesture, and she almost chooses not to do it, but it is still too early to drop certain pretenses. “Ahh, but now I see your problem. With their identities hidden, even if they lose their power, they can simply slink away and return to their normal lives. They would never face true justice…
Let us not mince words any longer, Miss Drannoch. If forced to choose, which option would you take? Did you aim to hire liberators or killers?”
”The two can be one and the same,” Kuthek murmurs. His gaunt shadows flickers with agitation.
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Drannoch nods at your comments, "My sources spoke truly: You are as thoughtful as you are resourceful, and I need agents who would do more than attack if I pointed and said, 'kill'."
Camilla leaves her perch on the desk and paces across the room as she speaks. "I freely own that my personal desire is for revenge. To see the the Gardeners brought low, their stronghold overturned, everything they love turned to ash." She gives a sigh, and a shake of her head. "But, that is the wish of a child. A scared child. And I have lived with it long enough to know it, to ignore the poison of fear.
"That poison. After years, it's all so many in Galt have every known, a wasting affliction. The malady has ravaged the patient's body; some parts attack themselves, all out of balance. But, there is some hope of recovery, if the barb can be removed from the heart.
"In a way, those I invited here as healers came under the truest pretenses. The liberation of Galt isn't the killing of a tyrant, it's the treating of a poison. You have impressive reputations, but even if I wished it, could you unmask and kill every Gardener? What about those that cooperated with them? What about those who benefited from their reign? How much of Galt's body would you have to amputate? Would a fresh coat on our red streets do much more than pump the toxin deeper into our veins?"
The woman returns to the edge of her desk. "This masque in Litran is an unprecedented opportunity, and totally out of character for the Gardeners. I am not asking for a river of blood: Learn the Gray Gardener's true leadership and motives, their final aims. Then, I leave you to act how you feel you must. One of the reasons I asked you here is that you are not of Galt--I could not trust myself to act in the best interest of...treatment. And so, I ask you to seize this advantage. Galt with not be cured in a night, but perhaps you can remove the barb that has pricked us."