[IC] A New Age Dawns [Steampunk Drama]

[Sinistred]

Kingstone, Abercrose District, House of Questions, the life of Thaddeus Am Dosht, Inquisitor-General

Why did I choose this? The Head of His Majesty’s Inquisition asked himself for the thousandth time as he strode down the corridor. The walls were rendered and whitewashed, though none too recently. There was a seamy feel down here, and a smell of damp that could get into one’s clothes. There was little light, seeing as there were no windows for the hallway Thaddeus Am Dosht was walking through was deep beneath the ground. The lanterns cast flowing shadows on the whitened walls as he passed them.

Why would anyone choose this ungrateful vocation? He knew most thought his chosen profession as vile and despicable, yet none would be so foolish to admit such a sentiment to his face. Fear was what kept the world in line, Dosht had learned. His walking made a steady rhythm on the grimy tiles of the floor. From time to time the dullness of the corridor would be broken by a heavy bolted door, bound and studded with pitted iron on sturdy wood.

It had taken him a while to weed out the sadists and butchers, but now he was quite confident he had re-assigned those crude tools where they were used best: in the penal colonies of Pan-Dessia. They belonged with their kind, criminals and savages. The measure had not been popular with most Inquisitors or Superiors, but as Inquisitor-General they could hardly refuse his orders. Dosht was well versed and practiced in getting things done. Done his way, that is.

Further down the hall he saw two tall Practicals shove a man inside one of the doors, a bag over his head and his hands tied behind his back. A fourth figure joined them inside, dressed in the black garments of His Majesty’s Inquisition.

As Inquisitor-General he knew the contents of the rooms behind these ominous doors in most cases. He looked up toward the arch over one of the doors. Room 146 - Mercer, Lewyn Dun, accused of embezzling stocks and fraud. If the Inquisitor and his Practicals in charge of the case would do their job -and Dosht was convinced they would- then the Inquisition would be a good deal richer at the end of the trial, and the Mercer’s Guild a good deal poorer. He allowed himself a faint grin as he passed on in the shadows. Thaddeus Am Dosht made these kind of rounds in the underground complex of the House of Questions every so often, it was good to remember where he came from. Additionally it kept the army of Inquisitors and Practicals on their feet, not knowing where he might spring up next.

Thaddeus reached the light at the end of the tunnel: the end of the corridor, he knew. The entire passage was blocked by a series of thick steel bars, with a metal door in the center. Three lumbering Practicals were on duty, wearing the distinct masks of their profession, electro-batons on their hips. Dosht approached, the seal of his office coming into the light from the lantern hanging above their small wooden table littered with cards. He saw their eyes grow wide with surprise. “Practicals Dern, Sumner and Lorac.” He knew it was unsettling to others when he called them by their names, the ability was unnerving and he thanked his good memory for it was not an easy thing to do with masked men and women.

He left the underground lair for what it was: uncovering plots, dissecting truth from lie and laying bare conspiracies and intrigue. As the door closed behind him he imagined he could hear a faint screaming... Another grin crept on his stern face. Evidence of efficiency, he thought.

Several flights of stairs and check-points manned by bulky Practicals later, Thaddeus opened the double doors to the office of the Inquisitor-General; his office. It was a large and richly appointed room on the highest floor in the House of Questions, a room in which everything was just carefully measured and tailored for Thaddeus Am Dosht was a man of refined taste. The upper floors of the House of Questions contrasted starkly with the man-made hell below ground. From his huge, intricate window in the centre of one of his wood-panelled walls he could look out across Abercrose Square, all the way to the Dome where the Open Council would be in session at this time of day. The other walls were adorned with tapestries, paintings and hunting trophies, among which a Nightcat’s skull from Pan-Dessia. The beast had been responsible for a series of kills. Others had blamed the native workers, but Thaddeus’ investigation had uncovered the true feral perpetrator.

Another door gave access to his study and personal salon. From there, on two additional doors opened into his boudoir and red marble bathroom with golden faucets he'd still need to get replaced. He didn't care much for shiny metal where nobody could see them. There was no purpose to having golden faucets, for gold existed to display wealth. Which only is the little brother of influence and power, yet people often confuse them...

In the centre of the room stood his ornate desk with surprisingly modest chair, which was not too big as if he were compensating for something. Two chairs were positioned in front of the mahogany desk, one was clearly a comfortable piece of furniture, while the other was evidently designed to make it’s occupant as uncomfortable and unpleasant as possible. Visitors would be seated in either of those two, depending on why one was in the Inquisitor-General’s office. The wall directly behind held a magnificent stone hearth where a small yet pleasant fire was burning. Above the hearth hung a live sized painting of the owner of the office, dressed in an elegant attire that positively brimmed with authority.

The Inquisitor-General gave nothing away and perhaps in this lay but one source of his authority. His green eyes flickered restless and intelligent, simultaneously mirrors and walls for the keen mind that had marked his life’s journey. His likeness had been painted by a master artist from the continent and commanded pride of place above the fireplace. It had indeed been a hand of genius that had managed to capture the agelessness and strength in Thaddeus’ portrait, for it was the proof of something fleeting, something beyond capture that unnerved many. His features were clear evidence of the Dosht blood that flowed in his veins, made apparent in the shape of the nose and the chiselled jaw, while as befitting his position, his eyes were locked under a brooding brow. Do I really look that arrogant?

Dosht moved over to take the seat at his mahogany desk, the wood shining as if newly oiled. Two neat stacks of filed paperwork rested at the right side, waiting for an assistant to collect them and file them in the proper cabinets or hand them down the proper channels. However, a big parchment was lying on the writing surface, a letter unfinished. Dipping his pen in the inkwell he moved the point over the piece of parchment. In his fluent, strict handwriting he wrote down the recipient, an old... an old... What, an old friend? Ludicrous notion. Do I even have friends? An old acquaintance will have to do... He scribbled on. Hah, friends... they’re only people you bless with trust until they dig a knife-point into your back.

[Catharyn]

A great man had once said that beer was the evidence that God loved the people of the United Kingdom, and wanted them to enjoy themselves. To some this quote was about religion, to others it was about getting royally pissed and dancing merrily to jaunty tunes played on an invention brought recently over from the continent. The Grande Piano. It's pining melodies drifted out of dozens of bars, dives and taverns across one of Kingstone's waterfront districts. Scores of drunken sailors, often with dreary maidens attached to them, staggered along the promenades. The muddy flagstones were littered with rubbish. Debris left behind by horse driven carts collected around dead birds and cats like flotsam around desert islands. Rats scurried close to cover, feeding on scraps of moldy bread.

Cargo crates; overflowing from the jetties down at the waters edge covered, the promenade. The dock was old and too small to handle the influx of merchandise being delegated to it. Porters lifting crates laden with bananas and tobacco were everywhere, pushing to the ground any sailor foolish enough to mess with them. Indentured servants went the opposite direction, carrying food and water aboard any ship wanting to leave. Stout carrier vessels sat in the groggy water menacingly, their steam powered motors growling. Seamen sat aboard them sat around playing cards and pissing over the side. In the distance, the chugging smoke stacks of a DuPont Company Whaling house rose lazily up into the calm air. The smoke danced gracefully in sporadic eddies before gradually disappearing altogether.

Set back slightly from the waterfront, sharing a little square with a watchmaker, a coaching house and a tailor was St Christoph's Wayside Club. Originally the town house of a wealthy merchant, the huge square house had been converted into a gentleman's club close to a decade ago. Two mercenaries sat around looking bored at the entrance, only getting up to search anybody wanting to enter before returning to their dice game. Anybody privileged enough to get inside would be met with a comfortable hall, expensive electronic light bulbs bathed the carpeted room in a warm glow. Huge Chesterfields bulged under the weight of obese statesmen and old generals. Beautiful women moved about the room, exchanging small talk with important people and being invited to various events. Covering an entire wall was the bar, a huge single piece of Pan-Dessian Mahogany.

Huddled in a corner of the club, a cluster of chairs formed a semi circle around a solid oak table. Ash trays held half smoked cigars and glasses of golden liquid reflected the light. August Nathaniel DuPont sat in his one of a kind chair. Crafted by a meshing of solid steel and delicate machinery, it hovered perhaps a foot off of the ground. Eerie green light filtered through a curved indent on both sides and the whole chair hummed quietly from the motors on it's underside. The electric lights on the walls threw a shadow over his face, his yellowing teeth gleaming when he periodically exploded with laughter. He puffed on his cigar and let the smoke curl out of his mouth. With a practiced motion he blew a ring that traveled across the room before sipping a dainty glass of Cognac.

"Will we be seeing you there, Lord Admiral?" A huge fellow with a white albatross of a mustache asked him politely. All eyes in the group turned to him. "I've always admired Gurgonov's work, will there be room at the symposium for my chair?" August asked. It wasn't really a joke, but everybody laughed anyway. "They will make space for you admiral, i'm sure of it!"

[Prometheus]

Renard swept briskly into his office on the fourth floor of the Hall of Questions, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with a snap before stopping to remove his cloak and hat. In stark contrast to the dark, black hallway outside (built to match the rest of the building), his office was a cascade of color. A thin red rug coated the floor, and the black stone walls were hung with tapestries bearing various symbols – the Lejonis family crest was centered to the left, in light gold on a canvas of red. On either side were two slightly smaller tapestries bearing the symbols of the kingdom and the Inquisition, respectively – the Inquisition being the darkest, a length of inky black fabric with the seal masterfully woven in with silver silk. On the opposite wall, several watercolor paintings were hung. A self portrait was included, as was a profile of his sister, Maria, her hair a vibrant red mass against the grey canvas. The quality left something to be desired, but Renard could still say with pride that he'd painted them himself. Below these, a bookshelf was in place. It was occupied by a few novels, Renard's own journals and a personal copy of the book of the Church of Kingstone. It was well thumbed and consulted weekly, although Renard himself was not heavily religious.

At the far end of the room, a spectacular sunset could be seen through a west-facing window. The sun was just beginning to dip into the horizon, gracing the sky with a golden glow tinged with pink and blue. The city of Kingstone stretched out below, with only a few walled Abercrose mansions to be seen before the landscape transformed into the many theaters and facilities of the Croombe district and finally, further off, the hovels and muddy streets of the Old Commons expanded out past the old city walls, beginning to inch their way across the somewhat barren landscape outside the city. Even so, the color cast out by the sunset wouldn't be ignored, and turned even the most dreary of neighborhoods into gold-soaked boulevards bordered by well shadowed houses.

Renard particularly enjoyed this time of day, and by his own opinion, the view from his window could not be compared to from anywhere else in the city. His office was positioned so that no factories or pollution-belching smokestacks would ruin the horizon, and was just high enough to clear the tallest roofs of the terraced houses below the Hall, while not so high as to remove the detail to be gleaned from observing closer. For this purpose a golden spyglass sat on the desk beneath the window, resting carefully on it's stand. Beside this sat a stopped bottle of ink and a glass ink brush (along with a dip pen and a pair of quills for more hurried writing), and in the corner Renard's other passion stood on three legs: an easel with a half-finished canvas of the city at dusk, painted in watercolor like the portraits on the wall. This painting was Renard's personal masterpiece – his personal attempt to capture the beauty he saw at the end of the day. The white stone of the closer city mingled with the gold color of the sunset, while further away, the brown that represented the smaller houses of the Old Commons slowly transformed into the green of the rolling hills of the island, finally terminating in a gold expanse of ocean just before the horizon.

Renard considered mixing paints for the evening and continuing his project, but thought better of it rather quickly. Despite such ideal conditions for the picture, he was two days overdue for his letter to Maria, and was loathe to keep her waiting. Not only this, but the writing provided an excellent outlet for undue emotion – rather than spending it on his inferiors, he could simply write what he felt he needed to say and converse about it without guilt. To this end, he took one last thorough glance at the sunset and finally rolled the sleeves on his black shirt, found a scroll of blank parchment in his desk (a simple luxury duly appreciated, reserved for few in a time when paper flooded the markets), dipped his ink brush and began, slowly, to write.

My Dearest Maria,

How have you been? My apologies for not returning your last letter with the haste at which I had hoped. Though I received it nearly a week ago upon my writing this, the days since have been filled with business to such a degree that I've rarely found the time to sleep, never mind paint or write. As one of my underlings (you'll remember we refer to them as “practicals”) graduated the rank nearly a week ago, I have been hard at work choosing a replacement. This, coupled with my usual duties, has squandered any free time I've had since. Please accept my sincerest apologies.

Only today did I finally choose my replacement – a young man named Simon. To be truthful, dear sister, I am not confident in my choice. Though he shows considerable talent, Simon is a Thaumaturgist, and is quite skilled (perhaps too skilled for my liking) in the area of wordplay. You of all people know how wary I am of those skilled in the form of the arcane. Still, one hopes that this talent will prove to be for the best, and may the Lord help him if he attempts to seduce me using it.

Besides this one hiccough, however, things have gone quite well. The other Practical assigned under me (as you remember, her name being Lenia) has shown a great deal of progress over the last few months. She is nimble and strong. Her skill with the sword has grown a great deal over the last month, and she actually bested me in a duel only a few days previous! My pride tells me that this is an accomplishment for her, but I must remember that I am not the man I once was, at least, in body. Still, her talents are nothing to be scoffed at, and I think that she will be ready to graduate soon as well. She will be joining my other new graduate (Ramon, as I hope you'll remember) on street-level duties initially, I think. Although they're both bright young bodies, they are not ashamed by the lower forms of persuasion that the Inquisition is prone to use, and I think that the assignment will meld with them both admirably.

Among my duties as an overseer to these pupils, I've been busy with my own work, of course. A new string of investigations into textile smuggling in the Old Commons has been started, and while some of the areas we've been forced into haven't been the cleanest or most sanitary (in some cases, I feel as though I've visited cleaner stables), the search is going well. We've made 10 arrests on the subject since I've last written, each of whom has been more than willing to comply with our investigation in exchange for release, as opposed to the reconditioning the twisted minds at our so-called “Punishment Factories” would use them for. I'm glad they saw reason. You and I have long been of a similar opinion on what happens to those who are sent to the factories, and I sleep better at night knowing that it's one of the few sentences I've never given out while in office. A direct sentence to one of the kingdom's mines, or perhaps even a simple hanging, are far more humane alternatives, I think.

Unfortunately, it would seem as though illicit carpets are the least of our worries, at the moment. Recently, the lower classes have found themselves with an ever increasing supply of firearms. We've confiscated a dozen already over the course of our investigation. We haven't made any arrests, of course – well, at least, I haven't, there's nothing illegal about owning a pistol – but one has to wonder where such expensive arms are being procured from when the powder and ball for a single shot probably costs a man of that caste a day's worth of wages. I can only hope that someone with more authority than myself has a plan in mind, as if the peasantry becomes as well armed as our militia... it would be a problem, for obvious reasons.

I do hope things are still well at the Institute. I know some of your students recently had trouble with my own operations, and while I regret the loss of the girl (I'm afraid I've forgotten her name, my apologies), I can only hope that you've returned to a sense of normalcy since.

As always, I leave you with an invitation to my office any time you feel as though you need to get away. In all my years with it, you've yet to see the view of the sunset it has to offer, and it is breathtaking. Furthermore, I'd very much enjoy spending lunch with you on the 30th of this month, perhaps in one of the restaurants outside of the open council building?

Best wishes, and with all of my love,

Renard.


Renard set down the brush with a flourish and sat back in his chair to admire his work. In front of him lay two full sheets of parchment, the dark ink still glittering. The sun had set fully since he'd begun his task and the dark blues and purples of dusk served as the last light from the window, illuminating the delicate spikes and swirls of his handwriting.

Finally standing to stretch his cramped muscles (he'd been writing for over an hour), he dried his ink brush, replaced it in the stand, gathered the parchment for transport the next morning by a courier, and donned his cloak and hat once again before heading out into the hall and, eventually, out of the building. He had been provided with a small private bedroom a few streets away, unlike the practicals and newly promoted Inquisitors, who spent nights in the barracks in the Hall of Questions. He pulled his cloak closer around himself as he exited the building – no matter how sunny his own office was, the Hall of Questions was a cold, dark place.

[Palamon]

Patrick O'Reilly

'Clink' 'Siiiip'. He woke in a blurry haze, grabbing for his glass of ale, slugging it down. Then he proceeded to get out of the bed, leaving the naked woman entangled in its silken sheets. He sat on the edge of the bed, his feet resting on the cold floor. Smacking his own face gave him a delusion of sobriety. Reaching for his trousers he slid off the bed, and in his weakened state he welcomed the floor's embrace. Getting dressed while laying down proved to be a difficult task. For some reason he found his shirt fit tighter than it had before, and he had to go through an trial of sucking in and tucking in, just to get look decent.

He stood up from the floor, and the woman stirred, "Shhhhhh!" Patrick said louder than intended. He beckoned her to go back to sleep, and proceeded to tighten the straps of his tall leather boots. Straightening his posture he leaned against the door, the sound of clinking glasses and political chatter came in muffled. After taking a moment to put the thoughts of loathing out his mind he opened the door and walked once more into the fray.

The Wayside club was a hub of political activity, and socially acceptable debauchery. Patrick buttoned the bottom four buttons on his waist coat, and began to descend the stair case in search of the bar. He took not of a few military types in the corner, the dogs of the government no doubt. With a stride of confidence Patrick moved towards the bar, if one paid enough attention they would see the slight limp left behind by a stray bullet. Running a hand through unkempt hair he spoke to the bartender.

"Wrenhaven whiskey please, on the rocks this time." He tried hard not to slur his speech, with other politicians here, he didn't need to give them more ammunition.

"Alright buddy, but..." The bartender leaned in closely, "I'm cutting you off after this, you've had twelve drinks already."

Patrick waived him off, not wanting to hear more of his nonsense. He turned himself around and leaned against the mahogany bar. He found it quite astounding that this large bar was probably at one time a large tree in Pan-Dessia. A real feat of modern technology. He gazed around the room, his eyes were closed tightly and he watched as men bowed before the women they would soon wake up next to. Politicians shook hands that would later be clenched tightly around glass bottles.

"Same old, same old." Patrick said to himself

"Your drink sir."

"Aye thanks." Patrick slapped a tenner onto the hard mahogany. He sipped the dark brown liquor out of its small glass. His eyes looked down into the glass, into what had become his life. With a shrug and a sigh he continued to drink.

[Kadaeux]

The Abercrose District Sewer:

Leoben moved with a slight limp his augmented limb not quite capable of keeping up with his natural one without further tuning. The rich scent of effluent reached his nose as soon as he'd entered the sewer through the estate's cellar door. The estate was managed and owned by one of Ashzlan's closest associates, or perhaps the associate was a servant. The grey stone walls of the sewer reached up eight feet in a rounded brick state. Stained with unmentionable fluids and with water running down the centre and through many gutters Leoben often regretted his masters choice of dwelling but knew very well that he could not walk the surface for discovery would be an undoing. Leoben wished he knew who it'd be an undoing for though, Ashzlan had many powerful augments and had upgraded his own so it'd hardly be a one-way affair.

Snap out of it. Leoben told himself sharply as he advanced through the sewer fighting to keep seepage from dripping onto his storm coat, he only ever wore it for trips down here into the sewers anyway. The cold stone was oppressive and in contravention to the warm, moist, unpleasant air. Finally Leoben did as he always did, gave up a little of his pride and tied the perfumed kerchief around his mouth and nose so the dank air didn't quite smell so foul but even the strongest scented oils on the kerchief couldn't completely keep out the rank smell of humanities leavings. After ten minutes of hearing little but his footsteps on the stone and the occassional mutter of the clod-prodders doing their job in the sewers even those sounds soon drained off and he approached a section of the sewers that was no longer officially part of the sewer network. Leoben knew that Ashzlan had secured the services of most of the clod-prodders who worked this part of the city sewers to be his eyes and ears but Leoben had never sought to bother himself with them. Passing the fake stone wall with the press of a very specific brick, a brick that Leoben had brought a stick to press as it sat 6 inches below the waterline of the sewer, Leoben found himself in a very wide chamber and his senses assaulted by the sound and sight of artificial lightning being projected between a pair of tower-like objects Ashzlan had erected. He took the package out of his coat. The paper wrapped meat cost more than it used to.

"Sir? I'm here."

"Yes-yes." Ashzlan answered as the lightning shut off. Leoben could see a box sitting between them now and could smell the faint smell of burned meat and fur. Ashzlan moved around to the box. "According to Schrodumber at the Academy according to him if you were to poison a cat in a box according to his favoured theories the cat would, at one point, be both alive AND dead. I think i've either disproved his theory or proven that it doesn't work with significant levels of electrical current." Leoben looked at the box uncomfortably, he'd brought the cat down three days ago it was black and white with a patch over the right eye and he'd called it Blackbeard. Now he suspected it was more black than white and crispy all over. "But as a side-effect of my thought to test his theory I am fairly certain that if I can find some method of getting sustained power generation I can probably get the light-walls working.

Leoben had seen Ashzlan's idea for the walls before. A wall of lightning, it provided no resistance to anything passing through it, except for killing or destroying it with very high voltage. "I have the meat you asked for." Leoben said politely as he straightened his jacket unconsciously.

Ashzlan moved quickly, unnaturally quickly in Leobens opinion, and not quite normally either, crossing the distance in but a handful of strides the disturbing mask he wore covered in breathing apparatuses and lenses, but no matter what or how disturbing the mask was he was just as grateful his master did not remove it. "Side of Beef. Very good-good." Ashzlan had lapsed into the odd occurance where sometimes he doubled up on a word. "Yes-yes. Eat well I will." Leoben almost sighed out of relief fearing his master had some other intent for it. Ashzlans claws clicked and clacked as he took the package the augmentations hissing faintly as the generator on Ashzlans back hummed and hissed on its own. "Tell-tell me, how did Telian react about the latest designs?"

Leoben indicated a chair and Ashzlan allowed him to sit with a not as he picked the document out of his pocket.

Dear Ashzlan Stormhold.

It is with great interest that I have come to see the value of your research
but your requests for greater funding and materials access are something
I simply cannot countenance or provide in the environment of these times
should it be discovered that I were dealing with a renegade scientist and
thaumaturge in this time it is very possible that I'd be hauled up by the
Inquisition and unmentionable acts be acted upon my unmentionables in order
to secure information about you and your activities. As such all I can do is
suggest a colleague in the College of Sciences, a man know for his loose
morals and deep wallet, the Baron Vellidar.

With deepest respect

Telian Morass

Leoben watched for the warning signs of his masters rage and was both relieved and surprised when they were not found. Instead he found Ashlzan's head cocked to the side almost as if curious and Leoben found himself even more worried. "Baron Vellidar of the College of Sciences. Almost totally unapproachable yes-yes." He turned to face Leoben and tossed him a small coinpurse. "Go-go. I will send-send for you when the time comes. I must think on my course of action."

------------

Ashlzan watched Leoben leave before turning and raising his gauntlet and blasted the box with a hit of lightning. He moved around the Lab and began examining pieces of equipment. It was one thing to test his theories but he had the courage and fortitude to develop the engineering and make his technology happen and they DARED refuse him. He examined the map hidden beneath a shroud. The quickest path to Telian's manor through the sewer system was not a great one. It'd still take him twenty minutes to traverse. And then he'd have to wait until night anyway. And, ultimately, Leoben knew what Telian looked like he did not. If he went to Telian's manor he'd have to kill everyone to be sure he had gotten Telian. And his lightning gauntlet was not a silent weapon. He'd have mere minutes before the Practicals came to investigate. No. Murdering Telian like that simply was not advisable. Especially if, worried about Inquisition as he was, he had some secrets better kept under wraps. No. Killing Telian was not a viable approach right now. Ashzlan sat back an examined his options. He needed funding. Power. Materials. And if need be, labour. Perhaps this Mister Holehart, the so-called "King without a Crown" would prove useful in that endeavour. If he was a Thaumaturge as many seemed to believe in the underworld then he would need to be careful in his dealings with Holehart if an agreement could be made.

If the worthless humanity that ruled the city could not see the advantages of his power perhaps putting it in the hands of those who the system feared might be the ticket to power and give him the access to greater resources to expand his knowledge. Yes. It would be a worthwhile approach.

[All]

"I wish one could say the same about the ego of the Lord Admiral." trumpeted a large man, almost as tall as he extended in any direction like one of those modern balloons, pushed high in the sky by the magic of hot air. The social trespasser was perhaps in his late forties with a snout for a nose and large wide hands, whose shape seemed out of proportions when compared to the thin wrists. Tarred hair, dark beyond description covered his head as if nature decided to glue its worst creation on the head of the unfortunate man. He stood by the bar, one elbow resting against the refined wood, and the other bent so that the hand, the large disproportionate hand, could properly hold a glass of golden whiskey. He rubbed his fingers together, insisting with the thumb's nail against the base of each appendage, before passing the glass from one hand to the other. He took a sip deemed decent by conventions of the establishment and placed clean bottom of the cup on the polished wood before returning to the object of his unrequested curiosity.

The man had an affectation in his stance that could rank him in the middle of mediocrity at its best, if not exactly below it, mostly for disdain toward the effort he made to made himself being noticed, rather than a true fault of look. However, the mystery of how a similar shabby character could have made it beyond the bouncers, past the attentive eyes of the local beholders and straight to ordering a single of whiskey, that was certainly going to become the topic of the month. Further, to address the Lord Admiral and to mock him openly in his lair, for that was the most obvious interpretation of the stranger's words, was by far going to occupy the lungs of many small talkers in the most renowned lounges of the capital. In hindsight, not a single patron could have denied, in the very moment in which the accident happened, that the ignoble fat man with a snout for a nose had indeed reached for the highest glory of gossip with just one sentence.

A question roared and begged to be answered as quickly as possible, yet nobody in their sound state of mind would dare posing it. The club was reserved and exclusive, populated with the highest ranking and most respectable member of the British society. To admit that a foreigner, a scruffy foreigner to be precise, had managed to violate the holiness of such a sanctuary was not going to be an easy responsibility; it was definitively not going to be a responsibility whose weight any of the gentlemen present at that moment would have declared to be ready to carry. Thanks to the equivocal situation, the nasty fat man stood undefeated by the bar, gifting to the silent crowd his best, widest grin. He snapped his fingers calling for another drink, which was immediately served.

The man took a few steps toward the Admiral, only to make his unheard whispers the subject of yet more legends. "...an ego that I bet is more than willing to pay for knowing who is behind certain business that we both know of". So spoke Jand Bomes the spy, whose true physical appearance, were he ever to show it to any of the present ones, had been so masterfully altered by skills of deception that bore absolutely no resemblance to the shabby fat man, which he now played partly for personal amusement, and partly for finding a good bidder at his personal auction of unnameable services.

[Vanquished]

Candles lit the small sitting room; Theodosia's rooms were not of great enough importance to gain her use of the new battery fueled light sources. Such a novel invention, but she much preferred the warm glow of a fire, wax trickling down the sides of the candle. It was natural and thus, comforting. Sitting at the worn, but well carved and solid desk, the governess looked over the page she had written in the soft and flowing script of an educated woman.

Greetings Councillor,
Though I choose to remain anonymous, please, I beg you to heed my words while acting with compassion for what I present to you. The child I write to you about is a good boy, loving and warm. He listens to his elders and does not throw tantrums when he is not given what he wants. He learns quickly, and already shows great signs of understanding morality and consequences. I tell you this, because you must understand what sort of boy he is before deciding what to do about his problem. I write to you, instead of the Inquisition for surely you are a man who understands that not everything is black and white.

I have reason to suspect that this same loving and intelligent child, is in fact, a thaumaturgist. He seems to have the ability to manipulate clay, and as such I do not see him as a danger like those who can manipulate minds or the basic elements. This is why it is with trepidation that I write you, for I do not wish anything ill to happen to the boy or his family. But I am also a law-abiding citizen, wholly loyal to crown and the justice of the law. Please, I hope yet that there is a way to avoid anything untoward happening to the Genning family, for it is their son I write of.

Thank you for your time and consideration of the information and request I have submitted,
Lady X

How did one write a letter such as this? A weight hung heavily around her neck as she considered sending this off. A weight hung around her as she remembered her first young charge who had been so adept at manipulating the thoughts of those around her. What was the right and moral answer to this dilemma? The Lord Marshal and his wife had been kind in their distance. Earl and Alyssia loved her, sought her out rather than their parents for the trials and tribulations that childhood presented them. Just last night, little Alyssia had curled up in her lap and nodded off. Theodosia had had to carry the sweet girl to her bed, tucking her and her dolly in. Why, she often even ate with the two children, something a governess was unused to. She had company, even if it was only the children. But...

But she had thought over the matter for close to three years now. She had written this letter, or a variation of it, innumerable times. How long before someone else found out what Earl was capable of? It would be scandalous for the son of the Lord Marshal to be found with a thaumaturgist son, but the institutes were there to protect people like Earl. And to protect people like her from them. She believed that as equally as she had come to love the boy with his alternating sweet disposition; he had not yet reached the age where he spurned her motherly care for him. He could never hurt her, she could never see him hurt anyone. Could he?

Theodosia closed her eyes, gently picking up the letter between two fingers. No, he could not, and thus, she could not yet send this letter. Like the hundreds before it she brought it to the fire that gave warmth to her room and tossed it into the flames, watching it crinkle and burn into ash. Not yet.

She had perhaps an hour to spare before the children would be up and wanting breakfast and lessons. It was time to get ready for her day.

****

"This is better than the zoo." Alyssia finally piped up after a quiet walk to the park. The precocious girl had wanted to go to the zoo and became sullen when Theodosia had softly said otherwise. It had pulled on her heartstrings to deny the girl what she wanted, but she was the governess first and maternal substitute second. Even if that was a line becoming hard to distinguish.

"I am glad you think so dear. Now let me see what you have so far." Theodosia left her own canvas, the trees partly done with flowers dotting the green grass, outlines of a few wandering souls completed. They had been here for several hours already, Earl had other lessons to attend to for the time being, so it was the perfect day to focus on the lessons a proper lady needed to learn. "Oh very good Alyssia." The governess murmured. The canvas was covered with light blues and greens, apparently Alyssia had chosen to paint the nearby pond. "Use firmer strokes here, and don't forget to include little details." Theodosia lifted her head to check the pond, "There's colorful flowers around the pond here and here, you'll want to include those." She indicated with a finger hovering above the canvas. "But your colors are beautiful dear. You've improved so much!"

Alyssia beamed and quickly set back to work. The painting would still be childish as only a seven year old could paint, but Theodosia would be proud. She returned to her own work, more refined from having adult dexterity of her fingers, but she did not pick up her brush again. Instead, she was content to watch Alyssia paint, so she settled onto the stool, legs properly bent and crossed, and watched the people mill through the park.

[Taerra Firma]

Lady Harcourt’s first spring ball was rumored to be the most anticipated crush of season, which of course meant that the Duchess of Wrenscote must attend. She could be found at all the fashionable parties. Indeed, in many cases a ball was not considered successful if Her Grace did not make an appearance.

Tonight the Earl of Fenhurst’s town home was a beacon of light and music. The line of carriages leading to the wide front steps was nearly an hour long, even at the fashionably late time that Artemisia chose to arrive. She murmured her thanks to her ever attentive servant, James as he handed her down, before gliding gracefully up the stone steps.

She could not help but admire the line of electric lights hanging from poles, marching up the stairs like stolen stars. They were a sparkling reminder of the way science was just bounding forward in the current age. It was a shame something so pretty could be emblematic of such disturbing changes. At the same time, it was quite obvious Lady Harcourt had spared no expense for this soiree in an effort to impress.

It was a balmy night already, and Artemisia quite gratefully gave her wrap to the waiting footman as she stepped inside. Her dress was in the first stare of fashion, as always, and patterned off the latest designs from the continent. It was perhaps a touch more daring than others might wear, the decolletage just high enough to not be scandalous, the ruby red silk a shade brighter than was truly appropriate, but then that was the style she was known for. She also disdained the flounces and furbelows that were most popular for ladies’ evening wear. Her gown was simple, and elegant, relying on the cut to show her off to the best advantage. Even her hair was simple, the red curls swept up and decorated only with a scattering of glimmering diamond pins. A flair for fashion that always skirted, but never quite crossed, the line of acceptability, and a reputation that hinted at risque behavior without providing proof, had earned her the moniker of “The Scarlet Duchess.”

No sooner had she cleared the receiving line, in which the Countess Fenhurst, Lady Harcourt, had fluttered and fawned over her a great deal, then she was surrounded by her usual bevy of admirers. A cup of punch appeared from one, while a flute of champagne was offered by another, and yet a third tried to tempt her with sweet bites from the buffet. She laughed gaily at their antics, and graciously accepted the choicest of their offerings. Although she smiled, and drew them with her charm and grace, none of them, pups and predators alike, seemed to see behind her empty facade. Nearby matrons looked on with disapproval, whispering behind their fans.

Thaddeus arrived later than most guests, as he thought was befitting of his station. Maverick, his personal groom had picked out a rather modest piece of clothing: black on white with red seaming and silver cufflinks. His hair was combed to the back. Dosht’s temples were growing grey, for now it looked dignified and authorative, but in twelve years or so his hair colour would betray his true age. The carriage, with the Inquisitorial blazon etched into the small door, rolled up toward the manse of Earl Fenhurst, gravel crunching under the metal plated wheels. As word of his arrival spread, the line of carriages, filled with lords and ladies waiting for disembarkment, vacated the trail.

Once inside he glanced left and right, recognising gentlemen and their companions from earlier posh occasions as Harcourt’s soiree. As they saw him enter he noticed the expressions on their faces reminded him of chickens who saw a fox climbing in their pen. How apt. He thought. Fenhurst was not among the most prestigious denizens of Kingstone’s Hunton District, renowned for its manses and estates. However, Dosht wagered that after tonight she might be, for a little of his prestige and authority would rub off on her. After all, he was the Inquisitor-General and not everyone could -or would want to for that matter- lay claim that Thaddeus Am Dosht had attended his or her household.

Dosht was offered a delicately curved glass of champagne from Eronia, which he accepted with a graceful nod of the head. He had tucked his leather gloves behind his belt moment before and put one hand behind his back ere striding into the ballroom, the tails of his coat bobbing up slightly with the rhythm of his long trademark pace.

It had been a while since he’d felt truly in the mood for one of these events. Taking a sip from the splendid bubbling liquid from Tyvia, he noticed the red beacon that was Duchess Artemisia Harrington-Greywood. Lady Harrington was beset on all sides by a horde of insolent peacocks. Thaddeus approached, like a fox would a bunch of roosters, stalking his way through the throng of poshly dressed aristocracy. The air positively smelled with disdain for the lower classes, hypocrisy and lies. Over the years as Inquisitor his nose had become sensitive to the stink of insincerity.

Thaddeus examined her as he approached. He had to admit he admired her skillful skirting of what was deemed socially acceptable, yet pleasing to the eye.

“My Lady Harrington,” he said, announcing his arrival at the group of admirers practically clinging to her skirts. “Might I steal you for a moment?” More like rescue you. He saw one fellow turn about to reprimand him, his youthful face contorted in a sneer of annoyance. Dosht merely looked at him, a terse smile escaping against his will as his identity dawned on the young dandee.

Artemisia started, very slightly, at the sound of his voice. Dosht. Well, this is unexpected. She turned just enough that she could see him clearly, and gave him her usual glittering smile. “Lord Dosht,” she said smoothly, allowing the form of address to indicate her lack of discomfort at his presence. “I confess myself shocked. I am quite certain theft is a punishable offense.” Her tone was arch, her brows raised, and her eyes invited him to share her little joke.

He offered her his free arm. Confess herself shocked. Ah, but I am in the business of confessions. “Only if you get caught,” he retorted, his face plain of emotion. He let his icy gaze run across the assembly of admirers as he kept his arm extended, an invitation and perhaps a lifeline. That is to say, if she’s not put off by my reputation. But he knew the Scarlet Duchess would not be, which was one source of his respect for her. In several ways they had things in common, he and she.

Around her, the formerly fawning men were silent, some faces pale, and by ones and twos they took the opportunity to discreetly melt away into the crowd. She couldn’t help but find amusement in their ignoble retreat in the face of the Arch-Inquisitor. He did cut an intimidating, if handsome, figure with his inscrutable gaze and fearsome reputation. She must admit to some uneasiness in his company herself, although that was for far different reasons, personal ones. At this rate, they would be quite alone within a matter of minutes. It was a relief to be out of the middle of the flock of popinjays, though, so she supposed she should offer him her thanks.

She could not help the laugh that entered her voice, as she laid one gloved hand on his offered arm. “It appears any witnesses are disappearing. I think you will get away with it.” She unfurled the delicate ebony and red silk fan in her free hand and fanned herself lightly. She looked out over the crowded ballroom and waited for Lord Dosht to decide on their destination.

“I too must confess something,” he said as his eyes settled on her. “Your style and grace are still impeccable.” Coming from him that meant a lot, for Thaddeus was known to be miserly in complimenting a person. Undoubtedly she was on her guard now, suspecting some trap or some such. It was true though, Artemisia was an experienced woman, with a good set of brains to boot. Dosht had cherished a juvenile crush on the Duchess, too many years ago to count. “You’ve lived up to my expectations. I should have placed a bet with someone that you’d become one of the high-lights of Kingstone society.” The Inquisitor-General steered them through the hubub of the ballroom towards a quieter place in Earl Fenhurst’s study and library.

Ah, yes, there is the master manipulator, she thought, complimenting on one hand and reminding me of our history on another. Was he reminding her of how much she owed him because he wanted something from her now? “How lowering,” she said lightly, “to learn that I am what anyone expected me to be. I would have hoped to be more original than that.” She nodded at acquaintances as they passed on the way to the study. She glanced at him coyly. “I shall have to try harder to be surprising,” she murmured as they walked into the quiet room. If he only knew, he would be far less polite to me, she thought, with a thrill of mingled fear and amusement. She felt almost breathless with the scope of her deception sometimes.

She stepped away from him and glanced around the large, quiet space, taking a deep breath. The Earl obviously enjoyed relaxing in the room. There was an armchair and table with a discarded newspaper, and a half smoked cigar. Lord Harcourt could have just gotten up and left.

Thaddeus sagged into the armchair as if it were his own and produced a finely crafted box of cigars of his own. Using the still burning cigar present in the silver ashtray, he lit it. Whilst inhaling and puffing to get the roll of tobacco burning, Earl Fenhurst entered. However, upon seeing the Head of His Majesty’s Inquisition imposingly lounging in one of his luxurious chairs, he muttered something apologetic and removed himself from the room. Artemisia’s hand flew to her mouth, trying to hide the smile of amusement as the Earl fled his own study. She glanced between the softly closing door, and the man who’s very presence occupied the entire room, even when all he was doing was relaxing with a cigar.

“I am not anyone, fair lady,” he said as he exhaled a thick plume of smoke, blue because of the cyanide that was used in the production of cigars. “As far as originality goes... you’re a trendsetter, Artemisia. You can’t get more original than that.” he gestured to the vacant seat in front of him.

At his invitation, she sank gracefully into the opposite chair. “Why, thank you...Thaddeus,” she replied, taking his cue to drop formalities, “That is reassuring.” Of course, if anyone else had dared to address her as less than Lady Harrington, she would have cut them down to size with a few choice words. She had an image to maintain, after all. “One does one’s best to nudge the flock in the right direction.”

She studied him from beneath her lashes. He looked relaxed and completely in his element. He’d grown more distinguished looking with age, too. Different than the way she remembered him years ago. Harder. Harsher. Although that might be because he rarely smiled any longer. How odd. She never really thought about those years before her marriage, when life had been brimming with possibility.

The moment of silence between them was strangely comfortable, as long as she didn’t examine too closely why he might have wanted to speak with her alone. It might have been a competely innocent reason. Perhaps he plans to discuss the weather, a voice muttered sarcastically in her ear.

She set aside her fan. “At least it is cooler here than in the ballroom. No doubt that is what Fenhurst was hoping.” She glanced at him. “Apparently he wasn’t warm enough to risk disturbing your peace, however.” Was she driven to talk from nervousness? Hopefully not enough that it was noticeable.

Dosht’s eyebrow raised ever so faintly, almost unnoticeably. After having taken another pleasurable drag from the cigar he looked at her from under his brooding brows. She was still beautiful, having grown to full maturity like a splendid wine. And she was just as full of character and... body. “We are both shepherds of a sort then. Though my job consists not of ‘nudging’,” he made a dismissive gesture with his free hand as he pronounced the word. “I make sure they do not stray off the laid out path, and weed out the weak from the herd.” Yes, that was a rather apt description of his profession. “Recently it has come to my attention there has been an increase in oratory and literary talent among the lower members of said... flock.”

The Inquisitor-General let his hands drop on the arms of the chair and crossed his legs. “I have begun to wonder where the sheep might have gotten these skills from, and if there is no wolf among them. It is hardly plausible one without a thorough education produced these articles, even though a mild nuisance they are.” The Inquisition was the lone wolf to be feared, Dosht found.

Artemisia was very glad she was as experienced as she was in navigating the Beau Monde, in presenting the facade that hid her true self from the vicious social predators that delighted in finding any weakness among their fellows. She had spent years, first in her marriage, playing the dutiful, pliant wife, and in the last years as a notorious widow, portraying a person that had no resemblance to who she really was. She was very grateful now, for the practice. Otherwise she would not be so adept at controlling her reactions in the face of Dosht’s seemingly idle comment. As it was her pulse jumped, and her mind raced ahead, wondering if he knew exactly who that skilled literary wolf was.

She relaxed back into her chair, and cocked her head to one side to study Dosht through lowered lashes. The pose had the added advantage of showcasing her lovely exterior, while shielding the thoughts in her eyes. “A wolf?” she asked, her velvet voice shocked and a bit speculative. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that those dull, prosaic little pieces in the labor papers are the work of an educated mind. Whyever would a learned person encourage such restlessness among the people? Or,” she sat up and allowed her gaze to narrow and sharpen on his, one gloved finger tapping on her lower lip in thought, “you don’t suspect one of them?” She glance in the direction of the ballroom. “But who would dare? And why?” Yes, Dosht. Who do you suspect? Do you suspect me?

She laughed lightly. “And to think I normally think politics so tedious. What entertaining conversation you present, Thaddeus!”

“I’ve read my classics. No commoner would use language like this. There are assonances, alliterations, oxymorons and more. No, this speaks of an author who has studied these style figures and language structures.” Dosht shared with her his reasoning, studying her fair visage intently. “I don’t suspect one of them, no.”

“Everyone has secrets, and I know more secrets from all the people in the other room than I do from a single street in Old Commons.” He stopped and took a slow, seemingly endless, drag from his cigar before putting it out. Then proceeded to let the smoke crawl out of his lungs, from his lips, until it circled around his head, lending him the appearance of some pagan spirit emerging from blue mist. Years of smoking had made his eyes immune to the stinging sensation. The silence stretched out in between them, possessing nothing of the comfort and agreeableness of the earlier one.

“I suspect all of them and many, many more...” It was true. The author could be anyone. Most likely he or she was a sympathizer among the rank of the merchant class, that upstart bourgeoisie. However, Thaddeus had not risen to the rank of Inquisitor-General by eschewing possibilities lightly.

Did he tell her because he knew? Or did he know nothing and he brought her here for far different reasons? Or perhaps he took her at face value as an inveterate gossip, hoping she would spread the word amongst the glitterati? It was like the most dangerous game of chess in existence, with half the rules a mystery, and the players unaware who their opponents were or if they were even playing at all. It was exciting and terrifying.

Her smile was wide, a more genuine smile of enjoyment than she ever revealed to society. “I think you are a clever man, Thaddeus,” she said. “Not that anyone would accuse you of being slow-witted. But, even so. You ply me with pretty compliments and lure me away for a chat. I think you wanted to tell me your suspicions. I think you want me to spread it about that you are hunting this rebel scribe, like bait in the water drawing something tasty to the surface.” She paused, as if thinking. “I am not sure if I am willing to help in such a scheme. Or perhaps I am. It might be amusing, like playing spy.”

“In my experience bait has to be tasty in order to bring something big and juicy above the surface. What tastier bait than the Scarlet Duchess?” Obviously it was rhetorical. “You can think what you like, it is one of the perks for women of your stature,” he said, calm and more distant than he had sounded previously.

Slowly, but smoothly, he stood up, readjusted his clothes, and set out for the ballroom. However, as he passed her, he placed a hand on her shoulder. Her skin felt warm, soft. He appreciated the texture and temperature of it, as he regarded himself a conoisseur of skin. It was a mandatory thing in his career. Funny what hands were capable of when set to purpose by a strong will...

“Oh. I trust that if something does turn up and starts nibbling, I will be called upon to reel in the catch.”

His hand left her pristine shoulder, and she shivered ever so slightly at its withdrawal. The conversation was obviously finished, for he had more bait to set and many more fish to catch. “I bid you a good evening, Duchess Greywood. I seem to recall a tale about a girl in red and a fanged beast. Beware the wolf...” And with that he was gone, slipping through the doors and into the crowd.

The Scarlet Duchess lingered in the study a few minutes after he was gone. She poured herself a generous measure of the Earl’s scotch and threw it back in a most unladylike manner, appreciating the burn as it went down. She thought about his subtle reminder of what she owed to him. She turned over in her mind every word he had said, trying to decipher their true intent. She wondered yet again if what she fought for was worth the terrible cost she risked. No. She could not back down now.

Piece by piece she firmed up her public mask, until all that remained of her expression was the cool, distant hautiness she hid behind. She looked at the door that her adversary had just walked through. “I think you can count on my indiscretion, Arch-Inquisitor,” she murmured to herself. After all, wasn’t that what the Duchess was known for? She swept out of the room, a mocking smile on her face, and prepared to spread rumors that would never draw out their prey.

[Vanquished]

"I wish I 'ad a gun, ffen I'd 'ave shot 'im dead." The battered whore spoke between bloodied lips, her bruised eyes sulking as the Mother tended to her.

"Now now child, you've listened to enough of my preaching to know what I think of that sort of talk." The Mother's hands were gnarled with age but could still do deft work. She brushed back the girl's tangled hair and prodded at the black and blue mark.

"Ow! Oi! That 'urts! Oi! But Muvver, if I 'ad a gun, that man wouldn't 'ave done this ter me. I wouldn't be 'urt, init?" She looked up expectantly, cringing from the continued proddings and pokings, but with a look of resignation on her face. She knew the Mother's thoughts on violence, knew better than to argue.

"Oh child, I know. He hurt you, but had you killed him or even hurt him, your soul would be more hurt than your body by what he did. His acts were evil in the eyes of the One, but that musn't mean we hurt him in return. It would pain me to see you corrupted by what violence does to a person." The Mother spoke gently, no longer tending to the girl's hurts. There wasn't much she could do anyways, other than provide a shoulder for the poor thing to lean on. The aged nun pulled the girl close in an embrace, like a grandmother would do to a small child.

"I'm just a 'oore. An animal ter men like 'im. I got wot I deserved." Anger dissipated, self-loathing returned. It was something the Mother had seen time and time again. It broke her heart to hear the words pour out of the girl's mouth. One Above, she must not even be sixteen yet, and already accustomed to beatings and rape. But it put food in her belly, even if only occasionally, and was better work than begging. The girl began to sniffle and pressed her face against the nun's shoulder. Mother felt her body shake as the girl began to cry.

"That's alright deary, let it out. It hurts, it's ok to show that." Mother rubbed the girl's back, allowing her to cry herself out before she spoke again. "I'll leave you a few pence to get by on until you can get back to your work, and some bread. It's a bit stale, but I've some salted meat to go with it." She pulled out the loaf and the meat wrapped in wax paper and set it on a nearby table, then pressed the few precious coins into the girl's hand.

"Thank yer Muvver..thank yer..." The whore sniffled before grabbing the food to her bosom.

"If only I could do more, child, I would."

The mother left the one room shack and with a slight hunch to her back, walked out into the muddied streets of the Old Commons. It was noisy and bustling with people of all sorts, though most shared the hungry and haunted look of extreme poverty. Those that didn't were usually the ones who handed out the despair that was the only thing these folks had plenty of. It boiled the Mother's blood to see the things that happened here, and the way that the Guard could so easily ignore it for a few coins in their palm. Yes, the government had much to answer for. But as she made her way to her next destination, people moving aside for a sight they were used to after several decades of her walking these grounds, she knew the people hear wanted to hear what she said less than the high and mighty. Talk of revolution was on many tongues, and Mother's soft words for reform went largely unheeded.

Oh, they took the food she freely offered, they confessed their sins to her. They called her mother and welcomed her into their homes. But she was misguided, there was no hope for changing their lot in life without violence. That broke her heart more, to see these people hurt themselves time and time again with their actions. To see them corrupted by the taint violence brought. How she longed to pull them all close to her and comfort them, have them listen with open hearts to what she proposed. She prayed to the One daily and nightly that he would open their ears and eyes to the truth and trusted one day it would be so.

It wasn't yet midday but she had made her normal rounds, following the directions of those who knew others who needed what help she could offer. She was stopped by a group of urchins, most orphans, and all beggars or pickpockets. They worked for one of the countless crime syndicates that ran their businesses out of the Old Commons. "Hello my little doves." She smiled a toothy grin for them. "Let me guess, you think I have some candy for you?" Eager eyes widened as they nodded quickly, some calling out, others grabbing at her with their dirtied fingers. Her white robes had long ago been stained a dirty gray, no amount of washing able to remove the soot and dirt. "Well you're right. Settle down now, we'll have a story first."

Knowing what that entailed, a handful grabbed at her hands and with a vigor only children could know, dragged her towards the closest business. A whore house this time it seemed, but she was welcomed most anywhere. A few heads turned as the old Prioress entered with a gaggle of children around her, but most kept on with their business. For her part, the Mother didn't even blink. There was a table and a chair available so that was where she settled her aching joints. The children sat on the ground before her, too accustomed to whore houses and taverns for her liking, that they too seem unperturbed by events there.

"Ah now, which one haven't you heard in a while? Maybe the story about Madai and the tree aflame?" Regardless of how many times she told these stories, they were young enough they were always eager to hear and receive their treat. "Very good...Madai was a true man of the One..."

[Catharyn]

"I've always wanted to make that voyage across the ocean. See a world untouched. Have you been there personally Admiral?" A girl by the name of Daisy asked. She had rouged lips and a short bob of blond hair and was draped around a general sitting across from August. She was one of the live-in girls who paraded the club on a regular basis. "My fleet is involved with escorting ships across the ocean to Pan-Dessia. There are dozens of pirate islands from here to there. Hundreds of tonnes of shipping would be lost without our brave sailors showing them who's boss." August said matter of factly. This drew an excited sigh from the girl. "Although I've only been across personally once before, i'm in correspondence with a Captain Montrose who is running things over there for me." August continued, taking a big puff on his cigar. Manipulating it in his mouth, he coaxed the smoke out of his mouth in a thick sheet millimeters from his face before inhaling it back up through his nose.

When the conversation didn't resume immediately August refocused and surveyed his group. Their eyes had all wandered to a point behind his back. The general across from him swallowed before growing very indignant, his face taking on a crimson hue. "Admiral, i think there is...someone for you." The back end of a voice registered in August's mind. A voice like a cigarette being extinguished on bare flesh. It hissed: "An ego that I bet is more than willing to pay for knowing who is behind certain business that we both know of." Keeping calm, the Admiral put his cigar in the crystal ashtray attached to the left arm of his hover chair. August then gripped the control stick embedded in the right arm of his chair with two fingers and pushed it to the right. There was a low humming that could easily have been organic as the thaumajets on the chair's underside adjusted. When they had warmed up the chair rotated on an axis, keeping perfectly still otherwise. August kept his head motionless; only looking at the man once the chair was completely facing him. Shabby in appearance, he looked as if he didn't belong. August beckoned the chair to glide forward a meter, till they were close.

There was something wrong about the man. August had seen many things in his life time, but this...thing was different. If he looked very closely at the edges of its body, the lines of his form wouldn't reveal themselves. An almost indeterminate blur made the man part of the scenery. He was two dimensional. But that wasn't the worst part. August felt as if the man ought to be familiar. It was the most peculiar feeling of deja vu, and it scared the old Admiral. The man was unnatural, his hands and hair were something that could have been created by a child. August noticed that the entire club had stopped what they were doing to watch. August's right hand reached down the side of the chair to feel where his pistol usually sat holstered but found nothing; guns weren't allowed in the club. He took a deep breath to compose himself before picking up the smoldering cigar and taking a big drag. He let the smoke out slowly. "Do i know you, stranger? Do you have business with me?" He asked at last, heart racing but voice perfectly measured.