Rafts are nice. Rafts are simple. You can figure out what you need to do with a raft without making a complete fool of yourself. And since Jackdaw was really rather sick of feeling like a fool, she silently reviewed the raft's ability to remain a raft, doing her best not to wince visibly when Ailee kept making everything worse.
And, in that sense, it's not really worrying. That's not the word for it. It's business. Something useful to occupy her paws with while she ducked away from everything else for a little while. There's knots to test, oars to inspect, seals to make watertight (it won't do any good if they lose thrust around the smokestack) and a hundred other little tasks.
As to her perch, there's really no other place but Sasha. Maybe in the crook of one of her arms? It's always nice and warm there, and it'll keep her from getting too many errant splashes.
Coleman’s talking to a Wet Trash Homunculus. Behold, a god(‘s avatar). You can smell it from here.
Jackdaw, how blissfully ignorant of the Flood’s capability of taking your anxiety from you are you?
Jackdaw is entirely ignorant of the possibility. How could she know? Its roots run deep, and she cannot see how it could simply be gone without taking away the rest of her.
Ailee had been cupping her hands over her mouth in readiness to yell something over at the direction of Coleman and the trash god before Lucien begins begging for restraint. She looks back and forth between him at the sentient garbage with a look on her face that clearly communicates how little she appreciates being made to think about what she's going to say before she says it. Then she shrugs and starts tracing a finger through the air, leaving trails of fire in very readable cursive. It's neat and refined, the kind of handwriting that might be formalized into a font on a printing press for religious works.
The content of the writing is itself less elegant. It starts with LOOK JACKDAW! I HAVE UNCOVERED THE SECRET OF WHERE THE FISHMONGER'S SEWAGE OUTFLOW IS and it goes downhill from there.
Ailee looks at Lucien expectantly, hopefully, with wide eyes and an innocent little mousy smile upon her face.
Wrinkling her snout at the smell, Jackdaw produced notebook and pencil from her cloak. She wrote. She scratched out. She wrote some more. She thought. She scribbled bits out. She ran out of space. She turned the page. She gagged and coughed. She frantically wrote, and held it out to Ailee.
NO! BAD!
Do I even need to say that the second Ailee's finger has started glowing he's already put his entire, much taller body, between Ailee and the trash god? Hopefully the Flood can't read backwards letters easily.
"I'm going to have to shoot her, you know," Lucien sighs to Jackdaw, "One day, I mean. There's going to come a point where shooting her is either going to be the nicest thing we can do for her, or the only way we can get out of something alive." Grimace.
...she made a slight addendum, and held it out to Lucien.
NO!!! BAD!!!
The wrench hits the floor of the raft like the gavel of judgement. "I have neither shame nor guilt to give you," he snaps. "And I value suffering too much to exchange it for the soporific stupor of false life. This journey will end either in glory or death, and I'll hang before I let Sasha down! I have a duty!"
*flip*
*scribble scribble scribble*
She held out her notebook. A little doodle of Coleman, standing brave and strong and heroic atop his dear Sasha, stared back at them.
A pause.
*scribble scribble scribble*
She held out her notebook. Some additions: A skull, complete with X’s over the eyes. Three more arrows, one pointing to each of them. Question marks, by the arrows, with more being added by the second.
...when she'd wished for the ground to swallow her up there, she hadn't counted on anybody actually listening.
"Aileeeeeeeeee, whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?" She moaned miserably, falling in with her and Lucien and casting anxious glances at that bell. "All we needed was some water! This is...probably? Probably too much water!"
“If we’re drinking to that, then I’ll have what she’s...not having.” Oh those. Those did not work well together. “I mean…” Ohhhhhh and now everybody’s looking at her. Oh no. “I would like to hear your story. Stories.” No, wait, that’s not it. Backpedal, backpedal! “That is, to say, your writings made me very happy - by which I mean, very sad, but happy to have been so sad?” Why was she talking and why couldn’t she stop?! “So. I. Would love to. Hear...more?”
[Jackdaw tries to: Talk Sense with Wisdom! 2 + 3 - 1 = 4! It's very bad! Somebody save her!]
A Beast lights out of the settlement’s tavern like he has a fire lit under him, and scampers past you over to the shrine-wagon, where he rings a bell. Curiosity provokes you to linger and watch.
“There’s a rat-queen in Silas’s place,” he burbles to the wizened figure who slides back the door. (From the shape of her tail, she used to be a vulpin like you, once.) “She’s challenging you! You have to come!”
“Let me get ready,” she croaks, and shuffles back inside. And this is when you put three and one together. Uh-oh.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, that's bad. That's very bad. That's very, very, very, very full of excrutiating amounts of not good.
Not for Ailee, no. But for this poor old lady who's about to get her head bitten, screamed, and/or punched off.
Jackdaw didn't have much of a plan. In fact, it barely qualified for the word. "Desperate hunch" might be a bit closer. She idled around outside until the shrine-wagon's owner stepped out, then fell in behind her with whatever other curious onlookers were tagging along. Just a normal, everyday traveller caught up in the hubbub, who also could give Ailee some furiously insistent eye contact before she shouted at this lady.
And, well, if all else fails, stand close enough that Ailee wouldn't try anything?
Jackdaw returned to the present with an undignified yelp. Had she just been crying? In the middle of the street?! Get a hold of yourself, Jackie! You can’t just wander through the streets of an unfamiliar town, falling to pieces. You should know better than that. There we go, shake your head clear, stand up a little straighter, smooth out that coat, wipe those eyes dry. Make yourself at least a bit presentable.
Somewhere, somehow, she could still feel Ailee’s withering glare bearing down on her. And she deliberately chose to ignore it. This was important, after all. This was a special thing to borrow. She...no, she didn’t have one like this. Nothing so sharp, so aching, so heavy. She needed this. It was important. Leelee didn’t understand.
...oh no! No, not quite - oh dear. Not in a bad way! She didn’t mean that she refused to understand. That’d be silly. She hadn’t even had a chance to explain anything yet, how could she preemptively refuse? Well, okay, you could preemptively accuse if your prejudices and biases were stacked up so high and so securely that there was no way you’d ever understand something of a particular sort. But, no, she wasn’t like that! She wasn’t saying she was like that! She was just saying that Ailee maybe jumped to conclusions before she’d had a chance to explain how marvelous this find was, in the least bad way possible.
...well, maybe not the least bad way, sometimes, but-
That one, little drop of water nearly sent her crumbling down.
It hurt. Oh, stars and moons, it hurt. A gaping, raw hole in her chest...no, an impossibly heavy stone she could barely hold, her knees ready to buckle...no, an uneasy tension running through her whole body, over her fur, and it wouldn’t go away no matter how tightly she hugged herself or how fiercely she rubbed at her arms...no.
No.
Cold. Soaking, freezing to her heart. Icing it over. Icing her over. Until even her thoughts could hardly move. And Jackdaw - lost, little Jackdaw - stood alone in a market crowded with unfamiliar faces, and wept from the familiar cold.
But. Ah. Wouldn’t you know it? Somewhere in the midst of all that, her clever paws got a hold of one of those precious, little slips of...of loneliness. (No, that’s not it at all. Too weak, much too weak.) And. Well. Her clever paws did what clever paws were wont to do when they had caught hold of something special; tuck it away in one of the countless pockets lining her cloak.
She'd never seen a ship on the Flood, or anything that might be a port; wouldn't really be the Flood if there was anywhere permanently safe, right? Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha. Hrm. Well. A-anyway, it's probably closer to detritus than flotsam, if it's not coming from shipwrecks. Which is important, because ships only carry so many things, whereas, wagons and trains and...well, wagon trains carry all sorts of things, so that's why the Beasts are able to make such a living here, though they do have to stay on the move, what with the...well, the safe land always changing, and...and...
Y-yes. It just might not be quite the word.
The waters are so still that if you squint, you can almost trick yourself into thinking that there’s nothing but a glass plain between you and the Tyrian Spire. Flies the size of pocket-watches hover here and there, and the shores of the Flood here are choked with rusted, mildewed junk, caught in nets of thin wire and thick linen ropes. Not that any of those are yours for the taking: the nets and everything dredged up from the Flood belongs to the salvage-caravan of Beasts here. All around you, their wagons and tents squat, decorated with iron charms and net-charms and icons of the Flood made from glass and her waters; if you want supplies, you’ll either have to deal with them or go well out of your way to dredge something up from the Flood yourself — and she’s less likely to let you get away with all your fingers.
This is a problem, because Sasha needs Floodproofing. It’s either figure out a way to get the egg across without being lost underneath her placid waters, or pull up stakes and take your chances with the Houses of Parliament, which is a much more perilous route.
And Sasha is right, he decides, and starts the elaborate dance of the drive levers. They won't get her floodproofed by standing around here, and he's not going to risk Sasha on a shortcut. One massive steel hand swings down to Jackdaw, an unspoken offer of a lift, and then he's off. Got to be a merchant here, or several, who have the tar and materials he needs.
And up she goes! Scamper scamper scamper on the hand, up the arm, atop Sasha, and curled 'round the smokestacks with her cloak pulled protective over her and her precious pack. Because books? Books do not mix well with water any more than Sasha does. Maybe even less! Though, she can always dry out the books, and, true, she doesn't need all of them, but, no, she'd be sad to lose them! Very much so! No thank you!
From her perch atop Sasha, she watches the camp they're tromping into. Beasts! They have such an expressive language, yet so curt! It's not often they take to writing, but the few who do, ohhhhhhhhhhhh goodness. Goodness gracious.
She practically vibrated in place as she took in the sights.
[Rolling to Look Closely: 3 + 4 + 2 = 9 Asking:
-What is going on here? What do my senses tell me? -Is something hidden or out of place? If so, what looks suspicious? -Tell me about the literature here. How could it hurt me? How could it help me?
Jackdaw is always willing to listen to me, even when no one else has time - I have a very strong idea of Lucien holding one sided conversations at Jackdaw using the pauses where they try to think of what to say to answer their own questions. "Surely they can't mean-?" "-" "No. You're right, of course. They would. But the real question is, is it to their advantage, or to ours?" "-" "Mm. Of course, never assume you have the advantage - Try to be certain, and never be certain of your certainty... "-" "Jackdaw, I have no idea what I'd do without you. This could have been a disaster."
And, in the true fashion of a human diplomat in a fantasy setting, I'd like to take one bond from the Elf and one from the Dwarf playbooks;
Jackdaw defeated me in a game of Scrabble and I still cannot believe it. It wasn't even close, honestly.
I wouldn't have called the first one, but I can see that playing out exactly like that if Lucien never gives Jackdaw a chance to chime in. :P
On my end, I have four Bonds to give out, and I think I'll be doubling up on Ailee. She and Jackdaw have a bit of history already, and I think that's the best way to represent it.
I stood watch for Ailee on the worstbest most night of our lives. Why didn't I say anything? I could've said something. I should've said something. But I didn't, then it was too late, and. Um. We don't have those lives anymore.
Lucien tells the best campfire stories, I don't know how I'd settle down without them. He never messes them up! Ever! How does he do it?!
When things go south, I'm hiding behind Coleman. And his train baby! Um, well, it's not his train baby, but it sort of is, in that it was given to him, but it's not his-his, and anyway that's where I'm standing.
I wouldn't have my crown jewel without Ailee's help. Someday, I'm gonna have the right words to thank her.
Since we're up to Bonds, I always find it hard to get a Feel for a character just from a sheet, without some interaction or story behind them.
So, I did a little bit of prosaic writing about Lucien to help get a better feel of him across.
THE ACT OF PARLIAMENT
Lucien had seen the writing on the palace wall in ten-foot high red letters. The best bit was it was written in a language nobody else understood.
This is because that big, obvious warning had been broken down into tiny, digestible reports that passed across his desk as Head of the Civil Service. Innocuous titles like; “Local Councillors Reports on the Impacts of New Tarifs on Salt Exports”, “Findings of Diplomatic Envoys to Neighbouring States”, both the Eastern and Western borders, and “Speculation on Grain Futures and Current Prices”.
In that last one, the footnotes glowed hot enough that Lucien’s fingers never held the page by the bottom, afraid they’d burn his fingertips off.
“Shit.”
“Sir?”
His eyes flicked up. “George. If you could have a holiday anywhere, where would you go?”
“Ah. I always wanted to see the Heart, Sir. Just for a little while. Everyone who’s made it back says it’s like nowhere else.”
“Everyone who’s made it back...” Lucien repeated, stroking his jaw. “George, could you do me a favour?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I’m going to fire you now, and it would make things a lot easier if we pretend you did something awful. The worst thing you can imagine. So terrible we can’t talk about it.”
“Oh. I’m- Can I decline?”
Lucien’s eyes darted up off the report and locked with George’s. George nodded.
“Right. I’m terribly sorry for what I did, which was so disgraceful I won’t even specify.”
“I’ve written you a glowing recommendation, privately. But you’re so disgraced, George, that I think it’s best that you leave the country. The continent, if you can help it.”
George nodded, straightening his red waistcoat. “Has it got anything to do with what’s happening in the Garden?”
They looked out the window at the sprawling mob.
Today, titled landowners, clergy, the wealthier merchants and the newly booming industrialist class were forming an open court in the palace gardens to negotiate the balance between the new powers and the old. The King had shown up, but fallen asleep hours ago.
How was the King to know that this was the pebble that started the avalanche. By Lucien’s estimates, in six months, The Empire would cease to be.
Lucien pulled a letter from his jacket, and slid it across his desk. “Time to go, George.”
“Right. Thank you, sir.”
George took the letter, and tucked it inside his shirt. He took a lemon wedge from Lucien’s tea, squirted two quick drops into his eyes, then flung himself out of the office, making a good show of wiping away his tears. He had the presence of mind to lock the door behind him on the way out.
It was a tragedy to lose talent like that.
Lucien pulled the bottom drawer out of his filing cabinet, and opened the floor safe hidden underneath it. He took out a steel lockbox and flicked through the labels of the manilla folders inside.
[Archbishop of Evora] [Archbishop of dos Ossos] [Archbishop of Sedlec] [Secretary of State] [Secretary of the Treasury] [Field Marshal von Mackensen] [King (ours)]
Ah, yes. There’s the one he needed. He pocketed the blackmail materials, and skipped ahead to the handwriting samples. One for when he was sober, one for his usual self... He pulled the “bacchanalia” sample, and shook the forged signet ring from the bottom corner of the envelope, and began to write. He checked his calendar. Tomorrow would be perfect.
-----
Lucien stormed into the throne room, furious, letter held in white-knuckled fist. The second the door had been opened for him, he could see the king’s bloodshot eyes, like two red mushrooms in black soil.
“Rupert, what the fuck is this?”
The King sat a little straighter, fight or flight kicking in. Lucien was only on a first name basis with the King when something very bad had happened, or the King had been Quite Naughty Indeed. And, because last night had been the annual meeting of the Secret Fraternal Order of Bookbinders, Milliners and Vintners, the King had no way of knowing which it was, but he had some unpleasant guesses.
“A posting to the Heart? Are you mad?”
“Sir Roué, your voice, please...”
“I beg your pardon, your Majesty,” Lucien was close enough to the throne now to drop to his indoor voice, “But you’re sending me to the Heart? A foreign posting? Truly?”
The King furrowed his eyebrows, massaging his temples. “Who ordered this?”
“You did! This is your handwriting, isn’t it?”
Lucien pushed the letter towards the king. He read it with a pained wince, his lips moving as he read and reread it. “Hrrm.”
“Hrrm?”
“I made a good point. I think.” The king muttered. “Our last man couldn’t hack it. And embassies to the Heart don’t usually go well. I really do need my best man...”
“While I am very flattered, surely you need me here? The Empire will go to shambles without me.”
“You think too highly of yourself, Sir Roué,” the king reprimanded. “I see I suggested some very suitable replacements... for the time being. I know you’re not very fond of Marquis du Motier, but he would be quite capable.”
“Capable? Your Majesty, please, the man couldn’t lead a pig to a trough.”
“Lucien...” the King growled in a warning tone. Lucien stood up straighter.
“Fine. But if I’m going along with this, I’m going to need some damned good incentives. The best office you can give me. Some staff. Then there’s my salary!”
The King raised an eyebrow. “You demand it?”
“Or I’ll bloody retire in protest.”
The King’s fingers drummed against the arm of the throne like drumsticks. “It would help the Empire’s prestige, the office.”
“Yes. Everything I do, for the Empire, of course.”
“We’ll send the staff later.” The King’s blinks were getting longer and longer, “Let you set things up how you like it on your own.”
“Of course, your Majesty.” Lucien bowed once more. “How can I argue with such infinite wisdom?”
The King was snoring by the time the doors closed behind Lucien.
-----
Two months. The Empire lasted two months. Which was really bloody inconvenient, because he really needed that extra time to get himself set up. He’d barely had time to find a good tailor before his salary disappeared.
The staff never came. The Marquis had made a bigger hash of everything than Lucien could have anticipated - when the riots inevitably started, he’d ordered cannons to open fire on the crowds.
The King and his family tried to flee to Czcezik, whose monarchs were close cousins (so it goes). They didn’t make it across the border without being recognized by a farmer who knew the King’s face from the back of a coin...
So, the Czcezik royal family - now next in the line of succession, would you happen to believe? - marched on the Empire - and ran right into three different factional people’s armies who’d been preparing for civil war, now with a common enemy.
Who could have predicted those guerilla armies? Besides anyone who had carefully read the footnotes on a national report about the distribution of grain stockpiles, of course.
The New People’s Government was now pushing back into Czcezik, and anyone they could get their hands on who had a “Sir” in their name was having their head removed from their shoulders.
And Sir Lucien had a lovely new office, if he could keep it.
Every prime-numbered floorboard on the stairs was balsa over a beartrap. Most doorhandles had a heating element in them, the stucco walls hid a flotilla of pistols and the ceiling fans were heavy as anvils, and detachable.
And somehow, an owl still managed to flit over to his colonial-wood desk, intact. He regarded it with an affectionate smile, one hand on the grip of the pistol underneath his parabola-linen shirt.
“You know, a group of owls is known as a parliament? And I am a civil servant. I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”
Another owl flew in behind it. And another.
Lucien swore.
Absolutely incredible. I can't wait to see Lucien in action. XD
For my end, didn't quite have the energy to get a short story together this week, so here's a small dump of thoughts about Jackdaw, and the sorts of things she's up to:
-Jackdaw is a collector of Words. Not, like, in the dictionary sense, but somebody who's always looking for new words, novel combinations of words, events and experiences that can communicate a particular feeling, etc. Her collection is this amalgamation of language and phrases and perfectly crystalized moments which she is constantly setting to her personal use. Somebody who is, quite literally, always hunting for the right thing to say. -No, for reals, she is always hunting for the right thing to say. All the time. In every situation. And usually winds up saying too much. And replaying conversations to try and find the actual best thing she could've said there. -One day, she will have all the words, and thus, she will be good at words. -Among the many books contained in the Heart, there are some on current events. As in you can open one up, and start reading a novel that perfectly describes the conversation you had over breakfast that morning. It can be hard to tell, sometimes, which books describe other worlds, and which describe ours. But if you can find the right sort of books, there are Buying Lists eager to snatch up any material about certain indviduals. -I haven't fully decided yet, but Jackdaw was at The Celestial College in some capacity - possibly even just on the basic service/kitchen staff - and has known Ailee from there. -Jackdaw is Delving in the Heart to find a most important word: Her name.
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