Drusus the Erudite
Catechism of the Gift.
Drusus' open, gloved palm lingered in the air as still, and instead it was his gaze that did the talking, alighting on each of those present now, all of those presumed Consano members and all of those aspirants to the title. A better look was in order now, standing closer now than he was before when he'd first scrutinized the lot. All sorts, from far and wide he surmised, with faces, fashions, and attitudes that all told their own stories. It was more than enough for him to take in, his eyes flitting this way and that. There was more to those present than what he could see, sure, but his gaze was intent all the same, it was a piece of the puzzle. A puzzle of his own making, really. He
needed to know these people. He needed to know them well. And they needed to know little and less of him.
That was the way he liked it. That was the way it always was back home, and in truth he saw no problem in applying the lessons of the past - in the shadowy, cutthroat world of Florine espionage - to this new ordeal. Contrary to his initial misgivings, to the credit of the Consano perhaps, he did not believe he was amongst clowns entirely. Only some of them were clowns, and these, he supposed, would be assayed in the north, and they'd live - or die - by their own virtues and mettle. It was a fact that didn't faze him in the slightest, and that disconnect didn't seem to provoke any concern in him. He had loftier concerns, he told himself.
What a tawdry thing to aspire to in times like these. Empathy? Remember us for how we struggled, not for how we cared.A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, despite himself, as he stood there. He grinned at what he supposed were his own failings, though no one else would be privy to as much. How petty it was to think such things, even as they rang true with the values he'd been taught. But then, perhaps he hadn't been taught well enough if he had to harden his heart with a mantra of callousness every time he had to go to work. And then his gaze met that of the only man who was more gaudily dressed for the occasion than he, a man who walked and talked in a fashion that wasn't altogether unfamiliar to Drusus. Perhaps not a man with titles to his name, Drusus surmised, given the distinct lack of sigils and retainers. But, perhaps, he associated with such people.
A buyer and a seller? One for whom business has been good, he supposed. But then, perhaps not. It was his first guess, through a Florine lens, where the guilds and their merchants wielded power on par with the senators themselves, and often were senators themselves.
Just as Drusus considered him, the man made a show of doing the same, and then he spoke, and lo and behold, Drusus found that the man behaved just as a Florine merchant might. The man addressed Drusus sharply, but he was left with the impression that the man also had a penchant for the theatric. Just an impression.
“Yes-yes, you can wait. We can all wait. Time is not important for Mankind. In the end we die, regardless of whether you can wait or not. Everyone can wait..”
Drusus' smile grew thin, his patience visibly being tested as the man received his request for an audience with what he might describe as 'vapid philosophics'.
I spoke like that ten years ago, thinking I had the wisdom of the world up in my head, he mused, self-assured. But, at least the man acquiesced into at least telling him who was in charge, continuing on to say, “Ah, the leader. That'd be the men and woman who are carrying actual armor and weaponry, the most beautiful Lady Buxton, and her companion, the most honorable sir Chester.”
One Lady Buxton and one Sir Chester, names he'd known already from his ponderings of Vasili politics and nobility. He knew the names, but of their character and their accomplishments he knew precious little. And while he was more well versed in the players of Dawnite, Thermosi, and Florine politics, it didn't reassure him that he couldn't recall much about them. Chester was more familiar to him than Buxton, at least. He was a soldier, and an accomplished one, or so he recalled, one whose name was known relatively well to the Sunshine soldiery of Dawn. Buxton, on the other hand, was perhaps more of a figure of domestic renown, one whose exploits hadn't left the north. Or maybe she amateurish and unknown, trying to prove herself. Either way.
He was satisfied with what the man had told him, satisfied enough at least, and so he lowered his hand and made to step around him, further onwards to hunt down these figures of authority. But he found, much to his dismay, that the man was not exactly done with him. No, the object of his fidgeting and staring coalesced with the jab of a finger and more hurried, excited words: “I know! You are a foreign emissary from the kingdom of Dawn, who is sent to infiltrate the Consano. Why, you ask? Because Dawn fears the plague as much as we do, and is afraid the burning of innocent boats and the entire sea between them and us might not hold back this plague. So they sent you, their most valued assassin to come here and secretly aid the Consano. Atleast, until we are done and fucked the plague right up the ass, because after that you must clean up all traces you've left, and kill us all by slitting our throats in our sleep.”
Rich, Drusus thought, barely holding back a roll of his eyes or an undue scoff. He took exception to being called a Dawnite, and especially a Dawnite rake. He could go on at length about how that plan was foolish, but no.
“Or, instead of leaving me to make stupid guesses like these, you can tell us your name before you interrupt us so rudely, pig,” the man concluded.
Drusus' lips twisted back upwards again, this time betraying just a hint of malice. The rambling, the self-importance, sure, he could accept as much without blinking. To be insulted so directly though? And especially by a man whom Drusus would wager as entirely unprepared for the journey ahead? That was one of the little things he could appreciate, in a twisted sort of way, the sweet taste of anticipated vindication. He took two steps forward, grin lingering still, his glimmering, shadowed gaze glued to Orwen's own, and he considered him at length once more.
"There's something commendable about knowing when to quit. Perhaps you'll see one day, hm? Maybe you'd be safer back home, hm?" He let out a soft, easy chuckle. He stepped around the man, giving him an awfully friendly clap on the shoulder as he went.
"After all," he called over his own shoulder, as he made for the bar,
"Dawnites and cutthroats make poor company on the road!"Perhaps he'd have gotten himself a drink next, perhaps something to eat. Or even then, maybe he'd just take a seat and rest. It didn't matter though, because not long after his excursion to the bar the one he presumed was Lady Buxton had taken to one of the tables and commenced with bellowing instructions to the lot of them. A name on a wall. A next of kin. He complied promptly, turning from the bar and making his way, on light steps, to the wall in question and its scrawled names. He took his turn, a name and what passed for a 'next of kin':
DRUSUS - CAMERATA DE' FEINNA.
And then he was gone. He retrieved his key and started upstairs without another word or stray glance. He turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, and then he finally pulled his heavy cloak from his shoulders. He set it aside against the foot of the bed, but he did not retire just yet. If anything, he grew more restless now that he was safe from the scrutiny of the others. He walked a slow circle at the center of the room, his eyes darting from the floor, to the ceiling, and then to the furnishings. His mind raced again, in appraisal of those he'd seen and heard. In consideration of the names he'd read before inscribing his own.
It would be awhile before he moved his cloak aside and turned in for however many hours until his rude awakening. He awaited it eagerly.