N3v3rM0r3
Ezekiel
Pizza Box
RPM
Hos
rush99999
tadcfnaf
Syrenrei
Zeus23@Fetzen That is entirely up to you, if you want the city to have an occult library, then it does! Feel free to create as you go along, in the unlikely event that it clashes with anything I have planned I will let you know!
Penny Member
STATUS: Ethical issues aside, AI prose is just really bad. 8 days ago
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Recent Statuses
8 days ago
Current
Ethical issues aside, AI prose is just really bad.
3
likes
16 days ago
She wanted to read, she wanted to write, but the main thing she wanted was something to fight
4
likes
1 yr ago
Make it clear that you don't need him to be reading Dante tomorrow. Also suggest it would be fun if you had a private language that you could use to mock English speakers in secret.
5
likes
2 yrs ago
Luckily history suggests an infinite ability for people to be shit heads ;)
1
like
3 yrs ago
Achmed the Snake
1
like
Bio
Early 30's. I know just enough about everything to be dangerous.
Most Recent Posts
@POOHEAD189
Lightning crashed outside and the lights flickered, momentarily plunging the room into a darkness illuminated only by the whites of the newcomers' eyes. Power surged back on and the old cathode ray sputtered to life. It painted a grainy vision of Tolkien’s bag end with Sir Ian Mcellan’s face darkening.
“BILBO BAGGINS DO NOT TAKE ME FOR SOME CONJURER OF CHEAP TRICKS!”
The temperature dropped ten degrees and the smell of packed snow was suddenly heavy on the air. There was another deafening crash with no time at all between the report and the flash. Painful blue light etched the interior of the room with radiance so pure it made the mundane surroundings seem tawdry and washed out. The woman’s skin seemed to shine a dark blue and for a fleeting moment the maternal eyes were gone, replaced by something wild and feral. A long pointed tongue protruded from jet black lips and quested from side to side like a serpent. Almost like an x-ray exposure her form seemed revealed through her clothes and somehow she seemed to have four arms, one of them seemed to be clutching something but before it could be identified the electrical light faded. The strange woman smiled as the tv fizzled into static and died with a pop.
From outside there came a squealing of tires and a roar of engines. Powerful headlights flickered through the windows casting a yellow light that seemed ugly compared to the purity of the lightning. A trio of expensive sport cars in gold and white pulled up. Doors slid open and hatched up as tall figures stepped out. They were beautiful beings, fair skinned with piercing feline eyes. Their limbs were long and graceful and they moved with an unearthly grace. Each wore a suit of half plate, exquisitely wrought and inlaid with gold and glittering jewels. Scabbarded swords hung at their belts but were somewhat undercut by desert pattern H&K automatics they lifted from their cars. The six fae lords arranged themselves in a line and lifted their weapons.
“Oh dear,” the Indian woman said in the same tone she might have used if she spilled her tea. She lifted a cup of milk to her mouth and sipped from it. There was an oddly queasy feeling as the cup touched her lips. Somehow it seemed that the milk drank her form rather than the other way round and within a second she had vanished, the empty cup falling to the ground and bouncing on the carpet.
_________
@Ducksworth
The rain stung like a shower of BB pellets as the muscular bikes raced through the rain. Towards the center of town the sky glowed with a combination of fires and the reflected light of hundreds of emergency vehicles. It was a good thing that the police were otherwise occupied because the score of roaring bikes obeyed no speed limit nor traffic rule. Several of the werewolves had produced sawed off shot guns which they fired at street lights, more or less for the joy of seeing them shatter. The bikers were howling, almost as loud as their metal steeds and the smell of hormones and wet dog was detectable even over the stink of exhaust. The passing of the iron processing caused several fender benders as they ran red lights and ignored stop signs. A few drivers leaped out of their vehicles but any objections or threats died on their lips as they observed the cause of increase in their insurance premiums.
Within minutes they reached the rusted gate, which already hung open, swinging in the storm driven winds to bang against its jam and rebound. The bikes slowed, not due to any sense of caution but by the similar necessity of following the spiraling road up the hillside towards the lowering form of the observatory dome, a black semicircle against the storm wracked sky. Oaks and ash trees lined the road, though the scrub beyond was more like a wild forest than a manicured park, long overgrown and neglected.
Jack slowed further as the reached the top where a gravel parkinglot spread out before the observatory. The structure itself was half ruined, its windows shattered and its lower story marked with graffiti. Trash blew in the wind as the storm scoured chip packets and candy wrappers abandoned by teens who had invaded the space for their innocent indulgences in drugs or sexuality. Three vans were parked before the door, noses pointed out like a phalanx. The words Corvus Bay Natural History Museum were stenciled on their side along with a logo that combined a crow with a knapped arrowhead. The bikers slowed and came to a stop and the werewolves leaped from their metal steeds, boots crunching in the gravel.
“Who is this?” O’kane demanded, glowing at the young wizard. “If this is some trick…” Further speculation was interrupted as a figure emerged from between the vans. It was a portly woman in early middle age dressed in a heavy yellow raincoat, the kind used by sailors rather than something domestic, she carried a powerful flashlight which she played across them without apparent concern.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked in a clear musical voice.
“Who the fuck are you?” Jack demanded, gripping Emrys and hauling him before him.
“My name is Rebecca,” the woman said with a pleasant white smile. She opened her coat to reveal a name tag that read: Hello, My Name is Rebe-ka. It was marked with the insignia of the natural history museum.
“What are you doing here?” Jack demanded, clearly non-plused by the lack of concern the woman was showing at being confronted by twenty thuggish looking males, several of whom were obviously armed.
“Working,” the woman replied sunnily. “I’m afraid we aren’t open to the public, perhaps in a few months we will be ready for visitors?”
_________
@Fetzen
Fire flared out from Balthazar, hotter and fiercer than anything he had conjured before. It seemed wild somehow, hungry, infused with malice and hatred. Both policemen erupted in fire. The shotgun went off with a twitch and buckshot ripped bloody streaks across his left arm, the dark blood sizzling as the flames touched it. The second officer didn’t manage even that, the magazine of his pistol bursting open as the ammunition gangfired, filling the air with a crazed spray of bullet fragments that shattered several windows. The tires of the police car and the scooter burst in stinking clouds of burning rubber a moment before the metal in the body panels caught, paint curling away in smoke before the metal itself ignited and burned in gorgeous greens and reds. There was a dull whump as the fuel tanks caught in low order combustions which belched fireballs skyward and the windshield blasted outwards spraying glittering prisms of shattered glass in all directions. As abruptly as it kindled the fire flickered and vanished, leaving the vehicles blazing wrecks. The two policemen were little more than charred bones, one of the skulls crumbling to shed teeth like the petals of a dying flower. The asphalt itself glistened and ran in a sticky river into which the bones and detritus partially submerged. The road itself seemed to shudder as if wounded, a ripple passing up and down the street, cracking concrete for several hundred meters.
A stillness descended as the fire died away leaving the burned out frame of the scooter and the police cruiser guttering as the fire lost the temperature needed to burn the metals. The result were metal skeletons that shared more than was comfortable with the ruined human corpses, shimmering and twisted with heat. The air was rank with the smell of burned pork, burning asphalt, and the greasy reek of sublimated metal. Car alarms and anti burglary systems from the shop fronts wailed in protest. A few passers by stood in abject shock, not yet marshalling the willpower to produce phones and start recording or calling the overwhelmed emergency services.
There was a chuckle in the back of Balthazar’s mind, alien and other. It seemed to emanate from the orb he had so casually taken from the scene of the bombing. It was still in Balthazar’s coat, a coat which miraculously remained unburned by the flames that had just made steel body plates run like wax under a blow torch.
Lightning crashed outside and the lights flickered, momentarily plunging the room into a darkness illuminated only by the whites of the newcomers' eyes. Power surged back on and the old cathode ray sputtered to life. It painted a grainy vision of Tolkien’s bag end with Sir Ian Mcellan’s face darkening.
“BILBO BAGGINS DO NOT TAKE ME FOR SOME CONJURER OF CHEAP TRICKS!”
The temperature dropped ten degrees and the smell of packed snow was suddenly heavy on the air. There was another deafening crash with no time at all between the report and the flash. Painful blue light etched the interior of the room with radiance so pure it made the mundane surroundings seem tawdry and washed out. The woman’s skin seemed to shine a dark blue and for a fleeting moment the maternal eyes were gone, replaced by something wild and feral. A long pointed tongue protruded from jet black lips and quested from side to side like a serpent. Almost like an x-ray exposure her form seemed revealed through her clothes and somehow she seemed to have four arms, one of them seemed to be clutching something but before it could be identified the electrical light faded. The strange woman smiled as the tv fizzled into static and died with a pop.
From outside there came a squealing of tires and a roar of engines. Powerful headlights flickered through the windows casting a yellow light that seemed ugly compared to the purity of the lightning. A trio of expensive sport cars in gold and white pulled up. Doors slid open and hatched up as tall figures stepped out. They were beautiful beings, fair skinned with piercing feline eyes. Their limbs were long and graceful and they moved with an unearthly grace. Each wore a suit of half plate, exquisitely wrought and inlaid with gold and glittering jewels. Scabbarded swords hung at their belts but were somewhat undercut by desert pattern H&K automatics they lifted from their cars. The six fae lords arranged themselves in a line and lifted their weapons.
“Oh dear,” the Indian woman said in the same tone she might have used if she spilled her tea. She lifted a cup of milk to her mouth and sipped from it. There was an oddly queasy feeling as the cup touched her lips. Somehow it seemed that the milk drank her form rather than the other way round and within a second she had vanished, the empty cup falling to the ground and bouncing on the carpet.
_________
@Ducksworth
The rain stung like a shower of BB pellets as the muscular bikes raced through the rain. Towards the center of town the sky glowed with a combination of fires and the reflected light of hundreds of emergency vehicles. It was a good thing that the police were otherwise occupied because the score of roaring bikes obeyed no speed limit nor traffic rule. Several of the werewolves had produced sawed off shot guns which they fired at street lights, more or less for the joy of seeing them shatter. The bikers were howling, almost as loud as their metal steeds and the smell of hormones and wet dog was detectable even over the stink of exhaust. The passing of the iron processing caused several fender benders as they ran red lights and ignored stop signs. A few drivers leaped out of their vehicles but any objections or threats died on their lips as they observed the cause of increase in their insurance premiums.
Within minutes they reached the rusted gate, which already hung open, swinging in the storm driven winds to bang against its jam and rebound. The bikes slowed, not due to any sense of caution but by the similar necessity of following the spiraling road up the hillside towards the lowering form of the observatory dome, a black semicircle against the storm wracked sky. Oaks and ash trees lined the road, though the scrub beyond was more like a wild forest than a manicured park, long overgrown and neglected.
Jack slowed further as the reached the top where a gravel parkinglot spread out before the observatory. The structure itself was half ruined, its windows shattered and its lower story marked with graffiti. Trash blew in the wind as the storm scoured chip packets and candy wrappers abandoned by teens who had invaded the space for their innocent indulgences in drugs or sexuality. Three vans were parked before the door, noses pointed out like a phalanx. The words Corvus Bay Natural History Museum were stenciled on their side along with a logo that combined a crow with a knapped arrowhead. The bikers slowed and came to a stop and the werewolves leaped from their metal steeds, boots crunching in the gravel.
“Who is this?” O’kane demanded, glowing at the young wizard. “If this is some trick…” Further speculation was interrupted as a figure emerged from between the vans. It was a portly woman in early middle age dressed in a heavy yellow raincoat, the kind used by sailors rather than something domestic, she carried a powerful flashlight which she played across them without apparent concern.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked in a clear musical voice.
“Who the fuck are you?” Jack demanded, gripping Emrys and hauling him before him.
“My name is Rebecca,” the woman said with a pleasant white smile. She opened her coat to reveal a name tag that read: Hello, My Name is Rebe-ka. It was marked with the insignia of the natural history museum.
“What are you doing here?” Jack demanded, clearly non-plused by the lack of concern the woman was showing at being confronted by twenty thuggish looking males, several of whom were obviously armed.
“Working,” the woman replied sunnily. “I’m afraid we aren’t open to the public, perhaps in a few months we will be ready for visitors?”
_________
@Fetzen
Fire flared out from Balthazar, hotter and fiercer than anything he had conjured before. It seemed wild somehow, hungry, infused with malice and hatred. Both policemen erupted in fire. The shotgun went off with a twitch and buckshot ripped bloody streaks across his left arm, the dark blood sizzling as the flames touched it. The second officer didn’t manage even that, the magazine of his pistol bursting open as the ammunition gangfired, filling the air with a crazed spray of bullet fragments that shattered several windows. The tires of the police car and the scooter burst in stinking clouds of burning rubber a moment before the metal in the body panels caught, paint curling away in smoke before the metal itself ignited and burned in gorgeous greens and reds. There was a dull whump as the fuel tanks caught in low order combustions which belched fireballs skyward and the windshield blasted outwards spraying glittering prisms of shattered glass in all directions. As abruptly as it kindled the fire flickered and vanished, leaving the vehicles blazing wrecks. The two policemen were little more than charred bones, one of the skulls crumbling to shed teeth like the petals of a dying flower. The asphalt itself glistened and ran in a sticky river into which the bones and detritus partially submerged. The road itself seemed to shudder as if wounded, a ripple passing up and down the street, cracking concrete for several hundred meters.
A stillness descended as the fire died away leaving the burned out frame of the scooter and the police cruiser guttering as the fire lost the temperature needed to burn the metals. The result were metal skeletons that shared more than was comfortable with the ruined human corpses, shimmering and twisted with heat. The air was rank with the smell of burned pork, burning asphalt, and the greasy reek of sublimated metal. Car alarms and anti burglary systems from the shop fronts wailed in protest. A few passers by stood in abject shock, not yet marshalling the willpower to produce phones and start recording or calling the overwhelmed emergency services.
There was a chuckle in the back of Balthazar’s mind, alien and other. It seemed to emanate from the orb he had so casually taken from the scene of the bombing. It was still in Balthazar’s coat, a coat which miraculously remained unburned by the flames that had just made steel body plates run like wax under a blow torch.
It turned out that getting Bertrand the Blade to talk was not difficult. The challenge was getting him to shut the hell up. Kayden had brought the assassin into the town house as sword point. Sir Otto was spluttering with rage, furious that his precautions to guard his mistress had proven so ineffective. Calliope, having donned a silk dressing gown to make herself more or less decent, joined them in the kitchen which had been chosen due to its lack of windows and ready access to knives and fire. Not that such motivation was necessary.
“...and zen zey made me zeir chief,” Bertrand said, continuing a long and completely tangential anecdote about how he had risen to command of the band of cut throat which Kayden and Morek had just dispatched. He certainly didn’t seem cut up about it, if anything he seemed to be in a fine mood. Rather a better one than he would be if he didn’t get to the point shortly Calliope thought blackly. Bertrand was a rather handsome man in early middle age with a thin and obviously well cared for pencil mustache. His Brettonian heritage would have been obvious from his prominent nose even if he wasn’t doing actual violence to Riekspiel with each word he spoke.
“Yes, quite,” Calliope interjected, eyes flashing with irritation.
“Perhaps, if you were to skip to the part where you tell me who hired you to kill me,” she suggested icily.
“Oy oui, le wizarrd, van Wrulf, 'é 'iaiyairéd mé to keehl you zis vairy nigh,” Bertrand explained, “'é paid me a 'undred tilean ducats. Bon!”
Otto arched an eyebrow in disgust at this confession, his face dark as he crossed his muscular arms. If it was intimidating Bertrand it did not show.
“That is it, you roll over on your employer just like that,” the Knight demanded.
“Oh oui monsieur of curse! Should ai be all stoic and zén maibe le préttay lady starts peeleng mon skin off, ai tell haire zen ai assure you, and all zat blood and effairt to get to zé same plaz!” Bertrand explained as though speaking to a simpleton.
“No honor among thieves ey?” Otto sneered.
“Ai am non thief ai am 'ow do you sai a throat cooter!” Bertrand objected, clearly offended by the insinuation. Calliope set the knife down and massaged her temples with her fingers. Bertrand’s eyes flicked between Calliope and Kayden a hopeful smile on his lips.
“As you can see eet eez nothéng pairsonal! You seem lik love-lee peopl!”
“So Van Wrulf hired you to kill me. Seems extreme, we didn’t part on good terms but..”
“Oh non madmosielle 'e eez afraid of you 'e thinks you come to steahl 'is tréasur!” Bertrand blurted. Calliope turned to regard the assassin, an eyebrow arched. What kind of treasure could Van Wrulf have that he thought she had come for.
“And ai weehl tell you all abut eet if you promizé not to keehl me,” Bertrand added quickly. Otto back handed the bound man, rocking him back on the rickety chair. For a miracle it didn’t break.
“We could just start cutting off fingers till you tell us,” Otto snapped.
“Oui but all ze effairt, all le mez,” Bertrand pointed out reasonably, shrinking away from the Knight.
“Enough Otto, leave us,” Calliope ordered sternly.
“But my lady your safety…”
“Is apparently in good hands as I have escaped one assassination attempt tonight already,” she replied tartly, "perhaps your time would better be spent securing the house. “ The jibe went in like a knife. Otto’s face blackened with rage and he stood very still for a few seconds, a slight tick in his left eye, then he turned and stalked from the room without another word.
“Very well,” Calliope acquiesced, “tell me of this treasure and I will let you live. You have my word on it.”
Bertrand’s eyes flicked between Kayden and Calliope again but he obviously realized that this was his best hope. He nodded his head.
“'e didn't tell me what eet was but ai saw eet, eet was a crystal key, 'e 'ad eet around 'is nek and 'e kept clutcheng at, zat is all I know.”
Calliope was uncharacteristically silent, a look of shock on her face. She made a curt gesture and a ghostly image of a crystal key floated above her palm. It twisted slowly in the air, showing off it’s many facets.
“Is this what you saw?” she demanded. Bertrand nodded his head trying to edge back away from the display of magic.
“The Keys of Al’Kazi,” Calliope said, shaking her head. How had Van Wrulf managed to get it. The artefact had been kept secured in the amethyst college and there was no way they would have let it go unless…
“That was his price for turning on me,” Calliope said in a moment of revelation, “the worm betrayed me to get his hands on it and now he has left Altdorf before the College demands it back…”
“You weehl let me go now oui?” Betrand asked hopefully. Calliope leaned towards the assassin and spread the palm of her right hand. Purple energy arched from finger tip to fingertip as she chanted. The temperature dropped sharply and a glyph began to form in her palm.
“Oh I didn’t say anything about letting you go, I just said I wasn’t going to kill you,” Calliope said with a wicked smile curving her lips. There was a sudden snapping sound and an abbreviated scream. A raven stood on the chair where Betrand had sat. It flapped its wings and took to the air, wavering unsteadily as if unsure how to to fly. It hit the wall and flopped onto the ground then looked up at Calliope with red, confused eyes. She extended her hand it it leaped into the air, unsteadily landing on her night gown and clawing it’s way up onto her shoulder.
“This changes things, we will need to plan,” Calliope declared. The raven tilted it’s head and cawed loudly in emphasis.
“...and zen zey made me zeir chief,” Bertrand said, continuing a long and completely tangential anecdote about how he had risen to command of the band of cut throat which Kayden and Morek had just dispatched. He certainly didn’t seem cut up about it, if anything he seemed to be in a fine mood. Rather a better one than he would be if he didn’t get to the point shortly Calliope thought blackly. Bertrand was a rather handsome man in early middle age with a thin and obviously well cared for pencil mustache. His Brettonian heritage would have been obvious from his prominent nose even if he wasn’t doing actual violence to Riekspiel with each word he spoke.
“Yes, quite,” Calliope interjected, eyes flashing with irritation.
“Perhaps, if you were to skip to the part where you tell me who hired you to kill me,” she suggested icily.
“Oy oui, le wizarrd, van Wrulf, 'é 'iaiyairéd mé to keehl you zis vairy nigh,” Bertrand explained, “'é paid me a 'undred tilean ducats. Bon!”
Otto arched an eyebrow in disgust at this confession, his face dark as he crossed his muscular arms. If it was intimidating Bertrand it did not show.
“That is it, you roll over on your employer just like that,” the Knight demanded.
“Oh oui monsieur of curse! Should ai be all stoic and zén maibe le préttay lady starts peeleng mon skin off, ai tell haire zen ai assure you, and all zat blood and effairt to get to zé same plaz!” Bertrand explained as though speaking to a simpleton.
“No honor among thieves ey?” Otto sneered.
“Ai am non thief ai am 'ow do you sai a throat cooter!” Bertrand objected, clearly offended by the insinuation. Calliope set the knife down and massaged her temples with her fingers. Bertrand’s eyes flicked between Calliope and Kayden a hopeful smile on his lips.
“As you can see eet eez nothéng pairsonal! You seem lik love-lee peopl!”
“So Van Wrulf hired you to kill me. Seems extreme, we didn’t part on good terms but..”
“Oh non madmosielle 'e eez afraid of you 'e thinks you come to steahl 'is tréasur!” Bertrand blurted. Calliope turned to regard the assassin, an eyebrow arched. What kind of treasure could Van Wrulf have that he thought she had come for.
“And ai weehl tell you all abut eet if you promizé not to keehl me,” Bertrand added quickly. Otto back handed the bound man, rocking him back on the rickety chair. For a miracle it didn’t break.
“We could just start cutting off fingers till you tell us,” Otto snapped.
“Oui but all ze effairt, all le mez,” Bertrand pointed out reasonably, shrinking away from the Knight.
“Enough Otto, leave us,” Calliope ordered sternly.
“But my lady your safety…”
“Is apparently in good hands as I have escaped one assassination attempt tonight already,” she replied tartly, "perhaps your time would better be spent securing the house. “ The jibe went in like a knife. Otto’s face blackened with rage and he stood very still for a few seconds, a slight tick in his left eye, then he turned and stalked from the room without another word.
“Very well,” Calliope acquiesced, “tell me of this treasure and I will let you live. You have my word on it.”
Bertrand’s eyes flicked between Kayden and Calliope again but he obviously realized that this was his best hope. He nodded his head.
“'e didn't tell me what eet was but ai saw eet, eet was a crystal key, 'e 'ad eet around 'is nek and 'e kept clutcheng at, zat is all I know.”
Calliope was uncharacteristically silent, a look of shock on her face. She made a curt gesture and a ghostly image of a crystal key floated above her palm. It twisted slowly in the air, showing off it’s many facets.
“Is this what you saw?” she demanded. Bertrand nodded his head trying to edge back away from the display of magic.
“The Keys of Al’Kazi,” Calliope said, shaking her head. How had Van Wrulf managed to get it. The artefact had been kept secured in the amethyst college and there was no way they would have let it go unless…
“That was his price for turning on me,” Calliope said in a moment of revelation, “the worm betrayed me to get his hands on it and now he has left Altdorf before the College demands it back…”
“You weehl let me go now oui?” Betrand asked hopefully. Calliope leaned towards the assassin and spread the palm of her right hand. Purple energy arched from finger tip to fingertip as she chanted. The temperature dropped sharply and a glyph began to form in her palm.
“Oh I didn’t say anything about letting you go, I just said I wasn’t going to kill you,” Calliope said with a wicked smile curving her lips. There was a sudden snapping sound and an abbreviated scream. A raven stood on the chair where Betrand had sat. It flapped its wings and took to the air, wavering unsteadily as if unsure how to to fly. It hit the wall and flopped onto the ground then looked up at Calliope with red, confused eyes. She extended her hand it it leaped into the air, unsteadily landing on her night gown and clawing it’s way up onto her shoulder.
“This changes things, we will need to plan,” Calliope declared. The raven tilted it’s head and cawed loudly in emphasis.
“What is going on here?!” a voice boomed from the door. The Captain of Lady Aresenault’s guard strode into the room flanked by three of his flunkies. All three had fancy looking but probably functional las guns and the Captain had his hand on an elegantly tooled white leather holster. Joachim and his men glared daggers at the guardsmen and seemed on the verge of violent action until Sergeant Crispin and the balance of first squad came boiling through the doors after Kayden. Their las guns were more than probably functional and trooper Elwys had a flamer strapped to her back, the pilot light burning bright blue in the chill air and a disconcerting look of manic excitement on her face. Sel reflected that during her entire time with the sentinel squadron she had never once been hit over the head, accused of murder, or tied to a chair, and reflected on the general unfairness of the universe in general and the Imperial Guard in particular.
“Sir!” Joachim snapped, performing a parade ground salute and stepping around the moaning sergeant to level his saber at Sel.
“We have apprehended Savant Bosk’s murderer and were interrogating her when she attempted to escape, assaulting me in the process,” he reported, rubbing his split lip to enhance his point.
“These serfs are interfering in our efforts to do justice!”
“The hell we are,” Crispin snapped, his hand on the hilt of his chainblade. Crispin did not particularly like Sel but he had a guardsman’s instinct to side with a comrade against a civilian.
“You arrested and interrogated one of my troopers without consulting me?” Kayden demanded dangerously. Sel flexed her hands, they had taken her las carbine and her pistol and it made her more than uncomfortable to be unarmed in such a tense situation.
“Your ‘trooper’ murdered Savant Bosk!” Joacim insisted, his lips white with rage.
“Like criffin’ hell I did,” Sel snapped back.
“Watch your mouth serf or…”
“Call me serf one more time and I’ll shove that saber up your..”
“What is going on here?” Lady Arsenault demanded as she swept in from a side door. Her ladyship was dressed in regal finery of white silk with a spectacular white fur cloak. Several guardsmen twitched but a look from Kayden was enough to stop them for actually pointing any guns at the Lady.
“These gentlemen were accusing one of my troops of murder my Lady Aresenault,” Kayden said in a calm courtly voice.
“Someone has been murdered? How beastly!” the noblewoman gasped.
“Well Seldon?” Kayden asked, “did you murder Savant Bosk?” Sel glanced around noting that all eyes were upon her.
“What the frak,” she asked, “is a Savant Bosk?” The room devolved into frantic shouting and gesturing with weapons. Joachim tried to rush across the room but was restrained by his own troops. Lady Arsenault went as white as her dress and backed away from the impending violence, Sel backed up behind Kayden and Sergeant Crispin.
“Lieutenant!!” Spades shouted as he came rushing down the hallway.
“LIEUTENANT!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, a sound so improbably loud it momentarily quieted the altercation and he found himself being glared at by the whole gathering. Spades promptly went red, his mouth hanging open in shock.
“You had something to contribute Specialist?” Kayden asked with commendable sangfroid.
“Uh.. sir… the pickets… we have moment coming down the valley!” Spades reported.
“Sir!” Joachim snapped, performing a parade ground salute and stepping around the moaning sergeant to level his saber at Sel.
“We have apprehended Savant Bosk’s murderer and were interrogating her when she attempted to escape, assaulting me in the process,” he reported, rubbing his split lip to enhance his point.
“These serfs are interfering in our efforts to do justice!”
“The hell we are,” Crispin snapped, his hand on the hilt of his chainblade. Crispin did not particularly like Sel but he had a guardsman’s instinct to side with a comrade against a civilian.
“You arrested and interrogated one of my troopers without consulting me?” Kayden demanded dangerously. Sel flexed her hands, they had taken her las carbine and her pistol and it made her more than uncomfortable to be unarmed in such a tense situation.
“Your ‘trooper’ murdered Savant Bosk!” Joacim insisted, his lips white with rage.
“Like criffin’ hell I did,” Sel snapped back.
“Watch your mouth serf or…”
“Call me serf one more time and I’ll shove that saber up your..”
“What is going on here?” Lady Arsenault demanded as she swept in from a side door. Her ladyship was dressed in regal finery of white silk with a spectacular white fur cloak. Several guardsmen twitched but a look from Kayden was enough to stop them for actually pointing any guns at the Lady.
“These gentlemen were accusing one of my troops of murder my Lady Aresenault,” Kayden said in a calm courtly voice.
“Someone has been murdered? How beastly!” the noblewoman gasped.
“Well Seldon?” Kayden asked, “did you murder Savant Bosk?” Sel glanced around noting that all eyes were upon her.
“What the frak,” she asked, “is a Savant Bosk?” The room devolved into frantic shouting and gesturing with weapons. Joachim tried to rush across the room but was restrained by his own troops. Lady Arsenault went as white as her dress and backed away from the impending violence, Sel backed up behind Kayden and Sergeant Crispin.
“Lieutenant!!” Spades shouted as he came rushing down the hallway.
“LIEUTENANT!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, a sound so improbably loud it momentarily quieted the altercation and he found himself being glared at by the whole gathering. Spades promptly went red, his mouth hanging open in shock.
“You had something to contribute Specialist?” Kayden asked with commendable sangfroid.
“Uh.. sir… the pickets… we have moment coming down the valley!” Spades reported.
“Met the love of mine, aye a lad so fine
Oh away in the salty Antilee!
I was tied down below on an old ship of the line
You and me Polly and Abaddon makes three
On the cold and billowing sea!”
The crew of the Pendragon hauled on the main brace cables, trimming her squaresails to the offshore breeze. The trim little vessel began to heal over and gather speed. The sailors pulled the ropes tighter, sheeting the sails as firmly as they could before belaying the lines. Now that they were clear of the headlands the winds were building and the Pendragon shaped to it, her fine prow slicing though the cerulean waves a ‘bone in her teeth’ as the cutwater churned white.
Camilla leaned over the bulwark watching as a trio of dolphins skipped and played in the churning wake. It was a good sign at the beginning of an adventure she had been told but somehow it didn’t cheer her. It seemed like she had spent an eternity in Free Sail, even if it had only been a few days, and after months at sea she felt no closer to her goal.
“Dove sei Aneillio?” she asked the ocean which, characteristically, provided no answer beyond the chuckling gurgle against the hull.
“Ah Bon Giorno Signoritta,” Sir Edmund said in horribly accented Mercian. Camilla smiled charmed both by the man’s effort at her language and by how quickly the veneer of civilization seemed to have slid from the aristocrat. Gone was the lace frock coat and cocked hat, now he wore a white cotton shirt with a red silk coat and a rather piratical looking bicorn. He looked like a buccaneer and adventurer of the old school and Camilla felt that Red Ed was much closer to the man’s soul than Captain, The Honorable, Sir Edmund, Lord South Quay was. Camilla found she liked him for it.
“My lord, shall I pipe than hands below?” Hastings asked formally, his expression seeming irritated she was still managing to stand on the deck. No matter what strange alchemy the sea worked, Hastings, it seemed, remained Hastings. Edmund looked up at the commissioning pendant and considered it.
“No, though I’d admire we harden up another point to the wind, we are bound to hit the full southerly once we clear the island’s lee and I don’t want to have to tack if the wind comes sou’sou-east as the bastard thing is like to do after noon in these latitudes,” he replied, then gave Camilla an apologetic look.
“If you will pardon the nautical parlance My Lady,” he grinned.
“Camilla please, My Lady was mia madre, and you do not know enough languages to scandalize me,” she teased and he touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement.
“Now what the devil is that about?” Edmund asked, drawing his spy glass from his belt and peering back towards the shore. Camilla followed his gaze to see another ship exiting the harbor. It was larger than the Pendragon and rode more heavily in the water, seeming to smash it’s way through the waves where the Pendragon sliced. Camilla was no expert but the billowing tan sails looked distinctly amateurish compared to Sir Edmund’s crews efforts.
“Another ship, nothing unusual surely?” Camilla noted.
“Not heavily loaded, and I don’t recognise her, looks more like a sixth rate man of war than a trader, though she lacks the gunports for it,” Edmund mused.
“Is she one of …. how do you say it… your cruising fleet?” Camilla asked. Edmund guaffed loudly.
“Lord no, the mess she is making of her stays any Albion captain would have shot himself out of sheer embarrassment, maybe a Don or a damned Val Dor, God bless the luckless bastards," Edmund snickered.
“But she flies no national colors and I don’t care to look at her, see the long nines on her foredeck, heavy chase guns for a merchant,” Edmund mused. Camilla did not see, but she suspected she would if she knew more about naval matters or had a spy glass.
“Could she be a pirate, there were Black Fleet in the taverns,” Camilla worried.
“Aye could be that, might explain why everything is such a mess if they set off after us in a hurry. All their standing rigging slack and their sails in harbor gaskets,” Edmund mused.
“They are chasing us you think?” she asked, her alarm growing.
“Mmmm… maybe,” Edmund replied, his face darkening. “I didn’t exactly keep my expedition a secret but it seemed unlikely to attract the attention of the powers that be.”
“You don’t seemed to worried about them, they seem a bigger ship than ours, more guns?”
“Many more, probably eighteen twelve pounders, more if they are Dons, the silly buggers will overload a ship, breaks the backs of the ship within a decade you know.”
“So why aren’t you worried?” Camilla demanded. A wolfish grin split Edmund’s face and Camilla was sure she had been right about the man's true nature.
“Because my dear lady… they will have to catch us first.”
“Fraking chill you spive toffs…” Sel mumbled as she came back to consciousness. For a moment she thought she was running across rock in her sentinel but then she realized it was merely the pounding in her head. Well not merely. It fracking hurt. Something seized her head and yanked it back and bright lights burned into her eyes. She groaned in pain and tried to twist away but her legs and wrists were lashed. Nausea coiled in her guts and she struggled not to vomit. Fortunately her electrecuted abdominal muscles refused to tense. Yep everything was coming up Seldon.
“Save your breath scum,” someone with lho scented breath said from just off to her left. Sel lashed out with her forehead and was rewarded with a satisfying impact and scream of pain. The clash made her head spin and toppled her over. Judging by the wrenching at her writs she was tied to a chair. She tensed as a series of blows, kicks by the feel of them, battered her head and chest. Amazingly her flack vest was still on and soaked the worst of the blows. Pain ripped through her head as someone grabbed her by the hair and dragged her upright, the chair rocking as it settled. Sel spat blood and forced her memories into somthing like a proper order.
“You will regret that bitch!” someone snarled. Abruptly the lights lowered and Sel could make out the room around her. She was in a drawing room, tied to a chair that probably cost more credits than she had seen in her entire life. The room was respelendent with marble, the ceterpiece an impressive carved desk that was too neat to be regularly used. Three members of Lady Arsenault’s militia stood before her, the Captain, Joachim, and what was probably supposed to be a sergeant. Any Guard seargeant would be ashamed to be suckered by a headbutt like that, and he obviously felt the shame as he clutched his lip and stared at her hatefully.
“What the frak is going on here,” she muttered, tugging at her bonds. They seemed to be some kind of polymerized rope and were fastened securely, fortunately they were also slick and she was able to work some slack into her ankles at least.
“We are asking the questions? Why did you murder Savant Bosk?” Joachim demanded, staying far enough back that Sel couldn’t spit on him. She tried anyway, the Uplifting Primer suggested that the effort itself was noble, the bloodied spit landed a few feet short of his boot but perhaps it pleased Him on Earth none the less.
“Who? The old man in the library? I never touched him, just found him before you showed up and zapped me. You are lucky it wasn’t Sergeant Crispin, he would have fed you your own arms,” she blustered.
“Corpral Seldon, where in the Throne’s name are you?” Sergeant Crispin’s voice came through her vox bead, triggered by his name. Emperor’s teeth they were amateurs. That made it all the more galling that they had managed to get the drop on her but in her defense she had been dealing with a partially disarticulated savant.
“A likely story, you were found over the body, you conveniently found the bodies of your dead comrades, we are supposed to believe that is some kind of coincidence?”
“Look I don’t know what you people are thinking, but I never expected to be abducted by Lady Arsenault’s goons,” Sel replied.
“Abducted? What are you talking about?” Crispin’s voice demanded on her vox. Joachim stepped up and slapped her hard across the face.
"Did you see me with a weapon, you think I did tall dark and nerdy with my bayonet?" she demanded, "thrones above you are the worst investigators ever."
"You watch your tongue serf or we shall have it pulled out!" Joachim snapped, his face pinched with anger. Sel was about to say that this would make it hard for her to answer anymore question but decided against further goading the aristocrats.
“Look I’m sure you just contact Lord Caradwalden he would be happy to straighten everything out,” Sel tried. She suspected he would be more than happy to straighten out any number of these parade ground soldiers once he found out they were abducting his people. Instantly she knew she had miscalculated as Joachim gave the Captain a withering look.
“Yes I’m sure your lover would be more than happy to beg the Baroness to spare you,” Joachim sneered.
“My what?!” Sel demanded.
“Your what?” Crispin’s voice echoed unhelpfully in the vox. For the love of Terra could the man just not get a squad in here and pull her ass out of the fire? Why was she the only competent soldier in the entire frakking Imperial Guard?
“We are wasting our time here, she was caught red handed, let us execute her and be done,” the captain said loftily. Joachim nodded his agreement and reached for a side arm.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Joachim agreed. Crispin was yelling in her vox now but there was no time to pay attention to that, she was also rather exercised about how events were transpiring.
“Wait wait wait!” Sel yelped in alarm, “hold on, I will confess! I just have one question!”
“Oh?” Joachim asked, “and what is that serf?” Sel let her head sag forward and mumbled something unintelligible. Joachim stepped forward, pistol in hand, leaning down to her level.
“What was that?” he asked, eyes narrow with hate.
“I said… why do you want to lose your teeth?” she snarled and leaped to her feet, driving the crown of her head into his chin. It was a mighty blow, the full force of her powerful legs beneath it, chin tucked in to make her spine into a ram with its point of impact right on the point of the aristocrats chin. Joachim’s teeth clacked shut like a gun shot and he staggered back, blood spurting from his face. Sel kicked the gun as it fell and the powerful las bolt cracked into a wall. Screaming at the top of her lungs she charged at the door, still tied to the chair. Her shoulder hit the panel and it flew open and she tumbled through. The sergeant was screaming curses and charging after her. Sel twisted on the ground and kicked the door closed, slamming it into the man's face with another satisfying crack. She kicked again and again until the door slammed and latched. The impact had knocked the vox bead out of her hear but there was no time to try and pick it up. Awkwardly she rolled to her feet and bolted down the hallway, the chair still lashed to her wrist and thighs, hoping that she could find some guardsmen before she ran into more of the Baroness’ guard.
“Save your breath scum,” someone with lho scented breath said from just off to her left. Sel lashed out with her forehead and was rewarded with a satisfying impact and scream of pain. The clash made her head spin and toppled her over. Judging by the wrenching at her writs she was tied to a chair. She tensed as a series of blows, kicks by the feel of them, battered her head and chest. Amazingly her flack vest was still on and soaked the worst of the blows. Pain ripped through her head as someone grabbed her by the hair and dragged her upright, the chair rocking as it settled. Sel spat blood and forced her memories into somthing like a proper order.
“You will regret that bitch!” someone snarled. Abruptly the lights lowered and Sel could make out the room around her. She was in a drawing room, tied to a chair that probably cost more credits than she had seen in her entire life. The room was respelendent with marble, the ceterpiece an impressive carved desk that was too neat to be regularly used. Three members of Lady Arsenault’s militia stood before her, the Captain, Joachim, and what was probably supposed to be a sergeant. Any Guard seargeant would be ashamed to be suckered by a headbutt like that, and he obviously felt the shame as he clutched his lip and stared at her hatefully.
“What the frak is going on here,” she muttered, tugging at her bonds. They seemed to be some kind of polymerized rope and were fastened securely, fortunately they were also slick and she was able to work some slack into her ankles at least.
“We are asking the questions? Why did you murder Savant Bosk?” Joachim demanded, staying far enough back that Sel couldn’t spit on him. She tried anyway, the Uplifting Primer suggested that the effort itself was noble, the bloodied spit landed a few feet short of his boot but perhaps it pleased Him on Earth none the less.
“Who? The old man in the library? I never touched him, just found him before you showed up and zapped me. You are lucky it wasn’t Sergeant Crispin, he would have fed you your own arms,” she blustered.
“Corpral Seldon, where in the Throne’s name are you?” Sergeant Crispin’s voice came through her vox bead, triggered by his name. Emperor’s teeth they were amateurs. That made it all the more galling that they had managed to get the drop on her but in her defense she had been dealing with a partially disarticulated savant.
“A likely story, you were found over the body, you conveniently found the bodies of your dead comrades, we are supposed to believe that is some kind of coincidence?”
“Look I don’t know what you people are thinking, but I never expected to be abducted by Lady Arsenault’s goons,” Sel replied.
“Abducted? What are you talking about?” Crispin’s voice demanded on her vox. Joachim stepped up and slapped her hard across the face.
"Did you see me with a weapon, you think I did tall dark and nerdy with my bayonet?" she demanded, "thrones above you are the worst investigators ever."
"You watch your tongue serf or we shall have it pulled out!" Joachim snapped, his face pinched with anger. Sel was about to say that this would make it hard for her to answer anymore question but decided against further goading the aristocrats.
“Look I’m sure you just contact Lord Caradwalden he would be happy to straighten everything out,” Sel tried. She suspected he would be more than happy to straighten out any number of these parade ground soldiers once he found out they were abducting his people. Instantly she knew she had miscalculated as Joachim gave the Captain a withering look.
“Yes I’m sure your lover would be more than happy to beg the Baroness to spare you,” Joachim sneered.
“My what?!” Sel demanded.
“Your what?” Crispin’s voice echoed unhelpfully in the vox. For the love of Terra could the man just not get a squad in here and pull her ass out of the fire? Why was she the only competent soldier in the entire frakking Imperial Guard?
“We are wasting our time here, she was caught red handed, let us execute her and be done,” the captain said loftily. Joachim nodded his agreement and reached for a side arm.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Joachim agreed. Crispin was yelling in her vox now but there was no time to pay attention to that, she was also rather exercised about how events were transpiring.
“Wait wait wait!” Sel yelped in alarm, “hold on, I will confess! I just have one question!”
“Oh?” Joachim asked, “and what is that serf?” Sel let her head sag forward and mumbled something unintelligible. Joachim stepped forward, pistol in hand, leaning down to her level.
“What was that?” he asked, eyes narrow with hate.
“I said… why do you want to lose your teeth?” she snarled and leaped to her feet, driving the crown of her head into his chin. It was a mighty blow, the full force of her powerful legs beneath it, chin tucked in to make her spine into a ram with its point of impact right on the point of the aristocrats chin. Joachim’s teeth clacked shut like a gun shot and he staggered back, blood spurting from his face. Sel kicked the gun as it fell and the powerful las bolt cracked into a wall. Screaming at the top of her lungs she charged at the door, still tied to the chair. Her shoulder hit the panel and it flew open and she tumbled through. The sergeant was screaming curses and charging after her. Sel twisted on the ground and kicked the door closed, slamming it into the man's face with another satisfying crack. She kicked again and again until the door slammed and latched. The impact had knocked the vox bead out of her hear but there was no time to try and pick it up. Awkwardly she rolled to her feet and bolted down the hallway, the chair still lashed to her wrist and thighs, hoping that she could find some guardsmen before she ran into more of the Baroness’ guard.
It was an eerie experience to walk alone through the great house. Sel had a scouts memory for twists and turns but could appreciate how easy it would be to get lost. She moved down hallways with plush carpets and across rooms tiled in party colored marble, heading for the front of the house where Kayden had last been seen. As minutes passed and she saw no staff she began to grow wary. In the hive the idea that such a large space should be empty of people seemed almost blasphemous, an impression that hadn’t been corrected by guard billets or troopships. It made her feel uneasy and there was a killer on the loose somewhere afterall. Instinctively Sel unslung her las gun and replaced the power cell taking some comfort from the familiar movement. She hadn’t fired it but the cold of the patrol could easily have drained the pack and the indicator lights weren’t always reliable no matter how diligently one might perform the Litany of Armaments. The loss of the shield was beginning to be felt, not so much in the temperature but in the dull hum of whatever back up heating systems kept the floors and rooms warm. It was probably piped hot water as in some places the marble walls were damp with condensate giving the disturbing impression that the building itself was sweating.
Perhaps because of this when Sel heard people approaching she stepped into an alcove in which an antique suit of armor stood with a double handed sword. Two figures entered from the end of the hall, their boots ringing on the marble floors.
“...lock down the house if there is a murderer on the loose,” the first voice was saying.
“It is probably just some of the Guard serfs settling scores,” the other man said, “little more than criminals and whoever can be swept up to meet the tithe.”
“They will try to blame it on us, probably part of that Colonel’s attempt to get into her ladyship’s boudoir,” the first voice replied acidly. It took a moment for Sel to realize that the ‘Colonel’ in question was Kayden. Emperor save her from these stiff shirts that couldn’t read an insignia.
“That isn’t exactly an accomplishment now is it?” Second Voice replied. There was a sudden grunt of exertion and the boots stopped moving.
“You go too far Joachim!” the first voice snapped, his words bitten out through clenched teeth.
“Appologies my Lord, I forgot myself,” the first grunted. There was a moment's silence and then the footsteps began again. Sel pressed herself back into the alcove, fighting off the urge to sneeze from the dust as the two men passed. One was the mustachioed Captain of the Guard she had been briefly introduced to, the other was a younger more heavily set man she didn’t recognise, presumably the Joachim she had heard mentioned. They were both in their polished breast plates and ridiculous tasseled uniforms complete with gilt handled sabers and sabertashes like they were off to an Emperor’s Day parade. They passed by and Sel waited in position for another two minutes to be sure they were gone before stepping out into the hallway. There was no way the killer was someone in the platoon, whatever those peacocks might think. The unit had been through a lot together, even before Sel had been forcibly welded to it and a guard platoon was no place for secrets. You couldn’t be a guardsman and be alone, you had to trust someone, and eventually word of whatever your vice was would get out, even if the audience for that gossip was small. It had to be someone from the houseguards or the staff but that didn’t narrow it down much. Sel did not much relish playing amateur sleuth, but neither did she care for the idea of waiting for someone to bring an axe down on the back of her head, she very much wanted to believe that Kayden would be able to figure it out before more people died.
It was with these maudlin thoughts in mind that she noticed a slight scuff of red on the floor as she passed a doorway that had been garishly decorated with a coat of arms. She paused, considering her options, then crossed to it and knelt down, tentatively touching her finger to the stain. They came away wet with blood. Standing quickly she pressed herself up against the wall, then reached for the door handle. With a jerk she ripped it open and went in low, the barrel of her carbine sweeping the room from left to right just like in Crispin’s endless room clearance drills. The room was a library of some kind, the walls laden with books bound in dark leather. Various trinkets were scattered around on plinths and stands, all looked valuable, all looked old. A man lay sprawled across a reading desk beside a fireplace flanked by marble carnadons. He wore the brown robes of a savant, complete with an impressive white beard and implanted oculars mounted on the bridge of his nose. He was thoroughly dead, his collarbone and upper chest carved open as though with the blow of a great axe. Bright blood from his lungs stained his robe and pooled on the desk top in a tacky pool. Sel advanced carefully, carbine leveled, though she supposed the chances that the man was about to pop up with half his guts hanging out were limited. The room was cool enough that a steam was rising from the body, which also suggested he hadn’t been dead that long. There were red marks on the carpet where the killer had clearly wiped the blood off their feet before exiting, though not quite enough to escape Sel’s attention.
“Frak this for a game of soldiers,” she muttered to herself as she approached the desk. Perhaps a medicae mortis might reveal more but all Sel could determine was that the old man was very dead. It looked as though he had been sitting at the desk when he died, perhaps reading… only there were no books or scrolls to be seen, not even scattered on the floor. There was an area free of blood that shouldn’t have been though, as though there had been a book there… but it had been removed.
“What in the Emperor’s name…” she looked up at the bookshelf and saw a hole in the line of shelved books. There should have been a volume there but it was gone. She touched her comm bead.
“Kolcek, I need back up, I’m…”
“Under arrest,” a voice came from the door. Sel spun to find herself staring down the barrel of an ornate but very functional las pistol. One of the officers who had derided the guardsmen as serfs was standing in the doorway, behind him another uniformed man with an electro-halberd. The gunman stepped into the room to make space for his minion. Sel was fast but there was no way she was going to be able to swing her weapon to bear before the twitchy looking officer lit her up.
“Drop the rifle nice and slow,” the officer demanded. Sel was tempted for a moment, but to drop a las gun with its safety off wasn’t a good idea, if it went off there was an excellent chance the officer would reflexively pull the trigger and at this range even a half trained parade ground dunce might score a hit. Instead, she set the carbine slowly down on the table top, carefully avoiding the blood, then raised her hands.
“I don’t know what you are thinking but…” the electro-halbered sparked as it’s point struck Sel in the flak armored chest. Her body convulsed and pitched her across the room into the book shelf with a crash. She fell to the carpet, fingers twitching desperately as several books rained down on top of her. There was a voice yelling in her ear but it was difficult to make out, as though it were coming from impossibly far away. Her eyes were on the spine of one of the books, more by luck than judgement. The Complete Genealogy of the Ancient and Honorable Line of Arsenault Volume 37. Strange, that her mind should pick that up. There was a taste of blood and burning hair in her mouth and her fingers and toes felt like they were on fire. A pair of polished boots came into her peripheral vision but try as she might, Sel couldn’t make her eyes track to the wearer. She tried to speak but an overwhelming pain in her chest rendered it as a high pitched whine. Then the boot came down on her head and she knew nothing more.
Perhaps because of this when Sel heard people approaching she stepped into an alcove in which an antique suit of armor stood with a double handed sword. Two figures entered from the end of the hall, their boots ringing on the marble floors.
“...lock down the house if there is a murderer on the loose,” the first voice was saying.
“It is probably just some of the Guard serfs settling scores,” the other man said, “little more than criminals and whoever can be swept up to meet the tithe.”
“They will try to blame it on us, probably part of that Colonel’s attempt to get into her ladyship’s boudoir,” the first voice replied acidly. It took a moment for Sel to realize that the ‘Colonel’ in question was Kayden. Emperor save her from these stiff shirts that couldn’t read an insignia.
“That isn’t exactly an accomplishment now is it?” Second Voice replied. There was a sudden grunt of exertion and the boots stopped moving.
“You go too far Joachim!” the first voice snapped, his words bitten out through clenched teeth.
“Appologies my Lord, I forgot myself,” the first grunted. There was a moment's silence and then the footsteps began again. Sel pressed herself back into the alcove, fighting off the urge to sneeze from the dust as the two men passed. One was the mustachioed Captain of the Guard she had been briefly introduced to, the other was a younger more heavily set man she didn’t recognise, presumably the Joachim she had heard mentioned. They were both in their polished breast plates and ridiculous tasseled uniforms complete with gilt handled sabers and sabertashes like they were off to an Emperor’s Day parade. They passed by and Sel waited in position for another two minutes to be sure they were gone before stepping out into the hallway. There was no way the killer was someone in the platoon, whatever those peacocks might think. The unit had been through a lot together, even before Sel had been forcibly welded to it and a guard platoon was no place for secrets. You couldn’t be a guardsman and be alone, you had to trust someone, and eventually word of whatever your vice was would get out, even if the audience for that gossip was small. It had to be someone from the houseguards or the staff but that didn’t narrow it down much. Sel did not much relish playing amateur sleuth, but neither did she care for the idea of waiting for someone to bring an axe down on the back of her head, she very much wanted to believe that Kayden would be able to figure it out before more people died.
It was with these maudlin thoughts in mind that she noticed a slight scuff of red on the floor as she passed a doorway that had been garishly decorated with a coat of arms. She paused, considering her options, then crossed to it and knelt down, tentatively touching her finger to the stain. They came away wet with blood. Standing quickly she pressed herself up against the wall, then reached for the door handle. With a jerk she ripped it open and went in low, the barrel of her carbine sweeping the room from left to right just like in Crispin’s endless room clearance drills. The room was a library of some kind, the walls laden with books bound in dark leather. Various trinkets were scattered around on plinths and stands, all looked valuable, all looked old. A man lay sprawled across a reading desk beside a fireplace flanked by marble carnadons. He wore the brown robes of a savant, complete with an impressive white beard and implanted oculars mounted on the bridge of his nose. He was thoroughly dead, his collarbone and upper chest carved open as though with the blow of a great axe. Bright blood from his lungs stained his robe and pooled on the desk top in a tacky pool. Sel advanced carefully, carbine leveled, though she supposed the chances that the man was about to pop up with half his guts hanging out were limited. The room was cool enough that a steam was rising from the body, which also suggested he hadn’t been dead that long. There were red marks on the carpet where the killer had clearly wiped the blood off their feet before exiting, though not quite enough to escape Sel’s attention.
“Frak this for a game of soldiers,” she muttered to herself as she approached the desk. Perhaps a medicae mortis might reveal more but all Sel could determine was that the old man was very dead. It looked as though he had been sitting at the desk when he died, perhaps reading… only there were no books or scrolls to be seen, not even scattered on the floor. There was an area free of blood that shouldn’t have been though, as though there had been a book there… but it had been removed.
“What in the Emperor’s name…” she looked up at the bookshelf and saw a hole in the line of shelved books. There should have been a volume there but it was gone. She touched her comm bead.
“Kolcek, I need back up, I’m…”
“Under arrest,” a voice came from the door. Sel spun to find herself staring down the barrel of an ornate but very functional las pistol. One of the officers who had derided the guardsmen as serfs was standing in the doorway, behind him another uniformed man with an electro-halberd. The gunman stepped into the room to make space for his minion. Sel was fast but there was no way she was going to be able to swing her weapon to bear before the twitchy looking officer lit her up.
“Drop the rifle nice and slow,” the officer demanded. Sel was tempted for a moment, but to drop a las gun with its safety off wasn’t a good idea, if it went off there was an excellent chance the officer would reflexively pull the trigger and at this range even a half trained parade ground dunce might score a hit. Instead, she set the carbine slowly down on the table top, carefully avoiding the blood, then raised her hands.
“I don’t know what you are thinking but…” the electro-halbered sparked as it’s point struck Sel in the flak armored chest. Her body convulsed and pitched her across the room into the book shelf with a crash. She fell to the carpet, fingers twitching desperately as several books rained down on top of her. There was a voice yelling in her ear but it was difficult to make out, as though it were coming from impossibly far away. Her eyes were on the spine of one of the books, more by luck than judgement. The Complete Genealogy of the Ancient and Honorable Line of Arsenault Volume 37. Strange, that her mind should pick that up. There was a taste of blood and burning hair in her mouth and her fingers and toes felt like they were on fire. A pair of polished boots came into her peripheral vision but try as she might, Sel couldn’t make her eyes track to the wearer. She tried to speak but an overwhelming pain in her chest rendered it as a high pitched whine. Then the boot came down on her head and she knew nothing more.
The town of Bonnershaven was clearly a prosperous one. As Calliope and her escort rode in the townsfolk made way for them respectfully. The citizenry seemed cheerful and in good humor, many of them wearing ribbons, rosettes and other signs of the upcoming harvest festivals. The streets were broad and neatly cobbled, lined with neat shops and half timbered dwellings.
“At least it will be easy to provision,” Kayden observed, his tone a little disdainful as they swept a couple of city watchmen playing dice in front of a tavern. They didn’t look like much to Calliope, though she supposed an expert like Caradwalden would find more faults than she could in the slovenly plumpish men.
“I’m somewhat surprised they are so lax this close to Blackfire Pass,” Calliope observed. Kayden made a gesture tilting his hand first one way then the other.
“Don’t judge the greenskins by the pace of my people,” he cautioned her, a note of pride in his voice.
“They can flair up quick for sure, but they would waste time looting and burning as they moved west, by the time they got here people would have plenty of warning, and have sent west for aid from the bigger towns towards Nuln, all they would have to do is fort up and sit tight until help arrived,” he explained. Looming ahead of them Bonnershaven keep seeming to make his point for him. It was a massive castle built onto a large stone outcrop with several circular towers. A large moat, partially natural but supplemented by the work of picks and shovels, separated it from the city proper with a large stone bridge the only method of access. The size and style of it looked more Brettonian than the Imperial style she had seen closer to Altdorf and she said as much.
“Guns,” Otto replied, breaking into the conversation for the first time.
“Altdorf has to worry about civil unrest and a few cannon make short work of tall stone walls, that is why they are so much thicker and lower, to withstand shot. They don't have to worry about the greenskins bringing a siege train.” They were moving across the bridge at a trot now and passing under a great gatehouse. The soldiers here looked little better than the city watch, but at least they were at their posts.
“Lady Calliope Blackwood and companions!” the periwigged major domo announced before rapping the butt of an ironshod staff on the flagstones. The Baron’s audience chamber was a large chilly stone room, somewhat warmed by the lush tapestries which had been hung on every available surface. The tapestries seemed to depict hunting scenes for the most part, and there were enough stuffed animal heads to suggest that the baron or his forebears were keen hunters. The current baron was young, perhaps not yet twenty and he lounged on a wooden throne looking board with proceedings. Calliope walked the dozen paces to stand in front of the youth. She offered a curtsey that was shallow enough to make the boy sit up with a slightly irritated look in his eyes.
“An honor to meet you Baron Von Wrolth,” Calliope said politely.
“And you Lady Blackwood, though I confess I have not heard of your family,” he replied, looking her up and down with the combined frankness of a young man and an aristocrat used to getting what he wanted.
“We are an Averland family my lord, northern Averland close to the Moot,” she provided. She might as well have declared she was from the moon for all the comprehension or interest the boy seemed to show in that.
“And what brings you to Bonnershaven?” Von Wrolf asked, his tone clearly indicating she should move it along.
“My men and I merely wish to pass through your territory my lord, there are some hundred men under arms in addition to my company here,” she clarified. Von Wrolf sat up at this, clearly surprised.
“You have an army?” he demanded. An older man in a rust colured doublet, clearly a senior advisor leaned in and tried to whisper something, but the Baron waved him off with irritation.
“Hardly an army my lord,” Calliope replied smoothly, “merely some troops I am maintaining, I have certain claims I wish to press back in Averland and am travelling there. We would be pleased to purchase provisions and the like in the normal course of things.”
“Well so long as they don’t enter the city…”
The doors to a side chamber flew open and a tall man in emerald robes all but ran into the room. He was handsome and athletic looking despite the gnarled staff he gripped in one hand.
“My lord! This woman is not who she claims to be!” the newcomer snapped. There was a rasping of steel as a dozen guards drew swords. The Baron, fully wake now, all but started to his feet in confusion.
“She is Calliope the Black, a sorceress of the Amethyst College and of ill reputation besides,” the green clad man declared.
“Ranulf?” Calliope asked, arching an eyebrow in surprise. He gave her a sidelong glare but didn’t respond.
“Is this a true witch?” the advisor demanded, stepping between Calliope and the Baron. Otto stepped forward and slapped the man hard across the face.
“How dare you, we will meet on the field and…” further words were drowned out by shouts and scrapes as the guards closed in and panicked hangers on began to flee. The wizard, Ranulf, lifted his hands and began to chant but Calliope thrust out a hand and he crumpled to his knees clutching his stomach.
“ENOUGH!” Calliope roared, her voice howling like the wind through a graveyard. The sonic shock of it momentarily stunned the assembly.
“Sir Otto will withdraw his challenge, if his opponent will agree to keep a civil tongue in his head,” Calliope declared. She let her hand drop and Ranulf gasped in relief. Almost idly, she kicked the staff away from him, sending it skittering across the floor.
“Mon dieux!” a mustachioed Brettonian in a rich cream doublet remarked, shaking his head at the crudity of Imperial Court life.
“Are you truly a w…sorceress?” Baron Von Wrolf demanded. Whatever else the boy was he was certainly no coward having hardly flinched when the situation seemed close to violence.
“I am a Magister of the Amethyst Order,” Calliope confirmed, drawing gasps from some of the assembled crowd.
“I am also Lady Calliope Blackwood, Calli the Black is something of a play on my familial name,” she explained.
“Yet you did not introduce yourself as such?” Von Wrolf asked. Calliope shrugged.
“I am not required to, nor is it appropriate in this company, you might just as well introduce yourself as Von Wrulf the Hunter,” she explained. The baron seemed unconvinced and he cut his eyes to his battered advisor.
“Very well, you will provide my major domo with the location of your camp, once we are sure your men are of no threat you will be permitted to pass, and to purchase such supplies as you require,” the Baron declared.
“My Lord…” Ranulf interjected, having regained his feet but not yet having had the courage to try to retrieve his staff. The boy held up his hand to silence the wizard.
“You may go Lady Blackwood, the rest of you, this audience is over.” Calliope was already striding from the room before the major domo’s staff struck the floor.
“At least it will be easy to provision,” Kayden observed, his tone a little disdainful as they swept a couple of city watchmen playing dice in front of a tavern. They didn’t look like much to Calliope, though she supposed an expert like Caradwalden would find more faults than she could in the slovenly plumpish men.
“I’m somewhat surprised they are so lax this close to Blackfire Pass,” Calliope observed. Kayden made a gesture tilting his hand first one way then the other.
“Don’t judge the greenskins by the pace of my people,” he cautioned her, a note of pride in his voice.
“They can flair up quick for sure, but they would waste time looting and burning as they moved west, by the time they got here people would have plenty of warning, and have sent west for aid from the bigger towns towards Nuln, all they would have to do is fort up and sit tight until help arrived,” he explained. Looming ahead of them Bonnershaven keep seeming to make his point for him. It was a massive castle built onto a large stone outcrop with several circular towers. A large moat, partially natural but supplemented by the work of picks and shovels, separated it from the city proper with a large stone bridge the only method of access. The size and style of it looked more Brettonian than the Imperial style she had seen closer to Altdorf and she said as much.
“Guns,” Otto replied, breaking into the conversation for the first time.
“Altdorf has to worry about civil unrest and a few cannon make short work of tall stone walls, that is why they are so much thicker and lower, to withstand shot. They don't have to worry about the greenskins bringing a siege train.” They were moving across the bridge at a trot now and passing under a great gatehouse. The soldiers here looked little better than the city watch, but at least they were at their posts.
“Lady Calliope Blackwood and companions!” the periwigged major domo announced before rapping the butt of an ironshod staff on the flagstones. The Baron’s audience chamber was a large chilly stone room, somewhat warmed by the lush tapestries which had been hung on every available surface. The tapestries seemed to depict hunting scenes for the most part, and there were enough stuffed animal heads to suggest that the baron or his forebears were keen hunters. The current baron was young, perhaps not yet twenty and he lounged on a wooden throne looking board with proceedings. Calliope walked the dozen paces to stand in front of the youth. She offered a curtsey that was shallow enough to make the boy sit up with a slightly irritated look in his eyes.
“An honor to meet you Baron Von Wrolth,” Calliope said politely.
“And you Lady Blackwood, though I confess I have not heard of your family,” he replied, looking her up and down with the combined frankness of a young man and an aristocrat used to getting what he wanted.
“We are an Averland family my lord, northern Averland close to the Moot,” she provided. She might as well have declared she was from the moon for all the comprehension or interest the boy seemed to show in that.
“And what brings you to Bonnershaven?” Von Wrolf asked, his tone clearly indicating she should move it along.
“My men and I merely wish to pass through your territory my lord, there are some hundred men under arms in addition to my company here,” she clarified. Von Wrolf sat up at this, clearly surprised.
“You have an army?” he demanded. An older man in a rust colured doublet, clearly a senior advisor leaned in and tried to whisper something, but the Baron waved him off with irritation.
“Hardly an army my lord,” Calliope replied smoothly, “merely some troops I am maintaining, I have certain claims I wish to press back in Averland and am travelling there. We would be pleased to purchase provisions and the like in the normal course of things.”
“Well so long as they don’t enter the city…”
The doors to a side chamber flew open and a tall man in emerald robes all but ran into the room. He was handsome and athletic looking despite the gnarled staff he gripped in one hand.
“My lord! This woman is not who she claims to be!” the newcomer snapped. There was a rasping of steel as a dozen guards drew swords. The Baron, fully wake now, all but started to his feet in confusion.
“She is Calliope the Black, a sorceress of the Amethyst College and of ill reputation besides,” the green clad man declared.
“Ranulf?” Calliope asked, arching an eyebrow in surprise. He gave her a sidelong glare but didn’t respond.
“Is this a true witch?” the advisor demanded, stepping between Calliope and the Baron. Otto stepped forward and slapped the man hard across the face.
“How dare you, we will meet on the field and…” further words were drowned out by shouts and scrapes as the guards closed in and panicked hangers on began to flee. The wizard, Ranulf, lifted his hands and began to chant but Calliope thrust out a hand and he crumpled to his knees clutching his stomach.
“ENOUGH!” Calliope roared, her voice howling like the wind through a graveyard. The sonic shock of it momentarily stunned the assembly.
“Sir Otto will withdraw his challenge, if his opponent will agree to keep a civil tongue in his head,” Calliope declared. She let her hand drop and Ranulf gasped in relief. Almost idly, she kicked the staff away from him, sending it skittering across the floor.
“Mon dieux!” a mustachioed Brettonian in a rich cream doublet remarked, shaking his head at the crudity of Imperial Court life.
“Are you truly a w…sorceress?” Baron Von Wrolf demanded. Whatever else the boy was he was certainly no coward having hardly flinched when the situation seemed close to violence.
“I am a Magister of the Amethyst Order,” Calliope confirmed, drawing gasps from some of the assembled crowd.
“I am also Lady Calliope Blackwood, Calli the Black is something of a play on my familial name,” she explained.
“Yet you did not introduce yourself as such?” Von Wrolf asked. Calliope shrugged.
“I am not required to, nor is it appropriate in this company, you might just as well introduce yourself as Von Wrulf the Hunter,” she explained. The baron seemed unconvinced and he cut his eyes to his battered advisor.
“Very well, you will provide my major domo with the location of your camp, once we are sure your men are of no threat you will be permitted to pass, and to purchase such supplies as you require,” the Baron declared.
“My Lord…” Ranulf interjected, having regained his feet but not yet having had the courage to try to retrieve his staff. The boy held up his hand to silence the wizard.
“You may go Lady Blackwood, the rest of you, this audience is over.” Calliope was already striding from the room before the major domo’s staff struck the floor.
Emmaline was rarely enthusiastic about spell work, it was a little bit too much like actual work to her lights but given the pleasant company she found she was almost looking forward to it. For a long moment she stared at the dancing gold coin, physically restraining herself from snatching it and pressing it to her skin. With a mighty effort she pulled herself away and forced herself to look over the grimoire to see what needed to be done. It was somewhat similar to the enchantment of pomanders, something she had done a few times under Albrecht’s direction though considerably more complicated and involved.
It took Malcador almost an hour to lay everything out just so. The coin rested on the enhancing table, at the center of a complex diagram drawn out in essential salts Emmaline had pilfered from her masters stores. A pair of small, rather impure diamonds and several pieces of glass marked intersections and vortices and a trio of braziers smouldered lazily with the smoke of bitter herbs.
“Ok we are ready,” Malcador announced as he made a tiny correction to one of the lines with a protractor and a leaded blade that resembled a straight razor. He was clearly impressed that Emmaline had access to such tools and, she suspected, a little disdainful she made such limited use of them. In truth he had done much of the work while Emmaline looked on, but the final step had to be a joint effort. If she showed up with a project that was entirely of the Celestial wind it would raise questions to say the least.
“Alright,” Emmaline replied, idly wishing she had brought a bottle of wine or brandy now that the effects of her earlier indulgence were beginning to wear off. She took her position across the table and spread her hands.
“Let us begin.” They both began chanting softly, Emmaline reading from the book, Malcador working from a series of passages he had transcribed onto parchment. In Emmaline’s magical sight the golden wind of Charmon began to swirl, coming down the tower as though it were a funnel which drew it from the ether. She thought she could catch reflections of blue in the metallic glow but couldn’t be sure. With careful word and gesture she directed the flow of the wind to Malcador who began to channel it into the coin. Almost at once the essential salts began to pop and crackle and the braziers gutters to low blue flames. Emmaline continued to chant, the power flowing down into her and across into the other apprentice in ever increasing amounts.
“Slow down,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, somehow contriving to continue his own incantation.
“Emma, not so much,” he repeated more insistently, sweat beginning to film his brow.
“Emma stop it!”
Emmaline tried to comply but the torrent of energy was strong and growing and she couldn’t safely dismiss it. It began to pour into her like a waterfall and Malcador’s incantation grew faster and more desperate as he attempted to redirect the raw strength of Charmon. Emmaline began to glow softly, her hair stirring like cobwebs blown by an invisible wind. The ambelic he had brought exploded and one of the braziers began to bounce up and down, skittering across the table like a living thing. The popping of the essential salts grew more intense and then flared into light like burning magnesium. Both apprentices were shouting now, their careful hand gestures desperate and dramatic. Golden light poured into Emmaline and she felt herself lift from the ground, molten gold pulsing in her veins, making her skin and eyes shimmer. She screamed out the words of the spell over and over as books leaped from the shelves and all three mirrors in the room frosted, then shattered in an avalanche of tumbling glass. Malcador raised both his hands then pounded them down on the table. The coin, glowing white hot by now, leaped six feet into the air, spinning before Emmaline’s eyes like a childs top. Flakes of red hot metal flew off in smoking arcs as the coin hung unnaturally in the air. The coin twisted and flowed in the air deforming into a whirl of blazing white metal, twisting itself into a spinning ring which tossed away the impurities of its debasement with contemptuous ease until it shone pure and terrible. . With a final scream Malcador finished the spell and Emmaline felt the power of Charmon come through her like a bolt of lightning. The ring hammered down onto the enchanting table with a sound like a gun being fired. Despite the tremendous speed of the impact it didn’t bounce but lay still and smoking as Emmaline wilted and Malacador sagged back, burning scraps of his notes floating in the air around him. The artefact glowed with the heat of its forging, a golden circlet entwinted with intricately etched serpents of a style Emmaline didn't recognise.
“Wow,” Emmaline gasped, then collapsed onto the couch in a graceless heap.
It took Malcador almost an hour to lay everything out just so. The coin rested on the enhancing table, at the center of a complex diagram drawn out in essential salts Emmaline had pilfered from her masters stores. A pair of small, rather impure diamonds and several pieces of glass marked intersections and vortices and a trio of braziers smouldered lazily with the smoke of bitter herbs.
“Ok we are ready,” Malcador announced as he made a tiny correction to one of the lines with a protractor and a leaded blade that resembled a straight razor. He was clearly impressed that Emmaline had access to such tools and, she suspected, a little disdainful she made such limited use of them. In truth he had done much of the work while Emmaline looked on, but the final step had to be a joint effort. If she showed up with a project that was entirely of the Celestial wind it would raise questions to say the least.
“Alright,” Emmaline replied, idly wishing she had brought a bottle of wine or brandy now that the effects of her earlier indulgence were beginning to wear off. She took her position across the table and spread her hands.
“Let us begin.” They both began chanting softly, Emmaline reading from the book, Malcador working from a series of passages he had transcribed onto parchment. In Emmaline’s magical sight the golden wind of Charmon began to swirl, coming down the tower as though it were a funnel which drew it from the ether. She thought she could catch reflections of blue in the metallic glow but couldn’t be sure. With careful word and gesture she directed the flow of the wind to Malcador who began to channel it into the coin. Almost at once the essential salts began to pop and crackle and the braziers gutters to low blue flames. Emmaline continued to chant, the power flowing down into her and across into the other apprentice in ever increasing amounts.
“Slow down,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, somehow contriving to continue his own incantation.
“Emma, not so much,” he repeated more insistently, sweat beginning to film his brow.
“Emma stop it!”
Emmaline tried to comply but the torrent of energy was strong and growing and she couldn’t safely dismiss it. It began to pour into her like a waterfall and Malcador’s incantation grew faster and more desperate as he attempted to redirect the raw strength of Charmon. Emmaline began to glow softly, her hair stirring like cobwebs blown by an invisible wind. The ambelic he had brought exploded and one of the braziers began to bounce up and down, skittering across the table like a living thing. The popping of the essential salts grew more intense and then flared into light like burning magnesium. Both apprentices were shouting now, their careful hand gestures desperate and dramatic. Golden light poured into Emmaline and she felt herself lift from the ground, molten gold pulsing in her veins, making her skin and eyes shimmer. She screamed out the words of the spell over and over as books leaped from the shelves and all three mirrors in the room frosted, then shattered in an avalanche of tumbling glass. Malcador raised both his hands then pounded them down on the table. The coin, glowing white hot by now, leaped six feet into the air, spinning before Emmaline’s eyes like a childs top. Flakes of red hot metal flew off in smoking arcs as the coin hung unnaturally in the air. The coin twisted and flowed in the air deforming into a whirl of blazing white metal, twisting itself into a spinning ring which tossed away the impurities of its debasement with contemptuous ease until it shone pure and terrible. . With a final scream Malcador finished the spell and Emmaline felt the power of Charmon come through her like a bolt of lightning. The ring hammered down onto the enchanting table with a sound like a gun being fired. Despite the tremendous speed of the impact it didn’t bounce but lay still and smoking as Emmaline wilted and Malacador sagged back, burning scraps of his notes floating in the air around him. The artefact glowed with the heat of its forging, a golden circlet entwinted with intricately etched serpents of a style Emmaline didn't recognise.
“Wow,” Emmaline gasped, then collapsed onto the couch in a graceless heap.
To Emmaline’s great relief Albrecht was out when she returned. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time she had come back to the tower drunk, but she was pleased to be spared his anger or his advances. Heading up to her master laboratory she unlocked the potion room and went in. The room was filled with vials of every imaginable shape. Some were in delicate crystal balls, others in recorked wine bottles, some were in vessels hammered out of inert metals or fashioned from painted Tilean pottery. There were no labels but she knew what a few of them did. Lifting an old brandy bottle from the shelf she took a long swig, the surprisingly sweet liquid dancing over her tongue. Immediately some of the fog of wine began to dissipate. She collected a few other potions and stuffed them into her pouch before heading downstairs in time to hear a knock at the door. For a moment she froze, worried that Albrecht might have returned but then rationalized that he was unlikely to knock at the door of his own tower. She pulled the door open and tugged Malcador in, a little charmed to see he had brought alchemical equipment. What did he think the Gold College did? Well maybe he just thought she was a particularly poor representative of the Alchemical College.
“Fancy,” Malcador observed, looking around the relatively luxurious tower, his eyes lingering on some of the more sybaritic artwork that Albrecht hung on the walls. The Gold College was fabulously wealthy and though much of that wealth and though ALbrecht somehow managed to be perpetually skint his tower was still impressive.
“It isn’t much, but it isn’t mine,” Emmaline replied with a snicker and then grabbed Malcador’s hand and led him down the stairs to her workspace. The basement lab wasn’t quite as impressive as Albrecht’s but it was very well stocked by any standards. Emmaline flopped onto a couch, and lay bonelessly. The potion she had imbibed had rid her of the worst of the wine’s effects but she was still pleasantly warm and tingly.
“Ok so basically your project has to be something that reflects on your college… I know Borvis created some kind of new charcoal or something,” Malcador suggested. Emmaline made a disinterested sound. She had met Borvis Gerkel once and had disliked the fat apprentice immediately.
“Can’t we do something more fun?” Emmaline implored, batting her eyelashes at Malcador.
“I guess we could do some kind of enchantment, I know a little bit but…”
Emmaline sprang to her feet at the mention of enchantments. She ran upstairs and returned a moment with a heavy tome bound in leather. An ornate key plate was built into the front cover. Emmaline pulled a pin from her hair and spent a few moments working the lock until it clicked open. Triumphant she laid it on the table between them. Malcador turned the pages and whistled.
“This is pretty advanced stuff,” he admitted, a finger following the flowing script inside.
“Is your master ok with you using it?” he asked.
“Totally fine,” Emmaline breezed with a toss of her head.
“I mean, it is just the fact that you had to pick the lock to get in suggests…”
“Oh please, if it was meant to keep people out it would have a WAY better lock,” Emmaline rationalized.
“Brechtnow’s Cantrip for the Manipulation of Fate…” Emmaline read, leaning close to see the page Malcador had just turned, surreptitiously pressing a full breast against his arm.
“Fancy,” Malcador observed, looking around the relatively luxurious tower, his eyes lingering on some of the more sybaritic artwork that Albrecht hung on the walls. The Gold College was fabulously wealthy and though much of that wealth and though ALbrecht somehow managed to be perpetually skint his tower was still impressive.
“It isn’t much, but it isn’t mine,” Emmaline replied with a snicker and then grabbed Malcador’s hand and led him down the stairs to her workspace. The basement lab wasn’t quite as impressive as Albrecht’s but it was very well stocked by any standards. Emmaline flopped onto a couch, and lay bonelessly. The potion she had imbibed had rid her of the worst of the wine’s effects but she was still pleasantly warm and tingly.
“Ok so basically your project has to be something that reflects on your college… I know Borvis created some kind of new charcoal or something,” Malcador suggested. Emmaline made a disinterested sound. She had met Borvis Gerkel once and had disliked the fat apprentice immediately.
“Can’t we do something more fun?” Emmaline implored, batting her eyelashes at Malcador.
“I guess we could do some kind of enchantment, I know a little bit but…”
Emmaline sprang to her feet at the mention of enchantments. She ran upstairs and returned a moment with a heavy tome bound in leather. An ornate key plate was built into the front cover. Emmaline pulled a pin from her hair and spent a few moments working the lock until it clicked open. Triumphant she laid it on the table between them. Malcador turned the pages and whistled.
“This is pretty advanced stuff,” he admitted, a finger following the flowing script inside.
“Is your master ok with you using it?” he asked.
“Totally fine,” Emmaline breezed with a toss of her head.
“I mean, it is just the fact that you had to pick the lock to get in suggests…”
“Oh please, if it was meant to keep people out it would have a WAY better lock,” Emmaline rationalized.
“Brechtnow’s Cantrip for the Manipulation of Fate…” Emmaline read, leaning close to see the page Malcador had just turned, surreptitiously pressing a full breast against his arm.
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