Tarel Soarvas

Well hello there Dusk. Mhmhm... And what would the others think, seeing the two of them together like this? And how clingy he was all of a sudden. Especially given his face was a chicken.

By Grondellon's floral print undies! Damn farm animals. All of them. Period.

Valorie growled, not wanting to leave her alchohol induced dream, even as she found herself being dragged back out of it in a mess of squaks as she shooed (read: hurled with enough force to level of wagon) the chicken that had spoiled her dreams through the window above Dusk's bed. Mercifully, the dream had become almost tame by the time the bird had arrived, but the way the covers had been twisted as if by a hurricane was evidence enough that the fantasy had had its highlights. Was it too much to ask to enjoy those just a little longer? Presently, there was very little in the real world that would bring her nearly that much entertainment. And, as much as she would have liked normally to repeat the dreams contents with a real full-size Dusky-kins... She, at the moment, still had a strong urge to pummel his face in with a shovel.

In fact, that was one thing she could do. Damn farm animals. Hail farm equipment. Brushing her bedhead back with her hands, Valorie hopped to her feet and sighed, grooming the long hair into place with little well adjusted gusts- and, not bothering to control the effects of these when she was done with them, put out lamps and kicked up dust when she did. The lamps she could ignore- hangover being imminent, she was more than happy to kill the bright lights. But the dust was enough to make her growl. Why were the mages all holed up here anyway, in some hick town in the middle of nowhere? And in a dump like this?

Making her way through the hall more from the single memory she had of it than actually looking, Valorie stumbled her way towards the kitchen and paused a moment at the closed door inside. She could hear Ensign's voice, along with that of several others... Who she didn't care to talk to, actually. Whatever their conversation was, it sounded incredibly boring. In fact... Hell, two of them actually were talking about boring! The 'into wood' kind. It was now a fact: without her input, the entire structure of the Council would fall apart. It was up to her to help them. Which meant keeping them all the hell out of her way!

"I'm not wearing any pants! Anyone whose not out of that room in three seconds gets a frying pan through their eyes to protect my lady-like dignity!" Valorie yelled suddenly, and she heard a sudden scrambling on the other side. Some of the mages probably beleived her. Others simply realized how obnoxious she actually would be to them when she got to the other side and decided to take their conversations elsewhere. Either way, when she did open the door (and flung all the other exits shut with a little gust of wind for good measure), she was entering one that was much emptier than it had been a moment before.

A single mage groaned sadly when she entered the room, and Valorie glared at the man; the same one, Erion, who she had knocked out when she first waltzed into the town. Valorie raised an eyebrow. "The hell are you still here for?"

Erion shrugged. "I figured it was worth the risk."

Growling, Valorie picked him up and hefted him out the door she had entered from before slamming it shut with wind like the rest. Finally paying attention to her surroundings, she saw that, as she suspected, Ensign had not been one of the mages she had routed. Valorie plopped down on his table, not bothering with a chair and glaring at him.

"Is this what you've been doing all this time? Sitting around chatting in this dingy hole?" Waving around at their surroundings, Valorie frowned. "I came here on haybales, and even that smelled better than this place."

"This is Himmin, right? Where Cira... Err, the Oaklears live?" Valorie raised an eyebrow. "There's a mansion up the hill with its windows open, but I didn't see any friendly little outcast faces up there. I can appreciate the whole 'depressed grunge' thing you're all going for, but why is my perfectly sculpted ass not in a posh chair right now drinking red wine? Well, I know why my ass isn't drinking it... Actually, no that too." Valorie snorted. "Old Oakbutt certainly had the funds to put up that kind of treatment, even for this many extended houseguests."

“All we’ve been doing,” Ensign repeated indignantly, glaring up at Valorie as she returned to the table after literally throwing Erion from the room and slamming the door behind him.

“Is she wearing pants or not?”

The high voice issuing from under the table belonged to Nicärin Tolf, four years of age, who was sitting under the kitchen table with his hands clamped firmly over his eyes. After all, out of the dozen men crammed into Keiro’s tiny kitchen, only four of them had retained their seats (and Lorne was still hovering silently in the corner, unwilling to leave Ensign’s side whether Valorie threatened to enter either completely or partially nude) and so he thought it a good chance that Valorie had actually forgotten her pants on the clothesline outside.

“Yes, she is. You can open your eyes now,” Ensign answered in an exasperated tone, glancing down beneath the table to see that the boy had contentedly resumed stroking the ginger tomcat Keiro kept around the house to catch mice.

“Then why’d she say she wasn’t?”

“Because she’s an obnoxious, licentious goat who delights in turning a man’s face red and denying him everything she’s offered,” Ryker grumbled, reaching down as he spoke to work the knot out of his shoelaces. (Nicärin had tied them together at least a dozen times already and was getting quite good with square knots by now.)

“Frekki!” Ensign chided, but the old man just waved a hand.

“He didn’t understand half of it.”

“All the same,” Ensign glowered over at Valorie. “What do you want?” He was now wondering why he’d thought anything about her would change. Even after the surprisingly innocent hug she’d given him just a few hours earlier.

“It’s a bit more than ‘up the hill,’” Ensign answered, deciding to move on. “It’s a good hour or so from the center of Himmin to the edge of his land. And from there you’ve got acres of field before you reach his manor.”

“You shouldn’t say ass,” Nicärin piped up from under the table.

“And you really couldn’t think of a better way for us to draw attention to ourselves,” Ensign added, eyeing Valorie somewhat cautiously now. “How does provoking Arathorn’s top lapdog factor into our plans for remaining anonymous and unnoticed, exactly? This may not live up to your standards, but we’re getting along as is, even if only barely.”

"Protection?" Pondering the thought for a moment, the Zaaltoryn raised a hand to his chin, eventually shaking his head. "No, I'm not here for that. I'm here for... information?" The rising intonation of his voice suggested a combined lack of a proper word and a fluent grip on Lochsalanian, but he nodded nonetheless, knowing it was close enough and continuing on with a chuckle. "But they are the same thing today, It seems."

Feeling Lady Ahlmir's icy eyes carefully studying his features, Tyrulan turned casually to face her, neither challenging nor condemning her interest. In fact it was with a small but understanding smile that he addressed her, speaking respectfully.

"Dahlia Ahlmir, you're trying to read my emotions through magic, yes?"

Surprised by the young Zaaltoryn's knowledge, Lady Ahlmir sat quietly stunned a moment before nodding, her folded hands loosening slightly where they rested in her lap as she relaxed in her attempts; it was all she could do to hope that he was on their side, for his knowledge of the two was rather concerning. He didn’t seem to have ill intentions, though, however it was impossible to ascertain intentions of any other sort within such a controlled mind.

"That's correct,” She answered eventually, somewhat sighing. “though you're... difficult, to understand."

At this the Zaaltoryn chuckled again, somehow balancing his regal status with the casual way he was carrying on, answering back as if he and Lady Ahlmir were old friends merely having a conversation.

"So I have been told."

And he meant it.

It was then that Lady Ahlmir moved to ask just how he knew so much about the two of them and their relations with the Council, but in the nook of time before she could do so he spoke up again, expertly circumnavigating the situation and intentionally (from what she could tell) avoiding the question.

"Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to leave." He started again, drawing back to the point as he turned to Lachlan. "You have just told me that 'Recide' plan to use an assassin that looks as you do, yes? Then it would be dangerous for me to let you leave. It is not me who you must ask, anyway, but my father."

Growing disinterested in the conversation (or rather, the conversation as it had to be with watchful guards just beyond the door), Tyrulan flexed his hands and tucked them into his pockets, straightening his back as he prepared to take his leave. He had many more words he wanted to exchange with the Speaker, but the time and place was hardly appropriate. Besides, he had more urgent things to attend to for the time being- like defending himself and his family from the situation that had brought on the scenario in the first place, and convincing Ixiel to sneak out with him for a hunt.

“Well, Fox, if there is no more to speak of, then I must go.” He said, pulling his hand out for a moment to check the pocket watch hanging from the pocket on his vest. “I’ll keep your words in mind, and ask my father to allow you to leave, but do not expect a yes. I apologize that it is unfair, but it is... appropriate.”

Appropriate? If it prevented the attack which Lachlan had warned them of then it was more than just that. Much more.

“I hope you can understand.”

Zaaltoryn Tyrulan was increasingly becoming more inscrutable to Lach. With every word spoken and every minute movement, the Zaaltoryn seemed to be drawing infinitely more knowledge and understanding out of them than they would ever gain from him. It would have been disconcerting if not for the strange familiarity and ease with which he spoke to them. Or to Lady Ahlmir at the very least. He spoke to her like he would an old acquaintance that he had not seen for a very long while, and whom he consequently no longer knew as well as he might like.

When Tyrulan turned back to Lachlan, however, Lachlan could feel the distance return. His attention was also quickly waning, however. Lachlan did not need to reach into his mind to see that the young man was quickly growing bored with the conversation now that he confirmed what he had likely already suspected: Lachlan simply did not know all that there was to know about the situation. Nor would he be able to out-think Recide.

Thus far, Tyrulan did not strike Lach as one to be easily flustered, though the calm he displayed as he checked his silver pocket watch was slightly disturbing. A death threat before lunch and he was already planning out the rest of his day?

As Tyrulan stepped towards the door, Lachlan felt a sudden urge to justify himself in some way to the Zaaltoryn. There was nothing more he could say, though. Not when the Zaaltoryn was only looking for things he could prove. And so the moment passed. And Tyrulan stepped out, leaving behind five words that stole away any desire Lachlan had had to argue, and taking with him the strangely formal and yet at the same time casual, disinterested air he’d carried.

Lachlan turned immediately to Lady Ahlmir, his wide eyes conveying his utter amazement that she had dared to probe into Tyrulan’s mind and emotions… and gotten away with it as well. They had certainly killed Mages for a lot less than that before. And though the words were at the tip of his tongue, Lach swallowed them down. If anyone knew such a fact already… it was Lady Ahlmir. She had sensed something within Tyrulan that had indicated he was somehow different. So instead, he simply shook his head and cast his eyes downward, tapping his fingers anxiously against his leg. “I need air,” he muttered. And he turned on his heel, intending to find an open courtyard and simply sit in the chilly winter air until he could sort out his thoughts.

This was gettin' outright ridiculous. That Lach had been gutsy enough to come to the castle was surprising, but it didn't bother Ixiel nearly as much as the idea that someone might actually listen to the scamp. There was a reason Recide's secret was so well guarded- and of course the moment they let it out, everything went to heck around them. Gregor had argued against such a big display a' the whole issue, and Ixiel had actually agreed with the guy for once. Then again, they were the only two without any family issues involved in this whole schtick... so he could understand why the other three had voted the other way.

Not that it wasn't coming back to bite everyone in the bum now. Voglethorpe and his 'pack' were nowhere near New Treaganland, and most of their resources had been deployed elsewhere. Sure, Ixiel had his allies, Recide or otherwise, in the capitol city; but they paled in comparison to what he should have had. In any normal situation, Lach would have already been snatched up by now. Along with his companions. With any luck, the rest besides the Healer were in town, and would be found before they could cause any trouble. But that meant getting intel into and out of the castle, and without scrying orbs or any good excuse to flee (and nevermind the fact that leaving Lach alone here made Ixiel's hair stand on end), Ixiel didn't know how he would manage getting operatives into the city to handle the problem.

Prodding the dirt beside him with his foot, Ixiel lamented that here, in the castle gardens, he was far too well dressed and (supposedly) composed to enjoy any of his normal hobbies. He was a man of the earth. He mapped, sure, as an 'occupation'... but gardening was far from unfamiliar to him. It could take a common gardener days to fully lay down a plot- but Ixiel always finished the whole thing in minutes. There was a reason his family estate was the greenest in New Treaganland.

But here? The earth might as well have been dead. The gardens were beautiful, but even only inches away from his grasp, they were lightyears away from his reach. It couldn't hurt to just plant... something, could it? Tyrulan knew it was his nervous habit, but who wouldn't be at least somewhat nervous if a madman ran around declaring them a traitor? A rose, or a daisy would be...

"Correct." Val's voice from behind him almost made Ixiel jump. Even if he was more attuned to her than anyone, she was still by far the stealthier of the pair. He frowned, trying to think of what she was referring to... Ah!

"Ty's already talking to Lach?" Ixiel was dismayed by the thought. He knew the Zaaltor would not be the first to visit the Speaker- even conspiratorial death threats were not significant enough to make the entire kingdom sit down and stop needing him to run it. He had worried about the Zaaltoryna, but given she had entered with Lach she likely had a better rundown of the situation already, and her presense would make her seem overeager. That just left his own friend... And the idea that Tyrulan would beleive Lach's story even enough to double-check it this soon was painful to hear.

Val nodded, her hands running through her satchels. "Recide?"

Ixiel could see the beginnings of scrying orb within one of her bags, and he carefully pushed her hands down. He had chosen the gardens for a reason: they had guards, like all of the castle, but they would all be position too far away to overhear their conversations. And, at least for a good majority of them, too far to read their lips either. even that tiny percentage was enough to make Ixiel cautiously talk away from the castle proper however.

"Put that thing away. It ain't safe here." Even if he was sure he could talk their way out of it, the sight of a memory orb was practicallty condemning in itself. "We can't go pulling out any tricky stuff... And definitely not this close to the castle."

"Alert?" Val pushed with a frown, referring to their need to alert the rest of Recide to their situation. Ixiel waved the worry away.

"Val, if the two of us can't handle a horse-whisperer and a senior citizen, we're in mighty bad shape." Ixiel said it with a small smile, and Val giggled, though they both realized the situation was a bit more complicated than that.

"For serious though. We can be real stealthy about this... and if we do it right, we might not need Voglethorpe at all." He caught her eye. "We both know that he'll be the first one here when we call this in. And he ain't much for keeping things civil."

Val's frown turned into a pout, and Ixiel kept his thoughts running, a plan beginning to outline itself in his head. He was a key member of Recide after all, and it was a 'think-tank'. He hadn't been chosen just to sit around and look pretty. He knew what he was doing. He could handle this by himself. Err... Relatively speaking.

"The first thing we need to do is find out who else is with him. Might be able to snatch the whole goose before it hatches." Ixiel knelt beside one of the bushes, and Val layed down on his back, examining her nails. "I'll stay here and keep watch on the little guy. You head into town and track down whatever varmints he took with him. You've always been better at that kinda stuff than me anyhow."

Val smiled, though Ixiel felt it more than saw it. "Plan." (The "It's a" being implied by this point in their relationship).

"Now you be careful," Ixiel warned, but Val, being the niece of someone as infamous as Valorie herself, was clearly not so concerned. With a quick peck on his cheek, she drifted off through the gardens and dissapeared.

Ixiel stayed where he was a moment longer.... and then decided to stick there. The gardens were central enough to the castle that something of importance would eventually come to him. And hurrying was... unsightly. Suspicious. He was in no rush. Not for a false accusation- no sirree...

Interesting.

It was the only word Tyrulan could come up with to describe the Speaker despite his best efforts to gain some deeper understanding of the man, and though it was frustrating to admit, he held little hopes of learning any more. Lachlan Fox was not at all what he had expected given the reputation that preceded him; in fact, he was closer to being the polar opposite of any and all assumptions the Zaaltoryn had made prior to actually meeting. Perhaps, when the time was right, he would pry more, but for now priority was going to have to be given to the supposedly looming assassination. It seemed only logical to do so, anyway, even if he wasn’t yet sure he believed it.

Making his way almost instinctively towards the gardens in search of Ixiel, Tyrulan was hardly surprised when he could already see the nobleman standing amongst the hearty yet decorative plants through the arched windows of the hall which he walked, leading him out to the grounds. It was one of the mans characteristic quirks which Tyrulan had grown accustomed (and even attached) to, and though he had found Ixiel’s skill with plant life to be curious, it was only one of many things on a long list. Yes, there was certainly something odd about the nobleman, but that was what Tyrulan liked about him. He was a mystery of sorts, predictable on the surface but always just a fraction of a step out of place. It was for that reason that he could even consider the Fox’s accusations- wild as they seemed- but being friends as they were, it was hardly that simple. Even so...

“Ah, how did I know I would find you here?”

Stepping out into the garden, Tyrulan took in a deep breath, glad both for the fresh air and to be back comfortably speaking his native tongue. For a moment the lingering sensation that he had just missed something caused him to take a casual glance around, but there wasn’t a soul around except the guards who were well out of earshot and stationed obediently at their posts. Perhaps he was just jumpy; all the fuss was starting to get to him.

“Can’t say I blame you, I was looking forward to the hunt today, myself. For once we’ve got clear weather and not even a hint of last week’s wind.” Though he new it was just idle chatter, Tyrulan was clearly honest in his frustration. The last three hunts had been ravaged by poor weather, and being that they were the only real times he was able to leave the bastion without an escort, he rather depended on them to retain his sanity- and a little sanity, today, was just what he needed. All he could do was hope that he was right in looking to Ixiel for it.

That fast... Ixiel wasn't particularly impressed by the speed with which Tyrulan had moved from Lach to himself, but that was only because Ixiel had known him long enough to know he was a bit brasher than most noble folk. It was far from a bad thing. It was probably why they got on so well in fact.

However, in the context of the case, he had no way of telling if it was a good sign or a bad omen. If Ty was buying Lach's spiel, then he would, of course, want to hurry to the bottom of it as soon as possible for safeties sake. And if he didn't buy it, and was dismissing Lach's story as a load of hogwash, then he would want to get the pesky Speaker dealt with so things could back to normal. Even if he hadn't made up his mind at all yet... There was another sort of rush going on in Tyrulan's mind. Ixiel knew that sort of motivation: mostly because, in that way, as well as others, he was just the same as the Zaaltoryn.

It was the victory of it, for lack of a better word. There was something special about getting to the bottom of something like this before any one else could. It wasn't just the problem being resolved... It was the fifteen minutes of fame, when you got to walk the boundary between pride and heroism and not give a hay which side you were standing on for a little while.

Given the caliber of his companions in Recide, Ixiel admittedly didn't get that chance as much as he'd like to. That didn't mean he never had his moments. Just... Well, just that he knew how being cooped up in a castle while someone else made all the real decisions led a guy to be a bit overeager. He understood this part of Tyrulan as easily as Tyrulan knew, from the start, that his troubled thoughts would lead him straight to the garden.

"Well, it wasn't my first choice of huntin' spots," Ixiel admitted as the Zaaltoryn asked about Ixiel's presense. Of course, Tyrulan knew him well enough to realize exactly where his quirks would lead him. It was dangerous, in some ways, but it helped him too. The idea that a predictable person would do something completely unexpected was a lot harder to stomach than someone who was always off the wall. Like Val. Or, of course, her namesake. Had Lach come to the Zaaltor with a story about Valorie being out to kill them all, he likely would have responded by barricading himself within the castle with a thousand armed guards. Or dismissed it as another of her drunken rants and been done with it. In either case, the probability of her intent would at least seem real.

"But if tulips and weeds are the fiercest things we'll be up against, I do intend to get a nice four incher to mount on the wall. Fiercest one I can find." Ixiel made the lame joke with every sign that he was just as dissapointed as the Zaaltoryn about the cancelled trip. And he was. At the very least, in light of Lach's sudden appearance, it would be a great stress releiver.

He wanted to ask about the meeting with Lach... but no, that'd make him seem nervous. It was obvious enough from Ixiel's presense in the garden that he was bothered by this turn of events, so there was no reason to bring Lach up, or acknowledge him as anything more than a silly ranting that would soon be disproved.

What he’d said was ‘I need air.’ Closer to the truth was ‘I need to think. I need to walk. I want to run.’ His fists clenched painfully tight at his sides, Lachlan walked from the room at a quick pace—as quickly as he dared go without drawing undue attention to himself. But he wanted to break out into a run—to get as far from Ixiel as he could. Even to outdistance Ixiel’s voice still ringing in his ears would have been nice. Admittedly, Lachlan hadn’t needed much help from Ixiel to make himself look a fool. But the cold sweat and the shaking and the fury that had crept under his skin at the sight of Ixiel Roansfeld, dressed as smart as he pleased, and posing as a Common nobleman, had certainly not helped Lach’s case. And now they were weighing his words as carefully as if Lachlan hoped to gain something from all of this.

“As if,” Lach spat. He’d be lucky to make it out of the palace walls before Recide found out about this little stunt now. Or… a cold tremor over came Lach once more as he considered an outcome infinitely more terrifying. What if Recide got hold of the other first? Before Lachlan could warn them of Ixiel?

Coming to a branch in the corridor, Lachlan pulled up to a sharp stop, realizing that he would need to trace his way back sooner or later. Taking note of the right turn, Lachlan took off again, his pace speeding unconsciously as he went. The walls were lined at even intervals with decorative sconces holding unlit candles. As it was not yet midday, light still cascaded down from the long, latticed windows that stretched nearly from floor to ceiling. The thin carpets on which he tread seemed to ripple with intricate patterns of blue, purple, and gold. And ensconced in niches, standing on plinths of dark polished wood were suits of gleaming armor, swords, and crests representing the noble families of New Treaganland.

It was quite a while before Lachlan had calmed sufficiently to notice any of this. But when he did, the wealth of detail and the sheer luxury surrounding him seemed to have a… somehow a quieting effect on him. Which one is Ixiel’s? he found himself thinking. When a Treagan family commits treason or falls from grace in the royal courts, that family’s shield is painted black as ash. Lachlan could no longer remember who had told him stories of disgraced knights in his childhood. But he remembered picturing the shields writhing in a burning fire and coming out twisted and blackened. How he would love to watch Ixiel’s crest burn.

The sound of distant footsteps pulled Lach from his daze. Realizing that he’d been standing stationary in front of a suit of armor for several seconds, Lach turned in time to see a girl in the dress of a servant turn into the corridor. She pulled up sharply at the sight of him, her eyes widening, as she looked him up and down and seemed to come to some realization. Then, without a word, she hurried by, giving him a wide berth as she passed.

Looking down at himself, Lachlan wondered silently at her reaction. He’d been on the road for quite some time, but surely travelers did not always receive such a… response? And, considering it was only Mages he’d come across thus far who seemed to recognize him as a Fox, Lachlan doubted very strongly the girl had guessed his heritage by looking at his face alone. Shaking off the feeling of unease, Lachlan continued on, this time careful to keep his pace even and unhurried.

An hour passed, during which time Lachlan wandered with the sole intention of outdistancing the anxious restlessness that seemed to grow at his core and spread through his body like poison. Each time he passed another, though, he found himself faced with similar reactions to the first servant girl. And, after a time, he concluded dejectedly that word must have spread concerning two strange Mages in the palace. “Majier. Drell sel dag Majier.”

And now he stood leaning against one of the windowsills, staring out into a snowy courtyard, drumming his fingers against one cheek. Half glad now to be preoccupied with something other than the problem Ixiel presented, Lachlan found himself now wondering why the whispers bothered him. Dusk would have pretended not to notice. Lachlan was almost sure of it. And Cira would have borne it with supreme patience. And he? All he could think about was how in irritability he wanted to snap at the whisperers—dare them to say aloud what they muttered under their breath as they passed. But each time, he’d said nothing. It would be too easy to find himself in trouble here. One slip up, one mistake…

“Holla?”

Lachlan turned without lifting his head from where it rested in one hand at the sound of the young voice. “Halla,” he answered, his tone indicating his surprise to see a young girl, no more, perhaps, than six or seven years of age standing before him. The neat, floor length blue dress that fell about her in elegant folds marked her instantly as the daughter of a nobleman.

“What’s your name?” she asked in Treagan, coming up and resting her arms on the windowsill beside him, one hand propped up under her chin in imitation of Lachlan.

“My name is Lachlan,” he answered, caught off guard by her sudden appearance. “And yours?”

The girl giggled and swept her curly black hair out of her eyes. “I’m Ettorin. And you talk funny, Lachlan.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

Ettorin made no answer, her attention by now distracted by a bird that had fluttered down to rest in a tree on the opposite side of the courtyard. Cloaked in feathers of bright red, the bird hopped up and down the branch, trying to find balance.

“You like birds, Ettorin?” Lach ventured, noticing that her eyes did not stray from the bird as it fluttered from one tree to the next.

“Yes,” she answered, and then fell silent for so long that Lachlan didn’t think she meant to say any more. Then— “Sometimes I think they’re talking to me. When they sing in the morning. And during the day. Who else are they talking to?”

Lachlan eyed Ettorn for a moment before squatting down beside her and looking her in the eye. “Do you know, sometimes I think the same thing? Do you want to meet him?”

Ettorin smiled shyly, then nodded. Reaching up, she took Lachlan by the hand and led him around the corner to where a door to the courtyard stood closed but unbarred. Pressing down on the latch and leaning into the door, Lachlan stepped out into the snowy courtyard first, followed by Ettorin, and soon they had made their way over to the bird’s tree. Closer up, Lachlan could identify it as a Northern Cardinal.

“There’s another!” Ettorin pointed up to a particular branch that had not been visible from inside, and Lachlan found himself caught up in her childlike awe.

Smiling, he looked up with her and found the other. “That must be his mate,” he said. “Do you see the black feathers there? That means it’s a female.” Reaching out a hand, Lachlan called out to the bird, silently bidding it come, and in moments it had fluttered down to his hand. Crouching down in the snow, Lachlan held the bird close to him, but turned for Ettorin to get a closer look. A small chuckle escaped his lips at the sight of her surprise.

“He came to you!”

She reached out to touch the bird, but it fluttered nervously on Lachlan’s hand, and Ettorin quickly pulled hers back.

“It’s all right,” Lachlan said. “He’s just a little nervous. Reach out more slowly this time.”

Ettorin did so, and soon found herself stroking the bird gently with one finger. It rustled on Lachlan’s hand, almost taking flight several times, but through a constant stream of calming thoughts, Lachlan persuaded it to stay.

“How do you make him stay?” she finally asked, withdrawing her hand.

Lachlan shrugged, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “I’m good with birds. But I think he’s staying because he likes you.”

Ettorin beamed, then reached out a hand in imitation of the way Lachlan had when he’d called down the first bird. On a whim, Lachlan called the second bird from the tree, but no matter what he tried, he could not get it to alight on her hand. Instead, it circled several times overhead and then settled on his shoulder. “They like you more,” Ettorin observed, eying the bird wistfully.

“I suppose so.” Holding his other hand up to his shoulder, Lachlan persuaded the bird to hop onto his hand. For a moment, he simply took in the sight of the two of them, reveling in the feeling of exercising control of his magic again. ~Xalem!~ Immediately, almost without knowing he was doing so, Lachlan pictured the woods where he’d left Cira, Xalem, and the others… and without warning, the second bird dug into his hand and then took to the air with a flutter of the wings. Within minutes, it had already risen out of sight as it sped away, over the top of the palace and (Lachlan was quite sure) in the direction of the woods.

“Where’s she going?” Ettorin asked, a slightly saddened note creeping into her voice.

Lachlan’s voice rasped, suddenly dry. “I don’t know…”

Preoccupied with the construction of their humble camp, Xalem’s mind had found solace in being kept busy, allowing him a chance to postpone the worry that loomed at the fringes of his thoughts. Instead he focused on the little precautions they could take to remain hidden, listening carefully to the nearby wildlife to gauge the disturbance they were making. So far as he could tell, they were alone in the woods and noteworthy to none, their fire invisible to all but those just beyond the clearing. Even the others worked in near silence, either too cautious or too enveloped in their own thoughts to make much conversation, and so he took the liberty of making the odd comment to lighten up the mood, finding only mild success for his efforts. As the fire began to burn a low orange and the forest fell quiet however, he had only a moment to seat himself comfortably against his pack before a wave of stress washed over him as well, glazing over his eyes as they stared distantly at the coals. The night was sure to be a long one; for all of them.

Fairly confident that they were safely hidden, it wasn’t long before Xalem allowed himself to slowly succumb to the rest that beckoned him, and mere minutes after he had taken a seat to rest, his eyes had already fallen closed. Unfortunately however, his mind was not so relaxed, cruelly deciding to mull over every worst case scenario he could dream up forcing him to fight back with optimism and reason. Isaac would be more than safe with Micah, and both Lachlan and Lady Ahlmir were much more capable than he was giving them credit for, anyway. It was just a matter of reminding himself that the only thing he could do now was be ready for whatever was to come- and that meant getting some sleep.

Shuffling ever so slightly to get comfortable, a dream began to tug at his subconscious, nearly dragging him under until an itch forced him to reach a hand over to his shoulder to scratch it. The moment he set his hand down again, however, the irritation returned, forcing him further and further away from the peace he had worked so hard to achieve. Eventually, after several failed attempts at trying to fight it, Xalem gave in, opening his eyes to find a persistent little bird perched on his shoulder, looking him over with a pair of beady black eyes. It bore no message, though, and no lingering emotions, and yet it wasn’t until Xalem tried to reach out to it that it flew away, apparently having sated whatever goal it had set out to achieve. What that was exactly, he couldn’t tell, but one thing was clear:

“Lachlan…?” He whispered, not wanting to wake any of the others lucky enough to have fallen asleep. Cira was awake, though, watching him carefully with concern on her face. She too had made the connection, but Xalem made sure to give her an assuring shake of his head in response, telling her that nothing was wrong- or so he hoped. Something had changed, and though he didn’t know what, the lack of distress in the bird’s silent message was mildly comforting. Regardless, it was looking to be another sleepless night for him.

"Love you too Frekki," Valorie offered with a bitter grin at the older mage's snide insult. He was probably one of the few people there who could actually get away with mocking her without getting a fist through the face. Yes, through. She worked out. But he was spared not only for being one of the few people left in the Council who could still kick ass and chew lemons in the fight against Arry-boy; and the fact that he seemed a little crazier now, after his time in the mines, only made him even more deadly. A little insanity was a good thing sometimes; and crazy was what it would take to rip out Arry-boy's spine and strangle him to death with it in the days to come.

Plus, he had tried to drown Lach. Until proven otherwise, that was a major plus in her book.

"But don't act like I never give what I offer." With a mischevous grin she peeked under the table, waving her rear back and forth Ensign's face as she looked at Nicarin underneath, like a crouching tiger about to pounce on its prey. "You'll scare the little cutie off before I even get a chance at him."

"But more importantly," Valorie punctuated the point by sitting down on Ensign's head, though was keeping herself supported on the table so she didn't actually crush their de facto leader. "It may be an hour away, but that's one hour closer to Arry-boy. Those acres of land? Those are Oakbutt's. And they should be ours. Your version of getting along is sitting here and waiting for him to come back and blow our cover." Valorie's eyes narrowed. "I don't see why we shouldn't just draw him here ourself and shut him up. Fight at least one of the bad guys on our terms, instead of waiting for them to kidnap a Speaker or attack us with our pants down. Y'know, when they can see our..." She paused, clearly about to say the word 'ass', but instead, for Nicarin's sake, offered "Firm and unprotected buttocks."

Standing on the table and looking at Ensign between her legs, Valorie finished the point, curling her nose up. "Besides, it's dirty here, and gross, and digusting, and it smells like old man. At least Oakbutt's place would smell like... slightly younger old man!"

Morgan gave to sign to acknowledge that he’d heard the Prince’s orders, but Alberto had never seemed to need such confirmation. Morgan didn’t think Alberto would particularly care if he outright said he would not obey… as long as he did so in the end, it didn’t matter. Results mattered, that was all. Though, of course, Morgan had not yet tested the Mad Prince by neglecting whatever task, however menial, he’d been assigned. Somehow… he wasn’t sure he wanted to see those results.

So Morgan followed Prince Alberto and ‘Edge’ into the bar, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim light within. Only a few shadowy forms occupied stools at the bar, and the bartender had apparently disappeared to some stock room in the back, for no one stood behind the bar to greet them with a raised pint glass as they entered.

It was creepy. How silently the Mad Prince’s tread could be when the floorboards creaked under Morgan’s feet. He had a way about him… it seemed that not even water would ripple if he stepped into a pool. Just so seamless were his movements that their mark, his former ‘slave,’ Aleph, did not even notice when he slid onto the barstool directly on his right. Edge took up position on Aleph’s left, and Morgan assumed his usual position just behind and to the left of the Prince.

“Hohoho, fancy seeing you here.” The Mad Prince’s voice rang out in the silence in such a way that seemed almost friendly. But the undercurrents of an eerie, disturbing knowing also permeated his words. In fact, the Prince’s eyes seemed to dance with predatory pleasure as Aleph jumped and spun in his seat. The knee-jerk reaction to jump up entirely and bolt seemed only barely repressed.

“I wasn’t trying to run away!” the man blurted.

“Of course not,” Alberto countered without missing a beat. A sickening smile was on his face. Like a cat who already knew which corner its mouse would run to, and would enjoy allowing the mouse to run itself ragged before catching it.

Morgan waited disinterestedly as Prince Alberto went through the introductions. Aleph seemed to know Edge, but when, at length, he noticed Morgan, his face hardened noticeably.

“Blackshirt,” Aleph hissed, hatred in his tone. And, for some inexplicable reason, it struck Morgan as somehow funny. Suppressing a grin, Morgan settled for offering Aleph a short, mocking bow. Blackshirt indeed. And whether Aleph cared or not, his little jab at Morgan would find no ground.

“I wouldn’t touch that glass, were I you,” Morgan said in a low voice, his eyes narrowing as Aleph leaned back casually against the bar. “Nor would I think of running.”

"Really?" Alberto raised his eyebrow in amusement as Aleph winced. Of course. Of course the other one Alberto would bring along was a Spiritmage. If he had been smart at all, Aleph would have gotten one of his own Spiritmage friends and kept them close, just in case an 'official' Blackshirt or just one of his old enemies decided to take him out. But... that was the same reason he hadn't. Not because he didn't want to get them involved; because he only had old enemies. Not old friends. He had lost most of them when he and Valorie turned on eachother, and the rest when he tried to skirt away from his duties with Tyrant Moon.

...No wonder the army hadn't wanted him. He just became more and more useless as he went on. Dropping his hand away from the glass, Aleph shrugged, his fear and irritation making way for some of his old hopelessness to return. There was no escaping it then. He was stuck here. "You can't blame a guy for trying."

"Of course I can!" Alberto declared, and even though he knew the Ra'an Prince was only looking for a rise out of him, Aleph still nearly backed into Edge at the declaration. A faintly amused grin on his face, Alberto shook his head and continued. "But I don't care about you enough to try."

Well, why not just be blunt about it? But Aleph prevented himself from even *thinking* of any negative comments against his boss. Not with that Spiritmage around. If it had just been Edge's dumb ass and Alberto himself, then Aleph might have been able to at least talk his way out of his predicament. But there was no tricking a Spiritmage; not if Alberto had taken enough of an interest in him to make him a 'personal' lapdog, and not just an outdoor hound. But no; no thinking about that. What was it Valorie always did in this situations...

Aleph thought of himself naked. In fact, he formed a very vivid of himself naked in his head, and kept it there. If Morgan wanted to be a pest, he was going to have to take a good long look at a guy's nethers to do it.

"Well, Edge would have killed me by now if you wanted me dead-"

"Damn straight I would." Edge seemed to have grown impatient already with simply sitting still, and seemed to be judging the distance between himself and the nearest liqour bottle.

"...So why's a shirt with you, and what does it have to do with me? Boss?" Aleph added the last word hastily, and hated himself for doing it. But he wasn't going to let some small social faux paux get his heart charbroiled in his chest by Edge... Or his brain fried by the damn Blackshirt. Was he the only one that smelled smoke?

Oh. No, he wasn't. Aleph realized with an even further sinking feeling that the spot on the counter where Edge had been resting his hand was already beginning to sizzle, small streams of smoke rising from the surface. Just another reminder why he was going to avoid pissing people off here.

"I'm glad to see you like him so much," the Mad Prince mused. "Because the two of you are about to be spending a lot of time together."

"What...?" Awwwww crap. Aleph glared daggers at Morgan, keeping up an angry front... but now he was beginning to get the feeling that he wasn't the only one here who didn't want to be. The Blackshirt was no more pleased about this pairing than he was, Aleph was sure of it. Not that he was getting any sympathy for it. "And... what do you want me to do with this shirt?"

Alberto seemed to be studying the rags around his chest and was barely looking at any of them. "Hmm. Lodewijik chopped off Sphector's head the other day, so I need someone new in the capitol." The Ra'ans eyebrow raised, but it was hard to tell whether he was curious about the situation, or the stitching on his shirt. With someone who was confessedly mad, it was never very easy to tell. "I didn't think he'd behead a Baron, honestly, even though it was obvious Sphector was failing at keeping himself a secret for months... Sometimes I'm absolutely sure the Cezare is just playing with me."

"You two will hopefully do better." Alberto ran his eyes back over both of them, and even though Morgan was closest to the door, it somehow felt like he was just as trapped as Aleph now. But... "Aleph, you'll use your status as a noble to get inside the city, and Morgan you'll scan their minds and feed all the castle's going ons back to me through a scrying orb."

"But that's impossible." Aleph tried to protest without sounding too panicked at what was being proposed. The capitol was a fortress... And Lodewijik was almost worse than the Legionnaire's when he wanted to be. He knew how to root out and kill a mage, and Aleph had gone public with his own magehood long ago. Besides, "I'm not a noble anymore; I revoked the title when I left home."

"Then it's about time you got it back, isn't it?" Alberto chuckled, and Aleph knew that he wasn't going to get anywhere with simple logic. Alberto wanted something, and he expected to get it. He could either get beheaded by Lodewijik, or flee and get killed anyway. "Now then. Morgan, if Aleph at any time attempts to flee the capitol, I expect you to kill him. If he attempts to leave my service, I expect you to kill him. If he, in any way, appears as if he might betray the position or identity of anyone within my organization... I expect you to kill him." He actually sounded bored while he said it. Aleph's life was a bore to him. "And Aleph, if Morgan tries to return to his old master, or feed anything he learns at the capitol to Arathorn, it's up to you to cut *his* throat."

The second Prince of Ra smiled up at Morgan, and Aleph was glad that at the very least he wasn't the only one being threatened here. "You've learned a lot about my organization, and I don't care about that. But you'll come across some things within the capitol that I would not be particularly fond of Arathorn knowing... Particularly if the war I expect to rise up between him and the Lochsalanians shortly goes through. Which it will."

Something dawned on Aleph. "But he's a Spiritmage. He could kill me with a thought. If this informations so important, what's to stop him from murdering me and running?"

"He won't." Alberto said simply. He was looking at Morgan, but it was as if the other man wasn't even there. "He's too stupidly loyal to think about disobeying orders. It's one of the cons of mindless minions, really. Not that I mind." Smiling cruelly, but without any real interest behind it, Alberto seemed to actually focus on Morgan at last. "Simple enough for you?"

In all honesty, Morgan had taken no pleasure in confronting Aleph. It was part of the job, and he really saw no reason to question the Prince about just why he cared about this miserable wretch who frequented pubs so he’d have enough liquor and a nice venue in which to mope about what a failure he was. The louse was lucky he hadn’t fallen in with the Blackshirts. Lord Arathorn was not nearly so forgiving of deserters, nor was he in a position to be. Not with ranks as thin as they were.

All that to say, Morgan *had* taken no pleasure in confronting Aleph… until… ~there’s no tricking a SpiritMage; not if Alberto’s taken enough of an interest in him to make him a 'personal' lapdog, and not just an outdoor hound.~

Morgan’s face hardened, not quite so imperceptibly, at the insult. He couldn’t be sure whether Aleph had meant him to hear it, though, for it was almost universally true that even when one knew he was under surveillance, one somehow forgot that a SpiritMage could overhear everything. Including unsavory thoughts of the listener.

Aleph’s next thought, however, was enough to bring an incredulous smirk to his face. Oh, that Aleph? The freak Katya had handed over to her mad sister as a play thing? Or had it jus been to keep Valorie so occupied that she wouldn’t be able to raise mayhem for the Council? Either way… the lack of judgment was clear. Especially when… ~What would Valorie do?~

And the image of a completely nude Aleph welled up in Morgan’s subconscious. A small chuckle escaped Morgan’s lips, though not one of embarrassment. And not one he would explain if the mad prince looked around. ~Please. Do you think I have a problem with the male form?~ With a mental shove, he swept the image away, and it dissolved like chaff blown away in a strong wind. ~You should have gone back to Valorie when you had the chance. Where you… might have been appreciated?~

Another chuckle, this time accompanied by a shake of his head, and Morgan returned his attention to Alberto, though he remained partially submerged in the Ether, always monitoring Aleph. The grin faded from his face entirely when Alberto, in his trademark voice of complete disinterest, spoke up. “I'm glad to see you like him so much, because the two of you are about to be spending a lot of time together."

Morgan’s eyes darted over to Aleph as Aleph threw a glare his way. As if it were in some way his fault…? He listened stoically as Alberto calmly set out his list of instructions. His old spy had been beheaded, he needed someone new in Lochsalan to tell him about all of the happenings at court, and he wanted Aleph and Morgan to act as his eyes and ears. And, of course, he didn’t want either of them running off either to Lord Arathorn or the Council. And through it all, he looked as bored as if he were giving a list of his favorite varieties of tea and reminding them that the water had to be heated to a boil.

“Very well,” he said, and before he could say more, Aleph cut him off.

"But he's a Spiritmage. He could kill me with a thought. If this information’s so important, what's to stop him from murdering me and running?"

“He won’t.” Again, Alberto answered without skipping a beat. And though Morgan resented it… he knew it was true. He would not disobey an order unless it was in direct conflict with his orders from Lord Arathorn. Because he was not loyal, he was stupidly loyal… just as Dusk had told him. Blindly loyal. “… simple enough for you?”

“Just one thing, sir,” Morgan said, his tone entirely devoid of mocking bite or the faintest hint of a joke. “Was that meant to be an exhaustive list?”

With a cellar full of various vintage liquors to be carelessly guzzled, hall after hall of expensive imported Ra’an carpets to wipe their boots on, and countless pieces of irreplaceable furniture to treat with about as much respect as the rest of the house, Marik’s manor was looking like a prime piece of juicy revenge; It wasn’t like the traitor needed it anyway. After all, regardless of which way the war swung, he’d already burned his bridges in Himmin, and if Keiro was sure of anything, it was that the spineless bastard would be too afraid to test his luck. It was too bad, really, because the mental image Valorie was painting was a tantalizing one, but even he could see that they would only be lining themselves up for attack, and as much as he hated to admit it, they weren’t ready to fight back.

“Marik will get what’s coming to him,” Keiro finally grumbled after ignoring Valorie’s strange behavior and comments about the increasingly foul smell in the house which he could swear was seeping into the very walls deeper and deeper with each passing day. “but we would be idiots to march in there and let them come for us. Marik wouldn’t come without Blackshirt support, and as soon as Jerome knew that Ensign and the rest of us were there…” He shook his head. “It would be ten to one, and Himmin would be torched in the advance.”

Pushing off the wall and nearly tripping over a misplaced rucksack in the process, Keiro cursed under his breath and folded his arms, turning to Ensign as he regained his composure.

“That being said, we’re not going to be able to expand without drawing any attention to ourselves unless we have the space to do so discreetly.” After all, one more guest and they were going to be setting up bunks on the roof- and that was bound to get people asking more questions than they needed to. The Oaklear estates had tons of room, though, it was just a matter of making use of it without causing a ruckus.

“There are a lot of escapees from the Treganlands working at the Oaklear manor; many of them owe their lives and allegiance to the Council. If we can pull the right strings, maybe we can get something going.” By ‘we’ it was clear that he was talking about Ensign, for Keiro was no more a politician than he was a dancer. After all, if he had his way, they would already be making for the hills with armfuls of expensive scotch while the manor burned down behind them.

The slightest shove would have toppled Valorie from the table, down to the floor, and nursing a nice patch of bruises for some weeks to come (for Ensign was irritated enough by now that he would have denied Valorie access to a Healer). It didn’t really matter how long one had known Valorie; it didn’t become easier to deal with her as time went on, and sometimes the only line of defense was to ignore her. So when she made to sit on his head, he simply stood without comment and went to lean against the wall next to Lorne.

“Marik will get what’s coming to him,” Keiro grumbled, and Ensign was reminded that the two Mages, though neighbors, had not necessarily always been on good terms. Even before Lord Oaklear had abandoned the Council for the Blackshirts. It was completely understandable, though. The two lived in completely different worlds despite their proximity. For nearly two and a half decades, Keiro’s main concern had been raising and training Dusk. Lord Oaklear, on the other hand, had always been more concerned with his own appearance and moving up the social ranks than he had been with any of his three children.

“But we would be idiots to march in there and let them come for us.”

Ensign nodded, his initial reaction having been concern over how much attention Valorie would draw to their location. But just as Ensign was sure Keiro was going to back his decision to dismiss Valorie’s idea as the mad ramblings of the still-hung-over and sleep-deprived anarchist, Keiro instead echoed Valorie’s (unfortunately correct) assessment of their need for more room and more resources.

But to even think of storming the Manor Oaklear and taking it by force? It was foolhardy, but far from crippling for Lord Oaklear, whose future fate was now solely dependant on Lord Arathorn’s own welfare. So though Keiro would find his ‘revenge’ far from satisfying in that way, Ensign could not deny that to have the resources of the Oaklear estate and land at their disposal would be a godsend at this point.

“Escapees?” Ensign snorted, reaching back into memory fairly quickly and realizing what Keiro was talking about. “You mean draft dodgers. I would be surprised if Oaklear went through with his promises to any of them, though. Safe passage into Lochsalan and citizenship.” Ensign sighed and shook his head. “Very well. We’ll see what we can do there, though it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. For now,” he nodded to Valorie, “we’ve yet to catch up entirely.”

Being able to read minds was *such* an unfair advantage. Aleph had never liked Spiritmages- Yes, that included the one in his head right now, and just about every one he'd ever met. They were walking invasions of privacy. Alberto kept Morgan with him, but there was enough madness (not to mention wards) in their leader's head that his thoughts would be an indecipherable flux anyway- but for everyone who didn't have the privledge of being mad, there were some thoughts that no one wanted out in the open. Not that Aleph would think any of his own now.

The only Spiritmage... even possibly, remotely likeable that Aleph had met... Was actually the Councillor, Serville Howe. Aleph hadn't thought of him in a long time. Was Councillor even appropriate any more? Arathorn had taken over. Aleph wasn't afraid to admit openly (well, think openly, considering his audience) that he thought the new Council was a joke; but if people like Serville were still there, maybe *something* positive was getting done under all of the Blackshirt-dominated crap. Then again, he had been with Katya, hadn't he? So he was probably dead now anyway.

Everyone was dead. Go back to Valorie? He'd do that in an instant, if he could. But Valorie, the one only one in the whole damn Council he even knew was alive wanted nothing to do with him. So Morgan, could shut up and get out of his head. That was even worse than the reading really: it was one thing to suck out his thoughts like a dog-faced mosquito, but sticking thoughts into his head was another story. Especially when they were insulting his figure.

...Which Morgan didn't seem to mind, huh? Kind of enjoyed it, didn't he? What, with all the big burly Blackshirts beating up classy dames like Katya, of course they weren't picking up any female mages for new recruits. It was only a matter of time before they started hopping into bunks with eachother, wasn't it? Given how useless they'd been for so many years, that was probably all they'd done for decades!

His taunting, dirty thoughts flooding most of his mind (and actually managing to mask him for awhile while he got some time to think about what Alberto was saying instead), Aleph sighed to himself... and took some delight in the fact that Morgan was affected enough by Alberto's perfect insult of an analysis to lose any joy he had been getting out of taunting Aleph's mind, at the least. However crazy, Alberto always had been good at knocking dogs down a peg.

"Was that meant to be an exhaustive list?" Morgan finally said, and Aleph sneered at him.

"Yeah, I guess a one track mind like yours might get exhausted with three whole orders all running at once." Aleph frowned, miming concern. "Boss, you shouldn't overwhelm the poor guy. Leave the tough stuff like killing me to people with a higher pedigree of intelligence. Y'know. Like dobermans. Or doormats."

"Oh, I can tell you two will get along just fine." Alberto smiled faintly, hopping up from his stool. Edge stood, and a few sparks kicked from the floor where his feet hit the floor.

"As far as I'm concerned, you're more than free to murder eachother after all of this is over. Assuming you succeed." Alberto shrugged, his face completely flat and almost bored. "If you fail, you'll probably be too filled with unimaginable pain to care about eachother anyway."

"Good luck. Toodles." Alberto slowly whispered off, his feet as naturally silent as they had been when he entered. Edge clomped after him, snickering a bit to himself, and almost ruining the mystery of the creepily silent walk before him. Almost.

Left alone with Morgan in the bar, Aleph was now reconsidering the use of that wine glass as a weapon, and he smiled at Morgan with enough bitterness to tell him so. But there was something much more important he needed to handle first. Something that would make or break their mission before they started.

"First things first," Aleph said at last, leaning on the bar in almost confidence now that Alberto was gone, instead of feeling cornered against it. They had to cooperate... But there were no illusions of either playing nice. Running his hand down his own fine (if smelly) white shirt, Aleph pointed to Morgan's own duds with his other hand and raised an eyebrow. "You look like ass. And not mine, that'd be too much of a compliment. Please tell me you have other clothes?"

Completely oblivious. That, or Keiro didn't even realize he was being insulted with half her comments as much as the house was. But she had to give him credit, at least, for having handed it over for the Council's use at all. She had expected him to be as eager as she was to shove them from his house, but he was being nice enough to let them take their time about finding better accomodations. Hopefully Ensign realized that, but Valorie wasn't quite sure he did. He was smart... but he could also be a real blockhead when left to his own devices.

But Valorie was pleased that Keiro's own recommendation, even if it was toned down from her 'slash, burn, and kidnap' approach, seemed to be keeping Ensign's attention. Katya's former apprentice might have been intending to simply let the subject die, but he was at least putting out the pretense of thinking it over, and Valorie was going to bug him until it became a reality. She had a way with 'aggressive persuasion' like that.

Assuming the world didn't crash around them before then. All this 'waiting' was going to get the Council killed faster than the Blackshirts could have managed it. Arry-boy was on the warpath, and he had just struck their core and come out smiling. Sure he was rebuilding now, but that just meant the next attack couldn't be his. She was mad at hell at whoever blew up half the Myrr, but at least they had the right idea about striking first. And mysterious bombers wouldn't be able to finish off Arry-boy: but the Council, if it got enough power (and grew a pair), might.

But now wasn't the time to predict impending doom. Ensign had practically just consented to talk to her about the thousand and one issues she had to rail at him about, and she wasn't going to pass up that chance.

"We do," Valorie said solidly, hopefully letting Ensign know just what he was getting in to. There was Val and her fiance's message, Val herself, Dusk; ohhhh *so* much Dusk... He was probably going to be black and blue by the end of it, one way or another.

"But we're not doing it here, where that stench can sink in." Valorie finally hopped off the table entirely. "Come on. I've still got a wee bit of a hangover and I need some fresh air before I start using the munchkin's pants as a barf-bag." Patting Nicarin's head to show she wasn't serious (probably), Valorie walked out into the hallway, and knocked down Erion when she did so. Not by accident. She just shoved him down anyway when she saw he was still around.

"A true gentlemen will suffer for his desires," the floored Mage mumbled as he stumbled off, giving Valorie a sly, knowing look that made her feel faintly worried she had another masochist on her hands. The fact that he sped up his pace when she narrowed her eyes pushed that thought away though, and even let her smile a bit.

“We do,” Valorie answered with unshakable finality. In her voice rang a note that suggested she had much to settle with him. Much more than he’d thought, at any rate. With Valorie coming off of a couple weeks’ solid mourning (and all of the aggression and havoc that naturally coincided with Valorie’s grief), Ensign had not expected her to have much to square away with him. She’d mourned in privacy, and now she was back. Back in the company of those who would most understand what she was going through. And perhaps… perhaps she’d even been driven back with the knowledge that Ensign was now the best suited to keep her from doing anything… stupid. A direct, one-woman assault on the Myrr, for instance.

It was actually something of a relief that she seemed to have a few things on her mind. Perhaps now was not the best time to introduce her to Link after all. Not while she was still struggling to transition into sobriety. Though… Ensign had the nasty feeling that Valorie would feel as if he’d been intentionally avoiding the topic as soon as they did get around to it… if he waited much longer, of course. As it was, there was no telling how Valorie would take the news. A brother-in-law she hadn’t known about? And a niece? It was enough to make Ensign cringe at the reaction of a Valorie feeling so long left in the dark.

Before moving to follow Valorie out into the crisp winter air, Ensign turned and clapped a hand on Lorne’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine with Valorie. Get some rest, my friend. You need it more than anyone else, I daresay.”

“Ensign.”

Frekki’s voice stopped him with one hand on the doorframe. He turned.

“A worthy goal. And one that would bring us much needed resources and refuge. But still a foolish one without a solid plan. And Valorie does not have one.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Ensign said, though Frekki’s warning had been completely unnecessary. Of course he knew Valorie hadn’t yet thought through this. He turned to leave again, but Frekki’s voice stopped him once more.

“One more thing. I will have that complete list for you by week’s end. The only two I still expect to hear from are Hadanf and Pri, both of whom had the sense to flee as Arathorn began to cast his nets. But there’s been no word from Howe. Count him among the dead. His apprentice as well. They were there when the Myrr fell.”

Ensign paused to take in the meaning of Frekki’s heavy words, delivered with stoic calm, then nodded and at last turned to join Valorie as she stepped outside. The cool air was refreshing against his tired eyes as they turned in the direction of the Oaklear estate. The next target of Valorie’s grief-propelled aggression? Or the first minor blow against Arathorn and his supporters? It was hard to tell, but Ensign would not move forward until he was sure their motives were in the right place.

“Let’s walk,” he said, gesturing Valorie on. Perhaps the movement would give them the illusion that things were moving forward. Or that this was all normal. Part of a routine. “Was there anything you wanted to tell me? Or…?”

Well, that was a first. Valorie would have sworn that when she asked to talk to Esign alone he looked almost... relieved. It wasn't the sort of response she was used to getting: intrigued or, accordingly, horrified generally fit a lot better. What, was the smell getting to him that badly? Or was he just happy to get some time away from the Council? The second idea actually made her think less of him without being able to help it. It wasn't as if a break from his job wasn't natural. It just... felt like something Katya would never have done with any real relief in his place.

Still, now she had him alone. It was the perfect time to rail at him. No letting her guard down like before, and no hangover making tiny bits of sunlight into deadly beams of doom during their conversation. He was stuck talking to her whether he liked or or not. And the fact that he did continued to bug her... but whatever.

The issue was how to break the new to him then. Except, it wasn't really breaking if he already knew it. The next few moments were either going to be one excruciatingly painful interrogation... Or gossipy shock. Not to mention concern. Katya having a daughter was wonderful... Awesome. Badass, and touching. But the message she had conveyed was different. Valorie had considered everything Val and Ixiel said, and she still wasn't comfortable with the idea of the Council sitting out.

She would play the faithful messager... but that's all she was in that regard. A messenger. She could shove her own opinions in as much as she wanted later, but the first words she relayed from her niece would not be lies.

"Well," Valorie began. A good start. Well, things were well, things being well. Positive. It could catch him off guard. But there was no more delaying it. "I'm supposed to tell you to lie low here in Himmin. And that another group is going supposedly handling in it. Apparently they want to keep us out of harm's way. It's the same group responsible for blowing up the tower back at the Myrr."

There. That was the first step. But she wasn't giving Ensign a chance to walk off and skulk on that news just yet. She wanted her own answers out of this. With a slightly scary grin, she looked at the tired new highmage and tilted her head just so. "Do you know who told me all of that Ensign? I'll give you a hint. It begins with a V, it ends in 'alorie'." Then Valorie's eyes narrowed, and she gave Ensign a cold, probing look. "And it wasn't me."

Was that… was Valorie suddenly angry? Or was this simple irritation? Or preoccupation? It was difficult to tell with Valorie, sometimes. Never mind that he had no idea what she was suddenly upset about. The cold? She was the one who’d suggested moving their conversation outdoors. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge that that was the only way the would get a private conversation now.

“Well…”

Or maybe he was just imagining it. Valorie didn’t so much talk as yell when she was angry.

"I'm supposed to tell you to lie low here in Himmin."

“What…?” Ensign stared at Valorie as if he wasn’t sure who she was anymore. The Valorie he knew would never advise him to take the path of caution. But the look of alarm in his eyes died when he realized that she was only passing along a message. A message from the ones who’d done a number on Arathorn and blown half the Myrr down just as Lord Arathorn had been about to consolidate his power. Friends…? Ensign desperately wanted to think so. But nothing was certain at this point.

“Do you want to know who told me all of that, Ensign?”

The look in Valorie’s eye was a bit too cunning, a bit too eager.

“I expect you’ll tell me whether I want to know or not,” he said, trying not to begin hypothesizing before she told him. Something in the way she looked at him told Ensign that he knew this someone, though. Which was… a little frightening, in all honesty. They’d burned his home down, after all. Whether it was his any longer or not….

“I'll give you a hint. It begins with a V, it ends in 'alorie'." A pause. Ensign tried to keep an impassive face. "And it wasn't me."

The smile of one hearing after a long while of an old friend crossed Ensign’s face, thereby demolishing whatever questions Valorie might have had. Yes… he’d known about Valorie. Erm… Valorie the younger. But for several seconds, he did not answer. He simply thought back to the days—the rare days—in which Katya had taken him to Himmin and they’d spent an afternoon or an evening or even a few glorious days as a family. And then… he tried to reconcile that with the idea that Valorie was indeed responsible for destroying the Myrr. A frown slipped onto his face.

Lifting a hand to his face, Ensign scratched thoughtfully at his chin, where about a week’s worth of stubble grew, as he considered the best way to proceed. “Valorie.” And offered her a short smile. “Not exactly the type to offer me such advice. Either of you.” Sighing, he let his arm fall. “Don’t be angry at Katya. You’ve no idea how hard it was for her to keep Valorie from you. How’d you find out?”

Ah. So, Ensign had known all along, had he? Valorie had been expecting that as an option. It made sense that Katya's apprentice would have to find out about her daughter one way or another. Of course. It was completely logical. No surprises here. The sensible, accepting thing to do would be to express joy about the event, expain her curious encounter to Ensign, and move on. So clearly-

Valorie punched Ensign with enough force to deck a squad of men twice his size, and had her hands on the scruff of his shirt before the idea of pain or hitting the ground could fully register.

"YOU KNEW?" Valorie glared at the High Mage, actually growling. Sensible be damned! This was huge! Major! Angry? She wasn't angry. She was FURIOUS. RAGING. There was a BALL OF ENRAGEDLY FURIOUS DOOM welling up in her, and she was going to smack him with it. Which, in fact, she did, adding to her original blow. "You SNEAKY. LITTLE. BASTARD!"

It hurt. No matter how touching the symbol of her name was, it hurt that Katya hadn't told her she had a niece all these years. But she had tried to understand it. Valorie was a blabbermouth, sure; maybe she really couldn't have been trusted with this kind of a secret. Maybe, for once, Katya just wanted her privacy respected on something. Protecting Val, and her career.

It worked. It made sense. But even then, the idea that when Katya couldn't trust her own sister, she would trust someone like ENSIGN, and tell *him* about it... That he knew all this time, and had never told her back on the Myrr. That it hadn't been the first thing he'd said to her after the Myrr fell, and she had to find it out herself by meeting her niece face-to-face, and by accident? That she'd never even been told she was getting engaged...?

She wanted to slug Ensign again for it, and Valorie only barely held back her fist. Not the one to offer him advice indeed. How... "How could you not tell me?"

Choking up a little, she released Ensign, but couldn't stop from glaring at him. Had she still been even a little drunk, she couldn't imagine the amount of damage she would have done to him by now. Half of her wanted to do it anyway... but somewhere, something was holding her back. Some part of her that still said she should be happy. And as much as Valorie wanted to shut it up...

"I had to meet my own niece for the first time in Tectun. She must be in her twenties now. And she's getting married." Valorie's fist clenched again. That happy part couldn't sate the urge for blood. "So, given you've probably already been invited to the reception, give me one good reason not to punt you all the way to the Myrr myself. Right now."

It was obvious. It was so obvious that the fist was coming, for Valorie had stepped beyond rage and into a level of fury that Ensign was genuinely afraid of. Sure, sure, he’d seen the damage Valorie was capable of when alcohol held sway over her senses and reason. But right now, Valorie was firmly in control. And choosing the violence.

The blow cut across his chin just as Ensign lurched back to avoid it. Stars burst into his field of vision, but Ensign didn’t even have time to regret not moving back from Valorie a second earlier when she grabbed him by the shirt, practically foaming at the mouth.

“YOU KNEW!?” Valorie ROARED. Ensign raised his hands, trying to fend her off as she continued her tirade. “You SNEAKY. LITTLE. BASTARD!” Each word he expected to be accompanied by a follow-up smack, but Valorie limited herself to one slap across the cheek.

When she released him, Ensign stumbled back several steps, making sure that he put enough space between them that he would have time to stand his ground and defend himself… or run for the hills if Valorie’s anger showed signs of rearing again. “Valorie…” he said cautiously, raising a hand as if to ward off a charge. But by now, Valorie was actually… actually choking up. She was dissolving. Near tears? “How could you not tell me?”

Conscious of his pulse pounding through the bruise forming on his chin, Ensign opened his mouth to respond, but kept himself well away from Valorie still. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t betray Katya’s trust, Valorie. Please, if nothing else, understand that. I couldn’t go back on my word to my master. And you… you have no idea how badly we wanted to tell you.”

He stared her in the eyes. Hard. Desperately begging her to understand. The problem was… even though he knew Valorie would have to respect his desire to honor Katya, he didn’t know if it would be enough to hold her back from hating him. Hating him for knowing while she hadn’t. All these years… when she hadn’t even known there was something to know. And he had.

“It wasn’t a decision she made lightly. But she did it to protect Valorie. And Link.”

Wanted to tell her? *Wanted* to tell her? Then why hadn't they just told her!? Ensign's bad attempt at a defense only aggravated Valorie more. She barely even thought about the response, whipping up a wind behind the mage strong enough to toss him towards her, and simply shoving out her arm to haymaker Ensign back to the ground, the impact making a dull 'wumph' sound on the snow. It wasn't good enough. It *couldn't* be good enough. Protect them... She wanted to think of it as from others, from Arry-boy, or the Council, but somehow it almost sounded as if he meant... Her. Protect her from her own damn aunt. How... how did...

Valorie slumped, seeing Ensign on the ground, blood just beginning to trickle from a wound on his lip. This... was just about her first reaction to everything, wasn't it? It was what got her what she needed, but... Gah. Why was he so weak? This was the same thing that had happened with Katya but... She would never have hit her sister. Never. She had beat the everloving snot out of people just for wanting to.

That was... what she should have been doing here. Not hitting Ensign. She was supposed to rip Arry-boy apart, not her own team. But Katya was her sister. She was so strong, but she wasn't strong enough, and then... and then she'd... Valorie couldn't let that happen to Ensign too. But if she kept up what she was doing... The horrible thought was dawning on her that she just might cause it herself.

Ensign was a jerk. How did he always know this crap would happen? Going ahead and letting herself slump the rest of the way, Valorie sat in the snow and groaned to herself, both extremely frustrated... and depressedly sorry.

"Why the hell did you come out here if you knew I was going to punch you?" The question was a frail tone that made Valorie sound almost as pained as Ensign. "You're so freaking weak."

Valorie quietly scooped up some snow in her hand and covered up his mouth with it. The whole mouth though. She was helping with the wound, but she wasn't ready for him to go spouting wisdom just yet.

"You don't get... how *alone* I felt after Katya. How alone I feel in there. You want me at your back, but I *need* you at mine." She picked Ensign up; not a difficult task for her, and set him on her lap, laing her head against his, holding him in a weird sort of hug... but not willing to let him go, not even to readjust.

"I'm sorry Ensign. You don't deserve this. I'm... I know I can help. I can." She looked at him squarely, moving his own hand up to hold the snow to his busted lip. "But... you're in charge now. I'm trying to... to deal with that. I want to lash out. I want to hurt Arry-boy- I want to *kill* him. But I can't do it alone." Valorie sighed. "So... I'll do things your way. Slow. Smart. It's how you plan. I'm going to have to learn to work with that. I just," she paused, and held him a little closer. "I don't want you to die too."

Valorie stood up, trying to help Ensign to his feet as well, and stepping back. "You said Link, right? That's the father?" She shook her head. "You... probably know where he is. If he were dead, Val would have said something. But I don't deserve to see him. Not yet." Squaring her legs, Valorie stuck up her chin and took a deep breath.

"Hit me Ensign. Hard." Valorie closed her eyes. "You owe me a good beating more than a little. And I'm not my apprentice... So I'm not going to enjoy it. But if you can at least bop me a good one, maybe, maybe I'll be able to feel like you have what it takes to get through what's coming towards us. Because right now, I'm not sure if any of us do."

Walking invasions of privacy. Morgan chuckled internally at that one, well aware that the mirth would reach Aleph. It would do nothing but make him angrier than he already was at the fact that they were now stuck together, but Morgan didn’t care. They didn’t need to get along to work together. He wasn’t about to start playing nice just because they were now ‘partners.’ And he would not be withdrawing from Aleph’s mind just to spare his own feelings. No. He would continue to hear about how nasty SpiritMages were until Alberto found better use for them elsewhere.

Morgan actually bristled at Aleph’s next… assessment. Though he let his anger show neither in his face nor in the thoughts and emotions that Aleph was open to receiving in the Ether. He would pay for it. Oh, and he could feel it. The antagonism between them would only pick up speed like an avalanche picking up power as it went. But… not until Alberto was gone.

And… it seemed that Alberto wasn’t wasting any time. He wasn’t even going to leave them instructions on how to act, where to go, who to listen in on. He was leaving the field wide open for them and expecting them to find their way in, out, and around on their own. AFTER warning them that his last spy had been beheaded. Wonderful. Bleeding brilliant.

“Perfect,” Morgan muttered under his breath. And as he did, he noticed Aleph’s mind stray once again to the wine glass. Oh, so he was beginning to reconsider his original plan now that the danger of being burnt to less than a cinder by Edge was gone, was he?

All it took was a nudge in the right direction. Morgan concentrated on the wineglass. And as soon as he imagined himself reaching out for it, Aleph mirrored his movements, quite unaware that he was doing so, Morgan was sure, until the glass was actually in his hand. And his grip. It grew harder and harder until, all at once, the glass shattered in Aleph’s hand, sending a cascade of glass onto the bar along with droplets of blood where the glass had cut into his hand.

Morgan smiled. “Careful there. And… of course not? His Madness didn’t tell me we wouldn’t be returning to Hasan’Ra.”

Y'oww! Ooooh...

It wasn't that Aleph didn't feel pain. The sharp jolt as his fingers closed a little too hard on the glass did, in fact, *hurt* like hell. And, in fact, it continued to hurt. Cuts bled, bleeding wounds stung. But that slow, steady, humming tingle of pain that came with it, and throbbed through his bloodstream... Mmmm. Well, he could of course take some pleasure in that. There was an idea proposed by a madman once (not Alberto) that the sensation of pain was something akin to the feeling of being alive. Aleph didn't buy that much. But he did appreciate a certain roughness other people could understand. It was a fine line, but a good beating... could feel pret-ty gooood when applied correctly. Like a rougher massage,

Unfortunately, when it wasn't an actual beating, the reprcussions (like *glass*- Aleph hated glass) were still there. If Morgan was hoping for a squeal or a shout, he would be dissapointed; but the sudden bout of pain did make Aleph jump, and the snide comment that followed almost perked Aleph to anger. Almost. He knew Morgan could even read his mind, so he wasn't going to give him even the satisfaction of repressed rage. He had better things to occupy his mind with. Insulting Morgan even more, for example. Oh, and getting the damn glass out from his fingers.

Reaching out with two fingers, aleph plucked out a tiny sliver of glass from his hand... and tossed it, neatly into Morgan's face, the tiny bloody object touching the Blackshirts forehead like a little spitball before dropping off with an almost imperceptible clink.

"You're always supposed to go prepared when you're on a mission. I, personally, have several fine suits amongst my belongings. But... seeing as you've obviously been wining and dining yourself up with the fatcats in Ra," That's right, fat jokes. And Aleph methodically plucked another piece of glass to toss Morgan's way again, flicking each as it was plucked with a casual mocking the Blackshirts way. The fact that each little spike hurt Aleph too was actually a plus here- it was more difficult for the spiritmage to try and break into his head when the pain kept him grounded and focused like this.

"I think it's about time..." Flick, flick, flick. One of the glass pieces stuck to the top of Morgan's shoulder, and stayed there. "You got some new ones."

Already standing, Aleph smiled, the last of the glass removed, and stepped past Morgan, patting him on the shoulder and running his bloody hand across the back of the Blackshirt's uniform in one swift motion that left nice stains behind. "After all, you seem to have gotten yourself covered in blood. Awfully suspicious."

His mirth over with, Aleph gestured over his shoulder and across the street. "There's a boutique there. Buy yourself something that *doesn't* make you look like a raging sociopath- I know, I know, we'll just have to pretend- and that can tide you over until we get to the capitol. Where we'll find *real* vestaments."

Despite his mocking, Aleph was actually very fashion concious. He was more than confident he could get them looking fit for a King in due time without all too many raised eyebrows... Though whether they'd succeed after that was another story entirely.