“Oh.” Osytha blinks down into her surprise slushie. “Look at that.” She lifts the goblet up, inspecting its rim of frost-turning-dew and the rapidly beading condensation. Then turns to Salazin and gives a little nod. “Cheers, big ears.”

The liquor’s concentrated into an almost syrupy fluid around the ice crystals, but that density is countered by refreshing coolness. Strong, smooth, and tasty. The kind of thing that’s a little too easy to slam back, and you won’t know you’ve overdone it until far too late.

When she lowers the cup, Osytha’s directing her appreciative expression into its contents. “Sort of… more universal principles, than all that, then,” she remarks. “With water, an’ all. Et’s got quite a high thermal capacity, reight? That’s a fair bit of energy to be shiftin’ abaht.”

Where had she first read that? … al-Razi’s Disputations of Traditional Medicine, that was it; or at least, the High Imperial translation of that text she’d come across. The old Suldazan had done some experiments disproving the medical theory of the humours, by measuring temperature changes in subjects after consuming heated beverages. Of course, he’d needed to be able to quantify his results, and so with some effort had come up with a metric to determine how much energy is actually required to heat a specific volume of various liquids.

One day, she’ll get there: Naya Vapna. The Arshakan Empire is a crumbling, blood-soaked shell of its former self, but once upon a time, they said that all roads lead to Svapna. Oh, how she would love to spend a year or more there, poring through all the knowledge that they’ve hoarded from every corner of the world.

One day. Got a few things to take care of before that. But maybe Osytha’s dream will be a little bit closer to reality after this mission. So long as she doesn’t cause any diplomatic incidents, anyway.

A bit later, when the wine slushie’s been polished off and Ballius is pressing a pear brandy digestif into Osytha’s hand instead, when there are no servile ears around to overhear this talk of ‘guides’ and ‘missing children’ and ‘rescue missions’, then the knight shifts back her chair and stands. Guffy lifts his head excitedly from his spot beside the fire as she walks on over, crouches, and scritches him behind the ears with one hand as the other feeds sips of calvados past her lips.

“That’s worryin’ly vague,” Osytha observes, smiling down at her lad. “If that’s t’ price, an’ we need this guide, so be et. But Ah would feel better to ken what these ‘personal reasons’ are, an’ why t’ child were taken in t’ first place.”

If it’s a clear-cut case of kidnapping, no problem there. But… what if it’s not? What if the child was taken away for her own protection? And that they might be delivering the lass back into gods know what kind of life. Maybe that will simply end up being the unavoidable cost of stopping an even greater catastrophe from taking place. All Osytha knows is that it’s damn easy to make that kind of choice when you’re not the one who actually has to pay for it, and if there is a better solution to be found, it won’t just fall into their laps — they’ll need to actually look for one.

Assuming, of course, it’s as complicated as all that.

“What’s ’er name, this gel?” Osytha glances up at Faine. “An’ you said she’s in ‘town’. Which town we talkin’ abaht ’ere?”
 
The knight's curiosity and propensity for academia was becoming less of a surprise. Faine sunk back into the plush velvet of their chair, pear brandy settling warmly in their belly. They watched as Syr Osytha mused aloud while scratching her dog around the ears. From the way she looked down at the mongrel, eyes full of warmth that had nothing to do with the crackling fire, Faine thought it safe to assume that the creature's participation in this expedition was non-negotiable.

Ballius looked like he wanted to say something. He was also staring in the knight's general direction, but his gaze had a somewhat distant feel to it. Like he was looking through rather than at.

In the end, it was tipsy old Sal who said what the others would not. "And how do we know that this child wants to be rescued?" she asked with just the barest hint of a slur. "Who's to say they aren't better of where ever they are right now? I don't know many children who want to live with a hermit in the mountains, be it their father or not."

Faine considered this, as this had considered it many times before. The conclusion was always the same. "Because neither of them are human."

There was an initial stretch of silence, interrupted by a very faint wheeze. Like a bladder being deflated. Judging by the horrified expressions of Ballius and Sal, Faine suddenly appreciated the fact that they were sitting farthest from the fireplace.

"Bleeding gods, girl," Salazin coughed. "What do you feed that little rascal?"

Ballius blinked rapidly before taking a strategic sip of brandy. He held the goblet up to his nose for a suspiciously long time. "Perhaps his gut needs a detoxification. But as you were saying, Ambassador. Not human?"

"Yes. They are humanoid, to be sure, but not enough that they can ever be mistaken for one of us."

Salazin gave them a pointed look, which they ignored.

"I have serious doubts over the child being somewhere better, simply because many of the locals believe them to be abominations. The father retreated to the mountains in fear of being chased out by pitchforks and torches."

"Be that as it may," Ballius interjected, "how exactly do you plan on us retrieving this...non human child? I assume you have some kind of plan."

Faine dipped their head. "I do. It will only require two of us. Salazin must stay behind to guard the specimen, and your lordship need not be implicated in any of this underhanded business." They looked toward the knight once more. "It will be Syr Osytha and myself. Should she agree, of course."

Eyes flickering downward at the pocket watch tucked between the folds of their robes, Faine added, "If we do this, our best window of opportunity will be between midnight and sunrise. The sooner we finish, the sooner we leave."
 
“Bleeding gods, girl. What do you feed that little rascal?”​

“Sweet potato, pompion, fowl, lean mutton, a touch of venison, plus t’ odd slice of apple tend to agree best wi’ boyo’s tummy.” Osytha takes a shallow sniff, which immediately has her face crinkling up. “But that’s a swine guff,” she declares. Osytha looks down at the little stinker, and her hands snake out — upending Guffy onto his back, playfully teasing his belly while he wrestles energetically back, happy huffs and mock growls rising up before the hearth. “Did somebody slip thee a bit of pork, eh? Art tha a lucky lad? art tha?”

It happens. A place like this, with servants bustling around its halls… or perhaps Guffy managed to slip away and follow his nose to the kitchen at some point. Either way: some sucker turns around to find those big, soulful brown eyes staring up at them, and that’s all it takes. “Oh, what a sweet boy” is followed by “Surely he deserves a treat” within the same breath, then bam! — you’re opening all the windows and wrapping anything halfway scented in a kerchief against your face for a couple hours, or however long it takes for boyo to work the evil out his system.

Speaking of ‘evil’…

Abominations, pitchforks, mobs. Why do people have to be so dramatic all the time? Scratch that — why’s this op being dropped on Osytha now, mere hours away from execution? The dusker frowns slightly as she begins to chip away at that one. The best answer she can come up with is: control. The less time she has to ask pesky questions about this situation and come up with her own understanding of it, the more faith she’ll have to put into Faine’s plan.

Guess you never quite graduate out of being a mushroom, whether you’ve earned your ‘syr’ or not. Only difference to climbing the ranks is that the people shovelling you shit just tend to be better dressed.

“Humanoid, but ne human. That’s all?”

Osytha continues to stare down at where she has Guffy against the ropes. He’s rendered helpless by some massaging scritches just above the white patch high on his chest; reduced to gazing placidly at the ceiling, an oddly smug sort of sneer plastered across his muzzle.

“… Ah s’pose et don’t matter much at this point. We’re better served by preppin’ for this rescue mission.” Osytha gives the remainder of her brandy a wistful glance, then stands up and sets her glass upon the table; alas, but carrying out operations while you’re rosined is generally frowned upon by the Knights. Then, she gives Faine a wry look. “Seems t’ Empire has a fairly novel curriculum for ets diplomats. How’s abaht Ah tek boyo back to my quarters afore t’ sea breeze comes in again… then you can brief me on this plan of yours?”
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom