Private Reflections

[Walter Thornley]

Days after the departure, the weather eased on the rain and gained in the harrowing, damp onslaught of the never-ending breeze. It rocked the tin weathervanes and whistled through the drafty creaks in the walls. All the same, the people seemed to greet this sort of weather with relief - with arrival of Arpa's garrison, the undead were much less feared. Not only the wayward plague but seemingly all diseases within the warded fortress seemed choked if not eradicated outright, from a strange patch of dry skin to persistent coughs and wounds going bad, much easier to treat, though the effect, pronounced in the beginning, has been diminishing day by day.

The streets were looking cleaner, paving works completed in record time along the main thoroughfares and repairs underway in many buildings, but with a lingering hope of the Masons showing up sooner rather than later.

The lord was holding court in the drinking hall. The stage once reserved for musicians was emptied for the day, and chairs were carried by different folk - one for the town elder, one for the lord. A pathway made wide and clear between the tables, so that the queue of inquiries, petitions and claims could proceed directly from the door.

And so it began at dawn, with the arrangement of the traditional funeral rites for the recently deceased within the walls of Arpa. Tensions spiked immediately - for those turned to ash, there was no recovery.
Next, came assuaging the concerns of the locals over food supplies. The commonfolk have been better fed these days than in the last seven years, but it came with strict rationing of the supplies in attempts to prevent theft or speculation. Anyone caught thieving in such a manner in an attempt to turn a profit was made an example of... to Walter's mild dismay, the gallows built just a few days prior have already seen three hangings.
A few more personal requests, like local surviving craftsmen that weren't killed in action or pressured into leaving with the many militants in the region seeking aid in reestablishing their livelihoods.
A herbalist, claiming she could restore some of the Shroud-warped herbs native to Arpa that could be brewed into traditional medicines, and lift some of the strain in supplying healers from the outside. You never knew how useful yarrow was until it started eating the insects around it.

By afternoon, Walter stepped out, the crowd dispersing with a low murmur. Only so many people could be seen in a row before the cost was to his sanity. But the lord did not make his way uphill, where his temporary quarters used to be - instead, he walked along the bend of the street at its foot. The one street that did not flood like it should have been. At its end were the Huntsmen barracks, in which he disappeared for a good several splashes of ice-cold water into his face from a washbasin and a few minutes of solitude just leaning on the wall in the pantry, with no thoughts in particular besides the deep desire for the mess to be over.

And then, out he strode again, that silver-threaded sapphire shirt glimpsing from under the covers of the ornately pressed leather vest and the heavy folds of his cloak almost sweeping the street behind him.
Back to the alehouse.
Back to the chair.

While the paragons were out in the field, he was chained here.
Beside the twisted leyline only him and perhaps Momoshiro were even aware of.
The reflected spires in the sky that didn't mirror anything standing on the ground.
In his chair.
Sorting a very important matter of local children being spooked to death by a drakehorse that was persistent in its curiosity every time it was passing a particular home on the way from the stables, and announced such with a rattling purr that was, after all, horrifyingly reptilian. Walter didn't need to hear about its color to know the one person who acclimated it to both dogs and kids.
And then, there was a case of Shieldbearers allegedly stealing someone's last chicken, which persisted right up until the elder returned from the privy and chastised one commoner Lask for not having had any chickens since last autumn.

Walter let his eyes drift from the open doors and a much sparser queue and towards the ceiling. He wanted to petition whatever gods didn't listen, probably the Firstborn Dark, to end this now. Yet the notion died before words could form even in thought, and he focused on stamping it out and breathing deeper, half an ear lent to proposal about clearing spaces outside the walls for... pasture?..

Anthea appeared on his right, slightly blurry, and a cup of something like a bitter tea ended up in his hand. Walter gave her a suffering look, met with an understanding smile, and nodded in gratitude before downing whatever remedy the elder Hound of the Hunt just put into his hand.
And breathed with relief, his vision clearing enough to turn his face to the remaining petitioners with slightly fresher eyes.

Blinked, hoping the brew was not to blame for where his focus landed.
Were those horns?
The immediate ridiculous thought was grandfather's obsession with man-eating elk people depicted on a few carved chairs finally coming to life in revenge for his mockery. Walter could only help none of this reflected on his face. He was rather certain Percy said something over his ear a few minutes ago before leaving him with a fresh scribe, but...
Oh no. Was it an honorary guest of some sort? Gods knew, would not be the first.
But definitely the last in line, the lad aimlessly debating the future of pastures having just left.
What time was it?
Dear gods. He was losing his mind.

"Good afternoon," Walter chose to start safely, offering a polite smile, cogs screeching in his head for any tidbit of information spilled while his focus was absent. He did not mean to be rude. But his head remained mercilessly empty, save for the scraps of earlier chicken debate... Well, there was no way around it, was there? "What brings you, good saer?"

@Cellachán

 

[Cellachán]

Not horns. Technically, they’re antlers. The difference largely being a matter of keratin, permanence, and no small amount of nuisance. Oh to be an ovinifolk with their compact ram’s horns, or rhinoceros-kin — nice, stubby, forward-projecting spikes that you can see where they’re going. But no. Cel was born deer-kin, so he has antlers. And antlers seem to be perfectly designed for catching on any and everything at head height: doorways, signage, curtains, curtain rails, highly-delicate Shroud propulsion engine firing pin arrays… the list goes on. It’s a good thing Cellachán’s family grows them so tall, otherwise “people” would features pretty heavily on that list, too. Especially in a place like this.

“Baron Thornley von Bremen,” he says, punctuating the first, most formal greeting with a short (and careful) bow; fortunately the queue system here means Cel’s manoeuvre isn’t risking the eyes of any innocent bystanders. He straightens up, smiles faintly, and meets Walter’s gaze. “Thank you for the audience.”

Tall, indeed. A full head taller than many a human man, and quite a head it is: short tan fur over every inch of skin bar the broad, deer-like tip of his dark nose, and his lips. Wide-spaced amber eyes, horizontally-lobed pupils, fluffy, pointy ears sticking out from a short mop of richer-ruddy curls. Oh — and the antlers. Blasted things… at least they should calcify soon, and he can just saw them off. But until then, they’re a mite too tender for that. Beside the head, there is, of course, also a body; towering even while slightly stooped, dressed up in smart, dark sage waistcoat and breeches, a white shirt with somewhat voluminous sleeves coming to narrow cuffs, cream stockings, and sensible shoes. The man further has a big old coat draped over one arm while the other sets his travelcase on the ground beside him.

“I am professor Cellachán of Makari College. Here — a letter of introduction from Professor Alfvig, with whom I believe we are both acquainted?” Cel’s now-freed, fur-backed hand pulls an envelope from the depths of his great coat and presents it forward. “But to answer Your Lordship’s question: my original hope was in fact to meet you. Only, when I learned of your current undertaking, and then looked into the situation here in Arpa…”

Cel spreads his arms in a plaintive little gesture. His head turns slightly, briefly scanning the ad hoc alehouse; the bones of a big old production floor filled with trestle boards, crates, and whatever else might function as a table in a pinch, to accommodate a sudden influx of contractors. The army of soldiers and trade folk bustling here to contend with the Blighted one outside Arpa’s walls.

“… I decided to offer my services toward the endeavour. That is, if Your Lordship is satisfied with Alfvig’s letter enough to proceed?”

 

[Walter Thornley]

Eyebrows rose a little. Save for the commonfolk, in a few days' time this gentleman was among the few to honor the formalities.
And Walter felt quietly thankful for that.

For all the boisterous talk and disregard of common sense... it wasn't but it felt like someone acknowledged what he did here, every day.
He did not command the biggest army, it would be Agatha's lot.
He did not wield the biggest power, that would be Aelius.

Spoiler: But he was born and raised a noble.

He had received extensive education in subjects most adults would struggle with, that robbed him of his childhood and barely left space for joys and pursuits of youth. On top of that, he was pushed to induct himself in the ways of the family legacy, such as it was, and that meant a whole different sort of schooling, in violence and ways of monsters. All that - to be barely competent in a specific role in life.
Since he was old enough, his father took him to hold commoner courts in villages of their domain alongside local elders, and listen to people's grievances. And while his elder brother sulked at what heirdom would have granted him and partook of fast friendships, gallivanting, vices, women - Walter never failed to take his heirdom for what it was.

A shackle with a beautiful engraving that squeezed the life out slowly but surely. And so when people acknowledged the engraving, instead of pretending that the shackle did not exist altogether...

His duty lay between Crown and commoner, to ensure his lands prospered by comprehending hundreds of processes and holding in regard thousands of lives. Not without support, not without advisors and helpers - but if his decision was to be final, he had to shed the folly of biased advisors, and understand. And take responsibility, which lay with him first and foremost, in all things. Endless duty, into which his assigned power was flowing like lifesblood, sometimes too little still in the most that he could do.

And now, he had to ensure that not only Arpa stood, but was off its knees by a margin of years far from enough - and for decades after.
At least here, where he lacked in initial power, it was generously supplemented in the ichor of wealth trickling in directly from the Crown.
He was the one to answer for anything went wrong, before the people and before his sovereign.
He knew a lot of minds that would break under strain with this alone.
But the harvest season's unique strugges were fast approaching.
And his own... personal struggles at the time of the veil being the thinnest. Because all of the things above did not begin to factor into his new state, and its own demands.

He studied the professor in silence as the deer-kin spoke, succinct and outlining all points of conversation before Walter would have thought to question him.

Yvain, who was scribing at the small lectern nearby, had abandoned fasthand and quill for oggling the professor without shame through wheat-blond strands of hair. They were human in Bremen, mostly, and mostly common folk with wisdoms to their craft. Like with the exotic paragons before, someone of this stature and a standing in the intelligencia circles was fresh and interesting.
Well... That and the young scribe's interest in fashions demanded a distant, respectful study of the guest's vestments. Something about the collar sat a bit curiously, probably not adjusted to the different proportions and slope of neck and shoulders.

Walter's consideration was different. Makari College... brought back memories. Of course he remembered Alfvig, though they've met only two times in his memory, back when he was fifteen, sixteen, and still believed that he could make a a name for himself in artificery. It supplemented his studies, and for that reason none could find a reason to discourage it. He'd make golems, he'd finish the sea serpent lure project, he'd fix those ancient bulls...

His eyes traced the familiar script of the letter. The professor had indeed written it himself... and yet, it was nostalgic, to see how today's hand weakened compared to the one eighteen years ago. He would ask how the old darling of the classrom fared, when the moment presented. Not that much could be done against the throes of old age, but...

Before him stood someone who probably had done. Walter's features lightened, ever so slightly. Must have not been easy, making it into that college, and then.
"You've made such a long journey here, that alone is commendable," he spoke. "Welcome to Arpa, Professor Cellachán, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance." Pronunciation mimicked the deer-kin's own perfectly. "As I can see you've just arrived, and we ought to remedy the immediate concern." Something with space for thought and experimentation and, preferably, stone-walled. Walter rose to his feet, and made his way to common ground, noticing how each step brought the antler horizon higher and higher above his head until he was standing not too far off from the professor, and would have to talk to his chin lest the man looked down. A common problem, one might argue. "Ophelia! Send for Percival, our guest of honor is going to be needing accommodations. Yvain, elder Ulwed, the court is done for today. I will continue this tomorrow." Lest I go mad.

A short breath, not allowing himself relief just yet, and a gesture with one hand as he adjusted the cloak with another.
"Might I suggest we take a walk?"
Eavesdropping would be harder that way.
"With purpose, of course. I've been moving my own accommodations into a few stonework buildings we managed to make livable in these few weeks, we'll find you suitable room along the way."

Reginald was at their heels, quick on the uptake, keeping distance, talking low with Yvaine and seeing Ophelia out the door.

Walter would only breathe easier once they were outside and the world unfurled from the room that would never be spacious enough to house all the expectations.
A freshly paved road lay around the bend of the hill. A street branching off to the side was partially charred, still, but notably so only in a few places including that close's end - it wasn't a regular fire. The other streets were all arranged in ribbons running awkwardly between the older wood fortifications in two layers - and the market street sitting flush against the side of the hill. They'd have to walk the road, and cross the empty space that would come to life with dusk, once the caravan that brought Cellachán would finish accounting.

"I am willing to place my enthusiasm in your talent as proclaimed by professor Alfvig. How fares he, these days?"

 

[Cellachán]

“Quite well, considering,” answers Cel. He strolls along at Walter’s side, keeping healthy clearance from those multitudinous, projecting hazards presented by buildings lining the street. “And still a surprisingly common sight around campus for someone who’s technically retired. But at least that means he’s keeping active, which is a good sign for a man of his years.”

That citrine gaze rests on Walter for a moment. Cel thought that the Lord Bremen was displaying a sort of dazed fatigue back in the ‘audience hall’ (alehouse). The kind of look which tends to plague his postgraduate students in the final, frantic stages of their research projects.

Well, the professor can only imagine. He himself has taken on contracts which, theoretically, have and will determine the fate of many a life, but that’s always been an abstract concern; something to be decided far outside the lab, at an intangible point in time. He’s not been at ground zero, looking into the faces of people whose lives depend on the successful discharge of his Shroudcoils, or the stability of his airborne propulsion engines. Working with deadlines of mere days or hours to make important decisions, instead of weeks, months, even years.

Now they’re out here, walking and talking, that frazzled quality might be easing away some. A change isn’t always as good as a rest, but it sure still seems to help.

“Your Lordship is being most gracious,” Cel begins, while his eyes sweep away to view Arpa in all its glory; muddy, miserable, its charred shanty-town bulging out like wasp gall, and even the settlement proper is in a state of urgent repair. “Guest of honour.” Under different circumstances, perhaps he’d embrace whatever privileges came with that. “However, please don’t feel obliged to accommodate me at any greater expense. I really don’t need much… though tall ceilings and wide doorways do help. But I understand that resources must be carefully rationed.”

Yes. He’s seen the gibbets, too.

“… I’d also like to assure Your Lordship that I’ll take on any task you require of me.” Cellachán pauses a beat, letting Walter get a step ahead before the deer-kin tilts his head to avoid colliding with a sturdy draught horse lumbering in the opposite direction along the road. “I don’t expect all of my expertise to be applicable here, so I’ll be content even with ‘menial’ work. Whatever is useful.”

 

[Walter Thornley]

Perhaps it is just that featherclouds became a little sparser over the drape of dreary and let a touch more light fall onto the lord's face, but some sort of a light, fond relief registers in his slightly sharpened features. He does not look like a man approaching mid-thirties. Add a decade to that, at least, early silver threads, crows in the corners of his eyes. The frazzled, slightly out of it clumsy lightness in his bearing is still there, faded somewhat with the medicine, the yearned for spell of movement and... bearing. It was like he's been adjusting himself for presentation ever since that cup of bitter ended up in his hand. Trying to fit back in the mold neatly.
"I should perhaps write to him, when this is over."

He leads the way along the fresh cobbles, noticing the pattern of lines ending in dirt in-between, and the small white stones interspersed at mostly even intervals. Trying to keep his head high, knowing the former dips in the road have since been leveled.

There are no stray dogs, cats, or birds. Even the rats are few. Seven years and a thinning of the veil have not been kind to domestic life. The wood is water-damaged, save for the alley behind the market square where they seem to be heading.

"We aren't about to enter hunger," he raises a gloved hand, as if that alone could quell concerns, "The Crown provides well, the budget was set for a slightly larger populace and the harvests from my neck of the woods have been bountiful to join the effort. It is simply that hoarding and speculation cannot be allowed, and that has been made extremely clear." Alas, people had an issue hearing what they didn't want to hear, and then some, perhaps, wished to argue the outsider lord's authority. Some, perhaps, felt entitled. Examples made, lessons learned. It brought him no joy.

A well sits in the middle of a square patch of dirt as a quiet, strange statement. Several buildings frame it, stonework ground floor with wooden ramps above - and it is the topsides that have seen some repair. On the corner of the patch, an abandoned cartwheel with stones, and some tools, and the beginnings of paving works that seem to have stopped. Planks suspended on blocks have been put around the perimeter, as well, leading off the cobbles to traipsing what seems to be unwilting shallow puddle in the area.

Boards meet the wood with a familiar caution and creak, cloak billows slightly - the breeze never ends, and it could eat away through bone with that frigid dampness.

"Oh, nonsense. Menial is what everyone here does, hands plenty, I would assure you." His right one folds under the cloak, behind his back, until the outer side of his palm rests atop the hidden karambit sheath. It's soothing. "We have had the caravan with alchemical equipment arrive ahead of schedule yesterday, one of the spaces will be contributing to a proper study space." Besides the fact that other paragons would be moved to the buildings surrounding the goddamn well. For efficiency's sake.

The lord turns on his heel, exactly above the plank support, the smoothness of that motion and balance betraying either extreme familiarity or notable physical aptitude. Smiles a tired smile, as if to say, 'this is it', and gestures around him. The corners of his mouth crease deeper lines, and shadows fall from the corners of his squinting eyes that smile, too, down the outlines of his cheeks.
He wonders briefly if he still has the dimples like he used to in his youth. A while since he'd smiled to the mirror.
The expression softens his face, all the same. The cloudy sky falls as the lord tilts his head to look at company, and brings out the strange eyecolor.

"Take your pick. Which one?"

One of the spaces looks like it has a cart house attached. Another sits in a slight contoured elevation, ground floor inexplicably - and dryly - dipping a few steps down the ground level. The others are of no note, save for the narrow one with a small balcony on the top floor having the lord's coat of arms besides the door.

"We've a guild that hopefully arrives within the month, and I would like you to work with them. Leave concerns of expenses to me and Percival. But there are two avenues, and I would like the most input you can offer going in blind, where your inclinations as a scientist could be best applied. How is your expertise with deviating leylines? And while it may be outside your scope, would you have interest in building weave patterns on top of existing arcane architecture with intent to neutralize or dampen the so-called foundation work?"

His senses pick dirt, wet wood, and the echo of charcoal stove in the kitchen of his own new quarters The fainter still aroma of herbs and savory something. Gertrude has been tasked with warming up some food. Walter doesn't know how sharp the deer-kin senses are, but the breeze changes and he registers the more mundane unpleasant scents, wet bird feathers, leather of the suit case and the unique one of present company. His hearing is already overloaded. Yet another thing he barely lets be known that's just there all the time.

Once the choice of housing is made, Reginald passes them to open doors and make sure the windows are clean enough with a few quick swipes of cantrip as necessary. The most basic set of furniture is always there - at least one table, bench, a bed somewhere, an extra chair, a wardrobe. Everything else and candles needs hauling from storehouses, a process, it would seem, which is already in the works ever since the court day has been declared over.
"Speaking of rationed supplies, would you have any dietary needs the quartermaster should be aware of, or conditions for the healers to keep in mind?"

Walter's eyes linger on Cellachán.
He wants to ask. About what brought him here, about the questions he might have. About, well... how many years it took to complete his degree, and what stories does he have from applied works. And yet, he keeps it to organizational small talk, clinging to it like a lifeline. Everything must be set right and that means less prying eyes and ears of people passing by.
Something's missing. Hellos - said. Letter - read. It nags at him, though, the thought that he'd failed at proper courtesies somewhere. He shoves it, allocating that attention to listening.

 

[Cellachán]

Cellachán gives his fuzzy chin a few strokes while he surveys the options. An ear twitches slightly as Walter continues on to explain about the incoming artisans, fickle leylines, and layering Shroud embedments.

“… I helped with a feasibility study concerning leylines about, what, five years ago?” Cel’s eyes glance from prospect to prospect, and he delicately turns around on the spot to take in the full complex clustered around the well. “There were some promising breakthroughs in a new propulsion engine — riding external Shroud currents instead of relying on internal power supplies. Much more stable, but… almost entirely dependent on natural leyline formations.” He glances to the baron, and offers a rueful little smile. “Which can be a problem if that line decides to drift away from the nice expensive port you built, and especially if the new route ends up dumping your airships in the middle of the ocean. So, I have some understanding of the subject, yes.”

That one with the cart-house — that might make a good field laboratory for the alchemists, and he doesn’t want to sleep with only one measly wall between himself and a space that’s one bad reaction away from going up like a fireworks factory in hell. The building with a balcony? Even if it didn’t already look to be occupied by His Lordship, the last thing Cel needs right now is ‘narrow’. His eyes alight on the one remaining prospect with any amount of character, which is the house sunk a few steps into ground-level. He raises an arm in its direction.

“That shall do nicely,” he remarks. “Thank you.”

As they enter through, and while Reginald spiffs the place up with some minor magical housekeeping, Cellachán starts making himself at home; suitcase set down on the bench, wardrobe creaked open to receive his massive greatcloak. But first, and with an odd, low, undulating bray, accompanied by a little flex of the fingers — light. Warm orange starpoints spark into life at the ends of his antler tines, bathing the drab room in a cosy glow.

“Navigation lights¹,” he explains with perfect impassivity. “But also good for illumination in a pinch.”

His voice becomes slightly muffled from speaking into the depths of the wardrobe, as he continues to address Walter’s other query.

“Now, as for embedding weave patterns? I am probably more experienced in that matter.” Cel finishes hanging his coat, and crosses back, clicking open the suitcase and sorting through some of the belongings therein. He takes out a cylindrical tin, nearly a foot tall, and tilts it enquiringly toward the other two as he goes to crouch by the hearth next. “Might I interest either of you in some coffee?” he asks.

“Anyway… suppressive weave patterns.” Cel starts building up a little hutch of kindling, tenting slivers and twigs over a spongy bed of hair-like shavings. “This extant arcane architecture Your Lordship has mentioned — has it degraded to the point of instability, then?”

It happens. Old weave can fray, or get tangled into different, dangerous knots. It becomes like… a bad foundation; cracked, rotting, subsiding. The more weight you build on top of it, the worse it shifts. And then everything comes tumbling down, which when the Shroud is involved, can manifest in all sorts of catastrophes.

Or…

Cel glances over his shoulder, toward Walter. “Or is this the sort of architecture that was intended to be dangerous to begin with?”

---

¹ ‘Navigation’, ‘position’, or ‘running’ lights — the differently-coloured lights on maritime vessels or aircraft which improve their visibility and help prevent collisions.

 

[Walter Thornley]

For a few moments, Walter seems perplexed by the concept of drifting leylines. How extensively does one use them, for the natural currents nestled in the rivers and sitting at the core of mountains, to drift?
The answer lies, of course, in the industrious nature of mortals. He yearned to be among their number.

A chuckle escapes him, next, in commiseration.
"An unorthodox application, and no, the leyline in question is..." An inhale, soft and short, like his chest is not full enough, "...very much affixed."

It is quieter indoors, easier to think. Belatedly, Walter realizes he had sent for Percy and that Percy should send someone to bring some furniture. His own place next to the future lab has not changed, and while there was certainly a provision against keeping enchantments close to the adjoining wall... He'd hopefully be able to make it there and defuse the magical mishaps with that small interior staircase. His place was for sleeping and late night writing, and for eating away from everyone else. Otherwise, it didn't have to be anything but tidy.

He tries not to chuckle at the horns lit up like a chandelier, light falling out of the wardrobe as if a portal spontaneously appeared towards a sunnier, more welcoming place. The light is blurry for a brief moment, then his eyes adjust and the halos around the light, which would be purple if he had to name a color, disappear.

"Professor," he calls out, "let my men bring in everything lacking from the interior, and don't be modest about requests. As for your generous offer," he wants to decline at the notion of jitters, but a realization sinks in at the same time on the missing step in the social game. He hadn't invoked the Law of Hospitality, yet. That seems paramount. Old rites seem more important than anything else... "I couldn't say no, however, would you rather entertain the offer to join me for an improvised spot of dinner, with that coffee alongside? That would give you some time in privacy to recollect yourself, after the haulers are gone, if you'd want for it after the journey."

Reggie glances up and shrugs, a bit sheepish, to the offer of coffee. Smiles and shakes his head, a quick no muttered legibly enough. He makes himself scarce, glances at the antler chandelier, suppresses a grin in the corners of his mouth. Offers to help with building a fire, gestures alone. Has to slip out soon and greet whatever papers, crates of goods, or furniture are going to be allocated, alongside whoever is sent... The lord insists on being improperly self-reliant whenever conscious, and after a month spent hanging outside his door, Reggie just craves to be useful. And invisible. Like an eye in the wall.

"It has not degraded, that's the issue."
Walter leans to a wall, besides the suitcase on the bench.
"Something needs to dampen it when it inevitably triggers, and trying to dismantle it from any edge would likely make it do so. Before I go into detail, and regardless of whether you agree to apply yourself there, I would need you to give your word to me that this will only be shared with me, my Huntsmen, other weavers on the task, other paragons as necessary - and only in the face of the inevitable, to prevent calamity and loss of life, with the common folk."

The room feels deeper in scope from the word 'swear'. Something as surely tongue-tying splitting from himself, the same force that made him keep any promise he committed to and pinned his tongue against lies. There was no legislative wording on paper that worked better than... This. It happened just as easily as breathing, as surely as it happened every time that he himself would make a promise.



Given word, like blood, could be shared.



Reggie closed the door softly behind him.

 

[Cellachán]

“An unorthodox application, and no, the leyline in question is… very much affixed.”​

“Oh? Sorry.” Cel snaps open a tinderbox and takes out a flint and steel. “When you said ‘deviating’, I thought… well. My mistake.”

Before striking forth some sparks, though, Reggie’s gesture catches Cel’s attention from the corner of his eye, and he hands the tinderbox over along with some low rumble thanks. While listening to Walter’s fresh offers, Cellachán rises up from his crouch… just a touch oblivious to his surrounds, judging from the way a fuzzy tine sets the firepoker stand clanging like wind-chimes.

“Blasted… ahem. Dinner, Your Lordship?” A big hand steadies those noisome implements as Cel disentangles himself and rises the rest of the way up, turning to face Walter. “I’d be delighted. Thank you.” That cervine gaze starts roaming around the room. “As for furnishings, I don’t really see anything else I might need right now—”

His eyes widen. A hand flies up, sharp with fingers snapping in realisation;

“Dietary requirements! So sorry, I quite forgot.” He looks back to Walter, and yields another almost-a-trick-of-the-light smile. “I don’t really have any, though, no. So long as it’s not too meat-heavy.”

Cel’s odd, hoof-moulded shoes click across the floor, returning him to his open suitcase, and then ferrying him back and forth between there and the wardrobe as he continues unpacking.

“Sounds like a delicate situation,” he remarks, offhandedly. “And a dire one. I’ll be glad offer every means of assistance I can. As for confidentiality,” and here he pauses to meet Walter’s deep amethyst eyes, “You shall have it.”

There’s a jolly little flame budding up out the shavings, small yet steady for Reggie’s ministration. The fellow slips out the room, and Cel allows the door to click closed before proceeding.

“I, Professor Cellachán of Makari College, give you, Walter Thornley, Lord Thornley von Bremen, my word that I shall discuss this matter solely with Your Lordship, as well as with the relevant personnel whom you have just specified, and only under the conditions which you have just specified.”

 

[Walter Thornley]

"Completely understandable, I will explain properly in a moment," the baron echoes lightly.

Clang-ding-dlang-clack. Clack, the cast iron stand by the fireplace is levelled. Reggie is besides in that moment, breathes 'oh what-' and reaches out to help unburden the antler from an unwanted decoration.

Walter almost drifts forward, his face briefly allowed just a hint of humor before concern sets in, then leaves his face as the situation is remedied. A new expression springs forth. The corners of Walter's mouth twitch into a smirk, against his better manners, a chuckle pulsing without sound in his chest - the sight is so very professorly he's glad he is not sat, that'd make him pick the posture up on sheer reflex. It works well for bringing his focus back to a point, though.
"Of course." A glance, a nod from the attendant in response.

A breath that's a little lighter, just a little, for a moment. Orange glimmers dance to frame the rediscovery of a slipped thought, turn into gold and flicker out as new ones take their place - the hearth is lit.

Walter braces. Doesn't know for what, but he feels the promise pull taught as it is reciprocated - with a degree of ritual to it that washes over with relief. Proper namings. Proper wording. When the given word secures, it's there, but it is easy to forget of its existence.
He still doesn't know why this happens, how it happens. But it's been years now and, surely, it could be a good thing, to at least know if.
"Thank you." The words fall quietly, with relief he wishes did not escape into expression, and determined weight of concluding the exchange. "May it keep." Head inclines, eyes close and open. It is done.

An inhale slower, more deliberate, held before a long speech and warning of it. A weight settles back on his shoulders, and he stops making eye contact, focusing instead at a single point on the opposite wall that his mind finds appealing to maintain a steady rhetoric.

"The leyline that we speak of is one of the rare ones that are stable vertically, and that's about the only way that it is stable. It connects to most of what is now the spreading deadlands, and from deep underground emerges upward - where, in the sky, it mirrors the reason that I know it will trigger." His hands gesture as he speaks, outlining the verticality, gesturing around to indicate the territory, follow the direction of the mirroring. When it comes to the point, however, he looks directly where he feels it is.

"There is something hidden underground. It probably has been hidden long before the conflict erupted. It reflects in the sky in the veiled periphery as a sort of... palace or cathedral-like space, if you look with means appropriate for the invisible realms. And the way the leyline deviates - it would seem, to me, that its flow might have been reversed. During these seven years of war, the underground currents must have brought a lot of negative energy and warping to it, which it disseminated more evenly back to the surroundings, where the negative energy created more issues in prime material plane, which then cycled back through this nexus, et cetera. This recycling overlapped natural patterns, causing spots of uncontrollable Shroud-fueled warping. Here, in Arpa itself, the ward network doesn't just keep the undead away - it keeps the internal space stable. We have found that the locals' burial and warding practices have also done a surprising amount of impact on neutralizing the negative energy within confined contours."
Maintain steady breath. Keep speech organized. Stay on point. He cannot afford to back down now, the need to outline the matter is stronger, and it must be outlined properly.

His left hand fiddles with the red briar brooch at his chest, gaze wanders aimlessly. It stops briefly on the professor's face, seeks the spot on the wall next. The gloved index finger rises in emphasis, tip of the middle touching to the thumb, and he continues.
"But - the leyline's flow now gathers the negative energy and stores it, like sediment, instead of any sort of dissipation. Below. There's... layers and layers of architected weave too complex for me to even fathom. Whoever did this - had prepared for truesight with that sort of heavy overlap, and that is not a common talent people are usually aware of. But I can feel multitudes of - something - that it gets stored in. It's dormant. For now."

He finally looks at Cellachán, offers a small shrug.
"A hunch tells me is that if we do find the entrance to the place below, and unseal it - it will pull the remainder of power from wherever it will be able to get it, or in the very least pull all the creatures connected - towards it." The corners of his mouth lift briefly in the smile that lacks humour, darkens the lines in the corner of the lord's eyes - he's barely in his thirties, and in that moment, looks a decade older. "So, the mercenaries outside, and the paragons from Aetochi and even the Empire, have been invaluable in preventing critical mass from being reached. They cannot know to the complete extent - the mercenaries are fickle even when they're paid, the Arshakan paladin may be swayed or commanded to sabotage the effort. For now, I've elected to keep people alive. Try starving It. Evacuation isn't feasible, we have reasons to suspect that Arpa itself needs protection against malicious agents gaining access to this, this mayhem in the making. And so I thought... maybe it's possible t-...to..."

Suddenly, Walter finds himself out of breath, and pulls an inhale on the sharper side, hands gesturing in a dome-like shape.
"...while... a lot of effort lies in neutralizing sources and spreaders of the type of weave it accelerates and seeks, outside... Excuse me a moment."
He falls silent, and exhales, fully, before inhaling until his chest cannot contain any more. That seems to bring his bearing back, and a humorless smile emerges once again, a touch of sympathy to it this time, apologetic.
"Long story short, this is why I've written to professor Alfvig... among other things. And why I am quite adamant that the Masons' Guild sends their better architects." Which Alfvig himself, in his retirement, could not possibly join anymore. "And if you decide not to undertake, please know that I will cast no judgement, and you will be seen safely out of the area."

 

[Cellachán]

“… where the negative energy created more issues in prime material plane, which then cycled back through this nexus, et cetera.”​

A bitter little grin flickers, momentarily, around the wardrobe door. “Something of an ironic,” he says, delving once again back into the depths. “positive feedback loop, then.”

Partway through all this, Cel deviates from his route between suitcase and wardrobe, and instead goes to the freshly-filled pitcher and cistern, courtesy of Reggie’s direction. He wipes down a pair of cups before filling them with cool well-water, then placing one before the flagging Baron Thornley, though the man seems mostly recovered by the time that it arrives.

The professor takes the spare chair and swings it about to face Walter. He sits down, one leg folded over the knee of the other, cradling his own vessel in big, bay-backed hands. Cellachán spends a few seconds staring out the window, digesting everything he’s just heard. Washing it down with a leisurely sip of water.

“I think I should like to stay,” he decides, looking back toward Walter’s careworn, yet markedly gentle, visage. “And assist. Truthfully, it would… bother me, to just walk away and risk leaving something like this unresolved. Not with so much at stake — though I must also confess to no small amount of curiosity. Hmm.”

Cel glances around the spartan living space, and this time it looks a little different than before. Perhaps some more furnishings would be a good idea. A rug. Heavy drapes. Some cushions. There’s a growing suspicion this won’t be the last time he entertains Walter Thornley here, and it would be nice to make visitors such as he a bit more comfortable.

“I’ll need a closer look before I start considering any solutions. Some ideas come to mind already, but that really is putting the cart before the horse at this stage.” He takes another small sip of water, and continues, “Starting, perhaps, with this ‘reflection’ — I should very much like to see that for myself. That is… if Your Lordship has a little more time to discuss. Or should we pick this back up over dinner?”

 

[Walter Thornley]

Watching movement makes Walter's eyes refocus. He notices clothes, their fabric and pattern, hands that carry them, close the wooden doors. Colors, textures, shapes. Scraps of conversation to the pitched hearing some space behind the door. Honoured guest is a term that signals accommodations. Makari College is voiced, something suspiciously like 'professor' - muttered under the breath in inquiry. The following syllables contain the unmistakeable tones of 'iunno'. The Huntsmen then seem to greet the workers, something, something, possibly 'take it from here'.

He chuckles.
"Positively abominable, but yes."

Silence falls, attention drifts indoors, catching against the angles of stairs going above. There is more ceiling here, on the ground floor, due to the dip. Stonework. Unusually uniform rhombus pattern squares of slate, a lot of them worn and cracked. Wood covers some of the stonework, it looks like it was treated to repel moisture.
He is patient. The medicine is working, intermittently, to reinforce the focus, and keep him more awake.

“I think I should like to stay. And assist."​

There is a sigh of relief, tapering off into quiet laughter. A gentleman and a scholar. Very well.
"If only we would see more academic curiosity in the face of danger. It would please me greatly to have you work with the rest of us." He only now notes the water that he had accepted, taken, nodded his thanks most likely - and completely forgotten about it - still rested in his right hand. Realizes he's parched, and halves it slowly. His gaze settles on the professor again. The exact number of tines along the main bow of the antlers. Whether the fuzzy pointed ears twitch or turn to the noise, like the exorcist's. The way the joints of the bay-backed hands are positioned. The odd way his collar sits, though he offers no comment at all. The horizontal pupils catch his attention for the longest. So curious. Do the deer-kin grow the antlers year-round?

He realizes he'd been staring, lowers his gaze apologetically, and turns his head away for good measure, to the same window Cellachán had been staring out of.
"But of course. I can make the time." He'd make time, and duties moved would be postponed till after dark, was all it took. Letters, accounting, strategies for ensuring the different zones are secured over the patchwork tapestry of maps across his desk. Not the violin, though. People slept at night. He'd have enough time to keep moving progress forward at an intimidating pace. "Perhaps, if we dip out the door now and let people populate your new quarters with objects of comfort some - there would be space for questions about your studies, and Makari?" His mouth twitched with a chuckle. "You've just word-bound yourself without batting an eye. I can't help being curious."

 

[Cellachán]

“I… did, didn’t I?” Cel’s expression turns a mite sheepish. “Perhaps I’m simply used to it by this point. As a verbal contract, though, that is new.”

The deerkin places his cup on the table, and stands up.

“A fine idea,” he agrees. “Movers and I tend to cause problems for each other in small spaces, anyway.”

… and that look of sudden, almost startled comprehension is back. Cellachán frowns slightly (which is a sight, given his eyebrows are fearsome enough already) as he pats down his pockets in what proves to be a fruitless search, but then, fixes his eyes back upon the wardrobe. After some brief rifling about, he re-emerges with a dogeared little notepad and a halfway-gone pencil. Tucks them snug into a pocket, and heads towards the egress.

“Happy to answer whatever I can — barring the subjects of those other confidentiality agreements, of course.” Once Walter seems ready, Cel holds the door open to the square outside. Cold, muddy-fresh air barges past them to go warm its fingers by the fledgling fire, and the muted mutterings pick up sharper to their ears. Of which Cel’s do indeed twitch and angle themselves, slightly, towards these points of sound. “Have you ever been to Makari College in person, Your Lordship?”

 

[Walter Thornley]

"it will keep, that's what matters," Walter states lightly. Spontaneous emergence of the binding magic is not questioned, and he is happy not to answer, running a hand through his hair, instead.
"Don't worry, you will meet the attendant shortly, if anything is amiss for furniture or items, let them know."

Follows the professor out, cloak sweeping the side of the doorway, and folding heavily behind his back for a moment before it smoothes out across the broad shoulders.

"Unfortunately, no. I have dreamt of studying there, in my youth, though circumstance would have not permitted me to be anything but a home-grown inventor. But I've been to every open lecture in Crown's Hold that was of interest, whenever I could make the time for the journey and stay long enough."

A smile tugs at his lips, wistful but warm. A Huntsman, helping carry a frame for what looks like some sort of a basin with enchantments on the top band, casts a surprised look from under the pointy hat that lingers on the expression, then scurries to hide it. Walter doesn't seem to notice, only his right hand folds behind him and along the small of his back, as he walks along the supports to the corner of 'Drowner Square' where the reflection would be most visible.

"Professor Alfvig noticed my ardent interest in magimechanic engineering of the cogs and plates variety. I was just a starry-eyed youth, then. Cannot begin to fathom how big his heart was to write me on top of all the college work, and always with that vivified sort of whimsy that he had moving about the podium. He has been such a good mentor."

He exhales a sigh, casts his eyes down a moment. Seventeen years ago they've seen each other last. It feels like a different life. Kinder. With dreams in it. With hopes for a better future.

And yet, they are now far away from people bringing tools to build the bedframe and hauling a crate of varied dishes and cutlery besides a cupboard on the other side of the square's perimeter. They must talk things outside nostalgia.

For just a moment, a feeling he'd long grown numb to visits him again, and lord Thornley feels like he is suffocating in open air. The smile leaves him, and the embers of memory glinting brightly in his eyes sink into the will'o'wisps at the bottom of the pupils.

He can still feel it, the edges of the eye of the storm. The deadened filaments of it run through him like all magic does, and redisperce into the Shroud at all hours. He hopes that power does not linger in his blood. But all magic does.

"Right there," he indicates above them, where the silver shine of the clouds is striped by what would have been cloudy feathers, but looks like dirty streaks on bleached bone, yellowed by the obscured sun. "There is no chance you'd miss it looming. Would you have the means to look at it directly?"

 

[Cellachán]

“He has been such a good mentor.”​

To that, Cellachán affirms with a few ponderous nods. Footsteps thuds muted and rhythmic over the packed-earth square, their easy perambulation at slight odds with the more awkward bustle of huntsmen-turned-porters.

“Quite so. It always impresses me how many people at Makari credit him as one of the reasons they decided to pursue the academic side of Shroudcraft.” When Cel turns his head slightly, he notes not just the curious manner in which Walter holds his gloved arm, but also the fond look over the man’s face. “Not everyone retains that sense of… wonder, I suppose. And Alfvig, well, he’s always been so good at sharing it. Always so welcoming of discussion, and he never makes you feel like you’re wasting his time.”

Walter leads them to an out-of-the-way corner in the square, conveniently free of passing workers. Cel follows the gesture up towards a sky barren of any volant passers-by, where all the colours and textures are just slightly wrong; like a piece of fruit that’s begun to turn.

“Right there. There is no chance you'd miss it looming. Would you have the means to look at it directly?”​

Cel nods once again. “Based on what you’ve told me, I believe so.” The professor glances around. “Seems private enough here…”

His hands rise, one big digit pointed out and drawing a line up through the air.

“Rotate from reference point… sixty degrees,” murmurs Cel beneath his breath. “Offset: one metre horizontal axis, three vertical…” With his hand now pointed at the sky, he swoops out around on a neat circle. “Diameter: half a metre [# I think we can get away with that, why not]; Adjust: pitch, yaw, roll… aaand there.”

The skyward hands, which had been twisting as if adjusting the dials on some strange invisible machine, fall still. And springing out to hover in thin air just above them both — a circular window, revealing those things which otherwise lie unseen.

 

[Walter Thornley]

The dark eyes flicker with light flowing into the edges of the iris - ghostly wisps, tiny starlights that dimly travel along the pattern all the way towards the edge of the pupil. Alive comes a will'o'wisp in the center, and the colors of magic bloom before Walter's gaze. His eyes are tired from grasping so much world at once, but he can push looking beyond for a little more, he reckons. He stands barely a couple steps away from the professor as the hands sway and drift.
"I've gotten through every book he'd recommended when I was still too young," the baron chuckles. "The practical side of it has always appealed to me, especially when it came to things that could last generations, and further lift my subjects' troubles in uncomplicated ways. Figured I'd pursue knowledge at least, if not in-depth education, you know?"

He watches the magic flow, from where it separates from the body and expresses with weave at the fingertips. Invisible until it manifests, to all but him. It's crisp, outline precisely geometric, adjusting the imperfections until Cellachán has painted almost the shape of a target against the skyward reflection. Walter's eyes narrow into a smiling squint, nostalgic in a way that makes his heart ache. But the deer-kin has a point. Walter can't touch the weave without destroying it, he can see all of it and never bend it to the arcane arithmetics - but the wonder is still there. It fills him with a little of life's color, a little warmth, a little more air in the chest, if he manages to find inner strength and grasp the feeling.

But what they are looking at, once the window swings open, is grotesque.
The sky is the color of dead skin, a dried up yellow, cloud ridges running through it like brownish veins. And from the dark silhouettes, descends the tip of a large tower that seems to fall all the way down towards the carpenter's hill, like a spear poised to pierce the beating heart. A ridge of a long roof strikes from the tower at half-height and splits into three layered parts, smaller spires like teeth on the rake, elaborate in geometric patterns that run and dissipate into the mono-color of decay as the layers stack too thick to discern contours. It fills the entire vision skyward, edges falling where Arpa itself ends. Sky bridges like flayed ligaments pulled taut between constructions. Right corners. Piece of the puzzle, suspended in mid-air. A second larger tower on the other side of the perimeter, hung above what was once some kind of production building - both elements reminiscent of a certain facial feature.
The creators had a sense of humor, a morbidly draining one.

Threads stretch downward, and beneath the ground. It is possible to assume where the weave would be positioned, by reflection alone, but not to see it - a reflection, after all, is just that. The real thing is below them, the second part of a thousand-spired maw.

Walter looks to Cellachán with his smile faded to the corners of the mouth, resigned and tinted with sympathy. The will'o'wisps in his eyes begin to fade.
He has the blueprints of the thing, so far as he could glimpse the weave - which is to say, not very far before his mind would start unravelling from comprehension of multiple layers overlapping in resonance. Still, he tried, and then some, until he had at least the outline of it committed to parchment.

But in this moment, he studies the facial expression of the professor beside, keeps a concerned quiet. The scholar is not a warrior, they have different sensibilities, and... and Walter feels lost, mind blank in search of ideas for how to soften the possible reactions. His own have been pushed down long ago. He sees the looming threat every day, like a sword over his head, and has long lost any pretense of proper sleep.