Private Restoration

[Faine]

"Where there is a will, there is a way to cleanse."
—The Children of Purification
​

Faine thumbed the handle of what could generously be called a cage. The monstrosity was more of a box, really, with clusters of small holes for filtration and pure silver lining its interior walls. Combined with the ring ore hidden surreptitiously throughout, there was enough precious metal weighing the contraption down to feed an entire town for weeks. Hence, the carrying handle being polished to a mirror shine by one very restless thumb.

But a cage it still was, for locked within it was a prisoner of even more devastating value.

There was no hiding its size, though a cloth of muted green covered it nonetheless. Salazin's last minute idea. Of course, she had chosen for it to match the sage of her own robes. Faine didn't know the old weaver well enough to decide whether she had done so out of hubris or convenience, or worse yet, sentiment. They prayed to all the known powers of the universe that it was not sentiment.

It had taken considerable time to travel this far north to Altalusia. Under any other circumstances, Faine would not have minded. Looked forward, even, to visiting a kingdom made almost exclusively of scenes ripped straight from storybook fables. Babbling brooks, grassy highlands, sea lined cliffs—a land so picturesque it ought to be framed in every direction, as they had once been told by one very garrulous painter. But a heavy box had sat by their feet the entire trip, and heavier consequences still laid across their shoulders, should they fail.

By the time their somber entourage arrived, Faine was only slightly losing their mind. Their dark eyes were smudged with exhaustion, having slept little throughout the journey, and the collar of their tunic remained perpetually damp from the sheer number of times they jerked awake in a cold sweat. They must have checked the latches of the cage a thousand times. It never felt enough.

Salazin, on the other hand, slept like a babe. The old woman snored her way to North Ilica with a level of apathy that sent Faine spiraling in envy. She seemed remarkably confident things would not go wrong, considering the fact that if they did, she would be the first to die. And not even because of the thing in the box, but because Faine would cut her down before she could produce so much as a single, mutated nub. The sabre sheathed neatly by their side was not a decorative addition. Faine had chosen it deliberately for optimal hacking.

So it was with almost visible relief that the imperial spy greeted their hosts. They had shown up late in the evening, sparing everyone from useless pleasantries, and were taken to their temporary quarters immediately.

From the moment the heavy wooden doors closed, all Faine wanted to do was collapse face-first into the soft bed tucked against the northern wall of their room. But there was business to attend to first, so they forced themselves to stay awake. They slipped their smallest knife under the bright wed wax, knicking it clean off, and sipped on hot, herbal tea as they opened the first of their letters. The sharp scent of spruce invaded their nose while they read. It was a description of one of the candidates, provided by a superior, written hurriedly and in lackluster fashion. Skilled in combat. As every knight of the kingdom ought to be. Good at following orders. Again. Did this root vegetable for brains even try?

Faine tossed the letter straight into the fire before opening the next. This one had neat, legible handwriting, which was a promising start. But then the author went on to describe what Faine was pretty sure was the unseasoned, pampered offspring of some Count or Baron. So that one went into the fire, too.

They picked up the third and last letter. It was unsealed, free for anyone to peruse. Faine opened it with a weariness that defied description. Sighing, they scanned the first line, then the second. A handful of seconds later, they were finished and set the parchment down, hands steepled above the yellowed parchment. They stayed that way for a good while, mind churning. The other two letters were naught but ash by the time Faine moved again, this time to dip quill into ink and scribble across the bottom of the letter. They waited the appropriate amount of time for it to dry, rolled it up, and rang for a servant.

"If you would be so kind as to deliver this to Syr Osytha," Faine requested as they slipped both the rolled up parchment and a bit of coin into the servant's palm. "I would be much obliged."

And then they dove greedily into bed, waking only at the last possible moment. For the new day would surely be a long one, starting with Salazin on one side of the reception room, Faine on the other, and The Cage sat squarely in the middle. It was a minor relief to the Arshakan spy that the young queen and her council would not be in attendance. Only a Margrave by the name of Ballius and a selection of trusted guards to oversee the debrief, standing richly by the doors.

Oh, and hopefully one recently summoned Syr Osytha, Knight of Anatheum and soon-to-be guide for this doomed mission.

Who was also conspicuously late.

 

[Osytha]

“Can we ’urry this up, already? Y’lordship’s mekkin me tardy.”

This stellar piece of diplomacy doesn’t seem well-recieved by the young lordling in front of her. In fact, based on what Osytha can see from where she is, pinned down to a knee with one guard twisting her arm behind her back while another clasps their hand firm against her shoulder, his complexion only seems to ripen.

The man — and not long that, Osytha reckons — lets his fingers dig into the missive. She can see the creases that’ll forever mar that page now.

“No,” he says, glaring down at her. “I don’t believe this. I refuse to believe this. I know my letter of introduction was received here. There is just… no conceivable world in which I was not selected over a little girl like you. By the Sovereign, you’re a— you— you’re a bumpkin!”

“Well, first of all,” Osytha interjects, “bet Ah’m awder’n your lordship, so’s Ah don’t ken who you’re callin’ ‘girl’. An’ second of all… uh… hmm. Nay, that’s et, actually. Ah’m a reight bumpkin, you’ve getten me there.”

Young Rupert Fletsley, firstborn to the Baroness of Dunsborough, takes a menacing step forward to better loom over the knight. Osytha feels the holds his personal guardsmen have on her tighten a little, though it’s hardly necessary.

“I don’t know what underhanded tactics your order has used this time,” he growls, “but I will not simply cede this opportunity to prove myself.”

Osytha just blinks up him. But behind her vapid, blue-eyed demeanour, the wheels are turning. Deliberating. Calculating.

Well. This is a right pickle I’m in.

… is the first thing she thinks. But that’s not a very useful observation in and of itself, so as much as she enjoys a good gherkin, Osytha keeps that one in the jar and moves along.

At least Guffers is out harm’s way, for now. He’d been absolutely beside himself when the attendants had grabbed Osytha, yapping and screaming and harrying the men. Boy is all bark and no bite, but that wouldn’t necessarily stop them from hurting him to make a point — or even just for the fun of it. She’d commanded him to stay, back a ways beside the gutter, but her poor lad is whimpering and trembling something dreadful as he stares on helpless.

“… opportunity to prove myself.”

So that’s it, is it? A simple case of an up-and-coming noble with a chip on his shoulder. Maybe trying to find ways to solidify his position as heir apparent and mummy’s favourite. Could be something Osytha can use, there.

“Then do et,” she tells Rupert, matching his seething, brown-eyed glare with a cool, even grey one. “Prove you’re better’n me.”

His eyes narrow. “A duel, you mean?”

“If’n you like. Whatever you pick, though — just you an’ me. You best me, an’ Ah’ll officially withdraw my candidacy…”

“… And if you win,” Rupert intones, “I expect you want me to let you go, and give you this letter back.”

“Dead on t’money, y’lordship.”

Man stares at her a moment longer, and one more than that… until he just, sort of sighs, and turns around.

“As you wish, then.” The lordling gestures for his guards to stand down, while he puts a few paces between himself and Syr Osytha. “What’s your weapon of choice, girl?”

“Longsword,” she replies, rising to her feet. The answer had come immediately, without her even thinking about it.

“Oh? Mine as well.” Rupert stops. Faces her again, his movements almost lazy as his own blade slips from its sheath. “Longsword it is. First blood.”

“Wait… you mean bared blades?” Osytha’s eyes go wide at that. “Now, hold on a moment—”

“You did say ‘whatever I choose’, did you not?” A dark gaze meets her across the street as the man settles down into a fighting stance. That laziness, all of it gone, now. “Such is my choice. Or do you cede already?”

A duel with sharps, on the street, in broad daylight? Osytha laments to herself. I’d blame the brashness of youth, but pretty sure I count as ‘the youth’ too, and I can still see how crazy this is. Man’s plain barmy, that’s all there is to it.

“Nay,” she replies, drawing her own sword and hunkering down into langort. “Ah ne’yield yet, y’lordship.”

So they begin.

It’s an odd, circling little dance, each one slipping between guards and sweeping their feet along the ground in odd, inconsistent gaits; gathering step here, compass step there, maybe even a cheeky passing step thrown on top. ‘Ho ho,’ that one says. ‘Watch out — I’m comin’ to getcha!’ But, whether the step is bold or flighty, each one is carefully made, looking for an opening to test the other dancer.

The problem, Osytha reckons… is that young Rupert here is probably good. Like, actually good. An aristocrat like him would have trained under a schirmaister or two — elite fencing masters hired by the noble house to tutor the boy, perhaps even from the same age where she was learning ignoble peasant stick from old Caius. She’s got a few years experience on him, true… but is that enough to put her ahead?

He siezes the Vor — blade whips out to snipe her hands, and she blocks low against his unterhau. After that, the dance becomes twitchier, full of sharp movements, giving and taking.

Unfortunately for Osytha, she’s right. Rupert is proving to be a proficient swordsman, leaving little in the way of openings to exploit. And those she can see, she can’t quite get to. The man has a reach and strength advantage over her, and his skill may even be on par with hers, too. All she might have over him is that he’s inclined to underestimate her. The little girl knight, Syr Bumpkin.

It doesn’t feel like much of an advantage to her.

And he starts to see her limits, as he tests her more and more. Starts putting that reach to good use, putting her on the defensive while he only gets more aggressive. And she’s not faking it — man truly has her on the back foot.

But… if she happens to make her blocks and swings start looking a little more wild; a little panicked, and sloppy… maybe she is faking that part. Just a smidge.

It gets Rupert stepping into closer measure. To be a little bolder, and maybe bring it all home with a strike to Osytha’s upper arm, or chest. Maybe even her head or neck. She makes one of her increasingly hectic swings at that, a mittelhau high to his left which he blocks with ease, his sword upright while hers is stuck horizontal.

She can feel him through the bind, preparing to wind and thrust in, seizing the line and forcing her guard wide open—

—Osytha lunges, faster and farther than she’s shown she can in this match. Not toward him, but more diagonal, moving widdershins around her opponent. Her fore-arms rotate round to cross over each other, inverting the angle of her sword… then all of a sudden that block ain’t blocking no more, and her blade is slipping behind his.

A sharp edge that close to his neck? Man doesn’t have time to think. His knee-jerk reaction is to block even harder. Well, he’s already got his sword in the position for it there, right? So why not?

That’s the tricky thing about duplieren, though.

There’s a long, frozen moment with the two of them standing there. The tip of Osytha’s blade, pushing into the nobleman’s neck by the force of his very own block. Her arms held high enough that just her eyes are visible over her bicep, that blue gaze locked to Rupert’s umber.

There’s no blood yet. Another twist of the grip meant it was Osytha’s flat which had landed against her opponent’s neck. But all it would take now is one little flick, and there’ll be a flood to fill these gutters.

“Now then, y’lordship,” Osytha enquires over heavy breath, “do you yield? Or mun Ah be mekkin corpses of you’n your men today?”

 

[Faine]

It was one thing to know patience. It was another entirely to enjoy it.

“Where is she?” Faine asked, their jaw only slightly clenched.

The Margrave’s guards glanced nervously at one another. Faine knew they would be of no use; all the servants had been dismissed, due to the sensitivity of the mission. They had asked more to express their agitation than in any hope of an answer. Looking out at the neat row of blank faces, they breathed heavy through their nose.

A commotion broke out from the other side of the double doors. Voices clashed, muffled through the thick wood.

“Miss, you can’t—”

“It’s urgent! Let m—”

“Open the door,” Faine ordered.

The guards did not move to obey, looking to Ballius instead. So Faine repeated themselves, louder this time, locking their gaze onto that of the Margrave.

“Open it.”

Ballius stared at them for a moment before nodding to his men. Two of them moved in unison, lifting the drop bar and turning the locks until the doors swung open to reveal one very disheveled, out of breath young woman. Her fawn colored curls were barely trapped in a bun and her skirts decidedly humble in appearance. Freckles speckled her rather youthful face.

Faine frowned in disappointment. “You…are not Syr Osytha.”

“No! I am not, your…” she trailed off mid-pant, glancing up at Faine with a quizzical expression.

Faine was about to insist on dropping honorifics altogether, tedious things that they were, but Ballius beat them to the punch. “Our guest is an Ambassador of the Arshakan empire. You may address them as Your Excellency.”

The young woman blinked and then nodded, swiveling back to Faine with wide eyes. It seemed the Arshakan reputation still held, even in parts of Illica this far north. “Your Excellency, forgive me. I am but a humble servant who caught sight of Syr Osytha on my way here, and she seemed to be in trouble, so I thought to report it straight away.”

This was concerning news to say the least. “What kind of trouble?” Faine inquired, head cocked to one side.

The girl hesitated. Surprisingly, yet again, it was Ballius who intervened.

“Speak freely, Renia. You are safe here, so long as you tell the truth."

Renia ducked her head in deference. "My Lord, I would never dare to lie to one such as yourself, nor our esteemed guests. I speak true. Syr Osytha was accosted by some important looking men, well dressed and the like. I...It is not my place to speak ill of those above me, but...I do believe I recognized Lord Fletsley among them."

Faine's frown deepened. They recognized that name. It was lying somewhere in a pile of ash in their fireplace.

Before the Margrave could interrupt again, Faine took the opening viper quick. "If you can show me where this is taking place, Renia, I will not only ensure your safety, but a reward for your bravery as well. And the faster the better—I need Syr Osytha in one piece."

Renia curtsied low, head still bowed. "Of course. Anything I can do to help. Syr Osytha does not deserve to be treated so unkindly."

A simple enough statement, but Faine tucked it away all the same. There was something there, perhaps, to explore later. For now, they had one unlucky knight to track down, preferably before any real damage was done. The Arshakan spy had no interest in revisiting their other options. And they definitely did not wish to carry out this mission with only Salazin to rely on.

By the time Renia slowed to a timid shuffle, the small entourage could hear the sounds of a fight well underway. Faine laid a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, silently thanking her while nudging her out of harm's way. Then they peeked around a corner, a handful of Ballius's men trailing behind. The fight must have been going for at least a minute or two, both opponents sweating and panting from the exertion of being evenly matched. From a distance, Faine took the time to assess how each fared, mentally noting details as one might catalogue a new species of frog or tree. For a moment, they worried that Syr Osytha would lose. Her swings were growing a little too wild to be fully in control. All it would take was one reckless mistake.

But then she outwitted the haughty young lordling, cleverly baiting him into over committing, banking on his arrogance. And he fell for it, nice and neat. The blade sat snug against his skin. Bold, for someone of her standing to even dare threaten a lordling, though Faine guessed it was not she who started this fight.

It was then that they decided to make themselves known, Ballius's men staying exactly two feet behind as ordered, their vigilance unwavering and expressions grim. On any other day, a bit of bullying between two wildly differing stations could have been overlooked. Unlucky for young Rupert that today, of all days, threatening the life of an Ambassador's guide was almost tantamount to treason.

"I suggest you heed the good knight, Lord Fletsley," Faine intoned as they drew closer. They stopped once they were close enough to discern the color of Syr Osytha's eyes. Grey blue, like a brewing storm. "Though there will be no corpses to waste your energy on, outside of those you are asked to make, Syr Osytha."

With a quick nod to Ballius's men—a nod that seemed uncannily similar to that of the Margrave's himself—Faine watched as one guard separated the two heated opponents, while the others formed a bulky wall between their charge and Lord Fletsley's goons. The young lordling was steered back toward his comrades, ego smarting but otherwise unharmed, before the guard joined rank with his brethren.

"Young Rupert, was it?" Faine mused, feigning recollection. "As a courtesy, I will tell you why, here and now, you were not chosen.”

Rupert’s expression turned rancid, his mouth opening. Faine gave no quarter. “For one, the Baronness would never forgive me if a single hair on your head was harmed. For another, you are entirely unseasoned. I need experience and reliability, not clout or influence. The two, by the way, are irrevocably linked. My advice is to think on that, long and hard, should you have any ambitions beyond keeping your hair coifed. But, more importantly..."

They moved fast, cloak rippling behind them. Lunged forward, placed one foot behind Rupert's, snaked a hand around his waist, and twisted. Hardly any effort at all. Just flawless, well timed technique. One moment the young lord was standing on his own two feet, looking mussed and absolutely sour. The next, he was ragdolling over Faine's bent knee, arms and legs cartweeeling through the air before he landed flat on his ass.

"...you do not realize when you are in danger. And I have no interest in liabilities."

They turned to face the knight once more, a ghost of a grin on their otherwise somber features. "Come, Syr Osytha. We have much to do and no more time to waste. There is something you must see, back at the castle."

And all the while, the cage stewed underneath its cloth, waiting.

 

[Osytha]

Neat, quick, and parsimonious — not a movement wasted in the newcomer’s take-down of young Fletchley. Osytha notes it all as she wipes off the tip of her blade with a rag. In truth, she’s almost as surprised as Rupert there. Threatening injury in the course of a duel he himself decided upon (however much Osytha might have nudged things into place) is one thing; laying hands upon him arguably without provocation is quite another.

It’s a bold message. Their grim-faced new arrival doesn’t appear to suffer fools gladly, regardless of station. Furthermore — it’s a warning for Osytha to stay on her toes, perhaps.

Could be quite the learning experience she’s got ahead of her.

Osytha slips the sword back into its scabbard. She meets the tawny eyes across from her, quickly getting the measure of this person; raven-haired, an almond complexion, build… hard to tell given the loose cut of their sombre raiment, but whatever they’re working with, seems they use it well. Their comment about the Baroness and liabilities suggests that the buck stops here, with them. Which, altogether implies—

“Lead on, Your Excellency,” Osytha replies in commendable High Imperial, while she offers a bow. “And… my apologies for our needless theatrics.”

No, duelling Rupert hadn’t been an ideal solution in her books. Just the only way to wrap things up she could think of at a moment’s notice.

She falls into step alongside her saviour, Guffy back and bouncing along beside her heels. So… this is Ambassador Faine of the Arshakan Empire, is it? She’d expected… well, she’d kept her expectations largely open, because otherwise one tends to invite rude awakenings, the young Fletchley being a case in point. Even so, Osytha hadn’t expected them to be so young.

Pot, kettle, black — anyone?

A scan around reveals, besides the wary men-at-arms in Ballius livery escorting them back, the anxious face of Renia watching from a safe distance. Lass must have been the one to fetch help after Osytha had seen her scurry inside. So, the knight flicks her a lopsided grin and a little waggle of her eyebrows; by gum, look at us playing silly buggers, it says to her. Nothing to worry about now. Oh, how we’ll look back on this and laugh…

Hopefully, Renia didn’t stick her neck too far out for Osytha’s sake. It’s a dangerous game for a servant, making yourself noticed by the rich and powerful — regardless of the circumstances. She’ll have to check on the girl later on if time permits.

For now, though? Probably a fool’s errand to ask about any mission details just yet; the matter’s sensitivity had been made clear in what missives she’s already received. These kinds of assignments, they tell you what you need to know when you need to know it. No more than that, and never any sooner. Well, that’s fine. So long as the Ambassador knows what they need to about her, in turn.

“To be perfectly up-front with you on the matter of liabilities,” Osytha says, continuing in respectable if somewhat accented High Imperial, “Your Excellency is aware the Knights of Anathaeum hold to a certain code of conduct? If I’m to take lives in the course of this mission, it will require considerably more justification than merely asking for such. Best to be clear on this before we go any further: my loyalty lies with the order, first and foremost.

“Will that be an issue?”

 

[Faine]

Faine's eyebrows rose a fraction. Hearing their mother tongue was quite far down on the list of things they expected from a Northerner. Least of all from a knight of reportedly humble origins.

"No apology required," they responded mildly, choosing not to deviate from Altalusian. They were fluent, of course, having prepared for this mission months in advance. But they were also keenly aware of Ballius's men hovering around them, ever vigilant and unerringly loyal. "Needless theatrics, after all, make the world go 'round."

Their trek back to the castle continued in amiable silence, punctuated rhythmically by the sounds of boots and jostling gear. Syr Osytha seemed to be in high spirits. She walked alongside her new benefactor with vigor, looking around and grinning at a rather rosy cheeked Renia. Meanwhile, Faine collected each detail before filing them away into some secret compartment in their mind, just as they had done when they first came upon the dueling rivals, and again when the knight had sized them up. She was a clever one, Syr Osytha, quick to think on her feet. A dangerous trait to possess. Fortunately for everyone around her, she did not seem to have any ambition beyond being good natured and dutiful. At least, not as far as Faine's little spies could tell.

Back home, such a propensity would have been picked out early on and honed. Training lead to testing, and testing lead to working. The better you tested, the more dangerous the work. And, undoubtedly, the higher the prestige.

Which was why Faine often found themselves in a bit of a paradox. Because yes, their work was as dangerous as work could get, and therefore required only the finest of tools. But at the same time, their work was secretive, as was the true nature of their role to play in it, so they could quite literally go about saving the world day after day and receive...fuck all. A pat on the back and some quiet luxury, perhaps, with a small vacation tucked in between, and then off they'd go again.

But they were not in it for fame, or for glory. And neither, it seemed, was Syr Osytha. That part was important.

As if on cue, Faine's thoughts were cut short when Syr Osytha brought up the issue of liabilities, continuing to use her quaintly Northern take on High Imperial. For a moment, a dark cloud passed over Faine's otherwise placid features. So it was that when they finally answered the knight, they did so heavily, the weight of truth dragging down every word.

"It will not. Because when the moment comes, you will know exactly why, and you will see no other recourse." Faine turned their solemn gaze to meet that of the knight's. "Our mission is to preserve life, not to take it."

And then, a smidge more cryptically in High Imperial, "And know that when you realize it is time to make a corpse, it will be a mercy."

By the time they were all back in front of the reception room, Salazin was snoring in one of the plush armchairs. Frizzled, white hair was barely visible over a hawkish nose, while her weathered brown hands were draped on either side. The Margrave, however, appeared to not have moved a muscle, standing exactly where Faine had left him. His grey hair was still neatly combed back as he watched the procession return with those icy blue eyes of his. As they funneled in, Ballius's guards reunited to form one, neat brawny row and the door was once again barred shut. The cage, thankfully, had also not moved.

The Imperial spy waited until they heard the click of the lock behind them before leading Syr Osytha to the center of the room. There, they waited a few seconds more before clearing their throat loudly. Like the dead rising back to life, Salazin rolled her head up to attention as her eyes blinked rapidly. "Back so soon?" she crooned, stifling a yawn. "And with fine company in tow, I see."

Faine barely suppressed a sigh. "Salazin, this is Syr Osytha. Syr Ostha, Salazin, one of our leading Imperial experts on Blight."

"Pleased to meet you, good knight," Salazin greeted with a toothy smile, her Altalusian more thickly accented, though she made no move to rise from her chair. Which, for once, Faine did not mind the lack of decorum, because they had the more pressing matter of getting their new guide caught up to speed.

"Syr Osytha," Faine warned, one hand hovering by an edge of the sage green cloth, "I must ask that no matter what happens, you do not touch what is inside this cage."

And then they lifted the cloth, revealing a lumpy object about half a foot in length. Its cylindrical body was dark brown and textured almost like a pinecone, except it was also sprouting strange, clam shaped growths. Some of them were open and looked not unlike empty eye sockets. Most disturbingly of all, the whole thing was also pulsating, as if it were alive. Every now and then, one of the empty eye sockets would ooze yellow pus, and then almost imperceptibly, the socket would...grow. The resulting effect was sockets of all varying sizes and a small radius of hardened, sap like substance underneath the specimen.

Faine watched Syr Osytha's face carefully, though what they were looking for exactly, they were not sure of yet. "It is a unique form of Blight, taken from the Suldazan desert," they explained. "But we have, through a series of experiments, managed to slow down its growth."

 

[Osytha]

“And know that when you realise it is time to make a corpse, it will be a mercy.”​

Faine’s answer seems to satisfy the knight, who simply nods in reply. Keeps her eyes set ahead in a thoughtful gaze, silent a moment further.

“‘To do a thing which ought not to be done is to court trouble;’” she recites, in one final utterance of the ambassador’s native tongue, “‘to fail to do a thing which ought to be done is to land oneself in ruin.’”¹

Osytha never takes a life without grave consideration. But she wouldn’t be a Knight of Anathaeum if she didn’t recognise, sometimes, it’s the lesser of two evils. And you don’t need to be a Knight to understand that death can be a mercy. Even folks like Merifrith know that. No… Merifrith especially knows that sort of thing.

She follows the ambassador into a sort of foyer, whose stout, barred doors and thick stone walls suggest this chamber is just as much for turning away unwanted visitors as it is for welcoming guests. The furnishings have been arranged in a curious fashion, however; its seating set about the edges, yielding ample clearance from something draped over with a pastel green cloth in the room’s centre. An elderly woman in matching sage robes luxuriates in one such armchair off to the side, and the guards resume their station by a steely-haired, sombre-faced man standing ramrod straight in his finery. While one of those soldiers mutters a brief report to that severe-looking noble, another curtly motions her over.

“Heald,” she tells Guffy. The little dog plants his bum down right there by the door. And though his tail might whip in tentative excitement whenever he notices someone looking his direction, Guffers doesn’t move from his post.

Once Osytha draws close to the noble, an attendant declares, “Presenting Syr Osytha of the Knights of Anathaeum, to His Lordship; Godfrey Ballius, the Margrave of Tarmonmore.”

She bows. When Osytha rights herself, Ballius appears no less indifferent to her, though he does incline his head ever-so-slightly. A cold reception and entirely unsurprising at that, for the Knights of Anathaeum and Altalusia’s aristocracy share a rather fraught relationship, though, the exact level of enmity varies from noble house to noble house.

“That is sufficient, given the circumstances,” Ballius intones. His eyes slide off her, over toward the other major players in this room. “Turn your attention to the matter at hand, Syr Osytha.”

Just a low nod from her this time. “Y’Lordship,” she responds, before dismissing herself. A pointless little expense of time it might seem, but displays of etiquette like this are all the more important between the order’s knights and nobles like Ballius; beyond simple politeness, they’re implicitly an olive branch being extended. A promise to set aside one’s differences, and play nice. At least for today.

Osytha steps back over to Faine, following them toward the central enigma. A pointed little noise gets that old Arshakan rousing in her chair, and Osytha wonders — is the woman putting it on, finding a little entertainment where she can in riling up her counterpart? Something which has probably helped shave the edge off all those tedious miles it took to get here. Osytha would know; that’s exactly the kind of bullshittery she engages in herself.

“Pleased to meet you, good knight.” Salazin’s welcome is a warm and relaxed thing. Osytha blinks back at the woman, considering her style of raiment and Faine’s remark upon her expertise.

“Likewise,” she replies, offering a nod and smile of her own. “Pardon my ignorance, but… would you be a magister, then?”

The Magistus Imperatus; half academic institution, which would make the most sense for a scholar, and half auxiliary military organisation, which, involvement in the armed forces to some degree or another is practically a given for any Arshakan body. But if Osytha is right, this would make Salazin not just a researcher, but a weaver on top. And the Magistus Imperatus sets a very, very high bar for its magisters. Beneath that amiable old lady exterior might lurk something both terribly powerful… and dangerously cunning.

Still, Salazin seems rather nice, all told. Osytha decides she already quite likes the old girl.

And then it’s showtime.

Faine draws back the cloth, revealing a sturdy metal cage. Their warning echos in Osytha’s ears as she beholds the… creature? Plant? The thing, in all its suppurating, myriophthalmic glory.

Its form, though — the more Osytha stares, the more its base seems recognisably plant. Recognisably not an Altalusian native. Faine said it came from the Suldazan arid zone? Its taxonomy is like no plant Osytha has ever seen, neither for herself in the Wyld nor as a specimen encountered from her dives into tomes of Loch. One of these days, she really ought to expand her education on subjects outside the continent of Ilica.

“Unique,” she mutters, crouching a few feet back from the cage to get eyes-level with the thing inside. “Ah should bloody well ’ope so.”

Osytha sucks her teeth; a sharp, short little sound. “Ah’ve ane or twa,” she remarks to the room in general, “questions.”

She takes a breath.

“What sort of be’aviour ’as et exhibited? What’s t’rate of growth — baseline, an’ current? What’re these containment measures you’ve getten in place, includin’ redundancies? An’ what can we expect if they fails? Any observable effect on t’Shroud in ets vicinity? What ’appens if Ah does touch et? What’s ets name? Can Ah names et?”

Osytha looks upward at Faine, one brow quirked high. “What’s your plan ’ere, exactly… an’ where does Ah come in?”

---

¹ Thiruvaluvar, Thirukkural (couplet 466; ‘On Action After Due Deliberation’)

 

[Faine]

The old woman’s smile widened, all her pearly, even whites accounted for. “Something like that,” she replied slyly. “You’re more than you seem, Syr Osytha. How interesting.”

Faine stared at the knight while the knight stared at the Blight. There was no recognition…which was both good and bad. Good, because the host plant was truly alien to this ecosystem. Bad, because that meant the new host they were hunting remained a mystery. Well, it had been a slim hope to begin with.

Next came the onslaught of questions, which Faine considered both expected and healthy. They ran the answers once in their head before saying them out loud.

“The behavior, at first, is benign. Nothing more than a dozen or so cycles of rapid growth. The rate has always been too inconsistent to reliably measure, but we know that it is fast. Typically, a newly infected host takes less than a few hours to reach what we call the feeding phase, during which the mutated host begins actively seeking a larger energy source. We, of course, cannot let them feed for long. Size is usually the limiting factor, but every now and then something precedes it.”

Salazin chuckled. “It grew a tentacle, once.”

Faine scowled. “We’ve found that they prefer organic matter. Living is better, though they will feed on the dead as well. Predictably, they take on characteristics of whatever they absorb.”

This was the most number of words they’d spoken in a very long time. Faine turned to pick up a pitcher and pour themselves water, though they did not take a sip until after they dropped a pebble-like object into the goblet and swished it around. They had taken all the necessary precautions earlier that morning, including dumping a cupful into a potted plant. The plant remained healthy, but Salazin had done a very poor job of keeping watch. There was no telling what someone could have slipped in while they’d been gone.

As they drank, the old crone voluntarily picked up the slack, for once. She must actually like this one, Faine mused.

“The cage contains it,” Salazin said almost wistfully. She got up, stretched her back with a couple resounding cracks, and walked slowly around the cage. “It is a work of art. The design alone took months of dedicated skill and effort from our finest smiths and weavers. One Magister even lost his life in its making.”

She pointed a crooked finger at one of its ribs, hovering up and down along the metal without touching. It made Faine nervous, seeing the old weaver so close to the specimen, but they had to trust that months of craftsmanship would hold. That Keritus had not died in vain.

“The metal itself is near indestructible, but it is the ring ore lining its interior that keeps most of the specimen stunted. The Magisters found a way to use it to cut off the host’s access to the Shroud. Don’t ask me how. It was all very secret secret hush hush. Too classified for the lowly likes of me. But it does the job, I’ll give them that.”

Faine fought the urge to roll their eyes at the undercurrent of bitterness in Salazin’s voice. She never was going to get over it, was she? Despite it being entirely her fault that she was banished in the first place.

“As for redundancies,” Faine continued, “well…that is what we are here for. If one of us fails and succumbs, we must be terminated. Salazin and I have agreed it would be a mercy to end the other before we are fully consumed. It is kinder that way. Trust me when I say you do not want to find out what it’s like to share consciousness with Blight.”

A memory of Keritus’s voice moaning through the weird, anemone mouth of Host #29 flashed through Faine’s mind. They shuddered imperceptibly.

“If you touch it, you will become infected. There is no cure we know of. We could say a small prayer for you, at most, after which you will simply be put down like a rabid dog. The quicker it is done, the less harm you will cause.”

Faine chose not to mention their protocol for total failure, in which all three of them became compromised. It wouldn’t do any good for them to know. And besides, they would be beyond caring at that point.

“Normally,” they pushed on, “you would not see any effect on the Shroud. Not without enhanced optics. However, if the host were to consume a powerful weaver…well, you might find yourself wishing you couldn’t see what it grows capable of.”

There was a queasy sort of silence after this last admission. Even Ballius looked a touch disturbed, his silvery brows furrowed, and Salazin had sunk back down in the plush chair.

“I would recommend against developing any sentimental attachment to the specimen. It might make you hesitate for one second to do what is necessary, and that one second could cost you your life.”

Faine drew their gaze away from the pulsating host and rested it upon Syr Osytha once more. “We plan to use this host to track down the one currently hibernating in your mountains. We’ve…received reports that one is frozen somewhere, unable to feed for the time being, but with warmer temperatures returning, it is only a matter of time before it thaws. And when it does…”

“There will be panic, mayhem, utter chaos,” Ballius finished. Faine wanted to feel annoyed that he was interrupting them yet again, but he was not wrong, and his conviction only bolstered their cause. “Should any of this leak beyond these walls, we will have to divert even more resources to maintain order. We cannot afford this. We must focus all our efforts on eliminating this threat before it spreads.”

The Margrave strode up to the knight, his spine straight and eyes steelier than ever. “We understand it is too much to ask of one person, let alone three. And yet we ask all the same. We need someone capable, familiar with the land, and most importantly of all, trustworthy. Someone who can do the right thing, no matter how difficult, no matter the cost.”

Now the whole room watched Syr Osytha with bated breath.

“Will you agree to be our guide, Syr Osytha?” Faine asked. “Will you aid us in cleansing your mountains of this corruption?”

 

[Osytha]

Corruption at a touch. Bad enough to become twisted into a slave of the Blight, but this is more than the lone monstrosity or band of again-walkers against which the order normally contends. Osytha glances again at the innocuous, pulsating specimen burbling away in its cage. This thing feeds, and not in the gruesome mimicry of life that many of the Blighted do. It will grow. It will spread. Absorbing anything it comes across, swelling like an iron revenant, though this sounds decidedly worse. A more voracious appetite, with even more devastating potential.

“Aye.” Osytha looks from face to expectant face, but for her part, she’s a little surprised anyone here thought her acceptance would even be in question. “Ah’ll aid you best Ah can. T’Knights of Anathaeum could nivver ignore summat like this.”

No… and she can also see why the Sanctum of Operations saw fit not to delay until a dawnling could reach her. Who knows how long it will take to track down this second source — and the coming thaw might not be their only time limit.

Osytha re-inspects the cage, pacing a few steps around and taking a closer look at its construction. Ring ore, was it? Many are the claims regarding their effects on the Shroud; few, if any, of those theories have any evidence to support them. That the Empire’s magisters have made such a breakthrough is incredible. And yet there’s still so much unknown, especially with so much being kept secret. What she’s really concerned about is what sort of interactions there might be the lunar cycles. Quite possibly even its creators don’t know that, not if the technology is still in its infancy. Never mind the approaching warm weather; could be they’re one bad celestial alignment away from containment failure.

“Ah’d like to see those reports regardin’ a counterpart in t’Mheara range,” Osytha goes on, thoughtfully. “Belike Ah can use summat there to define a few search parameters, an’ send that ower to t’Sanctum of Operations via message stone. ’Appen et’s too much to ’ope there’ll be a direct sightin’ of us quarry, but t’scribes can yet dig up other leads — large energy sources et might be movin’ towards, possible signs of ets passage… even kennin’ ’ow that thaw will move through yon mountains could ’elp us prioritise search areas. Things like that.” Then she straightens up, and looks back over to Faine and Salazin. “Ah can run any missive by you first, if’n you require. Given t’sensitivity of this mission.”

Also, some up-to-date information on the dangers in those mountains would be nice. The terrain is perilous enough by itself, but there’s no small risk of crossing paths with vicious beasties, or even raiders. And, of course, the Sightless have a base of operations or two tucked away in the Mhearas. Osytha does not enjoy the thought of those cultists getting their hands on the specimen.

‘The specimen’. That reminds her…

She leans down to their little prisoner. A wry look hinted across her features.

“I shall call thee Rupert,” Osytha tells it, and grins at Faine. “Don’t reckon Ah’ll be hesitatin’ wi’ that moniker,” she remarks to the ambassador. Then, in a more grim tone: “Not that a name’s ivver stopped me doin’ what ought be done afore now.”

 

[Faine]

A hint of amusement came and went, and when Faine looked upon Syr Osytha once more, it was with the careful neutrality of someone used to being watched.

"I will take you on your word," they responded tactfully. Then they bent down to reach beneath the table cloth, pulling out a dark blue travel sack. From its weathered folds, they drew forth a collection of papers neatly bound in leather. For a moment, Faine considered the knight. There was, of course, no reason to withhold trust at this point. But even handing over a set of copies gave the Imperial spy pause. So much dangerous knowledge...years of research, some paid in blood, culminating to this little stack of papers. In the wrong hands, this access could prove catastrophic. But what choice did they have?

In the end, they held out the portfolio to the knight. "You may study this to your heart's content for today, though I will need it back once we begin our mission tomorrow morning."

Faine looked up, calculating something in their head, then added, "Considering it is barely noon, you will have ample time to read through some of the reports, as well as prepare for the journey ahead. Dinner is at eight. We can discuss logistics and answer questions during that time. Ballius?"

If the Margrave found being addressed by their first name distasteful, he showed no sign. "It is my honor to host this evening's meal in Her Majesty's stead, here at the castle. A servant will be sent to collect our esteemed guests. And of course, no formal attire necessary."

Faine was sure this was said for their benefit as much as it was for the knight's, but they took no offense. After all, there was no room left in their luggage for court dressings.

"And Syr Osytha," Ballius offered, "should you need anything during your preparations, my men would be happy to assist. They can be trusted and save you the trouble of sending missives. I will leave two in your care; you may command them as you see fit."

A quick nod and gesture later, two of Ballius's men peeled away from their neat formation to stand on either side of Syr Osytha.

Well, this was no surprise. The rest of the staff could not be entirely trusted, that much was certain. They had been vetted before Faine's arrival, or so the Margrave had claimed, but as usual, anything Faine did not personally carry out themselves, they had a hard time putting their faith in. For this reason alone, they could respect Ballius for the extra layer of caution. You never really knew what kinds of rats might wriggle their way in when you least expected it. Besides, Faine had their own preparations to make, no matter how interesting those missives could ultimately prove.

It did occur to them that the men were there to assist the knight as much as they were to keep on eye on her. But such was the predicament they found themselves in. They had to trust someone, and it was either Ballius or a plethora of much less qualified ilk lingering about the castle.

Once the initial round of business was concluded, Faine covered up the specimen and carefully brought it back to their quarters. They did not enjoy the thing's constant presence. Or rather, Rupert's presence, they remembered belatedly. But with Salazin's complete inability to stay awake for more than thirty minutes at a time, it always fell on Faine to be the cage's sole caretaker. As they packed up their belongings—which was not much, all things considered—they found themselves fantasizing about sinking into the steaming pools of an empty bathhouse, with a cup of something strong in hand and the knowledge that both specimens were dead and gone.

Sighing, Faine sunk down into a chair and reviewed a series of maps and reports until their eyes started to burn from staring. It wasn't until someone came knocking at their door did they finally lose their focus. Ye gods, it hurt to blink.

So it was that by the time Faine made their appearance in what seemed more akin to a parlor than a banquet hall, their eyes were just wee bit red from all the rubbing and yawning. Despite their exhaustion, they straightened at the sight of Ballius and his men. The others had not arrived yet, giving them time to smooth over their mask.

"So..." Ballius began in way of greeting. A few hairs stood up on Faine's neck. They had not been expecting a solo interrogation so soon, but in their sleepiness, they'd grown sloppy. They should have timed their arrival more effectively, but it was too late now. A quick scan of the room revealed that the only obvious exit was the door they had just walked in from. A single bead of sweat began to form at their brow. "I admit I am curious, Ambassador. Why did you choose me in the end?"

 

[Osytha]

It’s a fine question. And Ballius is hardly the only one asking it, even if in Osytha’s case it’s still just bouncing around the confines of her head, yet unspoken. And there it will likely stay; as the knight works her way through Faine’s loaned intelligence, she only accrues more and more relevant topics of discussion to pose over tea.

A stylus taps idly to the surface of Osytha’s bureau, its wielder taking a moment to stare blankly at the open cerae in front of her. Yes… best she make ready for their dinner plans before time gets away from her. As fascinating as some of the subject matter is, she’s beginning to feel her brain wearing out from poring over all these dryly-written documents. Like wheel-ruts carved into a road, trapping her thoughts into rolling along the same, tired route time and again. A little break will only help her see things more clearly.

Tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum respond alacritiously when they’re called in, standing easy on either side of the door once it’s closed behind them. Ivar, the older of the two, is a short and stocky middle-aged fellow who reminds Osytha a bit of old Caius Pellino back home, while Norwin is considerably younger, taller, and on edge. She guesses the lad’s a newer addition to Ballius’ guard, and this is his first assignment of such calibre.

Osytha stands resting against the bureaux, letting it take a little of her weight as she regards her wardens.

“Ah’d like some fresh clothes for this eve,” she tells them, after a moment. “Reckon you could find summat my size?”

Norwin blinks, staring dead ahead. “Syr Osytha? His Lordship assures that formal attire isn’t expected—”

“Ah en’t axin’ for ‘formal’. Ah’m axin’ for clean. Et’s been a long road, an’ Ah’ve barely jus’ arrived. Trust me — you might be safe all t’way ower there, but whichivver poor bugger gets sat next to me shall spend supper lookin’ for t’stinky cheese. So for His Lordship’s sake, some fresh hackles, please an’ thank you.”

Ivar nods. “As you wish. Anything else, syr?”

“Ah’d appreciate if somebody could ’ave my dirties laundered by t’morrow. An’ a bath. Ah see there’s a tub in these quarters — can Ah gets et filled? Ooh, an’ some fancy soap. Good, ’ard, white soap. Scented would be grand. Ah’m quite partial to neroli, but Ah s’pose Ah’ll settle for clove or lavender.” Osytha glances toward the bath in question, then down the front of her humble gambeson. It occurs that she’s hardly familiar enough with the intricacies of courtly apparel to trust donning it all by herself, and would rather not risk walking into dinner with her arse hanging out, however informal the dress code for tonight. “Belike Ah could use some ’elp gettin’ ready, too…”

Norwin’s eyes glaze over slightly as he processes this in his own, fumbling way. “You want— you want us to, um… help with…?” he says, in a weak voice.

Osytha glances up at the young man. “Aye. ’Appen you could fetch a maidservant for me.” Something wicked gleams in Osytha’s smile as she goes on, “Or was you offerin’ to scrub my back yoursen?”

Comprehension, and panic, finally flicker across the poor lad’s burning face. “Syr? N-No, I’d never—!”

“Oh? Well, your loss.” Norwin’s cheeks go a little more scarlet. And there, if she’s not mistaken, the barest hint of amusement upon Ivar’s blocky features. Osytha doesn’t even bother hiding her own. “A maid, then, if you please. Barrin’ that you change your mind.”

She briefly considers asking for Renia outright, but… no. Lass might be eyed with enough suspicion going forward as it is. Osytha won’t do her any favours by giving Ballius more cause to believe he has an Astenvale sympathiser on his hands.

The guards return a few minutes later with a slightly older woman in tow; tall, raven-haired and meekly eyeing the floor. Osytha already has the fire roaring nicely with the tub pulled up before it, and is locking Faine’s binder away in a drawer. Her own tablet wiped clean; the stylus used just as much to engrave its contents into her memory as the cerae’s wax. That bath fills slowly at first with only the maid ferrying in piping hot buckets, faster once the knight takes part (much to the maid’s consternation), and is done in no time at all after Ivar and Norwin are browbeaten into carrying water as well.

A few rough measurements are taken next, and then Osytha is left to her own devices while a suitable change of clothes is hunted down. She lowers herself into the tub and just soaks it all up, there in front of the crackling fire, relaxing in a way she simply hasn’t been able to for almost a fortnight upon the road. Closes her eyes and listens to Guffy pad in anxious circles, his head poking over the lip. This is Wrong, to his little doggy brain. It is Wet in there. Osytha needs to be rescued from the Wet, but he doesn’t know how to even start. So he just goes round and round, whining pitifully, until a relatively dry hand reaches out and settles him down with comforting pets.

They found her some bergamot milled soap, too. It’s not quite neroli, but it’s close enough.

She’s scrubbing herself down with fragrant, suddy water when the maidservant returns to lay out some selections. Woman hesitates at responding to Osytha’s forays at smalltalk, but relentless affability wins out after a short while and they get a little back-and-forth going. Her name’s Theresa, turns out. Married to one of the cooks here, with whom she has a couple of bairns. The youngest took his first steps only yesterday. Theresa starts to smile when she talks about them, warm and soft as a feather quilt, even if she’s yet to lift her eyes from her feet. Well, Osytha is glad that she’s starting to relax. It must feel as though the whole castle is holding its breath as of late, waiting for some unseen sword of Damocles to drop.

Then, with Osytha standing in the tub as Theresa rinses her off: “Is it true about Renia’s brother? That you helped get him to Silj—”

“Sorry, that name don’t ring any bells.” A bold-faced lie, spoken firm enough to stop Theresa’s curiosity in its tracks. She doubts the lug-holes on those two guards outside her chambers are good enough to overhear, but this is still not the place to speak of such things. “’Appen you’re thinkin’ of somebody else.”

Theresa holds frozen for a moment, eyes startled by the sudden harshness, that half-empty bucket still held high. A moment, before her gaze lowers once more, and she finishes washing away the suds.

“A lot of us… we’ve come to Crown’s Hold from the country,” the maid says, softly. “So we still have family back there. Even after— after everything that happened, a lot of us still have family somewhere. Because of what you Knights did.”

Roke-grey eyes stare at the woman as water finishes trickling down. Theresa picks up a towel, and waits for Osytha to step out of the tub before starting on drying her off. But, the maid says nothing more on the matter, and Osytha relaxes as the towel ruffles her up and down. Finds her eye drawn to the garments laid out over the bed for her.

“Let’s shap ussen, aye?” she suggests. “Ah’ve been tardy once today already. Twice, an’ Ah reckon t’novelty would wear off some…”

* * *​

When Osytha arrives at the dining room, she is feeling like a new woman. Fresh, in a pleasantly bergamot-y way. And as much as she, plebeian down to her very bones, hates to admit it… this dark, kākāpō-green doublet is complementing her in ways that formless old gambeson never could. Sure, maybe it’s a little stiff, especially after her discreet little… adjustments, but comfortable enough even so. The paned trunk hosen in similarly rich sylvan tones, cream netherstocks, and soft lilac garters certainly don’t hurt, either. Another wisteria ribbon tying back her hair. Osytha’s usual, languid stroll simply won’t do, not any more. This outfit is demanding she strut.

And she does, right through the door. Ivar and Norwin filing in behind her to take their positions nearby, Guffy right by her heels. It looks as though Faine has beaten her to the punch; the ambassador and margrave stand talking together, yet to take their seats at the table in this cosy room. Osytha wonders how long they’ve been going at it.

Ever the stickybeak, she starts making a beeline toward the pair. A tray of apéritifs briefly delays her — Osytha takes one of the small glasses and sniffs at the pale draught within. Dry vermouth, eh? Don’t mind if I do.

Once she reaches Faine and Ballius, she offers them a more casual bow of the head in greeting. “Y’Excellency, Y’Lordship.”

Now she’s closer to, Osytha can see these last few hours have not been restful ones for the ambassador. Maybe they could learn a thing or two from Salazin; the old magister (?) seems like she’s elevated the cat-nap to an art form. Just one or two, though. There is such a thing as too relaxed, and Osytha wonders not only if Faine’s colleague will be a late arrival, but an arrival of any kind at all.

“Sorry — don't let me interrupt,” says Syr Quidnunc. “Do carry on, please.”