The Long Game

[Otto]

Open to Luned and Warpath

This thread takes place some weeks after Chasing Ghosts, once Resolve has returned from Fallien (Shards of Suravani), and Otto from Salvar (Business, Pleasure & Pugilism)

The door was varnished mahogany, a rich, rust-coloured wood which gave the impression that someone had managed to put a shine on old blood. Grimhold spent a short moment examining the intricate scrollwork (and vowed that one day he would possess such a grand status symbol as this) while he ran a soft hand through his chestnut hair, then rapped smartly against the wood.

"Enter," came a voice from the other side.

Jerome Grimhold clutched the slender brass handle, thrust the door inward, and stepped into the pleasant office beyond. His eyes ached as glaring sunlight hit them, fed into the room by a series of tall, latticed windows along one wall. They illuminated a long, richly patterned carpet, leading to wide desk - mahogany again - that was suspiciously void of clutter. Sandwiched between that and a tall-backed leather chair was a man, seemingly composed of hard edges and unadulterated middle age, and next to him, a distinctly younger fellow with a lieutenant's stripes. He had slick black hair, sallow features, and was bending down to hold a muted conversation with his seated superior. Grimhold stepped up before the desk and stood to attention.

"Captain Grimhold reporting, sir," he said.

Colonel Marcus slowly rose from the seat. "Patterson, step outside for a moment," he said to his adjutant.

The lieutenant collected some papers from the desk, and stalked along the carpet to the door, which he shut softly behind him. When they were alone, Marcus sagged wearily against the leather cushioning of his chair, though Grimhold remained rigidly to attention.

"You needn't be so formal, Jerome," the colonel grumbled. "I am a friend of your father's, after all."

"As you say, sir," Jerome replied, and eased his own stance. "On that subject, have you heard how he's faring?"

"The major isn't doing so well, I'm afraid. That unfortunate business with the dwarf persists, despite what we've done to slow down procedures. As a result, your father's position is in jeopardy, unless we can effect stronger measures." Marcus stood up again. "Care for a drink? Bradbury whisky. Single malt."

Jerome nodded, and accepted a small tumbler from the man. "Thank you, sir." They both took a sip, taking their time to cradle the taste. At length, Jerome took a gulp. "I was under the impression that you want my help."

"Yes. We want you to take up the major's position in our organisation, at least until we can get him in the clear. To be honest, we have been considering extending an invitation for a while now, as your father made sure we always kept an eye on you. Until recently, we've only nudged matters here and there, greased a few cogs of progress in that great machine that is the military hierarchy... congratulations on the promotion, by the way."

"Thank you, sir."

"Mmm. However, I think you'll find the benefits of these additional duties to be much beyond anything you've enjoyed so far."

Jerome stared thoughtfully into his drink. "I assume the penalties should I refuse would be equally great...?" he said, ponderously.

But Marcus just spread his arms wide, and smiled at him in a friendly fashion. "Why on earth would you even consider saying no?"

"Pardon me. It was just idle curiousity. I would be interested in any case, even if it weren't for the fact that it helps my father." Jerome sighed. "I accept, of course. But what do you need of me?"

"Someone close to the ground. Someone who can carry out our orders in the rapidly changing field without having to refer back up the chain of command, and who can perform the actual legwork. You'll act as a buffer between the rest of us and the results of these actions, but as I said, the rewards..."

"Indeed, sir. Anything specific in mind?"

He was answered by the ruffle of paper. Marcus pulled out a crisp sheet of the stuff, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and started to scratch away. "The lead investigator is someone we're currently working on, as it's a matter of some political finesse. However, there are a few key witnesses we want you to deal with. We can afford to be a bit more... crude in our methods with them. These two in particular."

The colonel quickly blotted the page and passed it over. There wasn't a great deal on it, but the contents caused Grimhold to frown, and Marcus gave him a strange look.

"Something the matter?" Marcus prompted.

"No..." said Jerome at last. "No. I just thought I may have encountered one of them before. I feel like I should remember."

"Something to think about, perhaps," replied the older man. "Commit the contents to memory as soon as possible, and then dispose of the paper. It would also be best if we kept communication between ourselves to a minimum in this troubled time."

"Yes, sir." Jerome took the cue, and nodded his assent.

"We're glad to have you, son," said Marcus. "And good luck."

[Luned]

The library had felt so empty lately. There were times Luned didn't mind this; the quiet made work easier. But at night, when that work was all she had for company, she found herself dwelling on things best left alone in the dark.

It had been some time since Luned had felt truly bone-weary. She supposed she could have been grateful on that count, but to dredge up the physical and emotional exhaustion which followed Duffy's death sapped any hint of positivity from her entire being so easily these days. She felt the loss of an invaluable comrade keenly, but even more painfully, she watched helplessly as it wore down some of her closest friends.

Chronicle had a revolution on their hands –– with plans already in motion, they couldn't afford to grieve. With Leopold busy with what she assumed was an attempt to contain his inconsolable wife, it had been left up to Luned to replace Duffy in their triad and keep things moving. She acknowledged this with a sense of duty and without complaint, as it was the least she could do for her friends. But she was tired, so very, very tired, and her thoughts kept circling back to the one person she wondered if she'd been stupid enough to lose in life.

If there was one good thing she could credit to the tragedy, it was that she would never take her friendship with Resolve for granted ever again.



One late evening, after a day touched by premature spring, Luned found herself down in the kitchen brewing yet another cup of chamomile. She stood against the counter and watched the courtyard thaw, glittering droplets catching the moonlight as they fell from ice that had collected on the roof. She watched for a long while, losing track of time between sips of tea until she realized there was nothing left in her mug.

As she set it back on the counter to abandon it, she hesitated. Someone had stepped into the courtyard from the gated corridor which led to the street; she always kept that locked, and very few had a key. For a moment she wondered if it was Flint, but no, that couldn't be right –– he wasn't to arrive until tomorrow, and the shadow-obscured figure stood far too narrow. Then who…?

Without warning, it vanished, and Luned drew her heavy robe tightly around herself to soothe the prickle of goosebumps. She stepped back, then suddenly realized there was a new presence behind her.

"Hello, Lune."

The scribe spun in place to see a girl several years younger than she, copper complexion deepened from weeks under desert sun. Even in the pale light of the small lantern on the counter, the silk of her Fallieni tunic shone brilliant in all the subtle shades of sunrise. Her presence filled the kitchen with exotic perfume and smokey incense, warm and familiar and so wonderfully welcome.

"You're back," Luned gasped, eyeing her friend. "And you're… different."

Indeed, Resolve had changed in her time in Fallien. Once sparse markings on her skin had seemingly multiplied, scoring a fresh design which blossomed white from her chest and down her arms like creeping vines. Most remarkably of all, her once pale blue eyes held the slightest influence of red, tinting them to a strange lavender.

"A bit," the exorcist smiled. "Do you have time to catch up?"

"Always."

[Otto]

"It's good to be home," Anvil sighed.

Otto grunted in the affirmative, though without much conviction. Most of his attention instead lay towards the steel broadsword he held, angled so it caught the different points of lamplight. He rubbed it down with a cloth every now and then, but it already gleamed magnificently; the warped reflections of the wicks and hearth stood out crystal sharp and yellow against a backdrop of inky black. It was largely free of ornamentation, except for the symbol of the CAF stamped upon the pommel and the strange, almost rope-like design on the crossguard. It looped and entwined in the middle, like a knot beneath the blade.

The orc held it out before him in both hands, squared his feet, and whispered something at the weapon.

"Doturogat," he muttered.

He stood there, stock-still, staring expectantly at the blade. Yet as the seconds turned into minutes, nothing appeared to happen. The coals dimmed, though they lent little enough light to the forge to begin with, and a patch of shadows shifted curiously around one corner of the building. Otto remained standing there, watched by a mangy grey cat half-hidden in the shadows and dust, until a good few minutes had passed. Then he suddenly sagged, as though the weight of the sword was dragging him down. He lifted it back up with trembling arms and lay it to rest on a nearby bench, and took a seat for himself.

Acmon spoke from the corner, in a voice like buckling sheet metal. "You're getting better with that."

"It's lasting longer, yes," Otto replied. He wiped his sweaty brow, leaving behind a greasy black smear in the process. "Almost five minutes by my count, and it was more... absolute."

"Good. I was worried your skill would dull during our trip. Playing wainwright and farrier offered little in the way of challenge."

Otto nodded and picked up a lukewarm mug of tea from the bench. As he did so, his eye caught on a small stack of sealed letters and envelopes by the side. That had been another thing to come of the CAF-sanctioned excursion, courtesy of a few strings pulled by his friends in the Chronicle and interested parties in the Trading Company: the mail had piled up while he was away, and though he rarely received much by the way of letters in any case, there had been a few waiting for him upon his return. He sifted through them until a familiar hand caught his eye and made him freeze. He sat there for a little while, as still as when he had held the sword, then careful opened up the envelope and unfolded the letter within.

Dear Mr Bastum,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that your voyage from Salvar passed without too
much incident. We are living through sad times, and I have come to believe we must treasure our
friendships while they last.

I write to you in order to extend to you an invitation for another one of our dinner parties, to be
held Tuesday evening from six. We would be greatly honoured if you could make time to attend, and
we look forward to the pleasure of your company.

Kindest regards,

Luned Bleddyn

Otto stared at the page for slightly longer than was necessary, and the first of increasingly troubled thoughts began to ferment in his brain. The wording was a sort of code, with the actual meaning to be gleaned from the thinly-veiled subtext. Otto wondered why Luned bothered with it in her letters to him, as the image of the orc being invited to pseudo-posh dinner parties was absurd enough to make anyone immediately suspicious. But the gist was clear enough: she had called a meeting, and refusal to attend was not an option. It suggested dire news.

What had happened in his absence? His first thought was that their plan had been discovered - but no, here he was, back in the CAF forge, and not the dungeon beneath the keep. The next thing that came to mind was not so easily dismissed, and it filled him with an unshakeable sense of anxiety.

Did it have something to do with Resolve?

Not now, he prayed. Not so soon after what happened in Salvar. He had tried to put the feeling to rest, but a sort of hollow, gouging bitterness scraped away inside his chest as he thought about his time with the Berevar orcs, and before that, his increasingly worried search for the girl. The anger was only compounded by the fact that he still felt concerned about her.

Otto shot up out of his seat. "Come on," he said to the lurking spirit. "We have a lot of work to do."

He was not going to commit the night to brooding over such things. Not again.

[Luned]

It took hours to describe the wonders and perils of Fallien's exotic landscape, how it felt to finally meet her father, and the highs and lows of her Astakan training. They sat together in the parlor until the first glimmer of sunrise brightened the cold windows, Luned curled up on one end of the sofa, Resolve sprawled across the rest. She'd strewn her legs across her friend's lap and laid back against the cushions, her reluctance to move betraying just how starved she'd been for affection in her time away. The girl basked cat-like under Luned's quiet attention.

"Was it everything you'd hoped?" the scribe asked, her voice gentle as the yawning sun softened shadows in the cozy room.

Resolve shook her head. "I… I don't know. It wasn't what I expected," she admitted, as if in defeat. "I made a mistake in trying to use my power without guidance, Lune. An unforgivable one. We were able to right some of it, but… as much as I've learned, I feel like all this has accomplished is make me realize just how little I really do know. I'll never catch up to everyone else."

Luned smiled wistfully. "Bleddyn has always said that to acknowledge one's own ignorance is a sign of true wisdom."

The girl groaned, unappreciative of the aged librarian's insight, and then they both fell into pensive silence for a long moment. Eventually, a bird whistled somewhere outside. "I missed you," Resolve finally sighed.

"I missed you, too," Luned replied easily. "And I'm sorry to have let that rift grow between us."

"Me, too." Resolve smiled in relief, months of discord finally washed away.

Well, not quite. "Resolve… I won't ask you to like Flint, but I hope you can at least learn to tolerate him… for my sake."

The mention of that name earned melodramatic disgust from the exorcist. "He's not here now, is he?" Upon Luned's shake of the head, she relaxed again, perhaps partly sulking. "Fine. I'll think about it."

"We really should get some sleep," the scribe insisted, patting the girl on the knee. "Are you free in the evening? I'm hosting a dinner here and I'd really like you to come. It's… well, it's important."

"I'll try," Resolve considered halfheartedly. She had priorities. "To be honest, I was hoping to hunt down Otto."

Luned blinked at the mention of the orc. "Funny thing, actually –– he's to be our guest of honor."

This piqued her interest. "Oh? How's that?" Resolve finally sat up, releasing Luned from the prison of her long legs, and drew them under her as she leaned in. "This is a Chronicle thing, isn't it?"

"You'll see," the scribe smiled mysteriously, then she reached out and thoughtfully brushed some dark strands of hair from the girl's face. "I didn't realize you two had become such good friends."

Resolve chewed her lip. She'd been busy enough in Fallien that the implications of Otto's silence hadn't settled in until now. At this point she realized, quite unhappily, that she had reason to worry. "Did… did he ask after me while I was gone?"

It was Luned's turn to have her interest piqued, and her brow lifted just slightly as she nodded; never in a hundred years would she have expected this. Considering the exorcist's past interests largely consisted of pretty girls and even prettier boys, an orc was a fairly glaring outlier. "Once, before he left to accompany Leopold on a mission to Berevar," she replied, suppressing a grin of amusement. "He's only returned just recently, I haven't seen him since."

"I ran out of time to say goodbye because we were in such a rush to leave," Resolve explained, squeezing a pillow to her chest. "I left him a note, told him that he could contact me through you… but he didn't." Even just saying it hurt.

Luned wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders, giving her a light squeeze. "Don't over think it," she advised, coaxing them to their feet so she could guide her to bed. "You've both been busy, but that just means you'll have all the more to talk about when you see him again tomorrow."

[Otto]

Sunlight bloomed a little stronger, rolling out across the rest of the waking city. It struck the bleak grey battlements of the eastern garrison which sat upon a gentle slope, and built up until it finally overflowed into the expansive yard beyond. The interior was was as dull as the walls, a carpet of heavily-beaten dust and dirt spotted with the odd stone building. There were already figures down there, roused since before the crack of dawn, each one crimson-clad and sporting at least a faint glimmer of metal. Some moved in formation while others made shifting rows and sparred with each other. Small groups would frequently split away and head out the gate, to replace the incoming patrols.

Time passed, enough that the sun almost reached its zenith. Somewhere, atop the tall keep in the middle of the fortress, a bugle sounded over the parapets. Otto picked his sparring partner up off the ground by a dusty arm, then the two of them fell in line with the rest of their company, each one facing forward towards the keep. All around them, the other units were doing much the same.

The bugle called out a few more slow notes, melancholy in their simplicity, and eventually faded into silence. After a brief pause, the shouts of NCOs filled the yard, answered by the single unified movement of a few hundred soldiers saluting with military precision.

"Dismissed!" the drill sergeants shouted back, and the organised masses broke away in a tangle for their respective destinations.

For the most part, this consisted of the barracks' spacious canteens. Otto was buffeted through the door by the press of hungry bodies, and barely had time to grab some crockery from the stack before he had been pushed past it. The queue shuffled lamely along after that point, only as fast as the cooks were able to dole out rations. It took a few minutes, but Otto finally sat himself down at a long, stained bench with the rest of his squad, a bowl of stew in one hand and a stout rye loaf in the other.

A blond half-elf to his right pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it over to the orc.

"Our work orders for the day," said the slim fellow, while he tore off a hunk from his own loaf and dipped it in the steaming glop. "Plus their point of origin."

"Thanks, Orlannes," Otto murmured distractedly. As his eyes scanned down the hastily scribbled note, he did his best to block out the background pandemonium and focus on the words before him. "Repairs and standard-issue replacements for First and Third Company... blimey, a baton as well? Kingsley must have got that promotion after all..."

Orlannes shrugged. "Probably. Still don't quite know why you're interested in where our stuff ends up. It's not like we ever see it again, in any case."

"Simple professional pride, I suppose." Otto folded the note back up and returned it to his colleague. "You might as well hold on to this. I've been granted the night off."

"Oh, aye?" Orlannes probed. When Otto looked over, the half-elf had a wide grin plastered across his face. "You must have a bit of catching up to do with a certain someone now you're back, mm?"

"Yeah," Otto replied. "Something like that."

[Warpath]

“There’s a new wreath in the foyer,” Agnie informed him.

“I saw,” Flint said. After a moment of hesitation, he added: “It looks lovely.”

He was relieved when the mad little fae beamed at him delightedly. She was apparently oblivious to his deadpan tone, which was a boon. She had developed a habit of announcing every new trinket and gewgaw she’d purchased with his money. He, in turn, humored her by acting as if he appreciated her choices.

In truth, her abilities were invaluable. He didn’t miss the money, but he would sorely miss Luned without an easy means of traveling to and from Radasanth. It hadn’t been easy to regain Agnie’s affection since he and Luned trashed her parlor in a brawl, but between his funds and Luned’s social graces, the trio had been able to reform a chilly business arrangement.

So he paid the minimum due, took the tour, politely refused tea, and excused himself. It was not an unfamiliar process at that point, but he was still relieved when the door closed behind him and he found himself in a clean, well-lit stairwell.

“Oh, hello!”

Flint raised his eyes, and found himself face-to-face with Agnie’s neighbor: a compact, voluptuous brunette in a loud dress. For some reason Rosie found him remarkably amusing, and he understood she was a friend of Luned’s so he made an effort to seem normal.

“Off to the library?” she asked politely, sliding her key into the door.

“Indeed,” Flint said as he closed Agnie’s door behind him. He knew if he opened it again, he’d find naught but brooms and buckets. He tried not to let that bother him. “I understand there is to be a social function.”

“Oh really!” Rosie began to push her door open, but stopped in thought. “I wonder why I wasn’t invited.”

Flint tensed, and thought of all the reasons he shouldn’t have mentioned the meeting. Socializing was dangerous. “I believe it is a business…thing.”

Flint almost smiled and nodded to himself. It was a smooth recovery, he thought.

“Oh! Well, fair enough,” Rosie said, paused a second, and then suddenly began speaking in rapid-fire: “Oh! Once you and Luned are finished with all that, you should stop by Moody’s before you go! We’ll make a night of it, have some singing and dancing, we’ll invite everybody. Oh that reminds me, would you be a peach and ask her about Resolve? It’s been ages, I’m so worried about the girl, I could really do with some news. Will you ask her for me?”

“A peach. Er, yes. I will ask. About Resolve and…and dancing.”

“You’re sweet,” Rosie gushed, bustling inside. “Bye now! Give Luned my love.”

“Yes,” Flint said, and he exhaled slowly when she waved and closed the door.

Quickly, before he could run into more social acquaintances, Flint hurried down the stairwell and out onto the street around the corner from Moody’s. He left it behind at a brisk pace for fear of running into any more of Luned’s friends, but when there was a fair bit of distance between him and the pub he let himself return to a more leisurely pace. Or, at least, as leisurely as Flint ever walked, which was really more of a march.

It was a cool morning muffled beneath a light haze, but the newly risen sun was piercing it admirably. The brute wore hulking leather boots and loose military pants in the Aleraran style, full of pockets and hidden pads, and he wore no coat over a thin white shirt. He was accustomed to the frigid conditions in Rubble Town now, where the weather mages did not bother to work their magic. Radasanth’s chill, thus juxtaposed, seemed downright tropical.

He understood that Agnie could have teleported him directly to the library, but Flint had not yet taken her up on that. He liked these walks and the chance to acclimate to the city – to relish in suddenly being somewhere warmer and quieter, safer and saner. It was disingenuous to leap from the chaos of Knife's Edge right into Luned’s sanctuary, to go from Salvar’s Flint to Luned’s without a period of transition.

He arrived at the gate and produced his key, and then turned and locked it again once he was in the courtyard. There were birds singing above and Flint thought of Bleddyn’s finches, but they wouldn’t be back for a few months yet. The thoughts, in tandem, made him frown. He wondered if he could buy bird seed and sneak into the old man’s study without Luned finding out.

The library was quiet, and when Flint announced himself there was no answer. Being paranoid by nature, Flint checked the windows and the door to the scribe’s room, which was closed, but did not concern himself very much. She was generally awake to meet him, but in times like these she tended to throw herself headlong into work and lose sight of the sun.

That was fine.

Flint slipped out of his boots and padded into the kitchen to quietly make tea. It was an automatic process now, the tea was here, the mugs here, the kettle there. His hands worked while his mind looked ahead to a warm bed and a sleepy young woman, and he was not at all adverse to the idea of taking a nap with his face buried in her hair. He put two mugs on a tray and balanced it easily on one hand, walked back to her room, and silently eased the door open so he could slip inside.

There was Luned, stretched out beneath the covers, a halo of hair having worked itself loose from its braid to frame her face and the content smile she wore in dreams. Flint was ready to set the tray down, slip out of his shirt, and slide in beside her, except he stopped when he realized someone had already done that.

The scribe was not alone. There was a dusky-skinned body alongside hers, narrow but muscular. The usurper’s face was buried in Luned’s neck so he could only see a mop of black hair, but the shoulder was most certainly bare, as was the long thigh that snaked out from under the sheets to wrap possessively around Luned’s legs.

Flint blinked. Luned stretched and sighed contentedly, blinking her eyes open to look at him. “Oh, Flint,” she said, dazed and pleased all at once. And then the rest of her situation occurred to her and her eyes widened. “Flint!”

She tried to jerk upright, but her companion whined and dragged her back down into bed, and Luned struggled, giving Flint her best and most awkward smile. “It’s…it’s um…Rez, would you please.”

Resolve whined some more and lifted her head, blinking through a veil of her own hair. She looked at Flint, then immediately flopped back down onto her pillow again, at which point Luned gave her a fierce kick, a shove, and shouted her name. “What is the problem?” Resolve growled.

She lifted her head again, and this time made eye contact with Flint, who blinked in perfect incomprehension. The exorcist froze as her eyes widened, and then she twisted in bed, using one hand to pull the sheets tight to her chest while she grabbed a mug from the bedside table and threw it viciously in Flint’s direction, all the while screaming “Eww!” a few times in rapid succession.

Flint’s free hand snatched the projectile out of the air effortlessly, and he added that mug to the pair already on the tray. The liquid that had been in that mug, however, splashed on the far wall behind him.

He pointed at Resolve sternly. “You are cleaning that up.”

[Otto]

The day grew longer. For Otto and Keeves, it had meant a patrol down sweltering streets, surrounded by brilliant white buildings which forced them to squint against the glare. As the sun was almost directly overhead, the only respite came in the form of a gentle sea breeze funneled through the streets. By the time it had reached them, it had added so many nuances of city life to its original cargo of salt and fish-stink that Otto was almost compelled to shield his nose as well as his eyes. Young Keeves, on the other hand, might have been completely unfazed. It was hard to tell if the scowl adorning his face was the result of his sustained squint, or if it was simply one of his selection of dour resting expressions.

They hadn't said a word to each other the entire time. Otto preferred it that way.

Now, he was out on the streets for the second time, rinsed free of the sweat and dust of a day's work and garbed in civilian's clothes. Among the few things he had kept on his person were his badge, tucked away in a pocket, his dagger, secured at his belt, and of course his smithing hammer. He was very careful to take that particular item with him wherever he went, for fear that someone else might come across it. Not that he was worried about it getting stolen, as such. No, it was better for everyone involved if he kept the thing out of anyone else's reach.

The various street-side buildings were no longer so harshly lit, but tinted softly with tulip hues. Though their rising edifices blocked a clear line of site to the horizon, Otto could see a fractured neon sunset reflected in the upper storey windows, each one a mismatched jigsaw-piece of the whole. It offered the orc a serene distraction - until he felt his foot land in something unpleasantly soft. After he had done scraping the sole off as best he could on the kerb, he muttered a few choice oaths under his breath and kept his eyes fixed firmly on the cobbles. By the time he turned from the thoroughfare into a quiet backstreet, his feet guided along a shortcut, the light had dimmed considerably.

He walked on for about half a minute, then swore again.

He had gotten into the habit of keeping attuned to iron while outside the forge. It was another means of staying aware of his surroundings, particularly the bits he couldn't see, and he had begun to form a clearer picture of the sorts of things Radasanth's populace carried about their person. Tradesmen with their tools were a common enough sight at practically any hour, except of course during curfew. And almost everyone carried a knife of one sort or another, a useful little implement in a variety of situations. Actual weapons, now - such as daggers - were not as common, although by no means were they rare; you couldn't always put your faith in the watch, so many citizens had learned to rely on themselves to handle trouble.

It was just suspicious that at least one such dagger had been following him since he'd stepped outside the garrison gates.

Now he could pick out three of the weapons, each one spaced far enough apart to suggest individual owners. Though he hadn't sensed more than one before, they now moved close together and in unison. Otto supposed the limited visibility in these winding lanes had forced each one to close the gap, so that they didn't lose their quarry. Still, they seemed happy to keep their distance and wait for a more secluded locale in which to make their final move. Unfortunately for Otto, he knew one of those was indeed coming up: a T-junction where the relatively wide street intersected with a tunnel-like alley between the houses. He tightened his woolen coat about his shoulders and continued to stare dead ahead, while the three bright points of iron bobbed a little way behind him.

Once he reached the junction, he took the turnoff leading away from the library, and ran.

He could sense his assailants had also picked up the pace a little, but they soon fell out of range. There was a flimsy little wooden gate ahead and on his right; it probably led into someone's backyard, from where it would be a matter of fence-hopping his way to freedom. Otto changed tack and kicked the gate in hard enough that one of the rusty hinges gave out.

Back on the street, the three drab-clothed men glanced at each other when they heard the crash. Their shared look lasted only for a moment, and then they were sprinting around the corner, down the deepening dark of the alley and barging through the still-shuddering gate. They stopped there to mill about uncertainly upon a small stretch of damp lawn, surrounded on three sides by stout brick walls and the sheer face of a simple two-storey house on the other. A small birdbath in the centre caught a gently rippling bowl of pink sky on its surface.

One of the men signaled for stillness. The other two froze, and their eyes scanned along the direction pointed out by the first man's finger.

"No other tracks," muttered the first, as the three of them stared at the pristine grass. "He didn't come this way."

Just then, and on the edge of hearing, they fancied they heard the receding sound of running footsteps. But by the time they had rushed back out, stillness and shadows had settled thick upon the alley once again. The three men stood there and peered into the murk.

"We'll not pick him up again," said one at last. "Not tonight."

But they tried, anyway.

[Luned]

"Well, at least it went better than I expected," Luned mused as she set the table. "Neither of you ended up concussed or bleeding this time. I'd call that progress."

"Or dead," Flint recalled their first fateful meeting during the Lornius Corporate Challenge. Their team had faced Resolve's in the first round and the exorcist had deemed him her arch-nemesis since, convinced that he was the sole source of the growing distance between herself and the scribe. She'd been partly right, and to her credit, it was somewhat easier to cope with a failing friendship with a scapegoat to pummel. At this point, they had engaged in fisticuffs thrice, and he had yet to get the best of her. He owned up to a little disappointment that, if Luned had anything to do with it, he'd never get the chance to even the score. To him, it had become a game of sorts.

"Exactly." Upon completing her chore, Luned stood next to the tall wingback chair at the head of the table and looked around the study. Over time, she'd organized the clutter and packed it away with utmost care, just in case its owner returned to claim it. The top of the large desk was clean and polished for the first time in eighty years, its meticulously shined surface reflecting early evening sunlight from the large windows behind it. Both of them still couldn't help but imagine the white-bearded enigma sitting there, poring over parchment with a posse of hungry birds on the windowsill for company. "It still feels weird in here without Bleddyn," she sighed.

"Where is he now?" Flint asked, stepping over to the chess set in the corner to right a pawn which had fallen on its side.

The scribe frowned. "I haven't heard from him in weeks. I think he's gone to Eluriand but didn't want to worry me."

Flint thought carefully before responding. "It sounds to me that he is making peace with his past while he can. He knows what he is doing," he reassured her, "and so do you. Your time and energy is best spent worrying on other things, such as where that strange friend of yours has run off to."

"Oh, I'm not concerned about that," Luned laughed softly. "She'll turn up as soon as our guest does."

[Resolve]

With the sun already low in the sky, the breeze bore hints of a true winter night's chill, and Resolve found herself shivering for the first time in ages. She wrapped her arms around herself, willing what meager warmth she had left back into her core.

From where she sat, she could see much of Radasanth, the waterfront a thin glimmer in the distance. Resolve had discovered this sanctuary many years ago, soon after Luned had adopted her as student and she earned free reign over the library. It was an odd structure with nooks and crannies she imagined Bleddyn had planned purposefully to store his vast collection of artifacts, but many of which remained empty. She'd claimed one as her own over time, a neglected corner on the top floor where the window offered quick access to the roof. Today, she remained on the sill, the window and her mind opened to the fresh air.

Resolve had been trying to meditate, though with questionable success. Learned in Fallien, it had saved her from herself a handful of times during training. But here, away from guidance and discipline, taking some time for herself had only encouraged her to stew with her worries in a more concentrated fashion. She simmered on that windowsill, knees squeezed to her chest as she glared out over the cityscape.

She'd made a sort of mental truce with Flint at Luned's insistence, but the girl knew how obvious it had been that her heart wasn't in it. After a grumbled apology for throwing stoneware at his head, she'd abandoned the library for the day, intent on checking in with Rosie and finishing settling in at her flat. Except, without thinking, she'd started on the long way home, her subconscious sending her on the routine path which circled by the watch house. Shockingly unlike herself, she allowed her anxiety to get the best of her and she ended up avoiding the place –– and Otto, along with it.

That anxiety had grown as a sickness in her center, but she still couldn't help herself from waiting for his arrival. As it neared six o'clock, Resolve reached out with her sixth sense from her high perch, tracing the streets for his presence. Before long, she found him, and she held onto his signature as he approached.

Why was he running?

Concern banished everything else she felt. Resolve slipped off the sill, closed the window behind her, and vanished.

A split second later, she found herself down on the streets, tucked away in an alley. A familiar figure was just huffing past and, after steeling herself with a deep breath, the exorcist took off after him. It felt good to run, her body warmed by increased circulation and mind cleared by the rush.

Everything would be fine. She could do this.

"Otto!"

He didn't seem to hear her. She pushed herself, quickly closing the gap between them. They were only a couple blocks from the library now.

"Otto!" Resolve caught up, the orc saw her, and he staggered to a halt. Queasiness quickly replaced the adrenaline as she realized he was not particularly pleased to see her. "What's wrong?"

He stared at her as he caught his breath, then glanced behind him. No one appeared to be following; he'd escaped range of their iron, and hopefully their ability to track him as well.

The girl's brow crinkled with worry. "Did something happen?"

"––Running late," Otto finally replied, "for dinner. At the library."

"Me, too." She stared back, the tension palpable, then scrambled to somehow normalize the situation. "Can I walk with you?"

He blinked, nodded, and turned to go. Resolve followed, and it took her some painfully quiet minutes to scrape up an attempt at conversation. "Luned said you just got back from Salvar," she said.

"Mm," Otto confirmed.

"How was it?"

"Cold."

They rounded a corner and the library came into sight, its bleak gray facade dominating the side street. Resolve held the gate for him, and as they passed through the arch which led to the courtyard, she reached out to grasp his forearm. He stopped and glanced back at her, albeit with reluctance. The deepening shadows made him look tired and, as she looked up at him, it took her a moment to find her words.

"After dinner, do you think…?" she trailed off.

"We shouldn't keep them waiting." He slipped his arm from her grasp, stepping away and into the courtyard. Only a small amount of snow remained in the flowerbeds, dead foliage climbing in skeletal arms up the well of stone. Otto passed through and into the open kitchen door, where Luned and Flint waited.

The next moments passed in a flurry of introductions and final preparation. "So glad you could make it," Luned smiled to Otto as he walked in. "This is Flint," she gestured to the man who tended the fire. "I think I've mentioned him before."

From Resolve's descriptions of the brute, Otto had imagined rather a grotesque monster; instead, he found someone impossibly muscled, but still very much human. He offered his hand, which Flint accepted in a strong shake. "Good to put the name to a face," Otto greeted him.

"Could you please bring this to the table? Careful, it's hot," Luned interrupted, handing Flint a covered dish swathed in cloth. "And Otto," she captured the orc's attention, "would you mind?" He took the basket of bread from her and allowed her to shoo him into the hall, where Flint led him to the study. She followed shortly thereafter, and Resolve crept in behind her.

"As much as I look forward to hearing about your adventure in Berevar, Otto, I'm afraid I'll have to cut to the chase," Luned said as they settled in around the table. "We have a lot to talk about tonight."

He nodded in understanding, shifting in the chair at the head of the table. He hadn't expected to be the center of attention. "Chronicle business?"

"Yes." Luned considered her words carefully for a moment. "Forgive me for being so straightforward, but after some discussion, Leopold and I were hoping you'd take Duffy's place in our little trinity. We have a lot of respect for you, Otto. There's no one else we'd trust more to help us run Chronicle."

Otto just about choked on his wine, unprepared for such a question. "I'll have to think about it," he deflected.

"I understand," Luned smiled. "Please know that we would never hold it against you for declining. Take all the time you need to consider it, and if you decide to accept, we'll make it official with Leopold present. Until then, however… there's one other thing I'd like to ask of you. I'm afraid it's a rather big thing, but know the same conditions apply –– we would never, ever want you to feel obligated to do something if you aren't truly up for it."

From the other end of the table, Resolve sat in silence, watching as Otto's face contorted in hesitant curiosity.

Luned glanced to Flint, then back to their guest. "As you are already aware, Chronicle plans to… 'handle' what remains of the Assembly," she began. "Your affiliation with CAF makes you an invaluable connection, as you can imagine. We hoped we could convince you to help us infiltrate their security. This means we'd need you to go in sooner than later to find out what we're dealing with," she clarified. "Then we can use that information to make sure the main event goes as smoothly and peacefully as possible. With your help, we may be able to avoid bloodshed, and I truly believe that potential is worth the risk."

[Otto]

"Yes, well," Otto replied, "bloodshed's how Corone got into this mess to begin with. Ethics aside, assassination might just give the remaining Assembly more grounds to consolidate power."

He spoke to Luned, but aimed for cordiality by acknowledging the others with an occasional and carefully blank-faced glance in their direction. Resolve's meal sat untouched as she continued to stare at him between gleaming candlesticks, and was at odds with Flint, who was instead calmly working his way through the starters and appeared more or less oblivious to the taut atmosphere. Luned nodded at the orc's sentiment, and took a sip from her wineglass.

"You understand, then," she said, setting the drink down on the linen tablecloth. She shot him an enquiring look. "While we're on the subject, how is your other work progressing?"

Otto tried to avoid Resolve's increasingly piercing glare as he answered. "Good. I've pushed the effect's duration up to five minutes, and it's strong as ever."

"How many have gone out?" Flint asked, apparently of his soup.

"I can't say, exactly," Otto replied, turning to the man. "But I would guess about one third of the Assembly guard have been issued at least one item so far. We're lucky it's not a job that command just rotates soldiers through, and that they have their own standard-issue equipment which stays in the department. Otherwise it'd go out into the city watch as quickly as it went in."

"Risk?"

Otto shook his head. "None, as far as I can tell. It was tricky finding a way to arrest speech and still allow for breathing, but I've managed to-"

"No." Something close to a scowl flittered across the bald man's face. "To us."

"Ah. Well, I've taken pains to shield the spells from sight, but... the sooner we act, the better."

Luned had, by now, begun to direct uncertain looks between Otto and Resolve. "Well, you may have a chance to do just that," she pressed on, letting the matter lie for the time being. "We need to start figuring out guard placement, patrol schedules and the general layout of the Assembly. We think you'd be the best man for the job, for obvious reasons, but you won't act alone. Resolve's talents are- oh, dear. Here, use mine."

Luned passed her serviette over to the orc, who was furiously mopping up the puddle from his spilt mug. It had been his bad luck to reach for the handle when Luned mentioned who he would work alongside, but between the two cloths, Otto managed to get the puddle under enough control to stop it spreading.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Don't worry yourself about it," Luned replied. "I had planned to do some laundry tomorrow in any case. Please don't feel pressured into agreeing, if it concerns you this much-"

Otto grunted and shook his head again. "It's... not that," he said, growing hot under Resolve's continued stare. "I'll do it."

Luned smiled in reply, then leaned over and patted his hand. "Thank you," she warmly intoned, before pulling away. "Perhaps it would be better if we move away from such talk for now. We have all night to discuss this, after all."