Rumors

[B.I.G.]

((Closed to Christina Bredith, etc))

The morning sun pierced the veil of the thin linen curtains that adorned Bartleby's bedroom window, illuminating the small piece of parchment he held in his hand. The deep red quilts that covered his bed contrasted with the white marble floors of the room. He had always enjoyed contrasting colors.

Before him stood a tall man, dressed in a combination of formal wear and elegant, decorative armor. The man's golden hair was mid length and combed back. His beard was well kept and trimmed. He was both pristine and intimidating.

" Do you understand what must be done? "

Bartleby inspected the letter he had been given a second time, taking great care not to overlook any details. His assignment was simple enough, though the reasons behind it's existence were, as usual, unknown to him.

" Yes, Father. I understand the assignment, but I do not understand why it must be done this way. Do we not have agents of our own that could accomplish such a task? "

Bartleby's father was, like him, a quiet man, but he spoke with conviction. His fierce, blue eyes commanded unquestioning loyalty, and to have them fixated on you was to stare into the mouth of a lion.

" You are not to question the methods of the Elders. Carry out your assignment and report to me when it is complete. "

Without another word, the golden-haired giant of a man that was Bartleby's father turned about and left the young man's chambers. Staring once again at the small letter in his hand, Bartleby read it once more to himself.

~~~~~~~

" Journey to the Silver Pub. You will sit in the table furthest to the right, your back to the wall. Place the feather you have been given on the table and wait for our agents to arrive. Once they have done so, brief them on their assignment. You will then rent out a room and remain within the inn until our agents have returned from their mission. "

~~~~~~~

Taking in a short breath, Bartleby folded the letter and placed it into his jacket pocket, along with the black feather that came with it. He retrieved a small sack of coins from his bedside drawer, a single change of clothes from the dresser beside the window and an unassuming wool sack to carry it all in. Lastly, Bartleby opened his closet doors and knelt down on one knee. On the floor in his closet was a small brass box, hand crafted with intricate designs. He opened the box, revealing a small, steel dagger, sheathed in silver and resting on a bed of red velvet. He took the dagger in hand and concealed it within his coat. His father had always told him that even if your mission is a peaceful one, you should always prepare for violence.

Once he had finished gathering his provisions, Bartleby left his family's manor in northern Radasanth and made his way southward towards the inn known as The Silver Pub. One of the servants offered to take him by carriage, but Bartleby declined. He did not often get the chance to leave the northern part of the city, and when he was allowed to do so, he preferred to travel on foot. It was easier to take in the scenery that way.

~~~~~~~

Bartleby arrived at the Silver Pub a few hours after he had left the north end. He had taken his time journeying to the inn, as it was still early in the afternoon and the agents he was to meet with were not due to arrive until sundown.

Upon entering the tavern, he was met with more than a few inquisitive looks. The busy crowd had not yet arrived as it was still early, but the staff and a few of the more dedicated customers seemed surprised to see a nobleman enter, and rightly so. Bartleby nodded in respect and made his way to the table in the far right corner of the room. He sat with his back against the wall, as instructed, and set his sack of provisions on the floor next to him. He took a moment to look over the room.

There were around a dozen circular tables, each distanced equally from the others. The floors and walls were made of oak and hadn't seen much care over the years. Many of the floor boards were loose or cracked. The ceiling was high, and from it, a makeshift chandelier made of deer antlers hung over the center of the room. To his right was a staircase that must have led to the rooms. The railing seemed unstable at best.

A few moments after Bartleby sat down, a young waitress made her way over to him. She was dressed in a simple, short black dress with a white, frilled apron tied around her front. She had rounded features and bright green eyes. Her lips were soft pink and pursed, and her black, wavy hair was tied up in a pony tail. She placed one hand on her hip and cocked her head at the young nobleman.

" You lost? " she said with a gentle, but rasped voice.

Bartleby felt somewhat uneasy with her inquiry. Perhaps he should have dressed less conspicuously. " I beg your pardon? "

The young woman chuckled and flashed a flawless smile. " Well, ya just don't look like the typical kinda customers we get 'round here. "

Behind the young woman, a deep, gruff voice shouted from the area of the bar. " Louise you leave that boy alone! He ain't hurtin' nobody. " The young woman turned sharply and shouted back at the grizzled old man.

" I ain't botherin' him! I'm just makin' friendly conversation! " She turned back to Bartleby, leaning on his table with one hand. " Ain't that right sugar? " She flashed that neck-breaking smile at him again and giggled. He could feel his cheeks flush.

" No trouble at all miss. " Bartleby tried his best to maintain eye contact. Turning away would only make his nervousness more apparent.

The young woman smiled yet again and stood upright, both hands on her hips. " So, what'll it be honey? "

Bartleby smiled politely back at her and spoke softly. " Tea, please. " The young woman stared at Bartleby for a moment, shamelessly looking him over from head to toe. " Comin' right up! " She said as she turned away and made off towards the kitchen.

Bartleby smiled to himself for a moment, taking in all that had transpired. But before he could get lost in his own thoughts, the memory of his assignment flashed in his mind. Bartleby's smile faded, and a stern look came over his face. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed the raven's feather, placing it on the center of the table. He folded his hands in his lap and waited. It wouldn't be long now.

[Christina Bredith]

It galled to be in Radasanth. This was the stronghold of the Corone Empire, and every time she looked at that great palace of the so-called emperor, once the meeting hall of the Assembly, it was like looking at a dagger sticking out of a man’s heart and wondering why nobody around you was bothering to do something to help. That was the other part of what galled her: how life seemed to just... continue despite it all. It was hard to imagine how Radasanth could not be torn apart by rebellion and riot when the Rangers were fighting so hard to bring the Empire to its knees. Common folk didn’t care who ruled them, so long as there was food in their bellies and money in their pockets. The ignorance was disgusting when the Gisela Massacre should have been so fresh in their minds! But then, Christina had no right to be disgusted at that: she might have been the same, not too long ago.

Speaking of the Rangers fighting the Empire, they had discovered a plot of the Empire’s—presumably of the Empire’s, anyway—to track down a retired Ranger. Christina had been understandably confused when Major Killian Jahaad, a double-agent of the Empire secretly supporting the rebellion, had brought the plot to light and sent her on a mission to stop it.

“But why would they go looking for a retired Ranger in a burnt-out little hole like Underwood?” she had asked back at their camp hidden deep within Concordia. “If they’re worried about him, why not just burn the city down again like they did the first time?” That one still stung, but fortunately there was no need to keep the bitterness from her voice in saying it.

“That’s what we want to find out,” he had responded. “To be honest, there's no way to know if they’ll find what they’re looking for. It’s hard enough to keep track of our active Rangers in this chaos, nevermind the retired ones, though I doubt any would return to that place. We’re not even sure this order came from the Empire itself, because even I didn’t hear of it before this. That’s where you come in: meet the informant, figure out who’s behind all this. Tag along on the mission, and figure out what they want with this Ranger, whoever he is. If they plan to harm him, stop them—by whatever means necessary.”

Days later, Christina was in the heart of Corone’s cancer, a pulsating mass of corruption that nobody could see beneath the surface. Her first task had been to intercept the person the message had been sent to. The resistance had found out about it purely because the woman’s servant was a resistance sympathizer, and so the only person to find out about the note before his mistress was a rebel informant. No, a Ranger informant; they were not the rebels here. The woman had not put up much resistance: Christina had surprised and bound her on the outskirts of Radasanth, and she would be taken into custody by the rebels just long enough to avoid her doing something to compromise the mission.

Now the sun was close to setting, and Christina—no, Lady Rosalyn de Havlan—was putting the final touches on her disguise. The major had assured her there was little chance that she would have been recognized in her normal attire because only her name would be known this far north, but there was no sense taking chances. A pair of handmaidens in the employ of the Rangers were pinning up her hair in an elaborate—something. There was no word for it, really, but it was gorgeous, and the silver pins and clips they used to hold the thing in place set off her golden-blonde hair without being tacky. She still wore her mother’s army uniform, but it was underneath a cloak of midnight blue velvet trimmed with fur and embroidered in gold. All in all, she hardly looked like a warrior—quite the opposite, in fact; she could have passed for a minor noble or a merchant’s daughter—but that was a deception she had often used to great advantage. Rosebite remained belted to her waist, and there it would remain, as it would be best to use the blade as a last resort only. That, more than her name or appearance, would give away her identity in a heartbeat to any devoted imperial.

The so-called Silver Pub didn’t exactly live up to its name; it was obviously the kind of inn where adventurers and common workers gathered at the end of the day to discuss their exploits and drown whatever sorrows they had in cheap ale. In other words, exactly the kind of place Christina would have liked to visit under normal circumstances. Today, though, she would probably attract quite a bit of attention in this outfit. Well, maybe that was to the good. It was attention which wouldn’t reveal her identity, and she had never minded people looking at her.

The inside of the inn was rickety and... common was really the only word for it. Christina had heard that the place was recently rebuilt after having been severely damaged in some sort of catastrophe or another—maybe riots around the time of the Gisela Massacre, when people still cared about Corone’s situation, although she really had no idea—and it showed all the signs of being in a state of repair. Or maybe it had just always been this way. On the outskirts of the town as it was, and on the opposite side of the city from Christina’s family home, she had never been here before.

Even amid the buzz of the usual evening activity, it wasn’t difficult to find her contact. In fact, it was easier because of it: he was the only one sitting alone at his table watching the door, while everyone else was chatting and drinking and playing at dice or cards. She crossed the room toward him, checking quickly for the raven feather to make sure he was the one she was supposed to meet, and then gave him her most disarming smile.

She had not been given a name, and so simply extended a gloved hand from within the folds of her cloak; he might recognize it as spidersilk, if he was keen to such things. These were actually hers, but they certainly wouldn’t hurt her disguise, as rare as spidersilk was. “Rosalyn de Havlan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”