December Flower

Quote:

Closed to Rehtul Orlouge

Grenvil Strum had enjoyed better days.

The weather was miserable, again. In fact, the staccato drumbeats of the heavy Radasanthian rain on his room’s window pane had kept him up from about four o’clock in the morning. Eventually, he had given up on sleep and had started with what turned out to be a less than satisfying breakfast of undercooked bacon and overdone eggs. The food’s cost was seriously disproportionate to the quality of what had been served, and after a brief argument with the landlord he had reluctantly paid up and left Radasanth’s very own Silver Cup Inn to attend to the reason for his visit.

A very special reason, for a very special employer. But, his line of work being what it was, this special employer had attracted special attention that even he had failed to notice. Grenvil had walked the street for a paltry five minutes before being knocked clean out by the pommel of a sword, and dragged into a grimy alleyway. From here, his day went from bad to worse.

When the man, whose hairless hulking form closely resembled a shaven gorilla, eventually came around, he found himself in a cage that he could barely kneel in. Grenvil had absolutely no idea when the start of his journey on the back of the rickety cart had taken place, and neither what time or day it was when the wagon drew to a halt. All he knew was that he could taste blood on his lips. His blood. When his cramped crate was simply thrown down to the hard cobbles below, he could tell was surrounded by at least three men. A filthy, linen tarpaulin over the metal bars obscured them all from view.

“W-what’s going on here?!” Grenvil demanded to know, rattling the whole cell with all of his might.

One of his handlers replied to him in a language that the hulking monstrosity didn’t understand. A clever man, or at least an observant man, would have noticed that a few of the emphases and one of the prepositions of this mysterious language didn’t make sense. Grenvil, however, was neither clever nor observant.

"You’re all fucking dead men when I get out of here!" He responded simply.

Only laughter and mockery followed. The hulking brute sank back and took the time to assess the situation in more detail: He was stripped of his clothes, money and contact book, and he was completely disarmed. As he wriggled around some more, Grenvil realised he was also tied up with bindings made out of some sort of metallic fibres, which cut into his skin, and the only things keeping him warm was a thin layer of straw underneath him that wreaked of shit and more besides.

Wait.

Shit. The contact book.

Not being able to feel the familiar weight of the leather bound notebook, the one usually hidden in the inside pocket of his coat, filled him with more dread than the prospect of having the shit kicked out of him. Grenvil could take a beating, after all. But, should Lady Yua find out that he had ceded details of their organisation in Corone to outsiders? It went without saying that a couple of kidnappers with dodgy accents would be the least of his troubles. So, the boneheaded Grenvil lunged forward with a roar, like an enraged bear, attempting to roll the cage over. One of the burlier handlers managed to meet it with the face of a large hammer, forcing the big guy to heel. As the iron rattled with a clang, the tarp partially slipped from the force of the struggle and suddenly everything beyond the cage’s iron bars glowed eerily in the dull twilight. He could make out new buildings, scaffold, and horses through shaky vision. Was this a parade ground?

Some background chatter followed, this time recognisable in the common tongue, as the crate was placed in the centre of a flat, concrete area. It seemed to be patrolled by horse and foot and, one by one, the soldiers closed ranks and filed into two lines. This created a corridor for an approaching man.

“Where am I?!” Grenvil demanded to know at the top of his lungs, snarling like a rabid dog. “What is this?!”

One of the soldiers obliged him by opening the cage door and dragging the brute out, throwing him to the floor violently enough to graze his hands and face. With sharpened spear tips now readied inches away from his jugular, Grenvil had to fight the urge to retaliate. In the end he settled for a manic growl that vented his frustrations in all directions, and that was the only plan he had until a pair of black boots appeared in front of his nose. There was no need for the man to look up at all – as two soldiers held his face down to the stones by pushing his wide neck with all their might, a more slender figure crouched down besides him.

"Hello, Grenvil. You’ve been a busy little bastard, haven’t you?"

The man-beast rolled his bloodshot eyes up as far as they could go, meeting the golden gaze of a oaken haired man.

"Y-you..."

“Yes, Grenvil. Me.” Shinsou Vaan Osiris replied, grinning, “Surprised to see me? I don't know why, if I'm honest. You were stupid enough to dock in Tylmerande, and you’re not exactly mister in-con-fucking-spicuous. Oh, you dropped this, by the way.”

The Telgradian began fanning the little brown notebook in front of Grenvil’s nose. The man grunted as one of the soldiers further restrained him with a knee in the back, “I would have thought the Higanbana would have furnished you with something a bit more stylish, you know, something leather bound and engraved. Don’t worry, we'll keep it safe for you. I have a guy who'll be interested in reading this. Shouldn’t take him long at all, I’d have thought.”

“Fuck you!”

With that, the Telgradian nodded to his armed counterparts, handing one of them the small notebook. "Sing this sack of shit a lullaby, and then give this to Rehtul for me."

With that, the back of Grenvil Strum’s head was met with the blunt end of one of the Brotherhood soldier’s spears and everything faded to black.