Open Chronicles The Work of a Nation

[Rizzo Bouchard]

"Class dismissed," Istra said. "Enjoy your lunch."

Her students stood up from their desks in the small classroom in the College. A small classroom for a small class: only eight of them, down from eleven. Alteration was one of the less popular subjects at the College, for it was far less direct than other disciplines of magic and involved quite a lot of studying of natural philosophy; prospective students usually found out within the first few weeks--or even days--if the pursuit was intriguing or repelling to them.

A perfect subject for an Associate Professor to teach. An "Associate Professor" with other obligations.

Istra was packing up her own belongings from her desk and collecting up the natural philosophy books to return to the library, when one of her students, a diminutive Komodo named Sherzey, came up to her and asked, "Professor Lejeune, will you be able to tutor me again tonight? I'm...having some trouble distinguishing the differences between the Three Classifications of Rocks."

Istra stacked up the three library books on top of one another--perfectly aligned by their bottom left-hand corners--and placed her hands upon them and looked to Sherzey. Said, "My apologies, but I have other commitments tonight. Perhaps within two days' time? If you are available then."

Sherzey beamed. Nodded vigorously. Replied, "Okay! Thank you, Professor!"

Istra, cordially, said, "You are very welcome, Sherzey."

And she watched the young Komodo girl hurry after the other students. Stood for a moment by her desk. Then finished gathering her belongings.

How blissfully unaware, Sherzey. The youth of the City and the College in general. Of the maintenance required for the continuation of the status quo they so enjoyed.

* * * * *​

Jonas was sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair in a claustrophobic room within the Order of Speculatores compound in Elbion. His hands bound behind him. Sweating profusely. Gasping raggedly. Unable to see straight. He had not broken yet, which was unfortunate: Istra was hoping to have the information before sundown, but that time had passed. And she was feeling arcane fatigued from having shocked him near ceaselessly for hours. Impressive. Most pirates would have capitulated within the first half of an hour, let alone hold out for this long. Suggestive of a strong, personal connection to this matter.

Istra took off her gloves and placed them meticulously on the table in the interrogation room, next to her unopened bag of tools. She went back to Jonas, placed her hands on her knees, and leaned her face close to his. A terrifyingly callous stare, not one of hatred or disgust or anger, but complete impassiveness to his suffering.

"You pirated from the Grand Council of Elbion, Jonas," she said. Unblinking. Staring. "This matter will be rectified. Do you understand?"

Jonas, summoning that defiance again even as eyes could hardly focus on her, said, "I've got...a ship's mast...you can suck on...bitch."

"Do you understand? Yes or no."

"I'll...tell you when we set sail...open wide, why don't ya..."

Istra's eyes descended down to his crotch. Then back up to his face. And she said, "You currently have ten fingers. Ten toes. Thirty-two teeth. Two eyes. One tongue. This can be altered, Jonas, and I can assure you that you are not ready to truly adhere to this commitment you have shown over the past few hours."

She stood up straight. Walked to the table. Opened her bag. Said, "But I will not start there, nor will I end there. I retain a number of conventional methods at my disposal." She took out a thin and shining metal nail, six-inches in length. Walked back over to him. Held it before him until he noticed it.

"Do you know where this particular nail, thin as it is, can be inserted?"

Jonas said nothing.

Istra stared at him stolidly. And said, "You are about to learn some very unpleasant facts about your anatomy, Jonas. And these facts will challenge your commitment in ways currently beyond your imagination...but well within mine."

And the tools of conventional torture did indeed break him.

* * * * *​

Clever. Jonas has been hiding his spoils in plain sight: with his brother, Hadrian, somewhere in the City of Elbion itself. Hadrian himself was not a pirate, and even the fact that they were brothers had been well-concealed.

Istra could not be seen to be working openly with the Order of Speculatores on this matter, so manufactured intelligence that Hadrian was in possession of stolen items from the College was surreptitiously passed along. Perhaps there was actual truth in such fabricated intelligence. Regardless, the College agreed to cooperate with the City of Elbion, as planned. Professor Lejeune and a small detachment of others were to work with a contingent of Elbion guardsmen--led by one Sergeant Ramon--to capture Hadrian and from him extract the location of all the stolen goods.

It was unknown what Hadrian's capabilities were, and if he had any allies. But he was to be taken into custody as soon as possible, lest he suspect something had gone amiss with his brother and flee the city.

Two separate teams had been formed: one watching his house in the Residential District, and one watching for him in the Merchant District.

Istra herself was with the team in the Merchant District. Pretending to be doing some early morning shopping among some of the fruit and vegetable stalls. The guardsmen as part of the contingent patrolling in the area as they normally would, keeping eyes out themselves and awaiting for a signal from Istra or her College fellows. The crowd of people in this particular Square of the District was moderate, allowing for good enough lines of sight.

Istra smiled a fake smile to the stall owner she was currently talking to. Engaged in small talk. Said, "Is that so? How do you normally prepare your beef stews?" And the stall owner was more than happy to chat.

Everyone had Hadrian's description: now it was the waiting game.

What Istra and her team did not know was that they were not the only ones looking for Hadrian.

 

[Méchanteau]

Just where in blazes was that Hadrian bastard? Méchanteau, aputrencent pirate extraordinaire, would have much preferred to have his dealings with his brother. He was a fellow man of the sea, a 'high-risk trader', and so full of wit that he had made the skeleton laugh his skull off on two occasions - the analogies one could make between human anatomy and a sailing vessel were truly limitless! But no, Hadrian, who as far as Méchanteau knew could not even use a compass, just had to be the one with the 'goods'.

Had either of the idiot brothers told him just what they were selling? Something good, enough for the College of Elbion to oh so selfishly hoard it, and perhaps of necromantic use to have risked the captain's attention. Not that either siblings had summoned him willingly, but their greed shone brighter and warmer than any pharos... and Tabin-Ur hungered! Perhaps it was a good thing that both Hadrian and Jonas had escaped the lich before. A thief on the run stealing from thieves on the run? What great pleasure and glory this must be bringing to the snake-tongued god!

Not all in this pantomime did so for personal gain or the glory of their gods, however. There were some wretches, burdened by a duty so idiotic as their heresy, on the prowl to have their 'goods' returned. As far as Méchanteau knew these hogpen guards and parlor trick magicians did not know of his presence, but a man as flippant and powerful as he could not remain incognito for long. That was the reason why he had assumed an as-lofty disguise: Portbella the stewseller!

***​

Portbella chortled, rattling her too-white teeth.​

"How does one prepare any stew, you silly bairn? First, you start with the water." it began innocently enough, the pendular-skinned crone clanged the cast iron cauldron with her wooden spoon "But you don't want any water, none of that! You want salt water, fresh from the sea..." she plunged her bony hand on the boiling water and sprinkled Istra for emphasis "Only then should you consider the ingredients!" she knelt under the counter, from some cursed place producing a handful of eyes and lard "You said you wanted your stew with beef, aye? Well, now it has beef!" the contents plopped down to the bottom of the cauldron, surfacing at times with the reddening bubbles "But please don't ask for more, my butcher would sooner gouge his prices than another cow, the bastard!" Portbella shook her fist at the stall across the square, getting an as-offensive gesture for an answer.​

"Maybe I'll cut his prick and stew it too... Bah!" she stirred the pot, trying to whistle a merry sailor tune. Alas, the cadaver tongue Méchanteau had ripped only managed some pitiful sprays of saliva, which actually added more flavour to this unholy concoction of eyes, fat and dock water "So bairn... what was it that you said you wanted?"​

 

[Rizzo Bouchard]

There was something particularly repellent about the unrefined, about the common folk who reveled in their lack of decorum. The Residential District may be sectioned off from the rest of the city, but the Residential District itself was likewise partitioned; Istra and others of her born station were thus insulated from the quarantined masses. Rare was the occasion where she needed to go out into "the city at large," the Merchant District and the Port District and those more wanting sections of the Residential District.

This matter with Hadrian marked such an occasion. And her work with the Order of Speculatores was gradually turning "rare" into "frequent."

Istra closed her eyes for a moment when sprinkled with the saltwater, in the manner of one only just finding the resolve for toleration. And she opened them to see a revolting fistful of actual eyes and presumably pig lard (and she knew she was going to be dreadfully sick to her stomach later) dropped into the "stew" by Portbella.

But please don't ask for more, the stewseller said. Ugh, I would never dream of it. Surely this was not wholly representative of the diets of the lower-born citizenry. Surely.

Istra swallowed her nausea and said levelly, "Nothing in particular--I was simply browsing and considering my options for supper tonight. It is somewhat of an occasion."

Her casual glances to the side finally caught sight of a person of interest (if only it had been sooner and spared her the sight of that revolting stew). A man of Hadrian's description: average height, fair skin, dark eyes, long black beard, balding, the remainder of his long hair pulled into a ponytail. Hadrian had no unique scars or birthmarks, nothing that would positively set him out from a crowd of similarly described people.

This man--the possible Hadrian--was coming Istra's way along the market street, and was flanked by four men in similar garb as his own. Dockworkers, or Jonas's brother? It was going to be seen.

Istra took out her red headband--having had the garment off for this very purpose--and casually tied it across her forehead. The signal to the contingent of guards to be alert, that Hadrian had potentially been identified. To Portbella, Istra said as she was tying her headband, "Perhaps I shall tell you of the occasion later. But I'm afraid that I may have let time slip past me, and I am rather loath to keep my students waiting. Farewell, Portbella."

Hadrian and his quartet passed by behind Istra, same as the rest of the morning browsers and buyers of the Market. Istra waited a second, gave Portbella a formal nod of departure, then turned and started to--in a "as it so happened, we're going in the same direction" sort of fashion--follow slightly behind the possible Hadrian and his fellows.

RustySpork

 

[Méchanteau]

As much as Portbella adored teasing and revolting her upper crust clients - while saving all the good roots and scraps for the beggars -, something quite dear to her went away when Istra left the stall. Composure. "YOU'RE JUST GONNA LEAVE!?" she hit the cauldron full of indignation, bursting the wooden spoon into splinters. Alas, it was too late, both for Istra to return and for the lacrimosa to take effect. Portbella, by night a potionseller, lid the slop shut. She had lost the day.

Not too tall or too short, neither sun-kissed or sallow or pale, with thinning hair kept stubbornly tied in a ponytail, was the one back Portbella would have recognized in any one crowd. She had spotted her longtime love, one too afraid to be admitted even in her old, suffering heart, as her gaze followed the hussy as she put on a red hussy headband. They appeared to be going in the same direction... could this be more than a coincidence? Begone, such terrible thoughts! Hadrian was not of easy virtue, no matter how young and beautiful and rich and magically adept was this... this... strumpet following him!

All qualities dear and admired by the strumpet-son Méchanteau, who let go of the facade. Flames ruptured from his orbits, shattering the glass eyes. The skin demounted, the muscles and wire beneath displaced by the abrupt sprint of the skeleton. All meat was shed like a jacket, cut from within by a strange blade. "I HAVE COME FOR YOUR SOUL, HADRIAN!" shouted the swooping corpse captain, char-black lungs dangling in squelchy beats between his tibias, barrelling through any one person crossing his sidewalk. Slopping a trail of red gore, brandishing his sword in wild and blind swings, cackling like thunder, Méchanteau was set on mayhem.

 

[Rizzo Bouchard]

The stew-selling merchant was not pleased. Hardly Istra's concern, lest she cause some manner of scene which summoned unwanted attention to her. Which she did not.

And that conclusion proved premature within seconds.

From behind her as she trailed after Hadrian came an unholy shout and a rising chorus of screams. Istra snapped her glance back and saw that where once "Portbella" the merchant had been there was now some kind of skeletal undead. The normal flow of traffic on the street had come to a half-moon halt as frightened citizens regarded the abomination with the glowing eyes at the stall. A child, somewhere in that crowd, shrieking questions to his mother. The wave of people backpedaling, turning about, hurrying or outright running in the opposite direction back up the street.

Many things happened all at once:

Hadrian as well had turned back when that undead had shouted his name. Wasted no time. In a panic he swore ("Fuck! Ever' man for himself!") and bolted. Two of the men in his retinue took off in different directions. Another snatched a matronly, quivering female elf and held a knife to her throat and barked commands. The last man drew his cutlass and stood wild-eyed and ready to slash anyone or anything that came near him. All of the guards in the contingent Istra led--eight in number--moved from their positions around the square and pushed their way through fleeing merchants and passersby, descending toward Hadrian and the four men and the Undead.

It was a chaotic operating environment. The square was in a panicked uproar, Hadrian was alerted and making his escape (successfully dodging a guard's attempt at grappling for him), and strangest of all there was an unknown quantity in the Undead that was present--intent, also, on seizing Hadrian.

Chaotic. And with it also came opportunity. To cleanly capture Hadrian on behalf of the Grand Council (or, at the very least, acquire the information from him) instead of the College. The Undead even provided a very convenient cover for Hadrian's inevitable "disappearance"/untimely death.

So Istra took off running after Hadrian. Weaved past the hostage-taker man and the cutlass man with not a care for either--the guards, charged now with the defense of the citizenry over their specialized mission here, would handle it. Possibly even the Undead too.

Hadrian was a good distance ahead down the street, appearing and disappearing amidst the curious people scattered about the street who were all too far removed to actually see what had caused such a commotion in the square.

RustySpork