What could you say about White Rider design choices? Maybe it had been built before they were established. If Koe recalled correctly, it had been formed as an organization from the remnants of a House that gave up its power. Fancy that... a human doing something not only just, but intelligent. Any other man would have trained his own agents to that end, but left himself in charge of it and run it as a House. Then his son would have realized how little money there was in the game of politics for honesty and started using his agents as assassins. Koe had seen similar things happen. Must have been something of a supernatural fellow, the one who'd given over his House for all of this. Not one of the White Riders have ever asked, except when they were too young to understand the answer.

( At least, that would have been his guess. )

Vera sat on the very edge of the hard wood chair across from the Captain's desk. Numbness would be a problem if she sat too still for too long, but that could not be helped. Vera kept her arms crossed against her chest. Since entering the Captain's office, she was keenly aware of the blood and dirt on her uniform. The Captain hated a dirty uniform, but the fastest way to inspire anger was to get any sort of bodily fluid on the Captain's furniture, carpet, books or door. Birloch held the door for both her and Eithne so that was not a problem. He was lingering in the entrance now with that stupid grin on his face, leaning against the door frame.

( They looked just like this when I found them, Captain... )

"You should cower before the end!" Alvon barked.

Cavras only laughed.

( Their swords met for the briefest of seconds. )

There were at least twenty of them. Broad shoulders spoke of their training in the art of war. Sneering expressions as swords twisted and shifted in their hands, bristling like the quills on a pin-pig. Skandra might have thought about talking them down. Hell, he'd probably saved at least one of their lives at some point or another. Whatever connection they'd shared was probably one these soldiers believed to be imaginary, a figment of dream and invention, some other feeling that was not connected to their true face. He even opened his mouth to say something smart. Yet it closed again, just as quickly. There was no point to it. He could not think of a way to avoid bloodshed, and he could not think of a way to avoid being the one whose blood was shed. They were coming closer all the time - and there was nothing he could do to slow the advance except start a fight.

( Oh, he should have stayed in jail. )

What rhymed with 'delicious'?

There was an audience of ten tonight, but only two of them were truly paying attention. He did hate evenings like this. Continuing to play when they were all drunk, gambling in pairs or whispering about sweet nothings and all their variations - it was not the sort of thing that Koe wanted or thought of as the most receptive group for his music. Then again, they at least did not notice when the lyrics did not rhyme. Some folk thought that lyrics should rhyme, or were meant to rhyme. You could sing whatever you felt as long as it was melodic. And even the definition of 'melodic' could change from time to time. Or if you were feeling truly flexible, you could create something anti-melodic. He did not think one of his white noise recitals would be welcome here. Then again, they were never truly welcome, so much as they were simply endured.

( He needed an escape route. )

His ears were ringing even still.

Not normally one for indulging in alcohol had its benefits. He was free to avoid the red-faced mockery that pursued such souls inside the walls of the Castel. But perhaps most of all he was free from the possibility of losing control. That ache behind his eyes which would not abate, no matter how he pinched his nose. This sore jaw which was purpling with each passing moment. Insistent hands were pressing into the side of his face. Trying to smear away blood, find the source of the wound. Eragos was seated on an overturned crate, boots pulled high and trousers stuffed into the tops of his boots. Not his uniform. Plain tan trousers, a short coat that ended just above his belt, and a high collar that currently rested against the back of his neck. Should have been blood on it. He touched the fabric with bare hands.

( Blood. )

It was precisely as Koe thought it would be.

The hardest parts of the journey had been the bodies. Souls that deserved rest, and proper burial, dragged behind a pair of horses who were anything but pack animals. Horon's had been the more difficult - and yet they managed to bring him back to Red, armor and all. Horon had never discussed with Koe a preference. That he be buried, or burned, or even receive a water burial. Nothing at all to suggest that he wanted or needed anything after his death. Yet it would have been a cruel sensibility, leaving him in that cavern to rot away along with the creature who had ruined so much of his life. Wrapped in a shroud, with nothing adorning his body save those scales of which he'd been so proud. The sled they'd rigged, out of camp supplies Horon had insisted upon bringing, was holding up well enough.

( Then there was the son. )

Every jagged tooth of the increasingly narrow cavern was a reminder. Koe did not feel he needed those reminders, but they were there all the same, pushing and testing his will. The idea of transforming into a dragon in this cave system was entirely out of the question. Even so small as he was, he would either collapse the delicate network of caves or he would impale himself on the stalactite he did not see. Either would do to end his journey in this world. Magic was a strong thing, and if there were no dragons down here - entirely likely - then there would be no need to transform himself into one. At least, he hoped there would be no need. If there was a need, he would probably find himself dying on gray rock for a vampire's oddly personal battle.

( Well, there were worse reasons to die. )

Nothing about the massive cavern could be called welcoming. Stalactites and stalagmites rowed the mouth of the thing, aptly appearing as teeth might. Koe was amused by the thought. He did not suggest that they search for eyes. There were undoubtedly openings which could be classified as eyes, and that might take this entire experience to a level that no one at all was comfortable with. Certainly none of them - himself, Iluq or Horon - wanted to imagine the mouth of this cave as an actual mouth which some demonic presence would use to devour them. Koe did not believe for a moment that he would in honesty receive an answer to any of the questions he had for Horon. There were some things he did not care about, of course, but there were other things he had to have answered as soon as possible.

( There was not enough time for rest. )

These were the things he was never prepared for.

All that morning spent fussing over which coat to wear, which cape accented it perfectly. In the end he'd worn black trousers, stuffed into the tops of tall black boots. The coat was wool, of a fine cut, high collar brushing his jaw. There were too-large gold buttons adorning the front of the green monstrosity - and as a point of deference to the king he'd allowed the five white slashes of his rank to be sewn onto his exposed right sleeve, from cuff to elbow. A mirror of the slashes enlarged rested on the left side of this fine and well-tailored coat. A green cape was pinned to the left shoulder, front and back, sweeping down and covering his left side entirely. It also covered the ornate hilt of that fine sword his father had left for him. Today the sword felt heavier than he could ever remember it being. Perhaps there were great deeds left to sing of in this world, but he could not recall any of them in that instant.

( This was a day of celebration. )

The grass of the cherry orchards were soft in early summer, but never full of mud. How was the ground so perfect here and so uneven in other places? Was it magic, or simply good landscaping? Her feet felt comforted as she walked around Bahamut's stone temple and into the neat rows of trees whose branches were a mix of brilliant green and soft white. Her pack was slung across her shoulder as she tilted her head up to the sky -- so far blue ruled the heavens, meaning she wouldn't have to perform the first day of her duties here in miserable weather. Vera smiled slightly and pushed back her hood. The white uniform was enough. She wasn't going to be in full formal attire only to be mocked by the large creature lazing amidst the trees.

Captain Agrippa assigned her to guard the dragon only for a few turns of the sun. The bruise on her cheek was the only remnant of the fight that sent her here, outside all of trouble Trone's Merchant Guild was causing the Captain as she walked around in the sun. Vera entered the opening in the trees with a sigh and let her shoulder strap slip down the crook of her arm, into her hand. There was another white uniform there with her. Vera put her free hand over her brow to shade her eyes and realized she recognized the dark hair of the woman. It was the girl Eragos trained, Eithne. And she was producing puffs of smoke that might have been used to signal armies, ( had only they been in a time of war... )

It was a tired hand that seized the knot, but somehow he managed to hoist himself out of the passageway and into the tunnel. Since the incident on the river not a single soul had troubled them. Ilúvatar did not know whether to be troubled or pleased by that fact. Certainly it was cause for concern. And certainly he did not need to mention that fact to anyone else. From heel to hairline they were all a tangle of nerves and apprehension. Even the normally calm Eibhear was scowling at everything that moved in his direction. One thing to hope you would make it out of something such as this alive - another entirely to be on the verge of doing it, and suspecting that whatever quiet you feel and see is nothing more than a trap. They were all weary of suspecting it, even now when the air was the cleanest it had been in ... a long time. Strange to think a Dwarven mine's putrid mix of coal and sweat, blood and copper, would somehow be the most pleasant thing one had smelled in days.

( He didn't trust it. )

A blackened, ruined tangle such as this one had never been more bleak than it was when his arms began to protest. When his heart suggested that it would, at last, surrender. When every fiber of his being made its case for death. Ilúvatar was not a creature of darkness and surrender, but for a moment it was tempting. Then Nindë injured herself. A simple thing, that any untrained girl might do. Despite the angry intensity with which Fenrir berated her Ilúvatar was quiet, and so was she. She hugged her arms around his neck. She breathed against his hair. But she was silent, and still, as he carried her. Perhaps not believing that a twisted ankle might have doomed her to death - or worse - if not for the soldiers who had come to retrieve her. Or perhaps not believing that any of this was possible simply because she had kissed a king on his cheek.

( It was more than possible. )

Every tavern was exactly the same. Sure, some of the torches were fixed to the wall with brass instead of iron. Some of then were hanging from the ceiling by rusted chains, swaying every time the door opened. Every time someone had a good roll and pounded his fist on the wall in celebration. Every time a fight broke out. Skandra wasn't alarmed by any of these things, but tonight burning liquor passed his lips with a quick flick of his wrist. The pleasure of the moment wore an ugly face tonight. It was not whispering in his ear but glaring in his direction. Angry at him for what he'd done perhaps, or what he meant to do.

( Impossible to tell. )

Strange to see the place without a change at all. Eragos had been expecting more soldiers in the wind, more pikes, more of a show of force. There were no soldiers in sight, which counted technically as a change, except the same lanterns were swinging from the same wagons to light the area outside of them. There were twenty or so men gathered, but none of them were soldiers. And they were arguing. Loudly. It was impossible not to hear them upon approaching the wagons, and while Vargis was still at his side Eragos caught the man's shoulder. Something about this situation was wrong, wrong in the way that their escape from here alone did not explain. Where were all the mercenaries? A thought on that matter was beginning to resolve itself in his mind.

( Not a thought he wanted to entertain for long. )

The weight of her headpiece -- garnet strung together with amber and other stones she could not name -- forced Vera to tilt her neck more than usual. Muscles along her shoulders were stiff, which in turn made her sit straighter. Her posture was almost always lousy when she was alone and she missed the opportunity to slouch when no one was there to judge her. The Hunter's Moon shone through the carriage window and the light seemed far away, even though the moon was so large. She wished she could pull the glass from its panes and feel the wind rushing past. Riding by horse just north of the Black Deer Plains was always an exhilarating feeling. Even when out on a task, it could make a Rider feel free. The wheels of the carriage were spinning fast now. Vera could almost feel the strain on the axles below. There was no helping the pace. They needed to make good time to get back to the Free Cities, to switch out the Riders guarding her for soldiers from Lord Faxril's company. If anyone knew she broke the terms of her agreement with the Beiten-K‘danav, Vera would be confined to the country as punishment. Her fingers moved restlessly against the silk of her dress, her calluses catching along invisible snags.

( Eistocene and Trone rarely quarrelled... )

Eithne shut the door behind her as quietly as she could muster and started off down the corridor. She was in her uniform once again, although her arm was still in the blue sling from the day before. Healers could do enough, but when it was a strain it was pointless and a 'waste of talent' to have them heal that. Besides, even with a team of a thousand healers she was pretty sure she'd still feel as kicked around as she did right now. It wasn't so much her meeting with the Captain that had her feeling so black inside, and anyone who knew the real story knew exactly why she felt the way she did. Cols, Martine, and Geoff weren't tailing after her for once, which meant they were probably back on this duty or that duty. She hoped it was hoeing the yard, or fetching water from outside of Simanel without a horse and bringing it back into the City.

That would have been amusing on any other day. It was a bit amusing, but she doubted Agrippa would give them the same punishment he'd given her. Of course, that was probably because she'd just spent the last hour retelling everything she knew, and how none of them were responsible for what happened, or how it happened, or anything. Eithne had taken every bit of blame, of course it was up to Agrippa whether or not he'd be punishing the others... but she'd said what she felt she needed to. It hadn't been their fault. She had forced each and every one of them to go. With blackmail.. and worse.. She'd purposely begged Eragos to go along. She'd used to friendship with him to gain ground. She'd even.. well.

It was easier to paint herself a horrible person right now. Easier to say she was using them all the entire time then to think she was as emotionally unbalanced as she had been, as she was now. It felt like there was a great gaping hole where her heart used to be, and a month tending to every one's least favorite thing to guard wasn't going to brighten her up. No, she was pretty sure she'd end up slitting her own throat in the end.

( Black and getting blacker. )

Skandra's glove nearly slipped - for at least the fiftieth time - and he cursed the day he'd ever come to Faustben looking for a good time. Ithacles was the sort of prince to never let you forget a damned thing you did, good or bad. Maybe after this he'd try to pin something on Skandra's coat. How willing Skandra was to let the pinning commence would be directly related to how much such a fanciful brooch could be sold for. Nobody had a use for hero's marks, especially the people who wore them with pride, but Skandra did have a use for all the ale he could consume and a hero's welcome. Maybe he'd even drink for free one or two nights. More than that might make it seem like he was doing something untoward. Touchy about their honor, these soldiers. How many of them would escape punishment for what they'd done?

( It remained to be seen, this idea of what they'd done. )

There were some docks that could be unnerving. These were some of those, sturdy wood planks partially submerged in water. One could not see the legs of the thing, though the pier was well-grounded by well-intentioned men. One central platform, wide enough for six men to walk shoulder to shoulder. The smaller docks for each particular boat. The dockmaster's cabin was more of a shack, not nearly so well-constructed as the docks themselves, but that was hardly a concern. There was new coin coming to these docks. New business bringing life to what had once been nothing but a smuggler's stopping-over. There were armored men on the pier, for one. Sure, it was nothing but a leather cuirass, but it counted as armor all the same. Important men in well-woven coats with high collars. Human men, or so they appeared. Mist was rolling in from the mountains, plunging down the face of it like an unstoppable force.

( It was a perfect day for sneaking. )

How must a Drow feel when they looked upon such a thing? The incautious spectacle of it was like nothing he'd ever seen before. Works before Lorien, white towers and grand public structures, were always built with... more restraint. This looked as though it should have been a tower, cylindrical in nature and massive as Ceranarad itself - but it was lying on its side, posed there as though some great hand had toppled it to the ground intact. What was the point of building a structure so massive and stretched when you had no use for it? One could approach the side, actually touch the black stone, and through his gloves it felt like nothing else he'd ever seen or felt in his life. It felt like madness and death. Strange to think that a week gone, he was supervising additions of stone to his own home. More than a week now, wasn't it? Without the sun judging the passage of time was not as easy as it had been.

( To be this close. )