ofelia zhou deals in secrets. (consultancy) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-24 21:35:00 |
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It was bright out despite the late afternoon hour, and the cold was sharp as the pealing of a silver bell. The corridors of Hellwyrm Hall were clearing out in advance of supper, but straggling squires and pages still drifted in and out of training rooms with equipment and other flotsam on behalf of fighters further up the ladder than they, looking wistful at the scents of mulled wine, greens, and roasting pig in the air. Fires were being lit in every hearth in the venerable old building, and fog was gathering at the iron seams of the grand mullioned windows, the chill outside pressed up against every intersection of munton and glass like a wintry ghoul. It wasn’t a bad place to haunt, all things considered. Heron’s day hadn’t quite concluded, if one counted the private sessions he had booked after dinner, but his final class had dispersed and his greatest exertions were through. He was exiting the showers adjoining the dojos, though the only signs of what he’d been up to were in his roughly towel-dried hair and (only vaguely) more casual dress. A thin silver chain was just visible at his neck before it disappeared into his linen shirt. Chain mail wasn’t his standard uniform, these days, and he’d abdicated the room and offices associated with the Feldwebel, but even in civilian clothes and a cane Heron still carried himself like a general, and his shadow was long. Drills and exercises for the next day were assembling themselves in his head when his train of thought was derailed by a figure at the end of the hall, silhouetted by a bank of windows, glancing casually down a few of Hellwyrm’s labyrinthine passageways. Familiarity prickled like pins and needles in a sleepy limb. “Looking for someone?” For a moment, she didn’t stir, as if not realising that she was being addressed. When Ofelia eventually turned to note the speaker – his voice still didn’t quite ping on her radar, for all that oratory attuned her to ebb and flow and inflection – then the recognition dawned. Ofelia gestured to herself theatrically, mouth opening in a silent Who, me? Her visits to each of the guildhalls, although brief, had been enough to realise they each possessed their own distinctive character and flavour. From the matter-of-fact and no-frills Shieldwyrm to the overly-ornate Ashwyrm (reflecting the nobles who had to pass it every day), to the sleek lines of Bahamut Hall, which were cut in a fashion far newer than the rest. Hellwyrm, on the other hand, had an air of sombreness to it: indisputably old and pretty, but with less filigree, more majesty. Regal but serious—much like the the man in front of her, in fact. (And all of the halls were so very different from the thieves’ safehouses, which existed to not be seen.) “I’m lost,” Ofelia said plainly, fessing up to this inadequacy as if she were introducing herself all over again. “But then I found myself admiring the architecture and, well, it didn’t seem like such a trial to wander about. So long as no one came along to throw me out on my tail. Is that you, then?” Her gaze flicked across the holy knight, a small smile lurking. She hadn’t put any thought into it, but it was no surprise that this was his territory. It was a different voice he was using just then, a far cry from the foreign tones they’d exchanged in the synergist’s office. It was the sort that echoed deep and generous down stone hallways and across wild terrain. It had been his voice for decades now, developed in and for the field, and it was little changed--despite now being dispatched with similar effectiveness in silencing rooms of students young and old. This, then, was perhaps more of a second introduction than either of them realized. Ofelia herself was instantly identified by her voice, nearly a whole conversation pattering nimbly down the hall before her like a brook babbling over smooth river stones. Heron continued up the corridor while she spoke, and her features faded into relief. Huge lozenges of light from the sectioned windows crawled across his body as he approached. “Afraid my bouncing days are behind me,” he said, coming to a stop, a similar hint of amusement tugging up the edge of his mouth. “But I might be able to point you in the right direction…?” It was a prompt, but sideways. This time she unpacked the sound of his voice, noting and filing away the intonations that marked Heron Shaw apart from the rest. After today, she’d remember the rise and fall of his words, etched the deep burr and flat vowels and local Valendian accent into her orator’s memory. There was no longer the wincing vulnerability of the doctor’s waiting room. Now he looked taller and broader, an encroaching statue that grew as he approached until he loomed over her. Ofelia tilted her head back, looking up at the knight like an inquisitive bird, her arms folded across her chest. “Were you really a bouncer once?” The usual curiosity nudged at Ofelia like a tide, an inexorable tug in the conversation. “And that would be lovely, actually. I was just meeting someone. You could escort me out.” He snorted. “Path might have been winding, but it didn’t wind that way.” Her eyes looked even darker with the fading sun behind her, limning her hair like an odd halo. “Meeting all through? Don’t suppose I know the person, do you?” Jerking his head a few degrees in the direction he’d come as instruction, Heron started back down the corridor, apparently assenting to her suggestion. He paused long enough for her to fall in step alongside, brow quirked over a cornflower eye. Ofelia fell in obediently, trailing along in his wake as Heron led the way. She seemed to be mulling over the question, weighing whether or not to respond. “Confidential,” she finally said. “Client business. Nothing very exciting, however.” “Hard to imagine something marked confidential is completely mundane,” he said as they turned the corner and surprised a pair of squires whispering in the hall. The youngsters (and they looked younger every year) all but jumped, and met the older Knight’s eye fleetingly before scattering to the winds--or to dinner. There was amusement in Heron’s voice, but the idea of secret meetings (or just secret persons) in this building he didn’t have an inkling about still put him off-balance. But after a pause, he let it be. More or less. “First time in Hellwyrm?” “Yes.” This time she could tell the truth, her interest perking up and glimmering like light behind the clouds. “I don’t have much occasion to go to the fighters’ guildhalls, but I think this might already be my favourite—it’s lovely. I mean, bards have the theatre, their rehearsal spaces, but it isn’t quite the same if you’re not a stage person. Or a machinist. Research labs aren’t quite my thing, either. How about you? How long have you been a holy knight?” The question was a punctuation to her easy chatter; for all that she guarded her own secrets jealously, Ofelia gladly nosed into others’ lives. She kept looking around as they walked, taking in the heavy stone and arched doorways, the smell of old parchment and scrolls—something she associated more with the Tower, but presumably Hellwyrm saw its share of priests as well. One could occasionally hear the sound of sparring echoing down a hallway as they passed, wood cracking on wood. It was a foreign landscape, alien in its unfamiliarity and austerity. “A long time,” he said. Heron had been inducted as a Blade hardly a stone’s throw from where they walked, two figures with lengthening shadows down a main artery of the central Guild. He almost said it as he realized it: the better part of two decades. Two decades learning, teaching, fighting--and killing, he supposed. And that didn’t bother taking into account the years before he’d been knighted. “Seem to find your way around. Truly that many clients with confidential business?” “Possibly you’d be surprised. There’s a lot of people in Emillion with a lot of troubles, many with unanswered questions. Loose ends. Mostly, I try to bring them answers and closure.” Ofelia’s cases represented an interesting slice of life. For every cut-and-dried case of marital infidelity, a thorough disappointment in the nature of mankind, there was another joyous familial reunion to swell her heart. Or, in this more recent case, a wilful child being yanked back to the continent, Emmeline Vaughan’s leash tightening. “Say this for my job, it does mean meeting people in all walks of life,” she said. “Though you’re a bit of an exception. I don’t know very many men of the church.” (Seedy gamblers and criminals, on the other hand…) Man of the church. The description snagged in the careful fabric of his thoughts like something burred, nudging at lacerations he was always finding ways to avoid. Heron caught himself staring while he held open yet another carved wooden door, this one with a lattice of stained glass decorating the arrowhead of the pointed archway. “Angel of Enlightenment, then,” he said. “For a fee. More than I can say, probably, churchly or no.” Ofelia’s black hair glinted blue as she moved past. “Though we’re not priests. Sure you realize.” A joke hovered on the edge of her tongue, but she refrained. “Surely. But you do consider yourself connected to the church, yes?” It was a joke he’d learned to look for, and something almost impish was mirrored in his eyes for an instant. Her smile remained enigmatic, a shuttered window. “Of course. Literally in the job description.” Not for the first time, he considered mentioning the elite group of which he was still technically a part. His answer wasn’t the one he’d have given twenty years ago, or even ten, but he was getting weary of relying on technicalities and membership cards. Before she had a chance to reply, Heron circled back. “And I’d bet you could surprise me, at that.” “Rather in my own job description—surprises, that is. I try my best.” The windows cast a dappling effect across him as they walked, shadow and light rippling across the knight until they finally pushed aside yet another door and emerged into daylight proper; the open square was crowded with carts and pilgrims, deliveries of wood and ale and food supplies. Ofelia made a thoughtful little noise as the mental pieces fit together, the labyrinthine building wrapping back around. She then turned to look up at Heron, with a little dip of the head in gratitude. “Are they.” Rhetorical skepticism had become one of Heron’s trademarks, a byproduct of a few too many years directing troops and shoring up trainings, but here there was still amusement written across his face. It hadn’t taken a stroll with Ms. Zhou through his proverbial stomping grounds to tell him she wouldn’t crack open for the likes of him, but it’d certainly clarified the matter. “Next time I’ll bring a map. Thank you for the guidance.” Out here in the sunshine, she had the extra space to cast him a second glance (and then a third). It was a pleasant surprise, a face Fee hadn’t expected to see again unless in the same waiting room. He met her intermittent looks with a steady scrutiny, blue eyes narrowed against the cold, sinking sun. Silver in his hair and in the fine chain at his neck caught the light as he finally nodded and turned back to the door. “Next time.” Not quite a promise, but close enough. |