To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Exotic Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Somnifera on 31-12-2015, 08:03:00</h2>
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				Title: <strong>To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>31-12-2015, 08:03:00</strong>
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				<div align="center"><em>I shall wear honor as I wear my armor,<br>proudly and untarnished by filth.<br><br>I shall speak not what should not be spoken, do not what should not be done, hear not what should not be heard, and suffer not what should not be suffered in His Imperial Majesty's land.<br><br>When I take up my sword, I do so for honor.<br><br>This is my oath.</em></div><br>Frizya, astride her black horse, looked down at the brand on the back of her hand. A lightning bolt broken by a sword in waxy relief against her slate-colored skin, burned in place years ago on some solemn night. Any who saw the mounted officer near the cobbled crossroads would have assumed she was keeping the peace and observing the goings on. They wouldn't be wrong. They would simply have only half of the truth. She rubbed her bare knuckles on the edge of her opposite vambrace. They itched as they healed, though the marks had faded into elderberry-hued blotches. With a dour glance over her shoulder, she replaced her glove and moved on down the road, the hood of her double-breasted coat leaving her golden irises startlingly bright against their black sclera...whenever they were actually visible. For the most part, her eyes were at the back of her horse's head. Ah, no, no, that wasn't quite the case. She kept her brow tucked, but was often cutting sidelong glances through a lock of her jet hair.<br><br>Earlier in the day a Keeper had arrested a man two streets from the meat market, and word was still going 'round of the scene. It was certainly not the talk of the town, though it would linger over tables in public houses, homes and boileries at least until the end of the week. It was not the first time someone had been seized, and though it was not overly common, it was certainly not the last. They were quick things, these arrests, for very rarely did anyone resist to any great extent. The guilty knew what they had done, and generally by the time the Keepers had been given word to capture someone, that unfortunate soul already knew that soon, one of the hooded would be coming for them. None of the commonfolk would even bother to query about for what they had done. You either knew and kept your mouth shut, turned someone in for their crime, or avoided raising a fuss so you didn't end up snatched for conspiring against order.<br><br>Somewhere, someone knew good and well that Ari Coq had been arrested for breeding chaos in the name of what had happened to his friend Oian the day before. Frizya thought back to the sound his head had made against the brick wall,and&nbsp; felt a muted sense of satisfaction.<br><br>Oian was a thief, a thief who bothered to resist being brought in for his crimes, and he had a cracked jaw to show for his 'bravery'. Luckily, all of the food served for prisoners in the bast' was mush. <br><br><hr><em><br>"Officer LaFont;"</em> greeted a voice she had heard but never rightly named. "Mm." The response was as noncommittal as it could possibly have been. Her heavy bootfalls brought her into the victuallor's with a smooth, rolling step many could now recognize from afar, even when Frizya's face was hooded and her body cloaked. It was not a swagger, not in the least. It was something less lively yet twice as likely to carry its weight into the swing of a fist.&nbsp; Tight, inky breeches hugged girthy legs and disappeared into clean yet well-worn boots. The leather was dull where it wrinkled, though the strap over the instep sported a polished brass button. A broadsword hung from sturdy hips, the pommel bearing the Order of The Oath's cutbolt insignia, and a double breasted cloak hugged a frame that not so subtly hinted at the strength beneath. The black and royal blue silhouette trailed down to her thighs at the cloak's free edge and righted itself very surely about the shoulders by way of two modest leather pauldrons. A gauntleted grip worried idly at her unworn glove as she paused before the man at the podium and asked indirectly, "Who's new in here, these days?" with a low, rich voice that was at once warm in timbre but frigid in tone. The question cocked one thick ebon brow above downcast eyes but little more could be found in the way of expression as she slowly tucked that glove into her coat pocket and withdrew- then unfolded- a diminutive pair of smoked spectacles to place on the bridge of her aquiline nose. She drew her cowl back and down from her face with armed knuckles as she scanned the lower dining room, her lenses flashing white with reflected torchlight. Once a week, one Keeper or other would stop by the public houses in their area and inquire after new faces. Travelers, traders, new neighbors...highwaymen, swindlers and thieves.<br><br>It was also a message to <em>old</em> faces that order would always be kept, and cutbolts were always around.<br><br>Was a right nice thing to do, to remind them they were safe, no?<br><br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>02-01-2016, 03:39:36</strong>
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				Order. Now there was a funny word and Jameson knew it. The man's jaw moved as he adjusted his lips' grip on the half-smoked roll of aged and seasoned tabacco that he favoured. The mercenary was well known and though he wasn't exactly well regarded in a great number of public circles, the ones festering just beneath society's fetid surface seemed to think him a particularly well meaning sort. Battle wasn't exactly the most glorious line of work, but it wasn't ever lacking when 'order' was the aristocracy's most pride-held ideal. On some level Jameson even respected the Keepers for doing what they did, though he wouldn't ever stop thinking that they were somewhat foolish about it.. To put oneself through such rigors as their training demanded and upholding their ethical and moral codes so as to harden themselves to the temptations and such of the world and to do it on what amounted to a pittance of recompense? Blue-grey smoke curled up into the air as the man exhaled a sigh; the very idea of working so hard for so little chafed at him more than riding bareback without pants.<br><br>Of course no-one questioned the Keepers or their authority, to do so was to quickly find oneself in one of their lovely cells, stripped of rank and title as surely as clothing and left to the tender mercies of the mush-man or whatever they called the poor chump who slopped their gruel into simple cups each day. Jameson didn't much care for the kind of order that required above-the-law peacekeepers but.. this was where the money was. Combat wasn't a pretty business, though the stories penned and told often wove enough of a differing tale that they would attract all manner of bright eyed youth to the profession. It wasn't until you were up close with a knife or sword, close enough that when you sliced the meat you wore the stuff that came out, felt the hurt shuddering down the blade until it matched the racing of your heart. You could cut seven shades from a man with nothing more than a good edge. Blood in a crimson tide or rich dark blossom, bile like the first spring grasses, shit and worse from a gut wound in hues from the stippled brown of an oak's bark to the dusty near-tan of a washed out riverbank. Seven shades combining into endless ways to die, all from a single edge held by a frightened youth.<br><br>"Hmph, didn't figure yerself for a philosopher," Jameson grunted and rolled his stogie to the other side of his mouth, peering up into the sky and squinting to keep from getting too many of the insipid drops of rain pissing from the sky in them, "Almost time to check in and see what's cookin'." he wasn't too far from the entrance to the little establishment he frequented when he was in the town and, pushing away from the wall the man soon found himself entering into the low din of the diningroom. His flinty eyes scanned the room for familiar faces even as he shook out the fur of his old wolfskin cloak, droplets of water spraying around a bit much to the chagrin of those nearby. More than one thought to say something about it until they caught sight of the raised brow over eyes like a summer storm, grey and actively perusing everything and everyone. Thinking better of it, they grumbled their way back into their cups. <br><br><em>'Just as well.'</em> he thought quietly, shoving past one man and brushing near a serving woman and muttering a request for an ale before settling at a table with a few others who were playing cards. The older man brushed his fingers back through his short-cropped chestnut-coloured hair, a bit grey at the temples but otherwise still quite hale, "Deal me in wouldja? What's the stake?" The man's movements were more precise than what his outfit might have let on, his legs thick through the thigh from a profession made fencing and riding. His thick belt hugged his wide middle, less the gut of a man who didn't put in his day's work and more the one that came from working in such a way that one's whole body felt it the next day. The short sleeves of his tunic gave way to mail sleeves that obscured the flesh beneath, though from how the metal held to his limbs they were clearly powerful.<br><br>The people he was with murmured answers and he nodded, tugging his buckskin gloves off and tucking them behind his broad and studded belt before picking up his hand. He paused midplay when the woman brought his ale, tipping her a pair of copper bits and settling into the card game. That there were people above watching the room hadn't gone unnoticed to the man, who's greenish tunic was stained in some placed with dirt and grease and in others with grease or worse. Clearly clothing that was lived and worked in, though the nature of his work was quite apparant from the look of the simple hand-and-a-half sword at his back, the crudely forged crossguard and hilt poking up through a tailored slit in the wolf's fur. "Heh, looks like I'm out this hand fellas." he slid some coins out of his pouch and onto the table, "Deal me the next though, you aren't half bad." he knocked ashes from his cigar onto the floor and returned it to his mouth, his lips curling in a confident little smirk.
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				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>02-01-2016, 21:03:29</strong>
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				<em>"Few lads and their captain from a fishing town upriver and a priest is all, Your Equity. Haven't seen the priest much, but a few of the visitors are in."</em> Frizya peered out over the lower floor's tables and stools, some empty, some sparsely filled, some chock full of leaning heads, half-gnoshed bowls of stew and worn, expressive hands. Her eyes were dark behind smoky glass that often caught the torchlight hanging from above. She moved on into the establishment, dropping another short hum of acknowledgement in her wake as she did. Her presence seemed to bring a black cloud from the wet skies without to the tavern; in much the same way as it was ominous, it was also a natural occurrence and as such there seemed to be an air of displeasure in those around her that was muted and tolerable. No one wanted her to be there, they hoped that her presence wouldn't turn into much more, but they also knew that she'd blow past in time and that would be the end of it.<br><br>Places like this were specifically erected as domestic constants to be a place of gossip. Good gossip, bad gossip, it was all gossip. Who was still gone from that short trip downriver and never returned, how many notes Tom owed Jessup, the marital troubles of the couple that ran the boilery. These were the matters that were integral to the lives of the common folk here, and Frizya found them vapid. Checking on the public houses was inarguably the most intolerable part of her duties, because more often than not their windows were closed up, the air was still and filled with the multiplicitous odors of people who did not all agree that coinage lost on a good quality of fine soap was money well spent. They gulped away too much of that rye swill, wiped their noses with their damned <em>hands</em> and were never, ever on time.<br><br>She didn't hate them, though; she simply hated sharing space with them. These people were part of the balance, of a great machine that perhaps was rusted in parts but efficient and functional nonetheless. Each of them a tooth in a cog, each cog a social layer, all grinding and coiling and tick tick ticking. Someone had to wind it up. Someone had to make repairs. Someone had to fix the pieces that stopped working right.<br><br>And someone had to keep a vigilant eye pinned on all these insignificant little pieces to make sure that none of them were conspiring to turn the whole thing 'round. That's where The Order of The Oath came in. Small matters were not their concern- the municipal law handled those inescapable squabbles, thefts and violences. The cutbolts dealt squarely with the contemptible virulence that was organized rebellion and social ill. The reason few openly contested arrests because it was not wise to side with conspirators, and it was well understood by even the thickest of the lot that what Keepers swooped in on were matters of a particularly complex and circumspect nature. They handled corruption. And who could be trusted to hunt down such criminals if not those raised and sworn to resist base desires? No anarchy, riches, or narcotic could seduce them into mutiny. The Keepers were a viciously modest order who took no wine, kept no families, and succumbed to no lusts. Not a cutbolt alive had ever been seen particularly angry, sad, or happy, and at most they expressed the emotions of 'mild amusement', 'irritation', and 'intense rumination'.&nbsp; They lived a modest life on the stipends they were given, and though it was more than the average shopkeep could be said to earn, it wasn't common to see them looking particularly <em>wealthy,</em> though there were rumors. Keepers were not paid to be morally superior, chaste bastions of ideal personage….because those things should have been the default, and one shouldn’t rightfully be rewarded for doing what naturally should be the least expected of them. The world certainly lacked in temptation. It was simply chock full of <strong>vice.</strong><br><br><em>"Mag, you pint cheat!"</em> Boomed a laughing voice, <em>"aahh, lucky git."</em> The man across from Jameson, the proud owner of ale-jowls so early in his years, wagged a ruddy finger at his mate as he watched him rake his winnings in across the pockmarked, waxy tabletop. He clambered from the table at the end of the round with the intense focus of a man who had had too much to drink for the time of the clock but refused to be 'drunk' quite yet and resolved to overcome it by sheer force of will alone. Now all of this foolish concentration was likely why he didn't realize that the dark figure he was about to back into was wearing a cutbolt's uniform, or why he didn't notice her approach at all.<br><br>He stumbled into her, rocked on a twisted ankle, and groped reflexively for the table's edge, now too far away. With a grunt she let her shoulder roll back with the flounder and immediately swung that arm along with her next surging stride, catching the man around the chest and scooping him back and against the wall behind the table where she pinned him with an armored palm against the wood. She loomed close. He stank. She sighed through her nose.<br><br>"Fellows. What time is it?"<br><br>She turned her head somewhat, but didn't quite look back at the gambling group.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>05-01-2016, 02:38:42</strong>
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				The mercenary loved the people, loved the throngs of country folk lining up for fairs and chatting amongst themselves, the homeogenesis of life existing despite all odds in lands like this where the rich and powerful would do their best to grind them down. It was early yet to be drinking but the man knew better than to drink village water that he wasn't sure had been boiled, so he'd ordered an ale and was taking liberal sips of the bitter, herbal local brew with an appreciation that came not only from years drinking worse but from living through times so lean that all you had to lean on some days was a hot cup of your own piss. <br><br>Of course for him there were places he couldn't go without being recognized, which admittedly was more than a bit of a hassle. He had a fair number of jobs under his belt if the scars on his forearms and hands were anything to go by, though the ones you couldn't see would likely tell a better tale. Still, he was enjoying himself and enjoying the cards fate was dealing him (fate in this case being one Herman of Trast) because with each victorious hand he knew he could afford another ale without ever dipping into his personal funds. <br><br>During a particularly good hand though came the rather intensely disliked downside to being in any town with a population that numbered more than 'warts on the Pope's ass'. He didn't bother turning to look but it was a simple thing to deduce. Conversations dying out, people suddenly becoming shy and studying the inside of their drinks rather intently, the general hum of the room dying down even as one heroically drunk individual stumbled toward certain trouble. The man he'd been beating by just a bit since he sat down, losing half as many coins as he took in stood and made a break for the other side of the room. If the stumbling gait of a man too far in his cups to be relied upon to pin an arrowhead to the shaft could be considered a 'break' anyway. Jameson sighed and downed the frothy remains of his drink and wiped his mouth on the back on his hand, pushing himself to his feet even as the cutbolt made her move to catch the drunkard and press him up into the wall.<br><br>Her voice grated out, that curious mix of interest and irritation common to those of her Order even as she turned to indicate that she was speaking to the room. Naught save the crackle of the hearthfire and the occasional cough or hiccup answered the woman, though Jameson approached warily if casually. "Time? Hard to say for sure given that this little place ain't even fit for an Order chapel with a bell to tell 'em when to bow and when t'scrape.. but," he paused to roll his tongue along his mouth, tugging his cigar away for a moment and spitting into the fire. Jameson's phlegm sizzled and popped in the flames and he replaced the cigar between his lips, taking a long pull that lit the end a furious cherry red for just a moment, "If I had t'take a guess at it Ms.Cutbolt I'd say it'd be right 'round time you let the poor bastard go."<br><br>His voice wasn't threatening, neither was his posture. In fact to look at the muscular, thick-bodied man in his wolf's fur cloak and forest-grime-and-mail getup, mud on his boots and bits of leaf still stuck to the trailing end of the fur, Jameson seemed all the more like a simple woodsman. The bastard sword on his back gave him away though, as did the ivory pins lanced through his baldric, marking him as a mercenary of some repute. To his lot, those pins were like medals, each representing a contract in which he'd killed something or someone of merit. On close inspection of Jameson's, there would be stylized avatars of each kill carved into the broad head of each pin; humans, great beasts and something gruesomely tusked with claws to match. For all that he appeared mild, his uniform was every bit as telling as the woman's.<br><br>"As it happens I can make your job plenty easy O Lady of the Oath," he smiled lopsidedly, a rakish smirk if ever there was one, one which chillingly never met his cold eyes, "The only sedition to be found hereabouts is with how badly this man plays his cards when he's in his cups. Now, you've taken an entire room of good cheer and doused it with naught but a half score of words. What brings you down so low as to muck about with the likes of us?" his attitude was't exactly deferential as it should be, but neither was he openly making mock of her. It seemed he considered themselves on a level field of sorts, whether she considered that or not.
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				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>05-01-2016, 03:58:29</strong>
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				Nothing reminded a man to study the state of his shoe buckles quite like a Keeper.<br><br>The drunken man against the wall was not so addled that he could overlook the gripping strangeness of LaFont's stare. This close those rings shone through her pince-nez, a xanthous shade against their charcoal backgrounds. He failed, in the gut-gripping anxiety of the moment, to put his finger on what about them was so unusual. After all, she wasn't the only Eternian he'd ever seen. Their features, from short horns to grey skins were not wholly unfamiliar. Of course, they weren't too <em>familiar</em> either, since they seemed a decidedly aloof and elusive race who spoke to and worked for their own...aside from the many who held positions of enforcement in one way or the other.<br><br>The silence that measured the moment was only relative- her minutely pointed ears took in the pitiful <em>lack</em> of an answer amid the pop of flame-cracked logs and that miserable little sniff cowards did when they're trying to pretend that there's nothing going wrong but they're terribly nervous. No answer? Well and so, she slowly began to turn back to the man who was so <em>valiantly</em> keeping a firm grip on his straining bladder...and it was then that Jameson spoke. Only the poor slob at the wall would see the way her thick, arched brow ticked down, but the irritable wince that drew through her decorated shoulders was quite plain as he spit into the fire. Detestable. What was this, now? The perpetual cock come swaggering up to&nbsp; be the momentary hero to all these other swill-faced grubby-knuckled serfs? "How admirable." Her words dropped, heavy, blunt and full of derision into the space between her body and the harried gambler. When she turned, she expected to see some pompous son of a merchant like, all hot headed and brazen from injudicious amounts of spirits, ready to appear valiant in a fight that was never to be so he could get his prick licked later after sharing the tale.<br><br>What she found when she twisted in place was not that. It was worse.<br><br>She made no effort to disguise the faint wrinkle that pulled her mouth into the essence of a sneer. Her mouth, judged by shape alone, could have been sensual-overtly so, even- but it was drawn into an expression that was not so much a frown as it was 'a disdainfully downturned smirk' that reeked simultaneously of having made some very injurious observations about someone and not seeing them as worth telling them to, even if the insult would have been gratifying. With one hand still on the wall, she scanned the contender from his muddy boots to his ragged fur with those arresting eyes. Ah, yes, that was it- <em>her pupils were far, far larger than her expression seemed to call for</em>, interior light and lenses, even, notwithstanding. After all, she was looking over their gleaming rims and down her nose at Jameson anyway if not by height then merely the backwards tip of her head. Her jaw flexed with a quietly agitated clench of her teeth, but she listened <em>patiently</em> because that was the civilized thing to do...even when the speaker was none other than a rogue blade whore.<br><br>But at the end of his first line, she laughed. It was a single, bitter huff that left her sliding her gaze back to her captive. "Down on your knees. Stay there." Her command was quiet, and as the man lowered, she turned on her heels and faced Jameson with a most <em>equitable</em> expression. "My <em>dear</em> fellow, er- cutthroat, as it were...I was asking for the time as defined by a number, but perhaps you had never been taught such. My mistake." Each word was slow, with an oiled, evasive cadence and precise enunciation. Her mien, gone cold, twitched into a joyless approximation of a grin and settled back just as quickly as she began to close the space between them on slow, measured strides. "Now I don't know exactly who you are and I don't think you do either, the way you flap your lips around that kettle-dreg weed you're smoking, but at the very least I'll kindly introduce myself..."<br><br>Closer now, and smelling of ash soap, horse leather, and cinders, Frizya took an avid measure of this crudely decorated man, her eyes flicking from the lines of his face to the handle of his blade. And then they snapped back to his own, her face still slightly turned down. With a nasal huff she then announced, "<em>Officer LaFont,</em> to you. And there's nothing to be gained from trying to guilt me about a lot of drudges losing drunken, banal cheer. You'll get it back soon enough when the ale comes back 'round or someone farts, good fellow. I myself am simply doing what must be done- keeping an eye on those that can hardly keep theirs straight. It's a thankless office but I'm a generous person." She all but hummed the words as a familiar heat came grinding up her spine.<br><br>"Now do be reasonable. Unless you have something to confess it's a bit unwise to keep my attention. Sit down."
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				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>05-01-2016, 04:59:15</strong>
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				"Heh, you'll forgive my impertinence in this matter <em>Officer</em> LaFont, but I do believe that civility must remain the only course as reasonability has fled in the face of your, shall we say 'overwhelmingly majestic aura of justice', as I have heard the odd bard pen it. I must say," he rolled the cigar to the opposite side of his mouth, fiddling it with his tongue in an attempt to find it a more comfortable seat in the corner of his lips, "The ballads and tales do it quite a disservice. Were I a less learned cutthroat I may have left it to my imagination rather than coming over to see if what I had been told is true."<br><br>Jameson clearly either didn't fear her or didn't hold much concern for her station. One of the rare few with naught to hide in the face of the law and yet also nothing to worry about when it came to social standing as he bounced about the countryside too much to really care in the end, he met the Eternian's exotic gaze over her pince-nez with only mild interest. "You will forgive me," he stepped in just a bit closer, closing what little remained of their gap and pitching his voice for a closer, less public display, "I had been taught that the trifling matters of banal cheer and drunken reverie, the lot of us meager and insignificant drudges was beyond your concern and capacity as a Keeper. Could it be instead that what you are telling me is that I have been lied to by the very Order you represent and instead of a stoic and devoted individual with nothing to lose or gain by her tasks save the joy of a job well done is instead a simple bully taking perverse pleasure in lording it up over those she deems beneath her?"<br><br>The mercenary hooked his thumbs in his belt and tilted his head just a bit to the left, just so while meeting her gaze, his roughly stubbled jaw flexing very subtly by way of indicating the little ire he felt in confronting what she had been doing. "Now you will have to forgive me, as I am merely a crude cutthroat baring steel for whomever has the most coin at any given time and <em>certainly</em> not a devoted patriot baring steel for whomever holds the most aristocratic office at the time so perhaps I have the wrong of it but.." Jameson knew he was likely overplaying his hand but something about this Officer LaFont all but dared him to push that envelope, see what he could get away with, "Do the Keepers not have better things to do than wallow through a simple alehouse and mete out justice to the peasantry for the simple act of enjoying themselves?"<br><br>The lowest of chuckles left his throat and that lopsided smirk blossomed into a full on smile, "Or I suppose I could be entirely wrong and you simply wished to join us in our debauchery! Perhaps the church did naught to groom you in the finer matters of such things but worry not, I imagine it is not entirely your fault," Jameson's brows drew down over those arresting eyes, his tone shifting just that bit into what might have been considered threatening, "My kettle-dreg weed and I know it to be nigh on past the eleventh bell, getting on in ways to High Sun at this point but I imagine it is a gentleman's duty to introduce himself so as not to have the lady at a <em>disadvantage</em>. Jameson of Reddeck, the Butcher of Berrin," he sketched a mercenary's bow, one foot forward, right arm out, left making a mock-salute before he straightened, "At your service. If anyone here knows just what sort of wretched scum might interest a Keeper I would wager it would be me. So stop frightening poor Franz before he loses his bowels and let these people get back to their fun, that is if you can understand the concept. I confess, that may be a stretch."<br><br>At that point, the silence was just that side of damning.
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				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>05-01-2016, 06:37:43</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				Those scrutinizing eyes narrowed, and then more than ever her long, thick lashes looked out of place for how lush they were on her tense features, looking thefted from some sweet-eyed cow. Surely they did not belong on this woman, with her small dove-wing shaped horns and jet black hair and flexing jaw. Burnished gold rings drew thin around pit like pupils as the mercenary spoke up, snapping around those abyssal centers and turning them into ink dots if only for a moment as he stepped forward.<br><br>Why did they <em>do</em> this? Uneven little nailheads, begging to be hammered down. She watched with something akin to a quiet astonishment as he postured before her, for it was such an insane and delusional display. As he threw his insults at her feet and pulled up before her, the officer simply stepped forward again, the toe of her boot pressing upon his own and insinuating in that motion what she may have very well wished to do to his head. As he tipped his chin and dropped his voice and feigned a private chat, Frizya drew a deep breath and calmlyy clasped her wrist before her with the air of a parent waiting out a child's fit before they spanked it. "I'm not going to fault you for not comprehending what Keepers do. It does not concern you...you should hope." But as the fur-draped jester <em>continued,</em> something in ominous tranquility shifted, be it mood or one of her various humours. The placidity of her contemptuous detachment cooled into something forcibly still, and she watched him then as if counting...tallying up each word and gesture and keeping count for some as of yet unknown grievous tax. It was hard to say if it would be levied in blood or coin.<br><br><strong>Debauchery?</strong> That heat shot up into her brain like the spouting of a geyser and left that austere face flushing with a choked blue-red. The sheer force of her outrage fair kicked the breath from her chest on an unprepared snort, and against her best nature, the cutbolt checked forward, bumping the man chest to chest before reining herself back in with a long, hissed inhale. "It is," she began, the words ringing authoritatively as her unarmed hand shoved into the diagonal of her lapel and came out with a pocket watch that could have bought a quarter of the room on the slave market. It flicked open with the tap of her thumb, the cover engraved with filigree around the relief of a pegasus. "Eleven-forty, you <em>ragged</em> butcher and thus it is, as is any hour, no time to be spent on such a <em>clown</em> as-" Those sculpted brows twisted with befuddled irritation at his bow and she felt pressure crush up into her jaw and skull as he kept on. <em>Join..?! Interest?!</em> A vein throbbed in her head as she craned her neck slowly and looked toward the front of the building with a calculating glance, sharply aware of the ticking in her hand.<br><br>The silence fell like a pall on the room, just as grim. The Keeper was not 'still'. She was apoplectic.<br><br>And with a sharp inhale Frizya twisted back, gauntleted hand snatching that damn soggy cigar butt from his arrogant mouth before he could fully straighten himself and tossing it with an outright angry swing into the nearer hearth. "You <em>mindless</em> dog. If you have a taste for shackles I can more than oblige you but as it is I have nothing I need to explain to you or anyone else in your mangy little pack." The words heaved, and she punctuated them with a judgmental pluck at the shoulder of his wolf pelt, dislodging tufts of fur she rubbed from her fingers distastefully. "If I could comprehend the sort of knuckle-dragging drudgery you call 'fun' perhaps there'd be more<em> entertainment</em> at hand, but as it is I have important things to do. <strong>Fall back.</strong>" This, as she swelled with a breath and stared down that faintly arched nose, waiting.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>06-01-2016, 17:17:47</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Admittedly," the man spoke through gritted teeth for just a moment as his cigar sputtered and popped in the fire, its aromatic blue-grey smoke only adding to the tarry grey-black of the logs burning away, "What it is the Keepers do exactly does elude me as a whole, but I don't believe that I'm speaking to the Keepers. Just a Keeper, the singular who seems to think her office will shield her in the end from the prospect of reprisal for acting out for..." he scrutinized the woman's eyes even though she was so close to him, ignoring the rest of her tirade for the moment, "Attention?" she was certainly interesting-looking and perhaps that had been a catalyst in the woman's childhood, combined with her gender, to leave her in such humour. Jameson had worked with men like that, eager to prove themselves especially when shielded by things no-one else would stand up to, ultimately becoming just another job to him when someone hired him to take care of the problem. That was never too difficult, though from the way this woman carried herself and the way the Keepers clung to their own, that job would be a difficult one indeed.<br><br>Jameson ultimately chuckled and shrugged off Frizya's anger even as she levied insult past insult at him, watching as the bits of fur she'd plucked from his cloak drifted to the floor. The gulf between them seemed to be endless and all-consuming but for every iota of her anger the mercenary only seemed all the more amused. Those who had heard of him had of course heard of his particular problem with conflict, an inability it would seem to take it seriously as even in the thick of battle his mouth was split in a raggedly manic grin and his laughter could be heard even above the shrieks and terror. "You don't seem to understand that those of us who make our living with our hands and backs just don't have the money or time to be bothered to spend it on intricacies and trinkets such as that." he shrugged noncommitally, the smile still never reaching or warming his eyes, which had the look to them as if he were gazing out from hundreds of miles off.<br><br>"Allow me to spell this out for you, as it would seem that no-one has yet had the chestnuts to call you out on this," as he exhaled, the last of the cigar smoke he'd taken before she'd plucked it from his lips wafted forth, a tangible sort of sigh akin to that of a very disappointed superior, his body language suggesting that he was properly instructive, "Bullying those weaker than you and ducking behind one's name, rank or station is the simple act of someone who is afraid. Perhaps you see in our enjoyment something you have only ever seen from the sidelines and do not quite understand, it could be that insulting the simple pleasures of life gives you some satisfaction, demeaning those who you deem beneath you in order to prop yourself up in you own mind, I couldn't say for sure. I don't know you well enough to guess reliably, but if this attitude you're showing off is who you really are I can't say that I'm missing all that much."<br><br>Jameson raised a brow as he looked at Frizya and shook his head with a mild sigh, "Go on then back to your Order if you have more important things to do. No sense in wasting your time here among those you could not hope to begin to understand."<br><br>The silence wore on once more, but the man turned and barked to the bar, "A round for the house to make up for this shameful display. Deal me another hand, it looks as though this is about through." Jameson seemed somewhat dismissive as he returned his attention to the officer, "Once more, there is nothing illegal about being in one's cups before the noon bell, nor coming close to bumping into a lady with an attitude problem. Go on about your more important business, if you please."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>06-01-2016, 19:22:36</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				He was undermining her.<br><br>At every turn this man, delusional, drunk or just plan stupid, refused to sit down, shut up, and go back to his business. Did he not fear jail? Fists? Anything? There was no healthy respect for consequence anywhere on his person, not on his face nor in his actions or even tucked away in his worn-in clothes. And Frizya absolutely hated that.<br><br>She wasn't quite...wasn't quite listening to him as he kept talking. Oh, she was- she was aware of every confident quip and counterpoint, and all of it was leaving her head boiling like a kettle. Keepers were not supposed to get angry. They were not to lose their tempers. What was so shameful as a loss of one's own control? Control. Control. Control.<br><br>Focus.<br><br>"You're forcing my hand..." She muttered forebodingly under the stream of his speech. A warning was a warning, wasn't it? She tucked her watch safely away and reached to draw off her pince-nez, her jaw ticking and clenching like a blacksmith's clamp. There again, those immense and incongruous pupils. Where had he seen that look before? It was as much the look of a hungry falcon as it was the expression of a defensive feline. It was the intensity of the man who was desperate to make a deal. It was the opposite of calm, despite how firmly set her features were. Ah, well, poets had long mused about eyes telling stories that long went otherwise untold. The events of life had a habit of changing a person's gaze, and Jameson's detached stare was, in its own way, a relative of Frizya's own voracious one.<br><br>The watch ticked somewhere against her chest. Her heart pounded in her temples and she could feel her temper twisting the muscles at the back of her neck, gnawing for action. It didn't matter what he said. It wasn't true, and he was no one. He was not her Priest, her Warden, or her King. He was an idiot and an instigator. She had not come here to do anything to anyone! It was just rounds, just a job, and all of this had happened because some cocksure firebrand couldn't tolerate seeing some drunkard be confronted about his inconsiderate stumbling. These people made so many problems for themselves, if only they would just ever-<br><br><em>"ducking behind one's name, rank or station is the simple act of someone who is afraid."</em> Her coat felt heavy on her chest, restricting...but that was the leather of the harness beneath fighting against the swell of her body, pumped to fight and tensed for a blow. <em>"I can't say that I'm missing all that much."</em> He turned around, and her eyes bored into the back of his head. No one to the left or right mattered, and she did not want to see the looks of interest, hope, anxiety, or satisfaction on any of these oily faces. When her boot came down, her armored hand was far ahead of it.<br><br><em>"Watchit!"</em> A man shouted over his cards. Her fist hooked around his neck, all metal and leather, while the other hand groped for the pommel of his blade. Their bodies slammed together with a forceful jerk, and she seethed into his ear, heavy, tense inhales interrupting the threads of her speech. "I didn't come here to hurt you, you're not my business. But if you keep pushing up, little nail....you get the hammer. Is that what you want?" A growl edged into the voice that ground from her teeth, for her jaw had locked so tight that a sudden twitch caused her teeth to squeak audibly in his ear. God help her, she knew what it would feel like if she crushed his throat under her boot, if she stabbed him with his own blade, if...if...<br><br>"Why do you<em> do </em>this." She hissed what sounded more like an accusation than a question, her voice dropped low. Those fingers- her whole arm, really- tensed.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>07-01-2016, 04:39:04</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson had identified the look in her eyes while they spoke, the sparks of outrage swirling into a voracious vortex of apoplectic rage the more he spoke, the less he deferred to her. Frizya in his opinion was someone who had worked oh-so-hard to get to where she was and demanded everyone around her to not only notice but to commend her and respect her for it. Under all the bullying and attitude the man suspected that she was fearful of someone seeing beneath the veneer she had so heavily and painstakingly lacquered on, perhaps for no other reason that she had something to hide. Maybe it was less than that, that she was a woman in what was typically a man's career path (combat that was) and felt the need to lash out to prove her mettle even if she didn't need to. Perhaps it was more, had she been hurt in the past and was using this intimidation tactic to control the world around her? Jameson didn't know and while she was a fascinating sort of puzzle, he felt that she was much beyond his concern in the long run. <br><br>He wasn't being paid to analyze her nor anything else. Why <em>was</em> he doing this? Ah, that was right. Jameson never could suffer a bully.<br><br>The mercenary grunted when he felt her arm hook around his neck, instinctively ducking his chin to keep her from a full grasp of his throat. When he'd turned it had been a gamble, whether Frizya would take that bait or whether she'd decide that perhaps he wasn't worth the risk. His hands twitched to reach beneath the fur for one of many, many blades with which to tickle her ribs but he held off for the moment, listening to the woman hissing in his ear even while her free hand groped over his shoulder.<br><br>His voice stayed low as he spoke, "Now now now, is that any way for a lady to behave, <em>Officer</em> LaFont?" somehow his tone when using her title was neutral but conveyed an almost startling sarcasm, "I'll admit that I cut a hell of a dashing figure but for a vaunted lady of the Order of the Oath to so brazenly reach for a man's blade is scandalous." he chortled, well as much as he was able to in that grip. Against Frizya's muscular form, through the fur and mail it was clear that Jameson was a man forged on the battlefield and hardened to its rigors, from the thick barrel of his chest to the straight run of muscle down his core into his hips. Unlike a man made for fencing or another for riding, Jameson had worked his fingers to the bone and further in his time and even at the near end of his career the man was as solid as a banded oaken door.<br><br>That close as well Frizya would be able to pick out various smells on the man's person. The musky off-sweet scent of the cigar smoke was prevalent but beneath that the musk of the damp wolf's fur that slithered sibilantly over the roughspun tunic beneath, the rich and spicy aroma of high-quality oiled leather-and-mail saturated with the smell of Jameson himself. He wasn't smelly or unpleasant really, though neither was he perfumed and freshly bathed. Lived in would be a good way of describing it. Almost casually the man reached up and gripped Frizya's arm at the wrist, twisting lightly as he squeezed the joint with surprising pressure to force her fingers loose. At the same time he spun and brought his other arm up and with a sharp shove slammed a flat palm against the Keeper's chest with little regard for any perceptions of gender or what might be appropriate. The shock of the stiff-armed blow pushed him back a step and he hoped would keep Frizya off of him for a moment longer.<br><br>The next time Jameson spoke though his voice was cold and his eyes more animated, his expression twisting into an almost feral sort of grin, "Everybody gets one, even pusillanimous children who don't know the difference between their business and mine. Come at me again and I'll send you bleeding back to your Order, LaFont," no appellation this time, "Normally I don't bother drawing steel unless I'm paid to but for you I'll make a special exception." things were beginning to get out of hand, though a part of Jameson liked that a whole lot more than the part of him that was urging caution.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>07-01-2016, 05:29:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Somewhere in her thoughts, she laughed. The shadow of mirth came only as a puff of breath at his ear. "Not quite a 'lady'", she said with a curious unfamiliarity, as if that title was incredibly unrelated to her. She was always Officer. Just officer. No one reached out to her with any other name, hardly, nor did they sit and think about her eyes. There had once been a rumor that she was taking some of the sap, but with such dry behavior as hers, that rumor died at birth.<br><br>What of the cold beds, the early morning prayers, the school far from home? What of it? What of the punishments that absolved one of guilt and the repetition and the unerring respect drilled into her little head through ominous rhymes? It was not that, nor the cold nor the lack that did this to her! It was no schoolyard taunt or chauvinism- for wasn't she a proud chauvinist herself? None of that was to blame! Nor was it the rituals, the solitude, the..<br><br>No. Nothing was wrong with her. She was a sworn cutbolt. If you wanted to keep peace, you had to be willing to make sacrifices. You made them with your own two hands.<br><br>But<em> why.</em> That question licked at the back of her throat, grasping at the words she'd hissed into his ear. It would go unanswered and un acknowledged, struck from her psyche the moment Jameson reached for her wrist and dug his thumb into the hinge of the butt and her arm. There was something hard there that was not the soft hide of her gloves nor the band of her gauntlet, and for it not only did the grip loosen, but she stiffened where she stood, drawing a short hiss that doubled and rushed around the hand that hammered into her sternum. He turned away and the axis was the point at which she wrested his blade from its sheath, her fingers working for their grip through the edges of fanning fur cloak.<br><br>She didn't reply to his quip. Her bold arched brows were drawn low and her eyes looked like solid gold rings in puddles of ink. Her face had a deathly flush for her skin looked both cold and feverish for the mullberry tint on shale-colored flesh. No matter how she moved, those eyes did not stray. Her full lips drew into a tight, drawn line, and she pulled her sword from her hip, the pommel of which was weighty and hammer-like, and had had been used as such quite often. Nostrils flaring, she tossed his blade to catch the crude pommel in her grip...and tilted it toward him slowly, breathing through parted lips. Why take a sword just to hand it back?<br><br>Why indeed. Gripped in her outstretched hand with the other armed, the offered blade was a trap, surely. Just who would be caught when it was sprung however, was not as obvious.<br><br><div align="center"><em>I shall wear honor as I wear my armor.</em></div><br>"Will you now..." The words were sluggish and preoccupied. This man threw himself into the flames, bold, certain, <em>amused.</em> Whatever in her that&nbsp; boiled moments ago had transmuted into a vapor inside the Keeper. She felt incredibly hot and incredibly hollow, as if she were a small thing watching the scene through her eyes from within, incapable of stopping what had started. She wondered if he thought this all worth the consequences. But she could not ask, not him and not herself.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>07-01-2016, 06:12:29</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Sometimes a man got himself in over his head, devoted himself to a singular aspect of his character beyond the point of no return so that when it was wrested from him he was a simple, easily defeated thing. For Jameson the simple sword she'd taken from him was merely a tool, a sword that was more useful for its weight and ability to cleave than for anything deft or clever. He kept the thing honed to a razor's edge, good enough to shave by, sharp enough to slit a throat nigh on painlessly, though he'd really only used it for battering weapons from the grips of enemies or hammering armoured limbs enough that they remained twisted and broken beneath bent plates of warped steel. The fact was that the crude, ugly weapon was likely a smith's castoff, something that had been a curosity piece, something that Jameson had wanted and paid good coin for despite the lack of professionalism inherant. It was no Lord's weapon, nor would it have been welcome anywhere that stamped their swords to a standard, but it did the job.<br><br>That was all he needed, tools that could do their jobs.<br><br>As suddenly as the battle lust had come upon him, the flush to his cheeks and down his throat almost reminiscent of that a man might gain when with a <em>lover</em> of all things, Jameson dismissed it. Through an obvious act of will he seized control of himself once more and stamped down whatever the idea of conflict had awakened within him, shoved it back into its box, such as it were. He straightened from the half crouch he'd assumed unconsciously, ignored that his off hand had a wickedly curved dagger nearly free of its sheath at his side beneath the fur and swallowed hard before letting his breath out in a small sigh.<br><br>A deft flick of that hand slammed the dagger home and he fished in some inner pocket or pouch, pulling free another partially-smoked cigar and bringing it to his lips, "I'm done." the words were simple, the intent plain even as he moved to the fire as if there wasn't a woman standing there holding his sword in her hand, her own blade in the opposite. What was she going to do, risk her vaunted Order honour by cutting him down while he was unarmed? Jameson squatted at the fire and tugged a brand free, using it to light his cigar and taking a long pull from it, holding the sweetly burning smoke in his lungs for a long moment before blowing it back out into the fire.<br><br>He'd picked up the habit on the battlefield ages ago, smoking that was. Where many men took up chewing the stuff, his commander had always preferred to smoke it and as a young lad he'd idolized the man. It'd been a shame that Henri had forced Jameson's hand in the end, that he'd had to cut down a man who had been his hero. "Heh, but heroes only last until peace time, then they ain't needed." he came back to himself there in the room and got to his feet once more, facing Frizya and looking to the stunned people who had been watching them.<br><br>"Like I said, I'm done here. Done with this and done with you, madam," he seemed to have dismissed her title entirely by that point, "It stands to reason that in taking my blade back presently I'll simply afford you the chance to come at me with your own and on your terms no less. Eh, you go ahead and keep it. Call it a trophy of an argument you lost." he shrugged once more; replacing a tool was as simple as finding another smith to build you one, "Though perhaps in the future we can save you and the Order such indignity by keeping your nose to your business and not throwing your imagined weight around as though your title is a coin to buy you aught but fear from the peasantry."<br><br>The man approached once more, between both blades, ignoring his own, "Or perhaps I am wrong? Have you gone rogue over one simple butcher and a drunkard, willing to forsake all you stand for in order to exact some petty revenge fantasy?" Jameson leaned in just a touch, "Which is it, LaFont?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>07-01-2016, 07:05:12</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She felt as if the cage of her chest had opened and sent her heart tumbling to the floor. Outwardly, nothing fell but her face.<br><br>Done.<br><br><strong>Done?</strong> No, no no, this couldn't just be done! Not unsettled, incomplete, unfinished, hanging and open and undefined, no! The presence of people- most of whom had moved away towards the walls, crushed in on her mind from all sides like an onslaught of stormy ocean waves as she glanced fleetingly at the dagger he held. Jameson walked over to the hearth and her eyes burned into his back and chased him with scorn as if he had stolen something from her. Hadn't he?<br><br>But he was armed, still! He reasoned through sticky smoke as if this was a simple riddle to be solved and not a taproom duel. <br>Almost mechanically, she dropped her arm and jammed the point of his sword into the old, soft wood of the floor. She did not, however, let the pommel go. The confusion on her face was nothing near secretive. Let it be, then. Frizya could turn from this, she could let it go of this man and his confounding belittling attitude if she gave herself a moment but goodness knew Jameson was not quite done making a mockery of her station, was he? Predictably, the moment he tainted his own blade with being a symbol of her failure, the Keeper relinquished the handle. Let him take it if this was all just trickery; she was eager to turn this back to an issue of steel and blood. Better that. Nice and simple.<br><br>'Madam'. He spoke to her as if she were some fisherman's wife! 'LaFont', disrespectful as it was, would have been much better. But there was not a shred of respect here, was there? No, not even in a fair defeat. He just...stood there, and walked closer. The woman almost hoped he'd just stab her and put them on comprehensible ground again. This.. she didn't like this. There wasn't enough air in this stinking place, no matter how her breaths sped up. Surely it was the stench of the place that made her dizzy.<br><br>LaFont, again. LaFont, what she had been called the night the Warden spoke to her about the man she'd dispatched. <em>You are willing. Not careful enough, but loyal when it matters most. Take this, never lose it, and never speak of this again.</em> LaFont; what she'd been called in private when the weighty reward of a sterling timepiece had been given to her. Every job needs its workhorse.<br><br><em>"Which is it?"</em> Her eyes dragged down to the pins on his baldric, and something in her urged her to reach out and slide one off. Snap it, toss it into the fire...Though what she wanted out of this had become unclear, the Eternian knew one thing- she was disappointed.<br><br>"Neither" She spat, a crack in her voice. His voice wouldn't leave her head, because beyond the haunting insults, there had been a bitterly familiar tone in the way he addressed her. The spite tucked in formality... Something in her seemed exhausted, and if he had tried to stab her in that moment, the blade would have run home, surely. With a crook of her jaw the Officer housed her blade and drew her cowl back over her head to shield herself from the shameful gazes and the pressure of so many eyes around her. "Have at your mirth, nail. You'll be sent for." The words were bare.<br><br>And she left. Privately out of breath and shaking, she left not on a stomp but somehow instead despite her great size, looking as if the wet breeze outside could have blown her over. Outside the door, she mounted a black horse and broke off at a gallop.<br><br>While she flew down the muddy streets, her mind was working over that man. The right words could get him in stocks, but she did not want him handed off. She did not want to think of this anymore. She did not want to still be boiling with rage and defeat. She did not want to feel any of this. She was late.<br><br><hr><br>LaFont was not seen in that particular public house for the greater part of a fortnight, though twice other Keepers did make their presence known as was usual. And as per usual, she rode through town with an ear out and her eyes down, waiting for someone to present themselves as a threat to the Empire's 'peace'. She had never made a decision about the butcher, but it was out of her hands now. Things had a way of moving along, whether or not they were being properly steered.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>08-01-2016, 04:47:19</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Once Frizya had put up her cowl and was gone, Jameson sighed and shook his head, wrenching his blade from the floor and fitting it back in its scabbard, rolling his shoulders to help settle its familiar weight, "Hmph, is it really so bad here as that?" he scratched his stubbled cheek for a moment before filing away what he'd learned. Office LaFont of the Order of the Oath eh? An interesting woman to be sure, though Jameson somehow doubted that she'd consider 'interesting' anything but a grave enough insult to jail a man for. The merc helped the fallen drunkard to his feet and roughly dusted the man off while ignoring a blubbering thank you, "Just watch where you're steppin' next time buddy, ain't yer fault she was pissy but yer liable t'get'chur chestnuts torn off by a broad like that on a good day let alone a bad one."<br><br>The man finished his drink and his game, though the atmophere of the room bothered him now that he'd gone out of his way to help someone. Half of the people there were happy for his presence and the other half openly worried that the Keepers' reprisal would be worse and further that Jameson was simply looking for some compensation. Certainly he wouldn't have turned down a few coins for his trouble, but by the time he left he'd only pocketed a few more coins from the card game. Flipping his cloak closed, Jameson wandered back outside and off to take another look around town to get his bearings. He'd only stopped in for a pint or two and some company to recharge; the road was a lonely enough place after all and some time spent in town would help him not only to feel better but to acquire a paying gig.<br><br>By the time he retired for the evening word had spread of his altercation with Officer LaFont but more than that, sinister dealings were in the works that went beyond Jameson's actual interests and further into the more shadowy and purposefully vague.. Of course it was up to the Keepers to handle things such as that but as the days wore into one another, rumours of the bodies turning up tucked away behind barrels in warehouses or floating bloated in the river began to circulate. No-one truly knew what was going on except that it seemed far more deaths were taking place than was normal from accident and disease; someone was taking a very twisted tack with justice into their own hands and making the decisions usually reserved for judges and the like in the course of things.<br><br>So it was that on the fifth such day when three more corpses had been found that Jameson was taken in the wee hours of the morning. A pair of Keepers slipped into his room at some local flophouse that catered to his type and had him bound and disarmed before he could even blink the sleep from his eyes. Even as he came to he struggled, railing against his captors and trying to get the upper hand until his world exploded into brilliantly dazzling light and some distant pain threw him into a dark abyss as surely as the Keeper's blackjack left him limply slumping in the other man's hands.<br><br>Some time later Jameson began to stir, coughing as he came around, his mouth dry and lips cracking a bit as he worked his jaw experimentally. A groan left him as a wicked throb in his head brought bile to the back of his throat. He was alone in what seemed to be a simple stone cell with a floor of soiled straw, straw which would have been a comfort to the man, bound as he was with his hands above his head, the chains of his shackles fixed to a heavy metal ring in the wall above him. The merc's gear had been stripped from him, the bastard sword and every single knife from the large near shortsword style to the smallest razors he might have used for who knew what? <br><br>The -hell- was going on? The man's voice croaked from his dry throat as he tried to speak, then again as he tried at least to work up some spittle to clear the thickness in his mouth. "Ugh.." how long had he been there? There wasn't a window in his cell and the only light seemed to be coming from some flickering source somewhere up the hallway.. probably a torch or some kind of fire. "H-hey! What the fuck?!" he tried to give that some kind of force, to sound like he wasn't already suffering from the position, but Jameson really didn't have all that much at that point.<br><br>As it was, the man was stripped to the waist and bootless, his pockets turned out, every scar from the deep purple fresh ones to the silvery ones that had faded with age on display. His body was muscular certainly but not to the point that one might have expected from someone looking to be that way, more the kind of build that came with a long, hard life. He was broad-shouldered and thick-limbed, but he was also full through the chest and down through the torso and abdomen. Strung up as he was left his physique in stark relief, or would have if there was light to see him by.<br><br>"Hoy! C'mon!"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>08-01-2016, 05:57:54</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				When a man shows up dead in an alley, there are things that are said and unsaid. People can make excuses pertaining to the company he keeps, or the fact that he'd been too flashy with his wealth. They&nbsp; didn't talk about the unfairness of all.<br><br>When another man showed up in a woodpile behind the east mill, people worried. It wasn't just the number, it was the names of the men. These were not salary workers, travelers or dandies. A third body showed up, swollen and waterlogged and older than the first two, and the Keepers stepped in to take the issues out of the hand of the law and into their sequestered processes.Each of the men had been found with wooden chips in their mouths inscribed with a lightning bolt. And by the time the fourth showed up there was a pattern that meant little to the sheriff, but everything to the Oath's Warden. Each of these men's ledgers had, in one form or the other, considerable withdrawals made to the Church.<br><br>The lawmen would come for you by day. You have your crimes dictated before you and all the witnesses, thrown into the cart and tossed into your cell in the prison in the foothills and brought before trial...sooner or later.<br><br>That was not how Keepers came. Keepers watched by day, they were always around. But they struck quietly and quickly with a chilling efficiency--that was, if you didn't resist. It was always when you stepped into an alley, lay down at night, or left to take a piss. It was no different with Jameson, but at the least he had not been taken right off of a woman's backside like another fellow that night. There were three of them, all in cowls- not that he had much time to admire them in the dark. The blackjack? Well, that's what happens to rusty nails.<br><br>Hadn't Frizya warned him?<br><br>Of course, she was somewhat surprised herself to hear that "another, known as Jameson of Reddeck and the 'butcher'" had been taken into the Bast'. O' life, you black cat, to bring this shame to my doorstep. "LaFont, is that the one that doused you in the victualler's? He's down there to be questioned for the murders..." She felt as if she'd been punched in the chest, and could only see him in her mind's eye, leaning into her with that brazen grin. 'Which is it, LaFont'? She should have made him bleed.<br><br>The Bast' was a cold, dark place of stone and damp air suffused with the smells of rust and mildew. Jameson had been dragged down winding stairs, through a rough hewn hall of sorts and into a prisonrow of barred cells, some of which smelled of blood, piss, or ash. His voice was joined by the cracking bark of another irritated prisoner, and suddenly a great clanging rushed down the hall. "<strong>Silence, you!</strong>" Footsteps. Keys. The squeal of metal, a rattle and the shuffle of feet, some dragging.<br><br>This happened three times before they came for Jameson, with god knows how many minutes in-between. When his door was opened, it was by a man with a long, hoary face, and a younger fellow with sharp blue eyes. They took him down from the wall, twisted his shackled arms behind his back, put a humbler around his feet, and yanked him out into the hall. The flagstones on the ground looked old and worn in the torchlight and the weak glow from the small window in the ceiling. Inscribed in the each one was a cutbolt's mark and <em>"Class'ment par tou' les moyens"</em><br><br>Frizya saw them bring him from down the hallway, and grew anxious. Why, she was not sure- none of the immediate options were logical or salient. He was not a threat, he was not armed. Of course, the Warden had specifically, having heard of the tavern row, assigned the interrogation of the butcher to her, and so she knew that the disgrace of the altercation and her loss of temper had spread up the ranks. Torchlit shadows or no, her grey features were telltale in the hall as they dragged the barrelchested sellsword past her and into the long, narrow side hall that lead into the interrogation room- a cramped space at the end of a thin passageway with a sunken floor that bore a grate and an anchor with moss in the corners that centered itself in one small beam of light from an opening that connected this buried prison to the grounds above. Jameson would be brusquely shoved to his knees and locked foot-to-cuff above the grate. The Keepers that had borne him thus left, one clapping a shoulder as he did, just outside the door.<br><br><em>"Figure him out. The clock won't wait."</em> The door opened and shut and one of the men stayed just outside, ready to spring in if the proceedings needed another set of hands. Frizya walked down the hall, her bootfalls slow, her neck hot under her high collar. Her cloaked coat was gone with her vambrace, and instead her high slacks wound up thick, shapely legs to a fitted black waistcoat and undyed linen shirtsleeves. Her torso was thick but tight under the tailored wool, her chest modestly streamlined under the double-breasted lapel topped with a royal blue ascot. She ran a gloved hand down the jet braid along back of her skull and began to circle him in measured steps, her scabbard exaggerating the rock of her hips.<br><br>"Do you happen to know what time it is today, butcher?" Quizzed the stalking hawk. She stared down at her path not only by habit but because she felt strangely <em>repulsed</em> by the site of Jameson's broad, restrained body.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>10-01-2016, 00:31:59</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Heh... heheh..." Jameson's soft laugh broke off into a ragged cough that went on for longer than it should and he tensed for a moment as pain blossomed in his left side where he had likely been dealt a blow or five for the sake or someone breaking off steam. Eventually he spat a wad off bloody phlegm onto the floor and rolled his neck, pops and snaps echoing in the room for a moment, "W-well.. pretty close to eleven-forty, I'd say." he hadn't bothered to look up or even look for Frizya, instead sighing softly and examining the floor before him. He supposed whatever he'd done to her in the little alehouse he'd probably gone too far but what was done was done.. At least he got something clever out before she got to whatever torture she had planned.<br><br>Jameson wondered idly just how thoroughly they'd searched him.. He didn't know for certain if they'd split the stitches behind his belt, though the man could hardly think of a way he could get the little pins free of the thing right then anyway. Along the one side of him a lurid bruise had risen in the night along with several others along his body, though the woman wasn't looking enough at him to notice anyway. "Lotta preamble f'r a guy lippin' off in a bar. You cutbolts ain't got anythin' better t'do with yer time than mess with me or what?" he didn't sound angry, though he was accusatory and definitely more than a little bit annoyed. The air in the room felt a little bit stale and rather cloying, though Jameson didn't have to wonder if that was because he was so bound and somewhat injured or because there simply wasn't a breeze.<br><br>The mercenary leaned back as much as he could and took as deep a breath as he could without it hitching, "So. Why'm I here?" he'd been in worse conditions before and if the Keepers had wanted him dead he'd be dead. Well then, that could only mean they wanted something he knew. Or something they thought he knew.<br><br>Nothing worse than being tortured for information you didn't have.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>10-01-2016, 03:24:16</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				A wide door in the open space beyond this room and its hall led to a repository, and within it lay the Butcher of Berrin's effects tossed in with a handful of blades that belonged to the other men holed away somewhere in the Bast'. The Keepers were not so concerned with raiding every nook and cranny on Jameson's person, for soon enough he'd been bound up like a roast bird, and it wouldn't have mattered if he had anything in his pockets. ...Those, however, they did turn out.<br><br>As the cutthroat hacked up evidence of his abuses onto the floor, Frizya walked paced behind those bound, bruised shoulders and hazarded a glance his way. The flesh, the scars, the bulk of him...Disgusting. There was certainly something to be said for an animal that was goof in its habitat but...Of course, there was an unspoken truth that Frizya was cognizant of: if he were not bound, and if she were not armed, there was a great chance he'd get the best of her. <br><br>Oh well, no use spending time on what ifs when reality was quite different.<br><br>Eleven forty. She resisted the urge to chuckle. That took very little effort, for in the next moment the sellsword sent irritation prickling up her neck and into her clenching jaw. Her bootsteps came to a halt at his left side, and she breathed out slowly, staring at that bruise. With an inward hiss her foot swept up and caught Jameson in the ribs with a mallet blow that carried into a crushing lean that topped him off of his hobbled knees until she was standing on his ribs. Slowly she curled her upper body forward, shifting her weight into that boot before pushing off with a dismissive jerk of her heel.<br><br>This wasn't about him. This wasn't about their scuffle at the pub. And she hadn't been there to start anything- it was her <em>job</em>, her sworn duty, to watch those spaces. But this man was clearly too thickheaded to grasp that concept despite all of his pointed words, and Frizya did not bother trying for understanding.<br><br>"Some choice individuals have been found dead, and you're a man that whores his blade out for ale money. Surely you can gather why you were dragged out of a bangtail's bed and brought here." Her voice was low and as she spoke she bowed over, closer and closer, her full lips tight around every word and those eyes just as stark as ever. "The time's come to have a little chat about your profession, and who's been paying you."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>10-01-2016, 05:16:56</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man cried out once when she struck him, more a sharp intake of breath and a strangled yelp as her weight followed the blow, adding a sharp and lancing pain to the myriad others assailing him. Jameson swooned for a moment, his wind coming in gasps and groans of pain behind clenched teeth even as his vision swam before him, a constellation or five of scintillating stars all that stood between him and the darkness threatening to overtake him. From some faroff point in the distance he heard her voice in his ears and seized on his, his mind feeling for all the world of pain between him and reality as if Jameson were instead examing the sensations from far off.<br><br>He'd been tortured before and Frizya's initial move while painful in the extreme was in his opinion borne more of malice about their earlier dealings than about any sort of real technique she might have been working with. Amateurish, driven by emotion, vengeance rather than duty. He cleared his throat with a bout of controlled coughing that came out less controlled than he intended, his body straining against his bonds as it tried futilely to double up like a newborn's habit of returning to the fetal position against the harsher reality of the world. Blood and frothy spittle drooled from between his lips while he slowly came to his senses, Frizya's words echoing in the vast emptiness of his aching head.<br><br>"H-heh.. better, ugh, better ale money than attaboys, LaFont," he gritted his teeth and shrugged to get her foot off of him, groping at the ground for purchase and levering himself back to his knees rather than remain on the floor. With effort, Jameson spat to the side again, feeling around his mouth with his tongue for loosened teeth and finding none, "So someone found 'emselves dead'n you drag me outta bed in the night 'cause.. why?" his words ground out as slowly and purposefully as Frizya's, but where she seemed to be straining for control, all Jameson was searching for were those scraps of tone that came without the sobs his aches threatened to loose.<br><br>"I think I get it.. heh. S'a respect thing, ain't it? Yer jus' pissy 'cause I knocked yer ass offa that high horse you fell outta," to his credit the vitriol came without flinching, as he wagered he was to be abused regardless of his attitude, "Respect's t'be earned though and y'ain't earned mine just 'cause y'wear fancy clothes'n clove oil. What makes y'think I was in some night lady's bed, heh, and not fishin' 'round the places the Keepers watch hopin' t'reel in a catch like yerself?" in for a penny, in for a pound, might as well see if he could push it to the point where someone more level headed would intervene.<br><br>"But hey, we're.." he shuddered as he held back another cough, feeling something in his chest that wasn't quite right.. maybe they'd busted a rib, or cracked it. Maybe she'd broken it. He didn't know, wasn't a doctor. Better at taking men apart anyway. "We're here t'talk about my profession, yeah? Well, y'got me here. Ask yer questions, cutbolt."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>10-01-2016, 06:02:19</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				So much of getting along in the world was turning what one did not know into what one did.<br><br>What Jameson perhaps did not know was that Frizya was not normally sent to interrogate. What he did not know was that such internal matters generally were not attributed to her position. What he did not know was that had he been sent in here with any other Keeper, not a hand would have been&nbsp; lain on him... <em>yet.</em> He and his skull knew full well the Order of the Oath was not shy of bruised flesh and splintered bone. What he <em>did</em> know was that Frizya was angry. Spiteful. Volatile. Her boot had prodded that bruise because she found no good reason- not respect, not calm, not decorum- to keep from doing so. Later, she would feel ashamed. Later she would spend hours studying fundamental verses that lie upon pages she had pored over countless times before.<br><br>But later was not now.<br><br>For now the broad, doubled figure over the grate was bleeding and weak. He heaved and coughed, leaving something vicious to swell with glee in her chest. If only he could just keep his lecherous <em>mouth shut</em> they could have gotten on less violently. She was capable of controlling herself, she was! She was sworn to. But something about this man slipped under her skin like a weevil in a mattress and disrupted every little plan and expectation.<br><br>"This has <strong>nothing</strong> to do with you and I!" Barked the Keeper, her thick brows knit into the sudden scowl that pulled her features dark and tight. Every time he made those filthy allusions, her hands yearned to close around his damned windpipe. Anything, anything to see his eyes bulge with panic. "You licentious bore-" Her backhand swung with a reaper's sweep and struck him hard enough to send strings of that bloody spittle flying to the dirty stone floor. She could not <em>suffer</em> all these disgusting suggestions from this rough-looking sellsword. "How could anyone be so stupid, you smutty little dog," the words came between clenched teeth as she snatched up the hair at the top of his head and with a cruel twist, wrapped it in her grip, leather clad knuckles digging into his skull. "-how many days have you been in the city proper, and where was your last post?" Another irate tug tipped his skull back, and her golden eyes met those earthy ones. Immediately his lack of dread had a wicked frown blooming on her berry-hued lips. "I'm asking politely," came that dragging hum, "no tools, nothing yet. You like to wag that tongue so much, then do it and save your swordhand." Looming above, the Eternian was close enough that even through the way her jaw clenched around the threat he could have seen that there was an empty spot behind one of her eyeteeth. The smell of fine pipeweed rose from her waistcoat and neck as if the very heat of her rage incensed them.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>11-01-2016, 16:19:31</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson's head whipped back and down when Frizya'd slapped him, the dull ache in his jaw roaring to life at the kiss of her knuckles, his cheek gushing fresh blood to override his senses as the inside was cut along his teeth. He grunted when the woman tugged his head back by his hair and he grinned against the pain of it, finding the place he usually went to when in combat, the man who ignored his wounds and plunged into the thick of things like a blade to the gut. Certainly the pain hurt but Jameson had long ago come to the conclusion that like many things in life it was an illusion, a distraction of the mind meant to keep you focused on survival rather than accomplishing your goals. So he'd twisted that along with shock, horror and revulsion into a functional persona that could weather the rigors of his life without him becoming one of those vacant lot, those monstrous abominations who relished the feeling of blood on their hands because they stopped being able to feel long ago.<br><br>With the pain throbbing in him like a second heartbeat though, Jameson's smile seemed incongruously cheery behind the mask of blood staining his teeth and the rising welt along his cheek. He supposed he was lucky that Frizya's fingers hadn't caught him in the eye, angry as she had become he doubted he'd get away without major damage but perhaps it wouldn't be so permanent as that. His stormy eyes met her golden ones and he chuckled, though the sound gargled the blood in his throat. Instead of spitting the man swallowed and idly tongued a tooth that felt a bit looser for Frizya's trouble, "Dunno, are you asking my opinion or is that more of a self-musing sort of question? You can tell me LaFont; I'm asking politely."<br><br>Chances were she'd strike him again for that but a petty part of him took distinct pleasure in dragging her off her self-inflated pedastle down to his level of blood and dirt, "I don't think you got this act down. Y'can't be the good knight and the bad one, yer one or the other. Doesn't really work bein' all sweetness 'n light after threatenin' a man's livelihood if he doesn't do whatcha want." he swallowed again, breathing out harshly through his nose to attempt to clear it. At least it wasn't broken, "Lemme guess what's next. Yer gonna hit me, maybe gimme a good kick in the guts and step on me some.. Stop me if you've heard this. Next y'er gonna ask me again, tell me maybe it's strike two or some rot, I'll come up with something clever to say."<br><br>Jameson's smile only widened as if he were in on some secret, "That about right cutbolt? Good Lord, at least be flanked by a professional."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>11-01-2016, 18:23:42</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Before the butcher could even finish the word 'politely', Frizya cut him off with a yank that likely strained his neck muscles and loosened a goodly amount of hair. "Don't." Just don't. "Swallow your quips down with that blood." Because she was exhausted by them. It was strange, really. Usually she was all hot, humming numbness in these situations, but this man wore her patience thin. In one moment she'd be surging with bloodlust; in the next she'd be choking on indignation. Seconds later she'd have to digress to patch up some foolish perception of his and...<br><br>Focus.<strong> Focus.</strong> All this moving back and around was a waste of time, which only moved forward. Frizya watched blood dribble messily down through the stubble on the sellsword's jaw and took a deep breath. Strangely enough, her pupils shrank slightly in size, those molten rings thickening. The blood. Blood was a result. She fixed her attention on it, centered herself there.<br><br>And Jameson pissed on that balance. Her chest felt simultaneously tight and hollow, her pulse hammered in her ears, drumming forward the tension that set her eyes back to their natural state of urgent tension and good god,<em> anxiety.</em> "<strong>No</strong>, actually-" Her short shout cut and dropped down again; she knew good and well someone was outside the door- someone expecting her not to lose her temper over this man but for fuck's sake he was a right vexing little dog, wasn't he? "It's not. You seem to be fond of long-<em>windedness</em> so let me tell you, I'm not fond of violence." A patent lie. At the word 'winded' her warm leather grip clapped to his windpipe and squeezed about it like it was a doorhandle...and tightened just a jot more with every sentence. " I'm fond of good people who answer questions directly and save us both the trouble, you blackguard. I care only about answers but you are very, very fond of deviating from the point so I will ask you again, how long have you been in the city proper, and where was your last post? When I let you answer, do so quickly, or you'll go back up like a strung pheasant and you won't come back out until it's time for <em>le marteau</em>. Avoiding my questions makes you look very suspect, and the Bast' is a very bad place for that. Now. Are you ready?" Closer, she knelt, until she was crouching in front of him, eye-to-eye.<br><br>He wouldn't get the chance to answer. Not because she hit him, but because someone came in. The door creaked open,dragging in its hinges, and an impressively tall, horned figure came down the hall, stooping just so as if habitually avoidant of these 'low' ceilings. Calm, striking golden eyes took one look at Jameson's bloody face, swept along Frizya's clamping fist and settled on her with a cocked brow. "Well?" He needn't really ask. Unconcerned with her answer, he drew a note from his cloak and raised it in two gloved fingers. "The questions have changed. You." He crooked his fingers, and Frizya released her prey, sweeping after the Keeper without so much as a backward glance. Imposing as she was even from behind, with her long braid pendulating against her robust backside and smartly tailored vest, she looked easily dwarfed by the male. One had to wonder, even if briefly, if she were slightly on the short side- not for a person, she was as tall as nearly any man- but for one of her kind.<br><br>Outside the door, he bent at Frizya's ear. "Can't be him. We've found indication that it's one man and we doubt them being a mercenary. The augurants suggest the same. The issue has changed. How's your horse?" Frizya pulled back, not quite finished digesting the new information, and with a subdued curiosity in her expression answered simply, "Hale." The cutbolt nodded and gestured for her to follow back into the room. Absolved of being the main focus of the inquiry, Frizya lagged a step behind, clasping her hands behind her hips; all the better to squeeze the concealed steel points at her wrists. All it took was the private dig of her thumb against the leather cuff beneath the end of her sleeve, and she could attempt to center herself again with the private bite of those tacks at her pressure point as a ground.<br><br><em>I shall speak not what should not be spoken, do not what should not be done, hear not what should not be heard, and suffer not what should not be suffered in His Imperial Majesty's land.</em><br><br>The taller Keeper, who wore bore a golden aiguillette on his coat, nonchalantly pulled a kerchief from his pocket, snapped it open, and bent to hold Jameson's jaw. His free-falling hair hung forward, heavy and black. Gloved fingers deftly wiped across his chin and lip and stuffed the linen inside his cut up maw, all while he kept a placid and almost pleasant expression on an otherwise severe face. He did not introduce himself- Keepers rarely did (unless incensed by some wolf-pelted jack standing up for a drunkard). "We have things that need answering and if you are for the peace, you'll answer them. If you are not, you will not, but we will consider you an enemy to the Empire and you will suffer what comes with that. Compliance is rewarded...in one way or the other." he finished noncommittally and pulled the bloodied kerchief from Jameson's lips. "How long have you been in town, who hired you last, and what for."<br><br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>11-01-2016, 20:23:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Unfortunately for Frizya's peace of mind, Jameson was a bit of a bulldog when it came to finding things that bothered opponents. If you made someone lose their cool not only did you win the argument (in his mind anyway) but you had a hotheaded enemy should things turn violent and yes, while that might make for more furious blows to fend, typically it also made those blows wide and sloppy at the best of times. Each little digging insult was one of those things he knew would bother Frizya, as she had so easily made it known within moments of him not backing down. He knew that suggesting she might not be the best of her Order bothered her, that the idea of her wanting to get petty revenge went alongside her petty bullying bothered her, that she might even wish to see him like this, stripped and panting, bothered her. Not exactly subtle or calculated in the sense that he had planned the whole thing, but Jameson was quick on his feet mentally and had torn down the bulwark of her self control, in his opinion, quickly enough that he'd wagered on even terms he could have handled her.<br><br>Even as she asked her questions again, predictably backing them with threats Jameson cursed that he wasn't as in control of his body's reactions as would have been useful. As Frizya squeezed his throat his eyes bulged and his lungs burned even as his pulse picked up, the controlled man's mind vying for dominance over the reptilian portion of his brain that crawled with instinct, would fight tooth and nail for survival. He didn't need that and knew with good reason that he'd likely not see far beyond these walls again, but Jameson had been in the thick of it too long to give into that kind of despair so easily. From his vantage though he couldn't see nor hear much when he was left alone, but the almost familiar smell of Frizya returning with someone who smelled new rattled him slightly. Unaccounted for, he'd asked for a professional and likely that's what he'd received.<br><br>Best to see how deep it went, then.<br><br>While this new Keeper, likely the same race as Frizya to judge by horns and eyes, tended him, Jameson was clearly examining the man's face. If his lip or swollen jaw hurt it wasn't a voiced complaint beyond the odd hiss as the man brusquely packed the wound. The mercenary appeared to be considering the new man's words awhile, weighing them against what he knew of the Keepers, could hear in this man's voice, "Well," his voice was a bit raw, but clearer with the blood mostly staunched and the kerchief gone, "You coulda just asked." that alarmingly reckless smirk returned, obscenely twisting the line of his mouth against the swell of the one side.<br><br>"If I'm honest though I ain't all that excited t'be spendin' much more time in this... lovely accomodation. From my perspective I ain't exactly 'fer the peace' so much as 'over a barrel with my ass in the air', y'know? Can't be that much of a threat to the pair've ya, not to mention any others 'round these parts, why don't'cha lemme outta these hog's cuffs and we'll have a chat, one weapon to two more. S'all we are, we just go 'round our business a little different like." to his credit, Jameson managed to maintain that bit of aloofness while also all but demanding his release, if not in so many words, "This's about the worst treatment I've had in the past coupla weeks'n all, and you know as well as I do that no self-respectin' sellsword's gonna tell you the specifics of his clientele. Jus' know anyone who's coin's lined my purse's always been the same as yours. Might not be so high up, but I was pretty sure fightin' for yer country's ideals putcha on the patriot list."<br><br>"Besides, LaFont there can vouch for me. Only one in this room's thrown a punch or anythin' close in the lil relationship we've all got goin's her."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>11-01-2016, 21:55:08</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				...That fucking butcher. Frizya glowered from the corner, eyes wide with incredulity. She <em>did</em> ask!<br><br>The inquisitor stared back at Jameson with eyes like inkwells; dark and inert. That moment was likely singular thus far for Jameson, for Frizya generally avoided eye contact until she was too upset for it not to be a livid glare. This man, however, with his mouth set and his mien quite relaxed, was strikingly different from LaFont despite how similar in blood they obviously looked. He absentmindedly wadded his bloodied kerchief in his fist finger by finger as the sellsword spoke, his lids set low and a languid smirk tugging at his lips. "Hm." It came slow and heavy, and he rose to his feet, towering over the forcibly doubled mercenary. At the end of it he twisted to shoot a glance back at Frizya, who lifted her jaw in arrogant defiance. "I have <em>no</em> idea where this man has been or what he's been doing." This recurring theme of their 'familiarity' was beginning to make her hate him more than she already did. She rolled her shoulder, almost as if she needed to shrug off the association.<br><br>The taller of the two swelled with a deep breath and spoke down through his exhale. "You need to decide what's more important to you: staying brazen in the face of danger, or getting out of these 'accommodations'. You are right. You are not a threat as far as we know. But unless you are an asset, you are also not a <em>concern."</em> He raked his hair back with fingers combing from his hairline to between his short horns and glanced at the door for a moment before slowly bringing his eyes back to the beaten man kneeling in his own spittle over the grate. "I could offer you coin, but what's coin to the dead?" he added loftily, his brows peaking just so. "And even if I gave you death, what is execution in the face of suffering to death from untreated wounds and lungs full of mold, forgotten forever in the Bast', hm?" His generally short speech spilled almost poetically into the visualization of what happened to the long-term prisoners here. The smile that followed was cold, but patient. "You can protect your reputation if you like, but if few clients will hire an informant, none will hire a cripple or a man in jail." Two fingers called Frizya away from the wall, and he handed her a key in passing. "Not that many years left on you, sellsword. Maybe not enough to matter to you. Guess that's why you gamble with them this way. Unless I'm wrong..." Frizya unlocked Jameson's cuffs from his humbler and yanked him to his feet. The Oath Keeper tilted his head back. If this man conceded, he had every intention of paying him for useful information. But Keepers didn't bother rewarding those who worked agains them.<br><br>"We're not against oiling you cogs, but not if you don't work." He jerked his head to Frizya and turned on his heel to pace out of the room, the captive in tow being pushed along by Frizya's hand at the back of his neck. She kept him at arm's length, her dominant hand resting on the pommel of her sword and her eyes forcibly trained away from the way the muscles of his back bundled for the pinch of his restrained shoulderblades. This man made no sense- what did resistance get him? A swift tug wrenched his cuffed fists together and back as she leaned in over his shoulder. "Be reasonable. This is your last opportunity. Take it." Somewhere, somewhere in her voice was a plea to sanity. This man's glee and comfort in and with threats and violence was at complete odds with general self preservation, and none of it made any sense. Being tortured or simply left to die here was a distinct possibility and regardless of her hatred for him, it confounded her that anyone would resist the Order to this extent, even when offered a way out. Especially when one had no loyalties to anyone but themselves. What good was that individuality when it led to punishment and anguish?
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>12-01-2016, 00:31:09</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson would have been happy to discuss the hows whys and technicalities of how his statement was accurate. He hadn't -really- been asked for his information until just recently. He couldn't help but think of himself languishing in all manner of long term tortures in the Bast, forgotten to the world and left to those who would simply wish him gone in the end. "Heh," he got himself to his feet with Frizya's aid and chuckled, "I like your style, heh, but you're right. Fact've the matter is thatcha got the gist of it." inwardly he was slightly chilled by the prospect that this new Keeper had figured him out so easily. That was definitely something.. interesting. He wondered whether he could possibly make a break for it.. Frizya had her arms and while she had a grip on him, he wagered that he could get her sword and fight his way through. Maybe hold her hostage.. but if he had to wager on the Keepers really caring about whether they lost one person, he wasn't sure he could.<br><br>"Heh well I'm not against being oiled. Like I said, it's been a fair few days, gettin' on a fortnight," Jameson did his best to keep the strain of the hurts he'd endured from his voice, but it was there behind the bravado. He walked with Frizya, or rather at arm's length from the woman, the tenseness of his neck and shoulders likely translating through the hold she had on the back of his neck. That he was simply walking along like he wasn't all that hurt spoke volumes for his resolve, if not his common sense. He turned his head slightly at the woman's voice in his ear, wondering whether she cared to see him freed or perhaps was speaking out of some kind of guilt about his earlier treatment. Ultimately Jameson decided that it didn't matter, turning to watch the tall man's back while he was led to wherever he would be going. <br><br>The mercenary sighed again and chose his words carefully, deciding to go with the coded speech he knew that those serving in the proper circles would know, "My business takes me abroad but my home is ever close to heart." the words were reserved for and spoken in cadence by those who had given service at one point or another to agents of the crown. Perhaps he had been hired by such a man or woman once upon a time or perhaps he himself had lent his sword to that cause.. it was hard to say, but it was more clear why he wouldn't divulge his employers. "I wouldn't wear my pins if I couldn't be counted on to do my job, but like all jobs yer gonna find the ones who ain't got a shred of dignity're professionalism about 'em. So what's happenin' out there thatchur grabbin' up sellswords and tryna work out which of us is doin' it?" someone being killed probably, or kidnapped. Mercs generally took the strength of arms approach and someone who tended to prefer a generalist skillset like Jameson was more the old school type.. Why pigeonhole yourself?<br><br>"Little give and take hm? Last place I was before this was Alundre to the south a week's horseback, took my pay and cut my losses when the employer didn't, ah, work out." he shrugged a bit, the motion setting muscles bunching and playing beneath his skin, "Seemed to think payin' me meant they owned me. Let's say they were convinced otherwise."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>12-01-2016, 01:46:16</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The truth was, in meeting Frizya as his first conversational experience with a Keeper of his Majesty's Empire, Jameson had put himself in a position to have a false sense of security as far as they were concerned, and any man jack of his side of work knew that was a right risky place to find oneself. It was not that Frizya was un-exemplary of her station, it was that she and Jameson mixed like water and smelting...in multiple ways. This Eternian however, was a prime illustration of the cold efficiency of the King's private force of armed inquisitors. He felt that it would have been better if Jameson complied, but if he didn't? This one cutthroat wasn't the only way to get the answers they sought, and they'd not deal with the smallest traitorous attitude for his sake. One man, five, ten...a few deaths didn't matter if it was done to keep the crown steady.<br><br>As far as the stakes at hand, Jameson was better off walking. His ankles were bound, his wrists were cuffed, and Frizya had her hand over her blade for a reason. Ol' Reddeck could throw Frizya off on a good day, but two of them at once? With other Keepers down the hall? He'd die in here and have his body unceremoniously dumped into the sewers with the rest of the garbage swept from the cells. If anything, some shrunken kernel of decency in Frizya figured there was no reason for him to die like that, with his fingernails all pulled back and his eyes full of ground glass. Beyond the information the Oath wanted, they took very unkindly to 'agents of chaos' that impeded their work even by resistance.<br><br>The main reason people knew so little about them is that they rarely sent anyone back the way they found them...if they sent them back at all.<br><br>As far as the three of them, the procession continued without a halt, though as soon as Jameson let slip his historical alliance the decorated Keeper's hand dipped into his pocket. When he stopped, they all were forced to do so, and he pulled out two small wooden chips and held them up to the dim yellow light of the hall. They were quickly done, naught but flakes of oak, but branded into them were crude lightning bolts. "We find these in the mouths of the victims. There are grave concerns." Namely that there was not just one or even two people committing or orchestrating these murders, but a group bent on pulling out the very foundation of the throne, starting with the streams that filled its coffers.<br><br>Behind them both, Frizya groped mentally around this new information, staring at the back of Jameson's head and <em>dutifully</em> ignoring his back. Something about him looked very tactile- scars, flesh, hair all of it, and that was an affront to her ascetic sensibilities. But his past...<br><br>Despite his revelation, Jameson was returned to his cell and left cuffed, though they didn't hang him as before. And he was left there. Neither of the Keepers said another word, because Varse refused to speak on it just yet and Frizya had no idea what decisions were being made in his lofty head. She was told to wait in the hall as another mercenary was questioned. After a time, a two hooded figures whose sprinklers of clove water marked them as medics passed her, entered Jameson's cell and with one of them holding his cuffs, began to clean him up and not a word was spoken between any of them. He was given a mouthful distilled rye all bittered up will willow bark and poppy seed for his pain while they inspected him, stuffed his cheek with cloveoil gauze, cleaned his cuts and god, popped his lowest rib back in place before wrapping his chest in bindings. A small pouch was stuffed into his pocket, and the two of them pulled him from his cell to lead him down the hall and up the dark, narrow stairs...They came out in a basement full of crates and dusty bottles, traveled up a short stair, down warm and furnished stone hall, and gently pushed him into a reading room. Frizya was already there looking intensely vexed. She leaned against the wall, next to a worn family crest,the knuckles of one fist against her mouth and the opposite hand grasping (and squeezing) her wrist. Those eyes stared with something a bit more confused than simple hate. Jameson's belongings were sitting one the far side of an unpolished oak table. At the head sat the man from the interrogation room.<br><br>One of the medics unfettered Jameson, and the door shut behind him. <br><br>"Jameson of Reddeck, isn't it? Captain Auxbrule. You know Officer LaFont; too well, judging by her distaste. Have a seat."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>12-01-2016, 17:13:35</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Indeed Jameson had found the new Keeper's attitude markedly different from Frizya's, from the simple kindness of having his mouth daubed and packed before actually being questioned before the threats began, Jameson knew that he was dealing with someone of a different calibre. While Frizya struck him as someone secure behind her shields, whether they be her name, rank or Order, she had been easy enough to get to once he knew how to unravel the little web she kept around herself. This new man though seemed possessed of the same coldness and dispassion that Jameson had grown over the years, the kind of depth of cold devotion that made him know for certain that the idle, nigh-poetic way this new Keeper had described his coming possible torments were only prosaic; the reality would be quite a bit more unpleasant than that.<br><br>As it was Jameson figured he was better off cooperating, though he couldn't seem too eager to do so. Death by torture was not only the kind of thing that went on and on, it was ultimately less than helpful. Oh sure, Jameson had experienced it before and like any other man enough torment had broken him and he'd told his captors everything they wanted to hear, but like these Keepers his captors had thought that he knew things that he didn't. The torture itself had had to stop and so Jameson had not only invented the right lie but he'd cleaved to it with the kind of passion that only a man with nothing to lose could have. When the large man ahead of him stopped and fished out a pair of wooden chips for a moment, he studied the insignia hastily scrawled upon them. A lightning bolt on some sort of hardwood. Oak, maybe? Perhaps maple. He wasn't sure in the light, but the lightning bolt present in the mouths of victims was a calling card. That it was the same was likely to throw them off the trail of a group and seek out a single man, perhaps to avoid suspicion on all but a scapegoat such as himself.<br><br>The man wordlessly processed the information, returning to his cell without a fuss and presenting his battered, bruised and scabbed wrists to be recuffed. Jameson leaned back against the wall and held in a slight sob as the hurts he'd endured began to crash into him now that the adrenaline was done with, the cool roughness of the stone the only balm he had for the moment. As he sank to his backside and levered his legs out before him, resting his hands over his middle as he closed his eyes to think alone in the dark. Piecing it together; a couple of people had been killed in disparate ways, but with the same calling card. Chances were it wasn't just the one person, no-one attempted to take down an organization with their hooks as deep in the crown as the Keepers. The church and state were inextricably linked, not that it was Jameson's place to say anything there. He was as religious as the next man, though that had been tempered by years of God or whoever was His standin not answering prayers had left Jameson to make them come true on his own.<br><br>Jameson kept silent while the medics worked with him, turning his situation over and over in his mind. From time to time he hissed through the pain of the ministration, but the drugs and medicines soon kept him silent, his head fogging away from the desperate nature of the state he was in and giving him a sort of clarity that only came with the high. The merc pondered and puzzled over the things he'd been told, the way the murders had been committed hadn't been revealed to him, he supposed because it wasn't his problem. Did the lightning bolt represent something? He recalled several pagan cults he'd been privy to worshipping deities that had to do with the weather, they were supposed to be vengeful. It could be a cult uprising, agents of chaos trying to sow discord through the simple act of destabilizing the government's power base. Who could say?<br><br>His keen yet somewhat unfocused gaze took in the sights on the way to the reading room, mentally mapping out where he'd come from. The man was pushed into a well appointed room and left unbound. Those eyes flicked over to Frizya who seemed rather less than thrilled, though his belongings were heaped on the table across from a man. The first thing Jameson did was pull the pouch from his pocket and place it with his other things, wincing a bit as moving took a few stitches along his side, things twingeing in where he'd been wounded. He rooted through his kit for his undershirt and tugged it over his head with some trouble, stuffing it into his pants before belting it snugly at the waist. Next came his mail shirt and the thick leather and cloth hauberk he'd been wearing when Frizya first saw him. His thicker overbelt cinched it at the waist and a few deft movements began stowing the handful of knives and daggers he was used to carrying. Finally, his sword, his pelt cloak and the ivory-pinned baldric remained on the table with the pouch.<br><br>Now comfortable, Jameson took a seat carefully, his kit rubbing uncomfortably but infinitely more comfortably than it chafed to not have it, "Alright Auxbrule, LaFont." he nodded to each in turn, less disrespectful and more simply casual about addressing them. The man had left his socks and boots off for the moment, though he did push the chair out a bit and had begun to put those on, "Yer right, Jameson of Reddick, but jus' Jameson's fine by me." he grunted, tugging one boot on and wincing as he moved to lift his other foot, "What's got you lot yanking in mercs these days, exactly? Can't say I can work too well with the information I've got so far."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>12-01-2016, 21:02:44</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The room in which the three now convened had a lofty ceiling near which there one long window. In its panes only the white-grey sky could be seen, reaching in with dusty beams of light to illuminate the furniture below, much of which was old and yet distinctly unworn. The unpolished table and the upholstered chairs lacked the warmth of repeated use, though the rug beneath their feet seemingly predated most of the furniture and was threadbare in several spots around the table itself. Book cases flanked the room holding tomes that varied in age from those with cracked spines and hinged binding to those with polished leather and illuminated titles. All of them related in some way or the other to the study and history of religious figures and civil governance...That was, save for one on a pedestal behind Captain Auxbrule; a thick volume bound in leather covered in silver paint. On its cover was inscribed the cutbolt's sigil and a circular title: "Order Of The Oath To..."<br><br>That same sigil faced Jameson as Auxbrule rest his hand on the table. A large signet ring bore the lightning bolt cut by a sword. The Captain blinked slowly and sighed, mildly irritated at this man's lack of formal courtesy. "They cannot be here. Doesn't suit our means to have free swords laying about to be recruited by unknown enemies. This is an organized group, agents of chaos." He leaned back in his tall chair, thoughtfully pursing his thick lips. The room lay in silence, one Frizya seemed used to, for she was not looking to Auxbrule to continue. Rather, she knew good and well he was thinking and would finish when he was ready, having no reservations about dropping conversations into long pauses.<br><br>She herself felt an irritable and insatiable gnawing in her chest. A tight, spreading, miserable nothing roiled, and she shoved a hand in her doublet to pull out a pipe and a flint striker hanging from a long chain around her neck. She had forged the thing herself. With a forced sort of patience, she went through the motions of flicking open the lid on the prepacked pipe, sticking the long, twisted neck in her teeth, and tamping the bowl with the curved end of the striker. That done, she scraped the small blade against the flint tucked in the metal cap of her pipe and cradled the bowl as she nursed the sparks. All of this gave her something to focus on, a familiar series of steps to tether herself to, ones with a nice, predictable outcome. Auxbrule leaned forward, and Frizya puffed the heat to life, wreathing herself in short wafts of rich-smelling smoke that curled out into the light from above. It carried notes of the peganum leaves so often smoked, but also sweet and bitter herbs that deepened the fragrance (and taste). There was a reason she had quickly turned her nose up at Jameson's cigars.<br><br>"As you well know, there is no such thing as removing opposition from a kingdom. Attempts are repeatedly made." He paused again, considering his words. 'Say not what needs not be said' was not just a figure of speech. "We believe this threat is rooted in the prior resistance. After all, enemies never die, they are just defeated. For now all mercenaries watched in some way, detention being the easiest. Sending them down the road will only postpone the risks. You, Jameson, are unique in that you have dealt with this before. LaFont, you have placed particular attention on the nigh subterranean underpinnings of the populace." It was true that she had a habit of opting to keep her eye on what developed at often the lowest levels of municipality, but something in Varse's tone left Frizya cutting her eyes to him as her cheeks hollowed with a long pull of smoke that issued out moments later in an irate cloud through her nose. This needed to end in a dismissal and a parting of ways.<br><br>It would not.<br><br>Varse stood, his expression pregnant with thoughts that likely would not all meet his voice. "The two of you will be part of an effort to discover the source of this upheaval before more lives are claimed, and more importantly before they gain pivotal ground. Thus a mercenary is observed, your history becomes an asset," he pointed to Jameson there and turned to Frizya, his knuckles resting on the table as he pushed to a stand, "and your diligent preoccupation with civilian affairs will aid you both." <br><br>He set a knowing gaze on Jameson and spoke indirectly. "And you two are already passing familiar."<br><br>All of the smoke in her lungs rushed out of her chest as she pushed up from the wall, alert. Her eyes locked on Jameson like two cursed gold rings. Varse pulled a fistful of coins from his pouch and shingled them on the desk with the pass of a forefinger. Five half-palm sized gold pieces, enough to commission a new blade and wardrobe and feed oneself like a landlord for a fortnight at least. "A third now, the rest when all is said and done, or as you need it. What's money to the dead, aye?"<br><br>Frizya's teeth squeaked.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>13-01-2016, 01:26:22</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<br>If they had ever discussed their preferences for the finer things in life Jameson and Frizya would have come to an accord about pipeweed and cigar tabacco, at least as far as what the mercenary preferred. But times for him were more often lean and he had had to take what he could get, only indulging when finances permitted and even then rationing against the day where conflict would ebb and he would have to live his life hand to mouth awhile. His preferred brand of cigar came from plantations on the islands of the Gihant Archipelago and were rolled amid the spice markets in the deserts to the north on the mainland. The hot winds dried the leaves nearly crisp after the seawater's salt soaked through them on the voyage across the sea. Allspice and black peppercorns were the high notes, with mellow bergamot laced in the wrapping. Of course given the less than lucrative exchange mercenaries enjoyed during recent times he'd had to resort to stogies that were more than likely at least a third fragrant ground hay and buckwheat bran, but that was the price one paid when purchasing a more economically advantageous product.<br><br>"Cut down one man and three more rise to face you in his name," the way Jameson spoke the words were a clear agreement, "The best any man can hope to do is to so thoroughly quash such deviants thus that those who come after know better." the mercenary winced as he drew a deeper breath, testing the limits of his bruised and battered body, "It would seem as if we didn't quite make the point as clearly as would have been hoped." he didn't bother to elaborate on matters, but part of the reason the church and state allowed an organization with such sweeting control was that men such as Jameson had fought, bled and died to help fortify the position. In truth that was why he had taken such an oppositional tack with Frizya; seeing her throwing her weight around like that only served to cheapen the ideals that he'd supported. Still, he doubted that anyone truly that bad could have been inducted into the Order and remained, there had to be something there that he just hadn't seen yet.<br><br>When Varse laid out his coin and detailed what else was coming, Jameson to his credit managed to keep the avaricial gleam from his eyes and his tongue in his mouth rather than wetting his lips even if his mouth had suddenly gone dry at the prospect. That much money would be enough to keep him comfortable through retirement, if ever he'd planned on such a thing. As it was he could think of a dozen uses for that kind of coin. "Aye. Alright, you have my Blade in this," a common enough oath among mercenaries, but the way Jameson said it was akin to that of a man giving one of the most grave uses of his word as a man, "It will be seen through to whichever end it comes."<br><br>The mercenary made no move to collect the coin just yet, trusting in the honour of the Keepers to cleave to a contract, even one made verbally, "So. Exactly what are my boundaries in this investigation? I understand that you've no wish for bodies to pile up, but some sacrifices must be made." so far he'd ignored Frizya's shocked glare, but then he turned with that same hated rakish wolf's grin, a white slash in a weatherworn, bluff face more suited for facing the wind and sun than anything else.<br><br>"She'll be alright I think, once she comes around to the idea. As it is I think she might bust a molar just considerin' it." he chuckled softly, though it soon became a cough that wracked him for a moment before he caught his wind again. It seemed the drugs, such as they were, only went so far, "And.. ugh, when do we start? I could use a night with a warm fire and the rest of this pouch to sooth my trip into the Bast into a soft, fuzzy memory. Hmph.. and come to think of it if we have the time to spend giving me a night," he gestured offhandedly with a thumb toward the alert Keeper, "She might as well come along for it. If we're gonna keep our noses clean we're gonna hafta get her into something that ain't screamin' <em>Oi check it out we're with the cutbolts!</em>, 'cause that just puts folks on edge." he patted his wolf's pelt and chuckled once more, more carefully.<br><br>"A conversation with LaFont where she ain't puffin' her ass up or makin' threats on threats could prolly do a world'a good fer our.. workin' relationship."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>13-01-2016, 04:31:28</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Lost in her own smoke and roiling stresses, Frizya was skirting thoughts churning with rearranged perceptions and a dangerous conflict of interest. Never one for spending too much time on feelings, she was nevertheless growing increasingly uncomfortable and simultaneously aghast at the current revelations.<br><br>While not a member of the Order of the Oath, Jameson the butcher had, apparently, offered his blade and blood for the Empire nonetheless, and years before she ever cut her tongue for the title of Keeper. She thought back to their meeting at the victualler's, her perspective somewhat shifted. A glimmer of it came though, but she cut that train of thought off the moment she considered if but for a second that with all that had happened, she herself represented more chaos in that room and he had had noble, if casually so, intentions in settling the matter. His experience alone suggested a clash of perceived rank... she shoved those thoughts down with the striker she tucked back into her doublet and instead watched Varse offer the terms of recompense.<br><br>This was absolutely happening, and she had to acquiesce to all of it. Jameson accepted the offer, and she could practically hear the gears clicking into place. So be it. Of course, her adherence to purpose was one thing. Her ability to coexist with this man was another entirely. <br><br>Captain Auxbrule stared at Jameson for a moment and then turned to drag his fingers along a group of books, finally pulling out a narrow, plain-looking ledger. "Sacrifices must always be made," he muttered portentously as he opened the booklet somewhere towards the middle and, with a finalizing flourish, drew a pen from a box on this makeshift desk and dipped it to inscribe Jameson's name and title. Frizya had been watching her captain as Jameson spoke, but ever-aware of people's unwelcome gazes, she cut her eyes to her new partner as it were and did her best to look impassive rather than irritated. The subtle flexing in the hollow of her cheeks, along with <em>any</em> prior introduction to her gave her away, however. She chewed at the mouthpiece of her pipe and sucked on the burning cherry, mentally readying herself to do whatever would be necessary to hunt down these seeds of discord.<br><br>Resuming command of the conversation, and with an intent weight to his brow, Varse glanced between they two and folded his hands over the ledger. "Agreed, with preparations and your..condition, you two will not be setting out immediately. Jameson will need to be able to ride." Frizya pushed away from the wall, pulling the pipe from her teeth. "Your Equity," she began, "respectfully, if I'm to embark on any effort for the order I'll need time to prepare in my own way, at the estate." Jameson wasn't going to wrest full control of this affair from her so damned quickly. Couldn't a person have their peace? Sudden changes vexed her terribly, and she'd need time to herself to- Relationship? Oh he had a way of making that word stink up a sentence like rat shit in a boule. Before she could even screw her face up over it, however, Varse interrupted.<br><br>"<em>Officer</em> LaFont is generally civil and impartial, Jameson. Should you have issue with her I wager there is a reason, however large or... small." He cocked a telltale brow and slipped the ledger into his coat. "LaFont," those two fingers crooked to beckon her closer and she walked up to bow respectfully at his side, her thick braid spooling forward over her shoulders. "Take the tunnel to the backrooms and wait until sunset. Then you go to your estate- the both of you. Change your clothes, switch your blade. Ride out as soon as he can to Che-Rozen province and stay on that side after entering town from the timber road." Frizya stared down at the table with her hawklike eyes and nodded obediently. As she stood, her face clouded with uncertainty. She felt like Varse was trying to remove her from the center of the city for safety's sake or somesuch,and it disquieted her. "Your Equity, if I may, if our blood was not shared would you-"<br><br>"It is settled."<br><br>"Naturally, your Equity." She dropped her gaze and righted herself, tonguing her eyetooth. The two Eternians looked at Jameson, and Varse stood.. Frizya made a quick obeisance and strode for the door. "Jameson. We have walking to do. Can you?"<br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>13-01-2016, 16:18:22</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				To his credit for as much time as Varse took to think of the right words to cut to the centre of a discussion and defuse it, Jameson's seemed well chosen to do quite the opposite, though as adversarial as he could be the man could also pause in that and be thoughtful. He watched the exchange between the two Eternians as the terms and commands of this contract were discussed, his own attention divided between that and whether or not he should really get turned all up in that sort of thing again. Thing was, the money was too damn good to turn down and that's what put him on edge. The Order wasn't known for their generosity and truly he would have expected his stake in the affair to be substantially less, especially after being seen to by the Bast's secular healers. Medical knowledge was quite a rarity among the common folk and thus treatments were by nature expensive, often landing needful families into debts that could be called upon at any time, though in his mind that was more advantageous than trying to squeeze blood, or in this case money, from a stone.<br><br>That much coin was clearly a number of things. Hush money that he never speak of his dealings there perhaps. Definitely money enough to attempt to wow him into loyalty now and perhaps in the future. Honestly he expected an Order 'accident' to befall him at some point simply to avoid the payout, but while those thoughts weren't exactly trusting of Varse Jameson didn't entirely distrust the man either. Jameson simply understood to some extent the weft and weave of the position the man occupied. People that high up had pawns, bought and paid for, ready to go at a moment's notice. Was he ready to be a piece in someone's game? Jameson supposed he had always been, but time and again he made sure it was on his terms.<br><br>When Frizya addressed him he chuckled and stood, casually settling his hand-and-a-half along his back and snugging the baldric in place across his body. He lifted the wolf's pelt, tugging the cloak around him and fastening it in place, giving himself a shake so that the well worn fur settled naturally over his thick frame, "'Course I can walk heh. Prolly. Lotta clove-spice and poppy syrup in me, but I'll get there." he was really craving a smoke, for the bitter taste of char between his teeth and the waft of acrid, nearly burning tabacco smoke through him. It had been hours and that left him uncomfortable and itching for one.<br><br>First name basis though, that was an interesting shift from 'smutty dog' and 'sweaty mongrel' among other such epithets she'd breathed. "Walkin' ain't really the issue just now heh.. prolly gonna be at least tonight before I wanna be bounced 'round a horse's back." truth be told he'd have rather walked there but he knew that Che-Rozan province wasn't close enough to make that practical. Idly he wondered if they were to have a contact within the town they were heading to, but knew it would be foolish to simply ask. They'd been told what they needed to know, anything else LaFont aleady knew or Auxbrule would relay to them in his time.<br><br>The merc headed for the door at once, though at a slower pace and with a limp where Frizya's stride was sure and purposeful. On the way past Varse he lifted two fingers in mock salute to his forehead and gently flicked them away with a muttered, "Cap'n." he'd been in it too long and too bloody to really sidle up on military etiquette but it was less full on disrespect and more the attitude of someone who's view took them far beyond the here and now. The man followed Frizya where she'd lead, turning thoughts over in his head and trying to ignore the hollow, insistent tug of addiction dogging him as he went. The drugs did a lot for the pain, but the pain was a good tool to help him ignore what he desperately craved. Best not to let that slip.<br><br>Once they were away from Varse though, the man raised his voice in a question, "So, that guy yer brother or somethin'? Don't see many of ya in one place." in his experience Eternians weren't incredibly common, not like humans.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>13-01-2016, 19:28:56</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Keepers were not known for their generosity because they did not want people to know, not because they didn't have gold to offer. It was as simple as that. Much of what they did and had was hidden from the public eye and that included their coffers, who filled them, and who they paid. Keepers didn't tend to live in overt richness, but, well, they were never short on candles in the dark days of winter.<br><br>Behind them, Varse lay a vaguely irritated look on Jameson's back. However, despite the Order's obsession with pomp and circumstance, most of them understood when someone's casual air was superficial. When it came down to issues of blade and blood, it only mattered so much. In the end, the strict manners of speaking were long term measures of control, habit and loyalty that only pertained to those who were sworn into the order until their bones would no longer let them carry that standard.<br><br>Sometimes that happened sooner than later.<br><br>The heavy door closed behind them, and Frizya took them back down the hall that brought them where they were and into the basement once more. It was nearly pitch black in the cool, dusty space, but she moved by memory and pulled a stack of crates that came away from the wall as one, and on a pivot. They dragged hollowly against the packed dirt floor, releasing a family of cockroaches. Frizya privately sighed her disgust and stepped through and on them as she stepped into the doorway she'd created, her body engulfed by blackness. Something scraped against stone, and short bursts of orange lit her downturned face. A torch she'd held in the crook of her arm roared to life, and she held it ahead of herself in one hand, tucking her flint and striker away.<br><br>"We won't be riding until nightfall, there's time." She hoped, for the sake of her mood, someone would be bringing her horse to the backrooms. With the oily volatile fumes from the flame mixing with the thin, perfumed vapors from her pipe, the Eternian led the way, her braided hair glossy in the torchlight. "We're not all related." came her terse reply. It was particularly bitterly said, but not simply because she was irritated with the situation. The neck of her pipe clacked against her teeth as she shifted it and drew a breath through it so long and deep that likely cached the bowl.<br><br>Varse <em>was</em> her brother. Her half-brother, to be precise. She was <em>exhausted</em> by Jameson's insight and his willingness to express it so openly. "That wouldn't be your business, anyway." Her words were thick and muffled by the cloud of smoke that filled and poured from her mouth and soon over her shoulders to her company. She sighed out the rest of it and clenched her jaw around the wooden bit, focused on the path ahead of them. There was a winding length that curved at times, easily the measure of the distance from the church to the market square...because that's exactly where they were going, more or less. The room they had convened in was in the back of an old rectory, and they traveled beneath it to a connected in.<br><br>Or they would be, but that would take time.<br><br>Meanwhile, Frizya found it difficult to speak to Jameson. Specifically, there was an air of wrongness, a shift imposed on their interactions. Ah, yes, because she'd been <em>wrong</em>. Because he knew things she didn't, and he knew things she didn't want him to know. Because Varse had solved the issue of him needing a room and her needing to return to the manor by just <em>telling her to take him to her own damned house.</em> Her head was full of choice curses for her sibling. No one..no one was supposed to know her this way, no one was supposed to be in her house, looking at her things, <em>touching</em> them--! Her temples bloomed with pain and she worked her jaw to relax the crushing vice it had become.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>14-01-2016, 03:49:44</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Whether or not Varse was annoyed with his lack of concern for pomp wasn't much of Jameson's concern. He'd paid his own respects, as much as he felt was needed and while the coin was good the man didn't think his own habits ever had to change because someone was paying him. They weren't paying for sweetness, honey and unicorn dust, what they were paying for were results whether in blood or hurt. Nobody hired a mercenary for a peaceful resolution, that was more the job of those who worked words writhing serpentine across parchment. Jameson's stories were penned in lives and their endings.<br><br>The darkness of the tunnel wasn't exactly unknown to Jameson, though he much preferred to go by moon and starlight. Times were often the case where he would be sitting alone in the dead of night, shielding the flare of his cigar as he puffed away, his keen eyes picking out little details of everything he was supposed to be watching. By the time his eyes had adjusted though, or begun to, the torch roared to life and the man hissed an oath at the sting. She mentioned riding at nightfall as he muttered that a bit of warning might have been nice. He blinked the sting away and sighed, "Lookit, I get that yer not exactly all that thrilled that we're workin' together but that doesn't mean everythin' I say is some kinda personal attack. Might be more that it's my business 'cause my partner's someone I don't know all that much about'n I'm tryna remedy that."<br><br>He walked along with the cutbolt and sighed, keeping his eyes fixed on her back and the swing of that thick braid of hers. Admittedly the Eternians were exotic and the man didn't quite know what made them tick, having never had much cause to spend much time with the folk. To be fair he wasn't really thrilled about it either, but Jameson wasn't much bothered by it either. He'd worked with worse people for worse reasons and had begun to assume that LaFont couldn't be all that bad perhaps simply because he associated the Keepers with lofty ideals even if he didn't quite reconcile those feelings with his actions. Well, life wasn't fair and if anyone could have found justice in it, Jameson would have liked to shake their hands.<br><br>"Yer gonna have a headache if ya keep grindin' yer teeth like that. Maybe try to relax a bit, have a bit of fun with this. Ain't every day ya get a nice little assignment like this. Jaunt a province over, wear a disguise, keep yer eyes peeled, figure out who's causin' trouble and cut 'em from th'cloth." that wolf's grin came back again, "It ain't all bad."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>14-01-2016, 04:48:49</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She preferred silence to this. Frizya's grip tightened around the torch as it guttered ahead. The wall was blurry with spider webs in some places; those that were too low suffered a quick death in a wisp of smoke as the torch flickered beneath them. The wall leaned into a gradual turn, and she sighed deeply.<br><br>For a while it seemed as if she did not intend to respond at all. With Jameson at her back, she worked her jaw to the side in irritation. He managed to tell her not to clench her jaw mere moments after she had released it, and a split second before it began to habitually clamp again. His knack for saying the right thing at the most irritating moment was becoming gratingly uncanny. The pair walked on for some time until the weight of..something or other finally pressed the officer to speak.<br><br>"What does it matter. You agreed to work at my side and I at yours. Doesn't matter if I'm a seamstress's daughter or you a hostler's brother. When it comes down to steel, we'll do what needs to be done. And being at ease is neither here nor there. Especially with me." Frizya did not 'do' relaxed. From the moment she woke from the moment she slept, her life was focused and regimented. She liked it that way. The path ahead of them kept curving as their bootfalls brought them deeper into it. She pulled her pipe from her teeth and tapped it on the wall to empty the bowl and cast the ashes to the ground. A flick of her thumb closed the pipe's metal and flint lid, and she tucked it away.<br><br>"...Fun." It huffed derisively, long after Jameson'd even let the word slip.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>14-01-2016, 15:29:26</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man didn't have the same habit of grinding his teeth that Frizya did, but it seemed that he could be annoyed as well. Peevish, one might have called him due to Jameson's ability to seemingly cut the heart out of the matter and cast it to the floor. He sniped for weaknesses out of habit though and couldn't begin to explain how he had gotten that way. As a young man he would have seen the Eternian as someone to make a conquest of, but in his older age he saw a young, angry woman who had no outlet for it beyond what she had shown, the bottled anger and eternal annoyance mere symptoms of something worse lurking deeper. But that didn't make it any less annoying because even at his age Jameson knew what he liked and strong women were one of those things; physically and otherwise. That she so vexed him made Frizya stick in his mind more than he cared to admit; perhaps that was why he was broaching further conversation.<br><br>"Of course it matters. Now you might not have worked much outside the bounds of the Order but I'll tell you how it is in the blood and the muck sliding along under your horse," he bit the words off nastily, making his point through his ire, "Whatever your problems are, you wear them like a coat and flaunt them for those around you. Armour of another sort. Admirable, if short-sighted. You can be a prickly, standoffish bitch with whomever else you like but in this I'm supposed to be able to rely upon you to watch my back while I keep an eye on yours. That requires you to grow up a tad and put that petulance you're exuding aside. Sure, you smoke good pipeweed and drink fine wine and hide under your covers so that God above doesn't see you touch yourself at night, but in this you and I need more than that, at the very least a common accord and at best a passable friendship," he paused and debated snatching the torch away from her but figured he'd probably wind up struggling with her for it and he didn't have that in him, "So spit out those sour grapes you've been keepin' and say whatever the hell you think your problem is so we can move past it, 'cause the way things are you'll be stayin' at yer house to explain to yer brother why a lowly mutt merc like me didn't letcha come along."<br><br>Jameson didn't know whether or not he had that authority, but he damn well wasn't risking his neck with someone who'd just as soon cut it herself. As it was her attitude had begun to wear at him more than the banter in the bar which while serious had been admittedly playful, more than the mistreatment in the cell and interrogation room which had been dangerous and one-sided.. This was about developing something more than animosity between himself and someone who seemed entirely composed of reasons why she hated the world.<br><br>"If yer so mad that I don't know shit all about you, take a step back, take a deep breath and explain yerself. No-one's as pissed off as you for no good reason, Frizya." 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>14-01-2016, 20:47:16</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				There were people with whom secret hurts ran deep, people who had it in them to reach through their pain and hold up a happy mask that let them get through their days until the hurt was just memory and they could forget just why it had been so painful to begin with. People whom others were shocked to find out had ever truly suffered, because they always seemed to pluck along as well as any other.<br><br>There were people who wore their hurts openly, brandishing scars they abraided themselves as often as possible because the shock and sympathy and concession of others made things easier in their lives, and for their soul they could not stop mining it from their fellow man. They sulked, they reminded, they sighed and looked off in conversation so that no one would press them too hard. They made of their tragedies a comfortable cushion and lay in it.<br><br>Then there were people like Frizya LaFont-Auxbrule, who forged links with the bitter nights life had given them, tempered them with the beating of virtue, and wrapped them around their wrists to make weapons and armor of their past. People for whom the past did not heal into scars but rather lay over an extremely tender belly, forever unhealed. She didn't think that anyone was foolish enough to consider that she was this way for no reason. She simply knew no one would be foolish to ask. Her bark was generally better than her bite, if her history of violence was anything to go by. She either talked to a person civilly because they didn't incense her at all, or she hit them. There was no in between.<br><br>Until Jameson. The liminal space he inhabited between these two conditions was both volatile and delicate at once. It was a crack in the iron of her bearing, and whether it snapped, bent or strengthened was not yet decided.<br><br>Frizya ignored Jameson at first as he got his wind up to talk her pointed ears off again, dismissing his oncoming rant as the idle hubris of someone with a poppymilk fever. But the moment he accused her of touching herself there was an unmistakeable catch in her step, and her boot scuffed against the packed ground. And she stopped walking, blinking blindly ahead into the flickering orange glow of the tunnel as she felt her brain <em>cook.</em> Her arm jerked back as if she'd would have reached back to grab or strike, but in the next moment she got the better of herself and curled that hand into a fist that came to hang at her side. Her chest felt hollow, and she felt the helpless disgust she fought more often than she cared to fill it. She didn't, <em>couldn't</em> hear what he said after that...<br><br>All she could think about was how much she hated that thing, how much she hated how she felt, how much she hated the lack of control, how she worked to solve that 'problem'...and how filthy she felt when she lapsed. Slowly she turned on a heel, the soil crunching beneath her boot. She knew he couldn't see her shaking- that the tremor was deep in her bones and in her gut and in her <em>heart.</em><br><br><strong>"Don't.</strong> You need...to <strong>leave me <em> be.</em></strong>" Her words were hard, but they lacked edge and they lacked the threatening drag she often put to them, and not because she still had the pipe bit in her back teeth. She was trying like hell to keep her temper while saying words she never had to say and feeling things she never had to feel. It was barely midday, and she was suddenly spent. "I'm not mad that you don't know anything about me. I'm mad that you keep <em>doggedly digging!</em>" Her quiet suddenly broke into a maddened waver before forcibly cooling again. "and if you ever thought to get on my good side, you'd start by keeping me out of your <em>lecherous</em> imaginings." She turned again and walked faster; they were closer to the upward slant that would bring them to the connected inn's back hall. A few more yards down the tunnel, and Jameson's inaccuracies (and accuracies) kept hounding her like little demons. "Keepers don't drink," she corrected, "and he's not my brother."<br><br>He was her <em>half-</em> brother and her family ties were none of Jameson's business. That situation was a whole different story, one she wagered she'd have a hard time avoiding completely, given that they were eventually going to LaFont Manor and the Auxbrule name was...ugh. She'd cross that bridge when they came to it.<br><br><hr><br>In time, the floor did indeed take a gradual slant, and they came to a door somewhat in the roof of the tunnel- which wasn't so bad since the roof had been coming down as the floor came up, and the two of them were by now at a huddle. Frizya pushed the door open and climbed up the few crooked stone steps into a cool stone hallway that smelled lingeringly of bread and honeywine and was lined with a few wide doors before turning at a right angle. They moved from there up a narrow stair, and when a domestic passed them at the top, Frizya handed her the torch and leaned down to whisper something in her ear. From there the Keeper led them confidently along a well-lit upstairs hall that had no windows but plenty of candles. She took them into a room with a window, a fireplace, a table and three-four post beds crowded along the further wall and closed the door. In the light of day once more, her face looked markedly tired with a darkness beneath her large, round eyes. She didn't speak.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>14-01-2016, 23:50:40</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				For Frizya's trouble, Jameson was silent the entire way up the hall and into the next, trying to ignore the pressure behind his forehead. His eyes flicked about, picking out details of Frizya's decorations, trying to get a better sense of what exactly the woman was about. She'd told him off and corrected him, becoming ever more standoffish and prickly, as if she were daring the world to come out with new ways to piss her off. He entered the room wordlessly and crossed to the fireplace, fishing through his pockets and coming up with a cigar and several of the oddly-tipped twigs the local alchemics produced for quickly starting fires. The cost wasn't exactly prohibitive but it beat starting fires with flint and steel. With a flourish the man struck the twig against the hearthstone rather than scratching the wood or walls of the inn's room, standing with a grunt and a heave, his battered body complaining about the effort. <br><br>Jameson bit off the end of the cigar and jammed it between his lips after spitting the end into the fireplace. He brought the flaming twig up to the end of his cigar and puffing until it flared to life. Unlike in the bar where he'd been contentedly puffing the butt end of one such stogie, the mercenary drew the smoke in in deep breaths, holding them just long enough for the sweet burn to become uncomfortable before he took another. After three such pulls he cut a glance to Frizya that could closely have been considered a kind of glare. He'd have much rather been nearly anywhere than dealing with that sort of churlishness but Jameson was stuck for it, for now. <br><br>Wordlessly, he all but threw himself to the floor at the end of one of the beds, a pained groan escaping him as he almost immediately regretted it. The man fished in his pocket for the pouch the medics had given him and he tugged a bar of something wrapped in waxed paper. Breaking off a piece, Jameson wedged the poppy syrupped bit of wafer between his teeth and lower lip, chasing the bitterness with another drag of his cigar. For a moment he was silent, ignoring the aching throb in his.. <em>everything</em>, but then Jameson spoke again, "Nice place. Guess you'll have plenty of unexpected time t'get t'know it a little further," he leaned his head back and watched the blue-grey smoke curling from his cigar, coiling up toward the ceiling like an unwelcome slash of the world outside, worming into the inn like a twisted serpent, "I don't work with people I can't trust."<br><br>The words hung for a long moment as Jameson continued to smoke, idly considering that Frizya might be upset by the idea. Well, that was hardly outside the norm, but Jameson hadn't gotten as far along in his life as he had by playing the fool. Of course, she also spent enough time deriding the very idea of spending any more time with him than was strictly neccessary so as it happened, Officer LaFont might be content to continue spending all of her time watching the lowly masses enjoying their awful, simple pleasures.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>15-01-2016, 00:24:07</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				While the furnishings of the room were not ornate in and of themselves, the presence of the multiple beds, arms rack, bearhide rug and wide hearth said more than enough about its assumed occupants. Everything was clean, and the mattresses had minimal wear. This was a connective space, a loose hideout for Keepers moving from place to place within the city during times where they must not be easily tracked from the streets. Frizya had only needed to come here once before, but the protocol was familiar enough. Even now, she knew the woman she had spoken to in passing was seeking out the innkeep, and soon someone would arrive to see to them.<br><br>She dragged herself to the table on heavy, rocking steps and pulled out a chair before dropping into it with a considerable weight and a decided lack of grace. Slowly, with a distracted absentmindedness, Frizya began to undo the buckles of her sword belt. Her mind was elsewhere. She wondered what Jameson thought of her outburst- specifically, it seemed like there was nothing she could say that didn't lead to another revelation on his behalf, and each one struck closer and closer to sensitive territory. She felt afraid to talk to him. She was afraid of what else he could know and hoped to god he made nothing of her outrage at his mention of lustful habits.<br><br>Her sword, in its polished scabbard, thudded solidly to the simple table and she leaned back in the chair, undoing the first few two lefthand buttons on her doublet. She watched him smoke and reminded herself to pull out her own box, but at the moment she had neither the want nor the will to actually do it. He spoke of an impasse, and left her cutting her eyes out the window. They looked sharp and a touch disquieting, for the way she peered up from over a lowered brow. Briefly she sat up to reach back and thread her braid over her shoulder to keep from sitting on it, and then crossed her ankles. She had already made her decision- if she were to follow her orders, and she must, then she would have to complete this effort with Jameson as a partner. That was the way of it- she was obedient, if nothing else.<br><br>...This man surely had a knack for pinning her between one principle and the other, didn't he?<br><br>"What do you want to know." There was little inflection. She dropped her wrists atop her thick thighs and slowly pushed back her shirtsleeves around the girth of her forearms. Her coat was at the manor. She regretted that, at the moment.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>15-01-2016, 01:42:36</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Honestly the man didn't know what to expect from the ultimatum he'd given the woman, raising a brow at the ceiling when she finally spoke softly to him and asked what he wanted to know. There was plenty he wanted to know, the world was full of unanswered and unanswerable questions that Jameson would love to pick at, but right then he wanted to know about this Eternian who would be his partner in this. "Well.." he paused, puffing at his cigar thoughtfully and stretching out a leg with a bit of a wince. The medics knew their drugs; already his head was spinning a bit and Jameson was glad he'd found out early on that you couldn't fall off of the floor, "Foremost, I suppose I want to know who you are. Tell me about yourself, more than your titles and objectives, I got all of that the first time we spoke, y'know? It's pretty private in here, just you and me, so don't worry about it."<br><br>Jameson chuckled as if that were some private sort of joke between them, as if their tussle in the bar could have sparked anything but animosity between them. Perhaps it could, Jameson had done a lot of things in his life and made friends with people who before he'd have never had the time of day for. "What's important for me to know about you? If it helps we can make it a back and forth sorta game. You get a question every time you answer one and you've my word I'll answer yours. Sounds sporting, right?" he didn't have many secret and those he kept close to the vest were peppered with half-truths and misinformation, so much so that he wondered whether they counted at all anymore. He could spout them off to nearly anyone and it would likely be gibberish and garbled nonsense.<br><br>"I mean, there's a lot goin' on with everyone right? It'd be fair to assume you don't really get much chance to chat about yerself, you Order folks don't really seem too keen on that kinda thing. You don't drink, which to me is fairly silly; how do you avoid the trots with new water? It ain't all gettin' drunk an' whorin' for us commoners, though to be fair a lot of us only have that on the brain." he chortled softly, shaking his head a bit and ashing his cigar into his palm, surreptitiously passing that into a pouch beneath his cloak. Never knew when a bit of ash might come in handy.. Jameson used it for a number of things in his career, from blacking knives to filling pellets to smash into visors. Fighting was dirty work, history was written by the victors, and a fair fight was a couple of fools dancing around posturing. Better to be the winner and keep your ass out of the sling.<br><br>The man let a moment tick by before continuing, "Whenever we've talked you kinda get hot under the collar whenever I mention somethin' that could be fun t'do with a buddy. Drink, cards, eating good food, enjoyin' yerself. I ain't seen a smile on yer face, whether yer chattin' up Cap'n Proper," he'd not forgotten the name, but nicknames came common to him, "Or kickin' me in the guts. You'd think by now I'd have seen one, so... What do you actually enjoy? An' don't start off with "my duty and fulfilling my obligation to th'Order" or anythin' like that. That's the cutbolt, not the woman. That'd be like me sayin' I like knifin'. I don't, knifwork is scary, just you and some other guy with sharp hands openin' eachother up 'til ya can't see the dirt for all th'blood."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>15-01-2016, 02:06:44</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She winced.<br><br>There were a lot of smarting little things in the world; splinters, nail ends you didn't see until it was too late, shelled nuts with bits of the shell still in their grooves all hard and bitter in your teeth. And there were a lot of gross things, too. Horse shit on the road, bird shit on your shoulder, weevils in your bread...<br><br>Frizya would have willingly endured any of these to avoid a conversation that included the words 'tell me about yourself'. There was nothing to know! Nothing she wanted anyone to know that didn't feel like showing someone where her belly was softest when it came to the telling.&nbsp; It bothered her, how casually Jameson spoke of the day they met, like it had all been a game, a taproom farce. Perhaps to him, but <em>she</em> had been choking with rage. Even now, she could clearly recall the anger and...and the shame, that, too. There was always shame, wasn't there? Every bit of heat brought some kind of guilt, innit? And joys with their miseries. Best to keep an even keel.<br><br>An even keel. Wherever this conversation took her, she had to keep it along the middle road. But as Jameson spoke, his words sent a sort of uncomfortable twinge in her shoulders, like an embrace from someone you don't want to talk to anymore. Faced partially away as she was, the Keeper curled forward to rock her weight over her legs and set her elbows on her knees, her palms rubbing slowly together while she cast the golden rings of her eyes into the fire.<br><br>Briefly, her jaw flexed under the dramatic line of her cheekbone. In profile she looked noble, the strength of her features defining a sort of elegance that perhaps would not hold on a human- her lids were too heavy, her nose a touch too strong, her jaw more defined than that of the girls who won pageants in may- but for a <em>being</em> she was attractive. It was in the length of her lashes and the balance of her face and the fullness of a mouth that currently drew into a thoughtful frown. <br><br>Though she searched for a reason not to answer, her efforts came up a failure, and there was nothing left to do but speak.<br><br>"Sweetwater and cider." It came out of nowhere. Ah, the trots, as he'd mentioned. The half-fermented mead and expensive-to-keep ciders weren't really considered much for alcohol, just...something to keep your throat wet. "My name is the name of a family estate, named so for the spring nearby. <em>I</em> drink water." Whenever she could. It was an extreme privilege, to be sure. She thought of her spare time, and how that didn't really exist. Doing nothing was a waste. Time moves forward, never back, after all. All she could come up with where things she did, which she supposed, yes, she took pleasure in.<br><br>"I used to be a blacksmith. Still am, I suppose. I like that, and horses." She cast a hesitant glance over her shoulder at her companion and nodded his way. "Why did you fight in the revolt?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>15-01-2016, 03:32:38</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man sat quietly and listened to Frizya's answers, absently running his hands along his torso to pick along the myriad pouches and pockets that held the tools of his trade. Did the Keepers stop to wonder at such things as they'd gone through his belongings, had they even? He carried charms and tinctures of several varieties, minor superstitious nonsense certainly but anything that could grant one an edge tended to come in handy. Jameson's profession demanded an edge in one way shape fashion or form to be sure but even when it didn't the man was always ready with one, whether it was the edge of his wit or that of his blades.<br><br>"Well, if its potable I can't imagine anything better than water, though one doesn't always have the privilege." he smiled lightly, a fond memory of a time long ago, hazy and sepia-toned warmth shining through in the way only nostalgia could. Much how one might describe leaving their home to take lives for a cause as a trip abroad, the mind did funny things with cherished memories, honeying them as only it could to make them even easier to linger in. Soon though he was brought back to what Frizya was saying, blinking a bit when she mentioned smithing and horses, letting his head roll forward on his neck to put his chin more parallel with the floor, "Crafting with metal and the care of trained beasts." if she was expecting him to make fun of her for her hobbies, or what might have been hobbies had she the predilection, LaFont was sure to be disappointed.<br><br>Her question skewered him for a moment and he paused, looking across the room from himself at nothing, staring into the wall as if the grain of the polished wood that he clearly couldn't see at that range held all of the answers. A long pull from the cigar and his words rolled forth softly on a wave of wispy smoke, "Put as simply as possible, well, I didn't like the other guy," he chuckled and ashed his cigar again, preferring the cleaner burn of an unobstructed cherry, "I'd already been in the business long enough to have had my share of guts and shit and mud and I didn't like it, but it's what I knew. You can't go home, it doesn't work that way, once you walk away from it you change and even if you go home and pick up your crook, slide back into the old skin and try, it's never the same. Home doesn't fit, or rather, you don't fit home. So.. Well, you remember what it was that you wanted and you fight for that, you fight for those people so they don't have to, for the ones in charge fit to make choices you don't quite understand."<br><br>Jameson's voice trailed off and he cleared his throat, "I understand fighting. The mud and the blood and the screams, the stink of the dead and the way grown men cry like babies for their mommas while they try to keep their guts from coiling out after a choice wound. Killing's as easy as scything wheat but nowhere near as constructive. So you fight on for the sake of those boys and girls and that home you can't have, so that they never have to leave it behind." never during the speech did he go back to referring to himself as soon as he shifted to 'you', a subconscious avoidance of what he didn't much care for.<br><br>"I fought in the revolt because it takes monsters to put monsters in the ground," a long silence then as he swallowed back the sour stench of burning flesh and oil, of murder in the night and screams that hadn't come, "'Cause someone had to."<br><br>The moments stretched on for a little while before Jameson nodded, "D'you prefer armouring or bladework in your craft? I mean, it's an assumption but even if you like horses I don't think you took up the craft to shoe 'em." as if he hadn't been rather deep then, Jameson lifted his brows earnestly, trying perhaps to push his admission aside in order to continue on, "On the same tack, are you more of a dueller or brawler? There's a sort of dance in how the sword works, but when you're in close and it's teeth and fists and the odd knife, it's less elegant. Ah! Music! You do listen to music, I trust?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>15-01-2016, 04:04:23</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				In a way she was relieved that Jameson took her answer for what it was and then made nothing of it. Some small, long-ignored part of her, however, almost felt disappointed. Why, she couldn't have brought to words but surely some part of her still wanted to be validated, still wanted to say what made her her and have that be understood by another person.<br><br>She herself had groped for the question freshest on her mind, and Jameson was not short with his answer. In fact, so grim were his words and so deep was the tone of his musing that for a moment her hands stilled in their slow, constant worrying. He told a tale not of cogs and gears, but wheels and rocky roads. Roads that don't turn back towards home and a rolling that never quite returned to the way it was. He spoke of blood taint and resolution, and the blood at the foot of every noble pedestal.<br><br>And he spoke of values, not valor. He spoke of them as if they were real and not just principles penned by priests and philosophers, and it shook something in her to hear that. If asked if that was good or bad, she wouldn't have been able to decide. It was clear to her though, that her own violences paled in comparison to Jameson's. A man like that had to believe what he fought for, or it would have been too hard to fight so much just to spill that much blood. "I see."<br><br>Monsters. It felt like, sometimes, that's what it was. Two of the same beasts with different faces fighting over the same scrap of meat- power. There were times she was painfully aware that her enemies saw themselves as the heroes of their own stories, much the same as any man of the King. Those were things she didn't like to think about, and she was grateful for the tug of conversation again.<br><br>"Neither. When we get to the manor, you'll see." She answered by way of not answering. "But I have made my own blades. And I do shoe my own horses. Why pay a farrier to do it when I have a hammer, two hands, and the iron?" Frizya did not like <em>waste.</em> She had money, but she wasn't the type for laziness, convenience, or luxury. Surely she made some concessions and rationalized them, but not in this. As Jameson's voice took up a more jovial angle, she looked to him with a squint as if trying to divine the very&nbsp; nature of conversational excitement. Eventually she twisted in her chair to face him, but still as averse to eye contact as ever, she looked either down at her hands, her boots, or into the fire. With a swallow she wrapped a hand around her wrist, a comforting old habit.<br><br>"That's more than one question." Her thumb found the knot of the small metal points at on the inside of her long leather cuffs, and she pushed in against it until they&nbsp; bit dully at at the bracelet-line of her wrists. Instantly everything felt a little more comfortable. More centered. She smirked, though it was more derisive and cocky than amused. "Dueling is for bets and petty squabbles. It's flashy and it takes too long." A few more digging, massaging presses as she stretched her legs out before her, smiling down at her knees. Music. She remembered a girl who played a harp... "I do when it's there, I suppose. I don't choose what I hear, when....Did you kill that wolf?" Her eyes cut from the fire to him, then, looking for all the world like they'd trapped some of that light in their darkness.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>15-01-2016, 18:09:47</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				If Frizya had spoken of not wanting to succumb to sloth, Jameson would have agreed that servants were a disease that cut men down from their prime and left them soft in the end, unable to defend what was theirs. Still, the man didn't begrudge those who had them, but were he in a position to he somewhat doubted that he'd have had the nerve to use them where maintaining his own skills was more appropriate. <br><br>It was clear from his tone though that while Jameson had seen his involvement as being on the right side of things, he didn't consider himself much in the way of a hero. Heroes were supposed to be upstanding and shining beacons of ideals, burning beacons that centered men and women on the cause of the just and true. In his mind's eye he was as singularly a hunter and killer of men as any, he just had the excuse of being on the winning side to back himself up. Certainly if there was much of an afterlife he'd answer for the things he'd done in the name of his king, but until then all the mercenary could do was live on and keep on trying. <br><br>Jameson chuckled softly, "Why indeed?" he couldn't well consider that Frizya might simply have enjoyed the work, but he filed the information away like the rest, to be dutifully picked over and arranged in time. He cracked a grin when the Eternian caught him at his questions, chuckling, "So feel free to ask more than the one, though admittedly not every question will get a story like the last one." he didn't mind talking, in fact found it an excellent way to judge a person's character, moreso than their actions, which were often strained through sieve after sieve of perception and self-remission. <br><br>"You're right. In the end it only matters that you're the one standing." his mind's eye flashed back to the dagger he'd nearly drawn in the bar. Would he have knifed her then and there if he'd had to take it that far? The fact that probably he would have brought with it a whole slew of moral issues he tamped down and stopped thinking about. Maybe he should have apologized, but the further they got from that night, the better they seemed to get along and so Jameson simply let it be rather than causing a fuss.<br><br>Her question seemed a bit shallow, but he answered it anyway, "On my last job. Folks up in the northen woods, charcoal burners I think, havin' trouble with a groupa chumps raidin' their food stores," another puff of smoke left him and he settled the cigar in his mouth, content to let it burn awhile without smoking it, "Turns out they figured it was owed to 'em, for service or some bullshit. You work with a sword you either hang it up for plowshares or ya keep workin' it, ya don't take from the people you protected. Anyway. Lone wolf was drawn to the camp, had the froth, probly somethin' they fed 'im. My cloak had been torn up pretty good, so after I put 'im down I gave 'im another use." the claws and teeth hadn't sold for much more than putting a new edge on his knife, but the fur remained rather nice and warm. Clearly Jameson didn't feel badly about the job or the wolf.<br><br>"Hmm.. well I still owe ya, but eh what the hell. Don't take this th'wrong way but if y'like music and sweet things, workin' with yer hands and whatnot, why the hell don't'cha like card games and, well, the general populace? Why protect 'em if ya can't stand 'em?" he seemed more curious than accusatory, but LaFont hadn't displayed anything but disdain for anyone who wasn't the other Eternian.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>15-01-2016, 18:42:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Unfortunately for anyone trying to parse the language of Frizya's convictions, she wasn't in the habit of elaborating on, well, anything she ever said. Part of that could be chalked up to the general bitterness in her personality, part of it was due to being alone in most things unrelated to patrolling, and thus never <em>needing</em> to be better understood or explained. Pity, that, for there was much to say.<br><br>"Mm." As it was, she wasn't sure what other questions she wanted to ask. Not engaging other folk in conversation tended to leave one with a less than outgoing approach to the matter. The whole affair felt like a toe-scuffing, stuttering, throwing-rocks-in-the-hedgerow childhood attempt at friendship. If at any point that could have felt heartwarming, Frizya just felt uncomfortable and irritated in waves, capitulating through various levels of "I'll make do", "I hate this", and "I wish I was alone". While Jameson recounted the story of the wolf and the traders, Frizya slowly pulled off her gloves which were of a much softer, polished leather than the blackened hide going a third of the way up her arm.<br><br>Her brows darted down quizzically with a very mild but inquisitive shake of her head. "Sweets? I don't like sweets, I hate them." She may have hated playing a game of questions, but it was easy enough to get her to correct something about herself. One had to wonder how quickly a subversive game of statements would have borne fruit. Just as she opened her mouth around an answer, there was a knock at the door. Having expected that, she rose easily, dropping her gloves near her sword as she went to open it. A blonde woman with deep, short wrinkles at the corner of her thin mouth and a rounded belly under her apron stood on the other side, offering a short bow. <br><br><em>"Your Equity."</em> Frizya towered over her easily, and looked down as she spoke. "Candles, for the night, water and a basin, and willowbark if you have it." She paused in thought. Her manner with the woman was quiet, nearly warmly commanding. The resonance of her low voice spoke for her, and it sounded just as likely that she always spoke this way- not merely that she was trying to keep her voice down. "Ah, and...My horse is at the rectory. Send for someone to gather her. I'll need her and one other for nightfall."<br><br><em>"Of course, your Equity..."</em> She made to leave, and then paused. <br><br><em>"The murders, then?"</em><br><br>"Don't think of it." She nearly added that the woman and her family were not at risk because they were not financially associated with the Empire or the Order as the other men were, but it struck her that that wasn't entirely true. The whole reason they were currently in this room at all was fear of a greater problem, and that would bring with it greater damages. "A bit of nightfog, is all. We'll bring the dawn." <br><br>When the door closed again, Frizya locked it and came back towards the table, undoing her doublet as she went. "Why are you sitting on the floor. There are three beds." And suddenly, "The victuallers. Why wouldn't you fight me?" And for the first time there was a right smack of earnestness in her voice and in her eyes. She needed to know.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>15-01-2016, 21:12:36</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Huh, well at least I'm two for two on assumptions." typically those who preferred to avoid the bitter and often harsh burn of alcohol tended to err on the other side and go for sweets. But so far aside from pipeweed, finding commoners repulsive and harp music to be passable as water over the palate, Frizya hadn't told him much about her. Not in words anyway. She was quick to correct perceptions if they were against what she thought of herself, which spoke of dearly held pride or perhaps a fear that such pride wouldn't always be there to save face if it wasn't properly nurtured. <br><br>"That's two questions, and you haven't answered mine but hey, I'll indulge," the man yawned widely enough to crack his jaw, reaching up to scrape the heels of his palms along his stubble, which brought a wince as the pressure made his cheek's inner injuries flare to life, "Well, for the first, these are nice enough beds but I'm sore and I'm <em>tired</em>." the way the man said the last word was less about now and more that profound sort of tired that you encountered after many years dealing with pain and loss, trauma that would grind a man down.<br><br>He sighed and patted the floor with one hand fondly, "And I'm fulla poppy syrup, opium and clovespice, pretty much everything the medics had to put on me or in me in that cell, heh. I rather like the floor at times like this, tired and woolheaded, since in my long career I've discovered something. It's a trade secret but I'll letcha in on it; you ain't ever gonna fall off a floor. No matter how tired or sore or stoned you get, yer always gonna find yer keister firmly planted when yer head's floatin' away."<br><br>Her question about the victualler's seemed more interesting to her though, so Jameson took a bit of time trying to put the words together right. He drew from tat cigar again and watched the smoke as it curled up against the boards of the ceiling, "Because I didn't want to have to kill you, and dying seemed like a stupid idea for makin' sure some alesoaked peasant didn't wind up in the Bast fer bein' in yer way. Dunno whatchur problem was, doesn't matter now but I didn't fight t'keep you and yours where ya are t'see that sorta thing happenin' when there're real problems out there, real monsters stalking the night thatcha should be pointed at. I dunno how it is fer you but if I hafta draw steel to solve a problem, it gets solved, permanent-like. That's you or me bleedin' out on the floor with as many new holes as could be put there."<br><br>The mercenarie's stormy eyes were only a bit clouded by the rather stingy bit of drugs he'd used, given that the pouch held plenty more, "Don't take it th'wrong way, but shankin' a lady 'cause she was actin' a bit big for her britches wasn't my idea of a good time and you all but pissed on all the good times I thought to offer by way of distraction, so I banked on you not bein' willin' to cut me down if I was empty-handed." he smirked rakishly, boldly meeting her eyes, "Can't count on everyone t'be so shiny and new, butcha seemed the type."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>15-01-2016, 23:19:41</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				It would make sense for Frizya to like sweets to make up for the lack of a good wine or ale flight every now and then, but she had an obsession with vice and indulgence, and avoiding them. Sweets were barely food and more than anything else existed because people really liked them and they made a person happy...naturally she avoided it.<br><br>Frizya avoided a lot of things.<br><br>She dragged her eyes away from Jameson as she opened the front of her black and blue doublet and drew it back and down her arms, leaving the small iron knife hanging from that long chain to dangle free. Beneath it, and over the loose pale grey of her shirt, there was a two-part harness with its top made a trapezoid of leather covered in flat shingles of mail that centered on the chest, its broader bottom spreading out to cover the sides beneath the arms to close around the back with a wide strap and buckle. Small rings attached a bracing girdle of sorts with some six or eight or so panels stitched together and covered edge-to-edge in more of those thin metal plates that lay flush against the hide. She held the doublet up and reached inside it to draw a flat woodworked box half the size of her palm from it, and tossed it to the table with the rest of her things before reaching for the pipe she'd tucked into her light armor. With her cerulean neckscarf still sitting proper at her neck, she certainly cut an interestingly contrasting figure.<br><br>She didn't sit again, not yet. Rather, she was more engrossed in what she was doing, tossing off a short "Mm." for Jameson's answer about the comforting safety of the uncomfortable floor. Instead, she turned her back on him and set her things on the table. At the back, her harness came in something like a vest, deeply concave around the shoulders so as not to bind the movement of her arms, and laced thickly down the spine- with the laces wider and tighter at the dip of her dense waist. Her breeches were still tight and inky and her backside was still high and powerful- nothing had changed there.<br><br>While Jameson explained himself, she set to the work of pinching, rolling, and packing pipeweed to make up for what she'd smoked on the way over. She understood what he said, but she wasn't sure she liked it- specifically she wasn't sure she liked how she felt about his reasons. It made her realize that when the ire had been thickest between them, she had honestly hoped for him to stab her, and that didn't make sense.<br><br>Regardless, the man she fought at that tavern was now a completely different person- a person who had stood up for a virtuous cause and cut her down with words and <em>chose</em> to hold back on his blades because he not only wanted her to live, but specifically had supported her Order- or at least the concept of their conception. Frizya dropped back into that chair, lit her pipe, and sucked the smoke for a while, arms crossed under the mild swell of her armored bust. When she spoke, each word left her mouth as a visible curl of smoke.<br><br>"The world is not supposed to be a good place, but it is supposed to be neutral. A solution for every problem. A dawn for every night. Room for people to live on these lands and progress the way all things do. However, there are always predators and opportunists, and lambs cannot protect themselves from wolves. Part of keeping the balance is being willing to strike down the wicked. Part of keeping the balance is avoiding the vices that spoil so many." <br><br>"I can't stand being <em>with</em> them. If I hated them I'd sit and watch as they pulled each other down into the mud."<br><br>There was his answer.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>16-01-2016, 02:31:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				For all the woman complained about things Jameson supposed she might have a point about how to act, why to act that way, but he knew from experience that focusing entirely on one's duty at the expense of one's enjoyment of <em>why</em> they performed that duty tended to make the same ideals eventually smack bitter. Once upon a time he too had been so devoted to what he did, so much so that he eschewed all manner of things until reality came crashing in. "Heh, the world ain't a good place, or a neutral one. The world's an awful place full of people who'd sooner slit your throat for a nickle than go outta their way to help ya. Every now and then though you encounter a bright spot, somethin' worth savin' around this place that you just can't bear t'see 'em taken out just 'cause they're nice. I'm sure there's a few neutral places out there but people're bastard-coated bastards LaFont, with bastard filling."<br><br>The man held a bitterness close to him that didn't sit well with the rest of his persona, at least that that he projected. Something had shaken that faith he held to the point where he'd had to curl that hurt inward and compact it until it sat like a steamingly acidic little ball of filth in his guts. Some men would have turned to drink, others to women and other excesses, but Jameson seemed to have taken it upon himself to be a force for the better, the wolf among the lambs who preyed upon other wolves, to put it in Frizya's words.<br><br>Her form didn't escape him either, not that he was examining her in any lecherous manner.. well, not at first anyway. Feeling as he was, he couldn't help but note that amid the power and grace of the Eternian's form was also very enticingly womanly. When she turned aside and his eyes naturally examined the cut of her coat, the layers stitched together, he couldn't help but notice the flare of her hips or muscled swell of her rear. <em>Dammit, that's not fair.</em> The mercenary swallowed hard and he decided instead to continue speaking, "What's wrong with 'em? Simple folk, simple pleasures. Sure they ain't the brightest most deep thinkers the realms hafta offer, but that ain't their fault. Ya don't wonder 'bout the stars in the sky when yer day's taken up makin' sure ya have enough to feed yer kids or yer wife's sick or somethin'."<br><br>"Heh. I was tryna think of a way to say it and I think I got it. The world's fulla wolves like ya said and the lambs can't keep 'em at bay. So sometimes, well, you find someone willin' to be the wolf who eats wolves." he was well aware of the literal interpretation of what she could make of that, given his choice of cloak material, but that didn't bother him at all. <br><br>"You didn't ask a question." he debated standing and trying to get himself out of his armour again so he could check on his wounds, or rather ask Frizya to ask someone to do it. There were parts of himself he couldn't see, after all.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>16-01-2016, 04:22:13</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				More than anything else, Frizya's femininity was defined by a presence, not an absence; specifically her legs were shapely due to the rolling shape of her muscles, and her waist, while not much of a cinch in and of itself, existed as a contrast to the strong base of her taut hips and the round swell of her rear as well as the shape hinted at beneath her plated leather armor. She was robustly a woman, not so much a dainty thing with a nipped in waist and delicate wrists. Instead she was strong and thick and bolstered with iron.<br><br>Through a curtain of smoke, Frizya fixed her eyes on Jameson and thought on just how to answer his question. What was wrong with people? What wasn't? But she knew that elucidating too much on what she perceived their flaws to be would likely come back to her on his voice; in acknowledging this, some part of her knew beneath it all that she avoided this because she was avoiding the dissolution of some belief she held about herself and those people.<br><br>"It's their carelessness. From afar I've watched so many of them ruin themselves and each other, in the smallest ways. It all builds up, bit by bit. At the heart of it is such gluttonous selfishness." She looked him over and then focused on her pipe again, letting a mouthful of smoke curl up to be inhaled in twin streams through her aquiline nose. "I don't know that I have any more..." And it was true. It didn't exactly come naturally to her to inquire about another person's...well, their anything, outside of an interrogation. There was a knock at the door again and she rose to answer, taking a small jar and a candelabra from the woman with a muted thank you and placing them on the table as the inkeep herself came to place a basin with combed linen cloth nearby. <em>"There's bread and boiled eggs with pickled plums left from the breakfast, I'll send m'boy up. Someone's gone to collect th' horses, your Equity."</em><br><br>Frizya thanked her again and sent her back downstairs, locking the door behind her. When she came back into the room, it was to grip the near mattress, quilt and all, to heave the wool-stuffed thing off of the bed and drag it to the floor.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>17-01-2016, 01:54:40</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Yeah I can see that," he puffed up on his cigar a bit more and chuckled, "They're a right damn lot of smelly, indolant bastards and the lot of 'em would sooner rut in the mud than see themselves pulled up and polished. But y'know, well, it's on people like you and me to set a good example. Give 'em somethin' to work toward. Don't they teach ya somethin' like that up in Keeper school? Every little battle won is something that builds up into something greater. That's how wars are won, that's how life's won and that's what's worth doin' it for." he wasn't trying to convince her to like the things he liked, or do the things he did, but Jameson knew that ultimately they worked toward the same goals for the same ideals.. just in different ways.<br><br>Again someone came to the door, Frizya admitting her and Jameson meeting the woman's gaze from the floor and offering a slight nod of his head, "You'll forgive my impertinence, Madame. One can hardly bow from the floor, but a few too meetings with ah.. stairs and bootheels I'd imagine, have left the floor a rather comfortable sort." if she heard him, she didn't acknowledge him, though Jameson didn't fault her. Everything about this inn smacked of a safehouse and the woman was likely conditioned as were the rest of the staff not to ask questions nor speak altogether much, unless to a Keeper.<br><br>He turned to watch Frizya, curious as much as anything else when she dragged the mattress to the floor with a heave, "Heh.. S'all the same to you I don't expect ya to nap on th'floor just 'cause I'm sittin' here." he grinned that half-smirk lopsided way he had and reached up slowly to rub his fingers back through his hair. They came back with dried blood under his fingernails and he winced, "Ugh. Uh.. say, what're the chances that boy of hers can run up a washtub and water? Think if we ask for hot it'll come warm at least?" fetching water was a churlish job and Jameson hated it, but bathing cold was for in rivers and streams on the road.<br><br>After all, the tender mercies of the Bast's Keepers hadn't left him all that fresh and amid the astringent scents of the dressings and the spicyness of the various drugs, tempered by bitterness as always, well, it wasn't exactly a panoply of scents he wanted to linger.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>17-01-2016, 02:14:19</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				With a heavy <em>whump </em>that reverberated through the floorboards, the mattress dropped to the floor and Frizya released it. The bare metal skeleton of the mattress' frame lay visible in defeat. Her arms hung at her side as she cast a blank look down at Jameson.<br><br>"It's for you."<br><br>They were going to be here at least until sunset if not a bit after, and it was barely noon. He'd been thoroughly abused- she'd know, she helped- and stuffed up with balms and soporifics enough to keep a child asleep for days through a croup. She expected him to shut his eyes at some point. She paced back towards the table as if he hadn't asked after water, and simply pointed a finger at the warm pitcher, basin, and combed linen towel the woman had just brought in. "That already happened. I'm taking everything you do or say for the next few hours of the clock as sap dreams." Because clearly his head wasn't all there, and it wouldn't be fair or even rational to take him at his word or expect him to be any sharper than he was.<br><br>Some part of her suddenly felt relieved, because perhaps with dulled perception, Jameson wouldn't be so damn draining to be around. He was exhausting. While it had been a calm affair, this came of questions had been nothing but stressful for the most part. True, more painless than she expected, but still...<br><br>She took the globular jar of willow bark powder in her hand and tilted it, scrutinizing the label. A cloud of fragrant smoke wafted over her shoulder and rose to the rafters as she mused dryly, "I think the boy will be bringing you breakfast." 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>17-01-2016, 02:40:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Heh, nice of you. Thank you." his gratitude was easily given and whatmore even with the drugs it was <em>sincere</em>. The merc groaned and moved to get into a better position, eying the pitcher with a nod, "Right. S'no washtub but it'll do 'till I can get submerged." he cut off the words with a hiss as the stitch in his side bloomed with pain. A shudder passed through him and he grabbed onto the bed, heaving himself to his feet unsteadily and righting himself with a stalwart nod. "Mmkay well, that's not <em>too</em> bad."<br><br>As easily as he'd gotten into his gear with a fresh dose of poppy and cloves in him, among other things, the man had gone a ways without so heavy a dose in him and while his head was somewhat woolstuffed, he was beginning to feel the abuse he'd taken. Still, he managed to unclip his cloak and let it hit the floor, hands diving to drag his jerkin and mail up over his head. The merc got caught for a moment, elbows catching in the mail until he wriggled free and dropped that heavily to the floor as well. Frizya had seen him nearly naked before and while the man wasn't exactly shy, he did think that she may have an issue with it. Well, Frizya was the type to speak up if she did.<br><br>"Oh? Nice. Well, better I don't look as bad as I feel eh? Eh?" Jameson grinned again, tugging his undershirt up over his head again, the worn homespun as used as the rest of his kit. The binding around his torso hadn't slipped at all though and if anything it helped to emphasize the breadth of his chest and the strain of his shoulders. Jameson was quite fit, in the way a man got when going through all manner of exercises through life's rigors, with scars crisscrossing his exposed skin, almost telling of the stories of his life. He wasn't filthy or sour, but he was somewhat dirty from his time in the cell and further his time in the interrogation room. Jameson stretched carefully, then moved to the basin, pouring water into it and leaning in to swish his hair through it, resting his weight on one arm while he scrubbed his hair with the other.<br><br>Jameson lifted his head from the basin and shivered a bit, peering into the now-dingy and somewhat bloody water. His waist, while not trim was also not thick in the manner of a man too into his cups, but thick in the manner of the same beams used to make the rafters her smoke was trailing toward. The merc swept his hair back out of his face and felt at his head, wincing a bit at a stinging spot, "Man oh man, I think I'm gonna have to try to keep outta interrogations awhile. S'not my thing."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>17-01-2016, 03:31:43</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				True to form, Frizya said nothing in response to Jameson's thanks. It wasn't often someone thanked her and it wasn't often she knew someone well enough for it to mean much, so she was at a bit of a loss when it came to the social expectation around manners. As it was, she was usually on the receiving end of every nicety.<br><br>"Not at this hour, no. It's a bit late for the boilery. Early for it, too." The larger heating fires were put on in the morning and at supper; all the better to have all the heat and fire-minding done with meals than have it done at any hours of the day. Inns with larger kitchens would probably have obliged, but this was not one of them.<br><br>The metal and rope supports beneath one of the mattresses creaked in protest as she lowered her weight onto it while Jameson struggled to find himself at full vertical again. Frizya watched him fight a slow battle with his clothes, her gaze sidelong. The mercenary looked much the same as he had in the Bast'...though considerably worse for wear. As the last covering came away from his torso and met the floor, and in the full light of day, Jameson's size and scars were better viewed than they had been in that dirty, dank little room. But among his scars were fresh wounds. Frizya stared at the nasty creep of pink and purple contusion that spread just beyond the bottom edge of his bindings. It felt odd to see damage like this on someone she now knew, someone who was safe from her threats and her beatings- someone who had escaped them and lived to tell the tale and jovially at that.<br><br>She looked away, casting her gaze to his kit shed on the floor. The sounds of water filled the silence in the room, and Frizya turned back to glance over her shoulder. There was something about the size of him and the expanse of so much sinew in his back that made her...irritable. He looked warm. She'd always thought that for some reason whenever she chanced upon men drudging through work in the hotter months. They were all skin and swell and sweat and hair and there was something warm about them, in her eyes, even if she didn't like a single one of them. The same for the hands and necks and cheeks and bosoms of women. She sighed twin jets of smoke and rose with alacrity when a knock came at the door, grateful for the disturbance. One because it was a distraction from her own confused thoughts and two because it should be one of the last interruptions for the day, which pleased her because she hated fractured lengths of time.<br><br>She took the truncher from the lad at the door and quietly dismissed him after a terse request for more water, and placed it at the end of the table. It held half a loaf of bread cut in half horizontally with a gob of pickled plums sandwiched in between and four boiled eggs. Frizya was in no mood to eat and hadn't even asked for herself, regardless. Instead she left it where it was and went back to the bed, reclining with her back against the headboard, her boots crossed atop the quilt. Of course, in that direction, she was facing Jameson. So, naturally, she turned to stare into the hearth, massaging one wrist with the opposite hand.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>17-01-2016, 20:57:25</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson gazed into the swirling blood and muck that had begun to taint the otherwise clear and cool water, sighing when he noticed his now-snuffed cigar floating in there as well, "Consarn it, forgot I was smokin' the dang thing," his country came out a little bit in that unguarded moment but then he scooped the thing out and gave the soggy stogie a squeeze. Having done all he could for the poor thing, he jammed it back between his lips and worked it snugly into the corner of his mouth. It'd dry out enough eventually to be smokeable and he didn't want to lose it. Still somewhat unsteady on his feet, the burly man moved to slide a chair over to the basin and pitcher and sat before wringing out the towel. He dipped it once, wrung it, dipped again and repeated. This went on awhile until he paused and glanced over his shoulder at Frizya, then he returned his gaze to the water.<br><br>"Hmph, you got quiet, thoughtcha'd left," he shrugged and then started at the knock, the sudden motion sending twinges of pain lancing through him, cutting off any other words with a dismayed gasp. Clearly he was beginning to slide back down into the meat, such as it was, and was beginning to feel all the abuses that had been heaped upon him. He croaked out a rather vile oath, then began to gently scrub himself with the towel, working over what he could reach of himself. His torso and belly were easy enough, even if rather covered in bandaging, though when he lifted one arm enough to reach into the crook of the joint, where shoulder met trunk, he found himself a tightness of muscle that annoyed him. Hanging had left him strained and with effort and breath-holding he managed to bathe himself there and on the other side before the ritual of rinsing and dipping and wringing began again. <br><br>Frizya didn't seem to be in a very talkative mood, but he imagined that she wasn't really watching him anyway, so when he'd finished washing what parts of himself he could reach, he stood and fumbled a moment with the tie at the front of his trousers. Once loosened he dropped them and stepped to one side slowly, pushing them away and sitting once more, though this left him bare save for his undergarments and while he wasn't the richest sort, at least he bought and wore such things. Simple homespun shortpants, embellished only with stitching along the hems in a darker-coloured thread. Jameson wasn't putting on a show or being coy, he simply wished to be cleaner than pants had allowed.<br><br>Leaning down he grunted and worked to scrub the towel over his thickly muscled legs. Clearly he walked or ran a great deal and spent more time afoot than on horseback, though the thickness of his thighs hinted at horsework or perhaps a background in swordplay that involved more formality than the grisly business he claimed he belonged to. The scars on his torso ran further down, dipping into and vanishing at the shorts at his hip, though more came from the shortpants and on down his legs, a host of cuts and scrapes with at least a few bite marks, though the last were likely not given by the same dealer. <br><br>"Hey, uh, you mind helpin' me with m'back? They didn't gimme a brush and even if they did, I don't think I'm up to really reachin' that far." he made as if to do so, the muscles of his shoulder and arm bunching as he did, "I think maybe I pulled somethin'." lighthearted considering he'd been left to hang in a cell for who knew how long. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>18-01-2016, 00:25:52</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				With the force of a sudden gust of wind, it struck Frizya that despite sharing every physical nuance, the man she now found herself rooming with temporarily was a completely different man than the one who had diced her so troublingly in the tavern. The differences in dialectical skill couldn't have been more apparent than in the moment she let the routine splash of water call her attention and ended up watching this sapped up man dunk his head and cigar into the water and curse like any old drunken fool at his own mistake. Why, he was as bumbling as any of the salt-and-mud of the earth types she watched with disdain while on patrol. A bitterness rose in her and drew her brows into a faint furrow, for it was beyond vexing to think that this had been the very man who struck shame into her cold little heart without so much as a scratch.<br><br>What had happened in these past hours? It was too much to really accept as of yet. She hadn't been lying when she told Varse she needed <em>time.</em> <br><br>With her head weighed down a bit more with a renewed bloom of bitterness, Frizya rose as she heard someone come up the hall, and was there before they even knocked. She claimed the pitcher, requested that anything else simply be left at the door, and put the water (thankfully there was more of it than last time) down on the table near Jameson- but not too close.... naturally. She paced to the window and stood there in her thoughts while Jameson bathed, keeping her attention on a far off flag and averting it from whatever it was he was doing.<br><br>So one could imagine her shock when he requested her aid and she looked back only to find hi less dressed than before. She wasn't sure why that struck her as particularly notable at all, as it wasn't as if she'd never seen a stripped prisoner. Her black and gold eyes narrowed just so as she pushed from the windowsill.<br><br>"What would you have done if you were alone? You gave me the impression you've been in worse circumstances. I'm sure you'll find a way to bathe yourself." Frizya didn't 'do' touching.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>18-01-2016, 02:49:28</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Fact was that Jameson's mental state was slowly drifting between alertly lucid and woolheaded with drugs on more drugs. The man sighed at her remark and shrugged, "Eh, doesn't matter. If yer not up to it it'll wait 'til I can reach that far back," Jameson chuckled mildly and wrung the towel out once more before hanging it over the side of the basin and turning to the mattress Frizya had lain on the floor. With a bit of mild complaint he managed to get down onto it and sighed, tugging his kit over and beginning to arrange it. His slacks and shirt he folded and set aside with his boots. "Hmm.." he rummaged in the pants a moment and set his small box of cigars aside with the box of twigs, intending to have one later on.<br><br>"Not every day you have the lady who gave you the bruise on hand to inspect 'er handiwork," the man didn't seem all that put out though, as he shook out the wolf pelt carefully so as not to hurt his arms too much and then spread it on the mattress beside him. His jerkin was tougher to seperate from his mail shirt but he managed it with a bit of muttering and left the armour on the floor while folding the careworn overshirt that he called that jerkin. "Supposing I was alone and this messed up I'd'a asked an innkeep to look in on me, or have his wife do it if he didn't have the touch. Someone with kids, 'cause ain't nothin' gets banged up worse than yer kids."<br><br>Whether or not Jameson was a father was a fact that eluded him, but he certainly didn't consider himself one. Not that he whored himself around, but what man on the road hadn't found himself in the welcoming arms of a milkmaid from time to time? Well, if he had children somewhere they were better off without someone like him drifting into and out of their lives like his father had. "S'alright, don't worry about it. I'm sure I'll be better come time to ride, just gotta avoid the drugs a bit in the interim, y'know? Not gonna be much good on horseback if I'm weavin' around like some fool."<br><br>Jameson settled back on the mattress and bunched the pillows up under his head, looking up at the ceiling as he absently stroked the wolf's pelt, "Still yer turn to ask somethin', isn't it?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>18-01-2016, 03:11:25</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				A sigh of relief escaped the Eternian's chest as Jameson shrugged off his request, though it was bidden and subtle. She cut her eyes at him as she crossed the room and went back towards the bed she'd previously occupied. "Best not to move the bandages now, anyway. It's a waste." Because she didn't want to deal with having to re-wrap his damaged ribs right now. She also didn't want to deal with it later at the estate but...bridges, timing...ugh. She put it off.<br><br>Back near the bed, she rounded one of the towering posts and dropped onto the mattress, swinging her legs back atop the quilt and crossing her ankles. She tucked one thick arm across her torso and rest the other elbow on it, idly and minutely dragging the bit of her pipe across her bottom lip. At the moment she was concerned with trying to formulate a plan for finding information in Che-Rozen, but with the linking steps of getting <em>to</em> the town and arriving at her own manor currently incomplete, she was finding the process frustratingly vague. No doubt someone from the order would be an informant upon their arrival, but aside from the nature of the murders she knew little else.<br><br>She tipped her horned head against the headboard and looked out of the window. Her horns were small, bending to the side and then back, shaped somewhat like the half-folded wings of a dove in miniature. The sun was barely at its peak, and it would be hours yet until it started to wash everything gold and pink and prepare to throw all in necessary shadow.<br><br>"I'm out of questions. I'd eat if I were you, and rest. Che-Rozen isn't far but we're going around, not through."<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>18-01-2016, 16:34:52</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<br>"Heh, sounds like yer not tryin'," he shrugged softly and settled back into the mattress, deciding on neglecting the foodstuffs brought up until later, if they remained, "There're always more questions, 'specially if ya don't know the person. I don't know any more aboutcha now than in the bar except thatcha like horses and do yer own ironwork. Well, and that you're of a more even temper than I'd encountered." he closed his eyes against the throb of his head and sighed lightly through his nose, wriggling a tad to get more settled into the wool-stuffed bedding.<br><br>"I guess we'll have plenty of time to talk on the road though," he smiled lightly to himself, knowing full well that Frizya would prefer he likely never spoke again. He didn't really see the sense in tormenting her, but her ire was so easily earned and burned out so quickly when she was put in her place, so to speak. Violence came up often as a way to prove things, but the man didn't resort to that as quickly and felt that arguing things out was a way to get to know someone.<br><br>After a moment, Jameson crossed his legs at the ankle and drew his wolf's pelt over himself, rolling onto his side and curling up just enough to draw the fur around himself more fully. It was a cloak, certainly and no blanket, but he was very used to sleeping within it. A few more shuffles and he let out a sigh, "Goin' in the back way's smart," interrupted by a yawn that cracked his jaw, the man spoke half into the pillow beneath his head, "But supposin' the threat's from within, d'you think maybe doin' what's expected is the way to go?"<br><br>Whether or not Frizya answered him didn't much matter, as the positioning and warmth of the pelt dragged Jameson further down into sleep's embrace. Unconsciousness closed upon him like water overhead and for hours the man slept soundly, his breathing deep and coming in light snores. The poppy syrup lent his dreams rather darkened depths, though there was naught to speak of that he would remember. It did speak volumes that Jameson was able to simply go to sleep around Frizya, about whether or not he trusted the Order's agents and whether he really feared anything the woman might do to him, all things aside.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>18-01-2016, 17:38:25</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Oh, she was trying, all right. She was trying to avoid the unsavory effort of pushing herself to converse with this man. Would he even remember everything she said? Part of her flickered alive with the hope that in the light of tomorrow and in full sobriety, any revelatory facts gleaned from this little inquisition would have slipped through his grasp. It would be a wondrous thing if his articulation came back sans any ew uncomfortable accusations. As it was now he was turning into a nuisance who currently couldn't even offer the comfort of being intimidating enough in the mind to give the tavern altercation even a shadow of honor. Perhaps, then, she was glad he hadn't stabbed her.<br><br>She stared out the window, somewhat annoyed. "That's more than you used to know." If he had been mad that he didn't know 'anything' about her, well, as far as Frizya was concerned that complaint was now null.<br><br>Never one to leave anything unspoiled, Jameson reminded her he intended to talk during their ride, and she rolled her eyes shut with a smokey sigh. The nice thing about riding horses was that they didn't talk. So much for that. "The point is not to have the presence of Keepers a secret- there are already Keepers in Che-Rozen. The point is to place ambiguity on my presence. We're being circumposted." When it mattered most, the Order didn't have Keepers head the investigations in their own provinces, where they were somewhat recognizable in stature and gait and sometimes face, they took specific individuals, planted them in another province, and had them rendezvous with the Captain from that community. Someone from one of the surrounding provinces would be <em>here</em> in a couple of days or so, she figured.<br><br>Eventually, as her musing and worrying and general over-thinking about the near future stretched on, it became punctuated by Jameson's snoring. Humans looked so vulnerable all the time, especially the lighter ones. All hair and pink flesh that looked like it wasn't made to see the light of day. Of course, Jameson was considerably swarthy, and none on the frail side. Frizya closed her eyes and began to recite in her head the Epic of Equilibrium, a poem some two-hundred pages long whose introductory verse took up ten that had to be memorized in her youth. She had said the words aloud so often, and penned them into her back with the lashes of a flog. They came like breathing, now.<br><br>Eventually she drifted into a sort of thin somnolence that wasn't quite sleep- it held no relief from tension or frustration and instead seemed to vaguely embody them. The shifting light through her lids called those eyes open as the setting sun threw a rising shadow into the window- that of a spire across town. The sky was deep blue with gashes of rose and a sea of night shadows blooming at the horizon. It wasn't time to leave yet, but it would be in a matter of minutes. The sound of her bootfalls on the wood were the first noises in the room, followed by more as she lit candles at the hearth, set them on the table, and began to button her doublet back up.<br><br>"Jameson. Ready yourself. We're leaving."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>18-01-2016, 18:08:10</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man woke alert and quickly, to his credit, one hand diving into the wolf's pelt for a dagger that wasn't there even as reflexive muscle action rolled him to his knees to meet whatever might be there. "Oof.. h-hah wow that's a bit more than it was," his voice was tight with discomfort, but the man shrugged the tension away from himself like water off a duck's back, pushing himself more steadily to his feet. Certainly he was more sure in his movements, though his breath hitched now and then as he got up and stretched, "Fff..." he trembled for a moment, tensing and testing his muscles from his legs on up until he was satisfied, "Well, nothin' lasting. Ribs'e sore, but the lung's not messed up, I guess." <br><br>The mercenary looked down at himself and idly picked at his bandages for a moment before he nodded to himself, "Gimme a second t'get sorted then eh? Foo.. was I out long?" his head felt much clearer and as he felt around in his hair he noticed that the goosegg he'd gained from the clubbing early that morning had gone down to a mildly uncomfortable lump, "Gotta hand it t'yer Bast medics, whateve they do to distill their poppy syrup, it's potent!" Jameson rubbed his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his head before yawning again and giving himself a little shake.<br><br>The man certainly wasn't as limber and graceful as he had been but he also wasn't as stiff-limbed and complacent as he'd been when following Frizya along through a haze of drugs. "Did you get any rest, or was it more about keepin' an eye on things?" he sounded concerned, though it was of a professional sort as he drew a chair over and began to dress. The undershirt went on first and was stuffed into the trousers before being belted. It didn't take the man long to shrug the rest of his gear on, the motion serving to help him test his body's current limitations, finding that he didn't have a full range of motion in his arms and that breathing too deeply brought a deep, burning ache in his side. <br><br>He was dressed in all but his pelt before he moved to the table and snagged an egg, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully as he combed his hair back with his fingers. Alert and poised, the man was every bit the mercenary from the bar even if he had been hurt. The pouch of drugs vanished somewhere on his person, as did his knives and daggers, the baldric settling across his body and the sword on his back. Jameson bent and swept up the pelt, pinning it on and nodding to himself. A few strides took him to the window and he peered out into the sunset sky, splashed with brilliant colour, the dawn's final hurrah before the endless curtain of shadowy night was drawn across the land.<br><br>"Heh, twilight. The killer's hour," he squatted to cinch the small belts on his boots that held them and the knives tucked inside up against his legs. When he stood, the man clucked his tongue, "Prolly be another murder soon enough. Lotta people think you wanna kill someone in the dead of night, but twilight's better for it. Yer limned in shadows and the light's still dazzling enough thatcha can get away." he shrugged mildly, "You're ready t'go then? Let's get to Che-Rozan'n see what's goin' on." the man paused, then raised his brows, "That's the plan right? Everythin' after the Cap'n's a mite hazy in spots." Jameson grabbed the now-dry cigar off the mattress and stuck it in his mouth, neglecting to light it just then.<br><br>He remembered talking to Frizya and that she'd mentioned he'd see what she meant by her smithing when he got to her estate, "Or do we gotta detour to your place awhile?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>18-01-2016, 20:46:13</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Frizya was a large and neutral object looming nearby as Jameson woke, her lids low and her expression impassive. She had paused in her redressing, and after a beat went back to the buttoning of her doublet while the mercenary stretched and got reacquainted with his body. She slid a look over to Jameson as he redressed and reached for her sword belt. "That's...good, all things considered." It felt odd to say that, given that she had been a huge part of his damages.<br><br>As he spoke, she squinted. "...Long enough for the sun to set, clearly." She hefted the belt around her hips and settled it in place with a shake as it was buckled. Her scabbard dragged shortly on the wood as she picked it up to strap into the harness and once it was set there she slipped her gloves back on. "One of us had to." And the man drugged up under a wolf pelt certainly wasn't going to be the one.<br><br>At the door, Frizya lifted her brows in consideration. Indeed, given the history of things, there was very likely someone hunting their next target. "Possibly. We're going to the estate first. We leave for Che-Rozen tomorrow."<br><br>From there they had to leave the quiet and safety of the backroom behind. By the time someone came to put out the fire and fetch Jameson's bloody wash water, they'd be gone. Frizya led them downstairs and along a narrow hall that connected the working space with the stable, and they came out to the horse stalls where the Keeper strode purposefully towards a black head. The horse was outfitted with tack that would likely need to be exchanged before they arrived at Che-Rozen, for it was a bit too fine in the way of hardware not to stand out. The beast was hale and a bit shaggy of coat, considering the weather.&nbsp; The stall next to the mare held a bright eyed bay all harnessed up and ready. Frizya opened the stall door and lead out a horse that seemed eager to nose along her neck and head. She mounted quickly, again irritated that she didn't have her coat, for the night was always a bit damp and somewhat brisk. Riding seemed to explain, to an extent, the bowing musculature of her legs. She waited for Jameson to take to his steed before passing the silent nightwatch and leaving the stable for the empty roads beyond. They moved through quiet, cobbled streets and across dark stone bridges as shadows consumed more and more of the city, eventually letting the crescent moon throw a weak blue effulgence on the scenes.<br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>18-01-2016, 23:50:52</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Yeah I know, yer not one much gifted in small talk, but that's okay." Jameson chuckled lightly and nodded, getting himself together the rest of the way and heading off with Frizya toward the stables. Jameson might have spent more time on foot than horseback but there was something soothing about the barn smells, the hay and the animals, the shit and the sweat of those who toiled there. Real work was done there even if people often overlooked it, life and death happened between the walls of the stalls and every little battle compounded into something greater, something... more. When Frizya took her mount, Jameson opened the stall next to it, where the shaggier horse resided.<br><br>"Heh, dunno yer name but don't worry bud, I won't mess with ya 'long as you keep up yer end, mmkay?" he usually liked to greet a new horse with an apple, dried or otherwise, but all he had on him was a piece of bread squished around the pickled plums that had been left for him. Well, he'd snack on that later probably; you never knew where the next meal came from, so it paid to ensure that you at least knew where the snacks were. Jameson reached up alongside the horse's neck, rubbing his hands along the broad expanse of flesh there and slowly bringing his itching, scratching fingertips to the large beast's ears, "There we go, gonna be fast friends you and me, ain't that right?" he patted the horse and led it out of its pen before swinging up into the saddle and settling atop it.<br><br>Jameson rode easily along with Frizya, trying not to notice how effortless her seat in the saddle seemed, nor how natural and, well, good she looked while riding. He was only human after all and the exotic Eternian, when she wasn't busy actively trying to be a huge drag, seemed noble of bearing and altogether too focused on anything except having a good time. Seemed like a challenge, though not one Jameson was particularly enticed by. It was the woman beneath the arrogant anger that interested him, although he'd be a liar if he said that the woman herself wasn't full flush the type he would otherwise look at twice, perhaps five times. The person he'd noticed though under all of those spikes and blades was someone he wanted to know further, to reconcile with the person she presented so that perhaps he could understand her. Of course Jameson was also old enough to notice when his libido was making what was possibly a stupid idea seem like a halfway good one.<br><br>"Hmm.. streets are pretty dead tonight. Pardon the pun. Did the Order put out a curfew perhaps?" he had been asleep and didn't know the specifics of what was going on except for the contract he'd agreed to with Varse. As they rode, his eyes sought out each shadow and hiding place and more than once he found himself with a small knife palmed as he worked the reins of his horse to look as though he wasn't skillful enough to guide with his knees. It wasn't that he was paranoid, Jameson was simply careful and walking into the unknown with sharp hands tended to make the unknown a bit easier to cut through when it rose up.<br><br>Still, from his perspective there wasn't much going on and even in the dark, the clear skies and the wan light of the cresent moon were clear enough to see by when coupled with starlight. It helped that he'd honed much of his craft in the dark places though, where light was a detriment more than any kind of aid. It paid in spades to be able to see with your other senses, especially on murkier nights when one couldn't see three feet before their eyes let alone far afield like that night allowed. He peered Frizya's way and wondered whether she could see especially well in the dark with those gold eyes of hers.. Eternians were a strange lot, Jameson didn't know much about them to be honest, "When did you start with the horses, LaFont?" he could tell that the one she rode was at least passing familiar with her from its attitude; his own was somewhat standoffish to command, thinking perhaps in its horse-brain that it knew better than he did. The beast didn't trust him, yet, but could he blame it?<br><br>After all, Jameson refused to work with people he couldn't trust. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>19-01-2016, 02:03:21</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				There was certainly something to be said for the way the Eternian rode; while she was a cold and stolid outcropping in a general city setting, she poured naturally into a saddle. Even in the brief and fading light of the stables there was an instant accord between her horse and herself, and in that context it was easy to see where the affinity bled into relation. Both horse and rider moved with a heavy rolling grace that both foretold their considerable weight and a capability within their own bodies. Judging by the neat braid down the first half of the mare's tail, it could even be said that they might have shared the same hair. <br><br>Bitter outlook or no, Frizya always noticed when someone bothered to be kindly towards a horse. Funny, that, since she didn't seem to think too much about kindness otherwise. The silence that followed was a relief in and of itself, for it was much better than pained noises or the halt of a horse because its rider was in too much pain to proceed. If that happened she'd likely have demanded he take enough medicine to knock him out, and then draped him over the extra mount. Surely that would have pained him in the morning. As it was it was bad enough that they couldn't really pick up to a full gallop, even once past the gate at the end of the city's main bridge.<br><br>"I doubt it." Her voice came, muffled from the direction of her speech into the wind. "They might have had the general law do so, however." Night descended in full, and Frizya looked out on the farmlands and thin roadways. It hardly occurred to her that she might see a touch better in the dark than a human, for it wasn't something that came up in conversation, and it wasn't all that dramatic of a difference, not that she figured. <br><br>They cantered along the road, the path a lighter moonlit streak in the glossy black of the weedy grasses outside of the pastures. At times the ground heaved into hills and the path curved, to the point that should they look back they would see the dim cluster of the city somewhat below them. "Childhood, I suppose." She had cared for the horses they had, and bred them a few times. Some of the equines had been traded off or sold, over the years.<br><br>Halfway through their ride the way became more downhill than anything else, skirting inky copses that at times reached over them and shattered the moonlight into drops. It was nearly an hour in passing before they came close to the silhouette of a hall-house. Torches beckoned at either end of the L-shaped home, its grey stones and dark outer crossbeams obvious enough in the glow of night. It was sized for a family not of the peasant sort, but no light, crystal, wax or otherwise, glowed from within. A ways off, small homes dotted the outlying fields of the estate on either side, separated by a great expanse of planted field. Behind the house was nothing but pitch black forest. The home itself was surrounded by a high stone fence with an iron gate. Frizya dismounted to unlock the thing, and it groaned open. She waited for Jameson to ride in and pulled her horse a head a few steps before closing the gate and walking across the yard with the horse's halter in-hand.<br><br>The home was two stories tall on one side and one on the other- likely because nothing was in that wing but animals. Indeed, past the door Frizya struck a sunstone lantern to reveal it was all stalls and mangers, the beady eyes of sheep and one immensely tall horse looking at them. Their horses would be stripped of their tack and left in open stalls to sleep and feed where they may as the two moved through to the door on the opposite side. Again, once inside the house proper, she struck a lantern and threw an orange glow upon the interior. The space was long and somewhat wide, a massive hearth in the center near a long table with a few root veggies and eggs, and a massive rug covering the stone floor. The door they had just come through and the one awaiting at the other end of the hall were both more than banded with iron, they were reinforced with winding scrollwork that bore a horse's head and elegantly curved neck along near the door's handle. Two iron floor chandeliers awaited the kiss of flame- one was a standard array of candles in a circular frame held up by a single pole. The second, however, took the form of a rearing horse as tall as a child, its weight propped by the back legs and a pole extending from the folded forelegs. The mane was made of pulled points of hammered iron, some dozen or so of them, and each point held in it a ring for a candle. <br><br>Frizya was an artist. Not a swordsmith. That didn't mean there weren't also blades hanging from the wall- there were. The space could easily have held warm and raucous family meals, but had not in some time. She lead him to a circle of lambswool-covered benches and sat herself, more to gather her mind about the next task than anything else.<br><br>A coat of arms hung over the empty fireplace, black and gold with spanning horns crowned by fire. Woven into it and surrounded by symbolic knotwork were two names: Auxbrule and LaFont. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>20-01-2016, 00:56:12</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson, ever alert, was mentally ticking things off as they approached the estate. The wall was high and likely smooth-plastered to stave off climbers, chances were the fencing went all the way around through the stones and poked up where he couldn't see, something for would-be thieves to stab and gouge themselves on. The house was dark; no-one home? Perhaps Frizya didn't keep servants, which both made sense to him and jogged at his mind as strange, given her station and the relative opulance the Keepers lived in, even though they didn't indulge like the aristocracy would. There was only the one opening that he could see, but Jameson doubted that there was only the one way in or out; any others were likely back closer to that pitch swath of forest in the rear, or concealed in a cellar.<br><br>It didn't occur to the man that he might be considered to be casing the joint, but before one went anywhere with anyone, a good rule of thumb was to make sure you knew your way out. Preferably multiple ways out to make sure of multiple contingencies. He rested one hand on the horn of his saddle, where he'd long left the reins to rest to keep his hands free. The dampness of the night had left his hands somewhat chilled so he'd tucked them against his thighs, regarding the forbodingly dark estate with some suspicion. He dismounted in the stalls with Frizya and looked around, noting the other animals before helping to strip their horses of tack. "Awright buddy, get some rest huh?" he patted his horse again and smiled to the beast, having found the animal rather agreeable.<br><br>Even as they entered her home, Jameson wasn't exactly sure what to do with himself. He hooked his thumbs behind his belt and perused the hall they had entered, his eyes taking in everything he could in a few sweeps, from the wrought-iron artistry inherant to the small spaces in the room, not to mention the large floor-chandelier shaped like a horse. The man stepped across to it and leaned in, inspecting the sweep of the pulled iron and the elegance of the lines of the horse's sculpted face and mane before Frizya led him to some benches and seated herself. The man sat carefully and wriggled a bit to get comfortable, "Huh.. place is a mite empty, innit?" <br><br>Honestly he didn't know what to say just then. Complementing Frizya's art seemed like a good route, but was it hers? She hadn't mentioned that, so it could have been Varse's he supposed, or someone's gift to the family. Ultimately he shifted his cigar around a bit before leaning forward and resting a hand on his knee, "It's nice though, roomy." the mercenary doubted that Frizya would throw him a bone though and while thinking of something to say on the fly was a cinch, carrying on a conversation with someone who gave one word answers and grunts was wearing.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>20-01-2016, 02:07:41</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				It felt wrong to have someone in her home like this. There were times when that happened- but even then it was some manner of vassal or temporary attendant who would keep their thoughts to themselves, do what they'd been hired to do, and leave after receiving payment. Jameson was not one of those people. With a tired sort of weight to her actions, Frizya slowly pulled her neck kerchief out from her vest and began to untie it. "The hall is, yes." Came her terse reply. She left the blue silk loose around her neck and pulled off her gloves. Eventually she stood and walked down the long space to grab the simpler iron chandelier, hefting the heavy thing in one hand and bringing it down again by the benches to begin the work of lighting some of the candles.<br><br>She was silent. Honestly she wasn't sure what to say. 'Thank you?' for what, stating a fact? Yes, it was a roomy domicile. 'Glad you like it'? Was she? Not particularly. Meanwhile, she was trying to organize her thoughts into a solid plan of action. At length she took up a couple of candles in one hand, separating them in her grip with her middle finger, and bent to gather the sheepskins from the other 3 benches and with a short singlehanded lift and toss, hang them over her other forearm. Wax dripped from the candles onto her bare fingers; she breathed deeply and refused to flinch.<br><br>"Come upstairs." She lead him to the back of the hall and opened the door there with her boot. It revealed a winding staircase that brought them to the upper floor, a space that seemed somewhat taller with higher rafters, than the floor below. As they passed the nearest door, which was slightly ajar and leading to more unlit furnishings, Frizya yanked it shut with her hide covered arm. Immediately she contemplated wax-sealing the jamb, and wondered if she should move the padlock from the pantry below to this door. She moved past another room- her own, and opened the door across from it. The candle's glow revealed the wide, low bed that filled it- a bed that was currently only a frame and the ropes that would support a mattress. Frizya walked in, touched the candles to the candelabra mounted on the wall, and tossed the skins on the bed ropes. The room held a writing desk with gold inlay that had likely been put together at least 70 years prior, and was carpeted with wool from wall to wall. The shelf on the far wall near the window was empty, but a large wash tub occupied the corner there, draped with oilcloth and peeking from behind a dressing screen. "You can put your things in here, I'll go get the mattress...and start a fire for the water."<br><br>The mattresses were all rolled up in a massive chest at the end of the hall, but it didn't take long to get one and shake it out over the ropes of the bedframe. Meanwhile, her mind was preoccupied with the awkward, mild disgrace of having to prepare this man something or other to eat. Had he been a Keeper, it wouldn't have felt so odd. Had she not been beating him hours before, it would have felt more natural.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>20-01-2016, 21:21:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Honestly the man was beginning to feel a bit trapped by Frizya's seemingly unending store of hostility and chafed hospitality. She all but ordered him upstairs and at length the man heaved a sigh and pushed himself to his feet, keeping a mindful pace behind the Eternian while glancing about, his eyes always moving even when he wasn't. Jameson swept his fingers back through his hair, a habit that cropped up when he was thinking, or upset, annoyed or just ticked off in general, though he couldn't place just what about this situation was bothering him the way it was. It didn't make much sense to really give a damn about Frizya's attitude; by all accounts it was a marked improvement from what she'd been like when he'd first met her. <br><br>She seemed plenty used to and welcoming of pain though, judging from the way the woman held those candles and didn't even wince as the wax rolled down her fingers. Penitent possibly; she was a Keeper after all, they were an order heavily couched in religion and religion tended to err more toward why one was a wretched creature than why one might be exalted in the eyes of their particular Creator. Fastidiously controlling of her personal spaces as well if he was one to judge based on actions. That door bothered Frizya more than she would admit if he asked, Jameson could practically see her hackles raised over the thing not sitting just so. Was it someone else's room, or perhaps someplace that the woman simply didn't care to visit? <br><br>When Frizya left for the mattress Jameson had felt that he'd had about enough of her for now. Frizya was far from the worst hostess he'd endured, but she was hardly one to make things seem like they weren't as awkward as a club-legged whore. "Don't worry about the water, I'll be fine until we get to where we're going. No sense mussing the bandages, it'd be a waste." her words came back at her easily, parroted in the same tight tone of someone keeping a rein on their temper. She might have been preoccupied with the possibilities of the future, but Jameson was rooted more firmly in the now. The bigger picture was made up of the little details, to be certain, but his mindset was more keyed to the latter instead of the former.<br><br>"You've done about enough for tonight, go get some rest." he clearly wasn't asking, judging from the dismissive tone he used. Not a superior telling an inferior to leave, but a person on even footing simply releasing another from a supposed task. That done he tossed his cloak onto the bed and retrieved the chair from the writing desk. While Frizya had been gone he'd tossed the oilcloth over the dressing screen and dragged the tub over, flipping it to serve as a makeshift table. He shucked his myriad of edges and blades as well as his baldric and settled onto the chair, arranging his weapons in front of him along with a tightly bundled kit which had been hooked onto his outer belt near the small of his back.<br><br>It seemed Jameson elected to carry his kit on his person rather than in a bag, because when he unrolled the worn leather pouch it held a well used and thought out blade-keeping kit. Each knife and dagger was freed of its sheath and his hand-and-a-half laid naked on the tub. That done, the man dribbled a bit of oil onto a stone with a clear curve worn into it, working it in with his thumb before he began to run it along the edge of a blade. It wasn't a true sharpening, more of a honing, preventative maintenance. His hand swept casually, confidently over the glinting lengths of his weapons, first with the stone to take any burrs and such off and then again with the cloth. The mercenary worked one blade after the next, efficiently wiping each down with an oil-stained soft cloth that he'd kept in a seperate sealed pouch so as not to make a mess. Careful but sure, Jameson's thick, scarred fingers curled around the blade to keep the cloth in place as he cleaned the stone's residue from it.<br><br>Once cleaned, each blade was returned to its mated sheath until he got to the sword. He hefted the crudely forged weapon and ran a thumb along its incongruous edge; in the light away from conflict it was clear that the blade hadn't been forged for the ugly hilt that it was bonded to. This he simply rubbed down with the cloth before returning it to the scabbard and laying it alongside the other weapons. Curiously, he hadn't lit the mangled cigar for the task, though it had seemed a calm and methodical one. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>20-01-2016, 23:21:33</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Any religious text was full of rules and no matter if they were explicit or vague, a person always interpreted them to suit their own goals. This happened even with ideals, no gods needed. The Order was a curious group for it did not openly consider itself adjunct to the church and very rarely invoked the name of god; they simply distilled every virtue in the good books, seeing them as universal ties to the cosmic balances they obsessively upheld. Order. Not just Order, but a Natural Order.<br><br>What few knew was how far they'd go to keep it from falling into disarray- as if any living being really could.<br><br>But to suffer was to truly live, for the body was useless without usage and direction. It was a waste if not bent to the cause. What was a pain of the flesh in the long run? And how could it even compare to the righteousness of good, which was done not through complacency but sacrifice. Comfort, body, time...something must always be sacrificed for progress. That room and its contents were as private as her undergarments, and while it hadn't previously occurred to her that Jameson might want to slink about and orient himself with the different rooms of her home, once the thought cropped up in her mind it would not be still. She didn't want to think about the assumptions he'd draw upon looking at the spartan room, with its ritual flogger and tome and blood-stained wood. ...She had scrubbed so much to remove it, but in the end it became a losing battle. No one saw that room and new blood sprayed it from time to time. Total erasure of the stain would be a wasted effort.<br><br>In the smaller bedroom, Frizya cut her eyes to Jameson, clenching her molars around the sound of her words returned to her. Hm. So be it. She slid her loosened kerchief from her neck, the brand on her hand gleaming in the candlelight, and shrugged. "We'll talk tomorrow, then." The door closed with the drifting touch of her fingers, and she walked across the hall. In her own room, she disrobed down to her breeches, boots and shirtsleeves before putting her tub in the wide dumbwaiter. Back downstairs, she set a fire and nursed it a while in silence, her brain mulling over their assignment constantly. She felt...guilty? Perhaps? Her mind wasn't familiar with the sensation as it applied to others- about the fact that she was heating water anyway; that had always been the plan, but when Jameson decided he was done with her, she really wasn't the type to press the issue. At length she hefted the deep iron hearth pot over to the cistern of well-water she kept near the door and filled it so she could heat it to boiling. In the meantime, the fire needed to grow, and the pot needed to heat. She left for the door to the subterranean marble larder and unlocked the latch before setting it aside for later.<br><br>It was some time before the stairs thudded and the dumbwaiter rumbled with the sounds of her pulling up a basin full of two kettles' worth of water- one piping hot and one cool. Having Jameson here was throwing her off of the routine of her day, and for it she felt a bit like she was out of her own skin. She had stripped, bathed, wound her watch and dressed for bed in a loose linen tunic and stretchy woolen hose...all without remembering to lock the other room upstairs. In bed, she meditated over the Nine Oaths of The Order and tried not to think about what Jameson had said in the tunnels. 'Touch herself at night', tch! He was a disgusting fool in that right, no matter how skilled he was with a blade.<br><br><hr><br>The next morning was cool and bright, and Frizya woke to it before the hazy shadows of dawn had truly receded. The first thing she had to do after her ablutions was consider Jameson's advice...<br><br>Downstairs, she'd put eggs, barley and chunks of cured lamb in a pot over a fire to boil up a breakfast. She looked quite out of place tending it herself, especially with what she was wearing. Her regular boots had been traded for higher riding boots- they were just as old, but infrequently worn, and the blackened leather had been tanned and polished to a deeper lustre. Her breeches bore subtle vertical striping that drew the eye up the thick curves of her legs and to the black double-breasted doublet she wore. The buttons were brass and the sleeves were slashed with gold jacquard fabric. The front piece and lower sleeves were leather, and the latter wrapped tightly at her wrists. There, the cuff of her undershirt peeked, lined with the tasseling that adorned so much Eternian cultural attire. A wide belt cinched everything at her waist and harnessed a purse and a sword that did not bear the cutbolt on the pommel, and rest in a plain sheath. Her hair flowed loosely down her back in thick, inky waves, kept away from the sides of her face by two thin braids that traveled back from her temples and curved back to the nape of her neck, leaving her hair to fall partially over her face and down her shoulders from the center line of her skull.<br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>21-01-2016, 16:51:24</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				As Frizya got herself settled for the night, Jameson was going about his usual business when bedding down in a strange place. Once his weapons were thoroughly cleaned and sharpened, Jameson went over the rest of his kit, oiling the links of mail he wore beneath his jerkin and the leather straps and such that bound his outfit together. By the end of it he was stripped to the waist again and despite his injuries set to stretching his body and working with muffled hisses through the pain that the motion brought about. Jameson found that with effort and limbering up he could move his arms and legs as fully as he'd like, even if drawing a full breath still hurt.<br><br>Come morning, when Jameson rolled smoothly off the bed and to his feet, he found that the pains which had roared at him in ragged red tones had receded to a dull throb and a deeper ache that he chalked up to age. Ten years back he'd have been up hours earlier and working through exercises and martial forms to limber up. Now though, he was wrung from a more rugged cloth and at his age Jameson considered himself rather seasoned. He climbed into his clothes and combed his hair back with his fingers, strapping his weapons into place and finishing as usual with that wol's pelt that he used so much.<br><br>The man headed downstairs, finding his way back to the main hall he'd been shown with the sort of area recall that came from years of needing such information. Rather than root through Frizya's home, he simply went for the goal of the hall and pushed the door open, entering the space easily. His feet fell naturally lightly even in all of his gear and, as Frizya might have noticed, all that really gave the man away was the rustle of fabric as he moved. Silence was golden in many ways, but often it had saved his life to live quietly and pay attention to what around him made the noise. A rock scuffing on a bootheel, a twig snapping in the brush, the soft sigh of steel clearing a sheath a bit too eagerly could all spell death for a man who didn't pay attention.<br><br>He paused, eyes roaming critically over Frizya before he nodded to himself and spoke, "Little too plush and pomp for a merc, but you could pass as a hired sword for an aristocrat's house or vaults." he sniffed the air lightly, catching the scent of the pot heating and absently reaching into his cloak for that cigar he'd started earlier. Jameson crossed the room with full strides, a marked change from the careful mincing steps he'd been taking since being handled. Clearly he was feeling much better, though it didn't bear mentioning without being asked. Well typically it might, but Frizya's attitude was beginning to rub off on him, try as he might to remain jovial.<br><br>The mercenary knelt briefly and picked up a small firebrand, puffing at the mangled cigar to light it before casting the small stick back into the hearth. He stood, drawing deeply from the cigar and rolling his right shoulder slowly. "How'd you sleep?" best to be the first to broach a conversation even if it were just smalltalk, or she wouldn't speak at all until it was time for them to leave.<br><br>"Gimme somethin' to work with when you answer though awright? 'Fine' is all well and good, but maybe continue with a leading statement that we can build a rapport from, hm?" his tone was entirely casual, which might have come off condescending, but he wasn't trying to be snide with the Eternian, "Oh, you look good today, by the by."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>21-01-2016, 20:02:32</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"I wasn't aiming for a mercenary. It's just not realistic." She gently lifted one of the poached eggs up and out of the surface of the porridge just enough to see if it was cooked enough to hold itself together. While the hall itself was cool, a chill leeching from the very stones of the floor, the hearth roared and crackled with a lively fire, one that was making her&nbsp; uncomfortably hot. She tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot and turned to face Jameson, placing the utensil on the long table. The eggs, now in the pot, had disappeared as well as the root veggies, and now a handful of stonefruits and a wedge of cheese took their places among knives with fetchingly twisted iron handles, and a sterling carving fork with a carved bone handle. <br><br>"Enough to wake again," came her disinterested answer. She wasn't really surprised when Jameson complained. He seemed to take issue with who she was as a person- which he had since they first met. That much likely would never change, she figured. What was she going to say? 'Oh, I slept well! I closed my eyes and rolled over and then I woke up hours later, what a cheery thing!' That wasn't worth saying. She set her gloved hands wide apart on the edge of the table and leaned over it, squaring the merc in her sights. "It would help you to understand that-"...and she stopped for his compliment, as much as if he had tossed a ball of wool into her mouth. She stared, sighed, and turned back to the fire, shaking out her literal mane with one hand. The metal loop of the kettle clanked as she lifted it off of the hook and pulled it from the fire, and with a heavy clang the iron feet came down on the wood. "I only say what needs to be said. I live my personal life in relative silence." She huffed a frustrated, derisive sigh through her prominent nose and cut her dark eyes at him. "If you didn't expect so much you'd be disappointed less often."<br><br>She plucked a glazed bowl from a shelf next to the hearth and fished through the rich pottage for one of the chunks of fatty, salty lamb before dropping it into the bowl and pouring the barley mash over it, a poached egg sliding onto the pile. She stuck a wide wooden spoon in it and offered it to her partner, looking back to the pot and her own portioning as she cast off a response. "There wasn't any use expecting aught else rougher, I wear what I have and what fits and it's certainly not homespun and unseamed pelts." If there was humor in the cock of her bold brow, it was personally kept.<br><br>Frizya ate standing, putting the fruits and wrapped cheese in a deep leather pouch as she chewed. When she was done, she walked over to the low window and looked out at the fields. The sheep were out. Good. A quick jerk opened the door and she called out, her voice bellowing: "<strong>Kaydan!</strong>" The wood banged back into its jamb and she returned to her meal.<br><br>In the full light of day the coat of arms over the hearth was easier to see. It was patterned with a harlequin design, within each diamond a circle of the alternating color- all in black and the darkest red. The golden span of horns with its crown of flames was done in fine pure gold thread shaved and stretched and woven in to the canvas. Beneath the horns, a family tree. The name "MiqTanzanni" was first and oldest, woven in a yellow-dyed wool that had faded over the years. From it came "MiqTanzanni - D'hassce" and "LaFont - MiqTanzanni", then, parallel to that, in the same new gold "AuxBrule -"<br><br>The doors to the hall were older than the branching decorative iron banding that sprawled across them, and in time one groaned open and a dark-haired human lad came in, bowing at the waist as he caught his breath. He looked a commoner, but certainly not as if he ever risked skipping a meal. <em>"Morning, officer.</em>"<br><br>"Kaydan, I need a favor of you or your kin." Frizya fished a silver coin and a copper bit from her pouch and handed it to him. "A quiet one. I won't be back for some time, I need you to keep an eye on the sheep and make sure Titan gets turned out and back in. As usual, nothing about where I am needs to be said. You can eat of whatever's in the larder while you're here, you and your sister. Give the animals water from the cisterns, not from the well, or it will go off. Understood?"<br><br>The boy was staring at Jameson. He wasn't used to seeing anyone else in the manor, but as soon as he was aware of Frizya's piercing gaze, he looked down at his feet, nodding with alacrity. <em>"O'course, officer. Thank you, officer. I'm gonnae go tell my mum."</em> And that he did, running off with his fist tight around his coin, bolting off through the field to the small house away from the woods. The one nearer all that was not a house. It was a smithy.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>22-01-2016, 16:31:21</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Eh, didn't know that conversation between people was expecting a lot. I just asked you to make some noises with your mouth that coincide with my mouth noises, it's not quite the same as designing new silk knickers for the Queen." the man accepted the bowl from Frizya and gave it a sniff, nodding lightly as if satisfied and smirking at her statement about not owning homespun and pelts. If there was humour there the man found it and chortled, absently nudging a chair away from the table and plunking down into it. With practiced ease and a standard disregard for formality Jameson propped the chair back on two legs and rested the bowl on one knee, "Shame that. Homespun's itchy at first but it works in nicely, and pelts are easy to come by. Can't all have seamstresses to rival court duchy after all, so we lesser sellswords make due." Jameson's tone was cordial and affable, as if he were accepting this as the only real sort of conversation that they might have.<br><br>When Kaydan came in Jameson raised a brow questioningly, spooning the now-cooler pottage into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully while Frizya issued commands. She paid handsomely for what was negligible effort and gave clear instructions; she'd done this before for extended time away and likely used the same agents for it, if agents they could be called. Whether or not he approved wasn't forthcoming as his eyes slid from the dark-haired boy to the coat of arms upon the wall, picking out names and arranging them mentally into their proper pairs as evidenced by the family tree. <br><br>Once the boy was gone he gestured with a spoon licked clean of the congealing mash, "You folk have some interestin' names. Bet an announcin' herald has a hell of a time with a party of Eternians, eh?" he chuckled, scraping the bowl and finishing off his meal before letting the chair hit the floor with a <em>-clunk-</em> that was followed by the whispering scuff of his soft-soled boots as the man stood up and cast the bowl to the table for the moment. <br><br>His mind was going over what he knew of their mission in a sort of back-of-the-hearth sense, letting the information bubble and churn on its own and letting his subconscious mess with it as it would. Best not to worry oneself overly with vague details and too many holes in the telling. It'd come togther in time, "Y'know I bet Kayden's mum coulda fitted you nice with somethin' she made while I hunted ya out a buck or somethin'." he shrugged mildly and covered his mouth for a yawn that came unbidden. The meal was filling, sticking to the ribs and that always made Jameson feel a mite sluggish.<br><br>"So we're ridin' out to Che-Rozen, 'roundabouts the far side and comin' in from there, yeah?" Jameson clucked his tongue and looked out over the field, the light casting his stubbled profile almost nobly, in that low-born way his facial features had. High brow, sloped just so to a slightly receded hairline. Blunt nose, thick from birth and from more than one break, though it hadn't been set incorrectly. Wide cheekbones and a prominently-squared jawline gave the appearance of a man meant to weather the ages rather than bend to them, though it was all set off by scars from the hairline to the thicker, chasing one another, hiding beneath the skin and diving beneath the covering of his pelt. The man's eyes were bright though, always moving to examine something or another and thoughtful, twin wells that led deeply into who Jameson was, even if he did his best to come off elsewise. <br><br>The man snuffed the stub of his cigar on the sole of his boot and tucked it into a belt pouch, working his tongue absently over his lips to wet them, "What's the plan when we arrive? Convene with a Keeper agent t'learn what's goin' down, tuck into a safehouse until we have an idea what we're up against?" not his style; if it were up to Jameson they would have been out amongst the common folk, pretending to peruse street stalls and the like while listening to the rumourmill grind out its own particular flour.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>22-01-2016, 17:41:53</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Keeping watch over her animals (and an eye on her home) might have been seen as negligible effort to some, but her animals were as important to her as her privacy. The sheep were valuable enough for what they were, but the horses she kept close to her heart. What's more, her draft Titan was an exceptional breeding stud who tended to sprain a pastern if he was let out after being penned for too long, and she didn't want to risk it.<br><br>Frizya kept her eyes on her food once she was done tucking away the fruit and cheese, and looked up when Jameson commented on Eternian names. Instantly she knew <em>why</em> he brought it up, and her chest filled on a slow sigh. "He's my <em>half-</em>brother." she admitted with a corrective air, and said nothing more on the matter. To explain things further felt oddly revelatory and she didn't have the heart.<br><br>She kept her mind on her food for the time being, scooping up spoonfuls of the thickened mash and letting it slide comfortingly hot down her throat. Each mouthful carved its way around her eggs and lamb, and she ate them last...on thoughtful mouthfuls as she cast her white-less eyes over to the merc at the window. Veiled by her almost incongruously long lashes, Frizya's gold-ringed gaze raked over Jameson from his age-peppered hair to the meat of his hands, and all the girth in-between. She thought back to his cavalier smirk and cocky lean in the victualler's.<br><br><em>..."Which is it, LaFont?"</em><br><br>"I'll bet not. She's busy enough for me and I do not want a bloody deer skin pelt, no matter how you pine to see me in one." She set her bowl on the table and ladled a bit of water into both of them from a bucket underneath. Normally she'd clean them herself, but there was enough to do today; it would be fine to keep the starch from sticking to the wood long enough for Kaydan or his kin to clean them while snacking on what she kept in the larder. Her eyes swept up again to find Jameson looking out over the fields and she caught herself remembering the way his throat had felt in her hands. Seemed so out of place now...but she always remembered the heat of her victims.<br><br>"That we are, coming in from a side road to keep from being too prominent." She ran gloved fingers through her loose hair, slightly annoyed. There was a reason she always kept it braided, and it wasn't just for fashion's sake. It was easier to keep neat. Even with the thinner braids along her scalp a couple inches in keeping it out of her face and smooth along the sides of her head, her hair was thick, wavy, and somewhat unruly. Part of her liked it- the part of her that liked to see her horses run around the fields, arching their necks, tossing their manes- but a larger part of her preferred neatness over anything else.<br><br>"Yes....and no. We'll meet with someone from the Order but we won't be holing up anywhere; nothing will get done. Varse's assertion that I tend to keep my eyes on commoners isn't for naught. ...And I didn't get dressed like this to stay boxed in by four walls. In any event, we should make to ride."<br><br>When all was said and done, they could leave the hall for the grounds outside. Across the main yard, the pastures spread down towards the smithy and the woods and the river beyond. Sheep dotted one side, and four horses grazed closer to the fence. One was the bay from the inn, one was the black mare Frizya had ridden, one was a black broodmare and the last, Titan, was a pitch-colored workhorse, a hulking heavy thing easily five hands higher than her rather densely built mare, and twice as broad through the neck. It trotted over with a dancer's grace when Frizya whistled. It came as no surprise that the rest of the horses followed. For all her vitriol, the woman held a soft affection in her eyes when she looked at the animals- their inquisitive dark eyes, velvety noses, pricked ears. Titan, the draft, leaned his heavy head out the furthest as she approached the fence, and she pet his chin when they drew close.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>22-01-2016, 19:02:37</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Uh, alright. Didn't ask about the Cap'n there, but okay." interesting, but Jameson had more been wondering if they chose the excessively floral naming conventions culturally or whether it was simply a matter of differentiating themselves further. The majority of his close experience with Eternians was with Frizya and Varse, which was to say not all that much. The surnames all held an elegant tone, the ones he'd seen anyway and between Frizya and Varse he got a generally holier-than-thou attitude. Of course that might also have been their status as Keepers, but Jameson didn't know for sure and neither LaFont nor the Cap'n seemed all that forthcoming with information about themselves.<br><br>He cracked a grin at her statement and laughed, the sort of deep belly laugh that came from a place of real enjoyment more than any kind of polite admission that something might have been funny in some way. After a moment he reined it in, wiping tears from his eyes and snickering yet, "Heheh, well, maybe one day I'll finally fill the hole in my soul that is seeing Officer LaFont in naught but a bloodied deer pelt, but until then I'll have to stick with the mind's eye theatre." he wasn't -really- picturing her like that, but it was funny to Jameson to continue the line of thinking. Of course pausing mentally to try not to only made the picture clearer and that was somewhat startling.. But the man pushed that away and cleaed his throat.<br><br>As they crossed the yard, Jameson kept the conversation rolling, feeling that if he let it die he wouldn't get anything more from her, "Sure, though I don't know how much we'll find out if you're clapping every stumbling drunk and lousy beggar in irons there; maybe try to hold that urge in check a bit? Who knows, you might enjoy yourself a little." the merc grinned, coming to a halt as he watched the horses gathering around LaFont after she whistled. Horses were strange. Smart as they came and understanding of moods and loyalty, much like dogs, but willing to tolerate an entirely different spectrum. A dog would come back to you time and again regardless of circumstance, knowing that you were its world, where a horse would grow to like you and be friendly, if not nealy as devoted. They could read your intent even before you knew it and if you knew a horse well enough, it went where you wished to go simply by the connection of bodies as you rode.<br><br>"Damn, that's a hell of a stallion. Bet that beast could pull down an old oak if you asked him." he grinned, reaching through the fence to stroke and scratch the other horses as they poked their heads over as well. They were mostly looking for Frizya, but like dogs tended to accept any friendly petting as a good thing. "Gotta say, horseback's not the best way to work for what I do, but there ain't nothin' like 'em. Cripes though, this huge guy, you know his bloodline better'n anyone I bet. What's he, pure Northmount stock, or one've the hybrids with the Blacksilks out 'cross the sea?" both stocks were known for size and dark colouration, though the former was more brawny and the latter more smoothly graceful. A hybrid bloodline made sense and would be recognized as one altogether its own. He was honestly curious not from the standpoint of an expert but of someone who was at least middlingly versed in a subject, not a novice though he clearly wasn't an expert either.<br><br>His attitude toward caring for animals came from his interest in them. Sure, Jameson hunted and killed animals, he'd butchered his fair share of swine and cattle as well as game animals, he'd even helped birth a calf or two in his time, but that didn't mean he was bloodthirsty. For him, it was a simple matter of things doing what they were supposed to. Hogs and steers, chickens and rabbits were all food animals in his opinion and while he felt it a simple ethical matter to eat them, he wasn't cruel like some were. "Oh, right. D'you use the same family every time you go? Why not give 'em a live-in position, keep 'em on retainer that way and induct 'em into the household as staff? Ain't no way whatcha asked calls for a silver and a copper plus meals, so you gotta care." clearly he was still trying to feel her out.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>22-01-2016, 20:12:28</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Frizya cast a sidelong glance at her current partner. Any allusion to the day they met made her neck itch. "You do know I never intended to arrest that man...." As incredulous as it had sounded, she meant it. She didn't go throwing people in the Bast for tripping over her- she just bullied them for it. The Bast wasn't made for common fools and drunks, anyway. There weren't nearly enough cells, and Keepers didn't have the time.<br><br>The stallion gave a powerful snort (that was just a little huff to him) and shoved at the gelding from the inn when he felt the bay was getting too much attention. For all his ballsiness, Titan was an agreeable horse, all things considered. He hadn't taken too much to break, and he worked well- though he had a habit of deciding when he was done, and very abruptly at that. Frizya stroked at the long beard of whiskers coming down from the underside of his great black face as Jameson spoke. "Oh he has. Cleared out the area around the spring so I can get between it and the smithy with a wagon." The horse had feathered hooves like platters. It was certainly believable.<br><br>"Titan's line was pure Blacksilk, came over with my kith when they moved from the Purple Ridges. They bred them out to&nbsp; Bettrian Greys for better size without taking on the dishing Northmounts have...then bred them back for color. The goal was a horse that could ride smooth and pull a trough. They got that. Titan is gaited just like Bressa; he's just not made for city streets." Frizya bent to pull a crop from her boot and strode over to the pasture's wooden gate to open it, guiding the mare through along with the haltered inn horse, but keeping the rest fenced. "They live on my land and tend it to earn ownership of the lot. In the meantime, the youths are good for errands and smart enough to know that the coins stop coming if I find out about misdeeds." She walked into the barn, pulling tack from the wall and shaking the straps out. A toss, and Jameson was handed the bridle for the bay. Bressa didn't need to be tied still, and she figured the inn horse didn't, either. She kept her eyes on the black mare as she stood against it, guiding her long head over her shoulder. "I have no idea how long I'll be gone," she continued, her voice exacting, "and the loaves and fruits in the larder won't wait for me to return." She slid the bit into the mare's mouth and began to pull the rest of the bridle up the equine's head. "Might as well keep it from being wasted. ...But I don't like anyone not of my blood living with me, and my own family has moved. I'd prefer solitude." Her eyes on her work, familiar gestures left her closing the throatlatch and gathering the reins before saddling the horse up.<br><br>Bressa was a quiet thing, patient and obedient. Horses could kill a man in a fit if they wished, and some put up a right fight when they were broken. You could do it with a heavy hand, a tight bit, and a whip, but you could also do it with a firm presence and unwavering patience. In the end you could get a towering beast like Titan, with feet that could turn a skull to jelly without effort, to follow behind you like a large, intimidating puppy. The contrast between the animals' size and ability and the gentle reality of one properly trained was immensely endearing.<br><br>In time, Frizya had dressed Bressa in tack that was simpler than what she normally rode in, though the black saddle itself was the same. The blanket underneath was culturally Eternian, lined with worn tassels and patterned with diamonds. She cut an impressive figure atop the mare as they left the estate for the woods, cantering towards the copses and the smithy, her own hair flouncing in the breeze.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>23-01-2016, 00:44:33</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Nah, I didn't know that 'til just now. Call me crazy but you cutbolts can be a mite overzealous at times," the man shrugged mildly and offered Frizya a small smile, the casual look kin to the kind he'd given her back in the bar, "Besides, you weren't all that forthcoming with the information at the time." Jameson didn't seem to mind talking about that night, nor did he seem to be bearing much of a grudge about it aside from throwing the woman's words back in her face from time to time to make a point.<br><br>He nodded along with Frizya's words as she explained Titan's lineage, not really quite understanding the depths to which her knowledge delved but understanding that Frizya was far more knowledgeable than he was in that manner, "Suppose so, but the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of birth." Jameson had held a longstanding belief that family was much more disposable than trusted friends. You didn't get to choose your family yet were expected to honour and uphold them no matter what happened, which was foolish in his opinion. The mercenary didn't much care to remember his family except in the sepia-toned hues of retrospect and nostalgia, where their flaws and foolish choices didn't stand out so starkly to his mind's eye. <br><br>The merc accepted the tack for the bay and moved to get the beast saddled and ready. He paused in his actions after running a hand over the horse's flank and moved to pick up a currying brush, quickly and efficiently brushing the horse down until its shaggy coat was free of tufts and cowlicks. Then, after putting the brush back in its place Jameson spread the blanket over the horse's back before setting the saddle in place and cinching it snugly, though he checked all around to be sure it wasn't pinching. "Nothing worse than a pissed off horse.." he muttered to himself, fitting the horse with its bit after inspecting it. Some horsemen used barbed spade bits which would dig in harshly and hurt the horse where Jameson tended to prefer the rounder kind, which would guide more by pressure than pain. <br><br>Jameson finally finished and scratched the horse with a chuckle, "Aw, well there ya go buddy. All set for Che-Rozen huh?" he bumped his forehead against the horse's head gently before swinging up into the saddle and starting to follow Frizya. Some people couldn't handle the smell of horse or that of the road but both tended to come naturally to Jameson in his line of work, were almost pleasing when paired, like a good wine with a fine meal. "It's still nice of you to make that concession. Lotta folks wouldn't." he rode up alongside Frizya, not cutting quite as impressive a figure but nonetheless looking halfway decent in the saddle. Some people were simply unsuited for it and it showed and while Jameson didn't make horseback his normal spot, he could handle it even with the bumps and bruises he was still nursing.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>23-01-2016, 01:50:50</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"What is there to do? Let it rot?" Nothing else seemed logical in Frizya's mind; it was an issue of practicality, not kindness.&nbsp; <br><br>With the incident at the tavern looping unwelcome in her mind and distracting her from her planning, the Eternian led them down the shallow slant of the property, past tilled fields and the pasture, along a well-trod path leading to a smaller stone and wood building. The shingled roof slanted into one great chimney marked with heavy soot. They went on past the smithy and along that worn grass until thinner saplings gave way to thicker trunks and underbrush. The air was heavy with moisture, the crisp silver smell of nearby water. If she turned them deeper, they'd be at the spring in no time, but that was not a journey for today.<br><br>Instead they moved through dappled shade and reaching ferns, Frizya's grip on the reins almost non-existent as she lead the horse on with the squeeze of powerful legs and settled herself on the rocking saddle with a constant, even rock of her hips. Eventually they met a bridge- an old stone thing covered in moss that looked largely private- that took them over a swift brook with water clearer than glass. She's have liked to stop or rather, would have at any other time, but there'd been no reason to bring her water skin with her and there really wasn't time.<br><br>They circumnavigated the outer reaches of the county by way of the woods, and as the path disappeared and the leafy ground beneath them began to slope back upwards, so too did the trees thin and they emerged to find Che-Rozen in the distance to the east. They rode on as if to pass it, for the main gates were too near yet, and slowed the horses to give them a break. The sun had risen well and clear of the horizon, and there was a ways to go. There was not, however, an unending amount of time<br><br>Their entry into CheRozen was by way of a lesser market road, and they soon found themselves among row-houses and small barley gardens and the like. Once they were in the town, Frizya kept her eyes trained for a church spire. "There." She said to herself, turning them down a road...and away from it. In truth she was aiming <em>behind</em> it or rather, to the North. They came upon a house with a polished steel knob at the door, and it was here she dismounted.<br><br>The door opened, and a stout, fair man greeted them inside. <em>"You made good time, LaFont. Reddeck, I take it, has healed well enough, hm? It's a boon to have you."</em> He smiled politely, reaching out to shake the merc's hand.<em> "Come down, I'll catch you up over a meal."</em> They were taken past the long front room with its chandelier, harp, and upholstered benches, and down a short stair into a room that was half underground. A wide, low circular table held sliced bread, cheese, pickled onions and hot tea. Not drinking wine was expensive. Frizya slowly lowered to the semicircular chaise, her eyes on the casually dressed man across from them.<br><em><br>"First things first, a rider came at dawn to say that a banker was found in a pig sty late last night, in Pritton. There were two printers killed here, just last week. All of them, those bolt-bearing chips in their mouth. I'm sure each town figured they had a rogue murderer in the beginning, but it's clear now that this is a network, some snake gnawing at the Empire's roots."</em>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>23-01-2016, 04:28:12</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Some might have, yeah." it wasn't about logic in Jameson's mind. Those with more tended to jealously guard it from those with less, as if the act of giving somehow diminished them.<br><br>As they moved through the forested grounds, past that clear brook and over a rather old looking bridge, Jameson kept his peace. He wasn't normally annoyingly conversationally-biased, but the mercenary was pretty used to people actually wanting to talk, which helped free him up to think more and speak less. <br><br>The mercenary was mentally mapping their path as they went, taking note of landmarks that would make sense later should he have to find his own way back for whatever reason. The man didn't like not knowing what was going on but he tried not to let that rile him up too much. Jameson dismounted when Frizya did, holding his horse's reins until they were taken inside, figuring that their horses would be taken care of. "Takes a bit more than a beating to keep me down." Jameson shook the man's hand affably and followed with Frizya to the next room, where they all sat down.<br><br>"Hmm.." Jameson plucked up a piece of bread and rolled it around an onion and a piece of cheese, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. He gestured lightly with the impromptu half-sandwich, as if using it to make a point, "Sounds like someone's plottin' to go for the cashflow over anythin' else. Undermine th'crown's coffers and they can't afford to hire the help t'keep shit like this on th'downlow." he shrugged mildly, "Announcin' it with tokens or any callin' card is either amateur hour or they're braggin'. 'We can do this and you can't stop us.' kind of attitude." <br><br>He rubbed his stubble with his free hand before taking another bite of his rollup and tapping the bread lightly against his chin, "Could be somethin' else, maybe makin' an organized example of th'crown's monied supporters is meant t'rile up th'rest of the population, lower the crowd's support for the throne." he didn't know for sure but he wanted to get a few ideas out into the air even while he continued ticking the information about in his mind. Clearly he was the calculating sort, especially given his history, which meant that Jameson wasn't likely to play all of his cards so quickly.<br><br>Ultimately he didn't know whether or not he could trust this guy completely, or anyone for that matter. Hell, could he trust anyone about that sort of thing? He'd had to play it so close to the edge before and people he'd thought he could rely on hadn't turned out to be who Jameson had thought. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>23-01-2016, 19:03:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Frizya slowly crossed her thick arms under her chest and leaned back, the leather of her sleeves and sides creaking quietly. She knew of this man through correspondence, but had only seen him once, briefly, during a large scale commitment ceremony. Her trust was vague, but implicit.<br><br>Her eyes fell to her lap as she considered his words, and she kept her head thoughtfully bowed as Jameson spoke. It seemed reasonable enough that both theories were likely. A double edged approach to cut off the Empire's deeper supports while riling the public against them at the same time.<br><br>"Both. Both seem likely- I don't mean both as likely, but a simultaneous intent." She loosened her arms, threading gloved fingers together to rest them in her lap. "Tipan or someone's been sent back in our stead, yes?" The Keeper nodded, pouring them both deep cups of tea. Hot boiled water was no one's favorite (or even most likely) drink, but steeping aged leaves into it made the process more rewarding and gave flavor to the safe sterility. Of course, most people could either afford a week's worth of bread or one brick of tea. Growing it wasn't a problem here, what with the wet hills...well, it wouldn't have been if not for the soil being toss for it.<br><br>Frizya took her cup and blew gently into it, resting her full lips nearly at the porcelain edge. "Intimidation is a probable aim. Whether or not it's working depends on what we hear today. A ledger of the deaths, then- the victims and their professions? That's as much as we'll get it seems, but something we need." With a long, patient swallow, she quenched her riding thirst and sighed, thinking.<br><br>The Keeper excused himself to go into his library and fetch the list of deaths. Much of the ink was still fresh, updated whenever urgent night riders and couriers were sent to him from some other Order sect in the province. He returned and handed it to Frizya, his jocund-set eyes grave. "Personally I'm worried that this is but the fins of a Leviathan."<br><br>The Eternian deeply hoped against it. She liked order. Predictability. This whole discord would be best off handled quickly and silently. Again, they had to find out what the public knew.<br><br>When they left, Frizya sat astride her horse and picked at bread she'd taken from the luncheon. "To the markets, then? And after, the Taverns?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>25-01-2016, 03:11:16</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				For Jameson's part the man finished his impromptu snack before settling back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling across the room, his eyes cutting along the subtle shift of shadow as the fire flickered, his brows sinking slightly as the Keeper's informant left to retrieve his ledgers. He chuckled softly at the words the man spoke so gravely upon his return, swept back mentally to another time, where he wore altogether another costume and lived an altogether different life that this one was straying toward.<br><br><em>In the dead of night nothing stirred save the houseguard and their hands, hands itching at too-new tunics, hands tugging at swords sheathed without nearly enough oil, hands twitching and stirring when naught else should have. The war hadn't reached that place, or so it was believed, but cells of the poorly named rebellion would crop up time and again and it was the boy's job to snuff them out.<br><br>Wet eyes widened in fright as terror seized their owner, a comely lass who's accusing stare would haunt him further than he cared to admit. Those eyes fluttered as she swooned and sank back into her bed without so much as a whimper, the ether-soaked rag having done its job. This was tucked away and the boy scuttled to the door, slipping out and timing his steps with those of a man who was walking the hall on patrol. Quiet, quiet, ever so silently the man was shadowed and left to his own devices, with the boy moving lightly, pausing to slip a key into a lock and passing into that room as well.<br><br>The man he was there to kill was foolish. You never sought to protect your entire estate when you were a target. You let business go as usual and brought a half dozen, perhaps ten of your best close-quarters men to protect the target. Cast the net too wide and boys like him were bound to slip in. Of course, the boy hadn't thought that this fool would be awake and with naked steel bared in the night..</em><br><br>"The fins will do fine," Jameson leaned far forward, his weight on his elbows which rested upon his knees, his voice all at once intense and yet far away "The fins lead to the body, to the head. Like anything, you slit the throat, bleed it of its life's blood and let the body die without that head. Oh, it might thrash yet, but even if it's a Hydra of legend, once you run out of heads to slice, it still dies like aught else." Jameson stood, absently palming a blade he hadn't noticed drawing, an old habit he didn't much care for. <br><br>Jameson led his horse, preferring for now to be on his own two feet, though he walked between it and Frizya's so as to keep close enough to the woman to speak, "The markets will have the gossip, the who's and why's of what's going on in town. People love to spread their rumours with people they're like as not to never see past their stalls. Past that, well, the taverns will be a good place to distill it. Once we have a feel for the local troubles and goings on, we'll be able to work 'em down into the useful bits." those eyes still bothered him; he hadn't even known the girl's name, didn't know if she'd survived the chaos of that night. The fire had been a grand and glorious thing as he'd watched from a belfry only a few minutes' sprint and a steep climb away. Confusion and hurt, but for the greater good, so he'd been told. So he'd always told himself.<br><br>Maybe lighten the mood? "Heh, maybe we can get a bit of shopping in. Could be there's a trapper 'roundabouts who could see about puttin' a seam on this ol' grey," he plucked at his cloak and offered her a smile he didn't really feel just then along with a roguish wink, "I know you're not all that into pelts and furs, but I'd like this guy t'last awhile longer."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>25-01-2016, 22:23:33</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Something glimmered in the Keeper's eye when he looked at Jameson, that same something that made him watch them from his parlor window after the pair had left and had their horses returned to them. Even Frizya looked at Jameson slightly differently, remembering his hand around his blade then and in the victualler's.<br><br>There were things she did not know about him, and for the first time she was genuinely...curious. It was a strange feeling, and for the time being she tamped it down like weed in a pipe. She rocked slowly in her saddle, looking out over the streets and missing her lenses. It always made her comfortable, hiding her gaze. But as lenses were still not all that popular- especially because those with actual sight problems tended to see a caster for their issue- it had been best to leave the identifying items behind.<br><br>"I thought as much. We seem to have ears for two different tunes, so something should come of it. The question is, how long will this all take?" There was no guarantee that they'd be able to find anyone involved and get their hands around them, but beyond that, it was very unlikely that they'd be able to find the heart of CheRozen's traitors within this day or the next.<br><br>No, she reminded herself, this is just now starting. Begrudgingly she recognized that Jameson had had a good point- they might as well get along, because they'd be working together for some time. She'd never had to weather a clash of honor and want this drastic. But for the Order...she'd do anything.<br><br>Frizya cocked a brow, staring down at Jameson's peppered skull. "Oh? Does your homespun and untailored pelt not look so respectable against my doublet?" She cast a smirk his way and rest one of her wrists on her pommel. "Might as well, it's the full shine of day. Nothing's going to be brewing anywhere but the markets. It's likely not even time for midday breaks."<br><br>She turned them round on the basis that they were heading back towards the edge of the city and that's never where the market row was.&nbsp; <br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>26-01-2016, 12:39:48</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson chuckled at Frizya's first question, absently shrugging his shoulders and continuing to walk along as they went, "Depends on how bold these folks are. From how things're goin' they're patient but not infinitely so; their plan is in motion and we've only just caught wind of it. Means it'll escalate but how quickly depends on how far-reachin' their plans are. We should give 'em a name, somethin' to call 'em so we're not bein' too vague." something simple, like Leviathan, might be a good one given how it had already been used in regards to the shadowy group. <br><br>Her words, almost mockery but not quite.. Was she making a joke? Progress! Jameson grinned and lifted his free hand to finger the edge of the pelt along his shoulder, "It's not that your finery makes me feel less so, more that I tend to kit out for 'durable and weatherable' rather than 'fashionable mistress of order', though the latter works really well on you. Sets off yer eyes just so, s'pecially when yer back's up." Jameson had looked over his shoulder at her while speaking, and when they turned to head back toward the markets he chuckled, "Besides, it's a little weird to just hang around the markets without buyin' somethin'. We're not young or dirty enough to be cutpurses, so we gotta be the purses."<br><br>Jameson returned his eyes to the road ahead, picking over faces and listening to snippets of passing conversations as they went while he worked his tongue against a sour taste in the back of his throat. Working this closely with the Order reminded him of working within authority in the past and, like a canker or dead tooth, it bothered him as soon as the slightest pressure was applied. Twice now with Frizya he'd found himself latching to old instincts and that was twice too many.. It wasn't her fault, he knew that and was actively trying to distance her in his mind from the authority he'd served, but it was tough sometimes.<br><br>At the market row the pair fit in easily enough, for a mercenary in wolf's skin and an Eternian Keeper on horseback, which was to say passably. Some made note of them, Jameson knew, but it was more the exotic nature of the two armed people. Most commoners carried tools and a belt knife which was less weapon and more utensil, perhaps one might carry a trudgeon or woven leather blackjack, but only rarely blades made specifically for combat. The aristocracy trended toward elegance in their blades, thin and quick thrusting swords for duelling; rapiers, epees, foils and the like. Cavalrymen tended to prefer sabers and javelins, lances if facing armoured foes, shortbows if patrolling the wilds. Jameson shook his head to get away from the indexing and back to the now.<br><br>Stalls lit upon both sides of the wide street, some fronts for the shops behind but more often wood-and-cloth affairs where goods were arranged and a loud barker or pretty young girl stood to convince passing people to buy wares. It wasn't a grand bazaar by any means but a town with a market was a prosperous one. Even among the more mundane shops such as butchers and produce-mongers were a few more esoteric. A chandler also advertised wax reading as a method of telling fortunes, along with herbal infusions and additions to her wares which would ward off evil. Another seemed to be an apothecary that also dabbled in tinctures and tonics of more subtle effect, such as love brews, which Jameson openly snorted at, his derision evident. Still, the man marked the places in his mind, in case he needed to purchase a more subtle blade. Some claimed poisons to be a coward's tool, but honestly Jameson had never been concerned with honour so much as being the victor that got to write history.<br><br>People spoke openly at the markets as well, to which Jameson was ever-thankful. It didn't take long for a few choice pieces of information to reach his ears and while he didn't pursue them, the man did pause at the stalls where he heard such things to try to glean that much more. "Ah!" he nodded down the way, "A seamstress. Perhaps she offers laundering." he patted Frizya's horse gently and glanced up to her, "Shall we meet again at a tavern near to hear? There is supposed to be one near the end of the market."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>26-01-2016, 14:57:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Frizya squinted ahead at the market row and looked down again, eying the fall of Bressa's mane as she thought along with Jameson's words. Yes, that was the biggest issue here: Not only were these people, this group unknown to them, but they had avoided detection all throughout their banding and birth and only now, as they struck fully, was the Order on their tail. They were beyond late, and still partially blind.<br><br>A joke? Certainly not. It was a mockery, wasn't it? Just a soft one she expected Jameson not to rile at. ...Which was a jest through and through, but surely Frizya wouldn't openly accept it as one. His response riled her, against her best reasoning, pulling a tension through her shoulders as she cast a dismissive glare down his way. In full daylight, the 'whites' of her eyes were the color of the charcoal left under a hearthfire, black not not quite. Not quite as inky and solid as her pupils. <br><br>The ire in her gaze faded as her attention shifted. "You should have a new baldric cut. Or take the pins from your own." Doubtless the 'no mercenaries' hunt would continue into this city in due time, and it wouldn't make sense for one to be roaming about as he pleased. She tossed her hair to settle it on her shoulders and around the side of her face, and listened to the crowds with her eyes on the road beneath her mare's shoulder.<br><br>Much of what was available in the way of merchandise was particularly telling to the Eternian, as usual. Starchy roots to base their soups on, bottles and bottles of too-sharp wine and murky mead, baskets made that day, snails, freshly turned spoons, pots...staples of daily existence. But then there were those that shifted back and forth between the necessary and the bafflingly unimportant. Scrying services, love potions, lucky plants, various phylacteries...if any of it had any actual power half of these people wouldn't still be living their little lives the way they were. They had hope, and in a way hope was what was keeping them dragging about in life.<br><br>She kept her opinions to herself, however.<br><br>"She may, but what will you wear while you wait?" Asked Frizya without a hint of nuance. "Fine then. I'll make a round of the block. There's always someone on the edges, socializing."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>26-01-2016, 18:10:45</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man chuckled softly and shrugged, "What kind of seamstress doesn't have stock? I guess I'll have to buy something a little better than the old homespun to wear while it's mended then, hm?" he nodded at her suggestion and frowned to himself, just that bit bothered at removing the badges of his trade. He'd earned them and they meant something to him akin to Frizya's honour, he was sure, but more than that they distanced him from the man he had been and like as not, like these lowborn peasants Jameson identified with luck and the supernatural perhaps a bit more than he should. <br><br>With hesitation, Jameson tugged the worn ivory pins from their place in his baldric; each pin a carved bit of scrimshaw representing something that he'd slain or had a hand in the slaying of, every one just a bit longer than a man's finger, slightly curved and tapered to a blunted point that could still put out an eye if in need. He clutched them in his hand for a moment before he wound a strip of cloth around them and tucked them away into a pouch at his belt. Clearly tense though, Jameson heaved a little sigh and put on a good face before he pulled off the pouch and handed it to the woman, "Hold onto these for me, would you? I'd hate to lose 'em."<br><br>Whether she took the pouch in hand or left Jameson to tuck it into her saddlebag, he parted ways with the woman for the moment, taking his horse with him. The tension clung to him even as he crossed the way and ducked into the seamstress' shop after tying the horse off outside, minding his head to avoid beaning himself on rolls of cloth that jutted out from a shelf above. It didn't take him long to negotiate the cleaning of his trail-smudged clothing and the hemming of the pelt he wore into a proper cloak, though it did take the keen-eyed older woman and her assistant a bit longer to get him fitted in some hastily altered clothing that had been on a rack. It fit well enough if generically, a simple green tunic with brown stitching over trousers of some rugged material that was a solidly grey colour. <br><br>He frowned idly and picked at the tunic before he finally plucked out some coin and paid for the clothes and the laundering and whatnot. The mail he'd worn fit nicely over the tunic and another looser shirt in a foresty green colour, mottled lighter almost like leaves through an accident of dyeing but pleasant to the eye, slipped over that. He stuck around awhile to chat with the pair and ask about what was going on in and around the area since he was new to the locale.<br><br>Of course by the time he left he'd come across a few interesting points and Frizya likely would be just coming back around the block. His pouches and such were mostly worn beneath the looser shirt and the pants stucked nicely into his boots, though the baldric worn outside his cloak left the sword's tooled leather scabbard on display where he'd have rather kept it from view. He scanned the street, figuring she wouldn't be hard to find and lifted a hand her way, grabbing his horse's reins and weaving through the foot traffic to get back to the Eternian Keeper.<br><br>"Well that was fruitful," he hoped he looked half decent in the clothing, though it wasn't what he was used to. It was a bit draftier without his cloak, which left him feeling exposed, "A tavern then, to see what information we can compare?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>27-01-2016, 04:42:07</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Used to saying her mind and leaving it at that, Frizya had not expected a timely reply from Jameson regarding his pins. She'd expected him to slide them out, tuck them away, and move on with their task, and so she had looked away once more, if she had even cast her glance aside for long to begin with. The rustle of cord and leather and the call of his voice, however, drew slightly perplexed attention from the woman. For a moment she just...stared. Her gloved hand came to take the pouch,and she kept her aloof yet quizzical expression on him as she tucked it into her doublet, in the space between the buttons.<br><br>For the first time in a long while, she actually wondered what was on someone's mind. Not 'what they were up to', or 'what they were keeping from her', but...how they felt. With the pins held against her chest, she recalled her urge to break them, and wondered what would have happened if she had, what it would have meant.<br><br>Away from Jameson, Frizya rode along through the other end of the market, until the stalls thinned out and gave way to other businesses that profited off of the traffic coming and going down the market row. Ferriers, scribes, clothiers and timekeepers. Her eyes trailed a large orrery while her ears honed in on murmurs and jeers around the corner, peppered with low, inquisitive upswings. She turned down a byroad at a clip, slow enough to make things out, but fast enough to seem unintrusive.<br><br>The byroad took her to an alley, the alley to the river-road. There were sounds, there was speech, there were shadowed glances...<br><br>Bits and pieces. Putting these things together always felt like a dream in reverse. This was the waking, the details were fleeting, many of them unimportant nonsense you could focus on for hours before you realized it went nowhere. Eventually it would all congeal and meaning would take form but...when? What?<br><br>'Treason' was the word lodged firmly in her throat, but for now it was fruit with no branches...just roots.<br><br>From one of only so many horsebacks on the street, it was easy enough for Frizya to notice that waving hand, but it took her a moment to realize it was Jameson's. She'd gotten used to the clothing he usually wore, and for a moment she just stared as Bressa clopped on with her sizeable hooves. The horse tossed her head as the two information seekers met up, but Frizya was still.<br><br>He looked.. bigger. Big in the way he had been bare and broad in the Bast. She stared, the golden rings of her eyes flitting beneath her heavy lashes, moving from detail to detail. Eventually she turned her horned head to look in the direction of the tavern. "You look better, I suppose."<br><br>"A tavern." It was decided, then.<br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>27-01-2016, 16:57:33</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson chuckled softly at Frizya's reply and left it at that, though typically he was more wont to banter. The tavern wasn't too far, something unimaginatively called "The Bear's Arms" according to the scawl on the sign's faded paint. As was typical, while the words were left to fade in the sun, the embellishment of the symbology of the place had been brightened up from time to time and stood out more, as did the smaller painting of a foaming tankard handing from it. Clearly a tavern, even to the least literate eyes, it advertised likely more by word of mouth and the local dry throats. <br><br>The merc caught the attention of one of the stable lads and gave the boy a few copper bits, intimating in certain terms that the horses were to be fed and cared for, given proper feed rather than simple dry hay and a thorough brushing. There underlying edge of his words implied unpleasantness should his instructions not be followed, though he finished by explaining that he paid well for good work and had no use for slackers or slovenly service.<br><br>The building itself was one of the taller in the area, boasting three stories and likely an expansive cellar for storage, the wooden beams and siding giving way at the back to properly mortared brick and stone, a chimney denoting what was likely their kitchen. The main hearth probably backed up on that wall as well and would be suitable for heating the entire establishment at least enough to ward off the night's chill while minimizing the risk of a fire. The front windows on the bottom level were filled with thick, glazed glass tinged in different colours, though the upstairs looked as though it were bare frames and shutters. <br><br>As the pair entered through heavy oaken doors which stood propped open, conversations hushed for a moment, the sound ebbing as patrons made their snap judgments. Soon enough though it rose back up, the chatter and shuffle of a room full of disparate yet united people, aiming to wash away whatever troubled them currently. Jameson made a line for an empty table and tugged a chair out, sitting gingerly and trying not to let his lingering aches bother him too much. A fire crackled in the hearth some distance away, lending an interesting sort of disparity in the room,&nbsp; where the open door let in a nice breeze that bufered the oppressive heat of the fire rolling forth.<br><br>He let out a little hiss and shifted, resting his hands on the table and settling into place as Frizya found hers, "Like old times, heh," it hadn't even been a week, "Come across anything interesting on your trip? I'm given to believe that trade around here has been a little odd, orders for odds and ends coming in from out of town to be filled in a hurry and shipped beyond rather than to where they originated. Quite strange, considering that the woman is used to completing entire outfits rather than accessory pieces." he couldn't of course come out and chat about traitors and treason in a taproom, but he could intimate what he meant.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>28-01-2016, 03:22:19</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Frizya had no cruel judgment of the tavern's signage because she had no judgment at all. She couldn't have cared less what trite little titles one wanted to name their lodge- most of them were all the same. Worn wood, ale, lots of idle chatter. If you were lucky the back house was always stocked with breads and cheese, and if it was moneyed around that side of town the tables were waxed and there were chairs, not benches.<br><br>Of course, had they been lavish, she'd likely have held a sore view of the waste of money. Just where the proper line existed with her was finite but extremely thin.<br><br>For all her size, Frizya's dismount was still as smooth as should be expected from someone of her rank. A controlled swing brought her from the saddle to the ground, and she eyed Jameson with idle curiosity as he negotiated with the stable hand. She felt like he'd taken the issue off of her hands... she just hadn't been prepared for that. Usually she saw to Bressa herself, especially since it wasn't often that she had someone working at her side.<br><br>Of course, by the time they strode into the tavern- Frizya bristling inwardly at all the eyes on them, not because she didn't like being seen but because <em>she didn't have her damned lenses</em>- the Eternian realized that she had a much more prevalent issue on hand: Here, she was not supposed to be a Keeper.<br><br>Keepers didn't drink.<br><br>Frizya spread her gloved digits out on the edge of the table as she lowered to a seat, casting a precursory glance around the room, her eyes partially covered by her relatively loosened hair. Old times? Jameson was insensible. She could not understand his adroit mentions of that day, nor did she enjoy them, for it had not been her highest moment. She wondered only so undecidedly if he brought it up to scorn her. "Is that so." The words dropped with no inflection, and she cut her eyes at him briefly, before inspecting her cuffs and adjusting the set of her sword. "I should think that things will become rather lively, soon enough; even the salt of the earth has started their talk. Either that gossip is a shield they can spring from behind, or an alarm they'll have to outrun." Her voice was low, but not anything so telltale as a whisper. Simply quiet, falsely disinterested, and resonant.<br><br>A girl coming of age with sweat at her temples but the smack of cold at her cheeks came by, her eyes bright and friendly the way her parents no doubt taught her to be. <em>"Anythin f'r the afternoon?"</em> Frizya's golden eyes dragged across to Jameson before she looked away, a private sigh lowering her well-dressed shoulders.<br><br>"Cheese and soup, if you have it." she began, "and whatever your wine is."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>28-01-2016, 21:06:40</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson brought it up without malice the way he did simply because it was a catalyzing event for the both of them, in his mind the reason that it was brought up was simply because Jameson's idea of Frizya stacked up to that fierce and intimidating woman he'd faced in the bar. The mental image had stuck with him and though Frizya was unappoachable and just that side of abusive (or was she already there?) and the man had gone from trying to drag her down to trying to build her up a little.<br><br>The merc smirked softly, looking across the table at the Keeper as the pleasant serving girl came by, unable to resist poking the bear as it were, "Ah, skip the wine would ya lass? S'a bit early for drinkin'," he looked around at all of the people who clearly didn't agree with him, shrugging as they drank and socialized, "Place as nice as this boils its water for the kitchen right?"<br><br>The girl looked between them, trying not to quail at Frizya's bearing and letting her bright eyes find Jameson's again, matching his smirk with a dimpling smile, "Yessir, kettles're goin' alla time. I can fetch some cold from the cellar, in corked glass?"<br><br>Jameson nodded, "Sounds good to me," he reached beneath the overshirt he wore and brought out another copper bit, reaching to slip it into the young woman's hand and offered her a good-natured wink, "Nothin' against th'libations but good cold water on a day like this's worth the coin. Cheese and soup besides sounds pretty good as well." he knew that Frizya didn't drink and really he could tell she didn't seem all that thrilled at the prospect.<br><br>If he expected anything but her snapping at him for belaying her order and ordering something else, Jameson didn't give much thought to it, or didn't appear to. Instead as the girl flounced off to fill the order, he nodded, "I would hope for the latter, while I can defend myself I much prefer to hunt." the wolf's pelt was as much a mark of what he did for a living, his reputation one for not losing a mark, or dropping a contract.<br><br>"We might do well to watch incoming shipments.. While we have no authority to search, paying attention to exotic goods might lead us toward our goal," Jameson absently rubbed his fingers over his forearm, frowning idly and looking casually around the taproom, "We won't know for days yet, but finding something out so quickly is telling. They might have come too far too fast and now their newfound fame is becoming more than they can bear."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>28-01-2016, 23:41:05</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				If asked, Frizya would have scoffed most bitterly at the very insinuation that she needed any 'building up'. Pandering, placating, support. But if anything could have helped her, it was that. It was impossible for one to bandage a wound they didn't look at, however, especially if one convinced themselves it didn't exist and that any hinderance it caused was actually a strength.<br><br>Of course, the moment Jameson opened his mouth, he was shooting heat right into the back of Frizya's brain. Within the high collar of her doublet her throat tensed, eyes burning into the leather of her glove as she stared down at it. Jameson proceeded, in her mind, to make <em>her</em> out to be the lush of the two of them, the one oh so willing for a midday glass of something to lighten her blood, and she fair boiled with the indignity of it, the irritating incorrectness of it all.<br><br>At times she felt like a wolf in a spring trap, jeered by a fox it'd have killed otherwise. Just because their agreement and situation required their cooperation didn't mean this merc could put her at the tip of his jests...But it wasn't that simple anymore, was it? She was no good at talking around him and he wasn't the simple merc she'd thought him to be. The thought that he was trying to help was vague and embittered. Perhaps she was mad that he thought to do it. She couldn't pinpoint why and didn't bother.<br><br>She sighed through her faintly arched nose and picked up the conversation, her gaze aimed out of a tinted glass window. "I should think everyone on the right side agrees. Best if we interrupt rather than respond." A tight smirk pulled at one corner of her mouth, and she tapped the table. "Isn't that the way of it? Gossip. It's all these people do."<br><br>Soon or rather, as soon as could be expected, the keep's daughter returned with bottles of water and two shallow bowls of brothy soup with cuts of whitish cheese sitting on the rims. "For the time being, I don't suspect we'll be staying merely in this part of CheRozen daily. There are many interesting stops to be made in a place like this, and enough inns to sleep in."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>29-01-2016, 00:56:40</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man couldn't help but roll his eyes slightly, frowning a bit when Frizya refused to look toward either him or the server as he went out of his way to <em>not</em> enjoy a nice bitter mugful and to instead shoot for water that might only have been boiled in spirit. He scrunched up his toes in his boots for a moment before letting out a soft sigh and relaxing them. He stared across the table at Frizya, quite aware of her bristling at him trying to do something nice, probably thinking he was once again looking to demean her in some way.<br><br>The serving girl brought them their order and he thanked her quietly, raising a brow and picking up a wedge of cheese to prod curiously at the soup for a time. What was he supposed to say to satisfy her, at least something that didn't leave the Eternian itching for a fistfight. Instead he spoke softly, at his soup more than anything, "'These people' are as much you and I as we are, you would do well to remember that. Nothing except for poor circumstance divides us, with them on the better side of things." he popped the limp, warm cheese into his mouth and chewed, enjoying the pleasantly complex sharp and rich flavour of it.<br><br>Jameson picked up his bottle and sipped it, finding it cool and refreshing but nothing quite so appealing as what he would have preferred. The thick glass clunked to the table when he set it down and he wriggled his shoulders a bit. Thankfully his ribs and such weren't so bad that day, though it was still tender an achy where he'd been kicked and whatnot. "Makes sense. No sense stickin' around just the one place. We'll get a better feel for what's goin' on if we move about." <br>Rather than continue the conversation though Jameson took a tack that he had only taken before with Frizya when he was frustrated to the point of near anger; simple dismissal of the topic. "Your soup's gettin' cold."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>29-01-2016, 15:27:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				If Jameson had any qualms about the potability of the water, he'd best have kept them to himself- she hadn't been the one to make him do anything, and if he really thought it undrinkable, why buy them two bottles, then? Indignant in the face of his irritation, Frizya nudged her cheese into her soup to let it melt as she let the barley broth sink into her spoon.<br><br>"There's nothing to remember,for there's nothing I've forgotten." She countered, brooking no argument or further admonishment. 'The better side of things', oh to be so delusional. She silently sipped the broth from her spoon and cut into the melted cheese sitting in the middle of her bowl. Jameson was constantly vexing. Silently she chastised herself for going outside of her own nature to manage some conversation with him. No matter what, the end result was often enough that he left her feeling more irritable than if she'd just have stayed silent. Doing her very best (somewhat) to appear free of any more ire than typically took up residence on her face, the Eternian uncorked her water and drank half the bottle on a few long swallows.<br><br>"Mm." Came that standard reply, that cold hum. Quiet. Quiet filled in by the people around them drinking, talking and so on. The cheery murmur of the innkeep's daughter. Glass stained verdigris and rust threw colored light along the tension in her cheek, her jaw; cut through and enflamed the gold of one eye, and scattered in her jet hair. And then Jameson spoke again, and she glared through her lashes. The minute tip of her spoon turned over clusters of fattened barley, and a fresh waft of steam rose up under her face.<br><br>"No." She went back to eating, and felt no urge to say much of anything. If he wanted to play petty games again, so be it, but he'd be playing with himself. Little did she realize that she was always part of these acrid little tit-for-tats.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>29-01-2016, 22:36:02</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man's preference was for things that had a good flavour to them, which didn't include boiled water from a city, which in his mouth was quite possibly brackish with residual taint, though anything that would be truly terrible had been purified in the boiling and likely filtering. It wasn't everywhere or everyone that understood not to drink water from places they did their laundry or dumped their waste, but it was nice to find out which establishments knew. That he had paid more for the pair of bottles than he would have for three rounds of ale or wine was only bothersome because rather than notice that he had gone out of his way to make sure she didn't break her oaths, Frizya seemed altogether nothing but sour grapes over it.<br><br>"It must be somewhat difficult to enjoy food and drink in your state," he commented idly, stirring his soup before taking a spoonful and thoughtfully rolling it over his tongue. It needed a little more salt, would be improved with pepper, but the herbal notes were rather nice. Jameson swallowed and washed it down with some water before elaborating, "You've had a mouthful of sour grapes since we left for this place."<br><br>The buzz of conversation continued around them while they ate in relatively awkward silence, Jameson's gaze flicking up and holding for a moment as he regarded the Keeper. He let his eyes wander the planes and swept ridges of her face, dappled in the multi-hued light. So very nearly art, even with that doubtful frown that would likely become a pinched look of irritation at his comment. Ah well, that probably wasn't going to change anytime soon. Frizya did her level best to be offended by and derisive of everything and everyone, from his experience with the woman.<br><br>While he didn't relish another confrontation, it seemed that in his very limited time in Frizya's presence, she only really honestly expressed anything when there was the chance for her to get the upper hand by doing it. Jameson wondered why that was.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>30-01-2016, 03:06:26</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Carefully, Frizya set her bowl in the spanning digits of her gloved hand and leaned back from the table as she ate, refusing to raise her large eyes to Jameson at all and rather glad that her current hairstyle-while not as pleasantly tidy-hid half of her face from view-- or rather, halfway hid his face from hers. If asked about it she'd have said that the soup was fine, the cheese was fresh, and the water was fair enough, but those opinions were not at the forefront of her mind. In fact, as they did not need to be expressed, they never came up even in thought. She ate and drank more because she needed to, though she certainly preferred modest soup to halfcooked gruel.<br><br>Her state? Hmph. She kept her attention on eating, dragging the spoon through soft, salty cheese. He finished, and the wing of one brow arched in irritation, her jaw flexing in the colored light. But she kept eating. Finished, even. Set her bowl down, drank her water, and fished a few pieces of copper out from her pouch to lay on the table. Her chair scooted back, and she smoothed her fine black doublet down with a slow hand along the buttoned front. "The grapes are just fine. It's the company that sours the food and drink." She needled scathingly, tugging at her tasseled cuffs to even them. "When you're done, then." I'll be outside.<br><br>She strode out to the back, to the small make-do stable attached to the building near the alleyway and found the stablehand still brushing her horse. Well and so, they- well, she- hadn't been inside for long. She posted up against a wooden pillar and fished out her pipe. Jameson had such a particularly irritating attitude. She worried about how they'd get on through this, but could hardly stomach the unrealistic concept of dealing with him on-level. He was one to cry about her sour grapes. He'd put them there.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>30-01-2016, 04:23:09</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Hmm." his response was short and essentially meaningless, though he had several retorts ready and able to be said. Perhaps he should remark that a woman who's palate preferred spring water, salted meats and boiled cereal grains alone and silent would find company to be souring to anything at all. Or perhaps he could mention that by her own admission handling such complicated tasks as conversing with another and sharing a meal without seeming as though one was being slowly burned along the soles of one's feet. Perhaps a combination of the two would be best, but Jameson instead kept his piece and kept the peace.<br><br>Such as it was.<br><br>Once she'd gone the man absently rolled his eyes and worked at finishing his soup, spooning it slowly into his mouth and chewing through the lumps of grain and overcooked vegetable that marked the sort of all-day stew being served. Soon the spoon scraped over the ottom of the bowl and he set it in Frizya's, using his remaining water to swish out his mouth and quench his thirst. The serving girl came back around and offered him a smile, asking if all was well with the meal, to which he assured the young woman that it was indeed. He tipped her for another round and stood, stretching with a wince and sighing.<br><br>If he could get some advise on how to approach an entirely annoyed and unpleasantly-oriented person to try to build something more like a friendship and far less antagonistic, he'd definitely take it. Never in his life had every attempt he'd made to further a goal been met with such failure, but for Jameson that only spurred him on.<br><br>He sighed through his nose and swept his fingers through his hair, scrunching it at the back and giving a bit of a tug, frustration written on him, "Damn that woman, would it kill her to try being reasonable?"<br><br>Jameson followed Frizya out the back, pushing the door closed behind him and stopping near to where she'd found a post to lean on, "Thought you'd like another," he offered out another corked bottle, giving it a little shake to slosh the liquid inside around. His brow was knit and the smile he wore was a thin covering for the tension evident in the muscles of his neck, exposed as they were by the overshirt and lack of wolf mantle.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>31-01-2016, 03:46:51</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Outside, Frizya recruited her pipe in the effort to level her irritation. She felt no overt guilt about being so 'disagreeable' (in fact, she'd not have used that word, herself), but the whole affair was still beyond annoying. No matter the difficulty, no matter how she willingly extruded it from every moment she could, it seemed, Frizya felt little fear of retribution. In fact, there was a small part of her, in the shadows of her mind that was always <em>disappointed</em> in people; in their inability to do anything about her or, by extension, much of anything.<br><br>Well, she felt, there were two types of people in this world: Those few who could manage to be above her, and those who belonged below.<br><br>By the time Jameson's boots fell upon the dirt alongside the building, twin clouds of smoke had been sighing thinly into the air from Frizya's nose, floating up and out, dissolving into nothing. She heard him just fine, but found no particular reason to look up right as he approached- after all, she was already frustratingly aware of what he looked like. He smiled, made an offering even, but the tension in his nerves was louder than anything he could have said, and it irritated her.<br><br>If he was going to be the kind of person to make such a fool of her in a tavern, the kind of person to fight in the revolution, he could at least be the kind of person who didn't wave treats at her like he was trying to bait an angry cat. His reproach made her want to kick him. Instead, she stood up and strode over to take the bottle, turning about to place it in one of the bags on her horse's nearby saddle.<br><br>"No need to think, you could have asked and saved your coins. Mostly the glass they're charging for,anyway... but a bottle comes in handy." The stablehand was bringing out her horse, and she picked the saddle up from the rail and threw it lightly over the ebon mare's back. Frizya's lip curled slightly as she drew on that long-necked pipe. "Nice of you, I suppose." Unnecessary, though. She hopped up and swung into the saddle, walking Bressa out towards the road. <br><br>If she had to wait for Jameson's horse to be done, she'd rather do it from a vantage point. When they left the stable it was of course to ride through the nearer side of town to take stock in the inns about- on this side of the canal, there were only two, anyway.<br><br>"Any influential reasons to pick one over the other?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>31-01-2016, 04:47:04</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Right," he resisted rolling his eyes, though the urge was so strong that for a moment the mercenary thought he might have strained something. It looked as though the horses had been treated well and after a once over of his own, from the tips of its ears to the bottoms of its hooves, pausing only to dig out a pebble that had gone unnoticed with the point of a dagger, Jameson saddled his mount as well. "Good of you to notice." what else was he supposed to say? The man wasn't long in getting his horse saddled and ready and rode out after Frizya, trying to work over the woman's attitude in his mind and coming up with nothing but a prickly ball of bitterness in his guts for his trouble.<br><br><em>This</em> was what he'd fought and killed for? The man was content enough with his lot, living amongst the commonfolk he had helped to liberate from certain tyranny, enjoying the little victories of their lives while plying a bloody trade in the lives of men and women who would rather take from those who had than earn their own. He wept and grieved for them when loss struck their little communities, a few deaths marking the end of a good growing season here, a lost herd of sheep spelling destitution for a family there. Until the deaths were followed with new life conceived through the winter, pushing up through the ashes like new plants after a fire. Jameson was privy to the heartfelt triumphs these little people had to call their own, had seen people come together to help when one of their own needed a hand up out of the mud.<br><br>Frizya's attitude grated on him more than he realized, more than Jameson knew the words to explain. His entire persona was a fabrication, a construct he'd put together to weather the fires of war that he'd left behind. Back when he'd confronted Frizya, he'd spouted off things people called him as if they were titles, badges of honour to be worn and not curses spat once upon a time. Butcher was a kind word for the kind of bloody work he'd done. Real butchers produced something from the lives they took, something tangible and nourishing, something of value. All Jameson had even now was the edge of a blade and the never-staunched tide of blood that he seemed to wade through.<br><br>It took the man a moment to register her question, mind elsewhere though it was, "Eh? Can't say I've ever spent all that much time here. That one has a second story, which might be good for keeping an eye on things, provided we can get a room with a window to the road." the flatness of his tone betrayed the man's lack of interest in where they bedded down for the night. Far off he could still hear the cries of men fighting far below him, the screams of the dying, the wails of those too wounded to know they were dead yet. For his part, enough of the time was spent away from those screams and masking his presence with them that the muffled grunts and the sigh of a life departing were still loud in his ears. Which was worse? The man who fought his battles on the open field, besting foes by strength of arms, or the wight haunting the shadows, taking life with nary a whisper? <br><br>How much worse then was it to be both?<br><br>And he'd given up that humanity, become akin to the monsters in the closet and under beds, hunting monsters worse still, just so that the people he fought for could be constantly derided by one they put their faith in? His teeth squeaked as he clenched his jaw, knuckles white on his reins before he seized those feelings and, as with many other things he didn't care to feel, he shut them away. <br><br>A mental exercise.<br><br>Imagine one's feelings as objects, dolls of bits of cloth and shards of wood, crudely crafted but intensely yours. Take those dolls and place them within a box. Seal the lid, nail it shut and stack it in a neat row with the others, to be examined never and hopefully left in the dark. <br><br>Jameson reached up with one hand to his baldric, to tick off the ivory pins he kept there, each helpfully pinning him to the reality he'd decided upon, but his fingers flinched back when they weren't there. Right. Those stormy eyes looked just a bit haunted for a moment before he took a deep breath and nodded up to gesture with his chin, "That one there like I said'd be best. Road windows're facin' the merchant's row, houses and the like for moneylenders and others with material influence. If our quarry makes a move it'll prob'ly be there, so we'll be in a good position to make a move."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>31-01-2016, 23:53:58</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				A haze of smoke veiled the look Frizya cast to Jameson as he prepared his horse. The mood of their luncheon put a pall on her already taut outlook in regards to their mission, as it were. It wasn't impossible, and she was not so soured on the idea that she'd apply no effort. It was simply that she knew that an operation of this scale, while being a beast that was a much bigger target, might be difficult to halt once rolling, and when it came down to finding the right body in a city of thousands...it wouldn't be easy, and she was not thrilled to be doing it with Jameson. It was understood by now that the man had more than his fair share of experience--truly, more than she knew--but that was unfortunately not doing enough to sweeten her tongue on the matter.<br><br>In that regard, at lest her smoke was pleasant.<br><br>On the road, Frizya held Bressa's reins loosely in one hand, the other diving and combing idly through the loose mane of her own hair betwixt the thin warrior's braids that kept it away from her face on the sides. She remembered why she'd taken to braiding her locks completely any time she left the estate- it drove her mad to have it flying about, thick and wild, all too willing to toss itself into something unruly at the slightest chance. It dropped heavily to the curve of her spine every time it fell through her gloved fingers.<br><br>"Well and so, seems sound." She sighed somewhat agreeably as she turned her horse towards the inn, taking note of their well-appointed looking stable to the side, with a carriage yard and a farrier- not that she needed one. The upper floors were surrounded by a simple-balustrade framed walkway, well-kept but worn from sunlight and rain. Frizya handled the housing for the horses, removing Bressa's tack the way <em>she</em> liked to to make sure it got done. Frizya didn't seem to talk to her mare much...verbally. But she kept her head close, pressing and touching the horse through her movements, jaw to cheek here, brow to neck there, attentive, stroking hands and the warmth of shared breath when the horse brought her soft muzzle to nose at Frizya's neck and chin. For all the woman's coldness, the animal clearly held her in warm regard. If it were not for the horses, Frizya might never have a single reason to show affection of any kind to anyone or any thing.<br><br>The inn itself had a sparsely furnished front hall with a three-tier chandelier hanging low over the entrance, and a few rugs layered over each other where one below might have been threadbare. A man with both the boyishness of youth in his face and the tautness of age in his shoulders smiled thinly at them upon entrance, seated as he was at a low reading chair. <em>"A room for the trav'lers, then?"</em> Frizya had already dipped her hand in her wallet, and asked how much it was for a night, eager to pay and get formalities done with. "Well be here as it goes, not sure how long." An exchange of copper and silver had them being lead upstairs and given a key at the landing. Frizya took it with her regular solemn, murmured thanks, and headed in, eager to put down her saddle and bag. The room itself had a sluggy wool rug or two and a low 'bed' that was simply a large, simple frame in which one to three cots could be lain without having to be directly on the floor with the cold and the possible bugs. There wasn't so much a hearth as there was a chimney with its bent pipe emerging from the ceiling, and a little stovetop with no kettle. A couple of stools sat in two of the corners, and a barrel with a length of cotton ticking over it served well enough as a table. The keep had mentioned something about being up with the mattresses soon, not that it mattered just yet.<br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>01-02-2016, 22:57:48</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson was withdrawn through the stabling of the horses, going through the motions with his own somewhat unfamiliar animal, making sure that the beast was well cared for before he could think about his own comfort. He squinted a bit as he stroked the currying brush along the horse's flank, finding himself with a bit of a headache but otherwise doing well enough. Even as Frizya finished with her horse he was putting his own away, settling its tack and saddling on a rack made for such and fishing in his shirt for a moment. The man brought out a green and red apple he'd bought at the market and, gripping it with his thumbs alongside one another and fingers curled beneath it, he gave a slight heave and snapped the fruit in half.<br><br>He fed his own horse half of the apple first and stroked its muzzle as it chewed the fruit happily, then gave Frizya's mare hers in passing, following the woman into the inn with his horse's kit over one shoulder. Jameson's eyes flitted about the inn's foyer before Frizya made arrangements, taking note of possible exits and places of ingress, an old habit that he'd developed which had saved his life more than a few times. The mercenary followed Frizya upstairs, noting the amount of other doors and wondering how many of them held people he might have to deal with, or might have had to in another life.<br><br>"Heh, least it's not sparse," he set the saddle and whatnot down off to one side, then shrugged off his overshirt and tossed it over the seat of one stool, tugging his mail off after his baldric and sword, dropping the armour over the same before leaning his sword against the wall and picking a new cigar from his case and sighing a bit as he popped it between his lips. Jameson moved to the little stove and popped the front open, looking for a spark so as not to waste his own. "Ugh, cold. Lovely." <br><br>It didn't take him long to find kindling and a few small logs, lighting a bit of the former from one of the lanterns guttering out in the hallway that threw their soft light enough to see by. The brand was brought back into their room and Jameson stoked the fire enough to get going, used it to light his cigar and then tossed that too into the little stove. The end glowed brightly as the weathered man drew deeply from the cigar, moving to drop into the chair holding his mail and shirt, blowing smoke out his nose slowly and crossing his legs at the ankle. <br><br>His bandages itched a bit, but Jameson didn't really feel like doing much about them right then. Having to endure Frizya's disdain over wishing his own comfort, well, the idea left him more inclined to be uncomfortable so as to have to endure her disdain about something else. Those seemed to be his options right about then. Sitting there in the room with the woman there, Jameson wasn't sure whether to speak up and ask anything or to just let the silence linger. With his shirt and armour off, all that was left was his undershirt and the multitude of small arms and pouches he kept strapped to himself, a veritable armoury of sorts. Not an obscene amount, but enough that he could down a handful of men and still have one left, even if every other body kept a blade. <br><br>The mercenary raked his fingers through his hair, trying to soothe himself somewhat in addition to the relief puffing on the cigar gave him, trying not to be so focused on his problems. That was a hell of a way to drive yourself crazy after all, something which Jameson did do his best to avoid.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>03-02-2016, 00:39:54</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Over at the far wall, Frizya turned the crank at the window, letting out the smell of stale ash and the residue of lamp oil in the air, presumably from the currently wickless lamp at one end of the wide bed frame. She contemplated taking off her doublet to be free of the heavy leather, but it wasn't pressing. In her mind it was just as likely that they'd leave again. There was daylight yet and a city to grow familiar with and quite likely someone somewhere preparing to do something deadly. Whether they struck tonight or not was irrelevant. It would be soon,wherever it was.<br><br>Frizya tossed a glance over her shoulder for Jameson's disappointed grumbling, and wondered why he expected a warm fire in an unoccupied room...In a place like this, no less. But she said nothing, instead undoing the first few buttons of her doublet, from the neck down to her chest, letting it hang open diagonally to the crossing layer beneath and a peak of her hidden armor. She pulled out Jameson's pins, her smokebox, and the lovely timepiece she possessed. That, she would keep just as hidden as the cutbolt on her hand- it was excessively rare for anyone to own one this day and age, twice as unlikely outside of the aristocracy. Even a merchant's guard wasn't expected to keep one.<br><br>The daggers in a harness criss-crossing her waist and the leather-and-plate armor at her chest and torso would stay covered, for now. Her doublet cut firmly across and against the dip of her back, tight lacing giving way to golden gashes in the leather that let it expand across the shoulders for an unhindered reach. The high collar looked ornamental rising at the top of her erect spine, though it was half-covered by her loosened hair. It was a shame she wasn't more animated, for the tassels at her cuffs and the larger ones hanging from cords on her scabbard exaggerated her movements nicely.<br><br>They did enough when she moved to answer the door. She drew it aside, stepping stiffly out of the way, her posture as rigid as ever as someone came in with the rolled mattresses and a wicked lamp to set in the metal base. As the bedding was set on the frame's cording, she tamped down the pipe in her hand and looked across the room at Jameson, her eyes startlingly golden even in the shadows of her face.<br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>03-02-2016, 21:12:50</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man doubted they'd stay there very long really, but his armour chafed a bit and he was glad to be rid of it if only for the moment. He puffed mildly on his cigar, raising a brow as he watched the person with the mattresses and a lamp before he leaned back in his chair and reached back to rub at the back of his neck. By the time business closed at the market, he'd been told after flashing his winningest smile at the older lady running the seamstress' shop he'd gone to, his things would have been cleaned and mended. So it stood to reason that he should be heading back that way at some point, but for now he was more keen on taking a load off for the moment.<br><br>Once the person had left with a murmured good day, Jameson let his hand drop and blew out some smoke, noting again that he'd need to buy some more cigars while he was here. Or the makings of, if all else failed. Jameson wondered if he could hear Frizya stiffening up as the person had walked in or if he just figured what she'd do in that instance so well that it had just jumped to mind. <br><br>Eventually he sat forward and stood, stretching and letting out a low groan at the satisfying pop of his shoulders crackling through the stretch. He shook himself a bit before grinding the lit end of the cigar out on the heel of his boot and tucking it away, catching Frizya's gaze on him, "Somethin' on yer mind?" he asked it in a soft tone even though his voice was clear, crossing to the beds and stripping off his shirt and remaining gear, letting it drop to an untidy pile on the mattress for the moment. Screw it, he'd rather be comfortable. Jameson popped the front of the oven open and turned to face Frizya. <br><br>His eyes cut over her a time or two before he nodded to himself and began unwinding the now worn and soiled bandages on his chest and abdomen, rolling the cotton strips in his hand as he did so. It seemed Jameson wasn't the type to simply waste a thing when it could be salvaged and reused. The bandages, he figured, could be soaked in spirits then washed out and reused the next time he was hurt. Worse came to worse they could be used as makeshift bindings. The merc seemed to heal quickly enough, judging from the size of his bruises and the much less garish nature of their colouring. <br><br>Jameson let out a low sigh of relief and itched at a spot he hadn't been able to properly tend to, grinning lopsidedly and bending to retrieve his shirt, tugging it back on over his head. Stripped to the waist again and not bound, he was every bit as broad and solidly built, with a story's worth of scars and more upon his weathered skin. Clearly he wasn't trying to be coy and had simply decided that that was what he was doing. He tucked his shirt back in and sat on the bed, starting to paw through his things in depth for the first time to take stock.<br><br>"We can't stick around here all day, heh, but what's yer plan? We've been seen together comin' in so anyone who mighta made us by now knows that they can't just off one've us without a problem. Should be safe 'nough 'til we stumble upon our marks," he shrugged mildly, the roughspun of his undershirt somewhat strained against his shoulders so it wouldn't bind beneath his overclothing and armour, "Figure we oughtta split up though, we each have our own kinda niche, 'less you have a better idea?" the way he looked up toward the woman, Jameson was clearly concerned about her opinions.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>08-02-2016, 04:58:32</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The keeper's help seemed completely oblivious to the javelin gaze the Eternian was tossing across the room at Jameson, and moved adroitly about in the space between them, rolling out the mattresses, tightening the bed's ropes, evening out the stuffing and smoothing out the ticked cover before laying out folded quilts on the end and thin flax-stuffed pillows near the heads of each palette.<br><br>Not one for intermediate expressions, her cold gaze lent her the effect of someone soon to be avenged sizing up their enemy. But she was still, calm even in her rigidity, her attention unwavering as she tamped down the half-smoked herb in her pipe with the end of her little finger and licked off the soot and stray bitter herbs. As the help left, her quiet 'our thanks' was thick and smoke-muffled. She closed the door and turned back to the room and her company, her hair sweeping across her shoulders.<br><br>And she stared. Stared as Jameson unwrapped his wounds, many of which had been her doing and those that hadn't she'd exacerbated with her very own boot. Her eyes widened, quietly appalled as he gathered the bandages as they were unwound, <em>keeping</em> them. <br><br>Horrendous. Twin clouds of smoke snorted from the arrogant curve of her nose as her boots brought her into the room on swift falls.<br><br>"That goes without saying." Of course they weren't going to 'stick around all day'. Jameson's tendency to fill silences with blather was grating on her constantly frayed nerves. He looked up, and for a reason she could not eloquate, she bristled with spite. Perhaps it was his deference. Having abdicated power over Jameson, it set her to ire to see him so tentative. He should swagger, he should hold his head high, he should be more independent. He should act like he had been worth letting go. Wasn't he cut from the same cloth as she, beneath it all? Her bold brows quirked down and her jaw set, flexing and clenching as she thought up a reply and chewed over the words as they came out.<br><br>"That was always the plan, wasn't it? Not sure why you're questioning it now. However, I do intend to come at things my own way. I'm sure you'll have yours, whatever they may be." She gestured in the air, rolling her wrist with a dismissive flick of a hand.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>09-02-2016, 21:22:43</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				He'd get the bandages cleaned at the same place where he was to go and pick up his clothing, mended and cleaned as it would be. Jameson supposed he could pack away what he was wearing now as a secondary outfit of sorts.. but for a man who essentially lived on the road and kept what he owned in his packs and on his back, extras just meant more to carry around. He dressed in layers specifically to be able to launder what needed it and wear the rest, though what he was wearing now wasn't a huge addition to what he had to carry so Jameson was definitely considering it. <br><br>Whether or not Frizya approved of keeping the bandages, they were good cloth and would be useful for any number of things. She spoke slowly, her teeth all but gnashing the words like an angry beast might have, her gaze accusatory and imposing. Jameson drew himself up and for a moment thought he might keep his head, not say his piece, would just let it go as he thought he had been. Then the woman gestured, flicking her fingers out as if casting aside something detestable and Jameson found that he hadn't been letting anything go. Instead it seemed as if every slight, every minced word and grunted reply, every offense whether real or imagined had been balled up in his guts, compressed and bitter and now too much to bear.<br><br>In four swift strides he'd crossed the room, something between offended outrage and outright anger flashing in his eyes and making its home in the curl of a snarl, "Lookit!" he gestured forcefully, one thick finger jutting forth as if to skewer as he spoke, "I dunno what the hell yer problem is with me, I dunno what it is with <em>here</em> an' I sure as hell dunno who the hell y'think y'are LaFont but yer about the most condescending, infuriating, compelling damn woman I've ever met!"<br><br>He took a breath and continued, all but getting up in Frizya's face, "Either I'm actin' like I own th'joint and y'hate me for it 'cause I'm jus' some stinkin' merc standin' in yer way or I'm tryna work together with ya, goin' outta my way t'be nice 'cause God forbid y'might actually grace us with a smile, but either way yer pissed. D'ya just get off on bein' sour or what?" he flexed his hands as if he wanted to grab and shake her, and goodness did he, but in the end Jameson didn't do that and instead met her eyes, "What th'hell d'you have to be so hateful about anyway? Yer skilled, educated, comfortable and wealthy, th'kinda gal who turns heads walkin' into a room and keeps 'em turned even when ya don't notice, so what is it? Did I piss on yer father's grave or somethin'? Did the world drop one in your porridge so often y'just think we're all beneath ya?"<br><br>There he paused, his breathing deep and even even in the midst of his ire. Jameson met the woman's golden eyes defiantly, his hard grey ones searching her, almost itching for her to take a swing, to spit some bile his way so they could have a verbal sparring match, anything to break the tension between them. A vein throbbed in his neck and his skin had flushed somewhat with the rising of his displeasure.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>09-02-2016, 23:05:14</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The moment Jameson marched across the worn floorboards, Frizya's eyes went large, the one pupil not covered by hair blowing out the ring of her iris until it was so thin it looked as if it had been penned in gold ink. It took an effort of will so strong it locked her body in place not to grab his hand and snap that bloody finger; instead she clenched her jaw until her teeth marked the end of the pipe's mouthpiece. It clacked audibly, signaling a snap in character...<br><br>Though not what Jameson might have expected. The more he ranted, throwing his <em>confused</em> frustration at her feet,the more Frizya decided once and for all that he was not wholly worth her concern. He was emotional, embittered. Her heavy brow cocked as a smirk played across berry-hued lips. Lofty. Caustic. She began to look bored, amused, disappointed....tired of his childish games. A smile? Of all the petty, pointless little demands.. It sickened her, really, how much he needed this. How angry it made him when she'd hardly done anything at all. Weak. Quite weak, really. He might have been good with a blade but day to day it seemed patently clear to her that he starved for attention whenever his 'gregarious rogue' act didn't pan out with shoulder claps and amusement at his pointless jibes.<br><br>"Might you take the time....to ask yourself..." She paused breathing in through the embers of her pipe. "Why it matters so much to you?" Another, deeper inhale, and she cocked her head aside, a hand slowly cradling the pipe as she brought it away from her mouth. "You're either strong enough to stand it when people won't play at fellowship and cards with you, or you're weak enough that it drives you spitting mad that they don't." She spoke with a practiced thinness to her voice, only at the top of her lungs.. for next she leaned forward, letting her words roll out on a cloud, a full smoky exhale that filled the space between them and poured out against his twisted features.<br><br>"Which is it?" She could feel her gut quiver with bloodlust. The glee of turning the blade he'd used on her back on him. <br><br>"Either way, keep your emotional turmoil away from me. I'm not responsible for how 'compelled' you may be. Your need to know is pathetic, and I owe you no answers. Step back."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>09-02-2016, 23:46:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"I would if I didn't know why it matters to me, <em>Officer</em>," the man growled the words out, refusing out of stubbornness to step back as she said to and instead remaining just where he was, resting his weight on the balls of his feet as if prepared for a fight even if the mercenary didn't quite feel like throwing a punch just yet. "Because for someone like me 'playing at' fellowship and cards as you so aptly put it is something that takes effort and takes it out of me. I spend my time around people so I don't forget myself, who I am now and why I did what I did to get to this point. It matters to me because I left too much back there to go back and try picking up again, it won't <em>work</em>."<br><br>For a moment her face blurred as his mind's eye overrode her with the litany of names and faces he wouldn't forget, the ones he'd repeated often enough to himself that he <em>couldn't</em> forget them, try as he might to pretend that he was as human as anyone else on the streets. "Keeping yourself sequestered from the rest of the world, avoiding the hard questions with bravado and spite isn't <em>strength</em>, LaFont. That's just hiding behind a door waiting 'til you can jump out and spook someone and callin' yerself a master of stealth."<br><br>Her tone bothered him as well and as it was Jameson was very, very close to deciding that the Captain's money simply wasn't worth the effort, "It might be more prudent to consider why these people you serve, this world you live in and pretty much everything except your horses and ironwork really don't matter to you." but it -was- a lot of gold. If nothing else he could walk away from this and not have to worry about meals for awhile.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>10-02-2016, 00:24:42</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She looked away as if there were something just to her right that could give her patience as Jameson so pathetically oozed his concerns, hopes and conflictions all over her. Disgusting. "..Varse." She uttered, ruing her half-brother's command.&nbsp; What would he do, she thought? If&nbsp; this partnership was cleaved? Jameson was no better than any of these other people- just stronger, perhaps. Quicker. Experienced, yes. But not 'better'. Not prouder or nobler or more confident.<br><br>It was disgusting.<br><br>"Has it <em>ever</em> occurred to you," she ground out, leaning in against his rigidity until the curve of her nose threatened to touch his, "that everything you're saying is personal, therefore irrelevant to me? It's all <em>your</em> bruised sentiments, <em>your</em> little mixed up past--I'm not..." She paused, taking a deep breath and lowering her voice further, though she had never quite started to yell in the first place. "I am not. Concerned."<br><br>"No one is, Jameson. You can analyze all you wish, it's just a reflection of your own weaknesses. Now.." She was nearly whispering, would have been if not for the booming threat of timbre in her voice. "You step back, or you step up and come to blows old dog." 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>10-02-2016, 03:32:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Ugh, how did you even get to <em>be</em> like this, and attain your position?!" he gritted his teeth, brows drawing down angrily as he glared at her. Fine, she wanted him to either back up and leave her be or make his point did she? Jameson had kept the urge to drive the woman in the head down since he'd first met her but now it surged through him, burning in his limbs like molten lead and demanding that action. He couldn't -stand- her right then, smug and condescending, egging him on, she was -asking- for it and dammit all he owed her one or five for what she'd done to him during that bullshit 'interrogation'.<br><br>The man debated a few things about how to go, all in a split second but in such a way that they played out in his mind. He could snap his head forward suddenly, drive her nose into her face and blind her with the blood and pain, hopefully get his knee up into her guts before she recovered and ride her to the floor. He could have snapped his fist up and into her throat then followed with his shoulder into her chest to make his point while she hacked and heaved around a bruised windpipe. Of course he could have gone for what was likely and just thrown a punch, aiming for her solar plexus and driven her breath away before wading in and working her middle to take the fight out of her.<br><br>In the end Jameson simply did as anyone might when pushed to the brink of violence that he wasn't entirely sure about. He snapped his arms up and out with splayed hands, aiming to drive them into her shoulders and force the woman back a step. All of his options were too violent and ended with him biting and gouging at her until she cried out for mercy or expired. It was the last bit of that thought that had given him pause and resulted in that shove. He wanted to hurt her and Jameson wanted to beat her down until she begged him to stop but he also didn't, he didn't want to resort to that and he definitely didn't want to be that man again.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>10-02-2016, 04:06:08</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Her laugh snorted, a quick and nasal scoff. "I attain my position <em>because</em> I am like this." She sneered, looking almost pityingly at the man. As if he was too blind to see what was obvious. As if he was childish and silly. A beat passed between them, and she could feel the thick heat pressuring up into the back of her neck, spreading beneath the fall of her hair, pooling down into her hands and chest.<br><br>And he pushed her. It shrank her irises to the thinnest rings, exploded her pupil into a massive pit, put a flush of lusty anger in her face. Deft, she tossed her pipe to the barreltop table, letting herself rock back a step. A chuckle escaped, slow yet giddy. Her boot crashed on the floor, thudding into the widened space between them as she stomped forward,&nbsp; throwing her weight into her shoulder as her bent arm crossed in front of her, barring across her ribs and springing out with an elbow to his bruises.<br><br>If he wanted to fight, so be it! All the better. He'd either end up crushed or perhaps have to finish what they started in the tavern. Frizya didn't care- couldn't. The need to bring this power struggle to a head was too great- it lit in her eyes and pulsed in her blood. But she hadn't reached for a single blade, not yet. Her hands itched, but her posture, her actions, all of it was baiting whether she realized it or not. "What was it you said?" She ground out, her breath heaving as she went to reach for his throat again, aching to feel the flutter and struggle there. "You can't be both? The everyman or the killer, then, which one, butcher?" The words rushed, untethered, threatening to break into full boom.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>10-02-2016, 04:19:46</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson caught the elbow to the ribs and hissed, an incongruous grin splitting his lips with the sudden evaporation of everything that had been bothering him recently. Why worry about how to act, why try to force your smile to reach your eyes and warm the faroff chill that made people avoid your gaze? Why do anything except focus in on the pain and the desperate pull of breath into lungs that burned with the effort of keeping one's body from giving out even when you pushed it too far. <br><br>Her chuckle was met with one of his own, the grin spreading, pulling his lips thin and nearly baring his teeth as Jameson snapped his arm down to catch hers against his side, hugging it to his bruised ribs even though they sang and shrieked with the offense. He hauled Frizya in closer by turning his body as she reached for his throat, relishing the exquisite rush of adrenaline through his body, the way his heart hammered, how his body yearned for motion, for action. He whipped his other hand up and caught Frizya's reaching hand by the wrist, pushing forward with a stiff arm and the weight of his heavier body behind it. His other hand came up under Frizya's arm and caught her at the junction of arm to shoulder, pushing back at her armpit and snatching the woman's other wrist in hand.<br><br>When he spoke again there was a bit of a manic look about him, a way he had of looming even though he wasn't exactly above Frizya and she was far from helpless. From somewhere inside him the person he kept chained down and locked away rattled at its shackles and howled against his mind, driving all other thoughts away from him but the thoughts of slaughter. Would an Eternian bleed the same shades as a man? Would she beg the same when the pain overtook her? Those golden eyes, alluring in their intrinsic artistry, would they widen before they were put out? Would he even leave her the time to consider?<br><br>Another low chuckle from him, precursor to the laughter that roiled forth from him in battle, bubbling free as a man with no concerns was wont to. His eyes bored into hers as he squeezed the woman's wrists in a powerful grip, aiming to take the strength from them as much as he was also aiming to hurt her, "Heheh, you want me to pick a side in that one? Everyman or killer? Killer of every man, maybe.." he pushed as he squeezed, aiming to push Frizya back while he moved forward.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>10-02-2016, 04:53:41</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Something in Jameson sprang from his very sense of self and set upon her, and Frizya welcomed it. Would it crack? Would it sink its teeth in, make her bleed? Leave the natural order clear and defined? Would she go too far, lose herself...it didn't matter. All that mattered was the existence of a final victor. Her ire was born of a fear, of a curiosity, too. It was wild and shallow, enforcing order through its very chaos, but not caring what order it enforced.<br><br>A bitter, irritated grimace clouded her features as Jameson dipped back, leaving her gloved fingers to graze his collar before his hands hunted her wrists down. The tassels at her cuffs flew back as she went to yank each hand back in turn, the momentum of his push throwing her weight back onto her un-set heel and pushing his grip further up along her forearms to her wrist proper-<br><br>First one, then the other. Her eyes widened; she faltered, losing focus and ground until her shoulder crashed up against the wall, the jolt moving through her loosened hair. Anger flashed through her features, darkening them into something that put reason to the aversion many humans had to her kind. But his fingers squeezed, the top of each grip catching against the base of the spurs at her wrist, and a groan suddenly shot from her throat as if she'd been stung. The pain flashed peculiarly on her face, shock and something else, something that left her brow pinching upward and her eyes threatening to roll back.<br><br><em>Focus,</em> she told herself, but already the moment had a strange miasmic feel to it. Her heart thudded, the prickling flush to her face rushed to her ears and down her spine. But his grip did not abate and she seethed, dropping her head against the wall partially out of anguish, partially in some involuntary attempt to use it as a pivot as she squirmed in his hold.<br><em><br>Kick him.</em> The impulse was there and thudding. It would have been so easy. But something..some urge.. made her wait. "I doubt it..." Her words were slow, out of breath or.. will, more exactly. Her eyes rolled and shut, her jaw hinged open and tight.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>10-02-2016, 05:14:09</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man leaned in as she struck the wall, pushing Frizya's wrists back and pinning her there between the slats of wood and his body. He could feel her breathing and the pulse of their shared tension was enough that even their straining thrummed in a sense. She wasn't struggling enough, wasn't fighting, she was just <em>waiting</em>... for what? Did she think he <em>wouldn't</em> hurt her? Did the woman have any concept of what he'd done, who had shuddered their way into death for the crime of simply being a target? Of wearing the wrong colours? Of <em>crossing</em> him the wrong way?<br><br>The man growled low in his throat as he leaned in, still clutching Frizya's wrists and staring at her as she shut her eyes and let her head loll somewhat against the wall. He <em>demanded</em> satisfaction for the tension, needed the release from the annoyance and irritation that they had inflicted upon one another, but no, she wasn't <em>giving</em> it to him! <br><br>"You don't get to doubt me, LaFont. You can fight," he shoved against her arms sharply to make his point, "Or you can yield." amid the anger in his voice there was an underlying iron tone of command, of someone expecting obedience because he could take it if it wasn't freely given. Of course, he was as excited at the prospect of the fight but there was something else. <br><br>As much as he wanted the woman to struggle, the man also wanted her to acknowledge his superior position in this, wanted Frizya to yield and submit so that this wouldn't be an issue in the future.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>10-02-2016, 05:39:08</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Warm, he was so warm again. The heat between their bodies felt like the turbulence coming out of an oven, and it dizzied her, riling disgust and.. something else. Something she feared and hated. He pinned her against the wall and into a mindnumbing limbo- she couldn't think. Her head swam,slowing and growing still and sluggish the way it did whenever she massaged those points into her wrists. Yet this time, her heart raced instead of going calm. Her thoughts clouded instead of going clear. The warm, soothing rush that always followed pain came suffusing her limbs, but the surge of her pulse would not quiet. It was a heady, confusing mixture.<br><br>He squeezed tighter and her jaw locked around a muffled moan. The moment the sound escaped she regretted it, wincing almost for its very existence.<br><br>His shove drove her gloved knuckles harmlessly against the wall, but dug further against her wrists, tightening, deepening the pressure that bit into the braid of tendons and nerves near the bracelet line. Beneath the cuff of her gloves the leather of the bands was stiff but failed to hid what it held- beneath each of Jameson's thumbs were two hard metal fixtures. She writhed against the wall, pushed as if she'd force him back with her arms.. or was she forcing her wrists into his hold? The sting was...horrendously divine. She looked feverish.<br><br>"Neither." She breathed. "Neither." Just as before, in the tavern. Did he understand? She was always in-between...
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>10-02-2016, 06:09:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson gritted his teeth at the woman's answer even if that muffled moan was intriguing. He leaned in further, pushing her body back against the wall with his own, his broad and firm torso squashing up close to her fit physique, well aware of every shift and writhe of her body, trying to focus on the violence between them and not the rising concern that there was something much more interesting going on. No doubt that that would only result in further tension and irritation between them, but Jameson couldn't keep the grin from his face as he leaned in, his breath hot on Frizya's ear while he spoke, still firm in his commanding tone but somewhat distanced from the bloodthirsty self he'd been shrugging back into.<br><br>The man rolled his thumbs a bit, smirking because he'd figured out just what he was doing to her even if he didn't quite understand why she liked it, "Hmph, you don't need to say it out loud," Jameson figured that the woman's pride wouldn't allow her to say it, even if they both understood right then that he could probably force the issue. His lips brushed along her ear, close as he was right there, his breath and his body, the press of him to her, all of it warm and escalating, somehow feeling right to him even in its strangeness of circumstance. <br><br>Jameson pressed his thumbs more firmly against those metal spurs, not wanting to drive them in but wanting to take her breath away with the sting she was getting. It wasn't uncommon for people to enjoy what they should otherwise avoid and chances were there was a good reason for it, but Jameson wasn't above putting the options forth. "So I'm supposed to step up or back off, which decides in your eyes whether I'm worth treatin' like someone worth talkin' to or treatin' me like a simple barroom drunkard... but I tell you t'do the same and you wanna stay solidly straddlin' that fence huh?" he was a little short of breath himself, out of excitement, "Too bad, LaFont. I can tell ya like this," he squeezed teasingly just once before keeping a solid pressure on her, "An' I ain't one fer bullshit games where only one've us gets to try bein' top dog. Now give, say uncle'n we can move on and no-one's ribs hafta get worked over."<br><br>The mercenary was clearly not feeling the same level of violence as he had been, though he was enthusiastically tormenting the Eternian right then. Of course the excitement for violence had been replaced with something else, related but not quite the same.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>10-02-2016, 06:53:34</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The closer he pressed, the more her visible eye widened. Looked like he didn't need to bleed her to find out, after all. She could hear the leather of her doublet groan, the fabric of his shirt whisper and press, sandwiching them together, and it unsettled her more than if he'd have pulled a blade on her. It shouldn't have been that way- to threaten a partner in arms was surely worse, should have been worse, should have been anathema- but she almost craved it.<br><br>No, no. He was too warm. The heat washed over her pointed ear, forcing her to crane her head away to mask the bone-deep quiver that came. She writhed against the wall, found herself pressed even further to the iron wall of Jameson's chest, and pushed away- though she got nowhere. A flash of anger, the grit and growl of a cornered beast, flickered briefly on her face and died away into a churning, drugged panic as her every action just enforced his position.<br><br>The spurs, dulled at the tips but no less metal, no less painful, wriggled deep into the flesh of her wrists, pinning and rolling against the nerves. Her fingers splayed, numb and incapable as she sucked back a hiss. Her body felt split in twain; she struggled as if she could will herself back and through the wall, or met the solid heat of him and lost her breath.<br><em><br>"I can tell ya like this,"</em> Her expression crumbled into agony and she arched, more to tuck her hips away from him than anything else, though it brought their torsos firmly together just the same. The bloodheat of their bodies mingled; she wanted to scream. "No. That's not...Nnfh.." She struggled for words, for thought, fretted her lip with her teeth and bit back a shaken groan. A twinge pulled in her hips, back and front, and she gasped before drawing deep almost pained breaths. Quick. Full, hissing through her nose. No, no...not now. She ached, quite suddenly she ached all over, feverish.<br><br>"It's not that way..."<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 00:11:07</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled from his lips, near as they were to the woman's dusky skin that his breath washed over her flesh as she struggled against him. In much the same way that Frizya had mocked him earlier he was beginning to feel that smug superiority, winning over her vaunted self-assurance and cool detachment, her scorn and irritation by the simple act of taking control, physically, of the situation. He felt almost an outsider to himself, straining for control even as his iron grip hauled Frizya's arms up, dragging her gloved hands and his knuckles against the wood, the bite of the rough grain and the rich smoothness of her leather gear mingling in his mind as he did so. <br><br>Holding her wrists above her shoulders, pinned to the wall in his grip while the Keeper struggled against him, Jameson watched her gnaw at her lip, struggle for control. Good, let her suffer that while he took it from her, let Frizya gasp out her protests until she submitted, meekly or ferociously mattered little to the mercenary then. They needed to settle the unspoken heirarchy between them and he was <em>determined</em> to either gain respect from this woman, or beat it out of her. With anyone else he would have taken another route but Frizya had left him nothing but anger and resentment by that point... and a startlingly clear attraction that he couldn't reconcile with the person he held.<br><br>Was she a capable and cunning woman, intelligent and educated, gifted in her hobbies and blessed with a kinship with horses beyond what most others could guess at, or was Frizya simply a scornful, belligerant piece of work to be tolerated and then left behind? Part of him feared that she was both and that was what drew his attention, for Jameson thought himself beyond the age where the flare of a hip or dip of a spine might entice him. The time had passed when the sweep of a woman's throat was poetry and the fall of her hair a delight, but he had noticed those passions flaring as easily as his temper around the Keeper.<br><br>"Then what way is it, LaFont? Yer not sayin' ya give, butchur not exactly fightin' me with whatcha got either," he felt a bit cruel, dragging out her torment but then would she have had mercy? "'Cause a lady doesn't flush like that, chewin' on 'er lip and bitin' back her groans when she ain't at least likin' it."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 01:24:02</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Would she have had mercy? It was a salient question, but one easily answered. Was there mercy in her when she sought to make an example of the drunkard in the tavern? Was there mercy in her when she pressed her bootheel into ribs she knew to be bruised by her own fellows in the order? Jameson had not seen the greater breadth of what Frizya could and would do, but surely he knew enough to cipher an answer out of the memories he had: No.<br><br>What burned in Frizya's face, spreading a dusky, cold flush the color of an elderberry juice stain, was not simply the heat in her body or any sort of panicked thrill- it was a swiftly engulfing sense of conflict, the glaring knowledge that something, something was keeping her from fighting back. Whether or not she'd have bested him in blows was irrelevant-- something gripped the very nerves of her body and kept her struggling where she would have been throwing. The strength alone in her thighs and lower back could have pivoted him away from her, the drive of her knee would have bought her time, but with every moment that passed in which she did none of those things, the shame grew hotter, because surely... he'd know.<br><br>It was terrifying. And like some ill-bred hound answering the wrong call, she felt at twinge, the selfsame one that twinned somewhere low in her hips, usually driving her boots and tightening her fists and burning up the back of her neck until her thoughts ran red-- now it seemed to liquefy and pulse in a disconcertingly familiar stream, unbidden and focused. Her eyes went wider, she couldn't think.<br><br>All of her attention was on the feeling of telltale <em>thickness</em> that began to make itself known below, deep between her legs. 'Lady', he said, and she felt that unfitting context. Plump and fluffy things in dresses, smooth young girls, banker's wives with ivory bangles. It never seemed to suit...she was a woman, yes, but--"It <em>hurts!</em>" She coughed, defensive and avoiding his gaze. He was nearly too close to look at, anyway, his breath against her ear...She felt another throb, threatening to push itself free of her body, rude and persistent. She knew that horrid thing and how impossible it was to stop it. It's why she never....<br><br>...God, but it made her want. Her thoughts were confused, hazy. The pain-bliss of self-flagellation hummed in memory, mingling with the frustrating shame of what she constantly hid and avoided. But she kept it strapped down, trapped in..with any luck. She worried about him squeezing harder-thought it-fantasized about it- the image itself sent that heat lurching below.<br><br>"It's just pain..."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 03:09:19</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson would have corrected Frizya in her assumption that him calling her 'lady' had anything to do with her status as a 'Lady'. For him, a youth spent on the ranch and the road had ingrained a certain mannerism of speech that an adolescence spent honing his mercenary crat had only further solidified within him. For him the capitalization made all the difference; 'lady' was another word for woman while 'Lady' was an honorific bestowed upon the fine and flouncing creatures of court who had never truly enticed Jameson's interest beyond what they might pay to have a competitor silenced.<br><br>He was a bit confused and annoyed that Frizya wasn't struggling so much as making a token show of it, enjoying his grip on her all the while whining about how she wasn't. <em>"It hurts!"</em>, of course it did, he was squeezing spurs of metal into bundles of nerves hard enough that the bruises and lingering numbness would be a distraction. Jameson knew he was hurting her and that Frizya was rather enjoying it even if she wouldn't admit it didn't escape him either. His own response was less unwelcome to him than hers was to her, but it still surprised him, for Jameson hadn't felt such a rush of need that quickened the pulse and dulled the mind.<br><br>"Sure it does, but a gal like you knows how to stomp an instep and hoof a guy in the chestnuts if she ain't liking what's goin' on," he had bruises to prove that, she'd seen them recently. The man's voice was low, almost an intimate purr as he spoke under his breath to her, close as they were right then, "How many ways d'you know how t'twist free. Snap your wrists down and drive your fingers into my shoulders, step in and trip me, ride me down, thumbs crushing my windpipe so I can't get the best of you and that's just one."<br><br>The man couldn't help but press closer, push at her with his body with a soft grunt even as he swallowed a deeper sound, "Doesn't hafta be all pain either. Y'don't get as old as I do not knowin' how t'take care've someone." he wasn't as overcome as she seemed to be, but Jameson had reached the point where he couldn't help but push the envelope to see where things ended up. Maybe it'd settle them both down a bit so they'd be less pissy toward one another. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 03:39:37</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Frizya would have <em>liked</em> to put up a struggle. She could have. The problem was she couldn't bring herself to do it. Couldn't bring herself out of the moment, couldn't bring her nerves in line with the impulse, because this was too much to bear...She couldn't have explained how it had culminated, her own years of self-punishment.<br><br>Rigorous hours of meditation on the Order's moral pillars aided by the lash of studded strapping on her skin, the haze and mental clearness that followed after- the closest to a high she'd allow herself to have and truly one more intoxicating to its connoisseurs than the finest glass of wine. The biting sting of the very garment she'd made for herself to restrain that lusty, impatient thing that always made it so hard to think, to be good, to be pure...all of these little wounds had been to her a sort of private joy, if not a lusty one then one of satisfaction and redemption. Safety, too, and purity.<br><br>To have Jameson trigger that same feeling was--! Oh, she couldn't navigate it to save her life. Shame smothered her, for a sort of familiar curiosity slithered into her consciousness, snakelike. What if he did it harder? What if he was stronger? What if he showed her? It was wrong, it was all so horribly deliciously wrong. He was just some cutthroat, his hands not truly deserving even of wrapping around the fine leather of her gloves, and yet...<br><br>Decidedly unfamiliar with any lusts but her own and incapable of facing them with any sort of calm, Frizya pressed to the wall as if she could will herself through it, a shudder locking her jaw as Jameson's breath washed over her neck and ear. She winced against his accusations, his adroit listing of the many ways she could have escaped...He pressed closer and seemed to pushed a moan right out of her- she herself looked startled to hear it. Beyond startled, really. She twisted in his grip, pivoting from the hips but finding no purchase with his own so close- no, instead, she ended up grinding against him, the impatient jut of her pushing out against the leather of her undergarment and up against his body, it's shape- though only so far defined, currently,- unmistakeable.<br><br>"What are you <em>ever</em> talking about? I don't need to be 'taken care of'!"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 13:09:46</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Even if Frizya had tried, Jameson likely wouldn't have understood to her liking. The thought of punishing yourself in that way was just too at odds with the indulgences of his personality and while the man would readily admit to her that he had things to atone for, had done things in his lifetime that he couldn't forgive himself for, Jameson still didn't see the sense in physically hurting oneself over it. Perhaps just a difference in upbringing, but then Jameson wouldn't have made fun of Frizya's coping methods either.<br><br>The way she twisted and writhed against him brought Frizya's fit physique pressing firmly to his own, her shifting hips pushing her against him and grinding for a moment and... <em>Oh!</em> Jameson grinned wickedly and stepped in a little more, rocking his hips meaningfully and keeping the two of them pressed together so that Frizya could continue that rolling of her hips. He supposed on some level he should have been startled but he was no stranger to people having their secrets, especially on the road as he had been.<br><br>On the road you always moved, always forward and leaving your troubles behind you as you wandered into new ones. A man's secrets were his own until they weren't and while some men proved wickedly-inclined, many simply had made mistakes or sought something new. At his age though admittedly he'd thought he'd seen it all, but this was new. It wasn't bothersome however, simply intriguing. As their hips ground together, intentionally on his part, his own excited reaction to what had been going on was ground against her, at times to that unmistakeable jut.<br><br>"Hmph, you're either playin' dumb or lived under a rock.." he leaned down a touch, brushing her collar aside with his cheek and speaking so that his lips moved along her neck, seeking her pulse, "Yer not fit t'go anywhere like that 'n I figure we can work things out a bit here before we go anywhere." he gave her wrists another sharp squeeze, changing from constant hard pressure to punctuation by way of the spurs. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 17:35:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Was it hard to believe she may have figuratively lived under a rock? For her aversion to anything 'lewd' and her own seclusion, her inability to grasp Jameson's meaning was just as much genuine ignorance as it was willful refusal. So much of her maintained that if she just did not give in, if she did not acknowledge lusts or pleasure urges, she could maintain her rigid place on the straight and narrow path.<br><br>She had her reasons. In her younger years when the family peace was torn asunder by her mother's infidelity, her father railed at length on the pitfalls of sins of the flesh. She learned their trickster nature, the slippery slope inherent to following those whims. And as she aged, her development brought shock and struggle as her own body betrayed her time and time again. Urgent. Throbbing. Disgusting.<br><br>No matter what, no matter the times she cracked and lost hours at a time to the morbid fascination, the pleasure, the agony...she wouldn't ever let it spill like it had the first few times early on. If she didn't, then all had not been lost. In the end she resented the insistence of the thing too much, and put it where bad things go- in jail.<br><br>Right now it was just a little blunt jut below her hips, perhaps if she escaped now she could wrest herself of it all before--Jameson turned the leather of her collar away and she could feel his <em>skin on her skin</em>, dear god. Her body lurched, fingers splayed, heart hammering like a mad canary in a cage. The closeness, the heat, the touch..! She finally struggled then, a hiss and groan piping from her throat, cutting quickly for another resounding press of those spikes at her pressure points that left her head empty and her knees weak. <br><br>For a moment, she stopped breathing, and then the groan melted free, exhausted. A sudden heat bloomed, triumphant and demanding between her legs. The blunt end pushed free, found itself trapped as always against the leather, and buckled, angling into a small row of spines. Frizya flinched as if Jameson'd needled her in the side, but immediately struggled to hide it, seething. "I need nothing, don't--I'm fine!" She pushed her hands away from the wall and against the stalwart vice of Jameson's grip.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 18:08:23</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				For him it would have been tough to believe, given Frizya's many (if not varied) opinions of the world. She seemed to know plenty about the things she disparaged and so Jameson attributed her a more thorough working knowledge of the world at large. His own had been hard-won and fought for, bloody at the best of times and dark at the worst. He knew his place in the world and what was expected of him, knew that like all men and women he was capable of more than he ever thought when pushed, had relied upon that time and again, had embraced death's call with certainty that that would be his last before the savage survival instinct of his humanity kicked him through and brought him out the other side, scraped and wounded, ready to give up but determined not to.<br><br>Of course Jameson didn't know the Keeper's reasons for her lack of knowledge or her hangups and couldn't have asked her because he knew how the woman would respond should he do so. The mercenary had lived with his own lusts long enough to know that such things couldn't simply be locked away and ignored, they needed outlets as much as any passions, any anger or resentment, any annoyance or happiness, anything one felt needed an outlet or it backed up, bottled up and remained like a poison. He didn't know for sure what someone else might think and had only formed his opinions after years of trial and error. It occurred to him that Frizya might be a score or more years his junior and hadn't had the time to work herself through such thoughts, nor the inclination. <br><br>When he found her pulse he could feel how frantic she had become by how her heart pounded, readjusting his hold on her as the Keeper shoved at him, "Heh, sure you are, and I'm the Queen's Consort." he smirked and tugged her wrists down to her hips for an easier grip while the woman struggled and writhed, letting her groans slip free. <br><br>The man figured she was contrary enough to tell him to let her go if he'd asked what she wanted and while he didn't consider himself the type to force himself on another, this was beginning to tread dangerously close to that territory. He noticed the way she lurched when he touched her neck and he figured he'd try another tack. Frizya seemed to enjoy a bit of pain, though the man had no idea about what was digging into her then besides the points at her wrists. A deft motion caught a bit of her skin between his teeth, a sharp nip, enough to sting if not bruise or break skin. He didn't even know exactly what he was thinking right then, this was a woman who had had him beaten and dragged into a cell, hung by the wrists and who had beaten him personally for good measure. Threats and resentment and irritation had warred with other feelings, for he admired her dedication and skill even as he disparaged her attitude, which didn't even begin to cover the more masculine urges that had come to a head.<br><br>"Are you telling me that, or tryna convince yerself?" he spoke against her skin once more, finding a new place and giving another nip of his teeth to stymie any sort of objection.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 19:11:45</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Perhaps at a later point in her years, Frizya would well come to understand just how she had nurtured this very vulnerability in herself. How she had left her ability to respond to any sort of intimacy dangerously atrophied, and left her body to cling to pain as its only pleasure, ensuring that it would chase after it when offered, with or without her awareness. Without drink, revelry, sweets or the release of ardour, every inch of her knew nothing so well as it knew restraint, denial, and pain.<br><br>It was as if she'd spent all of her years training alone with a dagger. Eventually that limited experience would be some manner of downfall. For the time being her brain hummed, loud and residual like the lingering drone of a struck church bell. Any attempt at focusing was shot, for all there was to focus on was the heat of Jameson's mouth, the press of his body, the impatient throb of hers...She groaned, writhing, hating the nearness and hardness of Jameson's hips and chest, hating the way it made her feel, how <em>much</em> it made her feel...<br><br>Pleasure. She found the pleasure&nbsp; intolerable. If forced to name it, would she even have given that name to the throb and ache that raced through her? Would she have given that name to the tight, full heat she felt deep in her body? That ache, there was nothing she could do for it, ever. Currently it felt like she was swelling inside. 'Demon's eggs' her father had called them, stern and sharp. Accusatory. It's sin that grows them...<br><br>Jameson nipped at her throat- once, twice, and Frizya yelped and flinched threefold. Twice for the bites. Again as that blunt tip pulsed, spreading in size and under the driving crush of the man's hips. The pain- sharper and purer than that at her wrists or throat- bolted up her spine, yanked her to her toes against the wall. Her hands tensed, yanking against his hold as if she'd reach for the buttons of her breeches, but his body was in the way and her arms hampered by the metal bite at her tendons. "Ughh...." She groaned, dizzy. Half of her desperately needed him off of her. The other half was sluggish and drunk, feebly hoping that the spikes would do their usual duty and dissuade the beastly thing. Sting it until it shrank back. "Why does it matter..."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 19:43:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Jameson chuckled softly and spoke in a low voice, his breath hot on the woman's ear again, "'Cause if yer tellin' me I gotta call ya a liar. Wound up as tight as you are yer gonna break an' whether ya can see it're not this's good for ya even if ya kick me away now and we part tense'n annoyed. But if it's you yer talkin' to, well," the man debated internally on what to do. He could tell that she was hung up on something, more than one something but it bothered her to be enjoying herself, likely because it was wholly unexpected, but Jameson also figured that he would have had no real chance of getting her to this point otherwise, "If yer lyin' to yerself all I can do is work on convincin' ya it'd be better t'stick with it."<br><br>If one spent all her time training with a dagger she would be an expert but she would rely too heavily upon it. There were different tools for different jobs and like as not, no matter how sharp her hands were, another warrior with a spear or bow would take her down for her reliance upon one rigid way of doing things. "Jus' stop and think fer a sec. If I wanted t'hurtcha more than what's makin' ya writhe like this I coulda and woulda by now. Stop thinkin' about the bullshit, the titles and social crap and pay attention t'me."<br><br>His tone remained rather forceful, but Jameson moved her hands together up behind her back, where the arch left enough space and transferred her grip to a single hand. It weakened his grip somewhat but freed one of his hands, which he slipped between them to curl his thick fingers against the push of her hips. Jameson didn't flinch when he encountered her, nor did he move his hand so much as he moved to teasingly tug at the buttons of her breeches, "See, Iono whatcha think exactly of someone else's interest, but I ain't gonna ask 'cause yer gonna be a dink if I do." <br><br>The man nipped just beneath her ear, enjoying the way she'd yelped when he'd done so, "Ain't anyone gonna know except me y'know, call it a boon to what we're workin' on here but don't'cha think you'd do better with a clear head?" 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 20:40:34</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				A liar.<br><br>If there was anything she could reason lying about, it was this. It was hiding this aspect of her body away from everyone, even herself. The perverted thrill of it coursed through her, battling against a heady rush of shame and the dull high of that inner balm that always rose to warm and numb pain. It made her muscles loose one moment, then painfully tight the next. She seized, struggled, froze in place and jerked again as another demanding pulse made itself known. How? How even now? <em>Why?</em> Normally the thing had no rhyme or reason but it was stunningly inopportune, now. Now, with Jameson pressing against it, with the throb of pain warming her hands and turning her reasoning to slush...<br><br>Again, some small voice anguished over Jameson's control. It would have been easier, better if he simply bested her. If he hurt and defeated her. There was something simple and clean about that. A swift adjustment of a social order, a quick punishment, a clear line. This? This was torture. And he reminded her glibly that he specifically wasn't doing it out of a desire to crush her down.<br><br>It made it so much worse. She drew a deep, hissing breath through her nose, her eyes searching wildly as Jameson pushed her wrists into the dip of her back, forcing her body tighter against his. The leather of her gloves creaked, tense. Frizya's body went as hard as iron, rigid, defensive against Jameson's approaching touch. Heat radiated from her body through the fabric; the muscle of her thigh jumped as soon as his fingers made contact. She winced.<br><br>"Don't--! Ah!" The frontline of her body snapped with the yelp, another sting below making her hips buck- painful, involuntary. Her hands twisted in a fitful break, one wrist wrenching free as short, clipped sounds of pain painted her hurried breaths. She gulped them back, struggled to get her hand beneath Jameson's. "You're making it worse!" The words tumbled free, shaken and without their usual resonance.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 21:47:52</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man chuckled smugly when Frizya yelped that he was making things worse on her, letting her hand stay free as he gripped the other more firmly, keeping her wrist dug into the dip of her spine, riding high along her rear. She still struggled a bit against him and could have struck him but didn't, so he took a better hold on the buttons of her breeches and gave them a sharper tug, satisfied when at least one popped free in his grip. "Then help me make it <em>better</em>." the man gritted the words out, determined at that point to convince the woman that shedding their barriers was a surefire way to handle that.<br><br>"Or would it be easier to reconcile if I punched you first?" he frowned a bit, not really liking the implication but feeling frustrated in that Frizya very clearly liked what was going on, even if she couldn't come to terms with that herself. Jameson hauled Frizya away from the wall and held the woman against his body, rather liking that she was both firm and yet yielding against him. Jameson kept his hold on her wrist and discarded the buttons he'd pulled away, his breathing coming in only slightly calmer puffs against Frizya's skin.<br><br>He didn't know what was hurting her but he was curious about that, "A good start'd be figurin' out why yer still hurtin', can't be this." he wiggled her wrist and chuckled, "I haven't squeezed that in awhile." he reached down between them for a more full press of his palm to her crotch, finding a little more than he expected by way of undergarments.. well, perhaps she simply preferred leather there as well. <br><br>"Just stop bein' so worried about things, for a bell or two," he urged her on to do so, as yielding would simply make things easier on the both of them.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 22:15:23</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				A hysteric sort of fury flashed in her face as Jameson tugged at the wide buttons of her trousers, her hand racing to push his out of the way as much as it was trying to work at the buttons itself. For all his lecherous ways she knew there was a high and overriding risk that Jameson'd take one look and have some sly, chiding remark about that if he noticed, but the pain was putting a fire in her movements. That sting had far more bite to it than the larger points at her wrist...<br><br>All the same, she felt his words hammer through the chaos of her mind.Would it make it easier? Yes. Was that odd? Perhaps. ...It made her pause, if only for a moment; time enough for him to haul her against his body, her chest crushing between them under the leather and jacquard of her doublet. Her hair swung forward, heavy and smooth against the side of his face while a heave of her shoulder attempted to twist her other hand free to no avail. His wiggle rocked the steel tip against the bone of her wrist at this angle, and a long groan broke into several shorter ones as his hand smoothed down between her legs...pushing.<br><br>"Augh!" There there seemed to be not much more than the firm seams of doubled leather, but this was only because the spines there were so much smaller, nothing more than wee steel teeth half bent through the inner layer of raw hide. They angled not down at the skin but inward, a threatening fence for what they guarded. With a flinch she defensively grabbed at his hand, pushing it away and driving her fingers into the small, open space made from the loosed button. Another sharp,impatient sound broke free, for the trousers' fly fastened up on the side. Were the buttons fully undone that flap would pull away to reveal a criss-crossing of laces. In the span of seconds, she couldn't get her hand deep enough to even begin to get at it- the rest of the buttons went too high up on her waist. "No! I worry, I have a good reason to!" Hysteria edged on her voice, matching the width of her eyes.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>11-02-2016, 23:01:06</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man grunted at the way she thrashed, trying to keep her in his grip even as she began to push more fervently at him for him to knock it off. He reached up as she pushed his hand away and gripped at one of her warrior's braids, giving it an impatient tug and leaning in, "Settle down before you hurt yerself. Y'ain't got a damn thing t'worry about right now except that. Yer gonna scratch yerself with yer nails at this rate," he was by no means calm but he force calm into his voice, swallowing hard in order to keep his cool.<br><br>"What's yer reason fer worryin' then, huh? That I'll getchur pants off and see how'n Eternian's built and be frightened off? Or pissed about it?" he jerked her braid more firmly and twisted it through his fingers, "I know ya don't think much've me but trust me, short've you havin' teeth there I dunno that I'd be all that worried as long as the same general rules fer it work out." he knew plenty about anatomy, how to make someone hurt and the reverse and how to apply that knowledge, something he was keen on doing indeed.<br><br>Their conversation was truncated by their impatience, such as it was, "Goddammit Frizya just stop'n help me with yer damn laces'n all," he debated knocking her onto a bed and using his knees to help pin her, to free up his hands to do the work her own feverish tugging and wrenching wasn't making any easier. Jameson met her gaze, wide-eyed though she was and offered a conventionally rakish smile, "Er, y'don't do ya? Have teeth there I mean." he wasn't keen on being bitten, after all.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>12-02-2016, 00:38:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The tug at her braid caught her entirely by surprise- as much was obvious for the more insulted bark of pain and the confused-injured look on her face. The braid was thin, woven along the curve of her head and loose after the nape, and so when he tugged the pain was sharper. "Agh!" She winced to pull away and briefly felt the urge to headbutt him. But with the braid being wound around his fingers that swiftly became less of an option.<br><br>"It's not about you!" She seethed, beyond irritated and managing to become incensed enough that some of the boom was back in her voice. "I don't care how you feel about it, it's not for touching!" Her body jerked against him for the way she yelled, but the tension through her belly and diaphragm just seemed to make her blood shoot even surer south. It stung. It stung and it should have sent the flesh shrinking back, but it wasn't. Another painful flinch wreaked her body, threatening to roll her eyes back with the flashing agony of it while she shifted to try and ease the position,&nbsp; twisting and rolling her hips in place.<br><br>She wrenched her shoulder again, tension flexing through her neck as she growled miserably through clenched teeth. "-might as well." She moved her hand up to the rest of the buttons, desperate to undo them. Not for him. Not for her. Just the driving need to stop the sting. She had no idea what she would <em>do</em> once her fly was open-what with Jameson right there against her, but her brain was burning with that singular goal.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>12-02-2016, 01:22:25</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"No! It's about you and it's you who has the problem!" he gritted the words back and shook his head, "Figured maybe you were worried how I'd react, dunno for sure!" Jameson hadn't exactly encountered anyone so frustratingly halting about the whole prospect, but eventually she relented with a 'might as well' that sounded like the woman was making her death march.<br><br>He let go of Frizya's braid, though he kept a hold of the woman's wrist, keeping it tucked up against her back while she fumbled with the buttons and laces of her breeches. Jameson himself was a bundle of nerves, anxious and needy, trying to hide that though the flush in his cheeks and down his neck surely gave the man away. Unlike Frizya he didn't wear any kind of pinchy restraining device and thus was easily felt against her through their clothing, firm and thick as he was at that point.<br><br>"Y'know it'd be easier to let me help. I will if you promise not to clock me," he smirked and used his free hand to tease her, resting it on her hip to aid with the buttons higher up along the woman's waist. This was all so strange, all things being equal, that they found themselves in this kind of situation, given their earlier animosity. Jameson didn't really have the right mindset to examine it though, didn't really feel the need to put much thought into it either, preferring instead to see things through. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>12-02-2016, 01:44:20</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Make no mistake, that 'might as well' was a begrudging but snide answer to his question about teeth in surprising places. She surely did not have fangs below, but she did have teeth biting into her, and she did have something she personally viewed as gruesome lying in wait. Amidst all the moving about, her mind hadn't really let itself hone in on the obvious presence at her hip, but the moment she was still enough, the alarm sounded. Revulsion and driving curiosity battled for supremacy in her mind, a distraction strong enough it left her <em>almost</em> still for a moment, her hips tucked back at an angle that kept her tip from pinching against its confines too much.<br><br>But the moment her mind made any sort of reasoning of it, imagining him just as hard as she knew she could get, her hands busied themselves again, fingers stumbling up the buttons at one side of her fly. "-promise nothing...", came rumbling free as her hand met his, knuckles brushing against knuckles, and a heat rushed across her face like a wildfire. She just had to get out, adjust it maybe. It was still mostly inside of her, uncomfortably swollen, threatening to be too big to fit... as long as the vice stayed on she could fight it.. perhaps.<br><br>Yet the pain...! She seemed frantic, for this had never happened before. Never this way, never with others, never so quickly. Her hand shook, and she blinked blearily through the mindfog of anguish. When the fly came hanging away at a diagonal, her nails immediately started yanking at the cording of her laces where they domed faintly around a modest but no less firm bulge. Red-faced with shame, Frizya twisted, positioning her shoulder so she could shove her hand down into the triangular cut of leather against her skin, partially covered by the bottom hem of her shirt. Her brow flinched as the tiny tines caught against her hand, but the pain was better there than elsewhere. Below the fall of her shirt and the hem of her doublet her knuckles stuffed unto a cut of leather, pushing out against her half-opened laces. She shuddered and sighed, her stomach quivering with nervousness. Under the curl of her fingers she could feel the blunt head peeking, hot and smooth. She didn't want to touch it, but it brushed against her palm anyway and throbbed smugly. With a disgusted grunt she pushed at it, as if she could smother it back into herself.<br><br>This felt a thousand times worse than seeing the judgmental gazes of the people in the tavern, and there was no one here but Jameson.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>12-02-2016, 02:22:07</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Heh, s'fine," Jameson couldn't help but be curious and excited, flush with arousal though he was and hardly thinking straight besides. Whatever it was exactly about Frizya that had had him so wound up had come undone in those few moments of their struggle as surely as the buttons along her hip, as certainly as the woman's own crumbling resolve. He jerked his fingers away as she brushed against him, biting the inside of his lip and watching as she finally got herself situated in such a way that she could get a hand on her issue.<br><br>Still holding her wrist, Jameson slipped around the Keeper to give her space and to keep her from worrying so much about his regard. His free arm wrapped around her and he tugged her closer, that errant hand splaying over the lower portion of her abdomen, picking up on the quivering of her muscles and keeping the heat of his skin against the blaze of hers. He knew that she could easily bust away from him should she so choose, but he also knew that if he squeezed at her wrist just so he could distract her further. The mercenary leaned in again to speak to her, breath on her cheek from his position behind the woman, "Y'should get whatever's in yer way there outta th'way," he let his hand drift a little lower, fingers brushing against hers once more, "Might be fun." he decided against teasing her and pointing out the woman's usual attitude toward fun since it didn't seem that appropriate just then.<br><br>Of course given their positioning Jameson had to keep his hips angled away from her just so so that he didn't wind up pressed against her and further distracted.. He focused more on Frizya, keeping the pressure on her wrist as he moved to brush her fingers aside and replace them with his own. Unlike the Keeper he wasn't disgusted with either of them and could probably have been considered eager enough for the pair, though it was likely her excitement eclipsed his somewhat, veiled in shame though it was.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>12-02-2016, 02:42:04</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The hand at her back, the faint uncomfortable torque threatening the muscles of her shoulder and elbow, it spurred her on where she would otherwise have stopped. For all his calm quiet, it felt like Jameson was, well, quite literally twisting her arm for compliance, and while the principle of that held no water simply on the grounds of her strength, her brain clung to it all the same.<br><br>His voice wound around her ear even while the heat of him emanated against her flank, and she hung her head, exhausted with it all but still crushed under the burgeoning weight of her own undeterred desire. "You are the literal devil at my shoulder." For a moment, she could have stayed there just like that, exactly like that, considering her options, trying to swallow the mortification of it all...<br><br>But his rough fingers drifted down, leaving her belly to flex and her prick throbbing, pushing against her palm. A coughed sort of moan left her and she let her head drop aside, the vertiginous tiring of a man on a cliff's edge...weak, considering...She could feel herself teetering, her mind churning back into that steaming sinful blankness that overcame her from time to time.. hours of stroking, drooling and aching but never a release..<br><br>Never that. Ever. No.<br><br>Fed by the memories, that fat head pushed at its tiny prison, the bent-aside tip swelling itself against that row of teeth. With a sudden angry desperation she shoved her hand into her clothing, snapping loose the latch that strapped the thing around her hips. The waist of it fell loose, hanging down out of her fly, or howevermuch of it was open. She didn't need to look down to know that that short, fat, purpled nub was there. In fact, she didn't. Her head rolled back as she smothered it, pushing it back against her body with the heel of her hand.<br><br>"I knew you were no good, Jameson...lecherous, absolutely. Hedonist. What have you done...?"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>12-02-2016, 04:28:33</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Eventually the pressure on her wrist eased though and Jameson's other hand joined the first, stroking over the muscled contours of her belly and up a bit, pushing her shirt aside as he moved with her to keep pressed close, "Eh, better the devil you know, Frizya," his voice held an unmistakable husk, as if the presure against her rear end didn't give him away enough, "You got anythin' else t'call me? 'Cause I gotta say, you callin' me names has never really been on my high list've turnons, but it'll get there if this keeps up." he chortled in much the same manner he had at the bar that first time they'd met, easily and indeed casually brushing her outrage aside with his simple bravado.<br><br>The man moved a hand down to cup hers and press them both down just that much more firmly against what she was dreading, a sort of smug satisfaction leading him as he knew he had more control then not holding her at all than he'd had holding her wrists. It would have been simpler if he'd let anger overtake him earlier, had simply led with punches and kicks, had driven her down and ground her beneath his heel awhile to make his point. Possibly the opposite, it might have been simpler to lose that confrontation and wind up answering to her, but ultimately Jameson had let curiosity beat him and had pursued that middle path, further muddying their relationship, such as it was.<br><br>"Guess what I've done so far is getcha too worked up. Could be cruel about it and walk away now, handle my own issues and carry on, but I'd rather work this out with ya th'way things're goin' now." his words were soft, for her only, though he had wondered if anyone had heard them stomping about and shouting earlier. He didn't mind being the shoulder devil though, not in something like this, for it seemed the angel on her other shoulder had espoused personal neglect and a certain romance relating to deprivation. For Jameson it was indeed something hedonistic that drove him, a slaking of thirsts rather than the veritable desert that Frizya forced herself to remain within.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>12-02-2016, 05:01:04</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The things he murmured to her were entirely tasteless and it maddened her that they quickened her blood so. "Nothing I say sways reason into you..." His voice warmed parts of her he wasn't even touching, making her shudder through the bundled musculature of her. Try as he might, there wasn't too much Jameson could to do remain close but not press up against the high, sweeping swell of her rear.<br><br>With his hand over hers, Jameson left Frizya pushing..and reflexively squeezing at herself, try ass she might to resist the urge. She clenched muscles low in her pelvis, straining to keep the insistent thing where it was even as she felt deeper organs swell and ache. She struggled to believe what was happening, that she had her hand down her pants in front of someone- anyone- and of all people it was Jameson. Jameson the butcher who had embarrassed her, who now crooned to her offhand as if it were nothing to see her this way. He had no idea...<br><br>"That'd be a boon, not a cruelty..." She muttered sullenly down at their hands, the flat of her grey belly flinching as another impatient pulse pressed against her hand. Her pelvis was nearly entirely smooth, just a wisp of dark hair disappeared into the shadows of her hand. Below, she could feel the slit of her cunt plump and dampen, but that was not her major concern. That, she could always deal with. The ache inside was worse. The throb of the blunt, short tip she fought now was by far the worst. "You have no idea..." She couldn't comprehend why Jameson was so calm about this or what he think it was all about, but none of the options made sense.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>13-02-2016, 21:06:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				It didn't take long for the pressure of her rear against him to convince Jameson otherwise about whether to press more closely to her or not. Indeed as he did so the man adjusted his hands just so, sweeping his fingertips over her muscled abdomen and giving an unabashed little shiver at the feel of her; clearly he preferred rougher, tougher sorts than the kind of plump, caged bird types courted by aristocratic nobility. <br><br>He smirked at her sullen tone, boldly pressing a soft kiss at the juncture of her neck and shoulders, his lips curled against the woman's dusky skin, "Think you have the opposite end of it, LaFont," he chuckled throatily, voice husky with much the same hunger Frizya was battling against, only judging by the infrequent hitch of his hips, rocking that firmness still hidden away against her backside, he was very enthusiastically embracing it. "I'm pretty sure I have a good idea, pretty sure most've my ideas're good ones. Can't feel the best to keep yerself hidden away, tucked behind cloth and leather and ignored, not compared to havin' someone 'round who might be able t'help ya forget th'day's problems."<br><br>Jameson was a pretty big believer in a good balance in work and play, though perhaps what that was was what bothered them about one another. Regardless of duty or skill, intellect or training, they stood on opposite sides of the fence when it came to leisure. Frizya had a few things she genuinely enjoyed, he knew, but Jameson dove headlong into many things that seemed like a good time just for the promise of such. Why settle for a bowl of soup when you could have seconds? Sure, he wasn't going to eat the whole pot, but privation didn't seem likely with him.<br><br>"C'mon, I'm pretty sure I know this kinda thing a bit better'n you. Maybe this once ol' Jameson knows what he's talkin' about."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>14-02-2016, 05:02:48</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				She could feel him, pressing insistent and hot on her ass, pushing her spine straight up.&nbsp; She stiffened as if she'd pull away, but was gripped by something so strong it rooted her in place. She felt his mouth just above the neck of her collar, a word, the warmth of his breath, his... his lips. Her mind groped, blind and handicapped for some reason something to root itself to to reconcile the way everything made her heart race up into her throat, hammering within the cage of her chest.<br><br>The moment spun out of control, a veritable maelstrom of sensations she had never let herself prepare for. It left her crushed under their weight, heart pounding in her ears, thudding at her temples, rushing to fill that defiant organ. Her taut belly, faintly cobbled with muscle, flexed and fluttered under the explorative sweep of his rough fingers, sending more jolts and twinges of pleasure down between her legs.<br><br>A shudder shook the very air that rose from her throat, stuttering through her teeth on a restrained, hissing sigh. "I don't care how it feels..." she started, her voice trailing and unsure. But Jameson wouldn't let her be- had he ever? Some part of Frizya, naive and hopeful, reasoned that Jameson may have simply known of some way to tame it. Rid her of this ravenous desire so she could put the scene behind her, though she could not fathom living down this embarrassment. "You would know, wouldn't you?" She spat over her shoulder, though the words lacked venom and carried their own woundedness.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>15-02-2016, 03:53:07</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				"Sure, you don't care yourself but parts of you seem to," the man chuckled lightly in the Keeper's ear and continued what he'd been doing, playing the devil on her shoulder, trying to drive her senses further into those hazy reaches that Frizya seemed aware of, interested in. Of course she also seemed very interested in ignoring those thoughts and feelings, driving them down and away and there he was doing plenty to steer the woman in the opposite direction. Had he had his full measure of wits about him the man would definitely have stopped but as it was he was feeling more the sweeping curve of her firm rear grinding against him, the velvety smooth-yet-textured feel of her muscled belly, the way her body shuddered and tensed against him.<br><br>At her spiteful but wavering question, Jameson offered the woman a genuine smile and nodded, "I like to think I would. S'just us in here and I promise not to tell a soul that you dare to enjoy yourself sometimes," he tugged her closer, a low groan leaving him at the feel of her pressed so intimately to his aroused flesh, "If nothin' else I can show ya a good time so you've got somethin' to use th'next time." <br><br>He'd be lying if he tried to say it was all about her right then, for his own thoughts and desires were very geared toward mutual satisfaction. The man didn't know whether or not Frizya -would- reciprocate anything, but he'd definitely be aiming for that sort of thing. "Stop holding back and tellin' yerself it's wrong when it ain't. It can't be wrong to do the things ya enjoy in moderation, long as no-one's gettin' hurt for the doin'." it wasn't him questioning, nor was he lecturing so much as making a statement. Of course his hands roaming her belly, pushing her shirt aside and away to expose more of her middle probably kept her mind off track, but his own wasn't exactly on either.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Somnifera</strong> on <strong>15-02-2016, 19:52:55</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Somewhere in the torrent of it all, Frizya's undying sense of restraint was pushing through the gale. The pinch of those metal points had surely knocked it off of its feet, but compared to that the rub and trace of Jameson's hands and the rumbling warmth of his voice were secondary squalls. As much as she naturally avoided physical intimacy, her willpower was&nbsp; twice as muscular as her thighs and wouldn't be defeated so easily.<br><br>She may have been a slow thinker under the heat of stress but that didn't mean she <em>couldn't</em> think, and with Jameson succumbing to the distractions of his lust he was no longer an impenetrable barrier to her sanity. His voice, his words, lascivious as they were, made her that much more afraid to give in to them. The more he persuaded, the more he fit the profile her mind had made of 'the seduction of vice', triggering her defenses.<br><br>Face blistering hot with the berry-flush of shame, Frizya moved her hand only to reach for the strap of her chastity garment. With Jameson's hand lifting the tail of her shirt that extended beyond the length of her thick doublet, there was a moment where she was bare and uncovered, below. A squat thing, blunt and mottled shades of blueish purple, jutted out above her opened fly just before she closed the leather over it again and began to tie up her laces. "You may not operate on dedication," she began, the words shaking with the jerks and tugs of her efforts, "but some do." She drew the bowknot taut and reached for the buttons of her pants, tossing him a cutting yet wounded glare. "Pleasure is not a justification for vice, it's the bait"
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: To Stay the Hand of Order {Rotochron x Somnifera}</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Rotochron</strong> on <strong>15-02-2016, 23:19:10</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The man's mind cleared quickly enough when Frizya seemed to get a hold of herself and shot him that glare. He didn't move away from her, though the man did seem a little remiss because of the wounded expression she wore. He cleared his throat and offered her a soft smile, "I suppose if you choose to look at it as though your personal desires are inherently evil that works out." the man raised his brows and looked into the woman's golden eyes, interested as much in the discourse as he was with where his lusts had taken him.<br><br>"Pleasure is just another thing you can feel. Like pain, anxiety, fear... Pleasure isn't a thing that's good or evil, it's just a thing that is. It's how you go about applying it that changes its value." he shrugged mildly, still keeping his arms around Frizya "Everything in moderation. I find that kind of attitude helps with one's determination to get things done. But hey, to each their own right?" he grinned a little, that devil-may-care expression he tended to wear simply as a means of projecting a casual confidence.<br><br>Of course, still rather pressed to her backside Jameson's 'casual' attitude was definitely called into question. He cleared his throat a bit, still somewhat flushed and unsure what to say just then. The mercenary swallowed hard, still a little breathless right then, his mind sort of working opposite Frizya's, classically finding it harder to be clever without a clear head and the rest of his blood where it was supposed to be. 
			</dd>
		</dl>
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