| Wolf to Ghost |
| Summary: | An IC Letter sent from Black House within the Roger's borders-a day's ride from the stand off. |
| Date: | 19th of Octobre 1866 |
| Related: | The Arkanin, D'Armaz affairs |
| NPCs: | {$npc} |
| Players: |
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This would be delivered by a smoke smelling and muddy rider of some repute. The script is ancient Garail, though any Arkanin, Quinn or other vassal worth their salt know the words. Short hand by the looks, meaning the writer had no great time to put good prose within his hand writing. Rather it is shorthand reserved by officers and men at arms in the field. Excitement and brevity all in one emotionless, lump.
Lady Cousin,
I write to you hastily. I have attacked Armaz soldiers at our rear who were after the supply and bagagge. In the encounter I slaughtered all to a man save one, Lady Myrana D'Armaz. I am making for the Black House on the border until we can heal her and then I will be riding again and hiding until I can sue for peace in Firen at the Queen's insistance. Strike at Rogers and save them. Save them so that we hold all the cards. You have three nights before I ride from BH.
Trust none,
Kalon
It is not yet midnight in Buckvale; and a messenger dispatched in haste before the final glimmerings of twilight vanished from the skies is escorted to Baroness Quinn's tent, long after she has changed from the plate armour in which she is resolutely passing her days into the soft, ancient linen shirt and riding leathers in which she customarily concludes her paperwork, dispatches her final callers of the day in ten words or fewer, and passes out.
He confesses to having come from her cousin, Sir Kalon Arkanin. His condition speaks volumes of what has passed: she keeps him only long enough to read with a pleased incredulity which swiftly darkens the half-sheet of parchment he confides to her, and to ask him one or two pertinent corroborative questions, before dismissing him to food and sleep. (Perhaps also a wash, though that's a matter of personal preference.) And then she reads through that brief missive once more, to ensure she hasn't missed a thing, and feeds it to a candle-flame — touching corner after corner — encouraging it to burn.
"Impossible man," she comments to her Elementi, who have nothing to say to her in return at the moment, so occupied are they in addressing the bowls of raw meat lately presented for their delectation. "Strike now. He knows I'm not ready. He knows the plan's still shit. Cards," and she lets out a snort, her breath stirring the flames; "we'd hold nothing but bones."
She meditates upon the situation for no more than a minute and a half (the remnants of the parchment smoulder into ash upon a pewter tray at her elbow) before lifting and lowering her voice (a deep, resonant alto goes further than a frantic mezzo) and bawling, "Rosana—!"
From a smaller tent across the way her squire bounds in. Tousled and weary, with a crease from her pillow across one cheek.
"First of all," and that phrase and the crisp tone of voice in which it is issued constitute fair warning that there's a list coalescing behind the Baroness's eyes, "I want Sir Arnold for the meeting we were supposed to have in the morning." To go over the final details of the next round of Gisela-devised drills and manoeuvres which have been keeping the men oh so entertained as their stand-off with the d'Armaz drags on into day after fruitless day. Better than leaving them idle and gossiping. "After you've sent him to me let the lads know I'll be riding out at first light," she elaborates, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of both hands, acknowledging if only to herself that it'll be a miracle if she finds more than two or three hours between now and then to shut them. "I only want six, though — Udo for starters, the others can draw lots or arm-wrestle or whatever the fuck they do to sort it out. Tell Fred to saddle the horses as discreetly as possible and bring them out to meet us when I take the dogs for their run. You're not coming, you'll be obfuscating the situation for me here — I'll be gone one night and I don't see any reason why people need to know I'm gone till I'm already on my way back. No more kaffe, but tea and fresh quills."
And, drumming her fingertips on the edge of the table, she adds, "Request and require Serjeant Tibbs to find me a man who knows these eastern roads even better than I do. Someone who can keep his mouth shut. Go on! I don't have all night."