Post by andycd on Apr 29, 2020 17:26:21 GMT
Trigger Warning: Mention of torture, no graphic description
==The Ambassadorial Complex, Zot Goran==
Girelle Veluss, Ambassador of the Dawnlands to K’ul Goran, woke up to the first rays of the sun creeping through his window and hitting his face, flat on his desk amongst a hundred different papers. He groaned and sat up, parchment sticking to his cheek with drool and ink. Bleary-eyed, he stumbled over to the window and closed the curtains fully, shutting out the golden sunlight. Peeling the document off of his face he squinted at it and groaned. He’d have to re-write his report back to the Council.
Ambassador Veluss, by his own admission very much not a morning person, dragged himself into the adjoining bath chamber - a personal request of his - and stepped up to the large bronze bathtub inside. Twisting a ring on his finger, he waved his hand over the tub and it immediately began to fill with steaming hot water.
The best money I ever spent, he thought, not for the first time.
--
An hour later, Girelle emerged from his chambers, immaculately put together in an outfit of varying shades of light blues and greys. His pristine smile grinned a little jauntily at the guards outside his room.
“Alexa, Ioannis, I hope you’re keeping well this morning. Shall we go about our day?”
With that the minotaur and the elf wordlessly stepped into position behind him and followed along down the winding, twisting corridors of the ambassadorial quarters of Zot Goran. Alexa had become one of the few people he really trusted in K’ul Goran since recent events. Ioannis had come over from Fort Daring - a capable warpriest, highly recommended by Commander Jadefist.
A light breakfast was waiting for him on a small table a floor below, but as was becoming increasingly common in these busy times he merely grabbed one of the delicious pastries. They had immediately become his favourite thing about life here - these ‘gumtosts’ had a glaze of sugar and a light spice native to the region which seemed somewhere in flavour between cinnamon and aniseed.
Licking the sugar glaze off of his fingers as he reached the meeting chambers, he wiped his hands and face on a handkerchief and settled that professional diplomat’s smile on his face before stepping into a day of meetings - the dance of business where there was literally no one who he could be sure didn’t have a dagger or some blackmail waiting to trap him. It used to be part of the thrill of the job, but he had to admit it was wearing a little thin of late.
--
Later that evening, back in his room, Girelle rubbed his ribs and twisted awkwardly, stretching. He'd received some of Waukeen's blessed healing from Ioannis, but the re-stitched ribs still ached several days later. It would take time, they told him.
Babis had not been a trained interrogator. Just someone who knew he had several feet of height and at least 200 pounds of weight on the half-elf bound to a chair in a cellar no one from the Dawnlands even knew existed.
Girelle had assessed pretty quickly that Babis would probably kill him by accident with a blow to the head if he didn't cooperate, and so he had.
Girelle was a talker - born to it, his mother had said - and oh, he had talked. He had told that puffed up bookseller everything he could think of - his daily routine, the layout of Daring Heights and Port Ffirst, the kinds of grains grown nearby, the defences of the city, the different military groups. He'd gone into detail about the Order of the Crimson Fist because the story seemed to pique Babis' interest; that whiled away a good hour at least. He had talked about the adventurers - who they were, where they came from, their specific abilities and how they operated in groups. The adventurers - being the biggest thorn in the Vanguard's side at present - naturally interested Babis and so Girelle recited tale after tale of their exploits, recounting all of the town's five year history of adventuring as best he could. Girelle talked and talked and til his jaw went numb and tears welled in his eyes as he knew he couldn't keep talking forever.
But he kept talking. He told Babis about his family, his background, his hopes and his fears and, more than anything else, he told Babis lies.
He lied in almost everything he said - just a little - but sprinkling fiction in amongst the fact in every crack and crevice of his telling that he dared. Crimson Fist? Oh yes, I just heard word that they've finished upgrading their cavalry after the Giant War - they'll be at about double the strength they were before by the end of the week. Sunday? Oh yes, talks a big game for sure, but set her on fire and she softens right up - massive pyrophobe that one. Mace? You know how everything he says sounds like he's actually a criminal? Turns out he's just a really nice guy.
He was weak, and he knew it, but Babis was a fool and he knew that too. Now, sitting here days later, hands shaking on the desk, he tried to piece together all that he had said so that he could tell the Council what their enemies knew. He placed his palms firmly on the table and breathed until the shaking subsided.
Picking up the quill, he continued his story. He’d need another bath after this - he’d had a hard time feeling clean of late.
==Central Marketplace / Reconstruction Headquarters, Jarvenol==
The work continued apace. Mistral had spent the morning answering questions, directing deliveries, resolving disputes and dispatching work crews to the various construction works around the city of Jarvenol. His feet ached, as did his neck as it usually did when he spent hours craning his neck up to speak to the much taller minotaurs.
The marketplace (or ‘headquarters’) as they called it now, looked like a warzone, which was accurate as there had been giants marauding through the streets only a few months before. Piles of debris dotted his field of vision, carts constantly funneling it out of the city and to an abandoned quarry to dump. A few people were picking over the rubble to make sure nothing valuable was tossed into the quarry, pulling out the remains of family possessions and business stock and putting them into separate carts.
He had just found a minute to sit down and rest his feet when he saw a familiar crowd making their way through the debris towards the headquarters tents he sat in. In a few moments, a group of armoured Goranians stepped inside, followed a moment later by the imposing figure of the Mayor of Jarvenol, Gianna Madhand. Mistral stood up and bowed, a touch casually.
“Madame Mayor, good day. What can I do for you this fine day?” he said cheerily.
Gianna smiled broadly, the warm smile that had won her the office. “I’ve been told the Konos district streets still aren’t cleared of rubble. What do you need to make that happen?
He hesitated for a moment, as he often did. The thing he appreciated most about the mayor was that she always asked what he needed, not what he’d done wrong. It was still intimidating to be asked such direct questions from this perfectly presented minotaur - she stood tall and straight-backed, without any of the hunch some minotaurs adopted, and her horns curved perfectly upwards. She wore a beautifully crafted purple dress fit for the highest of societal occasions, but with a very practical and slightly battered brown leather jacket over the top of it. Mayor Madhand never failed to impress when she walked into a room
“We need more wagons, madame, it’s -”
“Gianna, please.”
“Of… course. Well, we are shifting the rubble as fast as we can, Gianna, but with so many wagons dedicated to supply runs to other cities we have fewer to actually maintain the production line to the quarry as efficiently. We could fit another 6 wagons into the rotation and double our speed, but we just don’t have them, and I didn’t bring any wagon-builders with me.”
“6 wagons and/or a wagon-builder?” she summarised quickly, her eyes still taking in the rest of the tented area. “That should be solvable. They’ll be with you by the day after tomorrow - plan accordingly. I want that area clear for the celebration next week.”
“Yes, madame - Gianna.”
She nodded and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Outstanding work, Mistral. The people need a sign of the future, and Jarvenol will be exactly that for them. Thank you.”
Before he could say another word she turned and strode out of the tent, the bodyguards forming up behind her swiftly. He sat back down again, breathing hard. Gianna Madhand was a presence and a half. He made some notes to expect the quarry runs to increase in a few days time and went to find some lunch. With luck, the rest of K’ul Goran would look to the incredible reconstruction efforts here and find hope for the future. That was his dream at least, and it seemed the mayor shared that vision.
Maybe he’d get a statue? He snorted and kept walking through the rubble and the sound of hammers and saws
==Maranais Street, Maray==
“You sure no one saw us?”
“Of course, and if they did? A few people out for a little walk at night isn’t so suspicious.”
“Heh, well they ought to be. This the place?”
“Yeah, the family’s away visiting relatives - it’s just the accountant. Study is on the second floor.”
“Easy enough then, guess that’s what you get for prying into Vanguard businesses. Come on.”
“Softly now, there’s a light in the study.”
“On three."
“Right.”
“One. Two. Thr--”
“The hells? Wh--”
As the bodies of the two assassins fell onto the balcony, a third figure dropped onto the wood panelling next to them. She put her heavy crossbow down carefully on the floor and began rummaging through their pockets.
“Amatuers,” Kassandra scoffed under her breath. Finding nothing useful on them, she tossed each body down to the ground below and leapt after them, dragging them off into the shadows of the alley next to the house just before the Aerotaur accountant opened the lattice window to look out onto the balcony.
“Hello?”
Only silence answered.
==The Rhodes Estate, Zot Goran==
Senator Julian Rhodes took a long look at himself in the tall polished mirror in his bedroom. The face was worn out, there was no getting past that. His deep set brown eyes were crinkled around the edges, and no matter how much he rebrushed his fur, there was still something untidy about his appearance that only a proper wash would solve. The fur, for that matter, was definitely greying now, he could see it clearly in the reflection as he examined himself.
“You’re not getting younger, Julian, are you?” he muttered.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” a voice came from behind him. “You’re already talking to yourself.”
His tired eyes crinkled further as he smiled and turned back to face his wife - Cyndra. “Just examining the luckiest minotaur in K’ul Goran, my dear,” he said walking towards her.
“If you were lucky then you’d not be up to your horns in conspiracies,” she replied quickly, sharply, sadly. “It’s not safe.”
“This is politics, Cyn. It’s not a safe place - and all this cult nonsense tells me is that it was never safe at all. Now I can clean this country up. The Senate is not so big that I can’t hunt down a few rats. Besides - this cult seems to be all our kind and some half-Genasi. That means the full Genasi and the Djinn are…” he hesitated, seeing her expression. “Ok, not totally trustworthy, but a quite safe bet to be outside of the cult. Haljira is certainly onboard at the very least.”
“The list of suspects can be as short as you like Julian, but when every one of them is amongst the most powerful people in the country, you need to tread with wool-wrapped hooves.”
They locked eyes and stood there quietly for a moment, understanding each other. “I’ll be careful,” he said, reassuringly. “We’ll get through this. It’s going to be ok. We’ve got the Dawnlanders aid as well. Girelle seems like a good man, and the mercenaries he can draw on are extremely effective.”
“Well let’s hope so. We’re placing a lot of faith in strangers, Jules.”
He smiled again, this time ruefully. “As if we have much choice, my love.” He linked arms with her and they headed out and downstairs for dinner.
==Farmlands just outside Oz’kad, North East K’ul Goran==
Cara reached her hand into the dry earth and pulled out a dirt-covered carrot. Her large minotaur muzzle snorted in derision and disappointment.
“At least 6 weeks behind,” she called over her shoulder to the others. “And even then it’s not got the colour it should.”
The workers in the field groaned. “Same over here,” someone replied from a few rows along.
It was as bad as she’d heard. Farmers all over the region were telling tales of failing crops and infertile soil. The war hadn’t hit them too bad here - few giants had bothered wandering quite this far north.
A few more checks of the additional fields found more of the same, and the group of farmhands walked morosely back to the main buildings. Sitting down around the main dining table, a few drinks were passed around wordlessly as they each considered their prospects.
“Those aren’t going to sell well come harvest,” Herac said, the lanky aerotaur glancing around at the others’ faces as he spoke. “Even if they’re edible.”
“People may not get a choice in that, if these are the only kind of produce around,” Cara countered, which got a few grunts of acknowledgement from the others.
“Davos’ herds are still doing ok,” chimed in another voice. “The animals are still ok, though they’re not quite as well fed because.. well the produce isn’t as good.”
“Is this how a famine starts?”
“Well there aren’t the food stores there should be - not with Jarvenol the way it is, and I heard the granaries in Zot Goran are all ruined. Some kind of attack apparently.”
“Shit.”
“Right?” Cara slammed her fist on the table. “What the mazes is going on in this country? We won the war, what was it all for? Fire erupts from the ground, then stops and now nothing will grow right. That’s not natural, and it’s getting worse.”
Silence blanketed the room. Then Raigli, a young minotaur and relative newcomer to the farm spoke up. “You asked what was it all for. Does anyone know the history of K’ul Goran? Like how it was founded?”
Puzzled, Herac waved a hand. “Well there were a bunch of disparate groups wandering around the place and then Eirene the Canny united them and set up a republic, right? What’s that got to do with anything, Raigli?”
She shrugged. “Just that everyone seems to think the fires were an old thing only activated now, which makes me wonder about history. If there was some great mass of flames ready to burst under our feet the whole time, who put them there? Because we’re the only people who’ve been here for ages, so was it us? And if so, why’d we forget? Maybe this is the start of something good, like winter happening before spring?”
“The government must know, surely? They must have some record.”
“What aren’t they telling us?”
“Why wouldn’t they tell us what’s going on? Unless it’s good for them in power but not good for us folk?”
The conversation got heated after that, arguing over what the government was hiding and what a travesty it was to have such corrupt leadership. No one noticed until much later that Raigli was no longer in the room. In fact, she was over the next hill, making her way to the next farmstead, the next conversation. She’d earn that mask soon - through grift and graft. Grinning in the darkness, she sang a slow song under her breath as she walked.
“A little discorrrrrd never hurt no one. A little discorrrrrrd sounds like some fu-un. Breaking uuuup the law-clinging horde. This iiiiis the way of the discord.”
==The Ambassadorial Complex, Zot Goran==
Girelle Veluss, Ambassador of the Dawnlands to K’ul Goran, woke up to the first rays of the sun creeping through his window and hitting his face, flat on his desk amongst a hundred different papers. He groaned and sat up, parchment sticking to his cheek with drool and ink. Bleary-eyed, he stumbled over to the window and closed the curtains fully, shutting out the golden sunlight. Peeling the document off of his face he squinted at it and groaned. He’d have to re-write his report back to the Council.
Ambassador Veluss, by his own admission very much not a morning person, dragged himself into the adjoining bath chamber - a personal request of his - and stepped up to the large bronze bathtub inside. Twisting a ring on his finger, he waved his hand over the tub and it immediately began to fill with steaming hot water.
The best money I ever spent, he thought, not for the first time.
--
An hour later, Girelle emerged from his chambers, immaculately put together in an outfit of varying shades of light blues and greys. His pristine smile grinned a little jauntily at the guards outside his room.
“Alexa, Ioannis, I hope you’re keeping well this morning. Shall we go about our day?”
With that the minotaur and the elf wordlessly stepped into position behind him and followed along down the winding, twisting corridors of the ambassadorial quarters of Zot Goran. Alexa had become one of the few people he really trusted in K’ul Goran since recent events. Ioannis had come over from Fort Daring - a capable warpriest, highly recommended by Commander Jadefist.
A light breakfast was waiting for him on a small table a floor below, but as was becoming increasingly common in these busy times he merely grabbed one of the delicious pastries. They had immediately become his favourite thing about life here - these ‘gumtosts’ had a glaze of sugar and a light spice native to the region which seemed somewhere in flavour between cinnamon and aniseed.
Licking the sugar glaze off of his fingers as he reached the meeting chambers, he wiped his hands and face on a handkerchief and settled that professional diplomat’s smile on his face before stepping into a day of meetings - the dance of business where there was literally no one who he could be sure didn’t have a dagger or some blackmail waiting to trap him. It used to be part of the thrill of the job, but he had to admit it was wearing a little thin of late.
--
Later that evening, back in his room, Girelle rubbed his ribs and twisted awkwardly, stretching. He'd received some of Waukeen's blessed healing from Ioannis, but the re-stitched ribs still ached several days later. It would take time, they told him.
Babis had not been a trained interrogator. Just someone who knew he had several feet of height and at least 200 pounds of weight on the half-elf bound to a chair in a cellar no one from the Dawnlands even knew existed.
Girelle had assessed pretty quickly that Babis would probably kill him by accident with a blow to the head if he didn't cooperate, and so he had.
Girelle was a talker - born to it, his mother had said - and oh, he had talked. He had told that puffed up bookseller everything he could think of - his daily routine, the layout of Daring Heights and Port Ffirst, the kinds of grains grown nearby, the defences of the city, the different military groups. He'd gone into detail about the Order of the Crimson Fist because the story seemed to pique Babis' interest; that whiled away a good hour at least. He had talked about the adventurers - who they were, where they came from, their specific abilities and how they operated in groups. The adventurers - being the biggest thorn in the Vanguard's side at present - naturally interested Babis and so Girelle recited tale after tale of their exploits, recounting all of the town's five year history of adventuring as best he could. Girelle talked and talked and til his jaw went numb and tears welled in his eyes as he knew he couldn't keep talking forever.
But he kept talking. He told Babis about his family, his background, his hopes and his fears and, more than anything else, he told Babis lies.
He lied in almost everything he said - just a little - but sprinkling fiction in amongst the fact in every crack and crevice of his telling that he dared. Crimson Fist? Oh yes, I just heard word that they've finished upgrading their cavalry after the Giant War - they'll be at about double the strength they were before by the end of the week. Sunday? Oh yes, talks a big game for sure, but set her on fire and she softens right up - massive pyrophobe that one. Mace? You know how everything he says sounds like he's actually a criminal? Turns out he's just a really nice guy.
He was weak, and he knew it, but Babis was a fool and he knew that too. Now, sitting here days later, hands shaking on the desk, he tried to piece together all that he had said so that he could tell the Council what their enemies knew. He placed his palms firmly on the table and breathed until the shaking subsided.
Picking up the quill, he continued his story. He’d need another bath after this - he’d had a hard time feeling clean of late.
==Central Marketplace / Reconstruction Headquarters, Jarvenol==
The work continued apace. Mistral had spent the morning answering questions, directing deliveries, resolving disputes and dispatching work crews to the various construction works around the city of Jarvenol. His feet ached, as did his neck as it usually did when he spent hours craning his neck up to speak to the much taller minotaurs.
The marketplace (or ‘headquarters’) as they called it now, looked like a warzone, which was accurate as there had been giants marauding through the streets only a few months before. Piles of debris dotted his field of vision, carts constantly funneling it out of the city and to an abandoned quarry to dump. A few people were picking over the rubble to make sure nothing valuable was tossed into the quarry, pulling out the remains of family possessions and business stock and putting them into separate carts.
He had just found a minute to sit down and rest his feet when he saw a familiar crowd making their way through the debris towards the headquarters tents he sat in. In a few moments, a group of armoured Goranians stepped inside, followed a moment later by the imposing figure of the Mayor of Jarvenol, Gianna Madhand. Mistral stood up and bowed, a touch casually.
“Madame Mayor, good day. What can I do for you this fine day?” he said cheerily.
Gianna smiled broadly, the warm smile that had won her the office. “I’ve been told the Konos district streets still aren’t cleared of rubble. What do you need to make that happen?
He hesitated for a moment, as he often did. The thing he appreciated most about the mayor was that she always asked what he needed, not what he’d done wrong. It was still intimidating to be asked such direct questions from this perfectly presented minotaur - she stood tall and straight-backed, without any of the hunch some minotaurs adopted, and her horns curved perfectly upwards. She wore a beautifully crafted purple dress fit for the highest of societal occasions, but with a very practical and slightly battered brown leather jacket over the top of it. Mayor Madhand never failed to impress when she walked into a room
“We need more wagons, madame, it’s -”
“Gianna, please.”
“Of… course. Well, we are shifting the rubble as fast as we can, Gianna, but with so many wagons dedicated to supply runs to other cities we have fewer to actually maintain the production line to the quarry as efficiently. We could fit another 6 wagons into the rotation and double our speed, but we just don’t have them, and I didn’t bring any wagon-builders with me.”
“6 wagons and/or a wagon-builder?” she summarised quickly, her eyes still taking in the rest of the tented area. “That should be solvable. They’ll be with you by the day after tomorrow - plan accordingly. I want that area clear for the celebration next week.”
“Yes, madame - Gianna.”
She nodded and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Outstanding work, Mistral. The people need a sign of the future, and Jarvenol will be exactly that for them. Thank you.”
Before he could say another word she turned and strode out of the tent, the bodyguards forming up behind her swiftly. He sat back down again, breathing hard. Gianna Madhand was a presence and a half. He made some notes to expect the quarry runs to increase in a few days time and went to find some lunch. With luck, the rest of K’ul Goran would look to the incredible reconstruction efforts here and find hope for the future. That was his dream at least, and it seemed the mayor shared that vision.
Maybe he’d get a statue? He snorted and kept walking through the rubble and the sound of hammers and saws
==Maranais Street, Maray==
“You sure no one saw us?”
“Of course, and if they did? A few people out for a little walk at night isn’t so suspicious.”
“Heh, well they ought to be. This the place?”
“Yeah, the family’s away visiting relatives - it’s just the accountant. Study is on the second floor.”
“Easy enough then, guess that’s what you get for prying into Vanguard businesses. Come on.”
“Softly now, there’s a light in the study.”
“On three."
“Right.”
“One. Two. Thr--”
“The hells? Wh--”
As the bodies of the two assassins fell onto the balcony, a third figure dropped onto the wood panelling next to them. She put her heavy crossbow down carefully on the floor and began rummaging through their pockets.
“Amatuers,” Kassandra scoffed under her breath. Finding nothing useful on them, she tossed each body down to the ground below and leapt after them, dragging them off into the shadows of the alley next to the house just before the Aerotaur accountant opened the lattice window to look out onto the balcony.
“Hello?”
Only silence answered.
==The Rhodes Estate, Zot Goran==
Senator Julian Rhodes took a long look at himself in the tall polished mirror in his bedroom. The face was worn out, there was no getting past that. His deep set brown eyes were crinkled around the edges, and no matter how much he rebrushed his fur, there was still something untidy about his appearance that only a proper wash would solve. The fur, for that matter, was definitely greying now, he could see it clearly in the reflection as he examined himself.
“You’re not getting younger, Julian, are you?” he muttered.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” a voice came from behind him. “You’re already talking to yourself.”
His tired eyes crinkled further as he smiled and turned back to face his wife - Cyndra. “Just examining the luckiest minotaur in K’ul Goran, my dear,” he said walking towards her.
“If you were lucky then you’d not be up to your horns in conspiracies,” she replied quickly, sharply, sadly. “It’s not safe.”
“This is politics, Cyn. It’s not a safe place - and all this cult nonsense tells me is that it was never safe at all. Now I can clean this country up. The Senate is not so big that I can’t hunt down a few rats. Besides - this cult seems to be all our kind and some half-Genasi. That means the full Genasi and the Djinn are…” he hesitated, seeing her expression. “Ok, not totally trustworthy, but a quite safe bet to be outside of the cult. Haljira is certainly onboard at the very least.”
“The list of suspects can be as short as you like Julian, but when every one of them is amongst the most powerful people in the country, you need to tread with wool-wrapped hooves.”
They locked eyes and stood there quietly for a moment, understanding each other. “I’ll be careful,” he said, reassuringly. “We’ll get through this. It’s going to be ok. We’ve got the Dawnlanders aid as well. Girelle seems like a good man, and the mercenaries he can draw on are extremely effective.”
“Well let’s hope so. We’re placing a lot of faith in strangers, Jules.”
He smiled again, this time ruefully. “As if we have much choice, my love.” He linked arms with her and they headed out and downstairs for dinner.
==Farmlands just outside Oz’kad, North East K’ul Goran==
Cara reached her hand into the dry earth and pulled out a dirt-covered carrot. Her large minotaur muzzle snorted in derision and disappointment.
“At least 6 weeks behind,” she called over her shoulder to the others. “And even then it’s not got the colour it should.”
The workers in the field groaned. “Same over here,” someone replied from a few rows along.
It was as bad as she’d heard. Farmers all over the region were telling tales of failing crops and infertile soil. The war hadn’t hit them too bad here - few giants had bothered wandering quite this far north.
A few more checks of the additional fields found more of the same, and the group of farmhands walked morosely back to the main buildings. Sitting down around the main dining table, a few drinks were passed around wordlessly as they each considered their prospects.
“Those aren’t going to sell well come harvest,” Herac said, the lanky aerotaur glancing around at the others’ faces as he spoke. “Even if they’re edible.”
“People may not get a choice in that, if these are the only kind of produce around,” Cara countered, which got a few grunts of acknowledgement from the others.
“Davos’ herds are still doing ok,” chimed in another voice. “The animals are still ok, though they’re not quite as well fed because.. well the produce isn’t as good.”
“Is this how a famine starts?”
“Well there aren’t the food stores there should be - not with Jarvenol the way it is, and I heard the granaries in Zot Goran are all ruined. Some kind of attack apparently.”
“Shit.”
“Right?” Cara slammed her fist on the table. “What the mazes is going on in this country? We won the war, what was it all for? Fire erupts from the ground, then stops and now nothing will grow right. That’s not natural, and it’s getting worse.”
Silence blanketed the room. Then Raigli, a young minotaur and relative newcomer to the farm spoke up. “You asked what was it all for. Does anyone know the history of K’ul Goran? Like how it was founded?”
Puzzled, Herac waved a hand. “Well there were a bunch of disparate groups wandering around the place and then Eirene the Canny united them and set up a republic, right? What’s that got to do with anything, Raigli?”
She shrugged. “Just that everyone seems to think the fires were an old thing only activated now, which makes me wonder about history. If there was some great mass of flames ready to burst under our feet the whole time, who put them there? Because we’re the only people who’ve been here for ages, so was it us? And if so, why’d we forget? Maybe this is the start of something good, like winter happening before spring?”
“The government must know, surely? They must have some record.”
“What aren’t they telling us?”
“Why wouldn’t they tell us what’s going on? Unless it’s good for them in power but not good for us folk?”
The conversation got heated after that, arguing over what the government was hiding and what a travesty it was to have such corrupt leadership. No one noticed until much later that Raigli was no longer in the room. In fact, she was over the next hill, making her way to the next farmstead, the next conversation. She’d earn that mask soon - through grift and graft. Grinning in the darkness, she sang a slow song under her breath as she walked.
“A little discorrrrrd never hurt no one. A little discorrrrrrd sounds like some fu-un. Breaking uuuup the law-clinging horde. This iiiiis the way of the discord.”
