Breeze hissed as the weirmother smeared a foul-smelling black paste across his gaping shoulder wound. She was a twisted old branch of a woman, perhaps a once stocky raven, perhaps even once the envy of her flock; but as it did most things, time had stolen her good looks. Her feathers were worn and tired, beady eyes sagging in their sockets, her long claws dried and shaking. A deep scar ran down one side of her beak, and Breeze found himself reminded of the Hieron walls. She was however, perhaps the most skilled weirmother he had ever had the displeasure of visiting; though her bedside manner left something to be desired.

Not that it bothered him; beggars, choosers, so on.

The ancient raven squinted at his shoulder, then turned to her assisting chithe - a young a fox named Nell who Breeze guessed must be somewhere approaching her twentieth year. A baby, by his standards.

“The Lerdum Spices, quickly girl." The weirmother ordered, her scaled fingers clicking like the jaws of some feral dog. Nell scurried across the lavish bedroom, collecting and then juggling four different glass jars in her slender paws.

“One moment, Mother san Nostrum, just... hold for a spell and I'll..." She gasped, squealing as one of the jars tumbled from her grip and hit the well-lacquered wooden floor, shattering into a dozen pieces and spraying thick globules of pink jelly sloshing over her boots. Breeze wrinkled his nose as a strong whiff of vinegar hit him, stifling in the airless, too-warm room.

“Daft girl." Snapped Nostrum, smacking Nell behind the ears and yanking a small jar of green flakes from her quivering arms. “Clean that mess up at once!"

“Yes, yes-yes-yes-sorry!" The chithe muttered, dropping to her knees and brushing up the mess with her apron.

“Bloody Earls and their bloody favours." The weirmother clucked, features glazing over as she began to salt Breeze's well-basted arrow hole. “How'd you accomplish this one, eh boy? Haven't even started in on the plague yet, Trium prevail..."

“Archer stuck me." Breeze grunted, jerking as the weirmother used her knife to slice away a small chunk of dead flesh. She wasn't gentle, a hundred different things she may be, but gentle wasn't one.

“And this archer's arrow, where is that, eh northman?" She tsked, shaking her head, claws trembling, breath wheezing. Breeze wondered how she was still even alive. “Pulled it out have we? You're not a pup, and not a southerner, y'should know better."

“I needed it for something." He replied, glancing past her and watching the young chithe mop vainly at her little disaster. “How's the girl's training coming along? Weirmagic is a dying art."

Nostrum scraped the edges of salve away from his wound, casting about for more supplies. “My chithe? Much too slowly, I expect." Breeze nodded slowly, wincing as a steel prong touched his tender flesh. “Nell hasn't half the natural talent most in the northwest have, but we're making do. But, if she doesn't get that floor clean soon however I think I'll be finding myself in need of another student!"

“Y-yes, of course Mother san Nostrum! Nearly there!" Nell whimpered, redoubling her effort.

A chithe was a weirmother-in-training, but this Nell seemed an especially poor one. Watching her fumble with the cleaning reminded him so much of seeing Erasmus bumble around the wilderness, that Breeze wondered if others saw him as he saw the old raven.

Maybe Erasmus and the girl are somehow related. He thought, looking back.

Breeze's first experience with the good Mother had been when she slapped him across the face. After his collapse in the Iron Ward, Inquisitor Morgan and Erasmus had dragged him to some sequestered chamber high in the Keep, ferrying him into a bed much softer than any he'd had before. Too soft, as it turned out. Breeze had tossed again and again, eventually settling into a comfy place on the floor, stealing only a single quilt from the ridiculous piece of furniture.

Much better down low, where it was stable, cooler, easier to sleep; beds were a nice fancy, but he'd spent a life sleeping on the ground, now didn't seem a good time to go soft. 

He'd woken to the cloudy-eyed raven shaking his shoulders, squawking in that overly long and flowery Union language, apparently wondering how he'd fallen so far from his mattress. He seized her by the wrist on instinct, mistaking her for an assassin, and she'd struck him across the muzzle without hesitation.

He liked her ever since, reckoned she'd fit in well back home.

As it turned out in fact, Mother san Nostrum spoke the Northern Tongue, and well. The words were a relief on Breeze's tired ears, though when she took the opportunity to chastise her chithe, it was usually in Union Noble. When Nostrum used that, Breeze had next to no comprehension of what was being said, though he usually got the gist; the girl was clumsy.

Presently, the weirmother brushed a strip of feral blood across his neck, reciting a few harsh-sounding weirwords, beginning the ritual that would alleviate the plague's symptoms.

“You see a lot of northern boys through here?" He asked, still watching curiously as Nell scurried back and forth, focused on cleaning her own messes. He wasn't really sure why Nostrum tolerated the clueless girl. “Speak the language well enough."

“Open yer eyes." Said the weirmother, leaning back to exhale, pulling out a clawful of small bone charms and laying them along Breeze's arms. The painful part hadn't started yet, and there'd be no time for chatter then. “I'm from the bloody north, fool boy. Near the border I's hatched, aye, somewhere not too far from Eltric, if you know it."

He scratched at his chin, the feral blood already drying on his neck fur. “I've been around, once or twice."

“Mountain's got a chasm on one side, a sorry excuse for one but they call it a chasm nonetheless. Me daddy and I used to hunt there, 'fore I became a chithe meself."

“You don't say."

The young fox, still on her knees picking up pieces of glass, chose that moment to stick her head up, ears pointed. “And, what were you like Mother, as a chithe yourself? If you may pardon the... intrusion." She piped in Union Common, blushing as if she hadn't quite meant to speak aloud. Breeze got the sense the raven rarely talked of her past.

Eager to learn? Too much interest, not enough skill. Better off marrying some Noble with more money than sense.

“I was a great deal more talented than you, tell you that much!" Nostrum squawked. “Fetch the screws Nell, time to get under wolfy's skin."

Breeze knew she meant it literally, he'd had insanity taps drilled into him before. He gritted his teeth, wormed his way deeper into the too-soft bed, and prepared to scream.

You always scream, it's just realistic.

~ X ~

Salem D'Lange had a build to match his heritage, anatomy perfectly suited to that of a noble fox from out-of-state; gentle curves, high cheekbones, perfectly fluffed fur, and a bushy yet well-maintained tail. He turned away from the war-map with perfect poise and outrage, swishing about in a practiced motion of his tight hips. It was a little feminine for Roland's taste, but he didn't mind it much either.

“They can't be serious, marching the new company out now?" He exclaimed, glaring incredulously at Roland. The cat sighed, leaning back in his seat and staring out the Keep window, watching the waning sunlight cast long shadows through the city streets. Salem gesticulated wildly. “It'll be a race against winter, they'll be fighting rust and mud more than Astmoor!"

So much tenacity in that youthful body. Idolisation and ideation tied together with raw naivety, one of these days it's bound to get him buggered even more than usual. Roland thought, wrinkling his nose as it tickled. His pokey little office was already far too small and stuffy for three people to work comfortably in, and the stale dust kicked up from so many scrolls and old books being opened did little to help. Was I like dear Salem only a decade or two ago? Empty-headed and pretty, but without much sense of how things are? It was a cruel thought, but not an untrue one.

Roland looked quickly to their third, a young scribe huddled in the corner. He bit his tongue, cautious of what was said. I don't pay him enough to expect silence.

He sighed theatrically. “I know my boy, but it's a not a decision I'm in any position to contradict. I can only advise, but Brigadier Audric has already decided four columns will reinforce Niverron, there's no point fussing. All we can aim for now is to see those men at least armed." He pinched the patch of fur above his nose, groaning. How he wished they had a soother around, he didn't need all this frustration constantly nipping at his heels.

“Why?!" Salem whined, throwing his heap of forging requisites on the benchtop. “On the back of autumn, with nothing to gain? In what strategy book is that advised?!"

“Maybe, if you paid attention in Court, you'd have seen this coming." Roland said slowly, licking at his fangs. Salem's eyes twitched to the scribe. Careful, loose lips, wagging tongues, sinking ships... “Magister Baine and the good Arch Brigadier Audric have been getting along well lately, and the Magister has been building a case off this idea of driving the Emperor utterly from our lands. They keep proffering the old glory of Niverron, but now the King's gotten a little too excited – he wants to push Astmoor back into The Maw, never mind it would gain us precious little for such steep cost."

 “It'll be another Bay of Blood." Salem shivered despite the warmth, stepping over to Roland, his eyebrows softening.

“I just..."

“No." The cat said, holding up a paw to stop him coming closer.

Not now, damn fool boy. Though he did look good in that tightly buttoned tunic. Roland again looked to the scribe, and again sighed, shifting in his seat. But perhaps if the scribe were to be sent on some minor errand, we could…

He jumped as two firm knocks rapped at the door.

“Apologies my Lord, but might I interrupt?" A cool voice said, as the door clicked open without pause. Salem spun in place, pausing as a lean fox came stalking through the doorway. He wore a long, black leather coat that went to his knees, accents of yellow touching the wrists and neck. An Inquisition pin was pressed into his left lapel, shiny and delicate, a far deadlier accessory than any sword, at least within The Equitánt.

“Second Inquisitor Marsh." Roland finally spat out, taking in the fox's darker complexion. A handsome, yet fearsome sight. “What brings you this high in the Keep?"

Seems I can't get away from the damned Inquisition, if it's not one it's the other. He thought, pressing his tongue firmly into the back of his teeth, a paw balling neatly into a fist. He kept his composure however, gesturing about his office. The room had been roasting in the sun all afternoon, and the many stacks of dusty audit papers and reporting sheets didn't help the atmosphere.

Still, one couldn't say Earl Roland san Estoc was inhospitable.

“Care to sit? I have wine somewhere..." He added, pointing toward a single chair across the room, buried beneath an unstable-looking pile of documents.

“I won't be staying long, pardon the intrusion." Inquisitor Gallus san Marsh replied tartly, strolling between the desks with his paws clasped before himself. “May we speak in private, Lord Estoc?" Roland frowned, brushing at the front of his red doublet and debating whether he should stand up.

“Of course, er..." He gestured loosely towards Salem. “Salem, might we pick up our discussion later, perhaps this evening?" The younger fox nodded curtly, delicately gathering both his papers and the scribe as he left. Roland leaned forward. “Have the forges get going though, I want those columns carrying steel, damn it. If they sputter out missed quotas and dates take none of it, you know how they are!"

“Of course, my Lord." D'Lange replied, bowing to both of the men and departing, the door clicking shut behind him.

“No Artificers today, Inquisitor? Don't you feel a spot naked?" Roland asked when they were alone, standing with a groan. He went to the decanter in the corner, pouring himself a generous glass of wine. If Marsh wanted to play games then let him, the man was even more insufferable than Claude. He swirled the wine slowly, watching Marsh in the glass's reflection. “Everywhere I turn it seems the Inquisition is knocking on my doors. People will talk - why, even I'm beginning to suspect myself of treason."

“It's not you that's trouble my Lord Earl, but rather the company you keep." Marsh said dryly, studying the open ledgers as he paced around the desks. “I know you have a... history, shall we say, with Inquisitor Morgan, it's why I came to you. He's been making strange waves in the city of late. Why he was apparently seen on the street just a week past, helping some... beggar by accounts, limp inside The Equitánt. Very hush-hush."

“I may have history with the Third Inquisitor, but that doesn't make him a friend." Roland corrected, brushing at his white neck fur. “What he busies himself with is Inquisition business, no doubt. I have little involvement."

“And this 'little involvement' includes you hiking down to the interrogation chambers? Curious. Are you a friend of the Guilds, or an enemy? Barlow, that was his name that day, yes? Either way, he should be comfortable in Bastion now. All that blubber might do him well." Marsh smirked, leaning back against a table and crossing his leather-clad arms.

Inwardly, Roland screamed, pressure pushing on either side of his skull. Could he do anything without someone gossiping about it? On the outside, he feigned nonchalance, waving his wine about, sloshing it a little more than necessary.

Better to be thought a drunk than a traitor, and they need precious little to bag you as that these days. He had thought no one had noticed his jaunt down below, but he should know better; there was always someone watching, always waiting, and always looking for any ammunition they could use against him. Damn it Claude, even when I keep my distance you get me in hot water. Why is it I'm always the one cleaning up when you shit the bed?

“Morgan had some sort of show for Barlow in mind I imagine, with myself the star part. Unfortunately, I pale easily at the sight of naked men beaten until they weep, so I bid him a merry time and went on my way."

Marsh nodded sagely, running a finger over a benchtop and examining the dust he picked up. “Any idea what he's up to? Inquisitor Morgan has always had... strange ideas. It's what you get, giving so much leeway to someone with that sort of blood." The Inquisitor scowled, wiping his gloved paw on his coat.

Roland's whiskers twitched. Ah yes. The great career soldier Gallus san Marsh, once set on the path to become the Arch Brigadier himself, but he threw it all away to torture men in the dark. Quite a sensational story, especially for a man who doesn't give two shits about anyone without a 'san' in their name. If I were a betting man, and the Grand Chaplain of the Inquisition, I'd certainly be watching this one with a keen eye.

“You'd think Morgan would turn traitor?" Roland asked. He wanted to laugh at the idea. Claude Morgan was many, many, many things but a traitor was certainly not one of them. He was likely more dedicated to ending the hundred than Marsh himself, if the worm of a man could stand to see beyond his own blue-blooded nose for more than three seconds.

Reel it back, reel it in. Roland pierced his tongue between his teeth, breathing calmly, letting his hackles down. He resisted the urge to sneeze, making a note to have someone clean the dust out of his office.

“I'm not sure I see it, Inquisitor." Roland said carefully, sipping the wine again – it wasn't very good.

Marsh, of course, went on. “Call it cynicism you may my Lord, but I see a lot of things, what does he owe us? He's not a landowner, not of noble blood, not even a fox! What's the difference between a fox or a wolf as your master, to a man like that?"

“I'm not a fox either." Roland reminded him. Marsh came closer, smiling softly, holding his paws palms-up.

“Ah, but Roland, you're a man of land, a man of blood and heritage, you've a good wife, you understand decency. Just think. What really ties Claude Morgan to the Union? No wife, no kits, no family... And now I hear tell he's sneaking around the Copper Burroughs, stripping Gate Sergeants of their rank and standing, all so he can bring impoverished wolves into The Equitánt? Has he lost his damn mind?"

“That... that is odd." Roland couldn't deny it, but Claude a traitor? It seemed so unlikely.

But you thought the same of Barlow, and wouldn't throwing him be just the perfect smokescreen?

Marsh crossed the office in three steps, a look of fierce determination on his muzzle, whiskers twitching. “I can't get close, his Artificers are everywhere, his network as extensive and pervasive as my own. I just want a hint, a glance, a taste of what he's up to, so I might put my own fears to bed."

“The Inquisition, inquisiting on itself then?" Roland asked with a chuckle, leaning back and setting his near-empty wine aside. “How theatrical. These are mighty dangerous sentiments, and Morgan's not a forgiving man, Inquisitor."

“Yes well, for King and country, all that." Marsh relaxed, stepping back. “Lord Estoc, I ask only that you keep an open mind, and consider letting me in before it comes to the last hour. If he's remained loyal - as we all hope - then there's no harm in it, and we're all on the same side here, no?"

Aren't we? At least Astmoor is honest about wanting us dead.

“Not sure I'm in the business of making enemies of Royal Inquisitors." Roland replied.

Marsh smiled. “What's a little rivalry under the bridge? But don't think I come to you a beggar hoping for scraps, my Lord. I have information of my own, information that a courtly man such as yourself might find use for." The fox shrugged as if it were nothing. “ Pahran."

Fuck. Roland poured himself more wine, with no real intention of drinking it.

Pahran was a complex issue at best. A small island state mostly containing grass and rocky hills, vassalised to the mighty Alavakia – a formidable nation with a strength that rivalled the Union's own, not that anyone would say it so plainly. Thankfully, Alavakia - and its ruling Council - had stayed out of the hundred thus far, though the Union's King Niven and the Emperor of Astmoor would each likely bend over for the opportunity of an alliance. The Alavakians were ostensibly neutral, and traded goods openly with both the Union and the Empire, while offering military aid to neither.

Of course, they traded mercenaries more discreetly, but that was neither here nor there, everyone worked under the table.

The issue with Pahran was its ideal location; wedged in the sea between Astmoor and Ferrin, the island made for an excellent political barricade – or the perfect staging ground for a full-scale invasion. The vassal state had stopped open fighting more than once, as neither side wished to squabble openly in its waters, lest they draw the Alavakian ire.

Pahran, while theoretically useful, was practically untouchable.

If the Council is forced to enter this war, things will get decidedly more complex, and we'll be stuck here another hundred years.

“This is about the fleet Astmoor sunk." Roland growled, remembering. “Or rather, the half fleet they sunk, off the island's coast? A regretful loss."

“A costly one, especially with this idiotic blockade of Lyskirk's still in swing." Inquisitor Marsh said, shaking his head. “But, Pahran, and the fleet. When our ships came under fire, they turned tail immediately. Admiral Gent never should have pulled so close to the Sorrowful Pass, but alas. Regardless, the Emperor's ships continued the chase even once our men hit Pahran waters, a sordid affair all round."

“Oh, fucking capital."

“Exactly. And it's gotten some more ferocious minds thinking... what if we simply took Pahran? It's famously defensible, those have it figured we could stave Alavakia off a bit, least long enough to give the Emperor a good kicking. Some think the Council mightn't act t'all, mistaking neutrality for cowardice, no doubt."

Roland blanched. If the Union were to attack the island... it would certainly pull Alavakia into this farce of a war. He'd visited the country, and knew that anyone who thought the neutral stance was an act of cowardice was either painfully slow or wilfully ignorant. No, if the Union tried to take Pahran, things would only get bloodier, longer, and infinitely more tangled.

“Have we not lost enough sons?" He whispered, mostly to himself. The pressure in his jaw and skull built and built, the tempest threatening to tip over and spill out his mouth. He wanted to grab the Inquisitor and shake him. Instead he hissed through clenched teeth. “Who? Damn it Marsh, who?"

“I'll leave that for you to ponder, my Lord. Just think," Second Inquisitor Marsh said, clapping him on the arm. “For the low price of brick-born scum like Morgan, yours and mine could be a very profitable partnership indeed."

And with that, he was gone.

Leaving Roland with the possibility of all his good work being totally for nought.