Adeui, Carlotta.

[Janice Olivia Monroe]

Winter, 1329, before the turn of the year

Even the cautious are foolish enough to mistake a moment's peace for a permanent state. It was not really peace but a sort of false quiet that led the inhabitants to believe that things would be returning to normal. The reigns of ownership had been taken by both Vance and Voltaire, respective. The thin line of dust over the spiral stair was gone; Bromheilde had taken one half of the servants, Carlotta the other, and between the two of them became Queens over the secret places that made the hall what it was. No talk came of the 'Great Plan' or business, not of new threats or old ones. Scars were dealt with by sewing them shut. If this amounted to normalcy, then it was so. Janice had almost forgotten to what she'd sworn to do because none came to call upon that collected bargain. In time, no one leered at her on the under-dark streets behind the hall. Above those streets, she was still the steward of letters. What came was nothing she had not become unaccustomed to seeing. Yes, she almost forgot about what loomed --

almost


Clothing was picked up with a careful hand toward station, place, advancing age, and faith. Seventeen would be undone in a few months time, so it was in that time Carlotta elected to dress a young woman of the peerage, and not a mere daughter of the gentry. Elric Deichenhause. Darius Rivnor. Viscount Alderman. Carlotta considered these names with Bromheild one afternoon as they arranged hot house flowers into a vase. The Master Laurence did favor roses, and perhaps with cheer about the house, the secreted bit of malady would give way to something better. "Can't believe we didn't have a bloom in sight all this time." the Italian muttered to the Bavarian, the Bavarian agreeing "It looked Spartan. Terribly Spartan"

Times had changed so that it was no longer a secret among the house members that Bromheilde spoke English, thus allowing her and Carlotta to form a singular, verbal friendship. The two were often seen together, sharing the duty of tending the Masters, Janice, and the hall. Elric Deichenhause. Darius Rivnor. Viscount Alderman. They also shared the duty of sharing corresponding ventures. These names arose in their daily exchanges. It was only a matter of time before they escaped into life.

"Masters have begun to speak of those ungodly men again. This time of a Deichenhause, a Rivnor, an Alderman...I certainly hope they raise no ill anytime soon. Master Sorschal's..well.."

"A shade. Dah. A shade. Madame is the same way. Her husband does not favor the change." On the further discussion, she leaned in close to speak in tones not even the walls might betray.

"Madame is ill, and Sorschal is..."

"still half mad."

The pair sighed, plucking up an iris to place among the roses. One unusual, odd bloom did make a difference. Cast among the normal, it was a bold heathen, wasn't it? A messanger from a foreign land to dazzle the common Europe. It was so cold on this continent! Bromheilde knew what cold was, but did Carlotta ever pine for the Mediterranean? The subject momentarily would change toward other things. For example: The former home on Bryante Row's famous Street-at-Chapel that belonged to the Lady was now restored to its former brilliance. It was to be gifted as a place of livlihood and business to Mistress Viscreed to make a grand stand in life once all was said and done, where it was debated if Master Vance might join her. A corresponding residence had been made as tokens of service for Master Voltaire, whom was rumored to be marrying Bromeheilde! In this, Carlotta delighted, teasing. Would love come to the stubborn Carlotta? Ah, with women their own age, one might have leave to indulge in a little transgression of youth. "Ah, you know. I think that this house needs a little more color. The Gardens of the city are known to have a hot house or three among them.." The Bavarian brushed her hands against her aprons, before the pair did something..strange. They locked arms! They laughed..

nothing lasts forever....

[Janice Olivia Monroe]

Scene Establishment[i/]: Ah, the rhythms of 'normal' life. What was it, that thing near to leading all to believe the threat had subsided to become a dream of yesteryear? Was it that none called for the 'Great Deed' to be accomplished, or that the names ofenemies went dead on their lips? In this action one hoped to account for a physical death, too. Despite the lack of bodies and the mood of some, scarred, other things lifted. Bannister dust, entirely depressive attitudes. Still, other things began to set, such as the sun in the west for example. "It looks lazy," she told Voltaire, for he stood with her in the west facing glass hall, "Si, little bella, it does. Maybe the sun got tired too. Do you think that the masters ordered it about?" Humor had emerged in unlikely persons, too! Janice could become used to a half-smiling Voltaire. Afterall, the man was soon to marry a woman whom he'd stood beside for a great many years. "I would hope so. Do you see Master Jean-Claude yet, or Master Peregrine? I would never think to say I miss master Peregrine's visits, but it is now a little dull here abouts.." (d)

Master Peregrine A servant to a darker purpose, Peregrine had always been that friend on the other side. The one who walked thin ropes far above the clouds balancing right and wrong so easily it often made even his own head spin. A debt was to be paid, and he here to collect. Though for ages it seemed he walked the cold and empty streets, where shadows passed even in the light to remind him of the wife and child he did have at home. A changed person stood before the gatesof the garden, where the only wild truly lived in the city. The pirate had been told she would be here, this little Angel of morning, that he would make the first star of the night. His name on her lips caused his skin to burn hot, and his smile to brighten. Like that of Alice's Cheshire, his was a laughing moon, and standing behind her then his brush of words against the nape of her neck would be whispered, "Mmm tell me what it is you miss the most." A gentlebrush of the backs of his fingers down her shoulder, would warrant a deep inhale of the honey sweet scent that thrived with her youth..such a precious flower. "I never grow tired of the subject." Cad. Laughing eyes passed to her Shepherd, who knew best then to leave the little lamb alone. (d

Miss Viscreed: Only in the world of dark design could an angel and her guardian pass through a hall of glass, down a 'crystal' stair, and out towards garden pathways. Why, the world was aglow for them while the entirity of the population had no clue they existed. Winter kept the buds shut while some in mortal skin continued to bloom radiant. Honey sweet seeped from the pores of her flesh to tempt the Cheshire Cat. Would he tell her which way was up in wonderland? Which chess piece would he be, and would he help her play against Virgin White and Blood Red queens? She lept, turning fast to see his mouth moving, insisting on more of his own flattery. "Well, it seems you take it to a fine start on your own, sir. Good eve, Master Peregrine." (d)

Master Peregrine: He was a gambling man, with lady luck often in his bed, but of queens and kings--hearts and spades, he could never see the deference. Somewhere the house had fallen, and this was their way of building it back. "Come to check in on my little Princess, How it is the weather has changed. Can you feel it, little one? On your skin there..cold from the air, or excitement." He walked around her, without a care in the world, hands folded in his pockets hair wild atop his head, and nothing matched. "You ain't getting scared are you?" A hungry look gathered in his eyes, that practically begged to her to admit her fear. He thrived on the racing heart of another, and could feed of that single prayer until the other would pass. "You've got too much falling on your back, little one. Do you know now how many depend on you to perform? One little slip, and lives will fall right through your hands..are you ready for this?" He ignored the looks from her keeper, her handler if one will, but he felt the eyes on him--got off on it actually. His hands came from his pockets to open, asking for her own, "Lead on, child, where are we going today?" (d

Miss Viscreed: What if Lady Luck were merely an understudy for the real entity? She paced on delicate feet with a high neck collar. There were no garish displays of heaving bosoms nor cards issued to show the turne of fortune. What if Lady Luck was a virgin with a cross around her throat on whom all the lives were seeking to be saved? Ah, it seemed the 'Great Deed' had not been forgotten. It was only displaced among marriage and childbirth. She arched her brow, Voltaire stepping slightly in front as if to shield her changing expressions from Peregrine. She was his prize to barter - yet - and was his charge. La Bella looked up to the ring around a newly risen moon before sighing. No fear crashed waves of oppression against her, no torrid thoughts made her tremble. Instead serenity won the war of place to which she said, "Whenever you are ready, sir. At present we are going to see what took Bromheilde and Carlotta so long near the houthouses.. Surely you can keep your thoughts on the loss of my virginity to yourself for a little longer, you know how it disturbs them." Oh beautiful princess of new fashioned ice - thy name was Janice. (d)

Master Peregrine: "Ah, but of course." And here he would fall into roll of sir knight, protector of the young, defender of a woman's honor. He would laugh then if he was not certain they would think him any more mad, "Though in request of a friend. It seems the view from his window has been very dull, and he has forgotten the stars in all their glory. Perhaps if I were to dangle an innocent rose before him, I could get my friend out from his work. I have truth I come by not been able to rouse Jean-Claude from his shop for nearly a week. He does not answer when I call, locks himself away, and I have heard from his assistant that he has even broke engagements with the Lily's." Shaden and he had business to work through, a new idea sketched across the back of napkins. Folding his hands behind his back as they walked, he would keep close to her still; a protective otherside, but had she ever truly been close enough to him to know the warmth his flesh possessed? Rosalind clung to him on nights like this, where he still slept in the nude too hot to even venture under the covers. The sun remained, from years at sea, over his features--arms, and back. His coat was thin, but enough to shield away the wind--it would be hers if she needed. "Perhaps they have simply run off together." His glass always half full. "Or got lost in the gardens..heard the drummers and dancing around fireshmm?" A chill chased his spine, causing his eyes to darken on the path; nights like this always worried him. The air was too still, and the ground too quiet. (d

Miss Viscreed: The chilly facade fashioned by indifference melted slight at the mention of her beloved friend. How unusual the connection across age and tempraments, but she found in Jean-Claude but another spirit not so different from herself. "Poor Master Jean-Claude. No wonder he hasn't visited, I wonder if he is taken some great task unto himself. Mistress Ada making him run about to the drums is not so terrible. I wonder if a similar fate became the good Mr. Renquest. Something spirited him away with better invitation, better promise. Would that I find such a thing one day, if even for a little." Young were the hopes of the bloom so new to the vine, still untarnished despite being watered in as much blood as there could be water. Footsteps were two to the one of each man. Voltaire found his feet falling shorter as he smelled the air. Winter. The tang of wood fires, the pungent aroma of distant poverty's dung. They walked along, discussing bits of this or that when under foot Janice slipped! She fell upon her knee! "Ouch! Mmm, that wasn't graceful.." A bruised knee was hardly cause for alarm, but it was what she'd slipped on that was of alarm. A bit of gold something or other was out of place in the snow drift. A bit of golden hair in the form of a cut of plait...(d)

Master Peregine: He chuckled shaking his head, "If Jean would go to her fires perhaps we would not be in this mess." His friend was a tender subject, but one he simply had little reason to share. "He's working on something I'm sure, gone mad until it's finished, I doubt he would want you to think he has not had reason to visit. He just doesn't..give into temptation as I." Even in her fall he was reminded of some spirited being, the sight seeming to flow with grace. Though she would deny it, there was much about her that would make into a glorious woman. Hell, Janice would make a lovely queen. "See..I was right. You did fall from heaven huh?" He smiled bending to help her, all the while kicking away what had caused her to do such a clumsy act. A light went off behind his eyes when the realization set in that it was a being, hair..golden. He was silent, not wanting to draw attention to his discovery while her keeper helped her up. Brushing away the snow, his eyes followed the lines as he lifted the braid. A natural born hunter, the boy from the trees would listen with ears that heard ancient voices, and eyes that could see well beyond the shadow. They were not alone..not fully. "Maybe now would be a good time to go check on the old man, Janice, go toss stones at his window." His fingers curled around the braid, not sure himself on how to even start the subject, but his gut told him heknew this lock, he had flirted with it's owner often, out of jest mostly. (d)

Miss Viscreed, Master Voltaire: "Thank you, Master Voltaire. Oh, my. Thank goodness it wasn't harder.." As doting as a father, he checked to see she was well. When Peregrine presented his idea of a visit, Voltaire found that it would be good for La Bella to do."If Ada can not draw him out with her wiles, you will, with your smile, La Bella. He isn't far. You are watched, go on." When she had stepped back, Peregrine found a cousin in like sights shared. His eyes did not widen, nor his mouth open to speak on the fact the plait in question belonged to the woman he was set to marry in no less than three days time. See, there? A bit of her ribbon was still inside of the braid. "Well, if you think it wise. He probably needs a good scolding and a little company. Oh, one of the men came with you! I see, I will go then.." For once no dispute was levied. Faithful, obdient sweeting. Only when her back left but a mere flick trace of her body, Voltaire opened his mouth. "There is blood on the air. That is my betrothed's hair." Two flat, simple directives before he combed his one good, sharp eye around. (d)

Master Peregrine: Janice fell away from this world, and shadows of ideas chased along beside her. The stars would be her protection tonight, for those who did harm in this nation would have to answer to them--Janice was sacred. "Blood on the air and on the ground. Turn back if you are a weak man." Instantly his roll reversed, and before Voltaire stood a different sort of scoundrel. His face was stone solid, set on finding those missing, and his mouth was flat against his face. "I do not have to tell you what is beyond this." He spoke holding up the braid of hair, "If you are too weak then turn back." Lord knows, he would be wild in the man's spot if this was the dark brown hair of his wife. Turning on the path he scanned the remaining area, searching for any other clue. He was over his head here, and walking blind. None had ever tried to fill him in on the workings of this order, or trusted him enough to come in. Had it not been for Janice, Peregrine would be walking blind. "She was not alone, they were in a pair of two yes?" He asked to keep the man on his feet, walking in the direction of where the snow had not had time to cover tracks. (d

Master Voltaire, Miss Viscreed: "Aren't you impertinent." Replied he, turning his head to the right of where his body remained to notice the divulging path splitting two different ways. The women were destined to arrive at a hot house for unseasonal blooms to arrange in their beloved vases. Women and horticulture. Couldn't it wait until spring? He moved with purpose, matching Peregrine stride for stride. He had been at Death's door for business for well over thirty years. Swallowing his heart, he commented, "Yes, she was with Miss Carlotta. Look, the blood. On the wall, here, the bushes. But it is coming..towards. They were returning, not going back." Which meant they walked in either a dying place or someone's final resting grounds. The paths of the city connected to each garden: The Templar, the Cathedral, Blue Castle, to smaller gardens, and other such wonders. Much akin to trails within a park. Unknowing of what they sought, sweet Janice would not be far from the shortest way to Master Jean-Claude's aforementioned window. (d)

Master Peregrine: "I'm just speaking out of respect, my friend." He would correct the man, his eyes rolling over the blood, and the hilt of his dagger met. The death washed over him like a fine wine, he felt it deep in his bones. This was what kept him so close to his kin, the one thing he and Apollo could not deny about each other. They knew life and death, knew of the battle between, and the struggle to survive; it was in their blood, though they shared none. The fallen snow was gathered in a heap, stained red as if paint had spilled the ground. His heart beat rather calm in his chest, but his blood ran wild through his veins. They had started to pass the bush, until the wind shifted and the pirate turned one look over his shoulder to see a hand in the snow. His arm reached out to capture the man at his side and he turned the attention towards the body hidden. She was alive, but not by much. Quickly closing the space between he and the maid he fell to his knees pulling away his overcoat, to conceal what warmth was left in her body. "We need a healer." He spoke what his mind was screaming. She was suffering, and even he could not stand to watch. The bitter wind cut through him, but he did not feel the cold. His blood was pumping too warm. He didn't know her name, didn't know her reason, but the look on the other man's face told him it was his lover. "Get her talking, keep her talking. What of the other?" There were more footsteps, dirty and imprinted as if another had walked through the blood. (d


Master Voltaire: Under the winter bush covered with snow was a thin hand beating against the wet, cold stone. It would meet up with human touch to reveal a woman whom had near lost her status to be called living. Her eyes were swollen shut, savethe right one. Here, fear was so pregnant it gave birth to paranoia. To be touched was to flinch! To flinch, was to mewl in pathetic tones of pitiful pain. Her clothes were covered in blood and dirt. Signs of struggle left skin under her fingernails, another hand doing a poor job of covering a knife would. "Bromheilde! Come now...come! You are with me, what has become of you..where is Carlotta?" He loathed to do it, but he shook her until she awoke from her stupor. Standing firm with her in his arms, he leaned in close to listen to the wealth of information with no choice, because by listening to the voice he knew the technique of damaging victims by damaging their voice. Hers was not stolen, but it had come close to extinction! Could the damage e'er be repaired? "Lotte...Lot....they...killed the guard. We did not see them, comin...coming ba..back.." Crushed flowers mingled with blood on the soles of shoes, in the palm of hands. "Lotte...ran..but...but.." It was here Bromheilde became inconsolable, giving a morbid, half broken hand to the direction of blood path Peregrine walked. It curved, turned. The woman walked with her beating injuries, fled as it progressed...and they followed her...it twisted back around, then about again to just another path before Jean-Claude's house!

Miss Viscreed: Even now, Janice threw stones at his window, some Juliet before her time caring nothing of courtship ritual but friendship's summon "Oh Master Jean-Claude! Oh dear Master, will you not come out..to play?" Flick. Flick, sputter, went the pebble. One stood steadfast as stone by the angel's side, while another walked the perimeter. What he saw sickened him to no end, but from where he walked, Janice came towards. He put her hands to her shoulders, pulling her away...but it was already too late to deny her eyes the sight of Carlotta's butchered remains, her death twitch, in a pull of blood. You see, peregrine would be privy to finding pieces of the dear lady. An ankle, a leg... - Across the paths, skewering the silence, was Janice's screams. "CARLOTTA! CARLOTTA?! " (d)

Master Peregrine: Nothing would bring him to his sickness anymore. He was not surprised to find her in such shape, but intrigued. Much was in order to him that need to be told, they really did need to fill him in on what he got himself into. Pere would leave the bits of the woman be until he heard the screams of Janice, and quickly called to her men to hold her back. None should see a loved one like this. It simply shouldn't be done! "We'll find who did this." He tried to soothe her, standing before her to keep away the sight. Funny how the paths had crossed, he had seen parts of her body the whole way, and now this? Before Jean's door.

Master Jean-Claude Slowly the day had lost itself again behind the closed out world, but Jean-Claude had put away his work, finished with the elaborate design fitting of a queen, he took her figure into his mind only to return with an idea to inspire hope, even if only for his own selfish reasons. He needed something to cling to, to get lost in as now he suffered even out the reach of his lover. This was not so much a pain as it was simply a harsh reality that not all the world was as it should be. Yet, below his own fine fabrics and well defined pattern, the horrid scars and burns could speak volumes for his lack of faith in humanity. This was why he lived in secrecy hiding behind a commoner's title, Jeanwas happy to be the tailor, the couturier from France, and never the crazed scientist out to damn the world. His break had been inviting fresh from a warm bath, he sat before the fire with the wolf at his feet, reading while his wet: strands of jet black dried. Even in his night clothes, silk of course, covered the length of his arms, and fell over his slippered feet; wrapped in a thick robe even to ward away the cold--his night had been blissfully peaceful. Without a care for the world he read the most recent work from the university, and loved every second of this years edition of the masterpieces in the works of the English language, and new ideas in medicine. He was thankful to find it in French, off the cart of a tradesman. A small sound that could have been laughter mused from his lips as he turned the page, but all fell silent as the stone hit his window. The Winter Wolf lifted her long muzzle from his feet, and her silver hair came to stand on ends. The corner shop was three nearly four stories high, and his living quarters on the third, so whoever did toss that stone..would have a wonderful mark. Rising from his chair the velvet curtains would be pulled back, and the sight damn near brought him to his knees. However, what loving affection he held for that little miss, soon was recovered by his heart racing to his throat. Her screams rocketed him down the stairs, cane forgotten as the stiffness in his legs was easily put aside. "Janice! Janice!" His coat had been pulled on in time to reach the bitter cold, and in many ways he was relieved...he would have never gotten ready in time had she truly wished to see him; suddenly that didn't matter. Very rarely did he leave informalities behind, but with the blood on the streets and the confusion bursting titles mattered very little. She would suffer from this, and the break in her voice nearly killed him. Shield her. Protect her, he could not, but he could take the force of the blow. Protect her from the world that is. She was not something he could lock away, though suddenly he wished he could. "What has happened?" His eyes reached for Pere's who gave him an open stare, hardly knowing himself, but it was set in the pirate's eye--revenge. (d

Miss Viscreed, Master Voltaire: "Carlotta! Nooooooo noooooooo!" Grief pushed hard at the blood in her veins, bidding her to do ungodly things. To touch the blood, hold the severed body as the last breath escaped it to confirm that nightmares broke the rhythm of a touch of goodness in a bleak world. She reached out a hand into the open air, trying to touch the escaping structure that had been life. Hot blood made snow steam. She'd dragged herself a little ways before keeling over to die, without a right leg, broken wristed, and stabbed. God knows, Carlotta had been stubborn. But they'd enjoyed it, and that was the terrible lot. Why, against her blood soaked dress was a sign that read ' Compliments of Elric Deichenhause, on behalf of the Alderman.' Upon Bromheilde's little hair piece was a note reading, "Came to call, you were not in." One of the novices was kind enough to offer his Cloak to Carlotta, giving her decency in death. Plucking up the note, he read it. What he read obviously blanched his face, same as it had the Seniorly Voltaire. Bromeheilde had whispered it: "Alderman...Deichenhause..Rivnor.." and to him, those were a canon of names on par with Satan. When they came upon the scene entire, his voice still held by some amazing thread ,"Take the girl inside, don't let her see this. May I keep Bromheilde with you, for but a little. As soon as I direct the men, I will come again for them. " To one of the noviates he passed Brom, looking to the otherone. "Tell me you have seen the Masters pass you this day.." and as he could not, he received a brunt of Voltaire's anger.."Tell me something better! " The young man was thrust into his season before his time with tramau and forced lessons. In instant, peregrine learned one truth: Their numbers were severely dwindled. It was not the fashion to turned well trained noviates, no matter how well trained, onto such a task. For day business, yes..but this? The old man and Vance were worn thin. Sorschal would never allow for it -- if he had any other choice. "Peregrine, have you heard of Claramae's movements..." he at last asked. "if you have heard anything of late, it is imperative it come out. (d)

Master Peregrine: What was asked of him would not get much warrant, for this was a man who did not trust so easy. He was not the sort to simply out another in the open, or even to a friend he knew to be loyal. "I have not. Nothing. I have heard nothing from anyone in the last week. I was..busy." He folded his arms over his chest, seeing that his coat was being put to good use. "I will find her." He could always find Claramae, he simply had to follow his heart. In many ways he wished he could have felt something for the loss, as perhaps it would have pushed him further, but seeing Janice like this....enough. What had he gotten himself into? "Let this be a lesson then. Tonight we do not let anyone in or out those doors. If this was simply a message, then we shall all sleep with one eye open." He was used to it. "In rounds. None of you are safe, so long as this person.." Or persons, "are out there. Whatever you are, you are few, and you are wanted." Very precious indeed. He lowered his voice, to speak to Jean-Claude who held back Janice, wrapping her lost in his coat. "Jean..Take them inside."

Master Jean-Claude: He stood a good bit taller then she, but still how she fit so perfectly against him. He held her tight, the black wool of his coat her fortress. "My sweet darling.." He whispered breaking for her, this pain was real she felt. He knew the two to be very close. Smoke colored eyes washed over the other maid whose hair was cut away, and face as broken as this lamb's heart. "Come inside..both of you." He opened one arm only to allow Bromheilde something to lead lean on as she walked, and the windows in his shop would be lit once again. (d

[Master Claramae St. Laurence]

The Answer of Where-Abouts, For Two Masters


Claramae:"Close your eyes, my pet. Close them."

In the back of her thoughts, the voice of her old master sounded with astonishing clarity. She answered him, muttering the words to reply, "There is nothing I haven't seen, Master Vittergautst..not anymore." There'd been a time once when the Master bid the female of the company be shielded from the 'blood work' when white hands mixed only the designs of a spy's alchemy and her hands slit skin with a blade to piece it together. Once, when he'd thought to mantain the elegant nature of the maiden's state of grace, he turned her round when the evening's target was set to expire. Now, the world was witness to horrors that grew worse with each passing hour. Under her feet, the stones made criss-cross blood stain. The wood soaked in the vitae, a bloody hand in a window told the story of a fallen. It was no mere 'mess' to be scoffed at, nor scolded, nor decried with chance to reconcile with better talent. "God.." Ah, would he forsake? No blame, if he did. Not even religious dark hands blasphemied with the butcher's work written on the wall for him to read. He would not mistake it as praise! Her fight serviced in the rapid nature her eyes studied the melee of a mad man - the clumsy murder - the last hinges of his lucidity slipping with every jagged tell-tale mark on a body. These killings made little sense in method or reason. It was wasteful excess beyond even the call of revenge.

Sorschal was crazy

There stood the devil on his left shoulder in the form of Krause, manipulating his form as it swayed only to make it go the opposite way. Oh, it was no better than rape! He violated the sanctum of the mind with befouled recipes, creating twisting monsters that destroyed all hope of dreams. Nightmares? The word so paled in comparison to the sheer nature of armagedon witnessed. "So contained." The terms were set, agreeance was the only option. To prove that there was still a chance to be as quick as fame painted them to be lest they both not leave this place. It was his horror to be without himself, her own, to be absent of decency and die in a place at the hands of a masterless, nationless bastard. "What is it you prefer, Master Krause?" (d)

Krause: "Friendly conversation? a meeting of peers? Professionals, exchanging courtesies? " Her response--the wrought tension in her gaze brought a disturbingly genuine smile, reserved for a returning friend or lover, devoid of malice that should have very much been there. "Or perhaps proposition. That would be appropiate. " he slipped away the instrument he had referenced mere moments ago--a sharp object, another dose of whatever poison he had been injecting Claramae's 'partner' (or what was left of him) with. "I apologize for the relative state of our meeting location, though. I do hope you can appreciate the artistry behind what I'm working here, but then I suppose you recognize the inspiration personally." he rose than, pulling himself away from the Spymaster to allow him to curl in and himself, twitching violently as corrupted liquid worked its way through his veins. "At the very least, you have to appreciate the progress that's been made with this particular coketail; it was, after all, refined from your lover's torture. His resiliance really is a testament to your taste, if nothing else." the animal--the madman that faced her drew a rag from his pocket and cleaned the thin spike of blood and poison. He then smiled, in all things, apology. "Sorry. it's been so long since I've had another artist to show my work. Kryptmann's efficient, but he's terrible conversation."

Claramae: "You never appeared one for pleasentry." Her face was terribly placid despite the liquid quality in which her eyes swam in her head from one sight to the next. Hand folded over the other to show a sign of negotiable containment. Her breath slipped away for him to imagine it happened; oh, was this not delicious to him though? Alendral pulsating and shaking, Claramae before him to observe the way he had brought horror to her husband. How with one little needle the scar was writ in him for life. Her 'partner' was falling apart - with another injection his heart would race. His body couldn't take much more of the ungodly stress it endured. "I take it you do not surround yourself much by way of suitable conversation, it would broker too much protest, which you do not favor." Kryptmann would offer little resistance so long as the money was plentiful. How, then, did Krause fund him? Did he invade the dead Petrov's stores? Oh yes, the long ago merchant who's dealings with his run away bride made for keen cover? Did he invade the dead sister's dowry? Or did he suck money from Church veins? Questions such as this were as common place as why to be in this place at all. Genius took funds, not poverty. Obviously he was rich in both. "So now, sir, as I have been appreciating the work of your hand these many days..if not weeks, how might I come to acquire my partner again..living." Dance the dance. Negotiate. One weakness among the Gottschalkian ilk and one alone was universal - the need to be showmen, the need to seek praise no matter how minor. No matter the venue, no matter their game, in that was the same. Death was artistry that deserved the respect of fellow practicioners. Especially living members of that long-ago alliance that placed a living Gottschalk right beside them. (d)

Krause: "Actually most people do find me pleasant, Miss Laurence. Of course, most people I associate with get to see my little workshops but I doubt most who would associate with you would have trouble praising what it is you do." He riposted. he was enjoying it. Claramae's mask was useless here, and the fear--not for her own safety, for the end, for Sorschal, for everything. Even taking him back, he knew she had to wonder if it would be worth anything. However, wittingly or unwittingly her last remark had nettled him and his smile vanished, suddenly impatient. "Oh please don't insult me Lady St. Laurence. If I had any notion of not returning Skye's errant Spymaster to you there would be a corpse. By the end of this conversation you'll have your protege back. I wanted to ensure he was in the proper mindset... him and you." it was almost childish--in that instant she had ruined what he had in his head and a childishly angry expression was worn plainly--which perhaps, in its own way made things a great deal more dangerous. " Still, it's not my work that's to worry about. Not anymore. " he started gathering his things--tools and various weapons, wrapping them in cloth, pausing to peer up at her. "I know what you're doing with the old man's legacy. Actually, I have to admit the little girl's pretty clever, though she probably just should have saved herself the trouble and laid with the pirate."

Claramae: "How kind of you. Though to the contrary most whom see your workshops do not live to relish long the experience, but it is a sigh to be recalled, that is for certain." Ah. So he'd been keeping up on the comings and going. Janice was a clever girl too clever for her own good. It was obvious he had no care of great stage plays or morality issues to bring about some physiological grandeur to their profession. It was also obvious the girl fascianted him for reasons wholly other than her posistion as a key component, but as another key. The key to the inside of what she tried so hard to preserve, exposed she was, just as she was hidden. This meant that what was seeking Janice, or whom, was another member of a separate party. Any other who'd emerge in the little show arranged by the pirate would be mere penny compared to the gilded gold of but a pair of main players and those who followed them. While danger presented itself all the more, she came closer, of course still within decorum. "Even you are not bereft of taste nor sense, sir. " Nor was Janice. To have laid with Peregrine would have placed him in quite the episode. Her mind began to work on the thoughts thrust out on her gears to be crushed, opened, and worked upon. There were still names to consider. Obviously they did not play cat's craddle together. "Your ...current shop is set to obliterate. I smell the sulphur. In fact, your flint is set to spark. Very clever. In a great many ways, you've surpassed your former master's work." (d)

Krause: "Hnh." he smiled--he recognized her now at work, soothing the ego she had ruffled a moment before. It didn't work, but he appreciated that she saw the situation so dangerous enough as to attempt it, in its own way. "Well maybe, but then again she doesn't know our mutual acquaintances as well as I do and if she did.. well, I'd have to set them aside, I'd say." he smiled, predatory and glanced around his surroundings. "Oh yes, that. I thought there was some sort of poetry, being born out of fire. Symbolic of joke. Symbolic nonsense--built on the need for something greater, outside ourselves, some purpose. Gottschalk was never about finishing the work. He dangled it in front of his children just to see who would reach for it. I guess it never occurred to him that his attempts to defile you had a purpose all its own--but well, that's just my theory." he waved his hand, dismissively. "We're off topic, aren't we? oh yes, the proposition. Your order is beaten, the wolves are closing in... and entirely too quickly for my liking, so here's what will happen. You take the little Spymaster here, pull yourself together and us...? Soon? We end this. I'm going to come for the little girl and I'm going to murder every man in my way and I'm going to break. her. Vittergaust will be name forgotten when you two die and Levithan will be halted for generations. And I want you to be ready for it--I want you to fight. It would be so... meaningless, if I killed two of his own when they were so... broken." he smiled. " I was also thinking of letting Kryptmann kill the Avarian wench too--well, that and any other nobility he can get his sword through. Skye's a little too... idyllic, these days. Doesn't suit my tastes." he smiled grimly again. "What say you?"


Claramae:"Much to do, I see. There is no joint endevor twixt yourself and the others, aside from the obvious. Mutual acquiantances aside, within the next few days business will become very sordid on all accounts for all of us." A huff as if to think of the 'lesser' beings one might interact with on behalf of greater things, the air around it transmuted to a sigh. If Sorchal could, he would laugh: all of them had in common a respect for some and disdain for others. Some name brought universal pause, others, universal annoyance. "I will do you better. A great many of the wolves will be done away with. In allowing me to take him now you are guaranteed finality later, without interruption. If you would, I would have Kryptmann refrain from killing the remainder of our noviates so they might be used to deal with lesser..underlings. That is unless you'd rather play with Gustoff and Gildern. Their hand has grown harder even if their influence is nonexistant. I will take him with me, and in turn let us set the date for our final match." If Kryptmann was useful hands with no conversation, Gustoff and Gildern were twice as useful with false pretense at playing the parts of social contemporaries that it made one near sick to the stomach. If only God had been so kind as to allow them to merely trip on a coin and die. Alas. She went over to Sorschal, with enough strength to wrangle his fit and cart him off. Unburned, one hoped. The shanty would not be standing much longer. (d)

Krause "We don't fight proper wars, Claramae. You don't get to set a time for the ball. I will give you three weeks, to recover, and than you can rest assured the attack will be soon. And don't worry about Kryptmann, worry not. Aldermann has his ear for a time, he holds the leash a bit tighter than I do. " he smiled again, watching her grasp at the man--who struggled like a wounded, cornered animal, protesting in sound but with no semblance of words. Were he armed, he might have tried to do harm upon Claramae. He struck the flint once, twice, forcefully, embers falling upon the ground, each one threatening to set a blaze. "...You always were the reasonable one of the family, Aisling At least that's what he used to tell me. " once, and only once, a cruel expression crossed his face for a moment and he continued to strike off. "For what it's worth? I'd be perfectly content if you murdered Aldermann. The man is a disgrace to his name, and all that... maybe when I'm through with your order I'll set upon righting him. Levithan is an ungainly beast, but it could be dangerous for all of us were it to rise. " he sparked another hard spark again--embers sprouted then at his feet, and he bared his teeth at her. "Adeiu."

Claramae"A pity. Things have long since lost their civility. Peter always did find some use in that aspect of his court endevors. Ah well. A new age then. Three weeks it will be then." Around dead bodies, blood pools, and chemical spark a pact was sealed. Despite Sorschals struggle she hefted the curled in man within her arms. Three steps taken before she paid him a look over the shoulder. The sparks set a halo around her head. "Peter would say a great many things. Goodnight, Timothy." She lowered her head as if in salutation before using her foot to kick against the wall once, twice, thrice before support began to lean. Using this to advantage, the wall would topple upon the sparks, givin it more to devour atop of dead flesh instead of the living. She pushed her body to extreme, beyond exhaustion in order to make it through the door before the tell-tale signs of fire or the effects of the gas made them suffocate. Despite the malaise, there would always be some 'honor' among the ilk. He said her name neither taunting nor to provoke effect , merely in statement. His name was said with the same, as was Peter's. She set her jaw against the vile nature of the name of St. Peter paired with Gottschalk. Once, oh once, Vittergaust thought that it would be better for the safety of the lady if she indeed took a husband from among them. Being that Gottschalk was but a few years her senior as opposed to Elusha's many, would that not have pleased her? It was a fact she had supressed along with the common useof that precious name. Once, one long ago once, she was meant to become Gottshalk's intended. No doubt a way out for them, or so dear Elusha thought. For children were greater than the sweet madness of their intellect's satisfaction. (d)

Alendral: There were no words left to part from him--he had to move much as she did, the flame burned both. The shanty's outline lit the undercity like a bale torch, mingling the smell of rotting wood with charred flesh, thick black smoke clinging to the air amongst them. Alex would provide no succor, no commentary either--he half-stumbled, half dragged along her, unaware of his own surroundings, whimpering and moaning insensibly to his surroundings. His body was stiff and moved only in struggled jerks--eyes glazed and unfocused, animal-like in both desperation and horror. At at least several points he tried to claw away at her, growing briefly hysterical, unable to distinguish her from whatever phantom assailed him. It was entirely possible that a few of the victims inside may have very well been his as much as they were Krause's. Elusha may have intended to end the legacy--perhaps with Clarame and Gottschalk, perhaps at it's head--but what he had left in its stead were men like Krause. Men like Aldermann. For all his efforts, Vittergaust's own hands had wrought more terror than, in the end, he had every intended.

Claramae: In a clawed stone box that proved he'd died trying to live, Vittergaust lay silent forevermore. His skelton could provide them with no tongue to talk so that all of this was remedied with but a few words. It could have been that perhaps he thought to end in his lifetime the vile idealism invading the orders of Europe. It could have even been that he sought to heal them all with humanism and family. Claramae could not say that Peter had been unkind to her. Strange to no fault, infected with malady from the moment she'd met him, but not unkind. It would not even be strange to say that the affection he bore her or that she in some way bore for him as members of the same cause could not have known other translation ....were it not that she could see inside his skull too well. Sorschal's nails hooked into her soft, exposed places - the neck, collar bone, the cheeks would bare signs of his struggle, as would her frozen hands. Indeed, he'd hit her with a hand so hard that she stumbled back into the line of wall just before the street leading to the house that they'd built. "Vance.....Vance.." She called to the wayward Master, now one of command, before she'd reached the door. The house in its better days had been watched at all sides. What remained to watch it now was barely fit to stand, let alone make a run for wherever one might find him. "Sir, sir! Master Laurence's back, with Master Alendral! He looks in a right bad way...she doesn't look any better." Rightly, this terrified the young man for despite the run missions no doubt he'd never seen Alendral anything less than in an adrenaline filled point of physical quickness or as blunt as a shut door, but this was watching a man return to infancy and a woman always impeccable reduced to a badly glued together mess. (d)

Vance: Vance, to what little credit he thought he deserved, answered not with shock or emotion but attempted to retain control of things. "Take three Noviates and set them in defensive positions bottlenecking her entrance. Get runners out to keep an eye out for any unusual movement now that they're back. If they have picked up and tails, I want them down and in irons now, you hear me?" with that he came striding to the sight of two former master's laid low. The sight alone was enough to stun him into dumbfounded silence. "...Christ..." Vance actually crossed himself, a motion that would have never been attributed to him by anyone and have made Janice's heart flutter. Such hesitance, such terror was only for a moment though, he was at the two of them's side, restraining Alex further as he struggled along with Claramae, asking no questions and speaking no words; lest he shatter what little resolve was left in her.

Claramae: If she had the credit to praise him, she would have congratulated him on the excellence of his plan. Then again being a man of the streets, he knew the scent of a following fight on the air. Needless to say it was tempting, but the slaughter of the deranged man had put the remaining zealots ill at ease. The game had taken a sour turn in their mouths and sickened them to think that the 'Master' would simply allow them to perish with no undue amount of ease. The motions of the other noviates were hardly noticed! Her vision, her focus, was tunneled. "Alexander..but a bit more. I will..amend this. I will..." Would she? She could not think otherwise - but the seeds of doubt were planted. Whatever had been done or seen rankled her down to her core. What was worse, was it was not yet the worst of things to come! Once over the threshold, her limbs shook with the weight of their burden. A noviate thought to reach for her, surprised, to see that now it was sheer force that kept her standing. "Vance, I..am going to need your help..holding him down. You may have to..restrain him." So sayeth the harm inflicted by his hands against her face, neck, and hands. "He's been at odds because he's been long drugged, and Krause dosed him again before I could move him... it may..well..kill him if we do not hurry..." Were those unshed tears? Oh God. Oh God. If anything happened to Sorschal...it would be while they were making preperations she asked the inevitable, "Bromheilde knows how to prepare the things.. have her make them ready, and tell Carlotta to see that every viable way amont the servants is sealed. They will be taking the long ways. I want no way cluttered that...we ..may need..to use." A sickening sort of oddity followed in their wake..no doubt for both to notice. With a master's arrival, one or both women were as certain as a precisely wound clock. (d)

Vance:Vance responded with a struggled, only to find Alex trying to strangle him as soon as he was handed off. One moment he was helpless, the next vioelnt, almost animal like--but he was also tired, strung out and exhaused. Vance started only briefly before rather roughly twisting his hands away and, without much delicacy,literally just striking him over the head--it drove what little sense that was left in Alex out, but it was also the only way to keep him managable--though still conscious. "Dosed with what?" he asked, vaguely alarmed. A man of the 'streets' was perilously out of his depths with this level of madness. He snapped his fingers at a nearby noviate with a scowl. "Fetch them. and hands capable of poisoncraft. If they're not tied up I want them here. And no details. None of this leaves the room!" when the Noviate darted off again, Vance focused his attention on struggling to drag the Spymaster to a place to properly restrain him. "I don't get it. " he asked. "Why not off him? Why not see the poison murder the bastard? Why go to all this? We're enemies, aren't we? there's no sense in this madness at all!"

Claramae: "Because it was wished that he suffer, for the work that went in to arranging this to be....'a..appreciated'. Because this entire world is stark raving mad. Because nothing of it makes sense anymore, and if any of it did, those people are dead....to send a message that more importantly when time presents itself they want to finish it by killing us." By the 'us' it meant specifically the man he carried and the woman he looked at . "I need to know every poison that is within this house now, tell them that when they arrive. These are concentrations of things not intially in our stores..and God help me, while Krause perfected it, it wasn't without help. The level of his work and the conditions he is performing them in would..have corrupted it. I think he got to some of our own, and offed them, when he had no more use of them...but one..or two...are still here....." She shook her head, in as much of shame of it as to keep herself aloft. Her body looked as though it had been through its own share of poison wrought hells in the last several weeks, private musings of ill exchanges in England. A hand gripped at her stomach before she turned about. "There is...there is something more not boading.." In that, the lack of Brom, Carlotta, and even Voltaire was an gross breech of protocol. "Lay him on the...table...there. ..The lower study will have to do. It is too much to transpose him into the upper reaches...." The women had whispered of the master's illness, and it was now for him to see. The world ripping apart. She pressed her back against the wall, clenching her teeth together as a wave of pain came and passed. In that time, a pair of noviates were returning from duty. They carried with them a shrouded figure under bloodsoaked cover, and with them walked a harrowed Voltaire (d)

Vance "All this and wolves in the fold." Vance breathed viciously at the very thought but said nothing else, struggling to hold on to his sense of duty-his tasks, struggling to see the unkillable broken down before him. Forced to hold own someone he admired, struggling every step of the way as he followed Claramae's own instructions, levering him against the table. He had barely even goten him down when he saw Voltaire, battered and near dead. He breathed a sound of pure anguish. "Come on!" he breathed, before barking in a manner more harsh than he expected. "What the hell happened?" no doubt Voltaire expected the sight anymore than Vance did, a mixture of horror. The most experienced and deadly of the order and they were all swept away in one fell swoop. Alex took that moment to renew his fury, and nearly upended Vance in his attempts. "Aghh.. where the hell are those women!?" a few noviates came in, men and women, with armfulls of liquids, tools and lists. Carlotta and Bromheilde were nowhere to be seen. The Noviates were terrified-but they managed to stick to their tasks at least.

Claramae"Right under our noses. Stupid, stupid fools." Her breathing was labored, coming out in claw grabbing rasps for molecules. Still, she maintained a stay of self if only to begin the work of keeping Sorschal alive. Would it prove a point of talent if she brought him back not only alive, but self functioning from this drug induced place? Seeing him made her see Michael again, a shell of himself for weeks in their chambers. "God, I implore you, fashion my hands....fashion my hands." She pulled herself from the wall and took hold of Sorschal herself so that Vance could be free to deal with what was incoming. If anything, to buy them time? Sorschal was made unconscience by a well placed hand against the side of his skull.

Volatire: Voltaire looked up from his mixture of anger and grief to the lower study, seeing through the opened door part of what went within. The Masters were back - but in no celebratory state. He beckoned to Vance, for it seemed callous and crude to shout it through the household. On the way home a minor attack had been endured, but minor on strained men was enough to intake large damage. "Carlotta." A noviate pulled back the winding sheet made up of their cloaks, showing the shut eyes and stiff, curled posistion of stubborn relenting she died in. It was evident they held only one leg, for the other had been removed. Quickly the sheet was tossed back over, for it'd broken the heart to see it. "Bromheilde is alive...barely..she and Janice are with Master Jean-Claude." The man's betrothed, for he was to marry Brom within three days! And Janice! Oh fye that situation of quiet that had done them all in! All of them! "Their guards are dead. This brings my students down to a total of five." He'd been forced to turn over his, like any other master, when they showed any gleen of readiness. His one eye that he saw out of was heavy, the other one clouded, freshly bruised without its eye patch through the curtain of dark hair. (d)

Vance: "Total noviates worth fielding are about fifty or so. Alex's got about 3 left, but Ursula's been left to care at the Lily and Alex is keeping her out of the main fighting." he reported practically dutifully. "I've got about eight set up for wetwork, but they're tired and a couple of 'em are hardly worth a barfight these days." he shok his head briefly and pulled back to let Claramae try and work, running fingers through his hair and struggling to grasp at something... anything! finding no words, he stepped back and gave Voltaire a vaguely sympathetic expression. "...Get some rest. I'll bring news to you soon as you're able. " much as he hated to admit it, Voltaire was no help here--and they were in no place to plan. Elsewhere, of course, Alex reactedto her hands with mere moments of lucidity--jerking subtly and grasping suddenly at her arms, meeting her gaze. What was in his own expression--horror, fear, animal instinct, at least hinted at something beneath. He held that gaze for a moment--a second, before his gaze glassed over and his grip slackened on her, moaning incohereantly whilst his legs twitched in spasomidic jerks.

Voltaire:"There is more than one of them. The Alderman has brought Elric Deichenhause and Rivnor into the fray. This is their work. There will be, items to study..by the chemically inclined. Stash them away. " Rest? He laughed, softly, sighing as though the very idea illuded him. "I would, were there such a way for me, my friend.." He looked up to that room. Inside of it, the fight continued until the well placed hit and glaze of eyes occurred. Tears did fall, unbidden though they were. She was utlized with what she could, forcing him to intake water, copius amounts of it. From much of this he would sadly have to detoxify on his own. One look, one well placed grasp upon her hands issued out a cry that some might have missed with the other noises of the room, but Voltaire was too sharp to know the difference. "Christ," now it was his turn to cross himself, "Maria, Maria..." He took the steps up, leaning into the lintle post. What he saw traumatic. Indeed, despite being within this business for thirty and more years certain people do become invicinble. So was the woman he'd remained with after he'd helped to save her, so too her illusionist friend. Sorschal had her wists in such a desperate bid of wanting to be set free from his horror he wouldn't let go. Claramae - for once - a woman whom could undo men thrice her size, could not arrest his hands. "Christ have mercy." When he fell back into a stupor, she weakly set her limbs back in place, the cuffs of the sleeves pulled back to reveal the history of her time away spent in bruises. Some of them seemed older than others, not healing as quick as they once did. (d)

Vance: "Bet you were a right bastard in your younger days. " he replied, somewhat ruefully, forced to watch the events transpire. "Back in my brigand days, some damned crime boss had run afoul a'ruthless lord, who made barbarians out of the lot of us. About a month in little more than a band of thieves were up against a damned army, and by the end of it hardly half of 'em could lift a sword. It was nothin' like this." he fixed his features into a hard expression. He was as tired as the rest of them, though in contrast he had felt lucky. "We hardly had the men to handle Krause 'n his men, and we got more. I'm not ready to say 'die' yet... but..." he scowled, working his jaw, keeping his voice low. he was, at his heart, a realist. He didn't understand half of what was happenig, but men, capable of fighting, that much he understood. He fell silent then, not wishing to poison the atmosphere any further. He noted the fresh wounds on Claramae and snorted, once. "THe man and woman the Duchess set the whole damn order on and only one of them are barely holdin' things together.

Voltaire "Oh, I had my faults." He managed, offering ghost of infamous half smile. Once, he seemed so menancing. Now it seemed that all were doomed to become shades. These halls were no more than a haunted house with glass halls for jerry rigging and shifting floors for boobie traps. "Barely. Some of those wounds aren't new, Vance. Among all of those poison crafters and alchemists, I hope one of them was made into a practical healer. " Claramae did not hear them as it was. She was too busy minding Sorschal's fever as other students set up bottles, jars, and impliments. She would direct a great much of it, but forgo some use of her hands. "England, let us not forget, England. Either England or something here has made her sick. Deathly sick." He sighed and began to consider what 'options' they had. "We may need to seek Kendrew yet, or one of his men. The only other suitable entities are the outriders, I'll be damned if we are forced to utilize the rangers. For once, I am relieved of the absence of the Baroness' husband and half brother, as useful as they would be...they would turn into mad asses. We might as well deduce that until Master Sorschal is functional...and know that at some given moment Master Laurence may collapse...we are what is left of this order that may make decisions or count as masters." (d)

Vance: "Yeah." he said grimly, and with some trace of distaste, he added. "And Janice. " said in such a way as to suggest he clearly did not approve of that particular way. he let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "You'll forgive me for bein' a pessimist, though, Voltaire... but I got no experience or depth with this. They don't survive this, and all the allies in the world ain't gonna do much..." Sorschal did little more than breathe, shallow, harried breaths. He mumbled incohereantly, at times breaking into frantic motions, at times falling deathly silent. For the ghost of a moment he tried to say something--it was a name. it was not Claramae's, not Danae's, Ursula's or anyones else. The name was nearly meaningless to the others. The frailty, the desperation in the voice spoke volumes of something else. It came out as little more than a breath, a whisper that was missed if you weren't straining to hear it. "Aislinng..." and with that he sucked in a breath, his fingertips tightening over the end-table. Whether a coincidence or some monumental force of will, he stilled, if only for a moment.

Voltaire: "Within my thirty years, not even the original time or the original master was this harrowing. What was left in the wake of him, of Vittergaust,.." he shook his head and paced a moment, hands behind his back , "we need additional support. Helpless as it may be to the main cause itself, it may at least ensure something comes out of this unscathed. You will pardon my graphic bluntness, but I do not wish to see Janice as carlotta was. Nor as Sorschal and Clarame are now. They have that in store for her, and worse. With Peregrines marriage to Master Inveryne, it runs the risk of spilling forward into the court if it isn't capped now. Jesu. What a lot."

Claramae:Within the room, Claramae had laid her head atop of Sorschal's hand for a moment, as if to gather her own strength to continue. "No, no bleeding him! You must fill him with as many liquids as you can, it must be purged of the body's own accord...." There was no elegance or precision to this work. It was akin to holding a mess bucket up to his mouth should he vomit, watching his clothes soak in sweat, and hoping he came into the morning. Injecting him with remedy and hoping it aided in the slowing of his heart and breath to normalcy. When he said the name...the true name...she looked over to him. "Alexander..Alexander, I am here. Right here....." It never sounded right not even a handful of people, and he had always called her by this, preferred to, actually. Not even Elusha had the leave to refer to her by it. (d)

Vance: Alex said nothing else. force-fed nothing but water, some remedy meant to purge his stomach. It was an agonizing, thoroughly unpleasant process... but perhaps it was a sign that a shred of the man remained under the torture. Vance listened, impassively, staring at the two of them."I never been the kind of guy that ever believed in lost causes." he shook his head grimly and stared at the sight of it, reflecting, ruefully, how in years earlier he would have simply ran--it wouldn't be in the first time he's done it. "Guess we can bloody their noses if nothing else." he shook his head. He sighed, hesitating--it ached him to leave this behind... but if half of it was true... "I've got work to do.. and I'm no use here. Keep an eye on her, tell me as soon as anything changes--and when she's done, get her to the damn healer, if you have to drag her by her hair. " he grimaced and started to withdraw. It was agonizing, but the world did not wait for them to recover. He indicated a few noviates to help.

Voltaire : "I will. If you should see them, alternate the men keeing watch at Jean-Claudes. When I am able, I will bring Janice and Bromheilde back myself. Take one of my five for your second. They will be rested. " He made the painful decision of keeping his most cultivated out of the fray, and with good reason. While it forced him to circumvent an order or two, what little they had left was valuable. Now he knew why more men were thrown out into the street as it was. Drugs. Delirium. Delightful.

Claramae: Aisling sighed, placing her lips against Sorschal's feverish, clammy cheek. "This is my fault. I am sorry, Alexander.:" (d)

Alendral: There would be no succor, no ease of her anxieties--not now. to her words, there was only a brief moan, he shifted lightly, shuddering for a moment before his breathing stilled again. And so it would be.. for painful hours, the process went on. Vance did as he was asked, Voltaire did what need be, and all the while the Spymaster lived in waking nightmare, fleeting images whilst his soul was laid bare. And all Claramae, for all her training, her knowledge and her sheer will was watch, and wait. worse yet, for days, there was no sign that Alex would recover at all... and with each day passed, the time of Krause's impending attack grew shorter. Worse, still, even if that was survived, even if, by some miracle, Krause was killed--there were more, yet more waiting to finish what had started. Apart from it all, apart from all these concerns, Aisling's words pierced a veil of thought and fog. No sooner did her words ring out that another set of words--words of a man long dead, frail-sounding, pleaded a single phrase. It was the first time he had heard the word in years. He remembered the image clearly, fleeting that it was. The last time he actually saw him. The words were... "Do not become like him."