Wyvern’s Hollow was the head of the beast. A grand alcove in the stone wall, cut off from the rest of the cavern by a tall iron fence looming with spikes and the heads of eagles, vultures, crows and ravens. Behind it, three buildings of light brick form a C-shape around a courtyard of grey-and-brown cave flora: small clumps of white mushrooms, warty leafless shrubs coiled around themselves, and small statuettes of weathered stone, commemorating heroes many of the officers working here probably don’t know the names of.
Faeowynn tips her head to the side as she walks through the gate, so the guards can see the junior lieutenant’s insignia on her beret. That’s all she uses to identify herself for now -- that and utterances of ‘Lieutenant Faeowynn’ to whoever inquires. They’re proud people, these officers here. Proud of their wealth and the station it brought them, proud enough to look down on those of noble blood. We’re not born with silver spoons in our mouths, unlike you d’Arlons, she can imagine them saying, as they sip brandy and polish their cuffs, under the glare of a stern-faced father or grandfather immortalised in a gaudy portrait above their desk, we’re not ‘old money’ like you, we worked quite hard for our station, thank you very much. Most truthfully, there’s no need for them to know her family name.
She pats herself down. There’s a small bump in her breast pocket, and she pulls out the miserable old crumple of a forgotten cigarette. Better than nothing, and certainly better than walking into the bureau with a sober head. Posted at the looming black oak of the front door, the lieutenant lowers into a squat on the steps and breathes in long drags, gazing into Ardglas past the iron fence.
From the central building -- the tallest of them, with a tower cutting through the middle of it, topped with an onyx clock with arms of ivory white -- one could see all the way to the opposite end of the upper cavern. At least, were it not for the thick clouds of grey-beige smog that curl like writhing worms above the black tiled roofs. But if one could see across the fog sea, they would witness the grand lattices of steel and the matrixes of pipelines and catwalks, the web of railways and freight-elevators that spread like the roots of a tree from the metal monoliths halfway-embedded into the opposing wall: the Salamander’s Hearth, the size of a whole neighbourhood, the biggest of the industry-hotspots of the city. There’re the glassworks, the steel mills, the magiferrum smelters, the Faust Armaments Plant, Constanze Dyeworks, the Vizerian Motors Company, the…
The cigarette’s out. She tosses the butt onto the steps, puts it out under her boot, and kicks the ashy remnant into the stony garden, before heading inside.
It smells mildly like soot, for that’s what all of Ardglas smells like, but there’s distinct odours of tobacco, hints of whiskey and applewood, and certainly of fresh paper and ink. The lobby is a wide chamber with a circular wood desk in the centre, where sit a small gaggle of secretaries in the midst of rerouting calls, shuffling documents and reducing the oxygen content of the room with the amount of smoke from their cigarettes. The exchange Faeowynn manages to have with one is simultaneously incredibly brief and also drags on forever. The lieutenant smiles, leans on her elbows, drums her fingers patiently against the desk. What is she here for? To speak with Specialist Logistics Officer Brandt. What for? The 104th Special Combat Platoon -- under his area of expertise -- is long overdue for priority arms replacements. She leaves out the details and the many, many, many argotic words used by Technomancer Pennlyn to describe the current state of their equipment. Unfortunately, Mister Brandt cannot speak to her right this moment. What for? He is indisposed. Oh, poor soul! Too much drinking last night? She doesn’t ask that, of course, but she does insist, politely yet firmly, that it is better to have a meeting now, rather than later. The secretary dips her chin, cigarette hanging from her lower lip, as she looks up at Faeowynn over the rims of her oval glasses.
“I am afraid Mister Brandt is indisposed right at this moment, lieutenant,” she repeats, as though she was speaking to a deaf person. “Indisposed. It means he is feeling unwell, at the moment, and it’d be for the best if you requested to see him later.”
“Do you know when his condition might improve?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there anyone else I could speak to regarding supply shipments to Special Operations squadrons?”
“I don’t know.”
By now, the secretary has begun looking through papers on her desk again, and follow-up questions are answered monosyllabically. A few minutes drag on like so, until…
“I believe…” Faeowynn begins.
“Look, miss,” at last, the secretary seems to lose her patience. She slaps her fountain pen down on the desk and looks up. “I answered very plainly that Mister Brandt cannot see you today. I can’t focus with all of your questions, I’d very much like it if you could leave before I am forced to call…” she pauses. Her eyes go wide, and slowly she begins to feel a creep of goosebumps travelling up her neck and down her arms. “To… to call…”
“I believe,” Faeowynn repeats, elbows still leaning on the desk. “It’d be mutually beneficial for you to tell me what I’d like to hear, miss secretary.”
The lieutenant had lowered her black spectacles down her nose, just low enough for her eyes to be visible just above the jet-coloured rims. In the cloak of smoke that shrouds the entire lobby, around her pupils glows a pair of red halos like two carnelian rings, so deep and all-consuming that all she can look at are them. They’re like vortexes of light, and the longer she stares, the more she can feel such a pit forming in her stomach that she almost wants to gag and expel her lunch.
“Mmm?” Faeowynn gives a slow, languid smile, as if innocent to what her eyeshine is doing. “Is something the matter, miss secretary?” She babbles something out. “I understand he cannot speak with me right now. I don’t mind. Any other time he might not be busy?” She tries to speak again, but Faeowynn interrupts. “Sooner, rather than later.”
“Tonight,” the secretary makes an eep, and mercifully Faeowynn lifts her spectacles back over her eyes. “This… evening, Mister Brandt is preparing to attend a party. You may be able to catch him there.”
“A party? How chic. Where?”
“The White Cuffs.”
“What a place! What a place indeed. I’d require an invitation, though, no?” Faeowynn smiles, and then continues: “You may go ahead and write me up on Mister Brandt’s as his plus-one.”
“Of course, miss lieutenant.” The secretary nods, placing her hands on the table and looking straight at Faeowynn. Again, the lieutenant smiles, and this time reaches into one of her pockets, before counting a few papery blue banknotes and setting about a hundred laurels’ worth on the table.
“For your trouble,” she says, and slides them over to her, before giving a brief nod. “Thank you kindly for your time. Maybe you’ll remember me in the future. For now, goodbye.”
She stops at the iron gates of Wyvern’s Hollow to take a deep breath once back on the boulevard. The last thing she’d call Ardglas’ air is fresh, but it’s far better than the choking smog in that building. Faeowynn takes a seat at the base of the fence, grabbing her spectacles and giving them a brief polish with a handkerchief. It’s not always that her trick works -- not everyone has such a violent reaction to her eyeshine. But every once in a while, it pays to gamble. Soon, the lenses are shiny and clear again. She was careful: it’s a very special type of glass that can block eyeshine like so, Phoebe went to great lengths to let her know. Mined who-knows-where (probably right here in the lower cavern) and refined in whatever-specific-way (probably right here in the upper cavern) and etched with such tiny, minute thaumaturgic sigils that the poor technomancer would need a magnifying glass and a whole evening to repair one if she scratched it. And then poor Faeowynn would truly never hear the end of it.
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“Miss lieutenant?” asks a familiar voice. Ah, Rhys is here.
“This is your lieutenant?” there’s a second voice, though. Oh, rather interesting.
Faeowynn places the glasses back on her nose and stands up. There stands Rhys, rather awkwardly looming over her, holding a few cartons of cigarettes hugged to his torso, and next to him is a woman that piques her interest. Her hair is much like someone tried to comb a bear’s fur: straight in places, but overall a chaotic mess of curls and knots that falls haphazardly across a chalk-white face and shoulders adorned with blue epaulettes. Those catch her attention, too. She’s wearing the blue uniform of a soldier, but with all of the trifles of a noble recruit. She’s got simple white epaulettes, outcroppings of fur around the wrists and the pockets, a double breasted coat instead of a normal one, all under a short dark blue mantle. How very fancy.
But the details that provoke all of her attention are the yellow glow in her eyes, and perhaps more importantly than finding a fellow witcheye: the two metal pins on her chest, one showing the carefully-sculpted outline of a thaumaturgic circle, the other showing a moon-shaped sigil. A battlemage, for one, and a Hexist, for the other.
“Why, hello there,” drawls the lieutenant. She addresses Rhys, too, more in passing: “At ease, private.”
“Hello,” the woman nods. She pauses, then, seems to think for a moment, before bouncing into a clumsy salute. “I mean… good day, ma’am!
“At ease, private?”
“Apprentice Battlemage Red Hildegard, ma’am.”
The lieutenant thinks for a moment. Hildegard was a name she had barely heard in her life. A minor house, she can only guess.
“Junior Lieutenant Faeowynn d’Arlons,” she introduces herself, and she notices how Red’s glowing eyes shimmer a bit more brightly. In a surprised breath, the lady replies:
“D’Arlons! Related to Frederick d’Arlons?” she asks. “The Red Knight?”
Faeowynn chuckles in warm surprise.
“Perceptive. Most people don’t make the connection.”
“Well, he changed his name when he was granted his titles, no? Lwennianised it, from d’Arlagne,” Red answers. Again, Faeowynn quirks an eyebrow. “I imagine that’s what throws a lot of people off.”
“You must be terribly knowledgeable to remember,” she comments. It’s true - for all of their pride and whatnot, most nobles forget the origins of even their own family names. To remember someone else’s isn’t as insignificant a detail as one might think.
“I have a book in my library, it goes over all of the kingdom’s noble estates,” Red answers. It’s an old book, though, published long before the turn of the century. Its chapter for the Hildegards still recalls their holdings all around Torain, where now all one finds is free land and independent aldermen. “The chapter for the d’Arlons goes into a lot of detail.”
“So you know a lot about me,” drawls Faeowynn. “But I can only admit I know very little about you, lady Hildegard.”
“That’s okay. Not lots of people do,” Red answers with a plain smile. It throws Faeowynn off. This is more or less where she expected the mage to introduce herself.
Overhead, there’s the awful squeak of a cave-bat as it flitters between the buildings. Faeowynn continues, casting a glance at Rhys, but still speaking to Red:
“So, I see you escorted my partner here.”
“Oh, yes,” Red says. Rhys is looking up at the cavern roof, where the glossy minerals in the rock glitter in the light like false-stars. “I found him all lost, and figured to help him. I didn’t know where to go either, but at least we were lost together.”
Faeowynn perks up with another half-chuckle. Very much in character for Rhys.
“So, you’re not from here?” she asks. Strange that a non-Ardglasser would do regimental training here.
“No, I hail from Forester’s Nook, close to Torain, as does my friend Paul. We were sent here to be… well, I don’t exactly recall the exact reason why. Probably basic training and equipment. You don’t sound like you’re from here, though. The accent isn’t exactly right,” Red does note. And for all of her lack of contact with people her whole life, even she could recognise the famously thick, slurred tones of Ardglassers.
“Well, I can let you know I grew up here,” Faeowynn answers. It’s true enough. With one-another, the d’Arlons sometimes continue to speak their old tongue, from the lands of Gilles, west of the mountains beyond Mordia, and though she didn’t interact much with her family ever since she joined the army, the accent still stuck to her.
Curiosity gnaws, and, at last, gets the better of her. She imagines Rhys allowed Red to lead him along mostly because of her eyeshine. She knows that the private gets flustered and eager to do whatever he is told whenever he’s trapped in someone’s burning gaze - something she’s used to her advantage many times. But she’s never seen eyes as richly, deeply glowing as Red’s before, nor ones of such a strong, almost enchanting golden colour. Her gaze alone almost feels like it’s burning through her glasses.
“May I try something?” the lieutenant asks.
“Go ahead.” Red nods, and Faeowynn reaches up and plucks her glasses from her nose. Rhys is quick to wisely look away, and ultimately finds himself needing to stare up at the sky, or else inevitably allow some of the cursed light to reach his eyes in the reflections on the windows or the slick cobbles.
“Could you wear these for a moment?” Faeowynn offers the spectacles. She blinks, her carnelian eyes connect with Red’s golds. The lady seems confused for a moment, but shrugs and takes them, slowly adjusting them on the bridge of her nose.
“Oh dear.” She blinks a few times. Faeowynn does wear high dioptres. But it is exactly as the lieutenant thought. Even with the enchanted, sigil-scrawled specialised glass, Red’s eyes almost seem to sear through it. Her gaze barely appears affected. Finally, the lady takes them off and rubs her eyes. “Sorry-” she begins. “They just… make me feel dizzy.”
“It’s okay,” Faeowynn chuckles. This is most curious. As if you weren’t intriguing enough at first glance, she smiles, and after a moment of thought, continues: “If you’d like, my lady… given you’re not from here, I would be glad to show you around.”
“Ah! Ah.” Red finishes wiping her eyes, then looks back to Faeowynn with a smile. “I’d be honoured, but I’m afraid I should probably let Paul know where I’m going, first. I don’t get as many training hours as he does, but nevertheless, he’s probably going to get worried I’m lost or something.”
“Certainly doesn’t have to be now,” Faeowynn assures. “But maybe tonight, if you’re free? I’ll arrive to take you, and maybe we can spend the evening together. I have an invitation for a party at the White Cuffs.”
“Aaah. I can’t really say I’m that much a party person,” Red begins, apologetically. But she smiles anyway, and politeness dictates what she must do next - especially given that, even though Faeowynn’s stoic face barely shows a chance of emotion, she can sense the disappointment in the lieutenant. “However, I suppose there’s a first time for anything.”
“Splendid,” Faeowynn says, smiling. “Well, I won’t keep you, private. I’m sure you know the way back.”
Red nods, and assures her that she does (though she does not), and walks off (not the way she came, but accidentally down a wrong alley). Rhys is almost about to say something to her, but the lady looks over her shoulder to wave, and the sudden jolt when her eyes fall over him is enough to make him take a few hesitant steps back.
“Made a new friend today?” Faeowynn purrs.
“I suppose you could say so, miss lieutenant,” he answers. He pats himself down to make sure he gave her the cigarettes earlier. “You’re going to be spending time with her?”
“It’s the plan indeed. A Hexist, a mage, a noble and a witcheye. Too many things bundled into a single package to simply let go. Klara would be glad to hear of a new recruit, I’m sure,” Faeowynn says in a low drawl mostly for herself, before looking at Rhys. “Let’s be off, now. I’ll stop along the way to make a phone call. You get back to the barracks and put the hot water on for a bath.”
“Certainly, miss lieutenant.”