Since mealtime is very often a straightforward process, and rarely involves a great deal of surprises, perhaps it is wise to leave Rhode’s chewing aside and address other matters.
Here is an interesting question to consider: what do badges mean to the civilized? A badge is not a broach, as much as the two are in the broad strokes the same sort of item. Where the latter is jewelry, and may only imply social status by the value or rarity of the object, a badge is something else. Unlike much of what civil folk will craft or wear (or treasure) the value of a badge is not defined by its material, or by its intricacy. Think instead: how easily may a sigil in shining silver represent a lesser authority than cheaply beaten tin, so long as it takes a very specific shape?
Beyond that: in a strange way, an insightful scholar might fairly assert that a badge operates in the reverse of any principle of economic scarcity. For surely, an emblem worn by one man or woman is likely meaningless. Yet if it is proudly borne on ten thousand breasts? Such a symbol demands to be feared.
Society is built on expectations, on signals with shared meaning; and the means by which its members tell each other who they are, their public declarations of loyalty or rank – often simply happens to be what they choose (or are allowed) to wear.
When Constable Fidelity Brand arrived to afternoon meal, the mess fell to fast attention. It was like a muscle reflex, and it almost looked like discipline. Goblins fixed their uniforms everywhere, and rose to their salutes. He had the same sword, and the same magnificent whiskers, but the uniform he wore sported two steel buttons on his right shoulder.
A week ago, he had borne three.
Whatever respect the Constable might have deserved, the room half-full of enlisted gobs could only see how much the man had fallen. Once one joke flew at his expense, a chorus of jeers followed fast after.
But Fidelity Brand took it in stride. Approaching Rhode’s table, the Lord casually ducked a flying pudding. He planted himself behind the opposite bench: to the side of the army storeman. Then, in humility and good cheer, he shoved the goblin crashing out of his seat.
“Goodman Irving, I take it you are recovering well?” Brand inquired. He sat down at the half eaten plate in front of him, tucked a napkin underneath his chin, and began to dine with poise. Each of the round, steel buttons on the Constable’s shoulder were printed with a stylized sea bird. The first: a squat bodied petrel, and the second: a hook-beaked cormorant. His uniform drew the eye in its stark black and its vivid
orange.
Though his stitches strained tight to do it, Rhode reached across the table to help the fallen storeman up. “Hey, Brand. Please don’t take this the wrong way – and no offense intended – but I’d really rather not talk to you right now.” He laid down his spoon carefully across his bowl, and his eyes were drawn towards the floral print of the fleur-de-gorgon.
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“If you might humor me,” insisted the half-elf as he dabbed at his lips with his napkin. His mustache bounced morosely. “In my new responsibilities, I have been unable to check in on you. I am sorry for it.”
“It sort of hurts to eat,” the homunculus admitted after a long breath. He traced a line along the underside of his jaw.
“Ah,” Brand paused. He carefully removed his plate and utensils off of his meal-tray, then slapped an incoming wad of casserole out of the air with it. “My understanding is that most knights who have undertaken such improvements would be allowed more time to recover.”
“Yea. Well, I’ve got four healers, an alchemist, and a barber patching me up. I’ll probably be okay in another week or two,” Rhode smiled. Then he winced. Then he groaned and decided to move his face as little as possible.
The half-elven lord ignored the civilian fingers poking at his uniform, and leaned forwards over the table with concern. “Your haircut is respectably done. It suits you.”
“Thanks.”
“But Goodman – I meant, more specifically, that a normal person requires three to six months to heal from such a process.”
“Oh. I mean, I’d hope not? I am starting to feel a little better,” Rhode hesitated. A goblin patted him on the back encouragingly.
“It’s been five days,” Brand retorted. “And Goodman Irving, I must once again ask that you be so kind as to address me as Ser.”
“I… yea, Ser Fidelity,” Rhode hesitated. His eyes glassed over for a moment as he trailed off, but a gentle, stabbing poke from the cobbler brought him back. “Only five? Man, my sense of time is so messed up, now. Being underground so much, and sleeping so irregular – it’s like I can’t even tell the days anymore.”
“Six days since we last spoke,” Constable Brand corrected, “I am told your procedure ran exceptionally long, Goodman.”
“I think they said sixteen hours,” Rhode nodded fractionally.
The raucous mood of the mess hall had soured considerably. Brand was neither fun nor funny. Every goblin effort to engage or embarrass him was being rebuffed, and worse: he was making the Hero boring too. The constable wiped his mouth one last time and set his spoon down in his empty bowl. Rhode squirmed as he watched the half-elf fold his napkin dirty side inward, and then tuck it into a pocket.
The lord rose suddenly to his feet, and the goblins beside him flinched away.
“A great deal has happened since then. Come, finish what you will, but I bid you hurry. The Goode Scholar Tarrop is waiting for us. It is important that we speak.”
[Bellows] roared as the giant narrowed his eyes. His hands laid down flat on the table, and it creaked under his weight.
“Sure. Sure, I can do that. Just uh, can you help me get up?” Rhode frowned. “It's just that if I move too fast, I kind of start to tear a little bit.”