The tunnels, dungeons and cellars of Old Malachite’s sedition thrummed, their subterranean air stirred to ebb and flow. One could even say it howled (well, they could if they were being dramatic) in the corners and dead ends where its currents could shear and turn on themselves. The hurried echoes of boots reached the furthest halls, and the peal of metal clashing belied the promise of blood.
Rhode was not quite sure when the first of them appeared; he saw them out of the corner of his eye, like the apparitions of a feverish imagination. There was an empty space, and then after he would look away, they would be there as if they had never been absent.
Then the flashing sharp of a sword demanded his attention, and he heaved his arm to position his own weapon in its way. Every move he made was anticipated, every advance left him a step further behind. Still, he fought as if his life was on the line, because it was not possible for him to match the weapon-arts arrayed against him. He was pushing himself to his very limits, and his utmost was the only thing, the very least he could give, which came close to matching… her.
Wait, where did Father Uod find a fruit danish?
The homunculus let out a pained cry as Lady Hakkat-Yune took advantage of his distraction. Yet another cut joined his collection of her little ‘lessons’, and he let out an incoherent bellow of frustration.
“Come on, dangit, I’m new at this,” he whined petulantly under his breath. He shook out his shoulders and wiped a trickle of ichor off his forehead with his thumb. He inspected the blade in his hand and then tried to mirror the battle stance which Yune had struck him from.
Rhode was happy to admit he didn’t know much about biology. But what little he was sure of had been already called into question by the rules of this world. But if there did in fact exist such a thing as cells, those tiny building blocks of life, then every single one of them in the homonculus’ body was screaming in their thirst for oxygen.
Inhale. Exhale.
His chest rattled with respiration. It roared in his ears, and – well, the whole room rattled, actually. Rhode was kind of loud.
Lady Ser Hakkat-Yune spun her sword in her grip. If she had been sweating herself, it was impossible to tell. But her eyes goggled with battle-glee, baring their whites to match her mouth of sharp teeth. Her own chest rose and fell with rapid, short breaths, and her voice came out with a hint of a dark chuckle. “Do you even know how unnerving that is?” She asked.
Rhode stumbled backward, swiping wildly from side to side to dissuade her attack as it came. Satisfied to disengage from his wild defense, she pivoted like the envy of a performance luxury sports-car: a complete change in momentum, a turn on a dime. Yune secured the middle-distance and circled him patiently, and her weapons bobbed as if seeking new and vulnerable avenues.
“Am I being too loud?” Rhode gasped self consciously. There were a lot of people in the room. Where did they come from? When did they get there? He looked towards the door for just an instant –
“[Flexion],” the knight spoke. When her sword met Rhode’s this time, he was shocked to see his own blade bent alarmingly backwards. Somewhat dumbstruck, he watched as the flat of her weapon skittered over his own until it slipped all the way over and nearly connected with his face.
“What the shit!” he blinked rapidly. He touched himself to be sure that the blow had not landed. He frowned at the wobble of his iron as if it had betrayed him personally; but then it stilled rapidly as the effect of her mantra faded.
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When Junior Scholar Tarrop arrived, he sidled up next to Father Oud and the two shared a nod that communicated a deceptively complex understanding between them. They had both risen quickly, and chosen to forgo changing. Their luxurious silk pajamas trailed along the stone and dirt, and probably would never be worn again for having been soiled that night. It was the sort of life philosophy, a disposability of wealth, which would have made Goodmiss Tailor Chyrna turn to the kindness of hard drink if she ever were to find out –
Oh. There she was. Never mind. She had a bowl of toasted nuts.
So maybe it was interesting that Rhode was discovering new ways to lose even harder. Clash, bash, clang! That was happening, sure. But it was also interesting to see just how many prominent figures of the Special Projects team had deemed to choose this night to appear.
That was The Translocationist of BengXol! Where had he been hiding all these weeks, and more importantly, what was that thing he was wearing? And look! Rantikar Ninefingers was there too: with his mop of unruly black hair, and his multitude of scars. He stood just off in the corner by himself, scowling at everything and surprising (despite his striking appearance, or innumerable and memorable catchphrases) in his overall irrelevance to the plot.
Within another minute, Tarrop noticed that his fellow Wavelton Broox Scholar, Junior Rikva had arrived. She sidled furtively over to those three eerie Hornupant soul-binders, a gesture which was perfectly appropriate for her lower station. Rikva was wrapped in a heavy shawl around her nightgown and had done up her hair with a living, flowering wooden pin. It probably wouldn’t be long, Tarrop and Uod had to admit to themselves, before the Junior Scholar would rise high enough in station to take her rightful place next to them.
In the present though, it was Scholar Yagget who approached their nugget of high society, though he was generally a bit of a bore. They stood watching apart, but together in the way that one had to at these things. That was just the way it was.
It was almost getting easier to say who had not been in attendance. The room was getting so full that Special Projects (in this case through His eminence, Father Oud) had needed to round up a pair of soldiers and set them to guarding the door to turn away the lesser gobs. After all, the proceedings here should be considered a sensitive matter of security. Rightfully, only a few key figures should be allowed to attend.
Tarrop had scarcely approved of this decision when he noticed an ill-tempered, stunted grouch of a goblin peeped through the entryway. But the fortunate gob was carrying a tray of drinks. So Tarrop waved him into the deepest confidence of Sacred’s military secrets with a sigh. The responsibilities of his duty were weighty indeed.
“Look at him move,” Uod admired. He waved a hand up and down to indicate Rhode’s size. “Like a titan of myth. His very footsteps shake the rock beneath us, I feel. I could swear to it.”
“Huge,” Tarrop murmured, sipping straight from a decanter of fruit wine. “Imposing. Overwhelming.”
The august priest sighed, and snatched a bowl of nuts out of the tailor’s hands. He ignored the commoner’s protests until she slunk away in resignation. “It’s a shame he’s so useless with a sword, though,” he said wetly through a mouthful of nuts.
Tarrop’s shoulders drooped as he blew air noisily from his nostrils. “He is stupendously awful. It’s true.”
Just into their sulking, there was a slamming noise and in came the peasant-priest, that Dogodite. He burst through the door in a hurry, and had gusts of wind fluttering around his robes. They spun in annoying little cyclones throughout the chamber, and got dust absolutely everywhere. The Selt-man had been a late and unwelcome addition to the project in Tarrop’s eyes, for all that he had proven necessary. Perhaps talented, perhaps useful, the brother would reveal his worth with time. But whatever else the man might offer to Rhode; he was above all else and undoubtedly, little more than a provincial rube.
“Is he in here?” The priest babbled stupidly. Tarrop took another drink.
Then he choked on the next sip as Eloft gave out an unexpected, and deafening shout.
“WHOO! GO RHODE! BELLOWS IS TOP TIER, FOREVER!”
Tarrop looked at the dark stain on his sleeve and wondered honestly if anyone would mind - should he have the gob killed.