> A Notice of Seclusion is one of the softer measures taken against those with cards deemed potentially dangerous but whom have not used them against others. The recipient of a Notice is required to explain and demonstrate the full working of their cards and, at the discretion of courts, be tattooed to show the degree of threat they represent. The degree of imposition put upon those marked aims to reflect the threat they impose on others and provide for public safety.
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> The mildest mark is a simple indication of possible lethal capacity and is usually not even required to be displayed unless inquired after. Some marks come with the recipient being disallowed from approaching nobility, who have the full right to kill any of those who break the restriction—it being considered an act of self defence. Others are required to go as far as to live outside of cities, essentially banished from civilization. This being the original sole penalty, and origin of the name—to be ordered to seclusion.
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> In modern Calamut, the less severe marks are used almost exclusively over harsher penalties. These usually come with no restrictions beyond the requirement to display the mark–for public awareness.
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> This softening of punitive measures coincided with the formation of civilian courts and the distancing of the local noble families from administrative roles in the city bureaucracy; a policy that has been widely popular with both civilians and nobles alike.
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> Excerpt from “History of Judicial Reform in the Northern Cities: a Progressive Success” by Tomsa Mat Heisen
With a groan and a wince Jack let himself collapse into the nearest patch of grass.
'Thistles. Alas.'
"Stroph, roll me into a pocket of clover, I would die comfortable," Jack beseeched from below.
Stroph ignored him, the lout.
They had continued on with their journey until lunch, pausing for rest now out of necessity. Jack had wondered how the loss of the two amblers would be compensated for; the unfortunate reality was human effort.
Jam had used a card before they set out, placing a hand on each caravan member's brow before moving on. With Jack he'd included the warning not to push himself overmuch.
Jack had wondered at his words until they finally began to move. Every motion felt difficult, like pushing against a thickness in the air or as if his clothes had been sewn in with weights. Jam was tapping the kinetics of the crew to make up for the lost amblers until they could find replacements. It had almost been fun at first, but soon enough Jack realized why so many of the caravan members had remarkable physiques–every motion came with a tax, it was the most complete full-body workout he'd ever experienced and it had happened passively.
"Ya will get used to it soon enough," Stroph settled next to his puddled form, "personally, I hardly notice it."
Jack mustered the will to tilt his head enough to glare upwards.
"The fish said to the drowning rabbit: 'dunno about you, I breathe down here just fine,'" Jack said accusingly.
But he'd had enough of petulance, however justified and comic. With a groan he repositioned to sit beside Stroph.
The nobles had gone ahead with their bondsman in the last hour, eager to investigate the unexplained 'incidents of interest' Calre had pushed the caravan to leave for. This was their first opportunity to talk about what they'd overheard.
“Calre had temperance I didn’t expect,” Jack ventured.
Stroph gave a noncommittal grunt in response.
Jack continued undeterred, “Vasala fit my expectations more closely. We’re in luck that she’s clearly besotted and, no wonder, those mounts must be worth an estate. He must be close to the main line of the Re.”
No reply from Stroph, and Jack was beginning to grow a little concerned.
“Are you alright? No, of course you aren’t. You went from slipping unconscious in the night only to awaken to a new threat with no pause. I’m sorr-”
“I think it’s best if ya discuss this with Jam,” Stroph interrupted, his voice flat and controlled.
‘What? Where’s this coming from?” Jack thought, a bit hurt.
“I...I planned to, but you were with me. I thought we could talk it through,” Jack couldn’t help but let his confusion into his voice.
“What place does a drover’s son have to talk plots and intrigue? Little if he knows what’s good for ‘im, and I do. Now be away.”
Jack left then, driven away by the frustration evident in Stroph’s voice. It was so uncharacteristic to the character Stroph had shown up til then, Jack couldn’t help but wonder if the fault lay with himself.
Those thoughts rolled in his mind while he made his way to Jam.
'Have I been too quick to judge him a friend? We've only known each other a day, but I felt he was a kindred spirit. Is he that tense from the arrival of the nobility? But this morning he seemed fine...'
Jack arrived in Jam's vicinity while the man was discussing alterations to their route with Issaiah. Not wanting to interrupt, Jack stood awkwardly on the sidelines, unsure how to approach, until he was shown sudden mercy by Jam.
"Ah Jack, I was meaning to call you over. I wanted you to look over my books and confirm my reporting for the losses in the night are correct. Your mother is so set in her ways, she'd have us both dressed down if it's faulty."
Thin pretense established, Jack joined Jam in his cart.
The instant they were inside Jam's casual demeanor fell, the exhaustion of the previous night and the new stresses of the day etched into his face.
Jack recounted what Stroph and he had overheard from Calre and Vasala, that Calre seemed disinclined to pursue any of their suspicions of censure breaking cards.
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Jam listened intently, quiet until Jack finished his explanation; at which point he sighed and sat back, deep in thought.
"We're lucky. Extremely lucky. When they came in on those nimbles I doubted our chances, Calre could well have been our undoing." Jam finally said.
"If anything Vasala was the greater threat, from her words she was ready to interrogate us until a culprit was produced."
Jam shook his head in denial. "No, she's a Northern girl. The House of Ala founded Calamut you know. She might have shown temper there, but if you'd fessed up and admitted to killing the umbrar, even if your cards break the censure a bit, the worst that would come is crippling. More likely a modest notice of seclusion."
Jam continued, "Calre is from a great house of the south. I would never have accepted the contract if I'd known his family. He must be a mainline son of House Re; what he's doing here I have no idea."
"Is the difference between Northern and Southern nobles so great?" Jack asked.
Jam looked at him strangely, "In the South there is an expression: 'Where power runs, blood flows. Where power walks, blood gushes.' It's a reminder there: avoid lingering interest. Better to have them pass you by quickly, and repair the damage as you can.”
“Odds like that, you didn’t need to pull attention to yourself,” Jack voiced, leaving ‘and away from me’ unsaid.
Jam grinned at him, “Wouldn’t exactly be grateful of me to throw you under the cart now would it? Now, much more time and we’ll draw attention to ourselves. Was there anything else before I turn you out?”
The strange quirk of human minds, that the recent callousness of a friend weighs heavier than the abstraction of mortal danger.
“Have any of those stung by the umbrar been behaving oddly? Short-tempered?”
Jack knew he was grasping at straws. Odd outbursts from others wouldn’t have been discreet.
Such pretense may as well not have existed to the perceptive caravan master.
“Ah. I wondered why you’d come here alone. This is related to Stroph isn’t it?”
As much as Jack hadn’t intended to put Stroph under fire, he admitted as much to Jam.
“Stroph is... don’t take whatever he did as core to his character. It’s not my story to tell, and I recommend you not ask after it either–it’s a delicate thing.” Jam grimaced as he spoke, shifting uncomfortably as if he’d sat too close to a fire, “What I’ll tell you is this: for the next few days keep his company only in the morning and late evening, that would be best.”
“And make no mention of it?”
It wasn’t in Jack’s nature to leave a problem untouched, to avoid troubled ground in a friendship only let it fester in his mind.
“You would only be bringing him shame, for something he is ill able to change.”
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The grasses of the plain could capture a curious eye and hold it for an age. At first look there was the grace of grass that moved like shimmer, uncountable stalks twisting with wind, texture, lost in forever. That was its own beauty, the vision of scale and majesty of expanse. The dominant colours of greens, yellows, and browns gave way to subtle shades of purples, blues, and reds that appeared only scarcely and faintly, but once seen could not be missed or ignored. The closer you looked, the greater the intricacies that arose. The realization that it was not one grass, but two, then five, or perhaps six–suddenly recognizing a subtle difference first missed; and that epiphany in turn revealing countless new variants as a more sophisticated observer came to the understanding of how little they really knew.
Jack had taken to pulling stalks he didn't recognize, tying them into a bundle that was quickly growing unmanageable. Such a collection would delight Neavie, and he looked forward to the opportunity to present it to her. He was wondering what he might do to keep the grasses as intact as possible when the bondsman, Grant, came riding at a gallop over a rise; such was the speed of his nimble that it cleared at least six meters in a bound from the crest.
In a spray of dirt, he pulled up to the caravan and shouted out for anyone with a healer's trade or card.
"We found victims of your umbrar, some may live if we hurry," Grant's voice was calm, but rushed. He hadn't dismounted and his nimble stepped restlessly beneath him, flanks bellowing as it pulsed its air-intake orifices.
Isabelle, who had tended the unconscious the night before, stepped forward nervously.
Grant leaned down and spoke softly to her, his words seemingly steeled her will as she nodded more confidently and he pulled her up in front of him in the saddle.
"We can take one other, slighter of build. Pick quickly," he turned back to the crowd that had gathered.
"J-Jack," Isabelle blurted, "he found the umbrar's spines when I missed them, and-" she cut herself off suddenly, realizing the next words may be too incriminating, "-he's got steady hands," she finished somewhat flatly.
'You know what? I can live with it,' Jack mused as he stepped forward.
Grant pulled Jack up behind himself, and then, passengers secured, he made an odd click with his tongue and the nimble burst into motion.
Jack had never ridden anything but the occasional ambler before, doddering, passive creatures immune to the rambunctiousness of child riders.
The nimble was as far from that as he could imagine. Any initial embarrassment at holding onto Grant broke instantly as the necessity of such a grip became obvious. Even with three riders it moved with fantastic power, taking long strides that ate away flat stretches in moments and then leaping in heart-clenching bounds from the top of one hill to another when the gaps were short enough.
He came to the sudden realization that since they'd started moving at speed the billowing of its chest had ceased. Instead its airways remained largely open, facing into the wind of its motion.
'It doesn't use negative pressure to breathe in when it runs,' Jack realized, 'it's just letting the air pass through it, and always getting fresh air. It never wastes time on exhaling.'
The strangeness of it was unsettling, even after he figured out the source of his discomfort. He'd never been so close to a creature so unnaturally shaped to a specific purpose.
'Well, except the umbrar,' he admitted, and the reminder that he now headed for its work finally struck him cold.
They didn’t travel for long at that speed before the first sights of their destination appeared.
He saw the carrion birds first. Some still circling down from great heights, but a larger mob clearly flocking at the peak of a small hill.
The nimbles' arrival into their midst induced only a few birds to shift slightly away; most gave only a passing avian glare at the interlopers, stubbornly holding their ground.
Roiling clusters of birds veiled what Jack suddenly realized were the bodies. Crows and vultures wet with blood, feathers disarrayed from competition for a feast and reluctant to settle as gore dried upon them. The early arrivals stood to the sides, gorged and lazily grooming.
The horror of it rose in Jack in time with gorge, and in moments he was heaving off the side of the nimble, held from falling by Grant's steadying grip on his shoulder.
"Steady lad, let it out. There's no shame in it," Grant's soft voice murmured at him, the sole source of stability Jack clung to, as he froze atop the nimble stiff with a greater panic than he'd felt at any point in the previous night.
"They're dead, they're dead, I-I can't be here, it's not safe, it's not," Jack couldn't keep the words from spilling out of him. He'd never encountered anything like this before. They had walked the edge of this, merest fortune keeping them from the same.
"Listen, Jack. Listen to me. Some still lived when I left, they need help now. Can you help them? Can you lift yourself out of where you are right now? Can you rise above this?"
Jack listened. Even while he shook from a fear he didn't know he could feel, even while fresh horrors forced his eyes shut, he listened. Through the racing of his heart he listened and brought his breath back under his control. Through the shaking of hands he listened and forced them still.
“What can I do?”
His voice was steady.