“So, who wants to go first?”
There isn’t so much as a whisper in the room. Robespierre Crosomer is standing at the lectern in the small assembly hall at the Talons training facility nestled under a corn field, tapping on his hand scrawled notes impatiently with one claw, and still feeling the itch of multiple injuries healing via the old fashioned route, natural healing. Because trying to down enough regen potions to recover from the sparring match on Mount Syren would have been literally toxic. His audience consists of his researchers, and several now-benched Talons operatives that had been pulled into this meeting.
They’d all screwed up. And Robespierre is also holding himself accountable too, mistakes and assumptions of security had been made.
Attendance had been made mandatory after Val maimed one of her soldiers at the Mount Syren Mine, and said soldier is now wearing a knee brace on his leg in the back row. That had been a very uncomfortable visit to the medical wing.
“I’m still waiting. What have we learned from this incident, and how can we prevent future incidents?” Robespierre asks calmly like he would an eight year old mage learning their most basic cantrips.
“Don’t mess with teenagers with attitude?” Greg offers softly. He still has bandages on his neck and hands, and is rubbing at his thinning hair.
“Yes, that. That would be a fantastic lesson learned. But that’s not the lesson we’re here for, gentlemen. We’re here because of…which specific mistake?”
“Threatening people who could easily trounce us?” Mackenzie is still favoring one leg, and his scruffy face indicates he’s taking the down time poorly.
“Also that, yes. But what is the key takeaway that we should be focused on?” Crosomer said while tapping a claw into the table. It’s annoying when his claw gets stuck, and he has to lightly pry it out. Really need to get used to that. I liked being human better, he thinks with an inward sigh.
“Don’t discharge arcane firearms in close proximity to a chemical storage?” Nigel proposes. Crosomer points to him, and nods approvingly.
“Correct! This is why we don’t give arcanists guns! Because negligent discharges lead to unfortunate incidents like this, where half a minehead collapsed,” Crosomer says with simmering contempt. “Or, why someone likely left unsecured weapons in the mine while packing, such as an IM-15 incendiary orb lying around, and said device was part of that destruction. I look forward to hearing about who was practicing such abysmal weapons safety and storage protocols.”
“MacKenzie,” Nigel, Greg and Karl all say while pointing at him. He gives them an extremely rude finger salute with both hands. The soldiers in their fatigues all look at him with contempt, and Robespierre notes this is a teachable moment.
“Oh pike off, you wanks,” MacKenzie grumbles. He’s got that look of embarrassment thoroughly baked in now. “I almost bled to death from my screw up, thanks.”
“Thank you for the bold admission! It’s very important to realize our mistakes, and learn for the future. We may be an organization that occasionally has a lower bar of respect for the law of the land, but we do care about safety when conducting our business,” Robespierre states with marked restraint. “So, from now on, when we conduct business in clandestine areas with highly sensitive instruments, what are we going to be doing?” he asks.
He’s hoping they’ll get this right the next time, and not end up blowing up another lab. Even if some of the fallout of that battle with Drenar and those other children had yielded promising results. Rashalda was exceedingly well trained and his magical talent could be through the roof. If the reports I’ve read are correct, he was even better than Angela at melee. Though, I did technically lie when I said that was Valen in my journal. Guess he got tired of the name after several hundred years, or just didn’t want to be attached to the failed image of the Luminaires.
It was a startling discovery. Angela Shalinde had been using the same sword fighting techniques and had the same tenacity as Valen did. Seven hundred years later. Valen had dropped off the grid according to what King told him, up until he showed up in Opechea Falls and set up a training center fifteen years prior. Quite a mundane retirement from a life of adventuring.
And then mysteriously died of a heart condition? He didn’t buy it. Valen was still alive, doing something. But how had he crossed paths with Drenar? King hadn’t fleshed out all the details yet, just the basics.
“Uh, Robespierre? You were going to comment on our proposal?” Greg asks quietly. He had tuned them out for a spell too long, and Robespierre clears his throat.
“What was the proposal? Forgive me, lost in my notes,” he offers as a half-apology.
“Weapons safety lockers, firearm training discipline, No weapons allowed in designated areas, arcanists are only allowed non-elemental firearms up to Class II in designated zones…look, do we ever expect to run into these kids again?” Greg asks with resignation. He’s fatigued and likely still parsing through data from the latest activation of the Kilnstar’noth, and the data suggests that more rune translations were required to increase the potency, field of effect, and impact arcane bio-zones.
And not liquify several billion people into meat jelly. He’s not about to repeat his mentor’s screw-up. That screw-up at least had a partial solution worked out, based on the results in Opechea Falls from a limited, targeted activation of the device.
“No, you four need to focus on the research and the field data. Away from the front lines from now on,” Robespierre says sternly, before changing tacks. “You there, minion one,” Robespierre commanded one of the off-duty soldiers, who is holding his shoulder. He’d been shot in the shoulder by one of his own men in the minecart–which was yet another teachable moment of very unfriendly fire.
Rashalda was apparently quite savage at close range, and had activated a wand with little training. He had much promise, he thinks with a slight smile.
“We have names, Robespierre,” the soldier says with veiled irritation.
“Not if you don’t have a name tag. See, I put mine on too,” Robespierre says with a bit of a grin. It is indeed a lanyard with his ID picture that allows him access to everywhere on the facility. The photo doesn’t match, because, magical accident, but the intent is there.
“Yeah but, you’re you. There’s no one else that looks like you,” the soldier says. He digs his claws into the tile floor just a little.
“Not the point. You wear your ID’s. Do you know why? Unsecured ID’s are a point of failure. Unsecured ID’s lead to certain teenagers with attitude breaking in, stealing documents, personnel being imitated and allowed free access, and then SAF comes barnstorming in. Or the Valkyries. Does anyone want that to happen?”
The reluctant soldier pulls out his ID from a vest pocket and puts the plainly vanilla lanyard on. “It’s Mendez, sir.”
“Robespierre, there’s no ‘sir’ required here,” he corrects. “Now, where were we?”
“Learning to not ever let MacKenzie ever hold an arcane firearm again?” Karl proposes while tapping something on his phone, as if he’s completely disinterested.
“No, we’ll get to that. I’m talking about securing facilities. Rashalda and DeVerdra and Shalinde just walked in bypassing a lock on a single door. I’ve already spoken to Misha about upgrading facilities with basic cameras and mana-enhanced sighting equipment and automated sensors. Cheap upgrades, big impact on our operational security.”
“To be fair, I think someone left the door unlocked, Robespierre. Are you sure he’s a drakensoul, and not half-dragon?” Nigel asks, anxiously tapping his glasses set over his auburn hair. “We can’t honestly tell if he's either after the merge. But I think he might have one. He was getting super twitchy when I was observing him, like he was listening to someone else, you know, like the drakensouls communicate with their host.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
This stops Crosomer immediately in his tracks. His personality does seem to be a bit similar to–no, that couldn’t be. Could it? Drakensouls randomly attach to human hosts that come out of that non-spatial fissure from the Aether. Space and volume are irrelevant there, it’s a place lacking dimension and measurability, everything is everywhere all at once, if I had to break it down to a physical analogy.
Alex? Did you find your way home?
The only way for certain to know that is to find Rashalda again–and that is not something he’s going to risk, not with SAF agents in close proximity to his persona and his house now likely being watched.
And attracting that kind of attention to him might be bad. Because there is someone he knows with an unfathomable hatred of the Rashaldas, someone who he was ready to kill once already, partnership be damned.
I’m leaving her completely out of the loop on this one. I’ll need to talk to King to get more information. He’s the only one I trust.
“Robespierre?” Nigel asks again hesitantly.
“I think we can leave that one alone. We don’t go after people on a personal level Nigel, that’s Val, whenever she thinks me or King won’t notice. And I’ve put her on notice that behavior was supposed to stop three years ago, after my second lease on life. Distribute the meeting notes and flowdowns Nigel, I want the training done in two weeks, let Misha know, then get back to setting up our research station.” Nigel nods quietly and closes his small laptop for note-taking.
“Greg, safeties and protective measures for the labs are on you, after that, help Nigel. Karl, MacKenzie, assist them, and I will expect this to be followed to the letter,” he states with authority. “You men, you’re on my roll call, don’t report back to Valosterla. She does not treat failure as teachable moments.” His gaze lingers on the soldier with the knee brace–he’d gotten into the room before Val could rip the poor soldier's leg off as a testament to failure. And that wouldn’t have been the most gruesome thing he’d ever witnessed her do.
Even as much as she could supply logistics, men, equipment, and command a battlefield, she was a violent, ruthless woman both in a corporate board room and on the killing floor of her field victories. And she’s done utterly unforgivable things before that he will never forgive her for.
A working partnership towards a common goal to expose the tyranny of the Conclave is the only thing that’s stopping him from killing her for what she’s done.
A tremor shakes his right arm, his sword arm. Some of the effects of the failed experiment left him with a slight trembling–or was it his conscience, reminding him of the pain he’d inflicted? Even as much as he tried to shove those dark memories down and forge a better path, He couldn’t forget.
He couldn’t.
Nothing he did now would ever bring back friends and loved ones lost because of Zacharias.
“You know there’s other people that can handle these sorts of things.” Crosomer breathes a sigh of relief when King enters the room quietly. He’s a slender, medium height man with immense composure, long brown hair neatly trimmed with just a touch of gray, large brown, expressive eyes, and a tightly pressed face that serves him well during negotiations, or poker night–another invention of the 21st century that Robespierre found intriguing. He has no facial hair, and is wearing his usual dark arcanist business suit with a kerchief stuffed in one breast pocket, and an antique wind-up watch at his waist. A device Robespierre knows is plainly arcane, but its exact function is unknown to him.
King kept secrets. And he kept a lot of them. He was also a man he could confide in when the murder happy dragoness was in one of her moods, or too busy with her own personal endeavors on the corporate floor. King is a man of many talents–he always could sniff out a secret, with almost unerring accuracy. He could negotiate, turn peoples’ persuasions, and could solve problems where violence was not part of the solution. A trait he quite admired.
Though Robespierre realized he might not always be telling the whole truth when they spoke. He relaxes and clicks his claws on the floor lightly. “Been listening in for long, King?”
“Long enough,” he states plainly. “I saw the reconstruction of the battle from your recording device. Shalinde’s well trained. Well disciplined. DeVerdra is a powerhouse, and she’ll be a formidable warrior.”
“And a good shot.” He rubs at the bandages on his left arm where he’d been shot with that beast of a rifle she’d been holding. “Do we know who trained her?”
“Presumably her father. Sato DeVerdra, US air force, commendable field record…and lost his life defying orders to withdraw from an untenable situation against a vastly superior attack force, in order to protect civilians during the insurgent movement of the Taliban in Afghanistan, May of 2017. I have reports his widow refused to receive a medal of honor for him for his exemplary efforts.” King lets out a soft sigh. “The arcane world turns, and the rest of the world burns.”
“You say that a lot,” Robespierre comments.
“It’s true though. Such immense, regrettable losses of life…and for what?” King leaves the question lingering in the air. “His widow also has military training, but I can’t seem to get close enough to observe even in-person. Someone has put shroud enchantments on her person. Powerful ones. Tracking her is difficult.”
“Protections orchestrated by her husband?” Robespierre proposes.
“No. Something far deeper. DeVerdra is a mystery that I haven’t focused on, and I find it very intriguing that answers do not come easily.”
“What about Rashalda?”
“You already know all there is. His parents were normal. And now they’re deceased. Perhaps the woman was a half-dragon, but, there’s no records. Some mages do manage to decouple from the arcane world, and live mundane lives, it’s their choice to do so.” He however, suspects King is holding something back. He’s got very subtle tells with the way he talks, tells that most others wouldn’t notice, the speed at which he skips over certain words, or emphasizes others.
“It’s telling when you say that, King. What’s the problem?”
“There’s missing records. Omissions that should not be missed.”
“Why?”
“Consider the Rashalda family history.” King looks at Crosomer with a more somber, reserved expression. “Consider what happened to–”
“Don’t.” Crosomer practically spits the word out. “Don’t bring that up. Ever.” King simply stops, his face a chiseled stone, lacking emotion. He took no offense to the rebuke.
“I understand. But a buried past always has means and ways of being unburied in the present. I have some suspicions.”
“As do I.” Crosomer looks right at King. “Where did Drenar get that dagger?” King looks mildly surprised, before giving his answer.
“You mean the one that cut through your rune trap, and concrete? I do not know.”
He does know something, but perhaps not the whole story. He’s likely already investigating, knowing him. Robespierre just can’t prove he knows something, not yet. “Find out. Head back to Opechea Falls. I’ve got good reason to believe that if we are to convince Rashalda to join our cause, or aim him at the true oppressors, then we need to play this hand carefully. He’s likely going to keep digging into the origins of our device, the means and methods we used. He might even be useful in finding my notes. Know how I know that? Because he’s tenacious. As are his friends.”
“Noted.” King is straight and to the point.
“Also, steer him clear of Val, if you can? That blood-hungry dragoness will likely try to murder him, and everyone around him. for what happened in the mine. If she learns of his existence. Hence, why Val’s soldiers that went on an ill-advised torch and burn, now work for me.”
“I agree. But going back to the notes, yours and Volkir’s. You do know Asqualia is a hard target, Robespierre. The teleportal gate is hard coded for biometric ID’s that can’t be spoofed readily, and land access routes are heavily locked down. Trust me, even with my ability to get an override access through some shrewd means, I’ve had to be extremely careful, and limit my presence and use of the portal, lest the activity log pick it up.”
“So it’s still a long game,” Robespierre concludes before frowning. If even King was taking his time, he was worried about tipping off SAF, or the facility.
“I’ve had threads going for months, and my inside man is working hard, but we’re not ready yet. And Val is going to get word of what we are up to.” King steps closer, and speaks softly. “If Val gets word of us playing the quiet game, she will jump in and do it herself. If anything is mis-played, she will turn a clandestine effort without a shot fired into a bloodbath. And neither of us want that.”
“Then keep Rashalda and his friends close,” Robespierre says with a press lipped smile. “You like doing this kind of work, King. It’s what you’re best at. Playing people. Just be careful, because I think this group of determined youth is a little sharper than average.”
“So the fun begins. I’ll make preparations, when we have our ticket in, I’ll signal you, in person. I think Val’s men are sniffing around…does she not get that we’re all on the same team?” King asks in a mild break of composure.
“The only team she’s on is her own, King. You’ve worked with her long enough, and tried to reign in her impulses.”
“To limited effect.” The disappointment in King’s tone is palpable. “It’s…difficult to work with her at times, even given her connections and resources.”
“Yeah, the murder happy dragoness is as cuddly as a Scinthian Ravager,” Robespierre says with a slight growl. King tries to hide a soft chuckle.
“I’d like less crawly legs and a chitinous nightmare in the morning, thanks. No offense meant to the Ravager.”
Even Robespierre can’t hold back a laugh this time.