“In days of yore, amidst the cloudless valleys where Celtic tribes frolicked to the melodious trills of the mother, a child of brown locks and walnut gazes came into the world. When her mother succumbed, conflicts with the Saxons snatched her away. The Romans, erstwhile protectors, veiled themselves from her tribe's plight.
Many a tale unfolded—her elder brothers, stalwart warriors, and her father, now the chieftain. A wanderer, shrouded in mystery, a foreigner of unknown origins emerged. He professed to be a Hebrew; a term unfamiliar to the villagers. His tongue, foreign and eerie, sent shivers through her people. Yet, in time, his enigmatic talents captivated all.
Five black moons waxed and waned, and the outsider conversed fluently with the shamans and the chief. His discourse held a mesmerizing charm. The children flocked to him, drawn by his words. Among them, the girl, a tender soul of eight years, became his devoted listener; each twilight, she sought his tent to partake of his tales.
Upon the girl's tenth year, tragedy struck—the Saxons descended upon the valley. They wrought havoc, claiming lives and driving the survivors to seek refuge in the hills. The wanderer embarked towards the lake, the tribe trailing in his wake. Above, the sky crackled, the trees lamented, the flames roared, and the rain sang its mournful melody.
Anxiety gripped the wanderer, perceptible to the shamans; a pure heart, an innocent spirit, they required. It beckoned, it beckoned; it demanded a sacrifice.
The Druids comprehended for he had forewarned them—the relic, the relic, concealed within, near the crag where the dove nested. Nourished by the celestial spring and the infernal blaze. Guarded by a beast bound by ancient decree not to venture beyond the sanctified threshold.
The maiden was chosen to forfeit her innocence; her purity offered as tribute. The Saxons claimed the wanderer's life, vanishing thereafter.
Upon the rocky altar, where the traveler once stood, a leader in the eyes of few, a martyr in the eyes of many, the tribe found solace in flight, guided by the wisdom of the old and the courage of the young.
On the crag, on the crag, he mused; they slew him when he declared himself their leader, yet to the others: the elders and the youth, he granted escape.”
"Well, that's all. The last two paragraphs are the most loaded with information. I guess that is why you did not have it translated, the syntax is a little weird," Naamaah said.
"Thanks," Habondia managed a small smile.
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"By the way, what time is it?" Naamaah asked.
"Ten o'clock," Habondia checked the time on a pocket watch.
Naamaah's lips curved into a knowing smile, and just as Habondia was about to return to her translation, a sharp knock echoed through the room. Habondia's gaze followed Naamaah's, landing on a magnificent hawk-like bird perched outside the window. Tied to its leg was a pair of rolled newspapers.
With practiced ease, Naamaah untied the newspapers, depositing a few coins in a pouch around the bird’s neck. Once the transaction was complete, the bird took flight, disappearing into the horizon.
"Where did you get those?" Habondia couldn't help but ask, her eyes flickering with intrigue.
"It’s a paper from New York and one from Saint Germain. The distributor is someone else, though. An Arlo I know," Naamaah explained.
Habondia's gaze drifted to the desk next to her, where a stack of newspapers lay in a tall pile.
“Well, while I check your translation, you can read the news for me,” Naamaah proposed, her attention already drifting back to her notes.
Seating herself once more, Habondia picked up the Saint Germain issue, her fingers skimming across the newsprint.
"Enoch Corporation?" Habondia murmured as she read the headline. "I am reading that the CEO of Enoch Corp has gone to prison for financial fraud."
Naamaah's response was nonchalant, her lack of interest a stark contrast to the gravity of the news. Habondia's brows furrowed.
“So what?”
Habondia's fingers traced the bold headlines of the New York issue, the paper crisp beneath her touch. "This other newspaper here is from New York, not from a Hidden City," she remarked, holding it out for Naamaah to see. "This is a Mågiats publication, and it’s also talking about Enoch Corporation."
Naamaah pondered the news, her expression thoughtful. "Enoch Corporation is a conglomerate that makes things for both worlds; perhaps he did not have a way to tell where his money was going," she mused.
Turning her attention back to the article, Habondia's voice took on a somber tone as she delved into the details. "Piero Visconti, a 35-year-old Italian-American businessman. He's considered one of America’s fastest-growing entrepreneurs, co-founder of Enoch Corporation," she recited, each word weighed down by the gravity of the situation. Naamaah, intrigued, abandoned her task to join in reading.
"A technology and manufacturing company that in just eight years of its founding has been emerging as an active worldwide actor. He has even been targeting other types of technologies such as energy production and electricity. In the last two years, he worked as an economic advisor for big automotive, mechanical, and banking industries. He was Vice-Chairman of Alban Industries, the largest airship and the third-largest weapon manufacturer in the world. He’s also Methuselah Inc.’s CEO, the biggest manufacturer of Flying Core for Civil and Military aircraft.”
Naamaah's lips quirked in amusement. "That’s too many jobs for one person," she remarked.
Habondia's brow furrowed in contemplation. "Don’t Flying Cores use thaumaturgy to convert Aether into energy? How has this technology become available for the Mågiats?" she questioned.
Shrugging nonchalantly, Naamaah replied, "Who knows," her tone dismissive. As she continued reading, a sense of disdain crept into her voice. "He will go to prison on charges of embezzlement, money laundering, and fraud," Naamaah read aloud, her words heavy with judgment. Skipping over extraneous details, she paused at a photo of Piero Visconti, recognition flickering in her eyes.
“I’ve seen this guy before,” Naamaah's voice held a note of uncertainty, a memory just out of reach.