#Thazar Clayrmantle

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 9

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannahcbrown, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

Before she is halfway across the room to announce her presence to Clayrmantle, the unknown person has risen. "So, you are Elowyn of Toreguarde," he says, his voice a low rumble, like lava flowing from an eruption. She halts on the rug bearing the city's seal, responding automatically, "Yes, sir." "Interesting," he murmurs and starts to pace around her.

He's clearly sizing her up, so she takes the chance to do the same. He is compact – not much taller than she, but far heavier set. He sports a large beard of the same lustrous black as his hair, also intricately braided and sealed with jewelled clasps. He is outfitted in a suit of dark green, tailored well to show off his figure. It is not until she spies the narrow circlet of malachite and gold, nearly vanishing in the tides of his hair, that she realises why he seems so familiar. Despite this, she cannot quell her annoyance at being eyed like livestock, and before he has completed even half his circuit, she raps out, "Do I meet with your Kingliness's approval?" She does try to keep the snark from her tone, because if he is here, then it is only to discuss matters of state and standing here, in the heart of the city, she feels keenly the cloak of representation which settles over her shoulders like an old and unwelcome friend. And if he is here to settle matters of state, then it will not do for her to jeopardise that with her appearance of incivility. As he continues his circuit, Elo can only hope that the familiarity is not mutual. This is not the first time she has been shanghaied by the Triumvirate, and she recalls with painful clarity the last time she was in his presence. When she, fresh from the field of battle, forgot herself and yelled at him like he was some basic footsoldier. Just because she was tired and sore, cranky from pain and trauma, hopped up on adrenaline and cortisol and fear – these are not justifiable excuses for insulting King Storri Norgandsson of Iceland.

"Majesty," he murmurs, coming to a halt in front of her. "Pardon, sir?" "My title. You should refer to me as 'Your Majesty'." He lifts his chin. "I will allow the oversight this time. I would not expect a police officer from a city-state with no royalty to know this, nor expect them to be adequately trained to comport themselves in a diplomatic situation such as this." She knows it's bait, she does. But sometimes her mouth likes to bypass her brain. "If we are going to be stiff about our titles, Your Majesty," Elowyn says, drawing herself up. "Then I feel it's only fair, that as one whom has the Freedom of the City, I should request you refer to me as 'Lady'." The King quirks an eyebrow. "Is that so?" In for a dime, in for a dollar. Elo draws herself up further– It's only then she spots the twinkle in his eye. Over the King's shoulder, Clayrmantle is smiling in a soft and hesitant way. In her periphery, the DA has stopped reading his report and is trying to suppress a grin. Elo doesn't bother looking at the Master of the Exchequer; he was scowling the moment she opened her mouth, and she doubts that's changed. But if Thazar is smiling, then it means this is teasing. Or at least that all is well. –Elo relaxes her pose. "Indeed, sir. However, it is not a right I generally pursue. Sargent O'Toreguarde suits me just fine." "Very well, Sergeant." He inclines his head in return. "As we are on more friendly terms than last we met, I will permit you to dispense with my title. You may continue with 'Sir'." Elo's mouth slackens. Heat rises to her cheeks. Her eyes go wide. She thinks she may have stopped breathing. The King chuckles. "Relax, Sargent. I do not hold against you that which was said in the fever of battle." His eyes harden a fraction. "I only require it to never happen again." Elo swallows, gives him a bow from the waist. "Of course, your Majesty. Thank you."

"Well," Clayrmantle says, stepping away from his desk, "I'm glad to see you both getting along, especially after your last encounter." He puts a hand on Elo's back and gestures for her to sit next to the DA. "I think now would be a good time to explain to Lady Elowyn why she's been summoned – and in such a secretive manner. I'm sure you have questions." This last is addressed to Elo as she takes her seat; she doesn't miss the twitch of Clayrmantle's eyebrows nor the emphasis on her title.

The King sits between Clayrmantle and the Exchequer on the opposite sofa. Clayrmantle begins, "You may recall, Madam, the incident a few years back which drove Iceland to break off trade with us." "Vividly," Elo murmurs. After all, she was in the middle of it, trying to prevent an all-out war. "The Icelandic government is now at a point where they feel ready to broach negotiations for a resumption in the Single Market." Elo tips her head towards the King. "Your Majesty is making a bold statement coming here in person." "I do not travel without a retinue," King Storri says. "But yes – in this matter, I feel, boldness is required. One must lead by example, my Lady, if one is to inspire action in others." "Quite so," the Exchequer says. "Semper audacior, indeed." "To that end," Clayrmantle says, "while his Majesty is in the City and not attending meetings, we want you to provide him with an escort." His eyebrows flick up – a warning not to be glib. "Security support will be provided by his own detail. I believe you know the special agent in charge, Meredith Ironforge?"

Elo's heart jumps into her throat. She follows the line of his hand to where a woman is stepping away from the line of ubiquitous black suits. She is not much taller than Elo, with blazing ginger hair and the body of a competitive weightlifter. Beneath the ubiquitous black suit, Elo can see the shape of her body armour, the tattoo of Thor's Hammer gracing the underside of her wrist. Elo swallows, doesn't know what to say. They haven't seen each other in years, parting on complicated terms. Merri's expression is neutral, no tell to show what the Icelander is thinking, doesn't say anything. Elo feels an uncomfortable weight in the air, knows she must break it. "Gruksdottir," Elo stumbles around the pulse in her throat. "It's good to see you again." Merri's eyes rove over her, culminating in a short nod. "Likewise, O'Toreguarde," she replies and moves back to her place on the wall.

Clayrmantle gives a polite cough. "Do you understand your duties, Lady Elowyn?" "Yes, Acting Magister," Elo says. She gives him something halfway between a smile and a grimace. "And, of course, it won't hurt for him and his to be seen in the company of one of the City's current heroes, letting bygones be bygones, so to speak." The withdrawal of allyship was not a one-sided affair, after all, and tensions among the people still rise when the matter is brought up. Elo will either do a lot of good with this or get into a lot of trouble. Clayrmantle raises his eyebrows. "Will that be a problem, my Lady?" Elo can't help the way her head tips in Merri's direction. "No, sir. Some of my favourite people are Icelandic." King Storri sits back with a pleased murmur. "She's astute," he comments to Clayrmantle. Merri snorts. "She has her moments, Herra." And, oh, if that sound isn't something that Elo has missed. "I try my best, your Majesty," she says instead. "Perhaps you could take his Majesty for an early lunch?" the Exchequer says. "We won't be beginning talks until the afternoon." Elo checks the time. "Sir, there is a personal matter I may be required to attend to soon." "I'm sure it can wait," the Exchequer says with a flip of his hand. Elo narrows her eyes. He must know what she's referring to. "Respectfully, Brauma–" Clayrmantle holds up a hand. "Let me call through," he interjects before things can escalate.

While the Magister makes a call from his desk, Elo keeps her gaze down. Ostensibly it's so she doesn't have to look at Exchequer or King, but her gaze catches on the papers the DA was examining. There's a lot of legalese, talk about 'precedents' and 'foreign incursions'. Someone has highlighted 'invasion force' and added a few tiny question marks between the lines. How very curious, she thinks. "Strucker will be delayed for another hour," Clayrmantle says. "You have time, my dear, to take his Majesty to lunch."

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 8

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannahcbrown, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

There was a time, early in Elo's career, when she was in and out of City Hall like she worked there, and not in the smallest and most underfunded police precinct in Toreguard. Since her quasi-retirement, she's been back less and less. Elo tucks her bike into the overground visitors' car park. As she crosses to the Hall's entrance, she casts her eyes aloft at the classic architecture of the building, rendered in shimmering marble. The grand edifice that is City Hall has always amazed her, but today, having not been back in some time, it feels like she's seeing it with new eyes.

She trots up the fan of steps and is processed quickly through the security checkpoint. On the wall of the foyer hang portraits of the heroes who rebuilt the city after its fall. Elo finds her feet dragging as she walks to the elevator. She gives in and stops to regard them. At the end is Egrim Shiverstaff, the Gods' own medic, in decorated vestments which only see the light of day on high and holy days. Next to him is Gary 'Grizz' Wald, the mountain man – so-called for his thick mane of dark hair. Along again is Fai Lumidas, the scholar, in his heavy robes and mortarboard. On the next row is Ivan 'the Hammer' Jägersson, broad-shouldered and unmovable. Finally, there are her Aunts – Selene Frigidwake and Alexis Dalliance. Selene, with her golden-red halo of hair, staring brusquely over a pair of half-moon glasses. Alexis, with her lips quirked, trying to suppress the smile already showing in laughter-lines carved into her weathered face. A pang of longing shoots through Elo as she stares at their well-loved faces. Aunt Alexis has been gone for nearly five years, vanished without word or trace, and Aunt Sel is on sabbatical in Europe for an indefinite amount of time. Elo's hand rises, plaintive, towards them, curling away at the last second so as not to set off the alarms. Her hand falls back, though her heart still aches; their absences seem all the more acute for the current situation. Elo blinks, finds herself scrubbing away liquid that has accumulated from staring too long and hurries towards the elevators. She makes a mental note to call her Mother soon. Elo was called away during last month's family dinner, and it would be nice, she thinks, to hear a friendly, matriarchal voice.

The offices of General, Magister and Exchequer on the seventy-second floor, below the Chambers proper. A spike of adrenaline hits – as it always does – as the elevator doors open, and Elo steps out to be confronted with the grand, carved door of the Triumvirate council. Elo nods to the two guards stationed either side of the corridor, letting them see her face. There is the minutest posture change; they know who she is and that she has permission to be here. But before she can let herself in, Elo is struck with a fit of nostalgia. She has to lean down to find the little mouse and hedgehog, their heads darker and shinier than the rest of the door, so she can give them a pat each – one from her and one from Evie. If the guards think it strange, they keep it to themselves, and Elo lets herself into the horseshoe arrangement that is the Triumvirate's offices.

Secretary General Evans is waiting for Elo in the ante-anteroom and rises to meet her. Elo absently clocks the height, weight, body mass of the woman as they shake hands. Evans is easily six foot and still built like an Amazonian warrior despite the hints of white creeping into her temples. Her eyes are pinched with worry, yet her grip remains gentle and warm. "Ma'am," Elo says. "I'm very glad you're here, O'Toreguarde," Evans says. "I'm not sure how he'll take the news. Either way, he'll need someone like you at his side." Evans has been General Strucker's secretary for many years, enough that she and Elo have a passing acquaintance. She must be greatly troubled, Elo thinks; she has never heard Evans speak so candidly before. "I'll do my best," Elo replies, mindful of Fugit's warning. The flicker of a smile graces Evans' face. "That's all we've ever asked of you." "Where-?" "The General is still debriefing and will be for the next hour or so. In the meantime, Magister Clayrmantle has instructed that you're to join him and his… guest." "Guest?" Evans gives a faint smile and apologetic shake of the head. "If you'd like to follow me?" "It hasn't been so long I've forgotten the way." "Apologies. Of course," Evans says and continues to lead the way to the Magister's office.

Evans gives a genial nod to Clayrmantle's secretary and shows Elo into the Magister's formal office. Elo hasn't been back since Aunt Selene left. She's gratified to see that the Acting Magister hasn't changed much of its decor – the wide bookshelves filled with esoteric tomes, the swirling abstract art and three-dimensional molecular compounds. Her aunt will be away for an undefined amount of time; she finds she's grateful he hasn't taken advantage of the situation as some might.

Elo scans the room. The security detail in ubiquitous black suits against the walls barely register. Acting Magister Thazar Clayrmantle – a tall, thin man in a pinstripe suit – is perched against the heavy desk which sits at the back of the room, below the seal of the City and its motto, 'semper clarior, semper audacior'. The seal also graces the wide, circular rug at the center of the room, around which curves two large, powder-blue sofas. Seated in them, she can see the side profile of two people and a third with their back to the door. The District Attorney, a man with skin like copper beech leaves and an imposing stature, is reading some report. The Master of the Exchequer, with his thinning pate and simpering expression, is seated opposite the DA. There is not much to be seen of the third – they sit low on the sofa, short of stature or perhaps slouching, with a long length of luscious black hair held in intricate braids which could belong to either gender. Elo decides now is the time to introduce herself to the company.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 12

CW: None AO3; Chapters: 01. 10. 11. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannahcbrown, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

Elo lets herself into the chambers from a side door. Her footsteps ring out as she passes over the multicoloured marble floor. The giant semicircular window, against which the menfolk are silhouetted in the waning daylight, rests against the semicircular speaking floor like someone has taken an oblique wedge from an orange. From the curve of the speaking floor, seating rises like a lecture hall to meet the domed roof. She's always thought this room is beautiful – perhaps more so when it's not filled with bickering politicians. The wooden balustrades are lovingly carved with vines and mythical creatures, the domed roof is moulded and painted with cornucopias, and the speaking floor is inlaid with the Triumvirate's seal in shimmering brass and coloured marble. "Good evening, your Majesty. Acting Magister. Exchequer," Elo greets them. Outside the window, the orange sun is captured on myriad windows, making the city blaze. "Lady Toreguarde," King Storri says, inclining his head in greeting. "It is indeed a fine eve." He takes a step to the right and invites her, with a wave of a hand, to watch the sunset with them. "'Sargent' is fine," she mutters as she stands next to him. He flashes a smile. She hadn't meant for him to hear the comment, but after the day she's had, Elo can't bring herself to care. "It is a beautiful sight," King Storri says. "Yes," Elo replies, and it is. She can think of no fairer sight than her city; at any hour or in any weather, she loves the sight of it. The sun has dipped lower now, the sky turning from amethyst to navy. Along the canals, the bargemens' lights twinkle merrily along their darkling paths. The Exchequer clears his throat. "If you'll excuse me, your Majesty, I fear I have more work to do, ere our meetings tomorrow." "Of course," King Storri says with a dip of his head. With a mumbled, "Good night." the sallow man hurries away. Clayrmantle grumbles something to himself, then, "Alas, I should also depart. Early birds and worms, et cetera. Good night, your Majesty. Oh, your Majesty? Don't forget about tomorrow night." "Mm. God nat, Magister." "Elowyn, dear?" Clayrmantle says as he steps away. Elo pulls her gaze away from where the stars now glitter across the firmament. "Yes, Thazar?" "Kindly ensure the king is abed before midnight?" "I'll do my best, sir." With a fatherly smile, Clayrmantle nods and departs.

King Storri is deep in his thoughts, so Elo lets them gaze over the city for a few moments longer before calling him back. "Your Majesty?" He sucks in a breath, as though he has been very far away. "Dinner, sir." "Yes, Sargent."

Elo leads him out to the now deserted corridors of City Hall. "What's happening tomorrow night, sir?" "May we speak on it over dinner? I find I am quite exhausted and would prefer to broach the subject with a full stomach," King Storri says. "Of course, sir. Where would you like to dine? There are several Michelin-starred restaurants in the city, that your Majesty may find pleasing–" "Stop." Elo stops walking, looking at the King with eyebrows raised. "I find myself wanting a quiet evening. Where would you recommend?" "Um. I'm told chefs at the Emerald Star are excellent, if your Majesty wants to dine in your suite…?" "No. I wish to know where you would recommend," he says, pointing at Elo. "Sir, I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid I can't help," Elo says. "A copper's salary doesn't lend itself well to eating out. The rare times I eat out, it's at one of two pubs. Neither of which, I should add, are remotely appropriate places to take someone of your station." King Storri lifts his chin. "Tell me what they are called." Elo tilts her head incredulously. "Sir–" "Tell. Me." Elo keeps her glare up for a touch longer than is necessary, but the King does not blink, so she relents. "The Slippery Slope, and the Skiving Scholar." It comes out muttered. "Which is the cleanest?" "I really think your Majesty should reconsider. I'm told the fowl at Bourdain's is exquisite, and Passport Plates, though the name is a bit kitschy–" "Of your pubs, which is the cleanest?" Elo closes her eyes and takes a breath. "The Scholar, your Majesty." "It sounds like a fine establishment. We shall go there."

With that, King Storri turns and begins to stride away. "Your Majesty… Excuse me– Sir!" Elo calls after him. The King stops. "How are we getting there – have you been given use of a chauffeur? Or are we packing everyone onto a public bus?" King Storri tilts his head. "I was informed you have your own transport." "I have a motorcycle that barely fits two. Again, not really appropriate for a King," Elo gesticulates wildly. "Not to mention insufficient for transporting your security detail." "Are you suggesting I will need them?" "Yes. The scholars can get remarkably rowdy." He quirks an eyebrow. "You are suggesting that the fabled Lady of Toreguarde will not be enough to assure my safety?" "Correct. The fabled Lady of Toreguarde got her title by working alongside your Chief of Security, Meredeth Gruksdottir. Who, incidentally, is going to kick me into next week if I let you swan off without your security detail." "You are suggesting we may find ourselves in such a dire situation, I would need them?" "Abso-fucking-lutly! Toreguard is dangerous. Maybe not as much as other places, but still. And even if we didn't, that's not the point! They are your security detail. It is their job, as well as mine, to keep you safe. I will not have you risking their livelihoods and reputations because you want to go rogue. At the very least, I have to inform Agent Ironforge of your whereabouts, or she will eviscerate me. "So you sit your royal ass down and don't you dare move until I've returned, you emmerdement. Am I understood?" And great, she's shouting at him again. It's been mere hours since she was told she'd used her one free pass. His face is a rictus of shock, and cue declarations of war in three, two– King Storri beams. "You are everything they said you were and more," he says, the grin turning smug and self-satisfied. Eloquently, Elo says, "Who? What? Huh?" "Agents Ironforge and Copperheart, and your Mother." "Aunt," Elo corrects on reflex because he is surely talking about Alexis rather than Oakrose. "Your Aunt then, Alexis," King Storri inclines his head. He turns away. "Come. We have much to speak of over dinner." Elo crosses her arms. "Sir, I think you're forgetting something." The King turns back, an eyebrow raised. "I will allow you, this once, to take a quiet meal without the furore of your security detail. But Agent Ironforge will have me drawn and quartered if I don't report your intentions and whereabouts. Please wait here while I do so." "Very well," King Storri says, still smiling as he settles himself into one of the many chairs dotted through the corridor.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 19

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18 Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

A cab ride takes her out to the Emerald Star, where she waits until the Icelandic contingent sweeps through the foyer. She watches, waiting for her opening to fall in step. His Majesty is wearing a fine velvet tuxedo in dark green with a sash of black and gold, ornamented with green ribbons and medallions. Behind him walks Merri in a combination tuxedo floor-length frock-coat. At her side, her husband Yoruk is similarly attired as King Storri. Elo counts an additional three ubiquitous black suits around the King and a further six around the foyer.

She falls in step with the group. The agent stops reaching for his weapon and blinks. "Apologies, my Lady, I hardly recognised you," he murmurs and allows her to step in next to the King. King Storri casts a glance as she does so. "You scrub up well." "Thank you. You're not too bad yourself." King Storri grins. "You seem to have taken Anderssen's advice." "Mhm. It was good advice. Please extend my thanks." King Storri inclines his head.

Then they are at City Hall, stepping out of His Majesty's limo to the startling flares of flash guns. It's unsurprising – this dinner is a Big Deal, and every journo and society rag in the city wants a piece of the action. Though, in the latter case, who is wearing what often overshadows the reason for the event. As they walk up the fan of marble steps, Elo finds herself missing Evie more than ever. Her friend had a talent for the crowd that Elo does not, something Elo could often hide behind as Evie flirted and blushed and gathered all the attention to herself. The King halts them at the top step, and Elo shakes away the past to position herself in front of his left as he waves to the crowds. She glances at Merri, unhappy with the King being so exposed and receives a nod followed by a discrete finger countdown. King Storri must have seen it too – the moment Merri's hand closes in a fist, he gives one last wave, presses a warm hand to Elo's shoulder, and they go inside.

Dinner is as tedious as expected. There are a lot of speeches; the High Priest of Galantanka before the first course is served, then the Acting Magister after. The Exchequer pontificates between second and third courses, various guild heads at other odd points, and finally King Storri gives his panegyric over the coffee. Elo is deeply thankful no one is expecting her to do one – she has visions of stumbling through a speech with something to offend everyone at the table. She eats quickly and in silence. Schreiber, the Master of Commerce and a dislikable little fellow as never there was, spends the whole meal attempting to schmooze King Storri; the King, for politeness' sake, has to let himself appear schmoozed. She can't even talk shop with Police Chief Andile to her right, who's ignoring her in favour of talking golf with the District Attorney, and the table is too wide to try talking with Nima Thayer, the head of the Broderers guild. She doesn't mind overmuch, even if it means she's bored and irritated, because it means she's less likely to accidentally offend by offering a snarky comment to the person with the least humour for these things. For all her talk of wearing her symbols earlier, she knows that's what her presence here is full stop – she herself is a symbol. She is just here to be seen, a notable female hero displayed alongside the King of Iceland to assure the other members of Congress that this series of negotiations is a good thing. She may as well be a china doll for all that anyone actually cares to have her here.

Eventually, the dinner is over, and the guests are herded into the ballroom to mingle. She and King Storri waltz around the room a few times, just to drive in the point that the King of Iceland is open to making amends and that she, Lady Freeman of the City and beloved hero, approves of his presence.

After their third turn, Acting Magister Clayrmantle graciously cuts in. "I thought I told you to wear a gown?" he says as they spin around the floor. "You told me to find a dress I could fight in," she snips back, though her heart isn't really in it. "Mm," he says, his tone lightening. "I rather suppose I did, didn't I? It does suit you, you know. An elegant outfit for an elegant young lady." They take another spin. "Your Aunts would be proud of you, you know." "Acting Magister, after what happened at lunch, you have lost the right to talk about my personal affairs." Another spin. "Then allow me to express my regret at my poor choice of words and for permitting the stress of our unprecedented situation to have overcome me. I swear on my office it will not happen again." The problem, Elo thinks as they spin on, with having this conversation on the dance floor, is she cannot see his face very well. He stares over her shoulder, amber eyes melancholic. There are bags under his eyes that maybe weren't there a few days ago. The light changes, and all at once the mask shifts and she sees him for the tired, middle-aged man he is, who didn't really want to be Acting Magister but will, regardless, do the best he can to serve his city faithfully. "You stepped over a line," Elo says, "and there is no taking back what was said. But I will agree, the situation we find ourselves in is unusual. With one-third of the Triumvirate out of action, I… appreciate things are more difficult for you. And I… may… have made myself to be one of those difficult things." Clayrmantle's gaze shifts down to her, and his face changes from forlorn to hopeful, gaining a light smile. "Maybe. But, my dear, you are not nearly the biggest problem I am dealing with." Clayrmantle leads them in a half-turn, out of sequence of the dance, and King Storri hoves into view. Elo gives an indelicate snort. Thazar grins. And just like that, any remaining tensions have gone.

––– The night wears on. Elo spends most of it introducing the King to people who remember her as a child; interspersed with regular conversation is a host of "gosh, little Elo, all grown up". At some point she excuses herself to use the bathroom, leaving Yoruk to accompany King Storri. A flock of people descend upon the two men as soon as she steps away, but Elo thinks little of it. When she returns, Merri accosts her, and they melt away to where it is quieter. "I'm… glad to see you're wearing it. My Thor's Hammer, I mean," Meredith says, her fingers running little patterns on her thigh. "I had thought perhaps you'd gotten rid of it… along with my letter." "Never, I would never." Elo winces, her words spilling too fast. "It went around my neck the day you left and has been off only twice since." Merri's head snaps up, eyes wide and mouth a little 'o', which Elo hopes means she wants to continue their friendship as badly as Elo does. Then Merri frowns. "You don't take it off to bathe?" Her eyes narrow. "You don't have to be dramatic around me." "Alright, yes, I take it off to bathe. But that doesn't count." Merri rolls her eyes with a smile. "Fine. What was so special about those two times then?" "I fell into a canal that had been emptied for maintenance. Got plastered with thick, stinking black mud. I had to get it professionally cleaned." Merri snorts. "You and bloody canals. What about the second time?" "I showed it to Lord High Commander Bloodvein, as evidence of my right to guaranteed safe passage through the Northernmost wastes of your kingdom." "And he bought that?" Merri asks, her eyebrows raised high. "Yes and no," Elo admits. "We were locked up the entire time we made the transit, but we were also safe." Merri barks out a laugh.

They chat for a bit longer – the missed years dropping away – until Elo realises she's been absent from the party for too long. She needs to keep up her political doll duties, and relieve Yoruk; and – to Merri's indignant squawk – make sure the two lovebirds have some time of their own to coo at each other. She finds Yoruk and His Nibs out on the terrace. Yoruk is observing from a distance and looks relieved when he spots her. Two of the ubiquitous black suits are making themselves visible and both look as relieved as Yoruk. Concerned, she turns her attention to King Storri and the crowd around him. It's high-profile business people and similar toadies, headed by Schreiber, the Master of Commerce. Elo rolls her eyes. Schreiber, ass that he is, will be milking King Storri's polite indifference from dinner for all it's worth.

Elo takes pity on the King when she spots under his carefully controlled expression a hint of an emotion most folk get when speaking to Schreiber – that of wanting to beat some sense into him with a baseball bat. "Your Majesty," she says, interjecting herself into a conversational lull, "might I request you come inside? The night is chilly, I would not wish you to come down with an illness." "Lady Toreguarde," he says in greeting. "Of course, you are quite correct. Gentlemen, please excuse me." "You wish to keep him warm then, Officer?" Schreiber says. There is a smattering of guffaws from the surrounding merchants. Elo feels her hackles rising as the King takes her offered arm, but she tamps down on the irritation. Undeterred, Schreiber begins his insult, "Perhaps you should–" "Perhaps you should consider to whom you speak, before making such crass remarks." King Storri turns back to the group. "Your Majesty, this is not necessary," Elo murmurs, reclaiming and putting pressure on his arm. "No, I rather think it is," King Storri says, pulling his arm free. "I will not have you disrespected in this manner. This is no gentleman that stands before me." He steps into the Master of Commerce's personal space. "This is nought but a cretin and a rampallian. Are you so obtuse as to consider her naught but a lowly officer of the law? Are you such a pompous, self-serving, poisonous black-backed toad that you would attempt to demean her worth in front of me, thinking perhaps I should be pleased with your wit?" The King takes a step back, looking down his nose at the Master of Commerce, and for all that he is shorter, Elo thinks she has never seen someone look so lordly in her life. Then he spits on the ground at Schreiber's feet. "You are nothing but a worm, unfit to crawl in the dirt at her feet, you wretched, misbegotten–" Elo can feel the wind-up coming; surges forward to prevent the inevitable conclusion. "Alright! Yes, thank you, Your Majesty! I rather think he–!"

All at once, rather a lot of things happen.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 17

CW: Deadnaming, implied CSA AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

She buys three snow cones: cola-flavoured syrup on hers, blue raspberry for Thazar, and cherry for Storri. Elo can't help chuckling at King Storri – this serious, muscular man – gripping the paper cone and tiny plastic spade with intense concentration. They carry them through the halls, drawing peculiar stares, to the Council chambers where Thazar is waiting. "Snow cones?" he asks, eyebrows raised. "Snow cones," Elo confirms with a grin. "We can have dessert before main. I got you blue raspberry, I hope that's okay." She hands him the paper cone, knowing full well it's his favourite. He looks baffled for a moment, before accepting it and giving it a lick. Elo glances at Storri, and they share a secret smile.

Lunch starts out well. It's taken in Thazar's personal office, the three of them around a compact, fold-away table. It's nothing fancy – sandwiches of cold cuts and a bit of charcuterie. But it's happily devoured as Elo passes on Farren's update for the Strucker case, and finally explains what caused her to show up in his office covered with mud and engine grease. King Storri seems concerned that his having kept her out late had contributed, but she assures him no harm was done. In return, Thazar admits no one was expecting his Majesty to show up, but they weren't about to do anything to the gift horse, let alone look in its mouth. He gives her the details of the dinner, the announcements they're due to make during it… and then says she must wear a dress. "No," Elo says. "Though I'm there in an official capacity, his Majesty's safety is still my priority. I'll wear a tuxedo." "That is not good enough. Elowyn, you cannot appear in anything less than a ballgown. I know you dislike it, but there are standards to maintain. Your priority during this meal is to be part of the Icelandic contingent and assure people there is no harm in the deals we'll make over the coming days. You must appear–" "Ladylike? No running, no fighting? And if there is a situation – what then? Do I sit back and let the menfolk deal with it? No. I need to be able to move in my outfit." The glower Thazar is levelling at her is nothing short of furious. It's been a while since they've come to blows like this. "Then find a dress where you can," he growls, and Elo is reminded that under that placid, pale exterior lies a skilled swordsman and ballistics expert. Aunt Selene told stories of his sabre work and trap-making, how he ran cannonade during the Great War and of his kill-count. Aunt Sel chose him for those reasons, Elo recalls, not just for his keen intelligence and political acumen. If anything, her Aunt once said, his skill with the blade and its manoeuvres only enhances his ability to slice verbally through his political opponents. But none of that knowing is able to stop her angry response. "No, Thazar, I need a suit." "Featherdown!" His hand booms on the table. The cutlery jangles. She feels the sabre-jab of her deadname through her heart. Elo goes cold and rigid and silent. Her first parents were, in the nicest possible way, a bit hippy-dippy. Flower-children or not, no one deserved to die like they did. The memory of their deaths and her abuse rings through her bones, as Thazar's voice rings through the air. Her hand clenches around the cheese knife. She wants to rage, wants to remind him with a blade that is not who she is anymore, and that is not her name. In her periphery the King's security has detached from the wall, dampening her ardour. "Might your secretary have a recommendation?" Elo says, voice tight, instead of the million things she wants to scream. The Acting Magister pauses, as if he too is corralling all the things he wants to say, and utters instead, "Yes." Elo rises sharply. The chair thuds as it tips over behind her. "Will your Majesty be requiring anything further?" King Storri's gaze flicks warily between the two of them. "Nay." "Until dinner then, your Majesty. Acting Magister." Elo turns sharply and strides for the door. "May I walk you out?" King Storri asks, even as he's rising to follow. "If your Majesty pleases," Elo bites out over her shoulder, even though it's not fair to treat him with the same cold disdain she threw at Thazar.

Outside in the corridor, as she's marching away, King Storri makes the mistake of trying to catch her arm. "Featherdown?" Her wrist is caught by the security agent, the cheese knife inches from his throat. She'd forgotten she was holding it. "That is not my name," she snaps out. The agent flicks her wrist, forcing her to drop the knife. "He has crossed a line. No one has any right to call me that. No one. I am Detective Sergeant Elowyn of Toreguarde, and you will address me as such!" She wrenches her arm away from the agent, though he rightly remains on alert in front of his King. She hates that she is shaking, that tears are standing in her eyes. Behind his agent, King Storri nods. "Very well, Sargent." Elo swallows and blinks as she looks away. "Ma'am," says the agent. "Our shield maidens favour the cocktail dress. The short skirt allows a better range of movement and access to concealed weapons." Elo steps away, throat working as she swallows. "Thank you, Agent."

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 15

At 4.3k words, this chapter is twice the length of most I've been posting. Hope you've got a big mug of tea with you 😉️ AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannahcbrown, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

Elo turns the engine over, adjusts the choke, checks the fluid lines, takes the tank cap off and checks the fuel gauge isn't lying. Then she smooths the kickstart again, gentling the engine, before giving it a more vicious downward kick than might otherwise have been called for. The roar of the engines lifts, seems to catch – then falls silent again. Elo closes her eyes. Spark plugs. It has to be the spark plugs not lighting the fuel properly. Maybe the damp…? She draws an oily hand across her face. How doesn't matter. The frigging dragon's fire is out again, and the plugs were only replaced a few months ago. Elo closes her eyes, a wave of exhaustion threatening to take her under right there. There's nothing for it – she just has to push through. City Hall is closer than either her tenement or the precinct station. She can walk the old girl over and co-opt Johan's on-call room. At least then she can get a few hours kip.

By the time she gets to City Hall, the sun is kissing the cream-dollop dome with golden orange which spills like egg-yoke from between ragged grey clouds. She doesn't go straight to General Stucker's office but stops by to report in with Clayrmantle. Early bird that he is, he's already running through some paperwork or other. She knocks on the open office door. "I'm going to steal Johan's on-call room," she says by way of introduction, exhaustion exacerbating her bluntness. "Good morning," Thazar says, raising his head. His eyebrows climb as he takes in her damp, wrinkled suit, the trouser hems caked with mud, the grease smear on her cheek, and the way she sways on her feet. "Do I want to know why?" "No," she snaps, realises she's snapped the word and relents with, "I'll explain after I've slept." He gives her a look of fatherly concern. "Very well. I shall have Evans wake you in three hours." "Could you make it four and a half?" Thazar gives her a low, appraising gaze. "Very well; four and a half hours and a deflection from the inevitable royal enquiries, in exchange for a full explanation, an update on the Evelyn Strucker murder, and your accompaniment during a breakfast meeting next week with the Ladies Rotary Guild." Elo grimaces. "Done," she says, too tired to negotiate any further. There's always a chance she can arrange for someone more suitable to take her place at that meeting. "Clean your face first," Thazar calls after her as she turns away. "I don't want… whatever that is on the pillows." "Yes, sir."

–––

Evans wakes her at 11:30 with coffee and a box of pastries. "Magister Clayrmantle left a message for me," she says by way of explanation. "And I supposed you'd be hungry. I hope these suffice." Elo makes groggy noises of approval as Evans places them on the corner table alongside a shopping bag. But the secretary isn't finished. "Your suit has been cleaned and pressed, and you'll find a new toothbrush and deodorant in the bag. Acting Magister Clayrmantle and His Majesty, King Storri are expecting to see you at 1300 hours for lunch. The Magister also wishes to convey his gratitude vis-a-vis your actions regarding the General's wellbeing and has signed off on his compassionate leave." Though Elo is doing the equivalent of having cartoon squeans float around her head, she does not miss the way Evans pauses, shoulders falling, then hauls in a gust of air and pulls herself back with aplomb. "While the Magister has said you can continue to make use of the General's offices and my expertise," Evans says, "I'm afraid you may have a fight for it. After you've finished your ablutions, would you please talk to him?" This last comes out with uncharacteristic pleading. "What? To whom?" "Evans! Stop lollygagging and bring me that briefing I asked for!" comes the General's dulcet tones. "Ah."

Freshly suited, Elo knocks on the door of the General's main office. "Evans, where the blazes– Oh. Elowyn. My apologies." "What are you doing here, Johan?" Elo asks him quietly as she shuts the door behind her. "You're on leave. You should be home, resting." "I spent all day yesterday resting," he says, thick salt-and-pepper brows drawing together. "I have work to be getting on with. I can't just sit at home in my pyjamas moping." She bites her lip. She knows he is right – he's a man of action. Even though there is no action he can take right now, there is still the desire to be moving, to be busy, to keep your hands working and your mind occupied so that you don't think. Because thinking is fatal.

The moment you stop, the moment you let yourself dwell, is the moment you lose yourself. There is the fear of falling into a never-ending pit of darkness and despair. She knows this feeling all too well. It's the same feeling that drove her the night it happened; it's what drives her even now. How much of a hypocrite is she to stand here and tell him to do what she is positively avoiding? She knows that people like them are the worst at dealing with personal loss. They are too used to the battlefield mentality – if you fall apart over the death of a comrade, the next death on the list is going to be yours. You learn to bottle it up and keep moving. You can let it out later, you tell yourself. You can cry when all is said and done, and you are safe. But it is a lie. You never crack the lid. You never let it out, even when you are safe at home, alone. Your tears may leak out of their own accord, but you always hold back. Someone might see, someone might hear, and then you're forced to deal with the fact that you have emotions. You are forced to acknowledge them in the face of another person – and that will not do. So you don't. You keep it tamped down. You keep it safe, a hot glow in your belly. You do not stop moving, and you do not think, and you do not dwell. How can she ask him, knowing all this, to do what she will not?

"Take the afternoon," she says. "Go to the pool club. Challenge some young punk and have a few drinks. Just don't get thrown in lock-up for trying to eviscerate some poor sod with a pool cue." Those bushy eyebrows, curving like eagle's wings, rise as he stares at her. "I mean it, Johan. I'm not bailing you out or pulling strings just because you're you. That's Thazar's job." His mouth remains in a grim line, his stare feels like it's boring holes through her. "The Plot Hook then. Ask Orrock to spot you into a match. Kick seven barrels out of someone who's actually asking for it." He still hasn't said anything. "Please, Papa Bear?" she asks. It's a low blow, but it's the last card in her hand. A small sob chokes out of him, and she rushes over, immediately guilty. "I'm sorry, Johan. I– I'm just trying– Oh Hell." He's curled over on himself again, elbows on the desk and face on his hands, and all she can do is drape herself over him in the closest approximation of a hug. "Please, Johan. You're not okay. And, it's okay to not be okay. You need to–" She stops. She doesn't know what he needs.

He needs to be at home, but he also needs to be moving. He needs to be safe, beyond safe, to relax and let it out. But his office doesn't feel safe enough, not to her, and she isn't sure his home is either. She doesn't know if the victim was still living with him, but the empty house can't be any better. It'll just remind him of what's not there. Elo doesn't know what to do. She tries to think what she would want if it were the other way around. She thinks of the day Merri was shot by a sniper, and they all thought their friend was going to die. All she wanted to do was find the bastard and put them in the ground.

"Could you stand to hear about the case?" Elo asks as his tears dry up again. She absently passes him a hanky, and he looks at her with lost, watery blue-grey eyes. "That's why I came here," she says. "Thazar said I could borrow your office, so I can call my partner to check on the case. He traded me an update for the use of your secretary this morning, so I figured I should call and get an update myself, which brought me here, to borrow your phone and office so I can update Thazar." She realises she is rambling and brings herself under control. "If you will allow it, sir, I'll call my office now?" "One moment, Sargent," he says, his voice rough. He stands and walks to the facilities table, makes himself a drink of coffee and Cointreau, wipes his eyes and sorts himself out before returning and giving her a nod.

Elo finds the speaker for the phone, places the handset into the cradle, and dials her desk extension at the 88th. "Constable Breakwood, Special Cases. What's happening, man?" her partner's voice comes over the speaker. "Constable Breakwood," Elo begins, "you're on with–" "Elo!" And, of course, her partner recognises her voice. "Elo, what the hell! Where have you been? I've been trying to get hold of you all morning, ever since I got your message from last night. Cuthbert's Scales. What were you thinking, you stupid cow? I was scared shit–" "Farren, shut up!" she snaps, breaking off his tirade. "You're on speakerphone with General Strucker." "Oh." Strucker quirks a brow at her. "General, I apologise for my outburst," Farren says. "But Elo left me a very worrying message in the small hours of this morning, then proceeded to drop off the face of the earth for the next five hours. I'm sure you can understand my concern." "No apology necessary, Constable," Strucker says. "I'm fine, Brek," Elo says.

There was an incident one time at school. Evie got into an argument which escalated, and Elo came to her rescue. It ended with both girls trying to lie their way out of explaining why their dresses were torn and their faces scratched. The look of fatherly disapproval Johan is giving now reminds Elo of that day, and she fights the urge to squirm like a child.

"What, pray, were you doing during the early hours of the morning, which then kept you away from your bed for several hours and eventually landed you in my on-call room via Thazar?" There is a moment of shocked silence from the line. Then Farren says, "As in, Acting Magister Thazar Clayrmantle?" Elo can hear the teasing half-smile in his tone when he continues, "I thought you went in for chicks?" "Constable Breakwood!" Elo snaps, scandalised. "Do not forget your audience." Her partner snorts. "I haven't Li'l Bug." Strucker's expectant gaze has not left her. "Elowyn?" he asks, and oh, she can see his head is firmly back in the game. She sighs. "I was on my way home from leaving the visiting dignitary with his security detail at the Emerald Star and took a detour via the crime scene. On observing the scene first-hand, I made some observations I wanted to impart to Constable Breakwood as soon as possible. So I called the station and was in the process of leaving the message when I realised I was being watched. I ended the call swiftly – hence Constable Breakwood's alarm – and went to talk to my watcher. "It was a potential informant. I took him to a food truck and gave him coffee, and we talked. He didn't see the crime take place, but he thinks he knows who committed it. I was trying to eke information out of him, but by that time the sun was starting to rise, and he rabbited with a half-arsed promise to find me again later. "Then my bike broke down, and I had to walk back to City Hall, and Acting Magister Thazar kindly granted me the use of the General's on-call room so I could crash. Satisfied?" she finishes snarkily. General Strucker nods, his gaze turned predatory. "Yes," says Farren. "In return, I went back to the scene to look at the scuff mark you said you saw and see if I could find some way to verify your conjecture. Sadly, I was unable to find any evidence to support two killers, rather than one. But I know you, and I know your gut, and I don't think your instincts are incorrect about this. Cobbleskater had a similar thought. "We were, however, able to confirm the idea that the vic hadn't originally intended to be there. We found a date book in her car. It– Uh. There was a different event planned for that night, due to start an hour before Snips pegged the time of death. The event was crossed through." "It's alright, Constable," Strucker says. He looks at Elo. "We were due to go for dinner. It's a– It was a weekly thing. But I was called away for work. It's a recurring reservation, so I told her to take a friend." "It looks like she did intend to go. The date book has Da– uh – the General's name neatly scrubbed through and is replaced with 'Sammy'. We went to the restaurant and spoke with the Maître d'. He said a woman did show up, but she doesn't match the vic's description. We can only assume that was Sammy." Strucker hums in thought. "Did he give a description of the woman?" "Yeah, one sec." There is the rustling of pages as Farren flicks through his notebook. "Approximately in her twenties, black hair, tall – thought she was wearing stilettos, so maybe not that tall. Slim, wearing half-moon glasses and an elegant little black dress." "That sounds like Samantha Fallight," Strucker says. "A work colleague, I believe she's the style columnist for the paper Evie writes– wrote for. Evie talked about her a lot. About how clever she was, and how impressive her sense of style and beauty." Elo thinks that's probably not exactly what the victim was talking about, but she isn't about to betray her friend, even in death, not even to the victim's father. "To bring us back to the point," Farren says, "we think it was a crime of disruption. The victim shouldn't have been where she was that night, and our current theory is that she was an accidental witness who was inhumed as part of a cover-up."

"So it was dumb luck?" Strucker sounds aghast. "That my baby was killed and not some other?" "Not necessarily," Elo says quickly. "She may have been following a story for the paper. Was there anything she was looking into?" Elo knows the victim had aspirations of investigative journalism, but despite her best efforts she always got handed the softer, more lady-like community interest pieces. "I don't know," Strucker says. His voice has gone soft, his eyes distant, and Elo thinks she needs to end this call soon. "All her notes will be in her apartment," Strucker says. "Evans will have the address and the spare keys. Feel free to take anything you think will help." Elo clears her throat. "Constable Breakwood, have dispatch send a car to City Hall, and I'll get the details to you." "Sure thing," he says. "I'll catch up with you later," she says by way of farewell and hangs up the phone.

Elo tidies the speaker away and sets the desk to rights as Strucker sits there, staring blankly. "I have to run those keys downstairs," she says. Stucker blinks, looking lost again. Elo leans over the desk and squeezes his hand. "Take the afternoon off," she says. "Go to the pool club and stack a few racks–" "Break some racks," he corrects automatically. "–It'll make you feel better." Stucker nods, and Elo gives his hand another quick squeeze before stepping away. "Wait." Elo looks back. "Yes?" "You said your bike broke down?" "Yeah. I think the spark plugs are fried. Italian bikes, eh?" She rolls her eyes with a fond huff. "Bloody finicky about the weather." "Where is it?" There is an intensity in his eyes, under the soft crease of his brow. "In the overground visitor's car park," she says warily. "Maybe," he says hesitantly. "Maybe I could take a look for you? It's been a while, but I used to ride during the Great War. I know a thing or two about motorcycle maintenance." "Oh. Well…" It's not that she doesn't trust him. It's not that she doesn't want him looking over her baby and helping the dragon get its fire back, but… Auri is her baby. Though she doesn't have the time, Elo should be the one to repair it. She has always done Auri's maintenance herself, and it feels strange, the idea of someone else fixing her dragon. No, says the voice in her head, taking help is what feels strange. She grits her jaw, takes a breath – concedes that it is right. It'll do them both good. He needs to be doing something constructive, and she needs her dragon running. "Sure," she says and throws him her keys. "There's an abridged manual in the saddle box." Strucker nods and gives her a half-smile before she hustles out.

She leaves the request for Evie's keys and address with Evans with the addendum that Elo has convinced Stucker to take the afternoon off, then ducks into the private office. There she dials their desk extension again, praying Farren has sent Cobbleskater to dispatch the car. Her partner answers almost immediately. "Farren," she says, cutting off his usual spiel. "Elo, didn't we just–?" "Yeah, but I have more I need to ask, things I couldn't in front of the General. So I found a different phone." "Oh." "Look, did you or Candy find anything else about the artefact?" "Yeah, a little. She says she thinks the wood is ebony, and the stone is tree agate. The wires, she says, are made of brass. The markings are like nothing she's seen before, so she wants to take it to some professor of linguistics and symbology at the University." "Don't let her do that," Elo says quickly. "Bring this professor to her. In fact, find a way to keep that artefact under lock and key. When she's working on it, I want a body posted there too." "Uh, Bug?" "My new informant, Snotgrut, told me he was waiting for me to show up at the docks. He'd been posted there by his boss, who he says pulled the killing blow on our vic. Apparently, Snotgrut was supposed to kill me too, and take the artefact. It's very valuable, at least to his boss. Which means said boss is going to do everything they can to recover it. I'm not adding Candy to our body count, is that understood?" "Loud and clear, Sarge." There's the scribble of pencil on paper – Farren taking notes, she guesses.

"Snotgrut called the artefact the, uh, Nerishklis. I think that's how he pronounced it." "I'll let her know." "Has anything else… strange happened since yesterday?" "It doesn't look like a volatile explosive anymore, if that's what you mean. When I last saw it, it looked just like you said. Candy's been fine. She wears gloves when handling it, but she's not had any dizziness, burning or speaking in tongues since I checked in last. She did seem surprised when she saw the ice had melted away and how it looked underneath." "Does she know what I did?" "No." "Maybe keep it that way?" Farren hums in agreement, and she hears him scribbling some more things down. "Tell me about this informant of yours?" "I can only assume 'Snotgrut' is a nickname. I think he's probably homeless," she says, scrabbling to make the creature she spoke to seem plausible. "He was dressed in sackcloth and rags and got real twitchy about being seen in daylight. I suspect I won't see him again until tomorrow night." "Something happening tonight?" "State function. I'm getting dragged along." "Huh. Well, have as much fun as you can, I guess." Elo snorts. "Thanks." "Ah, it'll be fine." She hears Farren drumming his pencil on the desk. "This Snotgrut… Do you think he can be trusted?" "I think he's telling me the truth about his boss. But no, not completely. Not if he was willing to swap sides at the slightest hint of kindness." An idea strikes her then. "He was about Cobbleskater's size. Maybe you could go have a look in the Lost and Found for a coat of some kind? Some proper shoes, maybe." "Yeah, yeah, I see where you're going with this. Bribery comes in all forms, right?" "Right. It'd be helpful if we can keep him on our side." "I'll see what I can dig up while I wait for those house keys. Cobbleskater and I'll go and check it out, see if we can't find something in her apartment to help explain what she was doing down there in the first place." "She was a budding journo," Elo tells him then. "She always got stuck with the fluff pieces, but she never stopped trying to break into investigative journalism. Maybe she finally found something worth investigating?" "Maybe so," Farren agrees. "Where will you be if I need to reach you?" She has to think about this carefully. "I have to take the dignitary to lunch soon – we'll be occupied until midafternoon, I suspect. Potentially, I'll be back at Strucker's office, but I could just as easily be kept out. Or I might be free to come by the office." Elo drags a hand down her face. "Clayrmantle gave me use of Strucker's secretary. If you need to, leave a message with her. I'll try and check in more often." "Sure. But try not to leave me any more gut-churning messages like last time, eh, Bug? You scared me shitless." "I'm sorry. I'll do my best, but I'm not making promises." Farren turns his huff of laughter into a harrumph. "Stay out of trouble," he says by way of parting. "I will if you will," she replies and hangs up the phone.

Elo takes herself from the office, collects an envelope with the keys and address from Evans, and explains the situation with the messages. Again, Evans doesn't bat an eye at this, and Elo is amazed by the woman's composure. Elo takes the envelope and meets King Storri on the way to the elevators. "Ah, Lady Toreguarde," he says. "Sergeant O'Toreguarde," she mumbles. He presses on as though she hasn't spoken, "Our meeting finished early. I thought perhaps we could see something of your city before we take lunch with Acting Magister Clayrmantle." Elo considers it, cannot see a reason why not. "Of course, sir," she says. "I have an urgent errand to run first, but then we can go for a short walk if you like." "A walk?" "Yes. Ground floor, please," Elo says to the liftman as they step into the elevator, before returning her attention to King Storri. "A walk will clear the cobwebs that have gathered in the Council chambers, a bit of exercise will do you good, and there are few better ways to see the city." "Oh? What other ways might there be?" "Canal trip, possibly? While you can walk the towpaths here and there, there are some parts of the city you'd not otherwise see if not from the water. I also find it can offer a different perspective on things. Then there's by Helicopter – that's always a good one. It can give insight into the layout of the city, and again shows you sights that you'd not ordinarily see." She gives him a sideways glance. "I suspect you've used that method already," she guesses. He nods and grins. "But not with such an informative guide." Elo snorts. "I'm no historian." "Ah, but I am told you know a lot about your city's roots, about the pulse of its heart." She thanks the liftman as they come to rest and step out. "It's my job," she tells him as she crosses to the front reception desk. "I have to be able to read my little section of the city with ease. I have to know now where the dark creases collect rubbish so I can clean them out or where things lie bare to the sun and need protecting with some shade." She isn't sure where this analogy is going, but he's nodding along like it makes perfect sense. "I understand. Your Aunt told me much the same thing. Though her purview was things outside the city and – for want of a better term – Foreign Policy, she said that your city was what kept her going. That knowing her neighbours kept her grounded, kept her heart beating with the heart of the city." They have reached the front desk now, and Elo hands over the packet with instructions that it will be collected by a patrolling officer from Precinct 88.

[druidx]

Incorrect quote tag game!

Tagged by @corkythewriteblr, about this time last year

Rules: use this quote generator & list as many quotes as you like using characters from your WIPs, then tag as many people as quotes you listed.

I decided to do all these from the Fighting Fantasy World of Titan because of that the last 'find the word tag' I did. Also, I'm popping the taglist up here cuz it says do as many quotes as tagees and so this is gonna get long.

Tagging: @strosmkai-rum @spacetimewraithwrites @wildswrites @tetrodotoxincs @odysseywritings @ayzrules @morganwriteblr @my-writblr @bexminx @writingingraves @dreamwishing @aalinaaaaaa @wardenoftheabyss @pleaseloathemyveryexistence @jaguarthecat

Also tagging @aquadestinyswriting because she'll get a kick out of these.

Random criminal: I really like this whole ‘good guy, bad guy’ thing you guys have going on. Farren: It’s not an act, it’s just that I’m mean and Elowyn isn’t

----

Elo: Hey, Yoruk, can I get some dating advice? Yoruk: Just because I'm with Merri doesn't mean I know how I did it.

----

Elo: I prevented a murder today. Aurianna: Really? How’d you do that? Elo: self control.

----

Snotgrut: I think I'm having a mid-life crisis. Farren: You're like 15 years old Snotgrut: I MIGHT DIE AT 30!

----

Elo: How did none of you hear what I just said? Thazar: I’ve been zoned out for the past two and a half hours. Strucker: I got distracted about halfway through. Schreiber: Ignoring you was a conscious decision.

---

Elo: On a scale from “damn Daniel” to “fre sha vaca do”, how are you feeling? Farren: In between “it’s an avocado, thanks” and “how did you defeat Captain America”, but as a solid answer I would say “I don’t need a degree to be a clothing hanger”. How about you, Milli? Milli: Probably “road work ahead”. Snotgrut: I speak many languages, and this is none of them.

---

Elo: This is a mistake Felix, enthusiastically: A mistake we're going to laugh about one day! Elo: But not today Felix, still enthusiastic: Oh, no. Today's going to be a mess

----

Elo: I learned some very valuable lessons from this. Strucker: I’m guessing they are all horrible distortions on the lessons you actually should’ve taken away. Elo: Death isn’t real, and I’m basically God.

----

Elo: I slept for almost 12 hours but I might still be tired so lets go for 12 more just incase. Farren: Elo, that's a coma. Elo: Sounds festive.

----

Merri: I was arrested for being too cool. Snotgrut: The charges were dropped due to a lack of supporting evidence.

----

Felix: Whaddya call a fish with no eye? Snotgrut, not looking up: Myxine Circifrons Felix: Felix: fsh

----

Snotgrut: Okay. I get it. You've had a really hard time lately, you're stressed out, seven people died- Elo: Twelve, actually. Snotgrut: Not the point. Look, they're dead now and really whose fault is that? Elo: Yours! Snotgrut: That's right: no one's.

----

*Quentin and Felix are doing something absurdly dangerous* Felix: I think Houdini did something like this once! Why, if I recall correctly, he was out of the hospital in no time! Quentin, deadpan: Well that's encouraging.

----

Elo: Snotgrut, keep an eye on Schreiber today. He's going to say something to the wrong person and get punched. Snotgrut: Sure, I’d love to see Schreiber get punched. Elo: Try again. Snotgrut, sighing: I will stop Schreiber from getting punched.

----

*Squad reactions to being told ‘I love you’* Enezeag: Thanks fam! Elo: oh no Felix: *cries* I love you too Snotgrut: Sounds fake but okay Laurence: *A flustered mess* Quentin: can i get a refund

----

Felix: Everytime I hear someone talking about updog, I’m torn between not wanting to fall for it and wanting to help them complete their joke. Aurianna: Okay, but what is updog? Enezeag: Updog is a long sausage in a bun, often served with ketchup, mustard, onions, and/or relish. Snotgrut: Not, that’s a hot dog. An updog is when a new version or patch of an application is released. Quentin: No, that's an update. You’re thinking of the fourth largest city in Sweden. Snotgrut: Surely, that’s Uppsala, where’s updog is the giant spider in Harry Potter. Felix: That’s Aragog. Updog is a symbol conventionally used for an arbitrarily small number in analysis proofs. Laurence: You’re thinking of epsilon. Updog is an upward-moving air current. Snotgrut: No, that’s an updraft. An updog is the modern version of a henway. Aurianna: What’s a henway?? Felix: Oh, about five pounds.

[druidx]

Find the Word Tag Game

Thanks for the tag @lowslore <3

I'm going to pull these from the Fighting Fantasy World of Titan Modernish-AU again.

Sorrow

She can tell Thazar is the most tense of all of them. He isn't even reading the report - maybe he finished it - but she knows the tune he is playing. It's a Romanian folk song, a low sorrowful thing, melancholic and bittersweet, about a woman scorned by her lover, that comes to a climax as the woman decides to take her own life. He has only ever played it when he's deeply upset by something, such as when Aunt Selene announced her departure to Europe. To hear him play it now is disturbing.

Solely

Something is in her way to the tree. It is dark and green, and she grits her teeth against the pounding in her head because she wants to go to the tree so badly. It's calling out to her like it needs her, or she needs it, and she takes hesitant steps forward. One foot drags along tarmac, the sole of her shoe grating, the other treads softly on moss and flowers feeling the prick of rock and twig. One hand touches mist-damped air, and the other the plastic of a bin. She smiles because she thinks she can make it. She will make it. She is so close, how could she not?

Sleep

"Here's to not getting electrocuted," she says and takes a swing. "Hear hear," the two men mumble. Elo puts the bottle back on the counter. "We can deal with the other bollocks tomorrow," she tells them and slides off her stool with some degree of grace, albeit in the lower numerals. "Eloquent as ever, my dear," Strucker says, but makes no further comment as Farren helps her up the stairs and sits her on the bed.

"You gonna be okay, Bug?" he asks. In response, she slumps over. "I meant it about tomorrow. Now bugger off, I need rest." Farren stares at her a moment, before lifting her legs onto the bed, pulling her boots off and struggling the coverlet over her. "Now I've heard everything," he mutters with a fond smile, once she's safely tucked up and snuggled down. "First you admit it's okay to be coddled, then you admit you need rest. If I didn't know better, I'd say the end times were upon us." "Oh frag off," Elo mutters and listens as he walks to the door. The light clicks off. "Sleep well, Elowyn." "Night"

Single

Elo finds her curiosity piqued by this, wondering which leader it could be. The council is made of maybe a hundred and fifty souls, and it could be any of them with this description. Uncharitably, she wonders if it's the Master of Commerce; but then considers that would require Schreiber to have a single lick of intelligence about him to pull off something worthy of this reporter's interest.

Tagging: @strosmkai-rum @spacetimewraithwrites @wildswrites @tetrodotoxincs @odysseywritings @ayzrules @morganwriteblr @my-writblr @bexminx @writingingraves @dreamwishing @aalinaaaaaa @wardenoftheabyss @pleaseloathemyveryexistence @jaguarthecat @catharticallysarcastic