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| Ghosts of the Whip; (P) | |
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| Topic Started: Wed Aug 25, 2010 6:36 pm (133 Views) | |
| Jadile Nata'a | Wed Aug 25, 2010 6:36 pm Post #1 |
 
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The moment Andrew entered the office Jadile offered him a charmingly contemptuous smile. “Get your boots off my desk.” The woman begrudgingly obliged, aged leather creaking to a stomp as she placed her feet on the marble floor. She tipped her eyes up as Andrew drew his cape tightly around him and sat down across from her. “Saw your wife at Tipper’s Gorge last week. She looks well fed.” Jadile’s smile melted into a velvety smirk beset with foppish esteem and she folded her arms beneath her bosom. Andrew’s features showed no signs of souring; his shallow blue eyes delivering only characteristic sterility as a testament to his deserved station behind the desk. He pushed his thin wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his hooked nose with a gloved finger, lips routinely curling before speaking. “Do try to remember under whose seal you now serve, Ms. Nata’a. It would be a shame to be caught up in regulatory bureaucracy before ever having a chance to make your bones.” Jadile lifted her brows in surprise and pressed her spine against the back of her chair, “Wifey found your bollocks did she? Deep in the bottom of a Shepard’s pie I’d guess, or maybe beneath a stack of papers?” Andrew’s cheeks reddened and Jadile saw him unconscious eye the unkempt bundles of parchment strewn across his desk. When he simply smiled at her, she felt the hairs on her arms stand at attention. “Orders from the Grand Whip have come down and the wax is still warm.” Andrew’s tone did little to obscure the unadulterated levity behind his words. He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and tossed it Jadile. The woman sprang forward in her seat, her hands anxious to peel away the seal and read the contents. As her eyes scanned the page, they narrowed into dangerous slits of jade. “I never thought you much of the prankster, Andrew.” Jadile stuffed the order back into the envelope and threw it back on the table. “A joke would be less satisfying, Ms. Nata’a. I can honestly say I will not be sorry to see you leave.” He knitted his fingers before him and tried not to chuckle. Jadile saw a winner’s sparkle behind gamblers’ eyes. “‘Observe and report the viability of the subject.’” She pointed an accusatory finger at Andrew. “This is not what I signed up for.” “Quite frankly, you had no idea either way.” He tilted his head with tactless grace, “I wish we all had the leisure of receiving only those orders that suit our tastes. But such fancy is for the young and naïve.” Jadile showed him her teeth. “The viability of your subject is all that matters and your measure will determine it. That is the extent of my knowledge, Ms. Nata’a, I am sorry.” Andrew’s voice was clipped. “You are handsome when you are lying,” Jadile said as she stood, “But no matter, Debon is pleasant this time of year.” “Nilura has already established your portal. You leave tonight.” Jadile wished Andrew a good night by flashing him a rather rude hand gesture and stalked out of the hall. In the short time it took her to gather all of her worldly possessions from her room, the woman already began to felt the first raw pangs of anger driven anxiety. Down in the lower chambers, grinning madly at her own reflection in the portal, she thought just how relative the term ‘viable’ was, before stepping through. Edited by Jadile Nata'a, Wed Aug 25, 2010 10:07 pm.
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| Liam Tahleni | Fri Aug 27, 2010 1:50 pm Post #2 |
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The trial docket was surprisingly light: three counts of petty vandalism, an accusation of theft of a sow and a murder, stemming from the unexpected early arrival of a cuckled husband to the scene of the crime. Court began promptly at seven, the county judge taking his seat behind a long oak table while coffee was served to both defense council and prosecution. As the bailiff read off the cases, all of the court’s officers shared a confused furrowing of their brows. They had been called three weeks early to try the captured prisoners, as the last case was cleared and the betrayed husband led away in shackles, the judge motioned for the chief warden to approach his chair. The warden moved with uncommon veneration, wide shoulders hunched and back bucked in an awkward bow. He knelt beside the judge; his armored body crouched like a wounded gargoyle, he touched two fingers to his brow in a subdued salute. “Yes, your Honor?” “Quigby, how are you feeling?” The warden attempted to straighten his back; a wet pop made him constrict, his loose ring mail rattling like ghost’s chains. Sweaty face turned crookedly to the judge, he muttered, “I’ve been better, sir.” The judge, in his straight faced stillness, sipped from his coffee, still lukewarm. “Pretty nasty knock on the head, hmm?” Quigby shook his head like a mangy beagle, face pulled in a confused twist. “Head’s fine, fine as fine, sir. It’s my back.” The judge’s thick eyebrows rose with the subtle tension of widened eyes, his mustache twitched with the briefest flicker of annoyance. “Are you sure of that, Quigby?” The warden, well aware of the steel in the man questioning him, straightened his back over trembling legs when he answered. “Yes sir, very sure, sir.” The judge stood, Quigby snapping up with him, and turned to speak to the man face to face, “I hope you are wrong, Quigby. Because if your brains aren’t addled from the beating some kind hearted gentleman handed you, I’ll have you in shackles by the end of the day.” Both prosecution and defense straightened in their chairs, the rotund judge in his white wig and black robe rarely stood after collapsing into session. The court scribe noted the record accordingly. “Quigby, all the cases have been tried and not a one reason enough for the uncomfortable ache of the ride here.” He jammed two fingers into the warden’s chest, the man started as if struck with a bolt. “You have one minute to explain yourself, then,” he showed the chief warden his own men, standing at the doors of the courthouse. “if I am not satisfied, these fine young men will remove you from my court.” The judge returned to his seat. “I hope for your sake you have a bard in your family line, Quigby, I hear the food is terrible in your jail.” “Sir,” the warden croaked, “there is one more case. The prisoner is charged with assaulting me and my men while,” the warden’s mouth opened and closed, but the strain of tension in his chest was so great, he could only produce throaty clicks. “…while…” a twitch in his back, face red, he managed to blurt, “while in repose.” “Den of ill repute, I suppose,” the judge mumbled. “You suppose, your Honor,” he bowed so stiffly the weight of his armor nearly tipped him on the crown of his head. “He came in, spewing nonsense about some light, speaking spells perhaps.” “He attacked you with magic?” “No, no no no, but…” he shook his head, desperately searching for words. “Public nuisance!” He chomped down on his lower lip. “Your Honor, please, the man is dangerous and many people in my town would agree.” The judge waved Quigby away and the warden briskly joined his lieutenant at the door and left the court to gather the final prisoner. Coffee cups were refilled, the scribe noting the unnamed case as an act of judicial jurisprudence, for the record. The doors opened. The prisoner’s size made the court uncomfortably cramped; everyone, for that reason, chose to openly gawk at the chained behemoth the prison guards gingerly led toward the defense table. His face was expressionless, eyes cold winter, the braided tracks of scar tissue creeping up from the collar of the robes he wore. As he sat, his fists callused boulders lashed together with chains, his eyes lingered on the small details around him: the papers and its thread count, the court officers, the clothes of the man set to defend him and the other set to condemn. He never moved more than an inch in any direction, the fragile world under the sway of his bulk. There were fresh bruises on his face, a palate of purples and yellows, and his lip was rosy and swollen; his features held it all, killer’s eyes and dead man’s skin, with the softness of a young man’s face. The judge cleared his throat twice to find his voice. “Your name, son.” “Liam,” the words thudded like the felling of trees. Only the scribe’s quill dare break the silence. “And did you attack these men?” “Yes sir,” Liam’s voice hitched, and when it came it was a torrent of half pronounced whispers “they disrespected themselves and the women with which they shared their beds. The light demands that, as defenders of justice, a code of conduct be maintained, to further glorify…” Liam’s face went blank, eyes wide and frantic, trying to remember what had been taught to him so long ago. Finally, defeated, he lowered his eyes to the pitted skin on his knuckles. When he spoke again, the thunder in his voice had returned, a far off storm. “They take liberty with the wives of their prisoners, it is not right.” Quigby sputtered and gasped, but produced no response. The judge chilled him silent with a glance. “So Liam, if justice must be done, should you be punished?” “Yes,” he answered without hesitation. The judge rose a questioning finger. “Will you abide by my punishment?” “Yes, your Honor.” “Fine then,” the judge stood, inviting all court officers to follow suit. “One day in the stocks, Quigby, that’s what he gets for trying to teach you some manners.” “But sir,” the warden attempted to interject. The judge’s voice borrowed some of Liam’s bombast. “One day, Quigby, in Kellen’s town square. And I suggest you treat this prisoner fairly,” he offered Liam, whose eyes had never left the judge’s face, a wary smile. “If he disagrees with his arrangement, he may just finish what he started.” |
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12:52 AM Feb 10
