718 Vhalar 60...
Dark earth-brown eyes regarded him, set deep beneath heavy, bushy brows. “So,” the man started again, questions of the city’s history and the tenants of the Scarlet Belief behind them now, voice deep and commanding, “You live here with your… what is she to you exactly?”
Those who appointed as the Theocratum’s Tribunals were far sharper of both mind and tongue. They were holy men dedicated to the teachings of the Scarlet Belief; at least, most were, and the man before him, dressed in an elegant but simple sleeveless robe, hood drawn back to reveal his loose cascade of mahogany curls. He was perhaps three arcs Mathias’ elder, the smoothness and youthful glow of his skin beneath the carefully carved and displayed scars on his arms an indication of his youth, but the manner in which he conducted himself made him seem as though he was many more than that.
“She is my benefactor, Catechist.” Mathias sat somewhat slumped in his chair, his typically excellent posture overshadowed by lightheadedness and the occasional bought of nausea. Still, his eyes remained bright, inquisitive – perhaps overly so – as he stared at the man across from him. “She should be returning from her… excursion on the morrow.”
“I see.” Large, strong hands slipped into a fold within his crimson robes and withdrew a small leather-bound book. “Shall we get started… Mathias, was it?” A small well of ink and a worn but well-tended quill followed in the journal’s wake – all three carefully and quietly placed on to the smooth wood of the table’s surface between them. As he jotted down what Mathias assumed to be the particulars of his appearance – including his name – the man paused and raised of his substantial eyebrows into a questioning arc. “Moreno?”
“That is correct, Catechist.” The tea was cool enough now, and he politely set the cup and saucer in front of his guest, who eyed it for a trill before choosing to ignore the subtly floral aroma of the imported and expensive good, instead, he opted to nod his understanding. Mathias held his own cup in both hands, allowing the thin wisps of steam to drift lazily against his nose and lips. “Mathias Moreno.” He took a slow, deliberate sip of the dark, bitter liquid, allowing the flavour to wash over his tongue before it disappeared down his throat, leaving behind a comfortable warmth that boarded upon burn. “And might I ask your name as well?”
Scratching out the appropriate letters, the man nodded for a third time. “You may.” He glanced once more at the tea – it wasn’t necessarily a rarity, but it was uncommon enough that most Heaps lived out their lives without ever tasting it, not that most had much of a desire for the “leaf-water” as they often sneeringly referred to it – but settled his gaze steady upon his host. “I am Carmo Belo; though I appreciate your formality, merely Carmo will suffice.” Usually, one would have expected a smile after such an introduction, but Carmo’s face remained unmoving – near unfeeling, but in the most professional sense of the word.
“Catechist-“ He smiled politely, nodding his head. “Carmo. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mathias set his cup down with a soft clinck upon the delicately decorated saucer, “In spite of the reason for your visit this trail.” Though Carmo had made it a point to remain aloof, Mathias was under no such obligation; his lips turned a polite, if not mischievous smile. “Which, I assume, has something to do with these… changlings?”
Though the worst of the initial panic had long since subsided, in the four days after the robbery – and several more incidents enough to birth rumours like flies from a fetid carcass – paranoia, the fast friend of any Quacian, had reared its withered head, feeding upon the fears of the people and growing fat and healthy once more. After his unfortunate foray into the depths of Heitor’s Tower, he had gone directly to the Dragoons – as directly as he could manage, at any rate – and informed them of what he had seen lurking beneath the streets. He’d expected, at worst, a laughing wave of a hand and, perhaps, at least a single investigator to be sent. Instead, he’d been threatened with imprisonment for wasting their valuable time and demanding their already stretched resources be funnelled into something as preposterous as a vanishing floor and creep filled tunnel.
It seemed he wasn’t the only one coming forward with discoveries, forcing the Dragoons to pursue only those claims that were substantiated with proof. Though he’d put some effort into trying to convince the pair he’d stumbled upon to change their minds or, at the very least, look into the Tower when they had time, he’d eventually given up when their causal threats had taken on a more genuine vehemence.
While he doubted the Tribunal – Carmo Belo – had called upon him to discuss the details of what had happened to him beneath the city’s surface, the creep’s subtle invasion and integration into the city and its people seemed as fitting – if not more so – a reason to be personally visited by a member of Theocratum.
Confirming his suspicions, Carmo nodded, curls bouncing in an unexpectedly light-hearted liveliness that was in no way reflected in his chiselled features. “You assume correctly.”
His turn to nod, Mathias rolled up his sleeve to reveal the cut he’d received at his neighbour’s demand had scabbed over. “Though,” he started, setting his bare forearm upon the table’s surface and regarding Carmo with a slight downward curve of his lips, “I suppose you are seeking fresh blood, are you not?”
Setting his quill down across the lip of his inkwell, Carmo withdrew a small, slender knife from wherever it was he stored things within his robe. “I am.” Without any ceremony – a clear indication that this was neither religious practice nor the first time he’d made this exact, investigative cut – he pressed the blade against the smooth, slightly paler skin of one of Mathias’ scars, following the long since healed cut exactly, stopping about a third of the way. Warm fingers gently squeezed either side of the small incision – Mathias made a point to draw in a sharp breath through his teeth, as he’d seen countless others do during his trips to the chapels –, and, soon enough, a dark red trickle escaped from the edges of the cut.
Carmo released his hold on Mathias’ wrist, his fingers finding their way to his own lips as he contemplatively licked the blood from them. Mathias raised a brow, carefully resting his elbow on his chair’s armrest to avoid staining the expensive wood with his now trickling wound. “Is it wise to ingest that which might be infected?”
For the first time, Carmo smiled. It was distant, but it was a show of genuine emotion – an acknowledgement of a granite façade set aside or at least shifted. “You have answered all my prior questions and now submitted willingly to my more… visceral investigations,” Humanity verified, he picked up the cup of tea and took a long and savouring draught. A low “Mmm.” escaped from his chest as he set it back down upon the saucer, a far more assertive clack elicited from the impact than Mathias’ more gentle touch. “You are no more a creature of the creep than I.”
“I am glad to hear it, Catechist.” Mathias leaned back into his chair and pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket, lightly dabbing at his fresh cut and regarding Carmo with a clear display of unfettered curiosity. “Would it not be simpler to begin with the drawing of blood?” Not wanting to give himself away as someone who knew full well the nature of the changlings, as he drew his cup to his lips again, he paused and raised one of his brows. “I have heard rumours they… ooze.”
Shaking his head with a tired sigh, Carmo ran the tip of his middle finger around the lip of his own teacup. “So they say.” He nodded toward the bread and oils that sat upon a small plate in the centre of the table between them, and Mathias returned a polite gesture that they were as much in place for consumption as decoration. Dipping the pale, greyish bread into the rich, syrupy golden glimmer of the oil, Carmo popped the morsel into his mouth and chewed steadily for a few trills before he drew another liberal sip of his tea. “I have been visiting homes for the past twenty breaks, and, so far, not a single… creature.”
Both brows raised, Mathias added a tint of praise to his voice. “Congratulations, Catechist.”
Carmo’s lips turned a wry grin as he reached for more bread. “Carmo. Please.”
“Carmo.”
He held the bread between his thumb and forefinger as if he were studying it, though his gaze had taken on a distant gleam. “I am… gladdened that I have yet to come across one of them. Yet…” He shook his head, curls bouncing, and turned to settle his dark-eyed gaze upon Mathias’ bright one. “So many people are frightened. Angry.”
“How so?” Mathias had seen firsthand the fear but not so much the anger.
Letting out a breath through his nose, the bread remained between his fingers, forgotten in the wake of a weary man unburdening his frustrations. “The last woman I visited – investigated – she accused me of being a… a ‘changling’ myself. I was forced to restrain her and all the while she spat and screamed.”
Though he didn’t say anything, Mathias widened his eyes in what he imaged was a display of both sympathy and surprise as he sipped from his cup.
“Many others, different stories but all fueled by that same poorly placed rage.” Carmo moved to rub his eyes but paused as he realized he was still holding the bit of bread. Popping that into his mouth with a soft sigh, he instead shook his head yet again. “You cannot know how much I appreciate both your cooperation and civility.” His smile shone warm and grateful beneath the bags of his eyes and worn rumble of his voice. “Thank you, Mathias.”
“Of course, Cate- Carmo. It is both my pleasure and my duty, as a follower of the Wounded God.” He returned a smile of his own, though it didn’t reach his eyes – it never did. “If you would like,” he continued, setting his now empty cup down upon his saucer with a delicate enough touch it made nearly no noise at all, “You are welcome to say for supper. Rest your legs and your mind.”
For a moment, Carmo’s eyes seemed to lighten with longing, but in the next, they hardened with the finality of decision. “That is very kind of you, Mathias, but I… I should be going now. There are many more homes that I am expected to visit.” As he spoke, he rose from his seat, brushing off the crumbs from his robe before gathering up everything he’d removed from it earlier, storing all the items away with a practised hand and minimal waste of movement. “Perhaps another time.” His smile returned, this time almost playful, though Mathias hardly noticed it. “If the offer still stands, of course.”
“I cannot imagine why it would not.”
As he shut the door in the wake of the Tribunal’s departure, Mathias lingered in place, staring down at his own slippers. Either there were fewer changlings than he’d expected, or there were those who were able to maintain far more intricate disguises. He supposed either was possible and while he’d lived in Quacia his entire life, he didn’t know enough about the specifics of what the creep was capable of to make an educated guess as to what was probable.
Meaning, of course, that though it might not be likely, anyone in the city could be an imposter. An agent of the Green.
How exciting.
Dark earth-brown eyes regarded him, set deep beneath heavy, bushy brows. “So,” the man started again, questions of the city’s history and the tenants of the Scarlet Belief behind them now, voice deep and commanding, “You live here with your… what is she to you exactly?”
Those who appointed as the Theocratum’s Tribunals were far sharper of both mind and tongue. They were holy men dedicated to the teachings of the Scarlet Belief; at least, most were, and the man before him, dressed in an elegant but simple sleeveless robe, hood drawn back to reveal his loose cascade of mahogany curls. He was perhaps three arcs Mathias’ elder, the smoothness and youthful glow of his skin beneath the carefully carved and displayed scars on his arms an indication of his youth, but the manner in which he conducted himself made him seem as though he was many more than that.
“She is my benefactor, Catechist.” Mathias sat somewhat slumped in his chair, his typically excellent posture overshadowed by lightheadedness and the occasional bought of nausea. Still, his eyes remained bright, inquisitive – perhaps overly so – as he stared at the man across from him. “She should be returning from her… excursion on the morrow.”
“I see.” Large, strong hands slipped into a fold within his crimson robes and withdrew a small leather-bound book. “Shall we get started… Mathias, was it?” A small well of ink and a worn but well-tended quill followed in the journal’s wake – all three carefully and quietly placed on to the smooth wood of the table’s surface between them. As he jotted down what Mathias assumed to be the particulars of his appearance – including his name – the man paused and raised of his substantial eyebrows into a questioning arc. “Moreno?”
“That is correct, Catechist.” The tea was cool enough now, and he politely set the cup and saucer in front of his guest, who eyed it for a trill before choosing to ignore the subtly floral aroma of the imported and expensive good, instead, he opted to nod his understanding. Mathias held his own cup in both hands, allowing the thin wisps of steam to drift lazily against his nose and lips. “Mathias Moreno.” He took a slow, deliberate sip of the dark, bitter liquid, allowing the flavour to wash over his tongue before it disappeared down his throat, leaving behind a comfortable warmth that boarded upon burn. “And might I ask your name as well?”
Scratching out the appropriate letters, the man nodded for a third time. “You may.” He glanced once more at the tea – it wasn’t necessarily a rarity, but it was uncommon enough that most Heaps lived out their lives without ever tasting it, not that most had much of a desire for the “leaf-water” as they often sneeringly referred to it – but settled his gaze steady upon his host. “I am Carmo Belo; though I appreciate your formality, merely Carmo will suffice.” Usually, one would have expected a smile after such an introduction, but Carmo’s face remained unmoving – near unfeeling, but in the most professional sense of the word.
“Catechist-“ He smiled politely, nodding his head. “Carmo. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mathias set his cup down with a soft clinck upon the delicately decorated saucer, “In spite of the reason for your visit this trail.” Though Carmo had made it a point to remain aloof, Mathias was under no such obligation; his lips turned a polite, if not mischievous smile. “Which, I assume, has something to do with these… changlings?”
Though the worst of the initial panic had long since subsided, in the four days after the robbery – and several more incidents enough to birth rumours like flies from a fetid carcass – paranoia, the fast friend of any Quacian, had reared its withered head, feeding upon the fears of the people and growing fat and healthy once more. After his unfortunate foray into the depths of Heitor’s Tower, he had gone directly to the Dragoons – as directly as he could manage, at any rate – and informed them of what he had seen lurking beneath the streets. He’d expected, at worst, a laughing wave of a hand and, perhaps, at least a single investigator to be sent. Instead, he’d been threatened with imprisonment for wasting their valuable time and demanding their already stretched resources be funnelled into something as preposterous as a vanishing floor and creep filled tunnel.
It seemed he wasn’t the only one coming forward with discoveries, forcing the Dragoons to pursue only those claims that were substantiated with proof. Though he’d put some effort into trying to convince the pair he’d stumbled upon to change their minds or, at the very least, look into the Tower when they had time, he’d eventually given up when their causal threats had taken on a more genuine vehemence.
While he doubted the Tribunal – Carmo Belo – had called upon him to discuss the details of what had happened to him beneath the city’s surface, the creep’s subtle invasion and integration into the city and its people seemed as fitting – if not more so – a reason to be personally visited by a member of Theocratum.
Confirming his suspicions, Carmo nodded, curls bouncing in an unexpectedly light-hearted liveliness that was in no way reflected in his chiselled features. “You assume correctly.”
His turn to nod, Mathias rolled up his sleeve to reveal the cut he’d received at his neighbour’s demand had scabbed over. “Though,” he started, setting his bare forearm upon the table’s surface and regarding Carmo with a slight downward curve of his lips, “I suppose you are seeking fresh blood, are you not?”
Setting his quill down across the lip of his inkwell, Carmo withdrew a small, slender knife from wherever it was he stored things within his robe. “I am.” Without any ceremony – a clear indication that this was neither religious practice nor the first time he’d made this exact, investigative cut – he pressed the blade against the smooth, slightly paler skin of one of Mathias’ scars, following the long since healed cut exactly, stopping about a third of the way. Warm fingers gently squeezed either side of the small incision – Mathias made a point to draw in a sharp breath through his teeth, as he’d seen countless others do during his trips to the chapels –, and, soon enough, a dark red trickle escaped from the edges of the cut.
Carmo released his hold on Mathias’ wrist, his fingers finding their way to his own lips as he contemplatively licked the blood from them. Mathias raised a brow, carefully resting his elbow on his chair’s armrest to avoid staining the expensive wood with his now trickling wound. “Is it wise to ingest that which might be infected?”
For the first time, Carmo smiled. It was distant, but it was a show of genuine emotion – an acknowledgement of a granite façade set aside or at least shifted. “You have answered all my prior questions and now submitted willingly to my more… visceral investigations,” Humanity verified, he picked up the cup of tea and took a long and savouring draught. A low “Mmm.” escaped from his chest as he set it back down upon the saucer, a far more assertive clack elicited from the impact than Mathias’ more gentle touch. “You are no more a creature of the creep than I.”
“I am glad to hear it, Catechist.” Mathias leaned back into his chair and pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket, lightly dabbing at his fresh cut and regarding Carmo with a clear display of unfettered curiosity. “Would it not be simpler to begin with the drawing of blood?” Not wanting to give himself away as someone who knew full well the nature of the changlings, as he drew his cup to his lips again, he paused and raised one of his brows. “I have heard rumours they… ooze.”
Shaking his head with a tired sigh, Carmo ran the tip of his middle finger around the lip of his own teacup. “So they say.” He nodded toward the bread and oils that sat upon a small plate in the centre of the table between them, and Mathias returned a polite gesture that they were as much in place for consumption as decoration. Dipping the pale, greyish bread into the rich, syrupy golden glimmer of the oil, Carmo popped the morsel into his mouth and chewed steadily for a few trills before he drew another liberal sip of his tea. “I have been visiting homes for the past twenty breaks, and, so far, not a single… creature.”
Both brows raised, Mathias added a tint of praise to his voice. “Congratulations, Catechist.”
Carmo’s lips turned a wry grin as he reached for more bread. “Carmo. Please.”
“Carmo.”
He held the bread between his thumb and forefinger as if he were studying it, though his gaze had taken on a distant gleam. “I am… gladdened that I have yet to come across one of them. Yet…” He shook his head, curls bouncing, and turned to settle his dark-eyed gaze upon Mathias’ bright one. “So many people are frightened. Angry.”
“How so?” Mathias had seen firsthand the fear but not so much the anger.
Letting out a breath through his nose, the bread remained between his fingers, forgotten in the wake of a weary man unburdening his frustrations. “The last woman I visited – investigated – she accused me of being a… a ‘changling’ myself. I was forced to restrain her and all the while she spat and screamed.”
Though he didn’t say anything, Mathias widened his eyes in what he imaged was a display of both sympathy and surprise as he sipped from his cup.
“Many others, different stories but all fueled by that same poorly placed rage.” Carmo moved to rub his eyes but paused as he realized he was still holding the bit of bread. Popping that into his mouth with a soft sigh, he instead shook his head yet again. “You cannot know how much I appreciate both your cooperation and civility.” His smile shone warm and grateful beneath the bags of his eyes and worn rumble of his voice. “Thank you, Mathias.”
“Of course, Cate- Carmo. It is both my pleasure and my duty, as a follower of the Wounded God.” He returned a smile of his own, though it didn’t reach his eyes – it never did. “If you would like,” he continued, setting his now empty cup down upon his saucer with a delicate enough touch it made nearly no noise at all, “You are welcome to say for supper. Rest your legs and your mind.”
For a moment, Carmo’s eyes seemed to lighten with longing, but in the next, they hardened with the finality of decision. “That is very kind of you, Mathias, but I… I should be going now. There are many more homes that I am expected to visit.” As he spoke, he rose from his seat, brushing off the crumbs from his robe before gathering up everything he’d removed from it earlier, storing all the items away with a practised hand and minimal waste of movement. “Perhaps another time.” His smile returned, this time almost playful, though Mathias hardly noticed it. “If the offer still stands, of course.”
“I cannot imagine why it would not.”
As he shut the door in the wake of the Tribunal’s departure, Mathias lingered in place, staring down at his own slippers. Either there were fewer changlings than he’d expected, or there were those who were able to maintain far more intricate disguises. He supposed either was possible and while he’d lived in Quacia his entire life, he didn’t know enough about the specifics of what the creep was capable of to make an educated guess as to what was probable.
Meaning, of course, that though it might not be likely, anyone in the city could be an imposter. An agent of the Green.
How exciting.
