Fireplace Whispers
THe early morning hours have Agrin up and irritated, his knee propped upon pillows as he's sitting before the fireplace of his study, drink poured and his mind racing. So many things have occurred, his brother deciding to make the war he has started personal by shooting him in the leg and kidnapping his 'daughter'.
The fire crackles, a knot exploding with a oud crack, a swirl of embers dancing up the chimney. The staff of the house, of late, silent, concerned, somber; the Young Lady, known to them, and if not precisely dear? THought of fondly, and the sting of her kidnapping has run deep, indeed.
Agrin grits his teeth as he shifts his leg again, pain burning beneath the bandages. It's hard to be comfortable, especially with the silent household and nervous servants. His own behavior hasn't been the best, verbally flaying Masha's serving woman for touching things in the young woman's room.
A log splits, creating a harsh crackle of wood; one of the logs was wet, it seems, and poorly chosen. Distant to Agrin's ears, perhaps down the hall a ways, a hushed murmur can be heard.
The Lord and Master of the Liberalis Estate frowns, having assumed everyone except the guards have gone to sleep. He shifts his leg off the pillow, hand reaching down to take his cane. Again, more sleeplessness haunting him, even bringing his favorite whore would not bring him to restful sleep. "What now?" he mutters under his breath.
THe words, themselves, impossible to make out; only the knowledge that there is a voice, it is quiet, and it is saying something. Behind the noble, there's an almost imperceptible tightening of the air, and then a knot explodes like gunfire, drowning out the whispering, one single word dancing on the edge of clarity. 'Chosen.'
The mark on his stomach begins to burn at the single word, his senses sharpening to listen for the word, free hand gripping the back of his chair as he holds himself up, the pain in his knee intense. "Yes, Mistress?"
Agrin's mark begins to itch, rippling over his stomach as from a pebble drpped into a still pool. Where before, it was the twisting of noise, turning comfortable babble into meaningless madness, this time is... different. One can almost see the waver in the air, as the rippling of the nobleman's mark becomes a spreading globe of.... silence. Stillness so loud, it turns the simple act of breathing into a deafening rasp. The fire subsides into a warm, heatless yellow light, the wine producing a tinny taste upon the back of the throat. --//We have seen the beast rise, Chosen. It lumbers ever closer. The southern winds carry the stink of fear, ambition. Our ears hear the blades of legions sharpen. A well-planted seed, my Chosen. It ripens with haste.//--
The nobleman brings his steadying hand to touch at the mark on his stomach and returns it to the back of the chair. "The people of Emberstrand believe me as simply a victim of the war with my injury, as well as my adopted ward kidnapped, Mistress. I've been asked to assist them in fighting off the Archadian foe by none other than your hated foe." He braces himself for punishment.
No punishment is forthcoming. For a while, the silence is pure and total, as though Shemhazai has simply left. --//A well-planted seed indeed, Chosen//-- is said, finally, and the mark upon Agrin's belly stills, the burning fading to a pleasant, glowing warmth. --//The Dead Bitch sees much, hears much, forgets all too quickly.//--
Agrin lets out a long breath that he didn't realize he had been holding, before continuing. "The Rozarrians have been set into motion. A week ago I sent a message by raven letting them know of the Archadian advance. They will begin marking within the month." His mind flickers to the message. 'The Lion has struck its prey with new claws.'
--//Our Chosen guides armies upon puppet strings,//-- the silence murmurs, the wine in the goblet fading to a rich, dark-honey color. --//We wait, then, to watch our Chosen bring them to the place where the fires will begin. When all of Ivalice is ash and murder, We shall be well pleased.//--
The nobleman nods, hiding a grimace as the pain flares again in his knee, bone grinding against bone. "That is my plan, Mistress. My brother had surprised me with his use of another weapon that will allow me to bring another side into this conflict. Anything that uses Mist will surely catch the attention of the Vieran tribes and bring them out of their overt neutrality."
--//A broken people, licking after the spoor of a broken god,//-- the silence echoes, the log in the fireplace splitting down the middle. --//Once, perhaps, the world turned upon their regard... but no more. They are no sport.//--
"Understood, Mistress," Agrin responds, his mind whirring, attempting to adapt and come up with a new plan in order to bring what he had been dubbing 'Mist Walker' armor to be of use in spreading fear and lies. His body aches, his knee attempting to buckle beneath him, and it forces the noble to sit in hs chair rather un gracefully. "Thus far, I have been able to build a rapport with your hated foe, as she believes I am simply a man who has had a hard time of life and who needs a friend to take tea with. She currently suspects nothing of my service."
--//Then you have done well, Chosen. Your dance upon the knife's edge amuses us. Have a care, that you do not fall, lest you cease to amuse.//--
"Of course, Mistress," Agrin responds sincerely, hand placed over his heart. His mind travels to their last converation. 'You serve to live'. It has echoed for some time, forcing his machinations into motion.
And with that touch of hand to heart, the silence collapses utterly, another knot bursting with force enough to scatter smoldering wood onto the floor, the wineglass cracking, from rim to stem, in a single, mostly-straight line.
Agrin feels his breath finally catch up with him, his throat parched. He reaches for the glass, and downs the wine in a single gulp, eyes only seeing the crack at the last moment. The noble swallows hard, his body trembling from the encounter with his Mistress.
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