02-02-2018, 01:46 PM
(This post was last modified: 03-29-2018, 01:28 PM by The Humble Sage.)
"What," I ask, convinced that I must be mistaken about what I believe I've just heard, " Did you say to me?"
"I'm certain I expressed myself quite clearly," replies Chatterly, infuriatingly composed. Everything about him irritates me: from his black shirt fastened with stupid little gold hooks to his shiny black leather gloves, to his gray, slicked back hair and his pointed chin. "His Grace the Duke has barred you from entering the grounds of Harnburg Castle."
We're sitting in the back room of a tavern in the town of Harnburg, a velvet-curtained wooden box with hardwood tables and leather chairs not one hundred meters from the outer walls of the edifice in question. The air reeks of the scented smoke from the oil-lamp on the wall, filthy woodwork and subtle poison. The lamp's flickering yellow flame sets radiant reflections rippling across my scales like liquid gold as I surge to my feet, knocking my chair to the ground. I'm literally trembling, my gleaming hands shaking as I lean forward, gripping the edge of the table so hard that the wood buckles and cracks beneath my clawed fingers.
That anyone would dare...!
My first impulse is to kill Chatterly, and I very nearly act on it. Golden lightning sparks in my throat and races across my horns, buzzing against my scalp and setting my hair on-end. A writhing orange corona of cosmic power wreathes my forearms, and the corners of the table snap off and turn to ash in my hands, adding a puff of wood-smoke to the olfactory landscape.
The only thing that stops me from tearing the Duke's agent apart is the cloying suspicion that that's exactly what the man is expecting me to try to do. I know he's been plotting against me; I know he knows what I am! He wouldn't deliver news like this without some manner of safety-net in place, and after my experience with Mothra I'm loathe to dismiss his potential as a threat.
If he showed even a hint of nervousness I'd probably slaughter him regardless, but he hasn't moved from his seat. Chatterly just sits there, watching me with what appears to be only mild interest!
"What," I rumble, "Makes any of you think you can decide where I do and do not go? I'm not one of your pathetic human thugs, Chatterly! If I desire entry to Harnburg Castle, who is going to stop me? Cutter? Violent Angus? You?"
He just smiles. I grab the damaged table and flip it sidelong, the strength of my peerless golden arm sending it sailing through the curtains of our private booth, tearing them off their mounting as it bangs and bounces down the hall outside and into the tavern proper. There's a brief commotion of shouts, screams, and the sound of breaking furniture, followed by hushed conversation and a lot of groaning. Nobody seems eager to investigate.
"You've also been invited to a formal party," Chatterly says, ignoring my question - and my outburst - completely.
I stare at him in puzzled suspicion, the violent momentum of my enraged thoughts abruptly arrested by this sudden nonsense. The tides of power rolling across my body ebb and fizzle.
"... explain."
He crosses his legs, folding his hands in his lap. His topmost boot begins to bob idly up and down as he leans back in his chair. "It's simple, my friend. Although the Duke has banned you from the castle - an edict which is, in fact, enforceable - that doesn't mean he wishes to terminate your employment. Far from it - a Gala is to be held in your honor at his Grace's country house."
I try to reconcile this information, outrage at the Duke's blasphemous presumption still pinwheeling across my thoughts. I can feel my hideous hominid countenance contort with the effort.
"You were exiled from the castle for killing servants," Chatterly provides. "As I've told you previously, his Grace the Duke is not a fool; Even in the absence of evidence, your culpability was obvious. However your service to Harnburg has, in other respects, been exemplary. The next phase of our operations will bring you into a far more active role, and the Duke desires that your formal introduction to representatives of the other outerlying duchies should happen before then."
His tone is almost jovial.
I turn the idea over in my mind. A gala. It's such a strange, bright little word, and such a bizarre concept: yet another aspect of mammalian social posturing. Humans insist on making elegant little games out of superiority and dominance, simple ideas which can be utterly mastered through overt displays of strength.
... or so I thought. On Chatterly, it's rarely worked the way its supposed to, and I'm beginning to understand that the threat of strength concealed can be just as potent; That simple insight explains a lot about how these people behave.
"I'm certain I expressed myself quite clearly," replies Chatterly, infuriatingly composed. Everything about him irritates me: from his black shirt fastened with stupid little gold hooks to his shiny black leather gloves, to his gray, slicked back hair and his pointed chin. "His Grace the Duke has barred you from entering the grounds of Harnburg Castle."
We're sitting in the back room of a tavern in the town of Harnburg, a velvet-curtained wooden box with hardwood tables and leather chairs not one hundred meters from the outer walls of the edifice in question. The air reeks of the scented smoke from the oil-lamp on the wall, filthy woodwork and subtle poison. The lamp's flickering yellow flame sets radiant reflections rippling across my scales like liquid gold as I surge to my feet, knocking my chair to the ground. I'm literally trembling, my gleaming hands shaking as I lean forward, gripping the edge of the table so hard that the wood buckles and cracks beneath my clawed fingers.
That anyone would dare...!
My first impulse is to kill Chatterly, and I very nearly act on it. Golden lightning sparks in my throat and races across my horns, buzzing against my scalp and setting my hair on-end. A writhing orange corona of cosmic power wreathes my forearms, and the corners of the table snap off and turn to ash in my hands, adding a puff of wood-smoke to the olfactory landscape.
The only thing that stops me from tearing the Duke's agent apart is the cloying suspicion that that's exactly what the man is expecting me to try to do. I know he's been plotting against me; I know he knows what I am! He wouldn't deliver news like this without some manner of safety-net in place, and after my experience with Mothra I'm loathe to dismiss his potential as a threat.
If he showed even a hint of nervousness I'd probably slaughter him regardless, but he hasn't moved from his seat. Chatterly just sits there, watching me with what appears to be only mild interest!
"What," I rumble, "Makes any of you think you can decide where I do and do not go? I'm not one of your pathetic human thugs, Chatterly! If I desire entry to Harnburg Castle, who is going to stop me? Cutter? Violent Angus? You?"
He just smiles. I grab the damaged table and flip it sidelong, the strength of my peerless golden arm sending it sailing through the curtains of our private booth, tearing them off their mounting as it bangs and bounces down the hall outside and into the tavern proper. There's a brief commotion of shouts, screams, and the sound of breaking furniture, followed by hushed conversation and a lot of groaning. Nobody seems eager to investigate.
"You've also been invited to a formal party," Chatterly says, ignoring my question - and my outburst - completely.
I stare at him in puzzled suspicion, the violent momentum of my enraged thoughts abruptly arrested by this sudden nonsense. The tides of power rolling across my body ebb and fizzle.
"... explain."
He crosses his legs, folding his hands in his lap. His topmost boot begins to bob idly up and down as he leans back in his chair. "It's simple, my friend. Although the Duke has banned you from the castle - an edict which is, in fact, enforceable - that doesn't mean he wishes to terminate your employment. Far from it - a Gala is to be held in your honor at his Grace's country house."
I try to reconcile this information, outrage at the Duke's blasphemous presumption still pinwheeling across my thoughts. I can feel my hideous hominid countenance contort with the effort.
"You were exiled from the castle for killing servants," Chatterly provides. "As I've told you previously, his Grace the Duke is not a fool; Even in the absence of evidence, your culpability was obvious. However your service to Harnburg has, in other respects, been exemplary. The next phase of our operations will bring you into a far more active role, and the Duke desires that your formal introduction to representatives of the other outerlying duchies should happen before then."
His tone is almost jovial.
I turn the idea over in my mind. A gala. It's such a strange, bright little word, and such a bizarre concept: yet another aspect of mammalian social posturing. Humans insist on making elegant little games out of superiority and dominance, simple ideas which can be utterly mastered through overt displays of strength.
... or so I thought. On Chatterly, it's rarely worked the way its supposed to, and I'm beginning to understand that the threat of strength concealed can be just as potent; That simple insight explains a lot about how these people behave.