05-19-2017, 11:59 PM
Compared to my last errand for Harnburg, the journey to the Western forests takes almost no time at all.
After some brief parting words with the Duke, Chatterly ushers me out through the castle's corridors and halls. It's much busier during the day - we pass servants rushing to their various, tasks and armsmen standing guard, messengers carrying packages - and, on one fascinating occasion, a fair-skinned girl in a green silk dress, with flowers woven in her auburn hair. She's accompanied by finely appointed but slightly-less-expensive looking handmaidens. A relative of the Duke, perhaps? She's clearly privileged. What role does she play in this intricate social web?
Her entire retinue stares openly at me as we pass. Interesting - other than the girl who fetched me from my room, the servants and guards I've encountered within the castle grounds have restrained their wonder at my unbridled glory to furtive glances and lingering looks.
Our route takes us through passages that grow progressively less extravagant (a word that almost sneers), and as we go, I question Chatterly about the role and purpose of everyone we see. He answers with phlegmatic patience, only deflecting when I ask about the girl in green, explaining instead the function of her entourage - an idea which is fascinating enough to distract me for some time. The lengths to which these mammals go to elevate those they consider important are laughable - in the end, after all, they're all dust beneath my feet - but the illusions woven by circumstance and choice are so multifaceted that I can't help but wonder at the sheer variety. Luke Darby and these people live less than a day's walk from each other, yet their deeply connected worlds seem, at a glance, entirely separate.
Eventually, we leave the building through a hidden route in the back of the kitchens - for all intents and purposes a much more spacious, cleaner version of what I saw at the inn back in Holmwood. From there we pass through a dark, damp passage constructed of heavy brick, and emerge via staircase from a heavy trapdoor. A layer of needles and dirt tumbles from the edges of the metal slab as Chatterly pushes it back, revealing our destination - the forest around the lake's Southern edge, a flat landscape of widely-spaced pine-trees. The air here is cool, the aroma fresh and flammable.
Freed from the distractions of the castle interior , I immediately ask him again about the girl in the green dress.
Chatterly is silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. I feel a twinge of delight at my increasing ability to parse his motives.
"That was the Lady Isolda van Harnburg - the Duke's niece. I'd advise you, as your appointed handler and also purely in the spirit of friendly advice, not to go anywhere near her."
"If I want your advice I'll demand it. I want to know more about her. How does she fit into the structure of this valley? What's her role in your politics, and elsewhere? Where does she come from? What does she want?"
Chatterly puts up the hood of his velvet cloak, covering his slicked-back hair and casting his face in shadow. "You want to know more about everybody, Ghidorah - don't think I haven't noticed. It's a very... unusual trait. Information is more than half of my job, but your curiosity seems almost innocent. And yet, every time you ask me a question I feel as though by answering I'm digging one more spadeful of earth from my own grave."
Standing amid a carpet of sun-dappled pine-needles, he turns to face me squarely, staring out from the shadows of his hood, and for the first time I notice that his eyes are as grey as his hair. "I wonder why that is."
His insight surprises me. Does he suspect why I'm really here? Impossible. Still, I may have to do away with him sooner than I'd expected - which makes learning about him all the more urgent.
"It occurs to me," I tell him, "that I still don't know much about you, Chatterly. I'll stay away from Isolda - but in return you have to tell me about yourself."
Of course, I have no intention of honoring any such agreement - but if it gets him to talk, all the better.
He turns away from me, setting off through the forest. "I'll tell you some things," he says. I fall into step at his side, feeling the satisfying crunch of the dry needles and twigs beneath my feet. These woods are a tinderbox - a detail I'll need to keep in mind for later.
"You already know that I'm an agent of the Duke, and you've likely inferred that he trusts me implicitly. I'm no simple errand boy - rather, I am his grace's primary intelligencier. This, also, you could infer from information you already have."
"Yes," I hiss. "I know what you do, Chatterly. But why do you do it?"
"Where I come from is nobody's business but my own. As for why - you could say it's a higher calling. There are certain unpleasant jobs that must be done in order for sane men to lead, and society to prosper under their guidance. I do them, and I find it quite fulfilling - though the gold, rich food, and fine clothes don't hurt either."
The ground begins to turn rocky as the trees thin, throwing up great crimson boulders as we approach the southern cliff-face. There's a steep stairway carved into the rock, zig-zagging (an illustrative but profoundly stupid expression) up the side of the valley, complete with a rope handrail secured by rusted metal studs. Chatterly mounts the steps, climbing rapidly, the staccato clack of his boots surprisingly soft against the stones.
"So you have no dreams?" I ask, incredulous. "No imagined shining future?"
Chatterly releases a cold chuckle. "Nobody has ever asked me that before," He says, between breaths. We're halfway up the cliffs already, and though he hasn't slowed his pace I can hear the effort in his voice. "I'm not so naive as to dream of peace, but I suppose I wouldn't mind a Kingdom with fewer fools among the peerage. That's a large part of why I've cast my lot with his grace. The Duke, despite his affectations, is not a fool."
After some brief parting words with the Duke, Chatterly ushers me out through the castle's corridors and halls. It's much busier during the day - we pass servants rushing to their various, tasks and armsmen standing guard, messengers carrying packages - and, on one fascinating occasion, a fair-skinned girl in a green silk dress, with flowers woven in her auburn hair. She's accompanied by finely appointed but slightly-less-expensive looking handmaidens. A relative of the Duke, perhaps? She's clearly privileged. What role does she play in this intricate social web?
Her entire retinue stares openly at me as we pass. Interesting - other than the girl who fetched me from my room, the servants and guards I've encountered within the castle grounds have restrained their wonder at my unbridled glory to furtive glances and lingering looks.
Our route takes us through passages that grow progressively less extravagant (a word that almost sneers), and as we go, I question Chatterly about the role and purpose of everyone we see. He answers with phlegmatic patience, only deflecting when I ask about the girl in green, explaining instead the function of her entourage - an idea which is fascinating enough to distract me for some time. The lengths to which these mammals go to elevate those they consider important are laughable - in the end, after all, they're all dust beneath my feet - but the illusions woven by circumstance and choice are so multifaceted that I can't help but wonder at the sheer variety. Luke Darby and these people live less than a day's walk from each other, yet their deeply connected worlds seem, at a glance, entirely separate.
Eventually, we leave the building through a hidden route in the back of the kitchens - for all intents and purposes a much more spacious, cleaner version of what I saw at the inn back in Holmwood. From there we pass through a dark, damp passage constructed of heavy brick, and emerge via staircase from a heavy trapdoor. A layer of needles and dirt tumbles from the edges of the metal slab as Chatterly pushes it back, revealing our destination - the forest around the lake's Southern edge, a flat landscape of widely-spaced pine-trees. The air here is cool, the aroma fresh and flammable.
Freed from the distractions of the castle interior , I immediately ask him again about the girl in the green dress.
Chatterly is silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. I feel a twinge of delight at my increasing ability to parse his motives.
"That was the Lady Isolda van Harnburg - the Duke's niece. I'd advise you, as your appointed handler and also purely in the spirit of friendly advice, not to go anywhere near her."
"If I want your advice I'll demand it. I want to know more about her. How does she fit into the structure of this valley? What's her role in your politics, and elsewhere? Where does she come from? What does she want?"
Chatterly puts up the hood of his velvet cloak, covering his slicked-back hair and casting his face in shadow. "You want to know more about everybody, Ghidorah - don't think I haven't noticed. It's a very... unusual trait. Information is more than half of my job, but your curiosity seems almost innocent. And yet, every time you ask me a question I feel as though by answering I'm digging one more spadeful of earth from my own grave."
Standing amid a carpet of sun-dappled pine-needles, he turns to face me squarely, staring out from the shadows of his hood, and for the first time I notice that his eyes are as grey as his hair. "I wonder why that is."
His insight surprises me. Does he suspect why I'm really here? Impossible. Still, I may have to do away with him sooner than I'd expected - which makes learning about him all the more urgent.
"It occurs to me," I tell him, "that I still don't know much about you, Chatterly. I'll stay away from Isolda - but in return you have to tell me about yourself."
Of course, I have no intention of honoring any such agreement - but if it gets him to talk, all the better.
He turns away from me, setting off through the forest. "I'll tell you some things," he says. I fall into step at his side, feeling the satisfying crunch of the dry needles and twigs beneath my feet. These woods are a tinderbox - a detail I'll need to keep in mind for later.
"You already know that I'm an agent of the Duke, and you've likely inferred that he trusts me implicitly. I'm no simple errand boy - rather, I am his grace's primary intelligencier. This, also, you could infer from information you already have."
"Yes," I hiss. "I know what you do, Chatterly. But why do you do it?"
"Where I come from is nobody's business but my own. As for why - you could say it's a higher calling. There are certain unpleasant jobs that must be done in order for sane men to lead, and society to prosper under their guidance. I do them, and I find it quite fulfilling - though the gold, rich food, and fine clothes don't hurt either."
The ground begins to turn rocky as the trees thin, throwing up great crimson boulders as we approach the southern cliff-face. There's a steep stairway carved into the rock, zig-zagging (an illustrative but profoundly stupid expression) up the side of the valley, complete with a rope handrail secured by rusted metal studs. Chatterly mounts the steps, climbing rapidly, the staccato clack of his boots surprisingly soft against the stones.
"So you have no dreams?" I ask, incredulous. "No imagined shining future?"
Chatterly releases a cold chuckle. "Nobody has ever asked me that before," He says, between breaths. We're halfway up the cliffs already, and though he hasn't slowed his pace I can hear the effort in his voice. "I'm not so naive as to dream of peace, but I suppose I wouldn't mind a Kingdom with fewer fools among the peerage. That's a large part of why I've cast my lot with his grace. The Duke, despite his affectations, is not a fool."