Jone nods, realizes a nod can't actually be seen, and explains: "Yes. Videreyn has stone walls meant to bastion their crooked city, but the wood doors were rotten even last year. If better minds-- the sort I have never seen housed in that city-- have seen them replaced, a backup plan will be required."
She muses on that, on the Videreyn of old, on what it used to mean.
"The sewers can be traversed, but not in all this metal. Mark me: I do not complain, only speak of practicality."
“You would have us sneak in like rats.” He hardly balks at the suggestion, stern as his voice remains, but there is a weighty quality to his response that demands she rise to defend her own strategy, else it be cast aside.
"Shame is a very fine thing," Jone says, voice even. "With all my life to work for it, I'll have earned a handful when I'm dead."
Moving right along, there's a map of Videreyn on the interior walls of the cruiser. "We ought to be able to spot if the doors have been fixed from here." She taps the map.
“I will notify the captain, so that he may adequately adjust our course.”
Said even as he strides away, trusting his own helmet-snared voice to carry over the sound of humming engines. It takes but a moment, plenty of time for her to further study the map— or to mull over her own thoughts, however relevant they may or may not be.
When he returns, it is though he'd never left.
“What we need concern ourselves with is forestalling any lingering defenses. Our secondary forces already gather to cut supply lines, this will be no true difficulty— for us, however, we need strike quickly and with force, and leave lasting damage as a stain on their edifices.
Fire. Structural weakness. Any opportunity to sound the image of security, you and I will take. They must know fear. That a glancing blow struck across their bow from Archades is enough to sink their fleet, should we choose a fully backed engagement in days to come.”
"Then we destroy the doors, even if they're new." She says, a voice of new inspiration echoing from her helm. "They love their walls. We'll destroy its weakness for the farce it is."
Does she sound a little bitter? Whatever, it's not important.
A little yes, but bitterness suits a Judge Magister. As does anger, vengeance, wrath, contempt: Gabranth affords her what she is owed, and with a turn of his helm towards the map, decides at last that he is in full agreement. No further tests, no further trials.
“We will take our entrance through the sewers, a preliminary mission. In disguise, we shall not sully the name of Archades or her agents— and thus slipped past their defenses, weaken supports as necessary.”
To that end, he pulls his own helm away with little ceremony or hesitation, letting its weight sit heavy against gloved palms.
“If this is done in advance, if we make them vulnerable before our full assault, it would do much to sicken their resolve, do you not agree?”
She stares at his face for a moment, before remembering herself. Her helm comes off as well. "We'll both look close enough to natives to count, but I cannot go by Jone, who is dead. Agnes, then."
She could have chosen to go by a different name, as a Judge, but she wanted the horror of it. Jone ael Derne had died rather publicly in the fall of Fedlhelm; she wanted her name to be a warning, a ghost risen from Archadian magics.
In reality, it was medicine, better medicine than Fedlhelm could ever afford, and a promise of undying loyalty.
"Though I doubt we'll meet many in the sewers, it's a fair possibility to plan for."
“Noted. I’ve no foresight enough to predict what may be found once we traverse far enough in to begin scouring for key supports.”
He fixes his stare on her unmasked expression, rare a thing as it is to witness beyond meetings spent rigid in the shadow of Emperor Gramis’ lofty desk. A temporary indulgence.
“You’ve done well to consider such subtleties.”
Is that genuine praise? It certainly does indeed sound of it.
"This... pit," she says, marks herself, and begins again. Her voice is not calmer, just more contained. "Videreyn was a sister city to where I was crafted."
She won't call it a city, a town, or an independent state. It's nothing anymore. "I'd be a fool not to know its whims."
Yes, she heard praise. She won't consider it hers until this job is done.
Her eyes are only on the map, and she reaches up to change the display, plotting a course through the sewers. "If we emerge here, there will be time to arm ourselves and arrive behind the doors, seemingly of nowhere. A shock and a wound, all at once."
He measures her expression for a silent moment, tugging at the ties to his cloak.
“I intend for more.” Whether that spares her anguish or declares potential for further still, is something he cannot conceivably predict— and does not desire to.
“When we've seen to the door's structural supports, we shall venture shallowly into the city itself, in order to evaluate where we might cause the most amount of collateral, preliminary damage. Pain is necessary, Agnes.”
Jone nods, her lip curling in a crooked smile when he calls her Agnes. A promise of her mother. She will never be that holy.
"Then we ought to go north-west, toward the merchant quarter. It will buckle their industry, what little they have, and focus our energies on those who have called for this insurrection, desiring for ever more profits. They sleep above their shops, though the things are more mansion than stall."
“Shed what remains of your armor. We travel light.”
An order, this time. Impatient, already chomping at the bit to begin their work: he’s only ever been as resolute as he needs to be at any given moment.
And they do travel light:
The sewers run deep, their network complex— They wear simple traveling leathers, a pair of linen cloaks rucked up beneath Gabranth's arm for the inevitability of their own city arrival, neither of Archadian make, kept spare within transport for such need. By the time they wade through clearer waters run by aqueductine systems, night has already fallen, the city quiet with sleep.
"We ought seek rest. Night watch in finer merchant quarters would make a farce of our own efforts." He holds out a cloak to her, shaking it loose in offering.
Jone has lost the teeth needed for bitter words in the meanwhile. She savors the future, cutting down fat merchants who wasted the potential of states that wished to be free. The image succors her while she bides her time, making her way through clammy dungeons. There people were sold out not by Archadia, as they so feared, but by their own. Archadia's revenge-- and it is that-- on their behalf will almost be sweet.
But mostly, it will be painful.
The proffered cloak breaks Jone from her reverence. It takes her a moment longer than it ought, considering it, before she takes the thing to wrap about herself.
"Thank you," she says out of habit, though she's sure he'll answer with it is duty or some other nonsense. Maybe one day, Jone will become as she dreams, an automaton who functions only on protocol, sickened memories forgotten, disappointment displaced, until she is content only with necessity. Until then, it's all rather silly, isn't it? "I am sorry for whatever hit this causes your dignity to suffer. You will regain it; I am sure."
He has been endured to this for so much longer. Perhaps those dreams of hers are not impossible to grasp, but the toll of them—
"It is nothing to be worried over." He counters, dusting out his own cloak before fitting it high across his shoulders. Something similar to the drape he'd worn as a boy, though that knowledge does nothing to elicit a response in him now as he strides forward in search of lamplight so late in the evening.
Instead it is his own glance towards her that seems to be searching for something. The faintest flicker of uncertainty— or sorrow.
"How fare you?"
Here, now, in the deep shadow of their ruinous work.
Jone does her best not to sneer. Cold anger always suited her better. "I hunger for its conclusion. Not from weariness," she says quickly, sharply, turning to face him. "I want to see their faces, when their petty fears are confirmed."
Will he think that too personal? He seems a creature of detachment. Should she care at all? Probably. But her soul is a pyre, and she wishes it to burn high, so it may for once be marked and respected.
“You shall have it. Let that still your rage for now.”
It doesn’t offend him, doesn’t inspire a lack of faith or confidence in her ability to perform: whatever enmity lives white-hot within her bones is her right to possess, he of all people would argue no less.
But it must have its place.
He finds a dismal, abandoned little building at the edge of a narrow side street, rotted door falling off its hinges, open and useless. He pushes it aside, making one preliminary course through its empty expanse before deciding it’ll suit until morning.
“There is no bed nor mattress to spare.” Not even a meager frame, but disciplined as they are, he imagines they will persist the night with little trouble.
Jone nods. When they are inside, she drops her voice low, "we are hoping to find a posting with the Clucarin in the morning, if anyone asks." She doubts anyone will ask. She doubts anyone will look at Gabranth and think conversation with him is safe.
He’d intended to offer his own service as first watch, and her swifter offer prompts a narrow twitching of his lip. Something imperceptible in the darkness, though he spares no lingering thought for it.
Instead he finds some miserable, cold corner to press his back into, upright in his seating, and— drawing his thin cloak around his shoulders— lets his eyes drift shut after a moment or two.
The watch makes her weary. She had thought she could do it all alone, but over her life she has thought she could many things, many times. The world exists to prove you wrong. That's why it has gravity.
Yet she cannot bear the thought of waking Gabranth, singularly beautiful in his sleep. He looks like a painting, one breathing slowly, face a memory of anger. She had not known what to think of him at first, and for some time, until he covered himself in darkness thus. She thinks she would die for him, now. It would uphold her oath. A thing beautiful for its impossibility, harsh in its touch; what is he, if not Archades?
Still, she's grateful when his eyes flicker awake.
"Allow me a moment's rest," she says quietly. "Five minutes, no more, and we may move on."
They have time to spare. Their forces lie in masked wait, small enough an automated contingent— part of Archadia's deadliest strength, its peerless fleet, its ability to strike without sight or warning— to alert no one until he gives signal. He grants her a nod as he rises, studying the depth of the hollows beneath her eyes in a quiet calculation of how much rest he imagines she'll need to perform adequately in battle.
A number he keeps to himself, once concluded.
"As you would." He says, inhaling crisp morning air against a broken sill.
And leaves her to sleep for as many hours as her body would take on its own.
Jone's sleep is not the repose Gabranth had. She twitches on the floor, jerks, always looking as though she is about to wake, but doesn't. It is all rather quiet; she learned long ago that loud sleepers were unfavored children. It lasts an hour before she kicks herself awake, blinking away confusion.
She knows she overslept. Gabranth was supposed to wake her. So this was his choice? So be it.
She stands quickly, dusting dirt from herself, she stands. "Right," she says, voice hoarse from sleep, "our armor, then the doors."
Jone can just barely see it from here, but those tall and looming fixtures are as rotted as ever.
He is watching her, not the horizon, when she rouses— the moment her eyes begin to twitch that attention rerouted towards streets now clotted with sunlight and distant, passing figures, none of them seemingly attentive in regards to a sunken section of housing still cast in deep shadow.
"No." He counters, lifting one gloved hand to still her eagerness.
She dips her head in deference to his seniority-- or perhaps simply his unquestionable grandness. She notices she doesn't feel embarrassed when he disagrees with her, or angry, anymore. Just calmed, knowing she's being allowed to see a better way to accomplish their goals.
Their goals. Archades' goals. Maybe she isn't so alone, anymore.
“To eat.” He says, knowing full well by now that she’ll cede to his every command, regardless of their nature. Still, he explains himself anyway, stretching out through his shoulders when he stands— inhaling once to shake off idle weariness.
“If we are to fight, I intend for us to be at our best. And I’ll hear no argument against my ruling.”
The smallest of laughs escapes her. She holds up both hands. "Wouldn't dream of it, m- sir." Her old accent sneaks through in her comfort, and she smacks it down as quickly as possible.
She searches their pack for rations, biting into some jerky. She offers him the same, jerky and pickled greens, a small skin of water.
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i try, i try.
She muses on that, on the Videreyn of old, on what it used to mean.
"The sewers can be traversed, but not in all this metal. Mark me: I do not complain, only speak of practicality."
no subject
“It is undignified.”
Unfitting. Yet...practical.
no subject
Moving right along, there's a map of Videreyn on the interior walls of the cruiser. "We ought to be able to spot if the doors have been fixed from here." She taps the map.
no subject
Said even as he strides away, trusting his own helmet-snared voice to carry over the sound of humming engines. It takes but a moment, plenty of time for her to further study the map— or to mull over her own thoughts, however relevant they may or may not be.
When he returns, it is though he'd never left.
“What we need concern ourselves with is forestalling any lingering defenses. Our secondary forces already gather to cut supply lines, this will be no true difficulty— for us, however, we need strike quickly and with force, and leave lasting damage as a stain on their edifices.
Fire. Structural weakness. Any opportunity to sound the image of security, you and I will take. They must know fear. That a glancing blow struck across their bow from Archades is enough to sink their fleet, should we choose a fully backed engagement in days to come.”
no subject
Does she sound a little bitter? Whatever, it's not important.
no subject
“We will take our entrance through the sewers, a preliminary mission. In disguise, we shall not sully the name of Archades or her agents— and thus slipped past their defenses, weaken supports as necessary.”
To that end, he pulls his own helm away with little ceremony or hesitation, letting its weight sit heavy against gloved palms.
“If this is done in advance, if we make them vulnerable before our full assault, it would do much to sicken their resolve, do you not agree?”
no subject
She could have chosen to go by a different name, as a Judge, but she wanted the horror of it. Jone ael Derne had died rather publicly in the fall of Fedlhelm; she wanted her name to be a warning, a ghost risen from Archadian magics.
In reality, it was medicine, better medicine than Fedlhelm could ever afford, and a promise of undying loyalty.
"Though I doubt we'll meet many in the sewers, it's a fair possibility to plan for."
no subject
He fixes his stare on her unmasked expression, rare a thing as it is to witness beyond meetings spent rigid in the shadow of Emperor Gramis’ lofty desk. A temporary indulgence.
“You’ve done well to consider such subtleties.”
Is that genuine praise? It certainly does indeed sound of it.
no subject
She won't call it a city, a town, or an independent state. It's nothing anymore. "I'd be a fool not to know its whims."
Yes, she heard praise. She won't consider it hers until this job is done.
Her eyes are only on the map, and she reaches up to change the display, plotting a course through the sewers. "If we emerge here, there will be time to arm ourselves and arrive behind the doors, seemingly of nowhere. A shock and a wound, all at once."
no subject
“I intend for more.” Whether that spares her anguish or declares potential for further still, is something he cannot conceivably predict— and does not desire to.
“When we've seen to the door's structural supports, we shall venture shallowly into the city itself, in order to evaluate where we might cause the most amount of collateral, preliminary damage. Pain is necessary, Agnes.”
no subject
"Then we ought to go north-west, toward the merchant quarter. It will buckle their industry, what little they have, and focus our energies on those who have called for this insurrection, desiring for ever more profits. They sleep above their shops, though the things are more mansion than stall."
no subject
An order, this time. Impatient, already chomping at the bit to begin their work: he’s only ever been as resolute as he needs to be at any given moment.
And they do travel light:
The sewers run deep, their network complex— They wear simple traveling leathers, a pair of linen cloaks rucked up beneath Gabranth's arm for the inevitability of their own city arrival, neither of Archadian make, kept spare within transport for such need. By the time they wade through clearer waters run by aqueductine systems, night has already fallen, the city quiet with sleep.
"We ought seek rest. Night watch in finer merchant quarters would make a farce of our own efforts." He holds out a cloak to her, shaking it loose in offering.
no subject
But mostly, it will be painful.
The proffered cloak breaks Jone from her reverence. It takes her a moment longer than it ought, considering it, before she takes the thing to wrap about herself.
"Thank you," she says out of habit, though she's sure he'll answer with it is duty or some other nonsense. Maybe one day, Jone will become as she dreams, an automaton who functions only on protocol, sickened memories forgotten, disappointment displaced, until she is content only with necessity. Until then, it's all rather silly, isn't it? "I am sorry for whatever hit this causes your dignity to suffer. You will regain it; I am sure."
no subject
"It is nothing to be worried over." He counters, dusting out his own cloak before fitting it high across his shoulders. Something similar to the drape he'd worn as a boy, though that knowledge does nothing to elicit a response in him now as he strides forward in search of lamplight so late in the evening.
Instead it is his own glance towards her that seems to be searching for something. The faintest flicker of uncertainty— or sorrow.
"How fare you?"
Here, now, in the deep shadow of their ruinous work.
no subject
Will he think that too personal? He seems a creature of detachment. Should she care at all? Probably. But her soul is a pyre, and she wishes it to burn high, so it may for once be marked and respected.
She will never be the docile child they wanted.
no subject
It doesn’t offend him, doesn’t inspire a lack of faith or confidence in her ability to perform: whatever enmity lives white-hot within her bones is her right to possess, he of all people would argue no less.
But it must have its place.
He finds a dismal, abandoned little building at the edge of a narrow side street, rotted door falling off its hinges, open and useless. He pushes it aside, making one preliminary course through its empty expanse before deciding it’ll suit until morning.
“There is no bed nor mattress to spare.” Not even a meager frame, but disciplined as they are, he imagines they will persist the night with little trouble.
no subject
"I will take first watch."
no subject
Instead he finds some miserable, cold corner to press his back into, upright in his seating, and— drawing his thin cloak around his shoulders— lets his eyes drift shut after a moment or two.
And wakes sometime just before dawn.
no subject
Yet she cannot bear the thought of waking Gabranth, singularly beautiful in his sleep. He looks like a painting, one breathing slowly, face a memory of anger. She had not known what to think of him at first, and for some time, until he covered himself in darkness thus. She thinks she would die for him, now. It would uphold her oath. A thing beautiful for its impossibility, harsh in its touch; what is he, if not Archades?
Still, she's grateful when his eyes flicker awake.
"Allow me a moment's rest," she says quietly. "Five minutes, no more, and we may move on."
no subject
A number he keeps to himself, once concluded.
"As you would." He says, inhaling crisp morning air against a broken sill.
And leaves her to sleep for as many hours as her body would take on its own.
no subject
She knows she overslept. Gabranth was supposed to wake her. So this was his choice? So be it.
She stands quickly, dusting dirt from herself, she stands. "Right," she says, voice hoarse from sleep, "our armor, then the doors."
Jone can just barely see it from here, but those tall and looming fixtures are as rotted as ever.
no subject
"No." He counters, lifting one gloved hand to still her eagerness.
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Their goals. Archades' goals. Maybe she isn't so alone, anymore.
"What plan have you now?"
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“If we are to fight, I intend for us to be at our best. And I’ll hear no argument against my ruling.”
no subject
She searches their pack for rations, biting into some jerky. She offers him the same, jerky and pickled greens, a small skin of water.
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battles you to the death in a fight to never sleep
glad (????) our insomnia synced up.
Go team crippling exhaustion
collapses.
perishes but strongly and coolly
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