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| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/EighthMovement|Eighth Movement]]
| + | #REDIRECT ADanceOfAngels |
| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/DanceOfAngels|A Dance of Angels]]
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| − | == Iron and Light ==
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| − | '''Iria: ''' Soldiers were on the march. Five-by-five, they walked in uneven step, their mismatched boots beating out against the flagstone like a patter of raindrops. Their uniforms were an odd assortment of clothing whose only similarity lay in colour, blue shirts with white sashes. The sashes, at least, all matched, having been cut and woven from the same scavenged curtains. Every single one of them seemed to carry a different weapon. Work tools, ancient family heirlooms that had no place on a battlefield of any kind, swords taken from storefronts that were as likely tin show pieces as they were masterworks of craftsmanship. Armor, if they had any at all, followed suit. Dark shields stolen from the corpses of the Black Cloaks were common. A breastplate here. A leather jerkin there. One figure marched improbably in full field plate, struggling to even stay upright.
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| − | Militia. Citizen-soldiers.
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| − | Officers in uniform followed along beside them, using raised voices and the occasional shove to try to put some semblance of order into the line. It was a vain struggle however. Even as Iria watched, a young woman nearly tripped over the shaft of the halberd carried by the man in front of her. She shoved him. He shoved back. They were at each others throats in an instant, though the officers were upon them even sooner, holding them back and breaking up the fight before it could begin. The two were likely former gang rivals, never expecting to run into one another here. That sort of thing had to be curbed swiftly. There was no place for that sort of rivalry in the Garrison. Even if they were volunteers, they were still soldiers.
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| − | ''Perhaps soldier was too strong a word. ''
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| − | Standing at the window of her new office, Iria watched them try to march through the plaza bellow, sipping at a glass of warm brandy. The Captain reflected ruefully on all that hand changed and that had yet to change. A fire blazed behind her, drafts of heat washing over her back. This office was far different than her old one. It had been donation by one of the cities more wealthy industrialists. Two abandoned factories converted into barracks, the administrative building her new office occupied the upper floor of, and the plaza that the militia tried vainly to march through bellow. A generous gift. People were in a generous mood lately.
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| − | Their benefactor had even left the appointments in the office. A broad oak desk, several plushly stuffed chairs, a fine leather couch. Even a bear-skin rug laid out before the fire. It was a far cry from Irias old Spartan accommodations. The man had enjoyed his luxuries. At least the liquor cabinet had proven to be a welcome surprise.
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| − | A few of the militia were looking back up at her curiously, possibly wondering who she even was. Iria was not her recognizable self at the moment. Shed dressed down for the day. Tight buckskin breaches and polished calf boots. A white shirt and brown vest. Her armor was off, standing upon a dummy-post against the wall with her fur-lined cloak hung up behind it. She still wore her sword on one hip, but it made her feel no less naked. The office was simply too warm for armor though.
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| − | Iria took her drink and left the window, drifting back slowly towards her desk and the paper work that awaited her there with all the trepidation of a child skirting around an unfavored vegetable on her plate. The desk top was stacked with neatly arranged piles of paper, ink and quills, and even an abacus. The ''other'' weapons of a soldier. Ledgers and budgetary graphs, payroll papers. Administrative work. The Dreaded Duty. With a sigh, the Captain settled into her chair and readied herself to do what needed to be done.
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| − | It was an ugly job, but unfortunately there was no one around to delegate it to.
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' ''Knock knock knock''
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| − | ''Click''
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| − | Opening the door, the most beateous prince's figure walked into the office, bringing the sun with him. A moment of open clouds letting it shine, illuminating his face from the window... the hair and the lips of his father, King Doniel. One cannot see his wings, and he holds a heavy white coat close to himself, but there is no mistaking the Prince of Whiteshield.
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| − | "I hope I am not interrupting anything, Captain Lumanti..." He speaks as he walks in, looking around her office... it was a really nice place. Better off than he expected in the Boil. "... but I hope you can spare a few minutes?"
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| − | '''Iria: ''' The Captain looked up sharply, a reprimand on the tip of her tongue for whoever had invited themselves in without her leave. The bladed glance turned into a look of surprise when she saw who it was though.
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| − | “Your highness,” she greeted, swallowing awkwardly the first words that had come to mind. “Of course, your majesty, I have plenty of time.”
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| − | Rising from her chair, she came around the table and took a knee before him. So, they were finally to meet. The visit was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Shed done her best to dodge the boy-king so far. Dealing with royalty could be difficult. They always had ideas that they wanted to share with you. Provided that by share one meant ordered to do at that very moment. So long as they never met face-to-face, she could have denied ever hearing what he wanted and continued to run things her way. Now, however...
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| − | ”How does your brother fair? she asked, rising back to her feet and inviting him to take one of the chairs. I heard that he survived what happened at the Captial as well.”
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' He answered her courtsy with all due etiquette. giving her the leave to get up, and walking to the chair... "He... is. He was in bad shape at first. A ghost tried to... see something in his mind, in his soul, and kind of... broke it in the proccess. He was like a stone, cast in perpetual sleep for the first month... but Ryshassa pieced his consciousness together, thankfully. He is well, now..."
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| − | "... and the Windwraith moved him to the Empyrean Stair, our Embassy on the Great Forks. Where he would be in Elizabeth's care... but she has surfaced here. She has been touched by Luna, and has joined our Circle... the Shades of Eventide." He nods, a little proud of it. Of the name. Which helped him disguise his anger... or annoyance... at speaking of his sister. She was doing it for his own good, yes... but all she had taken from him... all she had... "... but, enough of my family. I could talk about them until this time tomorrow, and not all is good..." He sighs, "So, how is our city, Captain Lumanti?"
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| − | '''Iria: ''' “Princess Elizabeth... ?” Iria had forgotten all about her, the elder sister shipped off to distant lands. So, there was another royal child still alive. An elder sibling and a moon-chosen beside. By all rights, she would be the next due to take the throne and leave the prince in shadow. No wonder the boy looked as though he were passing a stone.
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| − | ”The city ensures, sire. It always endures,” she said matter-of-factly, taking the opening to steer the conversation away from the awkwardness of hereditary order. Walking past the desk to the liquor cabinet. Taking out a snifter, she poured a generous dollop of heavy brandy and carried it back to the prince, setting it on the desk before him. “Perhaps though not as well as has in the past though.”
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| − | She returned to her seat, staring across the desk as the prince, her finger steepled together on her desk top. “Food supplies are growing increasingly low. Looting is rampant and rioting has broken out in some districts.”
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| − | ”I dont have the manpower to keep order across the entire city anymore,” she confessed, shaking her head disdainfully. “The locals have been putting down most of the riots on their own. Simma Siray turned the gangs loose to hunt down the more dangerous of their kind, but that sort of vigilante justice is dangerous. They could just as easily end up causing chaos as quelling it. Weve been trying to bring as many of them together to form a more organized militia, as much to keep them under watch as use them...”
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| − | The Captain stopped as shouting from outside cut her off. She smiled wanly and inclined her head for Alex to go look out the window. “It will be some time before theyre of any use. Even marching in step is beyond them at the moment.”
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' "Yes, it is. And I am counting on you to mantain the order... but without the sorts of things you have done before. The 'Cleaning Season'... you must refrain from such brutality, Captain Lumanti. Lock them, exile them, but do not hang them like that."
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| − | "You saw the statue outside, right? I heard much of that man, and he was a victim of when you had to act... indiscriminately." He says, trying his best to sound regal and commanding, and hoping she understands. But as if to placate her, expecting her eyes on him to be steel and to turn into an attack at the next breath, he then speaks, "I wish you to be in charge of the army, Captain... to promote you, to be second only to the Angels, Silver and Pale, and in overall command of the Whiteshieldian armies. And I want us to be in the same page for that."
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| − | And then, he waited, a titanic effort needed to mantain a regal and polite face, bracing for impact beneath...
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| − | '''Iria: ''' A demand, a reprimand, and a promotion all in one breath. Royalty was amazingly apt that that. This was a lot to process however and Iria held her tongue for a moment as she consider all that the prince had said. She rose again and paced slowly around the table, swirling the brandy in her glass. When she finally reached the edge of the table beside Alex, she leaned back against the desk top.
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| − | "At the moment, your highness, I could not initiate a Cleaning Season even if I felt it were necessary," she confessed, staring down into the boys eyes. There was no shame or regret in her gaze, to talk of the Cleaning Season. It was a distasteful necessity, not a joyous pleasure. But it ''was'' a necessity. Conveying that fact to the prince may not be so easy, however. "Until the 'Angels' return with the mercenary force I was promised, I barely have the troops left to patrol ''one'' district, let alone sweep through them all. You see, for the moment, the safety of the city is being maintained purely by the good will of it's citizens. Much as I wish it were otherwise, I find myself in a position where I am forced to ''rely'' on the street gangs to help keep order. At this juncture, killing them would hardly serve anyone."
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| − | "''But''," she added sternly. "Good will erodes, particularly in the face of hardship. And these people have weathered more than likely any other in the kingdom. They've held together well. Better than I honestly expected. But I've seen them at their worst as well as their best and I will grind ''whatever'' grist the mill requires to keep from seeing that again."
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| − | "If I may speak freely, now that I am in charge of ''both'' soldiers in the Whiteshield Army," Iria said, giving him a faint smile before she spoke the harshest words. "I fear you may be making a mistake. These people are pragmatists, your highness. They're not long for remembering magnanimous grand gestures. I suspect they would rather have food in their bowls than statues or second-hand stories of lavish sex-parties on the hill. They'll be happier to hear that rebuilding is underway so they have homes and businesses again than they will to know Cleaning Season has stopped."
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' He leans back, and against the composure he fought so hard to mantain, he lets out a relieved sigh. So, she was not fighting. Not with tooth and nail, as he expected, and that was good. She was, however, pressing her point more subtly - all that time with the Shades made him forget what that was even ''like'' - they are anything but indirect, the Exalted he walks with...
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| − | And so, slowly, he spun out the answer to her words... "Yes, they will... and they shall have it, Iria. We will have the food returned soon enough, and I have talked with a certain Jadeborn and with Iron Tears about the reconstruction. When the Dark Angel returns with the money and the Iron Army is put into operations, you will have the automatons to serve you... and also tireless workers with more strength than the strongest men, if that force is divided." He nods. "And with the Jadeborn's plan, the city will be rebuilt well. But the rebuilding has also to be spiritual, and barbaric acts like the Cleaning Season have to be put behind us."
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| − | '''Iria: ''' "Time will tell on that, won't it?" she asked, her expression unsmiling once again. Iria sipped from her glass, silent for the moment, the break in the conversation allowing her to mark a change in topic. "I need more than metal soldiers to run an army, highness. The automations lord Iron Tears gifted us with the first time were useful, but they could not handle all the duties the Garrison is asked to perform. Simply having more clerks and administrators at the moment would relieve much of the difficulty we've been having."
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| − | She placed her hand down on one of the neatly stacked and organized piles of paper on her desk. "Most of my own clerks are dead and finding those who can read and write within this city is difficult. The Sheriff, scarecrows take him, was at least proficient in supplying us with a trained secretarial pool."
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| − | Iria raised a slender finger and ran it's calloused tip against the rim of her glass. "This speaks to the matter of appointments, as well. Who is to replace the Sheriff as administrative head of the city? Who is to look to ''my'' duties if I'm to be called away to war with this new appointment?"
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' "I will speak with the Windwraith. He has been remarkably useful in selecting that sort, he did wonders for the plannning of the Winlandian army. I will see about it." He says, getting up... "But you underestimate the statues, you know... that is the sort of thing that is nessessary as well."
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| − | He walks up to the window, touching it, seeing the Boil outside... "To rebuild this city, and make it like it should be. Like part of Whiteshield... like..." He stops, turning to the Iron Angel... "''Why'' is it like this, Iria? Why did my parents, my family, endorse... this?"
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| − | "He said it was my family's legacy. I find it hard to believe..."
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| − | '''Iria: ''' Iria regarded him mutely, staring at the boy who might be king and wondering how much king was really in the boy. Here he stood, this golden god-child, trying to wrap his head around a simple mystery – why would those who have everything want to ensure they continued to have everything, even at the expense of others?
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| − | "Would you have me explain human nature to you, your highness?" she asked, giving him a warm, patient smile. The sort of smile she'd have given her own daughter, when pressed to answer a great mystery of the world. "I barely knew your father and knew your mother not at all. I could speak to what I know about people as a whole, but not in any fashion I think you'd care to hear your parents spoken of."
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| − | Setting her glass aside, Iria leaned off the desk and joined him by the window, her reflection looming behind his in the window pane. She laid a hand on his shoulder gently, looking into his eyes in the reflection for a moment, then peering with them out the glass. "I have read the history of this city – it has one, you know – and from what I've gathered this city has always been this way. It was this way ''long'' before your family ever came and claimed it. They did not make it this way, Alexander. They did nothing to ''change'' it, no, but it is not their creation. The legacy of this place belongs to the people who live here."
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| − | Pulling on his shoulder, Iria made him turn around. She circled with him, keeping against his back, until she finally had him faced away from the window and towards the wall. The wall where her armor stood, gleaming and proud. To where her cloak spread out behind it like wings of muted light. And where above it, paramount, was the banner of Whiteshield, crossed with Iria's own family standard. "''That''," she said, pointing over his shoulder to the golden and white flag. "Is your legacy. Your families legacy."
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| − | ''Our legacy'', though she did not say so out loud. It was only half true, after all. She was only partly related to the royal line and her families contributions to it admirable but far from outstanding. Besides, she'd be lying if she didn't think of herself as a person of the Boil anymore. ''"One wing of cloud, one wing of smog. Spoiled, soiled Iron Angel." ''
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| − | "And if the only stain upon that flag is the fact that they allowed one city to mire in it's own backwards ways in order to raise up an entire nation to glory, then it's a stain to small to see against the gleam."
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' He looks at it... at his family's colors. At his country's banner.<br>
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| − | At Iria's armor, proud and powerful as it had been that night.
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| − | That was... so different... so different than what it had been with Moon. And she... she knew this place's history. She knew the truth... and the truth took the weight of the world off the prince's shoulders. Iria could see it, lines of worry vanishing, a silent sigh of complete relief, the fact his smile became more true... and that the entire room seemed to light up with him.
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| − | "Iria... I... "<br>
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| − | "Thank you..."
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| − | He had to make quite the effort not to hug her. Quite the effort.
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| − | "Thank you. You have no... you have no idea of what... what those words mean."
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| − | '''Iria: ''' And she smiled back, in spite of herself. For a moment, even forgetting she was with a prince. Laying a hand upon the top of his head, she pushed down so that his bangs fell across his eyes. Something she had done often to her own daughters, to make them giggle. A gesture of fondness that she’d let few ever see in public.
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| − | He was a sweet child, really. Though he would have never survived upon the throne, golden or not. He was too idealistic. His feelings too easily manipulated. Sad a thing as it was to do a poor trait in a sovereign, he ''cared'' too much. At least with Elizabeth back now though, he’d never have to be subjected to rigors of rule. Iria would have hated to see what it might have done to him...
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| − | ”I merely did not wish you to have the wrong impression of your families history,” she answered simply, lifting the hand with a small shrug. “I only wish my family were so exalted as your own. My daughters ask me often about what the Luminati have accomplished in their time. There isn’t much to tell them, so I tell them about yours instead. It makes ''them'' smile too.”
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' He giggles, pushing the bangs away, so much close to the Captain now... and so... ''happy! '' All this... it was not just the country being invaded, and most of it broke down in ways that tore his heart just to imagine... no, it was seeing things like the Boil and hear the opinions of some about his family, as though their graves were spitted on, instead of honored... as they never had been, not even existing yet... but now, it felt as if they had their honor restored... and he smiled at the Captain. "Well, you have walked with Iron Tears to stop a Sheriff, you have helped lead the rebellion, and soon, you will be one of the commanders of the army to destroy the undead, to reclaim your country... they will have much to tell, at least. Of ''you''!"
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| − | "How old are them, by the way? I... do not think I remember you at the balls..."
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| − | '''Iria: ''' “Perhaps,” she said, both bemused and flattered by his enthusiasm at once. “I suspect by this point however, they’re quiet tired of hearing about me. My dear husband never ceases to try to regal them with tales from our younger days.”
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| − | ”Valentina should be about your age, sire, and Diana actually shares a birthday with your brother Cedric. They’re beautiful girls," she said with the unabashed pride of a loving mother. “They’ve been studying in Winlandia for the past few years, thankfully well out of the way of all that has been going on.”
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| − | Iria seemed to pause and consider his last question. And, to a degree, she did. But perhaps not in the manner he may have thought. Wheels turned, as she considered the news of Elizabeth’s return and Cedric’s survival. ''Two'' members of the royal bloodline now, eligible and unpromised. There were rumors of that Winlandian woman Valerie courting the prince and more that he shared his bed with the albino deathknight. But he could hardly be expected to wed the Pale Angel and the Winlandian could likely be bought off with other prizes than the prince...
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| − | “No, I don’t think they’ve ever attended one. You should meet them,” she said at last, still smiling with motherly pride. “My daughters. It would be a thrill for them to meet the royal princes. Perhaps when this business is over and you've established a proper court, I could send for them. They've never been formally introduced."
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' "I would like nothing more, Iria." He did not know what else to call her. It felt awkward, but she was being promoted... but, well, she was still Captain now, was she not? "... sorry, Captain. And hopefully this will be soon... and we will give great balls, in a great court. .." His mind trailed off, in dreams, and then he remembered something...
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| − | "Oh, and there was another thing, Captain Lumanti... I came to know and work alongside the Office of Unusual Occurences. They struck me as extremely professional and competent, and facing the insidious, supernatural menaces we have in front of us, their support would be greatly needed... I wished to help them with an increased budget... but as you well know, there is not much that can be done about that..."
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| − | "But the Garrisson... well, the ''army'' now, really... has the rights to salvage the equipments of our foes, right? Including all the Jade that 'Dead Hand' had in them, cursed as it might be. Well, I would like you to sign papers giving the Office of Unusual Occurrences a share of the salvage. I think that will help them get by."
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| − | '''Iria: ''' "The Spookies?" she arched a curious eye brow. One couldn't help but wonder what a royal heir was doing running around with that particular group. She knew little of what their business was, though she’d attempted to find out more than once. And now it seemed they’d somehow gain the prince’s attention. And, just as she had predicted, he had ‘ideas.’
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| − | “Hm...” Iria folded an arm bellow her breasts and rested her elbow upon it, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. The Office of Unusual Occurrences had always been a bit of a thorn in her side, one of the last arms of the civil government with authority that at times could interfere with her own work. She was loath to part with the mystical items they’d scavenged off the dead as well.
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| − | Still, there were more than a few those in her command could not even make use of and if giving them away curried favor with the prince, it was a small sacrifice.
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| − | She nodded in agreement, letting her hand fall to cross her arms together. “I am certain we could arrange to transfer some of them over, yes. I would like to keep some for my own troops however. We are under manned as it is, so anything which can give us an edge is important.”
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' "Oh, yes. I am only talking about setting a percentage for current and future salvage of the army to be sent their way. They can use them, sell them... but it will help them get by in lieu of real jade. Which we do not have to spare yet. But the Windwraith will help me with ''that''."
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| − | ''I don't intend to see a bankrupt Whiteshield, begging Winlandia and Linowan for their scraps''
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| − | He does not even shift from his relaxed posture... Iria did not fight against this as well. Who knew? Moon's great ice statue, the monster of the Cleaning Season... was the most reasonable person he had had to deal with in weeks. "... I am glad our talk was so painless, Captain. You have no idea how most of my partners are so.. unreasonable."
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| − | '''Iria: ''' ''No, I believe I know better than you exactly how “unreasonable” at least two of them are... ''
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| − | Iria was thankful her skin was already slightly flushed from the warmth of the room, for it hid the tingle of warmth that crept up her. She shrugged dismissively, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Reason has nothing to do with it. You are the crown prince and I am a servant to the throne. Even if you have not had a coronation, you or someone in your family will sit upon that throne one day.”
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| − | ”Call me practical or self-serving,” she said with a small smile. “But I would much rather serve a friend than an enemy.”
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| − | '''Alexander: ''' "Practical, I see..." He touches his hair, meeting her smile with one so pure... "But there are some things which you cannot fake to be practical, I think." ''or hope, anyway... '' He says with a nod, sitting down and straightening his coat.
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| − | "Well, now, you were talking about secretaries? Tell me exactly what we need, and I will see with my peers..."
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| − | Oh, the boring part would begin now. Bureaucracy....
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| − | He would much rather be beating skeletons down, truth be told. But what could he do?
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| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/EighthMovement|Eighth Movement]]
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| − | * - Back to [[GoldenCat/DanceOfAngels|A Dance of Angels]]
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