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The tense moment slinks on. A few dust-specks roam down the street. The masked Windsworn circles his spear around and holds it in a loose, readied position.
Edward wonders if he's fast enough. Montosi holds up a hand to break off the lecture on international commerce regulation. Zivka checks the back door, but no signs of any skullduggery.
The Whispergrain dips his head. He's a slim figure. The mask is . . . hard to place. A chitinous, layered thing, multicompound eyes, a black shell-like material that absorbs the light strangely. He says nothing. Offers a hand signal, a little rolling movement. Scarlett translates - picked it up on a book once, wind-tongue, basic gestures. Keeps the sand out of your mouth on a long walk - he's greeting an honored traveller who will soon experience great misfortune owing to the natural progression of events that he, himself, is helpless to forestall. He bears no ill will to our presence and will seek to scatter our ashes so they may live on the wind and roam free in ending. This is not personal.
All that from a gesture?
All that from a gesture.
And then - with a little cough - a woman steps gingerly over the three corpses. Scoffs in dismay. She has a sword strapped to her side, a weatherproof all-coat that looks more expensive than your combined wages and the mono-maniac hyperfocus in her eyes of a true believer.
" Ah. *Survivors*. Hardy lot, aren't you? I apologize for the threatrics " she means the three dead clerks and the broken gun and she says the words like it's an expense request she's had to acknowledge
" I tried to talk them down but the Windsworn like their drama.
I am disheartened to report to you that at this very moment your reinforcements have been irrevocably detained on the road outside this village, and will, as soon as the rest of my elements arrive, be dust.
I am not unneccessarily cruel. You may join them in surrender. Throw your weapons out the door, promise to do no further harm, and you will be processed as a prisoner of combat in accordance with every governing rule and my personal assurance you will come to no harm. "
The Whispergrain and his troops move a little. Just enough. Spears are suddenly more apparant, blades half drawn. The Operative sighs.
" Some harm. Maybe. The Windsworn have particular rituals. I am given to believe they let all captives knife-fight for their freedom. Which I will also respect, as they are my current local contractors "
The blades fade away again.
" Honestly, you people are in my way. I want one thing and one thing only:
I need a vanadian who calls herself Ink.
She's stolen a book from my employers and the library due date is *way past* and we absolutely, positively must have that tome returned. Your Company is unfortunate casualties of being in the way. That damnable woman has an absolutely unerring ability to mess things up royally.
If you have any messages for family, friends or officers, I will take them with me. "
