The Black Ship- April 11th

[Rotipher of the FoS]

[OOC: Wham! Way to go, Nathan, drawing the uncertainty out so long. You (and Pam?) got me good, with that one; ol' Crow's still teasing me for buying it! ]


Cold. At such ugly turns of events as this, the VRS spy's professionalism is at its most icy. Later, he'll find time for self-recriminations: the shame of his own oversights, in letting Kingsley depart the Maison unescorted, and in forgetting that his own perceptions have been fooled by her before. For now, it is cold calm Crow must force upon himself, if he is to make amends for his error.

Oddly reassured by the knowledge that, to Chicken Bone, it matters not a whit if he lives, lies, or dies, the bard doesn't conceal the hardness the voodan's revelation evokes in him. No need for "Brother Crow's" services here, for playful mannerisms or cocky jests. The bard's anxious expression goes grim, beneath its masque, and his bearing is suddenly that of a considerably more sober-minded, and older, man.

Crow does not reply for several seconds, and when he does so, his tones are quiet, careful, and very serious:

"Not the 'friend' as which she'd presented herself, it appears."

Other feelings -- muted, kept banked by professional pride and years of practice -- scurry across the bard's gray eyes. Dismay, anger, betrayal, fear. Relief, that his comedy-of-manners with Dirac had delayed actual conversation in the dining hall, is not yet discernable; like regret, that emotion must wait until he has time to spare for it.

Another tight flash of emotion -- frustration, that he'd not instructed Dirac to chase after the other Kingsley-figure -- and then the spy's eyes drop from Chicken Bone's. His gaze returns to the supine woman -- the real scalpel-lady? dare he be sure of it, even with the loa's assurance? -- and searches again, this time perusing her rough clothing, her bare and road-soiled feet, the naked finger on which Kingsley'd worn her Fraternity sigil on previous occasions.

Well, Crow-my-lad, you've already proved that's not going to be worth a bent bonefang, to tell which one's the genuine article!

The ailing woman's one garbled, fading outburst from the foyer springs to mind, and another disturbing thought follows. He turns back to the aged voodan.

"M'sieur, whatever misfortune brought this person -- my friend? -- to you, it may tell us much of how the ... other ... came to be here in her place, and when. I saw -- or thought I saw -- the lady this morning, not far from town. But perhaps you know otherwise, sir, if this person was already with you at that time? When you came upon her, as well as the circumstances, could tell us much of this mystery."

A quick glance to the bedside confirms that the woman seems unready, as yet, to speak for herself.

"And anything she might've said about her predicament, when met, could reveal even more of what befell her."

Crow's head tilts, inviting the old diviner's input.


[OOC: I'm assuming that the "Mme. Touve" Kingsley isn't wearing an FoS ring, and that she's still too dazed to answer for herself. If I'm wrong, let me know, and I'll edit the post accordingly.

[Again, the bard is being honest here, and he's suppressing his emotions only so that he can think clearly, not to hide them per se. He's still attending to Chicken Bone's reactions closely, while speaking respectfully to keep on the voodan's good side and encourage his cooperation.]

[Nathan of the FoS]

"And anything she might've said about her predicament, when met, could reveal even more of what befell her."

OOC: Wham! indeed. :misori: Pam's assistance was, as you guessed, invaluable.

BTW, I love darklord emoticons.

IC: "So," Chicken Bone mutters, "you know nothing of this until now..." Glancing down at the woman, he looks up at Crow and gestures for the bard to accompany him into the hallway. Stepping outside, he closes the door and glances up and down the hallway; seeing they are, for the moment, alone, he says in a very low tone, "I found madame this morning at dawn in the Maison de Sablet, dead some hours. You should know, m'sieur, the Lord of the Dead has much power--even over life and death, when the need is sufficient. So now she is alive. But..." he makes a gesture of wings with his two hands, "the memories, they are gone. She died within...perhaps two hours of leaving my house. How did this happen? And again, m'sieur, who is it downstairs who wears her face? Do you have any idea?"

[Rotipher of the FoS]

(Beneath the cold calculation, a flash of heat. Anger, and not solely with himself, when Chicken Bone reveals the worst. The bard is not a violent man by nature, nor an overly-vengeful one ... but someone will burn for Gertrude Kingsley's murder, should he find the chance.)

The bard's eyes narrow, then widen, as the voodan speaks. To bring life -- true life, not an unholy animation -- to the lifeless is a power beyond his direct experience, though he's heard accounts of such miracles. An unsettling prospect, that the likes of Chicken Bone's ghastly patron should grant such favors ... especially given the ways such "blessings" can misfire, even when conveyed by the benign grace of Ezra or Hala! Yet she did have a pulse, down in the foyer, and a reflection as well; the tigress was a fighter at heart, so perhaps that, and the loas' aid, had been enough.

Lost memories ... did he dare? Would it be kindness, or cruelty?

Given the old swamp-dweller's information, several more puzzle-pieces click into place. The "professor's" reckless statements that morning ... the deftness with which she'd excused herself from the gathering, having assessed the tenor of its membership ... the proprietary air with which she'd clung to her carpetbag, hidden her notes at the table. "Her" notes? Rather, "her" guidelines, to coach "her" own facade.

And she's the one who'd related our experiences to Roeccha's lot, too! Damn the wretch: how much did it wring from her poor lips, or mind, before killing her!? Or from the thoughts of Serd and Buchvold, perhaps even the seniors!

(Had the creature not murdered the least-offensive soul at the FoS gathering, to achieve its aim, the VRS spy might admire its deviousness and tradecraft. Instead, he feels only contempt for what its treachery has achieved.)

Bloody cheater ... how long has it been here, in Souragne? How much time did those witless academics give it, by announcing their meeting so far in advance? Stupid, stupid, stupid, not to have guessed she'd be targeted, Crow-my-lad: she's been here all this time, alone, and exposed to its surveillance!

"Perhaps... more what than whom," the spy replies. "At least, that seems more likely than a magical disguise, given the skills of the men it set out to fool. And how little time it had to learn her recent doings, if she was... slain... so shortly after returning to town. It knew, or feigned to know, what went on at your house, m'sieur! It is good at such hasty deceptions, sir: very good.

"The lady -- Madame Kingsley; you've saved her life, so should certainly know her name -- is Zherisian. Perhaps you have heard of the creatures that dwell in that realm, that wear the guise of men? That may be what we are dealing with. Or some other entity, similarly veiled by its nature, rather than by magical means: a spell would be too obvious, to those it sought to fool."

(A bit of a trespass, to reveal the Lady Scalpel's name without her say-so, but the voodan has more than earned it, and the professor's studies with the local Ezran sect are already common knowledge. Likewise, a bit reckless to admit the Fraternity's magical expertise, even through veiled implication ... but the viper-ring was the work of no amateur, so Chicken Bone has surely deduced that much, even if the loa have not seen fit to tell him so.)

The bard pauses. Did he really dare ... or have the right to?

"Sir..." he begins, hesitates, continues. "Perhaps, if her memories could be ... coaxed ... to re-emerge, we can finish the restoration the loa began. There are ways -- musical ways -- to bring vanished recollections to the fore. If rest, alone, isn't enough to bring her back to herself, sir, I would like to try that.

"For her sake, m'sieur, as well as what she might tell us. I think..."

He pauses again, recalling the panic which had seized the professor at the Riverview Rest, when he'd laid a healing hand upon her wrist and she'd thought it an assault on her mind. Her mind -- her lifetime's knowledge and insights -- that she prized above all. Not unlike Genny, in a way.

"...no, I know, that my friend would want that."


[OOC:

Okay, Pam: while Crow's couched his offer as if he's asking for Chicken Bone's approval to treat his "patient", it's really your call. Do you want the bard to use Modify Memory to try to snap her out of her amnesia? Or would you prefer to keep Gertrude unaware of her past for now?

[I'm not sure if Nathan would require her to make a Madness check if she recalls what happened to her, so it could be a tough decision. It (and how much longer Chicken Bone's willing to cooperate) will have an effect on what sort of damage-control plan Crow comes up with, to try to flush out the "other Kingsley" ... but don't let that bias your choice.]

[Pamela]

OOC: I say go for it. She's already begun to get some memories back though she's still far from a cohesive whole. It might be another huge shock to the system, but better (I think) to be stunned and know who you are and what happened to you, than wondering both who- and what- you are.

Now what Chicken Bone decides is also something else...

[Nathan of the FoS]

Chicken Bone purses his lips, thinks a moment, and nods. "So. You will try this thing, and we will see what we learn." Opening the door, he crosses to the bed and seats himself by the woman lying on it. "So, madame, your friend is here," he says. "We are to help you remember, yes? Lie still." Resting one hand against the crown of her head, he nods at Crow to begin.

[Rotipher of the FoS]

[OOC: This one took some doing to get quite right, as it gets into deeper stuff than most of Crow's posts for the last few months. I hope it meets your expectations, Pam, and lines up with what we'd agreed on; if any of Gertrude's memories need changing, let me know. I'm assuming she experiences the exact same brown-text fragments as Crow does, but none of his black-text thoughts or observations about it.

[BTW, Nathan, I know Modify Memory doesn't normally work this way. Pam and I agreed that this was a good way to resolve their respective doubts about each others' identities, as well as an opportunity for some personal interplay between the two PCs.]


The bard bows gratefully to Chicken Bone, gestures for the elderly voodan to step back a bit. Drawing the room’s lone chair to Kingsley’s bedside, Crow takes a seat, then – with a murmured “Your pardon, madam”; even devoid of memory, her sense of propriety remains Zherisian – gently grasps the befuddled woman’s hand in his right, sets the fingertips of his left lightly upon her scalp. As in Nevuchar Springs – only a few months ago? it seems far longer… – she draws back reflexively at the contact, but only for a moment, and weakly.

Feeling the tension in her wrist relax, the bard is relieved; he doesn’t want to force his aid upon her. This is no stranger and no adversary, nor some inadvertent witness, whose inconvenient recall of a glimpsed face or overheard voice demands excision. Were the latter the case, there would be no need for physical contact, or so much cautious consideration; erasing memories is less difficult. But with a whole life to unlock, sealed away behind trauma and confusion, the spy must tread with care.

(Sealed away… no, he can’t let that risk balk him, not now. He must focus on the task at hand, trusting in oblivion to keep the Torturer caged.)

“If I may …,” he murmurs again, before commencing his magic. Not so much a request, as a respectful acknowledgement of her dignity, before this needful trespass upon her mental milieu.

The tune he employs starts out simply, intoned in his smooth tenor voice and picked out in chords he mimes delicately against the professor’s temple. A recursive melody, that plays nicely both forwards and back, with which he builds anticipation of, and then, by reversing its sequence, unfolds revelations. Not a hard melody for slim fingers to execute, yet hard to do, in this man’s case.

Just play it, don’t listen to it, Crow-my-lad. It’s her memories that are needed – hers, not yours – called up for her, not for you…

So he tells himself, over and over. But mind-magics are often ephemeral and erratic, and her sorceress’s aptitudes are likewise unpredictable. Nor can the dark-curled spy hold back an unintended spike of curiosity – too stout a pillar of his nature to suppress wholly – however sincere his conscious wish may be, to spare the Zherisian’s privacy. Unbidden, some fleeting details slip through:

…wary to touch it, but she must, must confirm and make real the cost of her ambition, the path once taken that she will never walk again, and the professor looks for vindication to the serpent-band the nurse has returned to her, before she reaches again to part the bedclothes and touch the thick pad of gauze that wraps her belly, and tries hard not to picture the eventual sc…

Unconsciously, his fingers begin working more quickly, his intonations accelerate. The bard is startled, but not alarmed, by this overflow … at least, until he realizes it is not a one-way exchange:

...ars, lightly, with his fingertips, inspecting their faded proof of long-ago sins, before strapping his wrist-guard into place, chiding himself for pondering how he had come by su…

Sun’s blood, not like this, not my memories!, Crow recoils inside. If she sees too much, learns too much, I can’t undo it, not for hours! But the memory-storm is not a thing that can be tamed, its revelatory content beyond his control:

…ch a lovely morning, too rare in these lean times, rare as the carelessly-picked flowers that little hands hold up to her, the daisies’ yellow hearts as golden as her daughter’s hair in the sunlight, as Gertrude returns the three-year-old’s smile with a mother’s pri…

Professional instinct screams for him to stop, to seal his lips and break off his pantomimed chords. But to end the spell so abruptly could entangle Kingsley’s mind: drown it in fragmentary recollections, her past wound back upon its skein only part of the way. The images keep coming:

…de, his arrogant pride is to blame, he’d ignored both evidence and instincts, and now his teeth chatter so from the blast of leaching cold that he cannot cry out, cannot warn the Despondians to keep clear of the fringe where dry winter grass has turned to dust and brittle tree-trunks crumble at the night wind’s caress, futile though any words of his would be, to balk those whose homes and families lie beyond that dreadful li…

Flashes of imagery and emotion – shards of her past and his, counting backward from the present – pour haphazardly through both their minds. Most too fleeting, too subliminal, for either to recall the full history of the other later, but there are moments that resonate clearly, their impact or chance symmetry making them linger:

...nes of his jacket crisp, his shoes well polished, even here in the countryside, a Golden Boy to the manor born, and her heart flutters or skips a beat or however the pulp-novelists might phrase it, as Trudy blushes to find herself living out such clichés when her paramour takes her ha…

Time unreeling, back long before her involvement with the Fraternity, far beyond his own memory, and the fear that Crow’d shunted aside returns full force. Fear, not for what she might learn of his true doings, but of what he might learn of himself, and what terrible motive – what unspeakable devotion or reward – might thereby be disinterred, that had lured his banished once-self to such monstrous service.

...nds flail uselessly against the branches, the brutal drag of weight upon his fractured ankle an inferno of pain, his cries unheard, as the night air explodes in fluttering ebon wings and the caws of panicked cr…

That’s enough!

His finger-work reaches crescendo, his singsong spell peaks and yields. The bard reels back in his chair, woozy and disoriented; his left hand flies to cover his eyes. He must seize that final, shocking impression now, for future analysis, portend what it may.

(Crow-the-man has no memory of Crow-the-boy. Had had none, rather, until this moment. And yet, the retrieved past-shard’s unheeded cry had been too high-pitched even for a tenor…)

He sits thus, frozen, for several seconds. Both Kingsley and Chicken Bone cease to exist for him, as even his breathing fades to imperceptibility. A fugue, again, but different … no longer quite so empty.

Night-black feathers, frantically beating, brush against his skin.

Then, another sensation, calling him back to himself. His hand… his right hand… clutched in another’s. Kingsley – Trudy? – squeezes it slightly, rouses the bard from this unfamiliar nostalgia.

“..ow,” he hears her murmur. His name, not this newfound memory of pain and of wings. She’s said, she knows, his name. His hand lowers; their eyes meet, undoubting.

Recognition, at last.

[Pamela]

After the unsuccessful attempt to speak the word that filled her mouth, Mme Trouvé loses touch with the Other. Scattered memories shatter her consciousness like shards of a broken mirror; incomplete glimpses of an unknown self.

Between the chaos within and the horror without, she recoils and tries to shut herself off from everything. That however summons the one memory she has unknowingly been trying to avoid all along.

Standing by the window of her room, she tried to catch one more glimpse of the moon. Moonlight on water… the calmness of it makes her take a deep breath, as she tries to recapture the sensation once more. She smiles at her superstitious effort and raises the glass of water to her lips. The taste is slightly off but she assumes it merely to be stale.

Her lips tingle then seem numb as does her tongue. Her throat constricts and she raises a hand which falls limply to her side as she collapses against the wall. Her vision blurs as her eyes are unable to focus. All goes dark…

She sees the Other, cool, imperious and full of hate. She is associated with the walking dead; a burning mansion; a riot in a grey city; a man whose skin literally crawls with darkness; a massive serpent withering into an old, bitter man. She does not know which is worse: the Other as enemy or friend. She is caught between oblivion and an ugly reality she wants no part of.

Caught up in this internal turmoil, she is in truth unaware of Crow’s gentle grasp of her hand. This ignorance only lasts a few seconds as his melodious voice fills her mind. Lulled by its gentle harmony, she is suddenly ambushed by a memory of a sickbed and looks with horror at the ring on her finger, recalling anew the poisonous Serpent in the marsh. Blessed sun, what did I offer it?!

Segue to the sight of her hands and wrists suddenly appearing thick and hairier, revealing scars she – he? – quickly covers.

Doppelganger… She shudders at the word but it doesn’t ring true. Her confusion has no time to provide alternatives when the blonde toddler fills her mind and heart.

Wendy…

She speaks the name. It is barely audible to the two men beside her, but it fills her mind like the sunshine. An incredible ache fills her and tears shimmer in her eyes but her thoughts sing with joy and relief that this was not the sacrifice. Her hands wrap around her daughter’s, beaming into the plain, loved face that looks up to her.

The transition is again abrupt and strange. She feels the attack and "Despondians" is more than a word in the grip of the moment. Now however she is sensing a distance or oddness, as if it were a vivid dream. I am not a man…?

This is confirmed by the following flood of memory. As they wash over her, she realises that some of these belong neither to herself nor the Other but a friend. She does not consider the possibility that he can see as much as she does. She does not care right now as she focuses on the need to pull herself together, to collect herself.

Her own memories become softer and sweeter for her as she travels back, finally reaching the time before the Upheaval. As Rupert turns to ask her teasingly what guilty thought she is harbouring, she is aware of the unseen other's despair. She turns in her mind to the murder; feathers fluttering and harsh croaking as he/she fights to maintain balance and cling to the branches, their weight a sharp torment to the injured ankle.

A command and the song comes to an end.

Gertrude was slow to return to the present; memories were still falling into place and she greedily clung to some. She finally, reluctantly came back to herself: the room similar to her original one in the Black Ship; the old man standing over her and carefully watching; the young man sitting beside her and shutting them out, one hand hiding his eyes, the other still in hers.

She blushed a little at the intimacy, then deeper at her own silly reaction. She took hold of Crow’s hand as firmly as she could; physically exhausted, it seemed a feeble effort. Looking up at Chicken Bone, she quietly said, “Thank you.” She realised she was speaking in Zherisian, and said, "Merci. V’s me dites le prix du service bientot, oui? Après le depart du Monsieur…?" She would worry about the "unfinished business" later. Now was time to focus on the bard.

“Crow.” Gertrude said his name quietly. Unsurprisingly he did not react. She wondered who the Despondians were; aware too of the absence of Tao, Corbil and indeed almost anything with the Fraternity in the memories she'd glimpsed. Who are you? What are you hiding?

And how could you willingly live with that forgetfulness? She had had a taste of it herself, and had hated it, even at the cost of the many regrets she bore.

She squeezed his hand again and felt a response to the gesture. She smiled and whispered his name once more; her mouth was quite dry. When he opened his eyes, and acknowledged her for herself, she smiled.

“Thank you,” she began, trying to find the right words. She was at a loss. Fatigue was now rendering her mentally clumsy. She shrugged and smiled helplessly, and reached with her right hand to further hold his.

Acknowledge, if nothing else… “My daughter, Gwendolyn…and Rupert. Older now,” she added lamely, then laughed. “Of course. Thank you very much.” She hesitated, struggling and gave up, settling on the only words that offered themselves. “I will tell nobody. And I don't care. I am your friend.” If you ever want to talk about it…She thought of saying that and stopped herself. He will tell you when and if he decides to. Leave it alone. It's his business, not yours.

A huge yawn arose and she quickly raised her right hand, not quick enough to cover her mouth. Blushing and laughing a little, she said, “Swooning really would have been more appropriate.” She closed her eyes for a moment to hide her embarrassment, and perhaps to feign fainting. She nearly stayed that way; her eyelids felt so heavy. Dying really does tire one out. She opened her eyes, her forgotten killer at the forefront of her thoughts. “What happened to that thing?”

*Thank you. You tell me the price of the service later, after Monsieur's departure?

[Nathan of the FoS]

Chicken Bone looks back and forth between the two with furrowed brow, apparently trying to judge just what has transpired. His expression lightens very slightly as it becomes apparent that Gertrude, at least, has largely recovered herself. He makes a self-deprecating gesture at her thanks, but ignores her question about discussing payment for the moment. His expression at Gertrude's promise to tell no-one gets more attention than Crow is likely to be comfortable with, but he says nothing until the Zherisian asks her last and most pertinent question. "The other wit' your face, she step outside," he says, frowning slightly. "You remem' everyt'ing, now?"

[Pamela]

“I think I do,” Gertrude said, distracted, not really concerned about her memories at the moment. “We’ve got to kill her! Is she still there?”

She tried to pull herself up; she raised herself up on her elbows before dropping back into the pillows once more. “Dammit,” she cursed, then looked at Crow, horrified as she recalled the carpetbag in the other's hands. “She had my bag- she has my pistol...” And all my notes and journals...

[Nathan of the FoS]

"So, yes, this is ver' bad," Chicken Bone mutters to himself. "So, madame, are you ready to pursue dis...de other? De loa she guide you to her, ne c'est pas?"

[Rotipher of the FoS]

Quite shaken by the experience of his memories and hers, and by the depth of his own relief that Kingsley has recovered, the bard doesn't trust himself to speak at first. He drops his eyes and squeezes the professor's hand, in grateful acknowledgement of her pledge of friendship. As ever, her understated humor is a delight, as well as proof of her restoration; at her jest, he smiles warmly and squeezes her hand in appreciation.

How he wishes he could return the Zherisian's pledge, could promise that sincerity of friendship it's already too late for him to offer her. Had he not lied to her from the beginning, things would be different ... but he can, at least, be sincere in their dealings, from here on in.

At her query, Crow releases the professor's hand, steps quickly to the room's solitary window, peers out into the street. If the false Kingsley is still clad in her guise, perhaps it isn't too late ... yet he fears that chance will not be so forgiving of his oversight.

Her bag, her pistol ... her notes, rather! What has the murdering wretch already learned? What does it know, now, of how things stand? What will it do?

What would you do, Crow-my-lad? What manner of pursuit would you fear, in its place?

Wheels turn, behind gray eyes. Considering, calculating, conspiring.

Planning....


[OOC: Unless the false Kingsley really is visible out the window, Nathan, I've got plans in mind to draw it out. But first, is it still in sight?]

[Nathan of the FoS]

Crow's survey of the street outside reveals...nothing. What he can see of the street is almost deserted, as is common at midday in Souragne, and the willow trees planted to give the relatively wealthy residents respite from the Sourangien sun block his vision of much of the rest of the street.

"So," Chicken Bone mutters to himself. "We mus' find dis one, yes? I t'ink perhaps you find your friends," he gives Crow an ironic look as he pronounces the word, "who come to visit me last night, and we discuss what we do next, yes?"

[Pamela]

Gertrude had nodded at Chicken Bone’s first question but was rendered silent by the second. Guide me to her? She was in my damned room!

She however recalled anew the moonlight on water, and her new uneasy memories as Mme Trouvé. She remembered the ease with which she had walked to the Black Ship and towards her room. She recalled the loss of that thread of direction. It was because she was in the dining room. I wasn’t being drawn to my ‘home’, but to her…

My carpetbag… She thought of that thing reading her notes, her letters, her research: her life.

“Is it still there?” she asked, caught between hope and revulsion. She looked over at the voodan and said, “Yes we must find it.” She was dismayed at the possibility of informing the others about what had happened to her, as if it were a confession of weakness. They don’t need to know – they probably didn’t even notice I was…

She blanched as she considered the time lapse and the myriad, horrible possibilities. She looked at Crow. “Did you see – did it go to the Maison?” Please tell me not…

[Rotipher of the FoS]

Disappointed, albeit not very surprised, by his unproductive look out the window (was his work ever so easy?), the bard returns Chicken Bone's ironic expression with a doubtful one. True, involving Buchvold and Serd could greatly facilitate their search ... but as for discussing matters, that may not be wise, until the three of them decide how much to reveal.

Especially with one of those creatures involved. It must have been reading minds, musn't it, to have so deftly fooled me and the four seniors? Sun's blood, how many needless complications can one mission contain?!

(Forget you thought that, Crow-my-lad. No sense tempting fate, now.)

Turning back to Kingsley, he frowns, flustered. "If it is, it's not in view ... at least, not in any form I recognize." His brow creases with unveiled worry, like a man who's finding the waters considerably deeper than anticipated.

At the professor's dismayed expression and query, the dark-curled spy grimaces, shifts his stance uncomfortably. "I must confess that it did go to the Maison, Madam," he admits, dropping his eyes. "And I regret to say that I -- that all of us -- failed to recognize it for a counterfeit. Quite a poor showing, I daresay, for a group of men who pride themselves on their discernment of the illusory."

He glances askance at Chicken Bone, as if unsure how much to say in front of the voodan, then shakes his head dismissively, as if concerns other than the Fraternity's privacy have taken precedence.

Seeing her waxing anxiety, the bard continues. "As to its behavior: while so disguised, it did nothing overtly to Madam's discredit; that is to say, it did not conduct itself ungraciously, or commit any direct sabotage, so far as I observed. But I fear its words, at the morning's session, were a bit more ... forthright ... than was prudent, giving the political climate therein prevailing. It was, hindsight suggests, endeavoring to provoke dissent by its words: to turn factions against one another."

Crow pauses, reflecting upon the faux-Kingsley's incendiary speech that morning, in light of what he now knows of its identity. If it had, as proxy, been expressing Van Rijn's opinions, citing the nascent lich's own words ... what might that tell him of its treacherous master's intentions?

(Well, he had wanted to find the renegade transmuter's agent. If nothing else, its statements, uttered through the false Kingsley's lips, convince him that he has done so: that the Zherisian's attacker is neither some roving predator that struck by chance, nor acting on behalf of a third party like the Kargat. It wouldn't have been the first such collision of plotters the bard had been caught up in.)

The VRS spy blinks, nods worriedly to the professor.

"Truth be told, Madam, while its actions were not ruinous, they did little to further your reputation for tact. But, I expect," he adds hurriedly, seeing her downcast reaction, "apprehending the creature and exposing its deceit would do much to rectify any damage done ... not least, as it would reveal any would-be critics' folly, that they, too, were taken in!"

Momentarily, the bard's lip curls in a wickedly-wry grin, perhaps picturing the humiliation of Brother Dossevsky, being forced to eat his own words after accusing Hazan of blindness to treachery. Shou, too, for that matter; the exotic wizard had evidently known Kingsley, yet he had spoken to the counterfeit before the seminar, and noticed nothing.

Consoled by the reminder that he's not the only one who'd been fooled, Crow recalls that he's not yet heard the Zherisian's story.

"After that, I cannot account for its whereabouts this afternoon with any certainty. Perhaps the hotel staff can enlighten us, in that regard ... as well, one may hope, as grant admission to your room, that you might reclaim your rightful belongings and determine what is missing.

"But first, Madam ... if it is not too painful ... it were best if you tell us how this vile creature did you harm. Not least, so that we can deduce what our quarry is, and is not, capable of ... and so we might ensure the safety of us all."

He looks down, shivers slightly.

"I do not think that either of us would care to impose on M'sieur Chicken Bone's charity in such a manner, a second time."

[Nathan of the FoS]

"I do not think that either of us would care to impose on M'sieur Chicken Bone's charity in such a manner, a second time."

"Well, m'sieur, dat is wise," Chicken Bone says drily. "To say only de one reason, de loa do not'ing for de charity. Ev'ry gif' have its price." He looks at Kingsley with a momentary expression of--sorrow? Commiseration?--as he continues. "De other, she will not come back soon, I t'ink, but we may have a little trouble wit' de door...I will speak to the maitre d'hotel, assure him dat for dis woman he open de door. Your name, madame? I cannot any longer call you Mme. Trouve now that you have foun' yourse'f. And by what name shall I call you, m'sieur?"