Town Hall, Tridor Plaza, Meteo Town

"So, do I go in with you or do I just wait awkwardly outside like a pet dog and sip stagnant water from a bowl on the floor?" Jupiter questions half-sarcastically, "Because I'm pretty sure that my name wasn't on the invitation to this interview dealio and I don't wanna take a favourability hit when I'm inevitably told to fuck off outside anyway, y'know? Also I resent the self-implication that I'm some kind of pet in this scenario and I don't know why I even brought it up to begin wi-"

"Jupiter," I cut him off before he finishes, "Just go find the others, let them know I'm back and to gather up the Architects. We'll meet outside the mansion and we can get the ball rolling on the transition to a Headquarters. Thank you."

"That sounds much less demeaning, I will do that," he beams, giving the 'ok' hand-sign, "Oh. And uhh, just in case, be careful in there because he's really hot in a supernatural vampiric charm kinda way. It was real bad when he was just addressing us all in general and you're gonna get the real personal treatment in there so who knows what thats gonna do to your head."

"I'm aware," I grimace, not at all looking forward to that aspect of the conversation ahead. As much as I'd like to say that I'm too old and experienced to fall victim to it, the stat difference will quickly put the lie to such conceit. Maintaining an awareness of the inherent danger can certainly help, but high-end charisma specialists are always a trial to talk to even on the same level.

Which is somewhat hypocritical of me to say, given the Iron Lord is a 'Frontline Commander' archetype just like Count Hiolh, come to think of it. Albeit with a different niche, but I don't know the specifics of how his Class works, and I've no reason to expect I will develop the exact same way as that rapist piece of shit either, so who can say.

I'm prevaricating.

"Why are you still here..?" I ask Jupiter to cover my own anxiety.

"Oh. Right," he wags a finger in sudden realisation, "Just kind of spaced out for a second. I am gone. See ya later, Silve."

"Silver," I correct, turning the doorhandle and entering.

'tis eerily quiet inside, and I become keenly aware that I am being watched the moment I step inside, though I see no people. That I'm aware of that much is no doubt a deliberate concession on their part. Strange behaviour notwithstanding, I approach the front desk and ring the service bell. A man appears on the other side before the ringing dissipates, not armoured, nor visibly armed, for as much as that matters. Dressed instead in a blue frock and black jacket, a mechanical prosthetic left hand breaking the aesthetic with how out of place it looks.

"Be thou a Citizen of the Empire?"

"Yes," I nod simply, "Lord Silver Nosster, here to answer the request for a meeting with Count Hiolh."

"Have thee proof of thy identity?" the old man knits his fingers together.

I proffer the signet ring with the emblem of House Fander by way of verification since I lack any documentation on my person. His cheek twitches beneath his eye. Extending his metal hand, he takes mine into it and raises it, one eye squinting as he peers closely at the ring, "Hrm. Seven centuries old. Likely genuine...Very well. I will inform hesment of your arrival."

And just like that, he vanishes again, leaving me mildly unsettled and flexing my fingers compulsively as the hand drops back to my side. A feeling of numbness pervades through my forearm. It's not unlike the feeling you get one holding a particularly powerful magnet, if I had to liken it to something.

Seconds later, he appears beside me, "You are expected. Please follow, Lord Fander."

---

 

The mayor's office isn't all too different from the last time I was here. Perhaps cleaner, and missing some of the personal touches that defined it as the previous occupant's property. Tapping away at a slate of pure black crystal is the Unstained Banner, Count Arnt Hiolh, Founder's Merrowan appearing on a glowing yellow screen hovering above, flanked by several more. The latest in administrative magitech conveniences.

The man himself is ungodly beautiful, as expected. Not the most aesthetically pleasing I've seen, but certainly a Top 20 contender that would have a younger Alex reaching for a chisel set and a chunk of raw marble. Even now, I feel the itch to immortalise him in sculpture. Not pausing for a moment, he keeps one eye on his typing as he addresses me.

"Please forgive me for not offering observing proper etiquette, but I have entirely too much work to oversee, Mr Nosster," Count Hiolh apologises half-heartedly, sounding thoroughly unenthusiastic, though the supremely melodic quality of his rich voice quickens my breath unbidden, "Take a seat, I will be able to give you my full attention momentarily. Orpen? Some refreshments for our guest."

The manservant(?), Orpen, stares at me expectantly, "What does the Lord wish to imbibe?"

"...A cup of yernroot & jupleaf tea, if you have it," I request slowly, restraining my breathing as much as I can as a heat rises in my gut. The tea is usually used as a tranquiliser for...excess carnal urges.

Amused, Orpen bows his head, "Very well, it just so happens I keep a stock of such a blend. You have a discerning taste, anh-serte."

I'm sure he does.

"If you have anything you yourself would like to...recommend, as an addition, I'd treat it as a favour," I add before he turns to his master. It wouldn't do to just ask directly for something that wards off the Count's influence in front of him.

"Unfortunately, I'm not at liberty to relinquish any further victuals from my private collections," Orpen smiles, though I detect a trace of mockery from his eyes.

'Don't push it,' in other words.

Count Hiolh's typing proceeds apace, his eyes snapping to different screens separately from one other, breaking some of the natural beauty he embodies with how uncanny it looks. Yet even that carries an indelibly attractive quality that's hard to tear my own eyes away from. If my blatant staring bothers him it doesn't show - like as not, with the life he leads it'd be stranger still if I weren't being sucked in by his gorgeous eyes...

Ugh. This is somehow worse than Arevas. Not that I'd say as much out loud. At least with the demon's open hostility and malicious intent my mind could muster a defence of it's own volition, but here and now it's like I just want to sit here and just bask in his presence for all eternity, committing every detail of his exquisite features to heartfelt memory. Not 'like' I do, actually. That's exactly what I'm doing even now.

A long couple of minutes later, I sip on the hot blue liquid in a fancy porcelain cup, holding the saucer beneath with my other hand. The fragrance is strongly medicinal, and the taste at once both spicy and bitterly sour. I'm not expert on the matter of tea brewing, but it's not a pleasant brew. A lump forms in my throat as I swallow, the lining prickles in the aftermath before numbing, and my chest starts to tighten, forcibly restricting my overwrought breathing.

It certainly helps keep my physical form in check, but alas, my mind is unshielded by the tea's effects. Better than nothing.

"Is the tea to your liking?" Orpen asks me politely, tucking the tray under his arm after placing a second cup in front of the Count.

"Yes, thank you."

"Then I shall leave you both," he bows differentially to Count Hiolh and promptly vanishes from sight. He won't be out of earshot, unless I miss my mark, even so, in case the Count requires something.

Speaking of whom, Count Hiolh removes a crystalline wafer from a small depression in the back of his curious device, the projected documents sputtering and ceasing. It sparkles briefly between his splendid fingertips and fades from corporeality. Now, his full attention is upon me, and under his gaze, I feel more than simply naked. A number of appraisal Skills are probably being cycled through to determine my worth, and I can only trust in Lady Jannis's assurance that the Authority implanted within my Crystal Heart will not be discovered.

"As you are doubtless already aware," he speaks, and I relish each word, absorbed in his voice from the first syllable, "I am Count Arnt Hiolh, Commander of the Unstained Reginlei. On behalf of the Iempern'ioll Cugosth, I am now and for the foreseeable future, the Mayor of Meteo...Town, as well as the Overseer for the Southern Provinces. But as you already know this, I will clarify that the security of this region is of no concern to me. My existence alone here guarantees it, after all. Or so it should be, were it not for your existence."

Confused and a little trepidatious, I exercise what good sense I can muster to hold my tongue until explicitly asked for a response. Heedless of my own will, he continues to speak, disdain dripping from his voice like sweet poison.

"The Empire has a tolerance for a great many things, Silver Nosster," Count Hiolh grates, "But your existence and activities have been nought but repeated grievous insults to the prestige and stability of The Empire of Stone. To whit, you kicked off a diplomatic disaster, resurrected the House of a traitor for your own advancement, acting as if you, a powerless and historyless nobody, were in some way equal to the true masters of the Empire, then inspired further insurrection, intentional or not. I do not wish to be here, Mr Nosster. My time is better spent keeping those ash-brained Liberati drefsh'alm away from the citizenry. The demi-immortals which you call kin are little better, but none have made waves quite like you. Were you to have simply stopped at the first incident or even the second we might well have turned a blind eye - but then you invoked the Founding, and on top of that provoked a riot that made the Empire's rule a joke."

He pauses, "No matter the Empire's faults, together with your blatant and obvious ambitions for power, you are a catalyst for chaos that cannot be suffered to continue existence in light of your apparent immortality. Or...such was the initial order handed to those originally meant for this role  - until word from Olton Mountain arrived. That, as if the situation weren't laughably absurd enough, you are a particularly favoured Blade of The Lady of Steel's Ambition! Which does go some ways to explaining your miraculous survival against The Magpie Demon imprisoned beneath Fander Field. Were that all, I would have no qualms with destroying you, as the Lady of Steel's Ambition is not known for intervening in the sullied mortal world even for those she takes a liking to by the nature of her ascendancy. Rather, that she intervened at all - as seems to have been the case - is alarming enough to engender panic in the Cugosthas' minds."

Count Hiolh sighs into his tea, placing a sheaf of papers and a pen in front of me, "So it falls to me, to be the softer touch. Mr Nosster. You are to relinquish all claim to Lordship to start with. Though it is an empty title devoid of real weight, your possession of it is a disgusting insult and a liability to the prestige of those who truly hold the position. In recompense, Truthseekers will come under my patronage and you will retain an honorary rank more appropriate for your position. Your activities will be monitored by me, and controlled in turn, by me, to prevent further incidents. Sign the papers wherever indicated. The alternative is eternal imprisonment."

The 'soft touch' of the Empire is a spiked brass knuckle to the gut. This ultimatum is tantamount to enslavement (not that they'd ever say as much as slavery is explicitly amongst the highest taboos across the civilised world), and yet I find myself happily reaching out to sign the documents. After all, he's making a great deal of sense, and under him, Truthseekers will be able to find a great many opportunities for growth - essentially making us one of the most heavily endorsed mercenary outfits in the Empire! It skips over years of dedicated reputation grinding.

Smiling like an idiot, I finish writing the 'S' before halting midstroke on the 'i'. Blinking I wonder why I stopped writing. My arm is stiff and unwilling to move, fingers squeezing the metal rod so tightly the pain makes me fear I might snap my fingers backwards.

"Sign the papers," Count Hiolh repeats, my arm moving to obey - slowly. Dull, the understanding that my will is being overridden forcibly emerges in the back of my head, too deeply buried to focus on before it's smothered by the compulsion to please this Adonis in front of me, generously giving me a way to please him, to serve the Empire and in so doing, gather the strength needed to withstand the coming months.

I should read this, I feel. But I'm already irritating him enough by being slow. Why aren't I complying with all haste? He looks so unhappy with me. No matter my earnest wish to sign my name, my hand continues to rebel against me.

"Resistance is not allowed to you," his glorious, radiant voice blesses my ears again, "SIGN! THE! PAPERS! That I may return to matters worthy of my attention instead of wasting time on a cretinous parasite on our Empire's good will like you."

Under the sudden weight of his Presence my neck buckles, bowing my head forcibly and squashing out all but the most fleeting of thoughts. In such a primitive state of mind, I feel something wet trailing down my chin, my cheeks, and something more viscous slowly rolling over my lip. My ears ring. Breathing is stifled. My hand completes my Vessel's first name and reaches the end of the surname before stopping. Not for lack of will this time, but because of the pain.

Memory, not thought, rises to the surface in flashes too quick to discern, my hand shakes and the warm fluid dripping out of my nose finds new outlets from my eye sockets and ears. I clench my teeth so hard I can feel them creak. My body warns of danger, and makes no attempt to act on that information, only concerned with lifting the pen to sign again, only to drop it.

The voice of a woman echoes through my head, memories related to it stirring, but without the prescience required to extract meaning or connection. Repetition and reverberation coalesce into a single word, a single name.

'Jannis...'

---

 

Growing impatient, Count Arnt Hiolh continuously applies pressure through practised use of his accumulated mental interference Skills and Presence to force the ignorant fraud to repent for his disgraceful behaviour by giving up that which he did not deserve and atoning in service to the Empire.

It was a difficult task, even for someone as well-versed as him, for the cur's mind is both firm and fragile. Without directly puppetting the man, overcoming foundational beliefs, desires and personality traits without shattering his mind requires a subtle control with so stark a difference in power and fortitude. The more he pushes, leans, the firmer the core becomes in response, and yet more fragile.

Arnt finds the exercise to be particularly distasteful, even amidst a life of warfare, but the security and prestige of the Empire are greater than one feeble sellsword with dreams above his destined Path. Only in service to the Empire would he find his true purpose, his Path. To resist was to invite destruction.

The ingrate's lips part, his bloodshot eyes staring with remarkable steel directly back at Arnt. He stands, shakily. 

For the first time in years, Arnt feels fear and powerlessness, sudden and staggering. His mental probing recoils as if his fingers were chewed off slowly from the tips to the knuckles. From whence came this change?

'Alex, awaken. I can't linger overlong, and the shadow of my appearance will dissuade this sickening wretch only briefly. Awaken! Alex!'

---

 

My head is overcome with a repeat of a recent agony, as if my brain were removed and ground down on a juicer like half a lemon then squeezed again for good measure to wring out any lingering moisture. The shocked Count Hiolh stares at me from across the desktop, mouth agape.

'The papers, Alex, quickly dispose of them!'

Ignoring the pain, I gather up the documents between us quickly and tear them apart, taking a handful of the topmost sheet of paper into my dry mouth and swallowing just for good measure. My body moves as much by reflex as when Count Hiolh were exercising his persuasiveness, but I feel no discomfort, as the action originates from within.

The woman says something I can't quite discern. I feel lightheaded - my eyelids drooping and fluttering. I can't pass out here.

"I reject your offer of 'patronage'," I growl huskily, clarity returning, "And lest you offend my mentor further than you already have, I strongly suggest you consider how to make amends."