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Artemis Kalends :: the satchel
-o-

Kalends was a man who hated falling asleep.

Sleep was weakness and weakness was something that he had beaten, willed out of himself long ago. He'd seethed as he'd realized that something was not right, but though he'd tried to get to his dagger and cut that treacherous mage in the Council Headquarters a new trachea, he didn't think he'd succeeded. All he knew was that there had been a sickening moment of paralysis, that his limbs were no longer his to command, and after that, nothingness.

Returning to consciousness was like climbing a long, arduous stairway. His knees hurt. Had he fallen out of bed? He was sitting, comfortably. Maybe he'd dozed off counting coins? No, something wasn't right...

His eyes snapped open, and once they had focused, caught sight of the stage and its occupants. A frisson of uneasiness rippled through him. This must be a trap. He didn't pay much mind to what the man speaking had said-- what mattered was his gut, and his gut was screaming at him that he had just been drugged, kidnapped, and was now facing a row of very wealthy-looking people who, by no stretch of the imagination, would want to sit a thief down for tarts and tea. He took a few steadying breaths and then examined the area more closely.

All around him were other people in varied levels of finery, some coming to, others still recovering from the effects of their transport. Kalends chuckled humorlessly. At least he wasn't the only one whose pride had been so wounded. He was beginning to think that maybe they could stage a crowd revolt-- there were enough of them to overpower the man on the stage, though a quick glance behind him told him that the man was not without support: two more lords and two ladies, though at least one appeared to be dressed in battle garb sat in a balcony at the other end of the room. He turned back, plotting his attack plan as he studied the platform at the front. But then, in a rare moment of epiphany, he realized exactly what was lining that stage.

At first glance, junk. Odd trinkets in a row, then small creatures and things that looked like humans behind the man who'd spoken. But then, just as Kalends was about to turn away, the light winked off a familiar worn buckle attached to a soft leather bag.

His satchel.

It was all Kalends could do to restrain himself, prevent his still-weary body from launching into battle against his captors (for what else could they be?). There was only one man on the stage after all, and he hardly looked like he'd put up much fight...

Kalends bit his lip until he tasted blood and his level-headedness returned.

No, he had to wait. His blood seemed like it was boiling in his veins and he was thankful that his hood still covered his face because he was sure his cheeks burned with fury. The item that was most precious to him in all the world (not to mention probably held something valuable in its own right) was perched on the stage's edge like a cheap ornament. Kalends felt his hands clench into fists and then willed them to open, to get back to being calm. One rash move might ruin everything.

A good thief knew how to bide his time. He needed more information, and he needed it badly. A revolt might still work. What were the people on the stage saying? If someone in the audience could cause a diversion, enough for him to get to the shadows, he could either try for his dagger or find a weapon and start picking his enemies off. But for right now, he had to wait.

His hand trembled with indignation, but he forced it to stop. The satchel was his prized possession, a mark of his coming of age as a burglar. But even if his captors knew that, they'd forgotten something very important: no one steals from a thief.

"And no man takes what is mine." He muttered, teeth gritted. It was a thief's promise and Artemis Kalends always made sure he kept his word.

Always.

To say one was accustomed to such oddities may have been a slight exaggeration, however, Lord Yizhaq bin Saleh was no stranger to clandestine meetings and security precautions so stringent that they almost acted against their purpose. In fact, the very handling of such operations was known to incite anger in otherwise passive individuals, as appeared to be the case with the young men that sat nearby.

Yizhaq had been working through his drowsiness for some moments now, keeping his eyes closed until he could determine that appearing awake would not further endanger his person. The grumbles of many, and the lack of a familiar whisper in his hear told him that while without his gryfalcon, he was not alone.

Silver-green eyes flashed in the room as they opened, sweeping what was clearly a stage. The stage was full of the taint, both aware and inanimate, and his gaze quickly found his beloved Servos. A jolt of awareness shot through his wiry frame as her dark eyes found his, and he calmed, pushing away the tides of unease and anger that beat at his abilities like a relentless ocean.

His mind went to the peculiar set of circumstances that had brought him here. An unfamiliar guardsman, followed by an unfamiliar mage [and one who seemed to not recognize him, a Seer of the Fellowship. Perhaps he had been gone from Anica for too long], and a teleportation unlike any he had suffered before.

It was only a short time, then, before he took it upon himself to twist in his seat, a hand rubbing along his jaw as he caught sight of familiar faces, high above. His eyes widened only a fraction to signify his recognition, though he felt both a comfort and anxiety grow in his stomach. The Lady Estratus and her knight seemed just as drowsy as he, and he found that he was more comforted by the pensive expression of the wary Plague-General at their side.

The quietus on stage was speaking, and Yizhaq broke off his intense stare to turn back, to listen. The apology was inadequate, and they all knew it. There was no true excuse for this treatment, not in times like this, when none could be trusted, however, Yizhaq would be the last to voice such a view.

----

Hayat had begun to find that she had no particular fondness for mages, despite her background. They were more bound to their power than any greater sense of loyalty, and often aligned with whatever organization benefited their studies. The Mage who had brought them had been treated with one predatory stare, forever fixing his visage into her mind, before she had felt a drowsiness she could not fight.

The was a pressure, firm upon her small limbs, when she tore herself into awakening. Though her mind responded instantly, snapping through the room and analyzing the information present, her body was slow to follow, and she found herself unable to stand, to do much more than hunt.

There.

Her Lord was found, and she eased under his serious gaze. They would wait then, bide their time, until an appropriate course of action could be found.

There were not many others there, but it was enough to know that the reach of this meeting was widespread. Above, she could see the Grand Magus and her Infitalis, and more, Treatise, the first being beyond Yizhaq with whom she had found an instant trust.

There were familiar and strange beings on the stage beside her, but the servos felt no urge to speak to them. This was no meeting, despite it's wrappings, it was an announcement.

Wickwright had never in his life been moved by magic before.

The Jawbone Men did not hold truck with such things, as a mendicant, he was expected to travel by foot or by wagon. As a younger man, he might have enjoyed the experience, but as it was, the sense of warm sleepiness that overtook him was perturbing; Wickwright did not like to lose his senses at an age when his senses were a blessing to have at all.He struggled to rouse himself, but the scene that met him when he did so replaced his mild nausea with sheer panic. Across from him were a group of Plagues, and, he began to realize, it did not feel that Hopkin was on his person any longer. "Hopkin," he hissed desperately, "Hopkin." His book bag remained silent. Straining his eyes for a hint of metal skin at the other end of the room, he failed to pay much heed to Erasmus, or indeed, anything else around him. Finch was supposed to be witty and clever, but he found that the loss of his book was too great a preoccupation to bear. Cursing under his breath, he began to look for ways in which he might try to recover it, but the room was round, and any movement on his part would be quite obvious. Hopkin might be able to make it back to him without being seen, but how to signal such an action? The Plague did little without Wickwright's command. He peered across the room again, but now that the initial panic had subsided, slowly replaced with a feeling of helplessness, he was surprised to discern what he thought were some familiar Plagues. He glanced down the rows and found he was correct- there were Grimms that he recognized seated next to him, not all of whom were Scientists.

This helped calm him. If not all the Plagues present were Scientist Plagues, harming them in any way would be more politically hazardous to the faction. He began to focus on the speaker, who he assumed was Erasmus. It was no good panicking, and the situation didn't lend itself to rash action. He would figure out what was going on that involved such an unexpected separation and decide his actions from there. For now he had to trust the Scientists- so far they had not served him wrong, and the fact that he thought he spied recognized Obscuvian Plagues near his own allayed much of his concern. After his meeting with the Grand Magus of Shyregoad, the thought that the other factions were susceptible to Obscuvian corruption had been weighing heavily on his mind. Obscuvians were less likely to take their own Plagues if they meant harm to them, thus allowing Wickwright to focus on the situation at hand. For now, he would hazard that Hopkin was safe. The separation, as the speaker said, was for the Emperor's sake, so he could only assume it was simply a precaution. He had partially eliminated the possibility of Obscuvian deception, which was what worried him most.


The world was flat and wide.

Hopkin felt sick as he fell in and out of consciousness, the barrier between the True World and the Wide World spinning out of control. With every nod in and out of consciousness, his mind jerked him to another flat landscape, desperately trying to rationalize and adapt the feeling of teleportation that he had never before experienced. He fought the sensation, trying to keep his bleary vision firmly planted in the Wide World, but he was in a strange new place, and the Flat World demanded his attention, pulling him through a hazy curtain of warmth and pleasant smells back into unconscious oblivion. It looked like this:

A rich, royal chamber. Fade.

A broken boulder. Fade.

An empty ocean. Fade.

A white tree. Fade.

An endless chasm. Fade.

A bloody battlefield. Fade.

A white bone.

The last image jolted him, and he moved forward, but suddenly found the effects had worn off. Weakly, he tilted his head up and tried to lift himself, but felt weighed down. His helplessness worried him, especially since, he realized with growing panic, Wickwright was not present. Instead, he was surrounded by other Plagues, many strange and alarming, and he let out a small, metallic whimper, wishing to be back in his dream world. There was a man at the podium speaking, he was not Wickwright either. High above him, Hopkin saw the Grand Magus and Sir Sloane, along with other strange individuals. The strangers alarmed him, but he focused on Sir Sloane's red, red hair for a moment to try to calm himself down. He wished it was Sir Sloane at the podium- the man speaking was not colourful or aesthetically pleasing at all.

As his nauseousness subsided, he was presently able to pull his gaze away from Sir Sloane, and from there, he scanned the seats below. There were many more humans there, and no Plagues, Hopkin assumed that was simply where humans belonged. That made him feel a bit better. If he was separated from his Grimm, at least he was correctly categorized. At length, he found his Grimm, sitting in the seats with the other humans. This was also acceptable. Wickwright was a human, so he belonged with the others. Hopkin attempted to raise a hand blearily to greet him, but found he was not quite able to bring himself to do it, instead he merely regarded the Finch man with an eyeless stare. If Wickwright was here, things would be all right, Hopkin rationalized. His Grimm only acted in his best interests.

He glanced now at the Plagues amongst him, many of whom were pleasing to his eye and well-designed. He felt most terribly plain and became deeply self conscious, suddenly wishing he could move more easily so he might hide himself. He recognized some of them at least, and his heart skipped a beat when he remembered that Dorian Arelgren was amongst the humans, but Lettie Arelgren was nowhere to be seen. Oh, where could Lettie Arelgren be! She was never where she belonged these days, and her irrational absences greatly wounded his sensibilities.

Toshua mumbled, twisting from side to side in an effort to settle into his surroundings, which were both foreign and a little strange – wait a second. Where was he? Not at home, obviously; he didn't notice the telltale bustle of servants that characterized his house at all times. Wherever he was, it was completely silent even as more than a few people started to rouse and move around him. He opened one emerald eye blearily. The sudden movement made Tosh dizzy, and he tried to breathe in to steady himself. This, unfortunately, only made him dizzier. "adlksjaldkfj," He winced, cracking his neck to the side. The young boy sat himself up in the chair he'd obviously been placed in while he had been... knocked out. As far as he'd remembered, he'd agree to a meeting with other Grimms and then a really ancient looking Council mage had said he was going to transport him to the location. Tosh had never met a mage before – he'd been too enchanted by examining the man's robes and the ink on his forehead to realize he was being transported.

The young boy looked around him curiously, anxious to find out where he was. The building was of a theatre or a presentation room of some sort; he and the other people round him faced a wooden stage upon which plagues and anhelos and excitos sat. It was incredible – there were creatures of all shapes and sizes, different clothes and designs that accentuated their unique appearances. The young boy couldn't take his eyes off of the stage, and almost forgot about the strange situation he was in. "Bloody hell," Toshua breathed.

He then reached out instinctively for his pumpkin. He'd grown strangely attached to the diseased squash; after keeping it with him at every moment to make sure his parents didn't dispose of it while he was sleeping, the black ooze from the pumpkin and it's slightly creepy essence. As expected, the plague wasn't there. Toshua then focused on finding his massive pumpkin among the other plagues sitting on the wooden stage – it was easy enough, finding the orange among the motley collection of objects (was that a wolf's tail sitting there?). He breathed out a sigh of relief he didn't even know he'd been holding.

The silence broke when the silver man spoke. "A disparingly small outcome, but it will suffice. I apologize for the segregation between Plague and Grimm-- such was intended for the sake of the Emperor, and the anesthesia a side-effect of the Council's teleportation systems."

He wrinkled his nose, disliking the slight contempt and mockery that laced the silver man's voice. At least the situation they were in was being explained. Toshua was perfectly content to listen to what the man was saying, because he was of the Council of Sciences, right? They'd never hurt him. His parents would come after them – and besides, his parents trusted the council with their lives. So would he (Tosh was going to join them in the future, just like his parents had). With a confident nod to himself, the teenager looked back and forth at the people around him, trying to see if there was a single entity amongst the crowds that was anywhere near his age. Old men and women got boring after a while.

––

The pumpkin just sat, ominously.

The raven haired woman's eyes fluttered open, her vision hazy with the fog of sleep. For some moments she had been aware, waiting, listening, feeling the air of this strange place and all who were within. Never before had there been a gathering of Grimm and Plague so concentrated that the entire room smelled of death to a human's unrefined nose, but that was the only scent she could detect now.

Grand Magus Estratus stiffened her posture, alleviating any show of weakness as quick as it came. Her composure was unbroken on the outside, but within her mind was racing with questions. It had most certainly been confirmed that the letter had come from the Council, as it said it would, and the Council Mage even bore the mark of the Fellowship when they ought not have normally. There were mages within all factions, but surely it was a special circumstance where they remained truly loyal or representing of the Fellowship while within others.

Even the many mages the House carried did not wear a sign of the Fellowship.

To her right were two figures, and to her left but one. She was planted in a chair, now sitting with dignity as she awoke. Beside her, in the other chair, was her white knight and sword, whom only now seemed to be taking the same steps in waking and assessing as she. Based on colors alone, Sage Estratus identified the two figures on either side of them to be with the Imperial Guard, but only upon closer inspection did she understand what rank they held.

Her throat cleared lightly, attempting to stave off the husky sound sleep brought with it but it only did so much. "General Diedthelm Kunze..." She enunciated slowly and carefully, her tone carrying both an air of interest and scrutiny.

The name seemed to strike a cord with her own Plague and, after looking at the man for confirmation, he turned to the one beside him, fist against his heart. "Plague General," his voice held a similarly groggy volume, but he did not appear as bothered by it as his Grimm.

Their eyes moved in time, then, to the stage before and below them. Rows and rows of seats, all occupied by distinctly human forms with no strange oddities sat facing a wide stage whose light was cast outward. Hundreds of items lined the edges, forming a tainted barrier of sorts, all piled together lifelessly save for the few rare animates which mostly wriggled uncomfortably as though they were just waking as well, if that were possible. Behind them were numerous bodies, human-sized and those of dolls, all Excito and Anhelo resting and waking, separated from their Grimms.

Sage felt a tug toward her mind from Sloane, something akin to frustration, at the sight of this. All that graced her own features was a subtle knit of her brow.

Then, as if on cue, a silvery figure stepped up to a podium and as he came into the light it was quite clear he was none other than a Quietus -- white, to be precise.

"A disparingly small outcome, but it will suffice. I apologize for the segregation between Plague and Grimm-- such was intended for the sake of the Emperor, and the anesthesia a side-effect of the Council's teleportation systems."

Yes, separated.

If all Grimms and Plagues were separated, why then did she and her Sword get special treatment alongside the General and his Shield? Their status? The thought caused a slight cringe upon her pale face, amber eyes burning into the white eyes of Erasmus, the Council's Scalpel. If she were still a mere Lady, an Adviser, she would not have received this treatment. In this situation, it felt strange not to be lumped in with the rest of the Grimms. As a Grimm alone, she was not special. She was no better than the rest. In fact, just earlier in the year, she considered herself worse.

Why were she and her Plague sitting comfortably atop a balcony with the highest ranked guardsmen in Panymium? The only thing that came to mind was their alignment with the Council, new and old magic allied in the search for a cure. Such a simple reason could be the explanation... or there was more at work here she could not quite figure out, her mind hazy from the teleportation and the stench of death permeating everything.

The Clemmings never fancied the idea of being held by the hand, metaphorically or physically, so when it came to pass that both of them were required to basically hold hands with the intimidating mage, both boys were hesitant and wary. Chauhn had opted to hold his Plague's free hand with his own, but the mage had sternly suspended the idea, leaving Chauhn to look after his Plague worriedly while Clurie looked everywhere else but his Grimm. He even tried to look away from the Council mage, for even the merest glance in his direction made the Ash Plague woozy and sluggish. Together, they flinched, casting sidelong glances at the mage as his grip tightened around their wrists. He was holding much too tight, it felt wrong, not like the comforting tightness a hand held when it was filled with respectful fear for another's life. If anything, it was cold. For Chauhn, Clurie was the last thing he saw before the world around him suddenly flipped inside out. The intestines of the world were white.

Clurie was the first to wake up. Curled up upon his body like the boy he owed his existence to, a boy who had died in the fire, crinkled and stiff, Clurie counted his toes and fingers. He checked if they were still moving, if they were still there, and he was glad to find that they were, even though he could simply will them back out of ash if he had lost anything in the dreamlike travel. For a time, he studied the movement of his own body, or rather, the lack thereof. He couldn't move his toes and fingers as much as he would've liked and he tried to groan aloud, voice his displeasure, which came out incredibly weak compared to the strength he put into his growl. That was disturbing. His body wasn't responding as he wanted it to, and while he knew it was because of the teleportation, he couldn't help but panic. Lack of control was a well rounded and overarching fear of his, and he rolled onto his elbow. That simple motion seemed to take an eternity. Moaning again, trying to voice for his Grimm, complain at him and berate him for going along with this stupid plan in the first place, Clurie managed to heft himself onto his forearms before he gave up on moving, breathing hard from the effort. At least the platform he was laid upon was warm, a comforting change from the frgid cold everything of Shyregoad. He blinked open his pitch black eyes and glanced about, his cheeks pinching as he strained to clear his sight of the milky weariness of sleep.

He wasn't near Chauhn. The only motion he made to voice his surprise was a startled jerk of his shoulders and the raise of his brows. Swinging his head around, slow and haggard, he took tax of what laid around him, the bodies of fellow Plagues, all strewn like dead birds upon a vast stage, and moving as if suffering their dying throes. There were few unfamiliar Plagues and fewer Plagues which he found familiar, a particular few being Hayat and Hopkin. The former, Clurie had no wish to speak with or clambor near, despite his heart's early yearnings. The way she had disbanded Chauhn and Clurie from Lord Yizhaq's service remained as a bitter bruise with him still. As for the latter, Clurie supposed that if any familiar Plagues were to be huddled beside, it would be that peevish and annoying Book Plague. He had enjoyed making the Excito squirm with the flare of his ashen cheeks. It reminded him of his younger days when he used to play. Those days were long since gone, though, and the Anhelo stretched his mouth open again in an attempt to speak, though, to whom, he had no idea. He simply wanted to get his voice back. There were other interesting Plagues, like a little black glowing Excito and another whom looked like it belonged in a bowl, but Clurie knew not their names. He strained again, determined and yet entirely helpless.

Chauhn felt similarly. Collapsed into a heap upon one of the audience's seats, Chauhn found that, despite the fact he was slowly falling out of his seat with the weight of his own body, he could not for the life of him convince himself to sit up. There was very little strength in his body after the swirling nausea had taken its toll, and he stayed still for very long, attempting to bring himself back into focus. He looked to his side, towards where he last saw his Plague, and was beyond startled to find that he was no longer there.

Chauhn jumped to his feet. Sleepiness, like an avalanche, fell free from his face and body, revealing the stone cold horror beneath. He tried shouting, but the voice that came to his call was terribly weak in response. Again, he swallowed, looking about desperately for the shape of his Plague. his eyes soon landed on the stage before him, too far away for Chauhn's liking, where he discovered the comatose body of his Plague. He tried to move forward, climb over the seats, but he was stopped in his tracks by the sharp sound of the silver man's voice. An apology.

Well, an apology wasn't good enough for Chauhn. Didn't that man have any idea how important Clurie was to him? The boy tried to move, wiggle past the seats, and in doing so, found himself struggling with another Grimm, another Grimm, who happened to be familiar. In actuality, many of the Grimms were familiar, Sloane and Lady Estratus being among them, a sight for guilty eyes, but the man he was trying to climb over was more recently so. It was an old man by the name of Wickwright.

"Clurie," Chauhn was mumbling weakly, unable to communicate his surprise and relief for finding a familiar face among the crowd, "Clurie, m'....Ah've gotta...Clurie...I need Clurie...Too far!"