Sherral (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fluffiest_archadian) wrote2016-06-05 03:44 pm
fluffiest_archadian) wrote2016-06-05 03:44 pm
[OOM]
For a few weeks, it’s just patrols, and Braegh Company and the Jinetes work surprisingly well together. Braegh Company supplies healers, mages, archers, and swordsmen, while the Jinetes make use of their superior technology to provide both heavily armoured soldiers that can cause havoc to monsters around them, and riflemen who can efficiently cover troops from afar, or pick off a monster before it gets close enough to become a problem.
What bothers Sherral is that nothing they do ever seems to make a dent in the number of monsters. Braegh Company and the Jinetes are always patrolling the Eastern District, past the Gate of Winds, and every time they return, there are more monsters. There’s an endless supply of them - and maybe in the wild that would be usual, but there’s nowhere for these monsters to be coming from.
He voices that concern to Cirino one night, and the man lifts his shoulders, saying that that’s a question for the scientists, archaeologists, and priests.
Priests, at least, are something they have no shortage of: More and more pilgrims arrive with every new airship, and the senior Kiltia in the city start conducting sermons in the outpost’s central square every day. With more clergy in the city, more demands start coming in, and stronger. First, a Dalmascan Kiltia with two-hundred signatures demanding that the outpost be purged of ‘peddlers of immorality and heresy’; then, another letter asking that alcohol be removed from the outpost; then one asking that all soldiers and archaeologists gather for prayer in the morning.
They’re all broadly rejected, but each time they are, another letter asking the same arrives, often hand-delivered by an angry Kiltia who wishes to discuss their agenda with the outpost’s commanders in person.
That, at least, is something Sherral and Cirino can bond over - how the commanders’ meetings drag on endlessly as a result of listening to the endless requests and demands of the camp’s populace.
(Sherral sees Duke Rhagarde’s signature on several of those letters, but the man never appears in person. It makes sense: The man wants to curry favour with the Kiltia, but that doesn’t mean he wants to have to explain their reasons to a room full of irate, tense military commanders.)
The bonding experience is odd. Cirino starts stopping by Sherral’s tent, peering over his shoulder as Sherral compares reports from each patrol side by side. He brings alcohol the first few times, then tea when he realises that Sherral’s not overly interested in drinking on duty.
“So, what, there’s a monster factory?” He asks one day, sitting on the edge of Sherral’s desk.
“Most of these monsters are mechanised, so just plain factories,” Sherral says wryly. “An automated system that repairs broken security forces, or cannibalises their parts to create new ones if they can’t be repaired.”
“It would have to have been working for thousands of years.”
“Not necessarily,” Sherral says. “I mean, the Mist here is heavy enough that it probably could have powered itself for that long, and it might be able to repair itself, but it could just as easily go inactive when nobody’s in the city. Or maybe it was set to only switch on when the Mist storm dissipated.”
“Sounds farfetched.”
Sherral resists the urge to grind his teeth. “It’d be a marvel of engineering, I grant you, centuries beyond anything we can do, but it’s a lot less farfetched than the other option, which is that monsters materialise from thin air whenever we aren’t looking like the world’s naughtiest schoolchildren.”
“So you want to, what, go and find it and shut it down?”
“Well, go and find one, at least. If I’m right, there are several scattered around the city,” Sherral says.
Cirino laughs at that. “Good luck, perrito.” Sherral tries not to be annoyed at the pet name the other man has picked up for him. “You’ll need approval from all four forces, not to mention the archaeologists, and probably the Kiltia too.”
“Can you appeal to your commander for me?” Sherral asks, turning a page of one of the reports. “I can talk to Ser Howell, and send a letter to Draklor Laboratories asking for them to throw their support behind the expedition, that should sway the archaeologists.
Cirino rolls his eyes. “I suppose I could. But you’ll owe me a favour, and that still leaves the Bhujerbans, Dalmascans, and Kiltia.”
“I am aware, thank you,” Sherral says, shutting his eyes. “I have connections yet in Dalmasca that I can exploit. Bhujerba might be more difficult to convince. As for the Kiltia, I …” he catches Cirino’s grin, “... Look, we both know who I need to talk to about that.”
What bothers Sherral is that nothing they do ever seems to make a dent in the number of monsters. Braegh Company and the Jinetes are always patrolling the Eastern District, past the Gate of Winds, and every time they return, there are more monsters. There’s an endless supply of them - and maybe in the wild that would be usual, but there’s nowhere for these monsters to be coming from.
He voices that concern to Cirino one night, and the man lifts his shoulders, saying that that’s a question for the scientists, archaeologists, and priests.
Priests, at least, are something they have no shortage of: More and more pilgrims arrive with every new airship, and the senior Kiltia in the city start conducting sermons in the outpost’s central square every day. With more clergy in the city, more demands start coming in, and stronger. First, a Dalmascan Kiltia with two-hundred signatures demanding that the outpost be purged of ‘peddlers of immorality and heresy’; then, another letter asking that alcohol be removed from the outpost; then one asking that all soldiers and archaeologists gather for prayer in the morning.
They’re all broadly rejected, but each time they are, another letter asking the same arrives, often hand-delivered by an angry Kiltia who wishes to discuss their agenda with the outpost’s commanders in person.
That, at least, is something Sherral and Cirino can bond over - how the commanders’ meetings drag on endlessly as a result of listening to the endless requests and demands of the camp’s populace.
(Sherral sees Duke Rhagarde’s signature on several of those letters, but the man never appears in person. It makes sense: The man wants to curry favour with the Kiltia, but that doesn’t mean he wants to have to explain their reasons to a room full of irate, tense military commanders.)
The bonding experience is odd. Cirino starts stopping by Sherral’s tent, peering over his shoulder as Sherral compares reports from each patrol side by side. He brings alcohol the first few times, then tea when he realises that Sherral’s not overly interested in drinking on duty.
“So, what, there’s a monster factory?” He asks one day, sitting on the edge of Sherral’s desk.
“Most of these monsters are mechanised, so just plain factories,” Sherral says wryly. “An automated system that repairs broken security forces, or cannibalises their parts to create new ones if they can’t be repaired.”
“It would have to have been working for thousands of years.”
“Not necessarily,” Sherral says. “I mean, the Mist here is heavy enough that it probably could have powered itself for that long, and it might be able to repair itself, but it could just as easily go inactive when nobody’s in the city. Or maybe it was set to only switch on when the Mist storm dissipated.”
“Sounds farfetched.”
Sherral resists the urge to grind his teeth. “It’d be a marvel of engineering, I grant you, centuries beyond anything we can do, but it’s a lot less farfetched than the other option, which is that monsters materialise from thin air whenever we aren’t looking like the world’s naughtiest schoolchildren.”
“So you want to, what, go and find it and shut it down?”
“Well, go and find one, at least. If I’m right, there are several scattered around the city,” Sherral says.
Cirino laughs at that. “Good luck, perrito.” Sherral tries not to be annoyed at the pet name the other man has picked up for him. “You’ll need approval from all four forces, not to mention the archaeologists, and probably the Kiltia too.”
“Can you appeal to your commander for me?” Sherral asks, turning a page of one of the reports. “I can talk to Ser Howell, and send a letter to Draklor Laboratories asking for them to throw their support behind the expedition, that should sway the archaeologists.
Cirino rolls his eyes. “I suppose I could. But you’ll owe me a favour, and that still leaves the Bhujerbans, Dalmascans, and Kiltia.”
“I am aware, thank you,” Sherral says, shutting his eyes. “I have connections yet in Dalmasca that I can exploit. Bhujerba might be more difficult to convince. As for the Kiltia, I …” he catches Cirino’s grin, “... Look, we both know who I need to talk to about that.”