The discipline of messenger was the most true of all of them. The most true in the sense of the word "discipline." It took tremendous discipline to take a message and hear none of the contents, deliver it without failing to another, and forget it as though it had never happened.
It took great discipline.
Marelius the Fleet-footed was the best of his breed, but even he felt a heavy burden upon his summons to the grand hall that morning.
Navigating the byways and skyways of the city was as normal and second nature for him that he could do it with his eyes closed, or unconciously. He focused on the latter, based on the extremely unsettling nature of where he was being summoned to.
He misstepped as he almost let himself begin thinking about his destination. As a 7th circle messenger, it would be an insult to the ancestors who followed his path should he have violated the trust between the messenger and their client.
Making his way to the lower ancillary beyond the entrance to the great hall, he stepped out onto the elemental air floors, looking down upon all of the city proper. He spent the time studying his least familiar portions of the city from the position of authority while he made his way to the large double-doors at the end of the hall.
As he approached there were no royal guardsmen - odd considering where he was. He slowed his pace at the door, rapidly feeling a slight chill as though a breeze had swept in underneath his light garments.
"Enter." a voice spoke deep within his ear.
He stepped closer to the door which had begun to open on it's own. Inside was a large round room, with several individuals seated around a wide-round table. He immediately gave his message and awaited their instructions. Should they wish to retain his response, he would give them time to compose it.
One of the figures raised his hand for the messenger to be attent.
He looked across the table at the other figures. They nodded in approval.
"We will issue a response," he spoke, "but not to your charge. Give the response to whomever greets you at his home."
Marelius nodded in agreement. This was common enough.
"We gladly accept your master's gift. Surely the one who sent the message knows that the nameless council to whom he wished it sent does not repay favors, but out of respect for the special consideration and interest we have in this specific matter, we have allowed you to live for another day."
He took in a breath, as though preparing to speak another sentence, but rather than issue it forth in words, it came out all at once - not in a word, so much as a sound.
Fleet-foot didn't "hear" the message, so much as memorize it - but this was something different. This was the word of Death. He felt the thing enter his mind and begin expanding, slamming against his willpower to invade his consciousness and ring through his mind - shattering it.
Marelius wobbled for a moment, stunned.
"Dismissed, Messenger." said the figure as he took his seat once more.
Marelius's mind was ready to burst. He took all of his effort to shove it down and keep it together. He must not know the message. Must not know.
So preoccupied with this effort, he didn't hear the figures as he left.
"Suprising and interesting ability of that messenger... I didn't expect it to work, brother."
If the city didn't play through his dreams he might have never been able to find his destination. Fleet-Foot stumbled and careened his way through the city, his face twisted and his hands on his head. He found himself pounding on the door the manor in the city proper after what felt like an eternity with his head in a vice.
Several shouts from within were issued. A young slave opened the door, and looked up at him. She had green eyes and curly red hair. She couldn't have been older than 14. She gave him an innocent and worried look, and whispered "Welcome, Marelius, sir - what messge do you bring?"
She must be familiar to him, as she knew his name, but he was in no state to identify her. Behind her, an older, but beautiful woman stood, wearing casual theran clothes appear to be worth three times as much as normal, and beyond her, standing in an open doorway stood his retainer. He had a worried look on his face.
Marelius barely thought, as he began spilling out the message to the girl, each word growing more and more intense, and each syllable choking him with the force of the dying-word's desire to be free.
As he continued, he realized what would happen. There was nothing he could do about it. He looked down upon her, her wide eyes, fearful expression, and quivering lips.
"...allowed you to live for another day." he said, leaning on the wall for support. The older woman grabbed the servant girl by the arm and pulled her behind her robes. His retainer had slammed shut the door between the two.
Marelius looked bewildered at the woman, who was ready to lay hands on him in combat, and took a brief glimpse around the room and outside, at the busy street and passers by. He thought briefly of his trainer into the second circle of Messenger. "The art is finer than all martial disciplines, since we bring ends to wars, rather than perpetuate them, we bring joy to those seperated, rather than seperate, and we bring words to ears, as a painter does art to eyes."
----***----
Restranna grabbed the door-bar and readied it like a weapon at the frothing messenger, but before she could do anything about it, he seemed to snap out of it for a second, and then his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he crumpled like a rag-doll, arms and head falling through the doorway.
Vureel opened the door and looked out. Two women - both his.
He sighed a breath of releif, before feeling a shove and knocking into a wall. He opened his eyes and heard a crash behind him as the bar of the door flew into the stockroom and down the stairs.
"What in the passion's name was that!?" Restranna roared, her eyes filled with fear and rage.
Vureel quickly considered his options.
"I just called in a favor from a friend who was less than responsive... All it means is that we are heading back to Barsaive earlier than I thought... Now pull that body in the house and get Merianna ready."
----***----
"My Brothers,"
The word broke the rooms silence as the hooded speaker raised his face from the scrying pool, levelling his eyes with a waiting man-at-arms.
"must not know."
The battle-worn warrior nodded. "Of course, master - your word is law." He said, in a curt and practiced manner.
"Fetch the books from Seven, and bring them to me. Do not make any mistakes, and have no arrogance - these are superior combatants. Take them alone, and never when they have the advantage of their compatriots. You have until the 25th of Veltom."
The Orkish warrior saluted and spun around, leaving the room promptly. The image of an airship in the desert faded from the pool as the hooded figure slouched into a large armchair.
He swivelled and faced large windows overlooking the isle. His gaze slowly travelled over it's innumerable nuances.
"What could possibly be drawing them to Marac..." he said to himself unconciously.
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