The quaint proposal.

[punisouffle]

Set after Cutty and Galoo's encounter in Prontera, before meeting with Reilin and Ciar in Rachel City.
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Good thing comes to those who waits.
In our case, the wait is a line - and at the end of that line glimmers the Schwartzwald pine jubilee.

Afternoon sunshine tears down the clear, blue sky. The waves on hugel shore lull lazily against the quaint village, nestled east to the republic's far, quiet reach. In town square, where people dressed in sundry colours scatter about their business. A good handful has formed a line across the square - leading to one small café. Here they seek the sweet, ice cold fruity treat. A sole remedy for today's scorching sun.

It's the rare, juicy mastela that make it savoury.

In the middle of the line, A girl robed in blue waits idly under her pointy mage hat - which casts just enough shadow to rest her eyes. She's flapping airship tickets as a makeshift fan, fighting the torrid weather. Her two companions, however, are reduced down to sweltering pile of sweat and deviruchis. A basket in her other hand holds half a dozen glacial hearts - enough to escort the treasures back to Rachel city before they thaw.
If they ever get the treasure at all.

"M-Milady Galoo," pleads one of the devils, "let's head back." "We'll be late for the meeting." Adds the other.
Today is the arranged meeting between her master Ciar and a potential collegue - Catherine McWren. They're already late, she tells the deviruchis, if they go by Cutty's definition of punctual. "And we should never go back empty-handed." One deviruchi butts down on her foot, while the other drops down flailing on the sizzling stone pavement. "You'll get cooked, comrade Ortega," says the devil on his seat. "w-we're soldiers of the legion," cries Ortega, "can't milady blow this scene and make off with the sweets?" He was loud and that raises some eyebrows.

Sweat drips down her chin. "Stealing from church may be a yes-yes-yes. But from an honest vendor is a no-no-no." The devils groan as she lectures. "We'll conquer the world - not ruining it. We wait like everyone, yup."

But principle and pine jubilee were partly an excuse. Galoo doesn't want to see Cutty meet Ciar. "Don't get me wrong, I like you," she says, making the one on her shoe cocks his ears, looking up confused. "Just talking to myself," Galoo chuckles, "but, Gaia, you know I like you too." The little one purses a sulky face, looking ahead and back along the endless line of people. The market's bell tolls noon, grumbles of discontent join in the air. Someone says the café's stock of mastela ran out. The queue hasn't moved in forever. But Galoo worries about something else entirely.

Today, Catherine will agree to join her beloved master, spinning his next brilliant plan -- whatever that may be -- into motion. Galoo knows only one thing - he is not ready. Two days ago they were still in Prontera, freshly after Ciar has rung the false Moonlight Bell. Unlike with professor Nikki, the bell didn't curse him into coma. He's her proud master after all. But the bell plagued him something else - he began becoming a stranger. Forgetting what he has said, or what he would say. Constantly wrestling with something in his mind. Once or twice, she could hear the lingering rings like those of the ghostly bell. A kind of ding that sends shiver down her spine, and those dings would come from Ciar.

The mage girl already repelled Cutty once - to arrange herself a night alone with Ciar. She looked into his mind. But with her small knowledge, forming clasps betwen two souls is still far more easy than to dissect one. Unable to cure him, but would never stop his dreams either.

Galoo sighs a heavy one.

Last time, they tricked Cutty when her third deviruchi pulled a heroic sacrifice. At least the woman isn't the kind to hang a hostage - Galoo wishes his captor would at least feed him some sweets. Well, the same trick will never work twice - and she will never buy time that way again.

"Mash was brave, and so can you two be." She speaks to her little devils. "Or you already are, in this heat together with me."
The girl shuts her eyes, knowing nothing more to do but wait. Wait for the line - for today's meeting to be over - for the inevitable.

Then come cheerful roars, queue beginning to move. The café is serving again.
"See, we won't go back empty handed." her voice brimming with joy, slapping the side of the basket. The two deviruchis, already astray from the line, darts back cutting her in front, marching forward in full vigour. Galoo's bursting with sparkling smile, forgetting everthing but the icy, sweet treasure. The airship ride back won't even take that long, Cutty or Ciar can wait a little more while.

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[Yurrechire]

(And now, for a dip in the past.)

===

The Price Wars of Alberta, which ended roughly 10 years ago, had no clear winners. They did have a number of losers, amidst the merchant estates big and small. The house of Lady Silver came down in a shower of worthless banknotes, buried under by machinations of Merkelsonn & Sons. It was dead almost three days before a private militia came in to mop up the pieces, burning the actual building and killing or scattering the remaining servants.

Lady Silver - as she was known to her customers and much of the household's more mundane staff, or Lady Naomi- to the certain stoic steward, projected a calm and elegant presence in the elite circles of the Trade City. She was not unlike her favorite Amatsu silks- delicate and fey,, yet a maker of contract tethers stronger than steel. Shrewd judge of human character, she put together the oddest combinations of personnel, delighting both allies and enemies alike with brilliant results.

This was how Procyon Canis, a mercenary of no clear allegiance, and Catherine McWren, a servant of some special talents, first met. Through a series of odd missions (conducted in the middle of the night and generally ending up in deaths of peoples’ second cousins), the pair build a working relationship of no-nonsense respect.

Lady Silver’s forte was exotic imports, mostly outsourced, rarely taken up by her own loyal people.

Which was why the small group, sent out into the jungles of Umbala to hunt a dream, remained ignorant of their mistress’s fall for over a week. Their jubilant return coincided with her funeral, a severely truncated and unimpressive affair, in which the few ‘mourners’ who lined the pews did not bother hiding their gloating.

The last two loyal servants of the household were left at loose ends. Procyon, having been in the confidences of Silver quite a bit longer than McWren, swore vengeance. Catherine, who had been trying to train a juvenile peco while paying child support, counseled moving on. The two parted ways, maintaining a connection through McWren’s frequent care packages, and Canis’s short, nearly always angry-sounding reports on her progress in bringing down one of the still most-powerful trading houses in Alberta.

===

The little room on the ground level of a sprawling Rachel estate was likely meant to be some servant’s bedroom. Currently, it functioned as Cat’s makeshift lair. Shelves had been installed, and a massive wooden desk- positioned close to the single, unimpressive window. Piles of ledgers on the desktop mingled with packets of strange powders, a half-dead potted ficus, and several pieces of shell. A peco feather was lodged into a crack of the windowsill. It was a place where McWren came to sort out the life of herself and the household; a place just cramped and familiar enough to feel safe in.

She came at a run, that morning, a bulky bundle- clutched tightly to her chest. P.O. box addresses, both delivering and returning, had been written by a familiar hand. The note, attached carelessly to the front of the package, had been skimmed earlier.

It was strange, how so few words could shake ones’ world so profoundly.

“It is done. He even kept souvenirs.”

No signature, for the old friend rarely bothered with such formalities.

McWren ripped open the brown paper almost reverently, unveiling one of such ‘souvenirs’. The fabric had been the finest one could get in Alberta, those days; a rich brocade of tastefully understated grays and pinks, on a pristine white background.

When she buried her face in it, Cat could still smell the past, the dust of the carriage rides and humid air of the jungle; the lilac perfume of a she-demon in disguise.

She shook out the garment, carefully fastening the tarnished silver clasp at the throat; looked down this way and that, judging the effect. It was true what they said- some clothing never looked right on anyone but the owner.

Catherine McWren spun around, just once, heavy silk of the old cloak- billowing out around her.

Just for a moment, the folds looked a lot like wings

[Yurrechire]

((Set directly after the first failed shattering of the Bell)).
===

A brown robed figure watched the tail end of the cleansing from her customary shadowed doorway. The last of the zombies fell, overwhelmed by the blazing light of a dozen rumpled priests; the final escaped peco was netted and returned to its stables. Mutilated bodies were dragged off, blood and ichor - washed off the streets by the cadre of janitors, pulled out of their beds for just that reason. It was business as usual in Prontera, after an unholy invasion.

What boiled in the soul of the silent witness was not new: behind the uncharacteristically blank expression, the woman was wrestling with an unhealthy dose of anger. The mission that seemed simple and straightforward (get a blessed item, shatter the Bell, ???, sane employer!) from the start turned into a muddled mess, complete with a petulant mage’s rampage across a heavily populated area. The loss of lives was quite acceptable; it was the unplanned and futile nature of the act that made McWren want to grab a certain Rachel-based professor around the neck. To shake him, perhaps, until some sense tumbled out.

Violence against superiors was considered deplorable behavior by any civilized henchman, and so other measures would have to be taken in order to deal with the swiftly derailing train of Ciar’s mind.

A great bronze bird lifted its head from the exploration of a cat-filled ditch, glancing first at the priestly convention over the last zombie corpse, then - at its sulking mistress. In the right saddlebag, currently carried by Cookie, nestled a certain folder. Within it, neatly filled out forms W-G11© (request for disciplinary action against a commanding officer) and W-T201(a) (request for examination of mental capabilities in a non-combat situation) were coupled with a number of newspaper articles, hand-written account of the Bell saga, and half a dozen notarized witness testimonies as to Speir’s ongoing inability to function.

In the best interests of discipline, common sense, and all things unholy, McWren would file the fore-mentioned forms with the local union office, and wait for results. Bureaucracy of the Dark Legion worked slowly, but when hammers of retribution fell, they fell hard indeed.

There were a few bits of other unfinished business, ones that she’d have to get out of the way. The second half of the payment to the idiot kid for his assistance in the temple fiasco had to be delivered still, the Rachel manor-shuttered and the servants-let go, for their owner’s extended leave of absence.

The current employer's instructions had been- ‘lay low’; despite filing complaints against the man, the not-quite-a-knight intended to obey these to the letter. In the list of Speir’s properties, there was a particular tiny cabin. Barely more than four walls and a roof, situated near one of the many streams running down mount Mjolnir, it was as good of a place as any.

McWren would finish the errands, inform Reilinn about her future where-abouts, and go wipe out several generations of small woodland animals for pleasure, if not profit.

Eventually, the marching orders'll come again.
They always did.