Post by exile on May 26, 2007 13:57:11 GMT -5
”You seem lighter today, boy. I trust you’ve been to see Allesha?”
As was often the case in the dank chamber beneath the Mad Bleaker’s wing, only the meager glow of smoldering tobacco held the shadows at bay. Day and night could pass in this place without any outward indication but the waxing and waning of the cries of the barmy. Hadrian’s hand traced the contours of the ancient masonry as he shuffled through the darkness.
“I have,” he said, settling down with his back against the icy wall.
“Good,” came the muted reply followed by a lengthy pause as the old man sucked at his pipe. ”There is something I would know, boy.”
”I will answer what I can,” Hadrian said.
”You aren’t like the others that haunt that Gatehouse. I don’t believe this comes as a surprise to you.”
“I’m not sure that I understand.”
“In any faction, there are namers, and then there are Namers.” The emphasis was clear. ”The former pay lip service to the greater cause. Among our kind they wail and gnash at the teeth out of some misguided sense of injustice. Some even strive, occasionally violently, for acceptance into our inner circles. Others compose atrocious poetry to the dismay of all on Bedlam Row. They twig to us because they believe the Cabal to be likeminded, but they can never truly comprehend our central tenets. The path to understanding is forever obscured to them by veils of their own making.
“A few on the other hand see through such false gestures to the heart of what it means to wear our badge. These are the cutters who will advance in our ranks. Apathy will inevitably claim the great many unless some cross-trader’s chiv does them in first. The doldrums of our empty existence weighs heavily upon the wise. Some, like our Factol Lhar, have the strength to cast aside these shackles, at least temporarily. These are often the bloods who strive to pull back the veils from the sightless.
“But you, boy, are an oddity. I would mark you as one of the later group, except that you seem to have escaped the better part of our curse.”
“How do you mean?” there was a note of surprise in the aasimar’s tone now.
“There are some who say that you smile too much, for one.”
The silence that followed was especially heavy, broken only by the interminable drip of long rusted pipes. Those last few words reverberated through Hadrian’s thoughts repeatedly, conjuring up mixed feelings of defiance and confusion.
“They may say as they please,” Hadrian replied at last. ”I do not walk my path for the pleasure of others; I do so because it is my choice. But all the same, I believe you are mistaken. I am not so different from my brothers and sisters. All of us weather days both ill and fair.”
“Ah, is that how you would see things written?” came the gravelly retort. ”Is that then how you recall your time spent with the pair of Tiefling lasses at the Wayfarer three nights gone, as a fair day?
‘How did he know,’ Hadrian wondered. And more over, what reason was there to bring it to light? Hadrian had done nothing for which to be ashamed, and certainly nothing by which he ought to stand accused.
“Yes,” he conceded. ”Or rather I suppose that was a good night. What I witnessed on that evening gave me great hope to know that individuals with the capacity for true selflessness yet remain. For that I won’t be faulted.”
A dusty laugh heaved forth from the ancient bleaker, evidently amused at the prospect of hope among the supposedly hopeless. “Hope for what pray tell? Most who wear your colors would say that this existence is bereft of hope.”
“To them I counter that this existence is bereft of meaning alone; there can still be hope in its absence. Hope is a tie that binds us together when purpose is found lacking. There are others perhaps, but hope is mine.” Hadrian’s voice was unwavering now, his conviction absolute.
“And what is your hope, boy?” The old man’s tone was almost mocking.
“My hope is simply that my work here will better the lives of the forgotten and downtrodden souls in the Hive.”
And that was all. The debate had ended, the bandying of words and clash of wills was resolved. The old man wore a palpable air of satisfaction about him. There was a stirring in the darkness and Hadrian felt a small stone being pressed into his open hand by gnarled fingers.
“We have spoken enough for today, boy. Take this trinket and present it to Ephram Macrae in the Civic Feasthall. He’s a fair sort for a Sensate, a real cutter, and there’s no better instructor in affairs arcane and martial to be found across the cage. I will call upon you again ere long.”
As was often the case in the dank chamber beneath the Mad Bleaker’s wing, only the meager glow of smoldering tobacco held the shadows at bay. Day and night could pass in this place without any outward indication but the waxing and waning of the cries of the barmy. Hadrian’s hand traced the contours of the ancient masonry as he shuffled through the darkness.
“I have,” he said, settling down with his back against the icy wall.
“Good,” came the muted reply followed by a lengthy pause as the old man sucked at his pipe. ”There is something I would know, boy.”
”I will answer what I can,” Hadrian said.
”You aren’t like the others that haunt that Gatehouse. I don’t believe this comes as a surprise to you.”
“I’m not sure that I understand.”
“In any faction, there are namers, and then there are Namers.” The emphasis was clear. ”The former pay lip service to the greater cause. Among our kind they wail and gnash at the teeth out of some misguided sense of injustice. Some even strive, occasionally violently, for acceptance into our inner circles. Others compose atrocious poetry to the dismay of all on Bedlam Row. They twig to us because they believe the Cabal to be likeminded, but they can never truly comprehend our central tenets. The path to understanding is forever obscured to them by veils of their own making.
“A few on the other hand see through such false gestures to the heart of what it means to wear our badge. These are the cutters who will advance in our ranks. Apathy will inevitably claim the great many unless some cross-trader’s chiv does them in first. The doldrums of our empty existence weighs heavily upon the wise. Some, like our Factol Lhar, have the strength to cast aside these shackles, at least temporarily. These are often the bloods who strive to pull back the veils from the sightless.
“But you, boy, are an oddity. I would mark you as one of the later group, except that you seem to have escaped the better part of our curse.”
“How do you mean?” there was a note of surprise in the aasimar’s tone now.
“There are some who say that you smile too much, for one.”
The silence that followed was especially heavy, broken only by the interminable drip of long rusted pipes. Those last few words reverberated through Hadrian’s thoughts repeatedly, conjuring up mixed feelings of defiance and confusion.
“They may say as they please,” Hadrian replied at last. ”I do not walk my path for the pleasure of others; I do so because it is my choice. But all the same, I believe you are mistaken. I am not so different from my brothers and sisters. All of us weather days both ill and fair.”
“Ah, is that how you would see things written?” came the gravelly retort. ”Is that then how you recall your time spent with the pair of Tiefling lasses at the Wayfarer three nights gone, as a fair day?
‘How did he know,’ Hadrian wondered. And more over, what reason was there to bring it to light? Hadrian had done nothing for which to be ashamed, and certainly nothing by which he ought to stand accused.
“Yes,” he conceded. ”Or rather I suppose that was a good night. What I witnessed on that evening gave me great hope to know that individuals with the capacity for true selflessness yet remain. For that I won’t be faulted.”
A dusty laugh heaved forth from the ancient bleaker, evidently amused at the prospect of hope among the supposedly hopeless. “Hope for what pray tell? Most who wear your colors would say that this existence is bereft of hope.”
“To them I counter that this existence is bereft of meaning alone; there can still be hope in its absence. Hope is a tie that binds us together when purpose is found lacking. There are others perhaps, but hope is mine.” Hadrian’s voice was unwavering now, his conviction absolute.
“And what is your hope, boy?” The old man’s tone was almost mocking.
“My hope is simply that my work here will better the lives of the forgotten and downtrodden souls in the Hive.”
And that was all. The debate had ended, the bandying of words and clash of wills was resolved. The old man wore a palpable air of satisfaction about him. There was a stirring in the darkness and Hadrian felt a small stone being pressed into his open hand by gnarled fingers.
“We have spoken enough for today, boy. Take this trinket and present it to Ephram Macrae in the Civic Feasthall. He’s a fair sort for a Sensate, a real cutter, and there’s no better instructor in affairs arcane and martial to be found across the cage. I will call upon you again ere long.”