The first thread of the main plot arrives! And dangit, we still haven't gotten to meet patient seven!

Chapter Four: To see, or not to see.

9/5/997.

Berlith, on reflection, found the record-keeping for the Keep to be insufficient. For starters, the Glyphstone for which the Keep had been built had been moved and no one thought to write down where to. From the records on renovations that predated Medani's rental agreement, she hazarded a guess that it was in the lower vaults. Somewhere. Secondarily, all the staff sketches were out of date - the warforged orderlies all had the same sketch applied to them, she could tell because the rune on the sketch's head was Coolander's. Warforged weren't easy for her to tell apart, the mark of detection helped as did their different voices, but on visuals alone, she had to consciously look for things.

And thirdly, there was no documentation on the methods used by the Citadel to expand the marks of their prisoners. Without knowledge of how it had been done, the lab staff would have to waste time puzzling it out to stop further expansion. So far only the aging artificer - Ide, the current Kundarak patriarch's grandmother - and the halfling child had not had their marks expand. However, while Malarai's mark had expanded, the power tied to that expansion wasn't documented - the Citadel hadn't had time to find out.

In her office, at her desk, Berlith looked at the prince's file again. The sketch they had of him was when he was a boy - before he had been mauled by one of his father's pet tigers. Officially, Aejar ir'Wynarn had died as a result of the injuries, but seemingly the Citadel had swiped him from his hospital bed shortly afterward. The prince represented the only success in the Citadel's attempts to induce an aberrant dragonmark where one hadn't existed before.

She didn't want to update the sketch - but there was no justifiable reason to keep the old sketch when they all had to be updated. Berlith sided and cracked open the ledger, to see if there was enough money in the Keep account to afford an artist's commission. With all the budgeting that would need to be done for the month ahead, there was not.

The back of her head tingled, and it traveled down her hand to her fingertips. Specifically, her ring finger which she saw rested on Mankarr's file. The gnome was a bard… perhaps he was trained in the traditional arts? There was no mention of it in his file, but that didn't preclude the possibility.

She would have to ask.

Mankarr found himself in a wonderful position, not too long after he got his new room. It was in the northernmost tower, second in height to the donjon, and had a bay window which Mankarr could sit in. That was where he had been when he was visited by the esteemed interim viceroy for the facility. She had a simple question: was he trained in the art of drawing. He was, but alas, he was a gnome. And no gnome out of their baby teeth ever gave someone a straight answer, as the saying went. Mankarr knew he had given plenty of straight answers in his life, the key was to frame them in such a way that they didn't appear to be straight.

"Why would you ask if I have training in classical arts?" Mankarr reclined his head against a tubular pillow that Septrippo provided. With the light, he could appreciate the inclusions of white in her metallic body segments. Bone fragments. He couldn't remember how he knew the reason, but he knew it. It gave Septrippo a sort of starry appearance.

"Something simple, that needs to be done and would justify an expense I'm sure you would enjoy," the elderly khoravar woman said with a heavily guarded expression. She had that look of indomitability about her that Mankarr found insufferable. Like she could just walk through a barricade without slowing down. "If you had the skills, I could provide artistic materials." Berlith looked down her nose at Mankarr, though there wasn't much nose to look down. "You would provide a service, sketches for your file and the other patient's, as they are out of date. What you do with the materials afterward is your business."

The gnome wanted to make a snide remark, but his mark flared to life and he doubled over from the searing pain. It dulled soon afterward as the boiling blood in his veins calmed in response to positive energy. When he recovered, he witnessed Berlith wipe her hand with one of those fancy disposable handkerchiefs that came in a box. "I don't think the mark is infectious," he said with a smug grin to hide the hurt.

"We aren't certain of that yet," she said and disposed of the handkerchief into the wastebasket. Her hair was so large, her expressions weren't discernable unless she looked at him in profile at least. "And even if we were, you were drooling."

With sudden alarm, Mankarr became aware of the wet spot on his hospital gown - and the saliva on his lower jaw. He'd grit his teeth against the pain for too long, it seemed. "You needn't have put your hand there…."

"Yes, or no?" The khoravar woman turned and fixed her gaze on Mankarr. He couldn't move or look away, such was its strength. "There are other things in dire need of doing around this facility, and I would appreciate it if you could tell me if you can help with this."

Gnome nature and the dark-skinned woman's complete control of the situation battled, so Mankarr quickly looked for an out. His mind worked behind his facade of safety and devil-may-care flippancy. The good doctor had been sweetness until she got an answer she didn't like. The same could be true of Berlith. "If you asked it of me," he said, delicately, "I could do this for you. Depending on the materials provided. Ink and graphite would certainly help."

Berlith was only two feet taller than Mankarr, but at that moment she towered over him like the goblinoid mountain-statues from thousands of years ago. Without further discussion, the khoravar turned and left the gnome with his orderly for the day.

14/5/997

A few days later, Mankarr was brought to the donjon again, and there was a new item there that he could tell was meant for him long before his orderly set him down in front of it: a drawing board.

Mankarr hadn't been in front of a drawing board in a long, long time. It was like meeting an old friend again. For the first few minutes since Februhaha had set him on a chair before the board, all he did was touch it. It was sized for a dwarf, so the holders for pens and ink were just outside his comfortable reach, but he didn't care. "Nine years," he said, relaxed, "since I was able to be an artist. But I still recognize this work." He stretched behind the drawing board, and he could just barely feel the maker's mark: a wedding cake. "Yes! Old Cake's work! Is he still alive?"

Februhaha paused in setting up the colored inkwells for Mankarr's artistic venture. In another world, Februhaha would have made a wonderful guardian of a library, intimidating to look at with optical lenses of burning red but surprisingly soft hands padded in leather. There was even a notch in their nose where Mankarr could imagine glasses resting. "The manufacturer is based out of New Cyre, where it used to be out of Sharn. I don't know who 'Cake' is, but this board is only a year old."

Mankarr accepted this and scooted around in his seat to try and get comfortable. Then he noticed the sheer volume of artistic supplies assembled for his use. A three-tiered side-table of inks, a selection of quills, graphite pencils, and other Cake-brand art supplies. "Neiva's bells, the viceroy went all out on this stuff."

Februhaha uncapped a well of 'Karrnath Red' and set it down on the tiered side-table. "Beggar Dane once said that while medicine will keep one alive, without art who would want to live?" The genderless living construct then went upstairs and brought back a box of paper. "Hemp paper will suffice?"

"Of course, of course!" Mankarr opened the box and began to fit the pages into the drawing board like he was a decade younger, and still a carefree artist. "Sit down, sit down. Three-quarters profile would be preferable." As soon as he clipped the leather corner-covers down on top of a stack of paper, he looked over to see that Februhaha had not done as he instructed. Oh no, that wouldn't do at all. "Well come on, you're too tall for me to crane my neck and look at you for how long this will take. Don't want me to develop a crick, do you?"

Februhaha tilted their head and rested their hands on their hips. The leather on their hands padded them against noisy clangs. "Now come on, Mr. Mankarr. There's no need for us orderlies to have sketches in our files. We all look the same."

Now annoyed, Mankarr pointed at the chair meant for the subject's sketches. He scowled and offered no more words, only gestures.

With a heavy sigh, Februhaha sat down and became the first subject of Mankarr's drawings.

Mankarr depicted them with glasses in the nasal notch he had noticed, hooded robes of green, with embroidery the same shade of red as their optics. They sat upon a throne of books, with another in their hands. His unique style of drawing - dots of varying size and distance for colors and shading - stunned the orderly.

Februhaha looked at the finished product, careful not to touch it while the ink dried. They rubbed the mark on their forehead - the unique rune that was the mark of life, their 'ghulra'. "You got it right," they said, amazed.

Mankarr smiled and bade them to get the other orderlies. They would serve excellently as practice.

Coolander came next, the head orderly, their number one. Mankarr made sure to capture his gleaming permanently polished head and the tiger-stripe layering in his steel. He was depicted as a fashionista, with the latest outfit from Sharn's tailors.

Janulerry followed, demure as always. She was unique in two ways, she had no metal in her construction - purely wood and obsidian - and her hands had four digits to the usual three. Mankarr drew her surrounded by flowers, vines that grew around her and flowered in a crown around her head. After her came Merch, happy and a bit dim. Mankarr drew them in the many-layered white dress, like a doll he had once seen, to draw out how dainty and cheerful they were.

Apelel had to be ordered to sit for his portrait, persnickety as he was. The largest of the orderlies, and covered in adamantine plates, Mankarr had no trouble depicting him like a juggernaut in the act of walking through a wall. Mankarr was informed afterward that Apelel had been marked for a juggernaut refit before Jorasco had bought him - the taciturn warforged actually smiled at his portrait.

Warforged smiles were horrifying to see - they opened their mouths, and the rows of metal plates that led to absolute darkness was simply not pleasant to look at. Mankarr used that horror for his next subject, Maize - the creepy one. The lanky warforged delighted in macabre subjects and had dimmed the lights of their optics to make them resemble black pits. Perhaps it was the darkwood in their construction. His portrait was simple: Maize seated as they appeared, their orderly whites replaced with Karrnathi fashion, and a sword made to resemble bone in their hand. They called it 'cute'.

"That one always gives me agita," Mankarr muttered while he tried to rub the goosebumps off his arms while Maize left. The current of warm air which came from the door and went up to the top of the tower helped a little. When he looked up, he found that the lighting in the donjon had shifted - no longer radiant, but orange and darker. Had he worked for the whole day? He hadn't stopped for meals or the privy!

"I believe he's realized how long it has been," said the viceroy as she stepped into Mankarr's field of view. The elderly khoravar crossed her arms and stepped such that her boots would 'clack' against the floor noticeably. "I respect your work ethic, but in the future, you will keep to your schedule. The orderlies and the rest of the staff will be added to the schedule since you're so keen on their appearances being documented."

Mankarr could make out faint pockmarks in Berlith's face as she leaned over the drawing table to look down at him. He then revised that - not pockmarks, but faint freckles. Were she not in her position of power, he might have found that endearing.

"And, if after all that you still crave to portray people, I will permit you to open yourself to commissions from the settlement. The money you earn will be deposited into a trust account and delivered to you in full on your release." Berlith stood, either unaware or uncaring about the bomb she had dropped, and 'clacked' her way to the door.

Mankarr's breathing had become ragged, his mask almost slipped, but he slipped back into his smarmy tone as he turned and called out to her. "Could you clarify something, I thought I heard you say 'on your release.'"

The door heaved as Berlith continued on her way a moment, then paused on the other side. "His Majesty the king has ordered that once your marks are better understood, and your control over their powers is guaranteed, you all may return to your families as free men, women, and people of unspecified gender." She kept her back to Mankarr, and again her hair blocked his view. "You aren't prisoners," the 'yet' went unsaid, "and it was foolish for you to be treated as such. Enjoy your supper, Mr. Tomraan. It's fish fillets tonight."

Without further discussion, the gnome watched Berlith clack away, even while Februhaha and Janulerry moved in to get him ready to go back to his room.

"Miss Vaedo, are you sure you want your food to get cold?"

The Tairnadal elf ignored the pleas of the metal man, Adjustus, for he was a worry-wort and she had routines to perform.

Once, a decade ago, she had been a warrior. Not one of the great warriors, but a warrior all the same. She had fought alongside her warclan, she had cared for her horse like he was her brother. For all that to be true again, she had to regain her physical prowess.

The room she had been moved to was large. Her footsteps, padded by silk socks and decades of training in stealth, echoed to her ears. The heavy warforged like Adjustus made a clamor in the room's acoustics.

Vaedo trained. She stretched, ran the length of the room, arranged her furniture for obstacles so that she could run it. There was not much furniture - Adjustus said they would get more from the local carpenters, tall ones so that Vaedo would have to leap higher. The worrying warforged said as he watched her move he almost forgot she was blind. That was partly why she wanted more furniture, to clutter the room, so that she would have to learn how to adjust to different conditions.

She sat on her bottom, stretched her legs, and placed her left hand upon the ground. She threw her right leg over her left, pushed with her hand, and drew in her leg to spin. Like a little top, she spun.

"Is… that a Valenar training thing?" Adjustus asked as he stamped over to where Vaedo span. "It looks fun."

It was. "It's not meant to be fun, it is meant to train disorientation." It was so incredibly fun. "It's a stepping stone to further exercises which are geared toward control of disorientation and momentum." They were ridiculously fun to pull off. Vaedo had used them for dance techniques before the war.

"Still, it looks fun." Adjustus' hands clinked together, which he did when he was nervous. "Could you teach me?"

Instinct's purpose is to keep someone alive, not to help make decisions. She pushed aside the instinct to refuse out of hand as she pushed off the ground to stand. A drop of compassion or shared history could give her the pause she needed to escape. Without concern, she grabbed Adjustus' arms and moved them about to get a general feel of the weight in his limbs.

"A bit heavy, but with some padding, you can pull this off no problem. For now, watch what I do." She tried to gesture to her eyes with two fingers, then point to his.

Adjustus raised her hand so that the gesture was correctly positioned. "Okay, I'll watch."

An investment, she told herself. Like kindness to wolves who would guard her sleep. When she could get a blade, she would be free. But until then, she would teach a four hundred pound man made out of steel, wood, and volcanic glass how to spin about on his bottom and lament that she couldn't see it once he got it right.

If he got it right.

17/5/997.

The settlement outside Glyphstone Keep was more or less done. Individual homesteads had still to be built, but the local economy had grown enough that shops had come to the proto-urban area outside the Keep. A florist had come to the settlement, to provide seeds for crops and offer advice to the new homesteaders. A smithy soon followed, and after that came a beastmaster.

The smithy had expected to shoe horses and make nails for quite a while. Imagine her surprise when a panoply of warforged soldiers came to her in hopes of repairs, a couple even asked to apprentice under her. The settlement faired better than expected, given the state of things.

But it wasn't going to last forever.

The settlement wasn't large, the first generation settlers totaled near five hundred, a third of which couldn't produce children. It hadn't even gotten a name yet, or a mayor. It was decided by higher powers that such a state of affairs was intolerable.

On the seventeenth of Dravago, a stylish carriage drawn by four horses graced the proto-form suburban town accompanied by four riders. The riders were armored, and their horses were unarmored, so the soldiers of the settlement could identify them as dragoons - soldiers who rode to battle and then dismounted to fight. However the carriage was not meant for combat - it had the look of something meant for city streets and dainty outings - the wheels, once graceful and sleek, were coated in mud from the road.

More than one career soldier expected some jumped up nobleman to step out, once the carriage stopped near the crossroads. Perhaps someone from a dragonmarked House. That sentiment only grew stronger when, once the carriage stopped, a set of steps sprung out from underneath the door.

Once the personage inside was revealed, there could not have been more egg on the gossiping veteran's faces if they headbutted a hen house.

From the carriage emerged a khoravar woman - fair skinned, her head held high and proud, red hair that had begun to grey pulled back in a bun, and covered in a silk veil. For a person of her status, she wore little jewelry - a duo of pink pearls that hung from her ears, a simple diamond ring on her left hand, a merchant would have more! She wore a cloak of Breland blue with bear's fur at the collar, significantly out of season, but the pale blue dress with a fabric belt underneath was more appropriate for spring.

The soldiers of the settlement recognized her immediately, for a younger version of her decorated the Breland silver piece - Shatzi ir'Wynarn, the queen mother. While she dismounted, she waved her hand limply in the way nobles were trained to respond to people's greetings - some of the older soldiers greeted her arrival, and some even referred to her as 'majesty', borderline illegal flattery.

Her first thought, when she saw the settlement's most urban section, was not flattering but she kept them to herself. 'Maybe in fifty years, it will be worth the money Medani spent on it.'

After she had left her carriage, a tortoiseshell cat followed after her, tail up and crooked at the tip. Behind the cat followed seven kittens that walked behind their mother in a line, who in turn followed the khoravar woman. All the kittens and their mama had Breland blue leather collars with little heart-shaped tags.

The queen mother's dragoons split up - two to guard her carriage, and two followed after her. So the train was a five-foot naught khoravar woman, a mama cat, seven kittens, and two heavily armored soldiers upon their war-trained horses. T'was an odd parade, but the soldiers found it enjoyable all the same.

They enjoyed it more when the queen mother would stop any time one of the kittens broke the line to investigate something or someone that interested them, and only started again when the mama cat called the kitten back to the line. Thus, the parade took a while to get anywhere.

The cliffs that overlooked the conflux of the Howling and Dagger rivers was their destination. No houses had been built that close to the Keep yet, so it was sparsely forested grassland. Only the tips of the kittens' tails were visible through the tall grass until they came to the cliffs. Shatzi took a spot on the cliff, with the mama cat beside her, and the kittens in a row beside their mama. The mounted dragoons also took up a spot alongside the kittens.

"Wait," one dragoon whispered to the other. "Why did we get right up to the cliffs with them?"

Her fellow dragoon shrugged her shoulders and produced a ruckus from the heavy clanging. "The queen was doing it, and so were the cats, so I just assumed…." Fortunately, their faces were hidden by armor so no one could see their embarrassment.

"See, Gilla, this is why I want you to stop and think before you do things." The first dragoon pinched her armored fingers together. "Just a little bit. Think. Before you do things."

Gilla huffed and put her hands on her hips. "Hey, you did it too!"

"Yes," the other dragoon admitted then jabbed her finger in Gilla's face. "But I recognized it was silly first."

"Ahem." A new voice came into the conversation. Both dragoons turned to see the queen mother's eyes on them, the mama cat's eyes on them, and the kitten's eyes following a butterfly. The queen arched an eyebrow and made a spiral gesture with her manicured hand. "Are you done chattering, or can we get back to ominously overlooking the cliffs?"

"Sorry, highness." Both the dragoons said at once. "We'll be quiet."

"There's a time for chatter, and it's after we freak out whoever is looking out the Keep's southern windows at this moment." Shatzi wagged her finger at her guards and turned with the mama cat to overlook the cliffs, toward the Keep's southern windows.

Meanwhile, in the Keep, most of the staff were focused on the northern section. Those who weren't studying for the Healer's Guild certification were focused around Nishi's new room. True to her word, Berlith had gotten the halfling boy a room with windows. Barred windows. And he had gotten his head stuck in between them somehow. Two of the orderlies went at the bars with nail files to free the halfling, while the viceroy had her face in her hands at the absurdity of the situation.

Back to the queen mother, she nodded her head. "Alright. They've been psychologically intimidated. Let's find a spot to have construction on the chateau started." Shatzi spun and trudged away from the cliffs, followed by the mama cat, her kittens, and the dragoons. The mama cat meowed to complain, and Shatzi scoffed. "Of course we'll kill all the hawks around here - can't have them swooping on the kittens, can we?"

At that precise moment, a hawk descended to steal a kitten away and found itself held fast in the jaws of Gilla's horse. It soon discovered that horses were surprisingly okay with eating meat. Poultry in that specific case.

Crunch.

"Venezuela!" Gilla chided her horse with an exasperated tone. "You'll ruin your supper!"

Per feedback, I'm upping the descriptions across the board. Doesn't feel right just yet, but I will get better!