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Ornstein's boot heels alternated in perfect time on the tiles. The boots themselves were fine leather, shined to perfection. His whole uniform was in perfect array for someone of his station. He had risen precisely when he had intended to without a wake-up call, and had plenty of time for a balanced morning meal with his reports before he commenced his duties in earnest. So then what was this sensation of something off? Not wrong, necessarily, but off.
"Captain. Taking our time this morning, aren't we?"
He roused himself from his internal dialogue, nodding to acknowledge Melda. She stood with a tall stack of folded towels, but handed them off to a couple of servants and waved them away. "A right mess you are. Let's have a look at you."
Before she had finished her sentence, he had his hands clasped behind his back to grant her access to his wardrobe. This was a familiar ritual, and yet that different something still remained. Why had she hesitated ever so briefly?
She tsked and tutted and adjusted folds that didn't need adjusting, but that foreign feeling was tenacious and he felt as though he was viewing the encounter through a window pane, outside looking in. Suddenly he realized he had been staring Melda in the eye for some time and her fussing had faded away. She looked rather pale, but maybe she didn't get much time out in the sun in her line of work. That wouldn't describe the wideness in her eyes…
He gave her a formal bow. "Apologies, but I must be about my duties. Good day."
He went back to focusing on the task before him, unaware of how she sagged against the nearby wall or the sorrow on her face.
He had been running through numbers all morning; the knights they possessed at Anor Londo, how many in the citadel proper. The numbers watching the entrance to Izalith, and those that were still recovering. Those that wouldn't recover. As Captain of the Guard, it was his responsibility to keep track of such things and bring the summary report before the Great Lord.
He ascended the many steps, still thinking about that nagging sensation. Nodding to the giants at the enormous double doors, he was granted entry.
Immediately upon entering the throne room of the Great Lord, he fell to a knee and bowed his head. This was the custom, to wait until called upon. He didn't have long to wait, but the caller was not who he had expected.
"Rise, pet of my father."
Ornstein did as commanded, feeling as though he should be surprised. Instead he merely felt himself reordering his schedule to include locating Lord Gwyn. He bowed to the youngest deity in Anor Londo as formally as he had to Melda earlier.
The slim figure stood in front of the empty throne, considering it. The seat was many times too large for him. With a mirthless chuckle, he took a draw from a goblet in his hand. "Wonder thee what manner of trouble would befall me should I rest myself upon such a throne? Dear father would surely split the mountain." Another draw of what the Dragonslayer could identify as wine from scent left the goblet. "He chose his eldest son to succeed him, thus what need did he have for one such as myself?" Gwyndolin shook his head. "But my dear brother made his…choices. Years of being denied the attentions of the sun, yet quite suddenly I was father's only son." He turned on his strange serpent legs to face him. "The humor being in the fact that I have no desire for his throne! Ha! Not that we shall have much longer to bask in the light. Father is where he usually is these days, hound." The goblet was upturned, emptying the remaining contents down his throat.
The Dragonslayer bowed again without delay. "Very well, my Lord." He turned to leave, but was stopped by a word from the young deity.
"I may benefit from a good read. Leave thine papers with me. Father will receive them, fret not."
He complied, being waved out afterward. His Lord was at the Kiln of the First Flame again. He had seen for himself how it flickered, buffeted by nonexistent wind. He had seen Lord Gwyn staring into it, deep creases in his Age-old face.
Especially after the situation in Izalith, which wasn't even wrapped up yet, he suspected he should be feeling a spike of fear at the implications. On this side of that window pane, he noted the elements in play and began listing mentally what could be done and what new challenges may need solutions.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
There was something different in the damp air of New Londo these days. It was something like when a new weather system moved in, not that that sort of thing happened around here. Honestly, you could get used to never seeing the sun. Or at least Ket could.
He rubbed at his knee and stretched the leg, feeling the tendons strain before settling back to just being slightly uncomfortable. He had lived in New Londo all of his life, apprenticing to a mason to support his folks for many years. Today there were a few buildings down here he was proud to say were almost strictly his work. Of course, there could have been more…
He took a swig from his pint, replacing his pipe when he finished.
There were always machinations of some kind whirling away in this city, and he had gotten caught in the gears more than once. When someone had approached him about sealing certain items into the walls of a project, he had originally accepted. After all, what did he care if some noble wanted to hide their heirlooms and gold? They were an eccentric lot.
As it turned out, the items in question had been more of persons in question, and those had been riddled in what any New Londo native could recognize as stab wounds. He had refused to finish that project, and in return they had just about finished his career. He barely even got to mix the mortar for other groups these days, but the reason he was even able to do that much was largely due to the figure who entered the smoke-filled tavern presently.
He was pretty sure her name wasn't actually Gladys, but he didn't know much more than that. Her cane thumped quietly on the dirt floor, wobbling when she needed to support herself on that arm. Her back was bent in a fashion that was familiar to Ket; the result of years and years of hard manual labor. His back probably didn't look too dissimilar. The pack on her back matched the entirety of her clothes in that it was barely staying together. A hood shadowed most of her face, not uncommon for these parts, but he could make out a distinctive scar that hooked beneath the cleft of her chin.
Grunting softly with apparent effort, she hobbled over to his table and sat down, grimacing at the process. She didn't seem like somebody who could have helped him with his issue, but he figured she had connections. Some sneaky work that he wasn't entirely proud of and clues she had unwittingly dropped during their conversations had indicated a surprising amount of funds from the merchant guild in Anor Londo. She probably had family there. It wasn't his business to pry.
At least, not on her.
"Ach, these ol' bones'll rattle their way free o' me one of these days." She settled herself grumpily into her chair.
Ket nodded sympathetically, one geezer to another. "It's the damp. Gets to the bones."
Her hood swiveled toward him slightly, showing the glimmer of an eye in the shadow. "You're feeling somethin' too, aye? Cloudy curse on getting' old."
This was their game. Two old folks, complaining about various aches and pains to one another. It was a believable sight. In reality, he was delivering a report on the state of things. "Oh yes, don't get me started on me head. Dizzy when I stand up too fast."
"Sounds like you need more water than rum, you daft man."
He eyed the bottom of his mug and shook his head. "Not a drop from that southern well for me. Tastes funny."
She tapped at his arm in an apparently irritated manner, using three gloved fingers. "Ach! Your conspiracy theories!"
He put his mug down, pushing it away from himself. "You never know."
She was still for a time, looking at the mug. After a minute or two, she groaned and fumbled in her pockets. "Alright, alright! No need to get pushy! You haven't had a proper nap, have you? Take some of this home for Betty."
A small loaf of bread appeared from her pocket, still warm to the touch. The bread was always surprisingly bad, but he knew there would be some coins within. "Ahh, good. She'd have me head if I forgot to ask for that. Gods bless you, Gladys."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Ciaran straightened up once she reached her safe point, the crooked warren of stone towards the edge of the city that the locals called "the clutch" owing to the fact that a significant amount of garbage and transients ended up here.
She used some water from a nearby puddle to work at the scar on her chin, the paste falling away to nothing. With a wardrobe change and a quick application of makeup, Gladys vanished.
She rolled around what Ket had told her in her head. Problems in the Citadel, with the Kings themselves. She had already known that bit, but it was good to know that the information was filtering into the general population. The cult in the depths of the city, and change coming. That spelled a serious issue, when combined with the mug signal.
She shook her hair down with a practiced motion, working the tie around it to fashion a ponytail then froze. The Lord's Blade required her real hair up, it was Artorias who liked the ponytail. Shaking her head, she did her hair up again. That man would be the death of her.
Slipping her armor out of the nook she had stored it in, she donned it without too much haste. Few in this area had the wits or ambition to speak of her had they seen her, and those that did wouldn't be believed. The mask went on last, the attached pale blonde locks of hair hanging down in place of her own dark hair. Even wearing the official armor for her position, she was in disguise.
She had trawled many contacts for information today, and the picture they collectively painted was frightening. It seemed that this cult that was only spoken of in whispers before was now having meetings all over the city, if still behind closed doors. What she had garnered of their motivations left little to the imagination as to what their next steps may be.
Tomorrow, it seemed they was a large amount of them moving towards the Valley of Drakes. For what specifically, she had no concrete answer, but there was enough to bring back to her partner.
These humans were trouble, always trouble.