Strife Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1: False Hope?
         3rd Sunday, 36 RG : A Night To Remember
         
         Dozens of voices echoed through the chamber, each straining to overshadow the other, either with eloquent sophistication meant to confuse or thunderous roars meant to threaten, each drowning out in this endless sea of complaint and contention. It was deafening. BANG! Louder than the rabble, but a sight more welcome. As sweet silence filled the chamber, the Gilgamesh, the monarch of Gilgam rose from his throne, locking another round into his rifle as dusted rubble fell lightly to the table.

Glaring into the crowd filled with Lords, Maesters, and Harbingers, he locks eyes with me. âMy decision is final. Fausse Espoit will take the position of Lord Inquisitor. He will bridge our nations, and each one of you will offer him your full support.â

         It was not often that my Lord Ricard would speak with any level of ferocity or authority, and it did not always come to the desired effect, but, for the time being, it worked well enough. You could still hear grumbled complaints coming from every other member of the crowd, calling this, calling me a âfalse hopeâ, but, as long as theyâre still complaining, theyâre not scheming to stop it. Without waiting another moment, the Gilgamesh called each of their names to swear allegiance. One by one, each Lord, Maester, and Harbinger, bent the knee and gave a pledge of support. In my youth, Iâd been well acquainted with every member of Gilgamâs court, but now...new players are on the field, filled with new ambitions and faced with a whole new world to improve their influences. Still, I recognize a few faces, none that I care too much for, but familiar all the same.
         Far to my right, I see Lord Gregor Swift, a balding old man who inherited the role from his grandson after the witch hunt, four decades past. Heâs not too dangerous; more accurately, heâs antithetical to danger. The witch hunt was a hard time on us all, but Gregor had some of the worst of it. Poor sodâs the last of his family and too old to even rut anymore. When it happened, he went mad; we had to restrain him and lock him in the dungeons for months. Fortunately, timeâs turned his unbridled rage into senility and pacifism. He doesnât have too many years left on him, but he still holds significant sway for the House of Swift. Iâll have to follow up with him soon.

         Across the table from me, Maester Digram Venn watches the Gilgamesh with an intensity fuelled mostly by outrage, but, as he occasionally glances over at me, I can see a glance of fear in his eye. Maester Gregor wasnât alive for the witch hunt, but he was right beside me during the insurgence. He and I got along together famously back then. Iâm not sure if he simply sees me differently after all these years or if he has some unknown agenda to oppose me so. No matter. So long as I check up on him regularly, he wonât be able to try anything. He might be a genius, but he couldnât tell a convincing lie to save his life.

         Just beside him, Harbinger Shaw Colet sits idly by adorned in his huntsmanâs attire as always, either uninterested or already scheming. Likely the former, if Iâm to be honest. Shawâs always been a very devoted man, always focused on his work and very little else. Placing him in power was a risk on my part. I needed someone who would never allow a shortage of supply, but thatâs come at the cost of his willingness to endorse anything that doesnât have to do with his hunting. Iâll have to find leverage over him if Iâm coming back to this game.

         The remaining faces are vague memories or new ones waiting to happen. Whichever the case, Iâll be inclined to quickly find leverage over them and watch that they donât find anything on me, lest my return to politics be a very short-term career.
         
As the night went on, I was barely listening. Too many thoughts were running through my head and a twitching pain had started in my arm. Perhaps my bodyâs way of reminding me of what Iâll be getting into. Every now and then, Iâd bring myself back to reality to make sure I wasnât missing any important details before drifting back into thought. I didnât catch much, but I did hear my Lord talking about the pointlessness of the war with Artam and the potential benefits of an alliance. Surprising. When I met him thirty years ago, he seemed all too happy to keep the war going until every Artamite was dead. He wasnât my first choice to fill the role of Gilgamesh, but, Nathaniel had died in the insurgence, and Ricard was the only other candidate I had. Given his position on the war, I was fully expecting to have him assassinated somewhere down the line, but it would seem that fate has deemed that unnecessary.

âCOUGH! COUGH! COUGH! My apologies, everyone, I seem to have COUGH choked on my saliva. I suppose even the Lord Inquisitor is not free from mortal plightâ As I cleared my throat, I glance toward the empty balconies to make sure my assassin caught the signal.

A round of nervous laughter slowly entered and quickly left the chamber before Ricard nodded at me and continued his speech.

âYouâre forgiven, Lord Inquisitor. I was nearly done, regardless. The war with Artam has gone on far too long and bore far too little fruit. Do you not see that proceeding as we have will only shrivel our own gardens as theirs remain nearly spotless? Whatâs more, we have yet to even encounter this Arthur of theirs! What hope do I, do you, do a dozen knights have to defeat such a foe when it takes as much just to defeat the weakest among them? Whatâs more, what if they decide to retaliate en masse a second time? The siege of Banroc was only narrowly dispersed thanks to the massive number of high class Chaser Knights present. We donât even have half that number today. If they move against us now, there is no telling how much land and lives we stand to lose for our arrogance! So I beseech you, Lords, Maesters, Harbingers, do not let Gilgam fall, not by foreign hands, but by our own folly. You are dismissed.â

Tâwas some time past midnight by now. My Lord was wise to push this topic back so late. Earlier in the day, and they may have had the mind to contest the idea. As sporadic as they were, they may have drawn their arms if they had not been so drowsy. Still, his reasoning worries me. If heâs motivated by fear instead of justice, thereâs risk of him launching a full scale invasion if Artam is one day drastically weakened. I may need my assassin after all; though, not for today, at the very least. Ricard was already out the balcony door before I could think to stand and follow him. Walking briskly on his tail, I could feel the weight of fifty and six glaring eyes burning my neck. For now, thereâs little to do but ignore them. I can deal with them at a later date, but I must speak with Lord Gilgamesh before long.

As I exit the courtroom, Iâm greeted by a scene of the city Iâd long forgotten. Dry Hogen, from atop the court tower was a rare majesty. The cityâs factories let out a constant steam which lightly draped over the whole city, making everything seem mobile and wavering. And, on a moonlit night like this, a lively gleam emanated from the ocean below and gave the entire city a dreamlike glow, as if looking into a reflection from the water; and, just on my right, there he was. Ricard, draped in that Hogen steam, appeared almost surreal.

âAh, Fausse. Truth be told, I was hoping to have at least until dawn to myself before I had to take your shit about this Artam alliance.â
Turning to me, he makes as serious face he can muster, as if to tell me that whatever other contention I may have with him, I must absolutely concede on this one thing.
âFausse, I know what I said in there can be considered⦠controversial; but please believe me when I say I have Gilgamâs best interests in mind. We cannot win this war with Artam. Itâs only a matter of time before they come en masse again and we wonât be able to hold the line this time. You should know better than anyone. Can you honestly tell me that after surviving the siege of Banroc, a fraction of their number, that we could hold against the whole of Artam even if we had eight, sixteen times their number? And you can just silently stand there in judgement all you like, but-â

âIâm disappointed in you, Ricard.â

He stops at that. He doesnât seem angry per se, but heâs paying very close attention to what Iâm about to say.
âIâm disappointed in how poorly you try to prove a point, still. Honestly, what did I spend all that Gil for if this is the best persuasion you can muster? Youâre still reiterating yourself, as if repetition grants you any more credibility. How many times must I remind you? If you want to prove a point, you must be concise and as cold as you must be calculating. I see the calculation, but it all feels veryâ¦warm; and far from concise.â
He seems almost dumbfounded at that, as if he canât believe that his persuasion tactic was the most prominent part of his speech. Never mind the fact that heâs trying to end a three decade war. He and I simply lock eyes like that for a few moments, but soon, we both break into a hearty laugh.
âBy Oroboros, man, you had me thinking you were about to try dissuading me from this! Honestly, I was about ready to just back pedal on everything and beg the court for forgiveness!â

âAfter that speech back there? I doubt you wouldâve been Gilgamesh for more than a week afterwards. Really, though, when you invited me to sit in on the next court session, I wasnât expecting you to hand me the keys to the country on a bloody silver platter.â

âI surprised you? You, O hunter of hunters, living bullet? With how many people youâve sent to the grave, Iâd be surprised if you were in favour of peace with anyone! In my eyes, you were the bloody boogieman that Artamites look under their beds for! Or do they sleep in trees? I can never remember.â

âI guess we were both wrong, then.â

âIndeed. So youâll take the job?â

I paused at that. He seemed sincere, so I doubt if he had an ulterior motive, butâ¦
âSorry, it was a pleasant surprise to find out that you supported peace, regardless of your reasoning, but Iâll have to refuse. I mean, look at me. Iâm a retired old man who can barely hold onto his sword. How do you figure that I fill the role of Lord Inquisitor?â
Heâs stopped. I donât know for sure what heâs thinking about, but itâs clear, even in this darkness that heâs looking me over, as if he just remembered that Iâm well past my prime.
âTruth be told, youâre the only one I trust to even make the attempt. Even when I thought you against Artam, you were always a just and decisive man. This new court we have isnât the one you left me with and I donât trust any one of them to do the job half as good as I know you can. If you canât fight, thatâs fine. Youâll have an army at your back as well as the full support of myself and the court. All I need you to do is make the hard decisions when the time comes.â
Damn, heâs got me. As much as I dislike the idea of returning, Heâs presented valid concerns. The idea of a ceasefire has been entertained in court for years, even back when I was in active duty, but, every time, regardless of reasoning, virtually nobody could see past their own conceit or were too fearful of Artam to even consider peace. But, now that the Gilgamesh has come out in support of it, and, now that an organization has been commissioned to enforce that peace, I suppose Iâve little choice.
         âRicard, if itâs truly as bad as you describe, I am forced to accept. However, I will require ten and two weeks to prepare everything before presenting my plans to the court. If you can buy me that time, I will be your Lord Inquisitor.â

         âThen youâll have it. Get a good nightâs rest, Espoit. I fear that convincing this court will be far harder than either of us expect.â

         He doesnât wait for me to bid him farewell nor do I bid it. We part ways there and then as I return to a now empty court chamber. I didnât have the opportunity to ogle it when I first arrived but looking at it now, it has truly changed from the days of old. Gone are all the ornaments and décor. Aside from the large size and that eyesore of a throne, one could hardly differentiate it from any other room. Twenty and eight sturdy but plain chairs place around a sturdy but plain rectangular mahogany table, all atop a plain white ceramic floor, with three chandeliers hanging some distance above. I donât remember when exactly we decided to strip the adornment from here, but I do believe Ricardâs reasoning was something similar to âIf I forget how it is that the majority of Gilgam lives, how can I expect to preside over it?â Back then, I thought him a foolhardy idealist for it, but he was just named Gilgamesh, and it would have bode poorly to have undermined him so soon, regardless of how itâs impacted his respectability.

         Walking down the stairs of the court tower, Iâm reminded again why I donât visit anymore. Twenty stories high, with little but the dungeon between the highest and lowest points. All the way down, the whole path is dimly lit and poorly kept, a direct contrast to the cleanliness of the actual court. Even from here, I can faintly hear a haunting wail from the torture chambers underground before it quickly dies away. Not the most comforting of sounds for most people, I suppose, but to me, it strangelyâ¦euphoric.

          The rest of the trip back to the Inn was uneventful, or at the least, uninteresting. I passed by the residential district, local brothel, bakery, and market place before I reached the Inn just by the gate of the city. Along the way, you could have seen two goons mugging some red-haired courtesan wearing a corset too small for her and a frilly green skirt meant to show off her legs in the alleyway. She and I make eye contact as I pass by, but I just keep walking as I see that ever so distinct fear and desperation in her eyes. The muggers make off with everything sheâd earned that night as she just coughed and cried. Beaten bloody and blue, without any money for the next day, tomorrow will be a struggle for her. Life as a pissant is always difficult. Without the protection of the Nobles, their subjected to the control of the cartae and whatever other criminal elements are too small to chase down. And for the most part, all of Gilgam is alright with that. Pissants donât significantly contribute to Gilgam as a whole, they just leech off our walls to keep safe from the wilderness and, as a result, theyâre handed to the wolves freely when itâs convenient. It doesnât bother me. Itâs just what happens; but, then, my arm hurts again.

         Some time later, I arrive at the Inn, feeling absolutely exhausted. The Inn itself is rather dull, made entirely of stone, from the walls to the furniture. The hearthfire sits just at the center of the main hall as it blazes brightly, illuminating everything as it dances with the shadows. By the bar, a faint clapping dies down from the seven or eight patrons idly chatting amongst themselves whilst waiting for the bard to return from his break. The bard, however doesnât seem to have any intention of returning as he steals away into the cellar with the innkeeperâs daughter. As for the innkeeper, he returned just in time to miss the bard. Approaching the bar, I raise my left arm to signal over the innkeeper before I take a seat.

         âI needâ¦a casket of mead. Whatâs the oldest you have?â
          Without a word, he simply walks off towards the cellar to check his stocks. Of course, I knew he didnât have anything worth buying, I asked him the same question when I arrived here last week. A man with so poor a memory ought not have to deal with a pregnant daughter on top of it. At the sound of screaming and falling objects, I chuckle to myself before lazily shuffling to my room.

         Once inside, I donât even bother lighting a lamp. I immediately close the door behind me, and fall into bed. Fortunately, the innkeeper was kind enough to place mattresses atop the stone. Before drifting off to sleep, Iâm reminded of my assassin and how I really shouldnât have paid him before the job was done. If heâs smart, heâll use the money to buy into a carta and never work a day after. Buy a slave girl on the black market, give her a child or three, and just lavish in the high life while his goons do the dirty work. Though, I doubt if he will. With that final thought, I let the cold embrace of night take me over as I drift off into deep slumber.

3rd Monday, 36 RG : The Morning After

         As dawn arrives, its glowing rays push at my eyes, forcing me awake. My eyes open only reluctantly as I raise an arm to shield them. Before sleep can take me a second time, I let out a heavy groan as I roll out of bed with all the grace and speed of a half-dead slug. Once up, I sit myself on the chair on the opposite side of the room and mumble all the things I plan to do today. First, write to Swift, Venn, Duqro, and Colet. Second, meet Gerrin for brunch. Third, make appointments with the other twenty and four court members. Fourth, Exercise. I repeat the sequence 5 or 6 times before even starting with anything. A common ritual in Gilgam, and one that has proved its effectiveness over the years. With everything set in my mind, I open up my luggage case and pull out a few empty parchments and a pen, careful not to move anything else inside. The parchment was always in the side compartments with a pen and wax stick hanging out of it, protected from being crushed and crumpled by the clothes and amenities I have in the main compartment. I find myself on a table in the main hall of the inn. Whatever else I think of this place, the stone mason chiselled everything flawlessly. The table was completely flat with nary a crack or splotch on it; and, by some miraculous technique, the stone almost shined, as if made of obsidian or silver. But I had idled long enough. Placing the parchments on the table and the pen in my hand, I cleared my head of furniture and masonry and began my composition to Lord Swift.


         My Lord Swift,

                   
         Greetings, it is I, Fausse Espoit. As you may recall, I have recently been appointed Lord Inquisitor by our Lord Gilgamesh. I am writing you today to thank you for pledging support to the inquisition in this most troublesome of times. I realize the decision did not come easily, but I am sure that if we cooperate, we can both reach our respective and mutual goals. Of course, if you have any concerns regarding my plans and intentions, I should be glad to answer them when I present my proposed plan of action on the 15th Sunday, 36 RG. In the meantime, I am afraid I must request something of you. I will not hold you to your oath on this, but I would consider it a personal favour if you would allow me use to your training facilities during my stay in Onneâs Grit, two weeks from now. I do not require an immediate answer, but the sooner I know, the sooner I can progress.



                                                  Lord Inquisitor Fausse Espoit
                                                                     House of Duqro

         Formality has never been my strong suit, so Iâm fortunate the court saw it fit to issue a template for all internal communications, else Iâd be stuck here for the whole ten and two weeks. The next three letters went by quickly. The only variation between them being what I asked for. From Venn, I requested a wide assortment of parts and materials ranging from common to medium-rare. The arms of a modern knight have never been to my liking or function. Iâll need materials to fashion something more suitable for myself. From Colet, I requested a direct supply line to a location of my naming. Iâll have to remember to ask the same of every other harbinger and adjacent town later on. From Duqro, I requested several knights to make an embryonic backbone of the Inquisition. Naturally, Iâll need far more knights, though, I donât expect theyâll be too keen on killing fellow Gilgamen. I suppose Iâll need to find a way to recruit some hunters too, then.

         With the letters written, all thatâs left is the stamping. The traditional stamp of Duqro is likened to a dove, soaring through a storm. However, any distinguished House member is allowed to modify it so long as it remains in spirit with the base stamp. Iâve never been too good an artist, but I like to think that, even now, my design fits. Itâs still a dove. I figured this was as much respect as I owed Duqro for taking me in. In fact, itâs almost exactly the same as the regular Duqro, dove. Some years ago, I probably wouldâve noticed a dozen differences, each, Iâm sure having some sort of subtle meaning. But in my old age, Iâve had time to bury some hatchets, burn some bridges, and just forget. Truth be told, the only thing that sticks out to me now are the wings. A traditional Duqro dove has its wings proudly spread as it soars; mine, however, has one wing only half-raised. Taking the wax stick in hand, I hold it to a nearby candle. The wax is tough, it takes a moment to melt, and Iâm left to listen in on nearby conversations in the meantime.

Some travelling merchants are seated in the corner dressed in luxurious cloths of green and violet. Itâs difficult to hear from this distance, but I can make out a little about a caravan raid on one of the roads to Banroc. A bard, different from the one last night, is thanking the innkeeper profusely for the opportunity to work here. Heâs loud, annoyingly so. I donât suspect heâll work here long. Looking closely, I can see the innkeeperâs daughter peeking out of her room. Itâs difficult to see, but I can make out the orbit of her eye blackened and bruised. No idea if it came from the bard or the father, but it seems the latter is far more likely. I donât regret my decision, per se. I acted as I saw was best given the information I had at the time; I know many a man who would not do even that. Thatâs not to say I donât feel sorry for her or that I donât see the consequences of my choice. She drew the short end of the stick, just like I did, just like the bard did, just like everyone does every now and then. Sheâll heal, come back from this. As long as sheâs breathing, sheâll eventually recover; and, maybe next time, her father will draw the short stick. The pain in my arm hasnât gone away since last night. Itâs down to an occasional throb, but itâs put me in a sour mood to have to deal with it this long.

         It would seem that Iâd been thinking to myself for too long. When I look at the wax stick again, itâs almost completely gone, most of it dripped onto the table or fed into the fire, but thereâs enough left that I can seal the first letter, at least; but, Iâll need to request a new one from the court tower before meeting Gerrin. Before it has a chance to dry, I fold up the parchment and stomp whatâs left of the stick across the middle of it, sealing it closed. Second, request a new wax stick. Third, brunch with Gerrin. Fourth, send letters. Fifth, make appointments, sixth, exercise. I repeat this to myself another 5 or 6 times under my breath before scraping the wax from the table and tossing it into the hearthfire. After a while, the scent of burning wax leaves me and I leave the Inn.

         The streets are busy, even this early in the morning. The residential district is bustling with men dressed in various combinations of formal wear; but, the most of them don a pair of sleek black pants ridden up to the crundle, a dull blue long-sleeve made so small that it tightly hugs its wearerâs form to accentuate their bodies, and a vest, some made of cotton, some of silk, both dyed a deep black. The outfit has become widely popular over the last few years, after Knight Revan Reacher wore it to victory in the last battle royale. A brilliant tactic for a merchant to ride Revanâs popularity, but itâs presented the cartas with an opportunity of their own. With everyone wearing the same outfit, anyone wearing the same outfit can blend into the crowd, essentially becoming undetectable. Whichever carta is responsible for the idea, it will need to be dealt with sooner rather than later. Past residential, I can see the same brothel and alleyway from last night.

The alleyway is empty now, with no sign of blood or struggle anywhere. The redhead can be seen in the room closest to residential on the ground floor, Right next to the alley. Itâs difficult to see anything from this angle, but I can see her as low as her torso, just sitting up in her bed, she doesnât look like sheâs working this morning. Looking at her in broad daylight, the damage is worse than when I last saw her. What were bruises last night have turn to cuts and a broken arm this morning. Did she go after the muggers? Pointless question. Whether she did or not, her motive was her own survival. A pissant, if a determined one. Just as Iâm ready to keep moving, a warm smile creeps onto her face as she looks toward the window. At first, I think sheâs looking at me, but it becomes apparent from the small child just barely able to put one foot in front of the other as it moves towards her that more lives than her own depend on her. It takes me a few moments to put thoughts back in my head from this determination. It would seem I misjudged her. Sheâs stronger, more responsible, better than she let on. In Gilgam, oneâs worth is almost wholly determined by oneâs ability to provide for more than yourself, to be a functioning unit of society; and this is the dividend between the 16 Peasant Houses and the rabble of the Pissantry. Itâs not much to be able to provide for a single child, but itâs worth at least a little respect. I move on, past the market place and bakery, and proceed straight to the court tower feeling a hint of contentment creep onto my face.

         Arriving at the court tower, Iâm greeted again by the sight of the firewall. A massive two way barricade made of iron meant both to keep prisoners in and criminals out. Atop it are several chain guns, capable of unleashing a bullet storm either way. Throughout it are sealable balconies which allow infantry units optimizable cover and firing opportunities. The only entrance is a single ladder located between the 3rd and 4th gates with its own dedicated chaingun pointed at the door, remotely operated from a sealed chamber in the firewall. At the ground floor, seven gates in succession can open to allow entry or exit to authorized personnel. Itâs in front of the first gate that a knight comes to a nearby balcony, dressed in full platemail, a standard set for most powder knights. He stands as if a stick recently found itself lodged up his ass and having his rifle already in hand.

         âHalt! You approach the court tower of Dry Hogen, citizen! State your name and business, or be on your way.â
         Strange. Something seems off. Itâs unlike a knight to be so formal, even the most pretentious of knights donât guard their stations so closely without some form of provocation. Yet, Iâve not seen any hint of anything that might bring about this aura of suspicion.
         âI am Fausse Espoit, House of Duqro. Iâve come to request a wax stick from the cleric.â
         The knight raised an eyebrow at my name, but says nothing. If nothing else, itâs nice to see that my name still carries some weight after all these years. The knight returns into the firewall, presumably to open the gate. But then heâs gone for a moment; and then three. Then thirty. Iâm left standing there for longer than Iâd like. As if they waited until I was just about willing to scale the wall, I hear a slow cranking noise as the doors slowly rise into the firewall, and Iâm confronted by the same knight as before only now with the Knight-Captain at his back, presumably to confirm my identity. Thatâs about all the evidence I need. The tight security, the knight-Captainâs presence, the lack of commotion in the streets, something foulâs afoot inside. Iâll have to check for clues once Iâm inside.
         
         âThis is indeed Fausse Espoit, Knight. Let him have it.â
         Eh? The wax stick I requested was immediately handed to me right there. They clearly donât want me inside right now. Still, I at least got the wax stick. Locking eyes with the Knight-Captain, I inspect the stick, feeling around for the rough, almost scale-like texture, I bring it up to my face to smell its citrusy scent. Finally, I break eye contact to look at the stick itself, seeing its gold and blue layers from the top and my name etched into the side of it. This is indeed my wax stick. In Gilgam, people of authority are provided a stamp and the wax stick of their House, to signify that they are competent individuals and are authorized to make decisions on behalf of their House. However, a person who has significantly distinguished himself in service to Gilgam may create his own stamp, but must still use the wax stick provided by his House. After the witch hunt, everyone was in a panic of more infiltrators from Artam, and so, the number of wax sticks one could request was limited to one every month. Additionally, each House created their own special brand of wax stick to differentiate them from each other. Itâs been tedious at times, but the majority of the population seems to be thankful for the additional security.

I have my wax stick now, but that still leaves one problem unsolved. I donât particularly like being kept in the dark, but, the lack of an official station aside, Iâll be much too busy for the next few months to investigate things further, so Iâll content myself with my wax stick and a letter to the Gilgamesh later tonight. No words are exchanged between us. I simply nod to the Knight-Captain, and he nods back before turning to walk away while the junior knight follows him. Once past the 7th gate, he raises his hand into the air and clenches it quickly, signalling the gatekeeper to close the doors behind him. One after the other, each door drops heavily to the ground, sealing the passage once again. As the last gate touches down to the ground, I tuck the wax stick into my satchel and walk away. Third, brunch. Fourth, letters. Fifth, appointments. Sixth, exercise.

Gerrinâs house was not far from the court tower. Perhaps just seven minutes from where I stood, it was well in sight. Gerrinâs never been one for frivolous living and his own house was testament to that. Looking at it, youâd think it the home of a family of lepers too poor to pay for renovations and too lazy or too bed-ridden to do it themselves. The walls were an amalgamation of different woods too degraded to tell apart and patched together like cloth over cloth with foliage and moss liberally scattered about and through the cracks and holes leading inside. The outer garden was a mess. Weeds the size of a man littered about which rustled constantly as if some small ecosystem had formed somewhere within, divided by a stone path that lead to the door. The roof was the only thing in any sort of repair; being composed of well-kept copper sheets, it curved outwards, preventing rainwater from potentially pouring in and ruining whatever concoction he has brewing at the moment.

When last we wrote, he described a new weapon design that could revolutionize infantry combat. Gerrinâs never been one for speculation or hyperbole, so if he says somethingâs going to happen, I trust he knows what heâs talking about. In any other field, it wouldnât be too hard to believe that something would be revolutionary. Technological marvel and revolution seems to be all weâve had for the past thirty and six years; at this point, it just seems natural for the next invention to immediately phase out the last. But, as far as field combat is concerned, everyoneâs been so awestruck by the power of the rifle that nobodyâs tried anything beyond bigger and better rifles since its inception. Truth be told, this was my real reason for being in Dry Hogen. For however much I might have been obliged to heed the Gilgameshâs request, I wouldâve passed it over if not for Gerrinâs insistence that I come see this newest toy of his as soon as possible.

I approach the door only cautiously, thinking perhaps something will try to jump out from the weeds. Nothing ever has, but thatâs never put my mind to ease. At the door, I see a note posted. Fausse, Iâve been called in for consultation on the new rubber water formula. I wonât be gone long. Make yourself at home, you know how to unlock the door. Cheers. Brilliant. Well, little I can do about it, I suppose. Placing my hand flatly on the door knob, I count four hands to the left and three down, kneeling down to put it at eye level. I knock around its circumference, searching for a hollowed out section. Knock. Knock. Knock. Tock. There it is. Keeping a mental note of where it was, I reach into my right sleeve holster and pull out a small knife. Looking at the spot closely, you can just barely make out an outline, as if it was itself a door. Placing the knife at the right side of the outline, I push hard and fast, prying it open. Inside, the compartment is hardly any larger than three fingers side by side. But all the same, the key was there, wedged between the walls. It takes some effort to remove it, even with the knife, but I eventually get it loose.

Once inside, Iâm greeted by what can only be described as an armoury. As far as the eye can see, firearms of different brand and model litter about or hang from the walls and ceilings, each in various states of deconstruction and with a numbered note attached to the handle of each. At the end of the room, a staircase leads to the upper levels. Stranger still, around the corner, you can see an equally wide assortment of melee arms from chase blades to winged spears to morning stars to scythes. I canât imagine what use he would have for these. Nobody but the Chaser Knights even use melee arms anymore. Before I can ponder things further, I hear the door open with a heavy creak.
âFausse, are you in here?â

Ah, Gerrin. Even without seeing his face for so long, thereâs not a man alive whose voice could sound as silky as his.
âHere.â

âWell come upstairs when youâre done ogling the arms. I brought brunchâ
         Iâve never quite understood how Gerrin and I came to be friends. We donât see eye to eye on most issues and weâve come close to blows on more than one occasion. Most Craftsmen donât really hold Chaser Knights, and me, especially, in high regard either. At the grumbling in my stomach, I decide that these are thoughts for another time. Tearing myself away from the melee arms, I head straight upstairs where I see Gerrin for the first time in almost a year. He had a reverse-pear shaped head, with tanned skin, though, you couldnât know that at a glance from all the soot that covered him. His eyes were a murky blue, appearing to be permanently squinted, though, he assures me thatâs just his relaxed state. His hair curls out and about as low as his ears in a dull shade of orange that one could mistake for a light shade of red, topped off by a velvet hat more fitting a philosopher than a crafts-man. When I saw him, he was sitting by a crooked wooden table with a plate of pre-cooked chicken legs. As he turned to look at me, a large smile happened onto his face.
         âWell come on, then, take a seat! Iâm bloody hungryâ

Iâm quick to oblige. I grab a seat opposite him and we start eating. No words are said. We simply take wing after wing, chewing down to the bone and a little past that. Something like thirty minutes go by like that. We stop for a moment to catch our breath or take some water, but soon enough, weâre at it again. By the time weâre done, I could count at least twenty and four wings on my side of the table. Perhaps a little less on his. It tasted like piss and might have had some in it, but this was good. We slouch down on our chairs as we bask in our gluttonous afterglow. Despite eating less, Gerrin seems half-dead on his chair, barely moving but to breathe. Some time later, I adjust myself on my seat, with only minor difficulty as remembering the reason I came here.

         âSo, Gerrin, when last you wrote, you mentioned something about a weapon that would revolutionize the way we do combat, no?â
He perks up at that, as if I had just breathed life into an inanimate doll.
         
         âAh, yes, of course! Come, letâs head down to the workshop, itâs just below the staircase.â
         With that, he hops back onto his feet and almost sprints downstairs. I can hear a tumbling noise almost immediately after he exits my sight followed by a much less enthusiastic âIâm okayâ. Curious to see what heâs been working on, I pull myself from the table and follow him downstairs, only with slower steps. Behind the staircase, I see the opened hatch leading down to the workshop, a faint light coming from inside. The climb down the ladder isâ¦long. The ladder itself is not very lengthy, perhaps only ten and two or three feet, but my descent is slower than most. Once there, I see Gerrin on the opposite end of this dimly lit stone room urging me towards him, cringing only slightly from the exertion. Between us, all manner of forging equipment, blueprint, and arms and armor scatters about, as if arranged by a child. To one corner, a chute opens into the room, probably leading in from a secret compartment upstairs. Careful not to step on anything pointy or on fire, I make my way towards him.

         âTook you long enough. Iâd half thought that youâd died of old age somewhere on the way down.â
         Cheeky bastard. I know he doesnât mean it. If anything, heâs trying to keep my mind off my arm. I can appreciate that even if I find the patronization annoying, but stillâ¦cheeky bastard.
         âWouldnât want you tripping over my corpse now, would we? Oh, but I guess you donât need my help for thatâ
         He smiles at that as he furrows his brows. Looking at his expression itâs as if heâs saying ânot really your best try at a comebackâ. Iâll admit, Iâve never been one for quips or retorts. I simply donât have the wit to pull it off, I suppose. Whatâs worked in my favour, more often than not, has been to bluntly threaten or intimidate my way through situations. In my time away from the heat of battle, I suppose Iâve mellowed down somewhat. Iâll need to work on that.

         âFausse, tell me, how many rifle shots can a seasoned Knight fire off in thirty seconds?â
         An odd question. Neither of us has much training with a rifle, so I doubt if heâs hoping for me to match that. Still, Gerrin must have some reason for asking, so Iâll play along for now. Letâs see, a dedicated marksman, in an exhibition, could probably reload in roughly three full seconds. But a proper field Knight, running knee deep in mud and blood, paranoid from watching for incoming fire and charging swords doesnât have the same luxuries. Heâd probably need at least five or seven seconds. Given that, Iâd say a field knight could fire perhaps four to seven shots in that time frame if he never bothered to aim. However, it takes time to find a target, line up the shot, and fire, so Iâd sayâ¦roughly three shots every thirty seconds.
         
âThree, if he lined up his shots, four to seven if he was aiming at the broad side of his motherâ
         He seems pleased by my answer, almost ecstatic, actually. He giddily turns around and pulls from a display case a single rifle, appearing little different from a standard issue rifle, save for some cylinder where its loading mechanism used to be. I imagine itâs supposed to improve the speed of his reload with its size or something to that effect.
         âFausse, what if I told you that I could not only match the highest of those, but fire off over three times that?â
         Absurd. Doesnât matter how easily you can load the bullet into the rifle, thereâs no way anyone could fire off that many shots with only a single rifle. The look on my face says it all, but he doesnât seem to be bothered in the slightest; instead, he seems all the more eager to show me wrong.
         
         âGerrin, if you could fire even half that, Iâll personally fund this project myself.â
         Heâs positively singing at that. For a craftsman to have his independent work privately financed is something akin to winning the grand tourney. Normally, you have to go through your House for finances, and, at the moment, theyâre pooling all their resources into another project.

         âIâll hold you to that, Fausseâ
         With that, he raises his rifle to his shoulder, stancing up the way an amateur would. He looks at me, making sure Iâm getting ready to count at the first sign of fire, then, BANG! BANG! 1, BANG! BANG! 2, BANG! BANG! 3, BANG! BANG! 4, BANG! BANG! 5, BANG! BANG! 6. What the hell? I was speechless. Even hearing it echo through my ears, I can hardly believe how many shots he was able to fire off. He then pulls the cylinder out of the rifle then casually picks bullets from his satchel and clumsily loads them in. Itâs almost an insulting thought that someone who can barely reload his rifle can outshoot the best marksmen of Gilgam. It takes him roughly eighteen seconds to finish before he pushes it back in, and repositions the rifle to fire again. BANG! BANG! 25, BANG! BANG! 26, BANG! BANG! 27, BANG! BANG! 28, BANG! BANG! 29, BANG! BANG! 30.

         By the time heâs done, my ears are ringing with a throbbing pain as I catch myself sweating profusely. Though, whether by fear or by the heat of the forge, Iâm unsure. By Oroboros, against even the latest model of Venn Rifle, this thing would level the playing field; no, even a single infantryman outfitted with this rifle would have a fighting chance against an Artam Hunter; butâ¦The Gilgamesh, if he comes to know of this, heâll have no more reason to push for peace with Artam. This whole Inquisition could collapse before itâs truly begun. Worse, if the cartas can mass produce it first, the whole of Gilgam will be at their mercy. Thereâs enough Pissants who would take up arms against the Nobles that weâd be overrun in just a few days under the right leadership. No, this cannot be allowed. Gah, so many things to consider, I feel as if my head is going to burst. Thereâs so few people I can trust this to, and once I do, can I be certain theyâll be wise with who they share it with? My thoughts are interrupted as Gerrin shakes my shoulder.

         âHey, Fausse, are you alright?â
         He looks concerned. He clearly hasnât given this very much thought nor should I have expected him to. Heâs yet to know of the Inquisition or its intent. As far as he knows, heâs just developed the greatest thing since gunpowder. Iâll need to fix this. I grip him by the shoulder as firmly as I can, forcing a surprised gasp from him. I take a moment to compose myself, letting a measure of anxiety build in Gerrinâs mind.
         
         âGerrin, this weapon cannot be allowed to circulate in the public sphere. Not yetâ
         He tries to talk at that, but I canât let him. He needs to know the full scope first; and, if he still wants to push it afterwardsâ¦I hope it doesnât come to that.
         âListen to me! The Gilgamesh is pushing for peace with Artam. Actual peace, Gerrin! Heâs commissioned me as the Lord Inquisitor to facilitate it. A weapon like this, Gerrin, I suspect the Gilgamesh would abandon whatever chance we have at ending this war and spark a campaign that would force the Hunters to assemble en masse with their Arthur at the helm. If that happens, thereâs not enough bullets in all of Gilgam to stand up against them.â
         
         âFausse, you canât honestly expect me to believe a bloody word of that. You? Lord Inquisitor? Youâve been in retirement for almost a decade! Why on earth would you even be considered for such a position? Whatâs more, this project represents years of my work! I will not let that go to waste over some POSSIBLE future! I invite you, my friend, over to my home before anyone else to see first-hand the weapon of the future and all you want to do is make up some garbage about an Inquisition and keeping my work in the dark? To hell with you!â
         Heâs livid now, I can see it on his face. What hope I had to reason with him has faded to nothingness. Heâs presumed the worst intentions from me and heâs going to act on it. Heâll bring this to his House Maester as soon as he leaves, Iâm sure of it. After that, it will spread like wildfire until itâs consumed the whole of Gilgam. Heâs walking away now, nearly at the hatch. If I am to avert this war, I must stop him here. But can I truly do this to him?
         
         Grabbing the knife from my sleeve, I walk towards him, knocking cluttered sword and gun away as I get closer. I grab him by the sleeve just before he ascends the ladder, he turns and sees the knife primed to stab at his neck. He wasnât anticipating this. His eyes go wide with fear and anger as he flails about, hoping to get free as I stand there, hesitating to strike. Realizing heâs stuck here, he swings. A wild hayma--ker. I let go of his arm and duck under it as I pull back a ways. Bad move. He takes the opportunity to make a grab at a nearby weapon and slashes wildly. Amateur. Using both arms, he swings a chase blade with wild abandon, putting more weight into each strike than it ought to have. Itâs an easy thing to back away and duck under his strikes; I suppose a Chaserâs reflexes never truly leaves him. Though, against a chase blade one would do well to avoid parrying or blocking. Even against an amateur, your hand is likely to get caught by its pike-like tip if your sword meets its. He seems exhausted. Every swing drives out more air than he lets in and it shows. If I were to just wait it out, heâd pass out all on his own, but Iâm running out of room to back into and he seems to be aware of both facts. He charges forward and makes a hard cleave, hoping to get me by my midsection, but I jump. Surprisingly high. I suppose even in my old age, my chaser legs havenât left me. As I return to ground, I drive the knife into his shoulder, making sure to dig deep into the deltoid. He tries to scream, but I move my knife hand to muffle him. I know that scream. I made very much the same sound eight years ago. By the time his voice dies down, heâs barely able to keep standing, just leaning against me to keep from falling. Heâs still breathing, still very much awake, but it looks like heâs given up.
         
         Now, I must decide what to do with him. He cannot remain free else heâll inadvertently revitalize this war. But I do not want him dead either. For the last few years, he has been one of the few people who treated me as a regular man. No, I cannot risk his betrayal. As much as Iâd like to have him as an ally, the cost of having him as an enemy would be far too great. With my decision made, I bring the blade up over my head. Iâll aim for his neck; the least I can do is make it quick. I bring it down with all the strength I can muster, but he jerks forward at the last second. Not enough to escape, but enough that the knife lands slightly lower. It bites hard into him, digging in just past the bend of his neck; between the scapulae. He stiffens for a moment as he takes one final gasp of air, but itâs clear that heâs already dead. A final exhale signifies his departure from this world as his body goes lax against me.

         I fall to my knees as he does, breathing heavily. He mightâve been a novice, but a fight like this after so long has drained me of more than it ought have. Another thing to rectify. As much as Iâd rather not think on it, Iâve just murdered a man in his own home. Eventually people will come looking. Iâll have to burn all evidence of my being here. Thankfully, thereâs a forge fire right here. Going around the house with a cloth sack, I strip it clean of all its rifle blueprints and stow them away. I also pack a bottle of whiskey, an extra set of clothes, and a wet cloth wrapped in plastic. Gerrin had a journal somewhere upstairs, but it only mentions a few details about the rifle in passing. If anyone even bothers to engineer something off of it, they wonât have a working model ready until the Inquisition is fully stocked. Once Iâm sure the last of the valuables are in the sack, I take Gerrinâs rifle in hand and marvel at it one last time. From the stock to the trigger, to the barrel, to the tip, truly, it was little different from a regular rifle. The loading mechanism was the only variation. Enough contemplation. No longer content to idle by, I toss the rifle into the nearby forge, watching its parts burn or melt over the fire. This is how it must be.

So if you're reading this far, I'm sorry to say that there's just not enough room for the rest of the chapter without a paid membership. Also, if you liked what you've read, I ask that you please please please pretty please write a review. I'm not comfortable proceeding beyond chapter 3 without some feedback on the writing technique and level of detail.