Do Not Disturb

Meetings, meetings, meetings. Was this what leadership required? Apparently they all thought so. Despite how comfortable Falltore found his place int eh barracks or the Yorkshire outpost, there were times that he wished he could be elsewhere, actually making a difference for the realm. But now, he had to actually invent matters to keep himself occupied. It seemed to him that the powers that be so badly wanted the army to do nothing for the good of Rionnach. It was as if laziness and inaction were official policy, some days. Nevermind the successful raids he undertook himself, the training opportunities he had given for young recruits. Succeed in any sort of way, and those that are jealous will find fault in one way or another. Still closing the case on the Jacobite cell he rooted out of the old university, for example, he found that one Colonel took issue with the casualties incurred. Preventable, he said some were. And then there was the matter of the trials, which some have said were reckless, others said were impermissible. Of course… Falltore knew that they would not feel the way that they did if they were able to take credit for any of it.

But aside from attending pointless strategy meetings, conducting investigations, or smoothing over the financial difficulties that were incurred by the recruitment trials, Falltore found himself in a part of the hold that he frequented only ever so often. The imperial records archives. Service records, strategy meeting minutes, arrest records, any number of documents pertaining to that army had done, or rather, denied that they had done, were kept in part here. Conveniently, this portion of the fort was adjacent to the rookery, since any number of avians might be used for the recordation of imperial documents. It was also convenient for any wolf looking to get information on practically any wolf in Rionnach, at least officially. Some records were easily obtained, service records and the like. It was this place that Falltore stopped first, to look into a few old acquaintances of his. But other areas were restricted access, reserved for only senior officers with sufficient clearance. He was, of course, among the privileged few. Battle reports, testimonies of Jacobite targets, intelligence on Voxi activities, it was all there. And it was all so… boring.

Drusilla does not come to Yorkshire particularly often, but there are times when her job requires her to travel—namely, in the spring, when the prior year's records need to be transcribed and added to the archives in the castle. As far as her coworkers are concerned, she'd drawn the short straw. Drusilla doesn't mind; the work may be tedious, but she's a fan of anything that gets her out of her family home for a while. The drag of the task is worth it for the reprieve.

Working at a table with papers scattered across the surface, she is the epitome of sticking out like a sore thumb here. She is no rough-edged military grunt; the sharpness about Drusilla is in her intellect that she wields like a dagger, but there is very little about her that is built for intimidation. Still, that does not mean she comes off as soft or pliant—she is simply out of place here, an anomaly.

Most who pass through the archives are ignored by the petite woman in the corner working by candlelight, spared little more than a glance through her lashes when the quiet is disturbed. The latest figure is no exception, though she notices the myriad of heavy scars across his face in an instant; Drusilla's poker face is impeccable, and despite her immediate flare of curiosity, her features remain completely impassive. She acknowledges his presence with a brief pass of her gaze and then turns her attention back to the records in front of her, assuming he'll pass by without comment like everyone else.

art // code

She got her wish, to say the least. As Falltore had entered the archives, he had indeed taken note that he was not alone. He seemed to always have such an impeccable memory for such things, wolves in places they ought and ought not to be. Of course, he saw it fit to carry out his research first, take care of his business, let the wolf relax and take her guard down just a bit. For hours and hours, it seemed, he carried on his work without so much as a semblance that he had plans for this stranger. It was a wonderful tactic, one he had done time and time again in his mind. Never be at specific place at a specific time, when expected. Instead, wait a few hours more, let the others grow weary, restless, anxious, and then strike. For it is at that moment that they are truly at their weakest. Was this wolf some agent of the rebellion, being where she ought not to be? Perhaps not… but one thing was for sure. He had never seen her here, and that struck him as quite odd. It was the one thing, perhaps, that occupied his mind above all else, even when he had buried himself in his records.

Without incident, the soldier packed away the items he had perused, and calmly cleaned his station. With everything organized according to just the way the official record-keepers had left it, the delicate scraps upon which the avian scribes had notated piled up, Falltore seemed to head for the exit without incident, without issue, without suspicion. But at the very last moment, just as he seemed to be passing by this stranger, he stopped, as if to examine the records nearest to him. But he spoke, then, in a voice directed for one individual, and only one individual, in particular. And here I thought that our recruitment numbers were down,” he mused, not looking in the wolf’s direction, “just when you think you’ve seen everyone in this place, someone else just happens to come along. Isn’t it funny?”

He turned to look at her, then, as he approached, eyeing first the records she had near her, then back at her. A curious assortment, to say the least, but nothing that he could quite understand from such a momentary spotting. As for her, her appearance was plain, not a single scar that he might discern. This, as well as her small size, did not seem to suggest her to be a fighting wolf, whatever she was. And yet, such wolves could often be the most surprising. Maybe it was up to him to find out just what hers might be.

not a goddess anymore
but she still looks like religion

she kisses you
godless

Drusilla is aware of her surroundings, but focused on her task, diligently recording pages of information as the hours tick by. The candle on her desk is waning and flickering, telling her that the hour is late—no strange fact for the linguist, who often stretches her work late into the night. A body shuffling nearby is largely ignored, noticed only in a vague sense of awareness above the scratching of quill on parchment. That is, until the low gravel of his voice cuts like a knife's blade through the quiet, and she only just manages to keep from jumping in surprise.

There is no one else he could be speaking to.

With arched brows, she slowly leans back in her chair and shifts her gaze towards the scarred soldier from earlier. "Funny?" she echoes curiously, offering a slight shrug of assent towards the figure in the shadows. Drusilla isn't certain that it's entirely a good thing when he approaches the table, proving that the full scrutiny of his attention is upon her. She isn't doing anything wrong, but he's unnerving enough to make her spine crawl. And he's tall. Why are they always so godsdamned tall?

"I'm no recruit, I'm afraid—and numbers are down," Drusilla states, shoving aside her wariness for a well-practiced professionalism. She taps a nail against the recorded numbers for him to see—though in hindsight, she can't tell if the soldier can see clearly enough to read her neat writing from a distance. "I'm here on business with Castle Stewart. Is there something I can help you with, sir?" she asks with a demure smile, tipping her head to the side.

Despite her pliant exterior, Drusilla has little respect for the military. She's of the impression that its members care little for Rionnach's citizens and the things that matter to them—the destruction of the Arboretum is proof of that. However, she has a unique talent for separating personal opinion from her job, and neither the soldier in front of her or anyone else in her professional life will ever be granted a glimpse into her thoughts.

code // art

Falltore was hardly expecting a wolf in a place like this to be as well-spoken as the record keeper was. A smooth voice, a cordial tone, professionalism in every sense of the word. A wolf like her did not belong in a place like this, but here they were, in the record archives, all alone. Of course, she was no soldier, that much was obvious. There were very few wolves that had the access that he did, and as far as Falltore knew, all of them were wolsiders. So upon seeing an archivist that did not look the part, but was quite educated, told him quite a few things about who this wolf was. After all, she knew recruitment numbers, but from her response to his presence, was a stranger to this fort. Needless to say, she did not seem to be the type to stick around. And that was something that unnerved Falltore, ever so slightly.

To him, this wolf being in such a strange place, but with all the confidence to show for it, had planted a rather foul seed in his mind. Wolves like these are quite rare, and for good reason. They are, as they call them, shades, ghosts, boogeydogs. If she were here, as he thought, she likely had some quite lofty connections, no doubt all the way up to the Imperial court. And were that the case, then even a mere harsh wind on her pelt was enough to get any wolf, perhaps even General Faust, removed from their post. It was all conjecture, no doubt, but Falltore saw no reason to test a wolf whose loyalty was absolute, or meddle in the affairs of a wolf that one simply did not stand in the way of. It would be best for both of them to go their separate ways, which Falltore was quite intent on doing.

“No, nothing at all,” he said politely, bowing his head, “I will leave you to your affairs. Mine are quite… extraordinary after all. Until next time...” With that, the wolf slowly walked past the stranger, exiting the archives, and proceeding away, without so much as a stir, or slightest indication of intimidation. It was simply a means of self-preservation, as well as perhaps to go in search of wolves whom might benefit from a bit of pressure. She, after all, had no need for his presence.

[Exit]