Krii blinked as the solitary torch hissed its light into the gloomy tunnel. She couldn't make out much more than a few meters beyond the bearer. She tried her best to form the right words, tell him she was fine. "Gurku fine vonche."
ooc: AGENT AND ARTISAN
IC: Ishi Polzin: Chapter 2, Part 1 (of many, so hold on to your seats kids...)
Ishi was not the man in the mirror.
The single blue eye seared through the mirror’s reflection. It was fearsome, the perfect weapon: no one could see the warmth beneath such cold calculation. The smoky translucency of his kanohi kaukau only aided the lie of a frigid heart.
“What I do for the game.” Kyhra half expected to see the surgeon’s scars when the coat fell to the floor. The aluminum gray colored garment lay awkwardly at his charcoal brown feet, half supported by the tiny brigadine plates sewn within. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat, eating his fears before they could mature when he saw -- nothing. Everything inflicted had disappeared, except for a mess of silver skin along his left shoulder. Burn mark. The mirror continued to shout at him, screaming words he couldn’t accept: Ishi Polzin was dead.
Below the mirror.
Rose-shaped bronze glittered as Kyhra held it to the lamplight. The key to an insurmountable treasure balanced between his pale fingers, but where was the lock? In all things, there is an equal and opposite reaction; the Machiavellian Prince heard himself saying without speaking. His eye flickered toward a hastily made bed.
The map lay amidst a pile of papers, scrawled letters forming coded words, the island hidden behind theory and hypothesis. Sometimes its the little things that make mountains, he continued to ponder while placing the broach back on the cabinet. His brow furrowed while examining the intricate plans that relied on so much going right. So much requiring his gentle pruning, planting, and watering. Kyhra was master gardener of the mind, but how long before Jaller’s wits would snap? Would Kongu always be frivolous and drunk? War was a hard plant to grow.
And in war secrets are exposed.
He had contacts. The rose broach, the Polzins. There were others, but for now he needed the North. The map was heavy from ink, a thin film refusing to leave Kyrha’s fingers after tapping the desert. So many words. Ishi Polzin had been meticulous, leaving nothing to error or chance. It was infuriating; having nothing more to add or subtract left Kyhra without a purpose. All he had to do was follow directions.
The one-eyed matoran picked up each paper individually, taking time to look over the contents on both sides, making them orderly against his arm. Rosters from Ko-Koro, minutes from Onu-Koro, names of inductees to the Cultured Gentry, secrets until now unwritten, maps of passages and hearts, inventories of nations and purses, weapons outputs from Ta-Koro. As if a precious children, he laid them in the metal trunk, a red coat peeking from underneath the parchment and papyrus.
“What I do for love,” Kyhra said with a sigh, then lit a match.
Edited by Kughii, Aug 02 2013 - 01:55 PM.