Guild of Alchemists

As Stella spoke aloud to the group, her voice was gentle and guiding. It was like the faintest light of a candle holding the fires of knowledge, and when it had finished Beval bowed his head silently. I guess having us in their best interest wasn't easy enough, He thought solemnly. When the Auvergnian Prince redirected the focus back to just what they should do, Pierre's response was as good as any.

"Our best bet would be to send a spy to ze Southern Guild, someone Francois wouldn't suspect, someone who could report to us 'is every move."

The words hung in the air for a moment and, in the pause that followed, all eyes in the room were on Stella. The most shocking example was Lord Pennington, who shamelessly looked to his daughter as the perfect candidate. Well, perhaps it wasn't shocking. Crossing his arms and raising his chin high, the lord alleviated some of this attention by instead turning his head to Beval. "What about this one," He nodded to the bear, offering a smirk to the rest of the room. "Nothing like the infidel blood of a chimera for political fodder." Lord Pennington's eyes narrowed.

I can't go, I've already met the bastard... Beval thought scornfully, lowering his head as not to look into the lord's eyes. This of course meant lowering his head even lower than the drop it took to see Pennington in the first place. The chimera did not respond or speak up, acknowledging how disrespectful this would be. He had long accepted discrimination, as well as the futility that comes with speaking up in defense. Instead he remained quiet and waited for a better proposition.

"Nothing like the infidel blood of a chimera for political fodder." That does it. Stella couldn't well remember a time when her father's mere presence in a room had disgusted her this much, but then nasty family and political feuds will do that to you, as will blind and blatant racism. What had happened to the man who'd patiently taught his daughter alchemy, enduring her barrage of questions for hours at a time until she was satisfied with the minutiae? The one who watched with pride evident on his face when she outdid every other student her age at that very same thing?

He's dead, and so is the girl who lived for nothing more than that. "I think the infidel blood of a traitor to Westmarck's oldest lineage will do just fine," she spat, well aware that for whatever reason, everyone seemed to consider her the best option for this. Though he would not be at all happy with her choice of wording, her father had probably riled her for exactly that purpose.

The proclamation gave his eyes just the smallest glint of satisfaction, and she cursed the traitorous part of her heart that still wanted to please this man, even after everything that had happened. Solomon was regarding her steadily, and she still refused to look at Jacques. The elderly man at the center, who had thus far been keeping his piece, was the first to speak afterward. "Stella, are you quite sure you wish to do this? You will be in no trifling amount of danger, especially should you be discovered..."

"...and I do not zink zat someone of your more... honest qualities would make ze best spy," Jacques contributed, sounding a trifle worried, which only caused her to clench her jaw.

"I think we both know that I understand very well what it means to live a lie," she responded tightly, turning her eyes on him at last. "Besides, the less subtlety I appear to have, the better, right? With any luck, Francois will assume the same thing you just did." Like right now, for instance. She looked for all the world as though she was brazenly, perhaps even rashly, accepting the assignment without the faintest consideration for the consequences. The hard knot of apprehension at the pit of her stomach was a testament otherwise. If Beval really could smell emotions (and sometimes, she thought he could) then she was probably quite the cocktail at the moment. Anger, fear, and- curse it all- sadness, coupled with a healthy dose of the desire to be just about anywhere else.

"All I need to know now is what to look for, how to report, and where to find him," she continued, as though such a list were simple for its brevity.

"Nothing like the infidel blood of a chimera for political fodder."

Pierre tensed up, his hatred for Lord Pennington deepening each second. No one talked about Beval like that; he may be a chimera, but he was still human, so to speak! All Pierre wanted to do was to punch Pennington in the face, but he knew that such an action would only cause more trouble. Luckily, before Pierre's instinct could overwhelm him, Stella spoke up.

..."All I need to know now is what to look for, how to report, and where to find him," she continued, as though such a list were simple for its brevity.

"NO!" Pierre called out without thinking. "I mean... it's too dangerous. Francois could... well, 'e..." Honestly, the man couldn't really think of a reason for Stella not to go. After all, Stella had been unconscious when Francois was with the group, so he had probably not taken any notice of her. And Francois was a ladies' man, he probably wouldn't do anything bad to her. The worst thing that could possibly happen was Francois taking Stella on a date.((shudder))

"Well, it doesn't matter," the alchemist continued, blushing slightly from his lack of support. "Ze Southern Desert is not a place for a teenage girl. She could get 'eat stroke or somesing! If anyone goes, it should be moi. Even if Francois knows me, 'e did ask me to come in ze first place. I could pretend zat I 'ad a change of mind. And, if somesing goes wrong, I'll always be able to escape on my own. My skills are on par wis my brothers, at least enough so for me to fight my way out."

As Pierre faltered in his explanations as to why Stella shouldn't go, Beval almost turned red and blushed for him. Oh Pierre, he thought, if you keep that up you're only condemning yourself to the same boat as Jacques.

Through a fraternal empathy that was almost supernatural for a man of his stature, Beval knew that Stella would invariably be... dissatisfied with that reasoning. Hell, depending on how she takes it, she might rip your head off... He grimaced some at the prospect. Personally, the chimera didn't want to see either of them go. It was a dangerous mission that would ultimately end in someone, be it Francois or the spy, dead. He didn't like those odds.

"Pierre does... know his brother better. They're both fairly talented and he would know how to react in a dangerous situation with him." Beval chose his words wisely and spoke slowly. He knew he was treading on thin ice. "Stella, on the other hand, does have an advantage in that she could easily..." thin ice, thin ice, "trick Francois into cooperating. He wouldn't expect a betrayal and as you mentioned," His eyes leveled with Stella's and were a gentle sort of apology for a moment, "he wouldn't see you as any danger."

In the silence that followed this blunt and aforementioned reasoning, Solomon eyes raised with a careful and hopeful gleam that seemed to like up the room; then refine itself into determination. "So it's a two man team," Golding's proposition sounded like it was already set in stone. With a whip of his arm he drew out a large black board. It was hard to really tell if it was even there before, though it would have been hard to miss a feature in the room that big. How the hell does he do that? Beval let out a disgruntled huff.

"Our infiltrating agent shall be the lovely miss Pennington. Her exquisitely knowledgeable informant shall be sir Montaigne." Scratching about with a piece of chalk that was also inexplicably there, Solomon sketched up a Guild with two or so circles inside and an extra one beyond it. "Miss Pennington should be able to get closest to Francois. She can study his movements and track the progress of our southern counterpart." The two circles were now identified as the elder Montaigne brother and Stella. "Meanwhile, she will relay her knowledge to Peter and maintain a line of communication as to refer to him for advice and aid." Solomon then drew a dotted line from Stella to Pierre, lowering his piece of chalk triumphantly.

"A sound plan, Mr. Golding," Lord Pennington announced with a grunt, raising one pompous hand to scratch at his chin. "but what of their communication? Are they expected to maintain a dialogue by post?" The lord leveled his eyes with Solomon, mistaken to think that even he could outsmart the Guild master. "That issue will be taken up by our mechanical specialist, sir Koshovska." Solomon let his gaze fall onto Beval, a trusting and careful one that imparted a world of responsibility. "Isn't that right, Beval?"

"Yes sir," The young bear's voice, for once, almost faltered.

It's the sibling rivalry thing Stella. He's not underestimating you on purpose. He isn't the same as they were. It's not the same. The mantra ran through her head for as long as she could stand it, but she'd be cursed if she hadn't inherited her father's combustible temper. He might control it for the sake of whatever machinations he liked to make; she refused to be like that.

But that was no reason to lose it at Pierre, much as she was sorely tempted. Her hands flexed into fists at her side unconsciously; she unclenched them only with concerted effort. Her glare was withering, directed at the Auvergnian for a mere second or two before Beval broke in. He at least was clearly aware of the ground he was treading, and she tried to relax. It was unfair to make people walk on eggshells because she couldn't get over something. She swallowed hard and forced herself to listen with passivity as Solomon spoke, tilting her head sideways slightly to examine his diagram, arms crossed over her chest.

It was a solid plan; she knew that. But if Francois was so intelligent, maybe he would know that there was no way Pierre would be able to keep his pointy Auvergnian nose out of this. Okay, that was cruel. But perhaps also true, to an extent. The girl examined the diagram once more before biting down on her lower lip and shaking her head slightly. "The lie is too small," she said. "A Westmarckian refugee wants to join a Guild. It's far too innocuous. Someone good with this kind of thing would be suspicious right away. But not... not if I slip in after his brother and someone he fought with. He'll be far too busy keeping tabs on the two of you to even think anything of me, especially if I act like I don't know either of you. Besides, if we have to fight our way out, I'd say three people are better than one. Beval could communicate directly to Solomon. If any of us are found out, it would be easy enough to say we worked alone, too."

Her father's expression had receded into a smirk that made her more wary than an outward expression of happiness would have, and that was saying something. And just where do you stand, Lord Pennington? she wondered snidely, though she did not voice the thoughts aloud. Perhaps her suggestion was too risky or something, but if that golden-eyed puppeteer who called himself a father had taught her anything, it was that one did not find the truth after uncovering only one layer of falsity, though it was easy to assume you had. They'd all be suspicious, for one reason or another, but that could and would work in their favor.

Beval let his guard down and was wounded by the concept that he, too, would participate in the mission. He'd never traveled as far as Southgate, rarely even traveling into the city around him. Now he had a hefty responsibility, a mission out of the den and into the jungle. I'm an agent, he reminded himself, I always have been. I protect the Guild and further the pursuit of science. It's what I do. The bear found comfort in the fact that Pierre wasted no time. He was ready and confident, so Beval would be too. "Sounds terrific. I'll let you gentlemen talk everything over; Stella, excuse me." He nodded to the whole group rather than each one in turn, figuring it might be awkward to leave the noblemen with such a gesture.

Turning around and taking the doorknob into his large hand, Beval paused just long enough to think about what Pennington had said. "Infidel blood..." Beval was not familiar with Lanonian, but knew this phrase well in terms of Guild creed. Fidelity- when have I not been faithful? Southern hate considered, I'm going on a dangerous mission to a city that may very well despise chimera, out of faithfulness to the Guild. A heavy amount of words rested on Beval's tongue. Things which shouldn't be said to noblemen, sounds that had weight and would change people, rolled with a thunderous intensity against his lips. Each curse rolled up his throat like a ball fury, coming to rest just short of his vocal chords. Nothing was said.

Beval turned the doorknob and stepped out of Solomon's well crafted room, sighing as he did and accepting that a long endeavor lay before them. "Pierre and Stella... Yet, there's no two other people I'd have with me than them." The words came out easily enough, but Beval knew they were untrue. Someone who held an irrevocable place within him, a fond memory sat with the bear. Someone who had more than power or knowledge- experience. Herr Frank...

Beval's feet moved without his will. They kept going past doors and into the courtyard, a cool chasm breeze blowing leaves across his face. The grass flowed nostalgically, the great kerosene fire above burning against rubies and amber in the stalactites. It cast autumn's spell across the fields, deep within winter. Beval breathed in hickory and pine with no such trees around, tasted the bitter Earth and its inhabitants. It reminded him of late nights in the boiler room. An aether calling spoke through empty vats and cried out to him when billows crashed. It spoke like the ticking of a watch, constantly, and would not cease to be remembered. The bugs knew it now, and buzzed about him feverishly. Herr Frank, my mentor...

Beval's presence disappeared from behind Stella, and all of a sudden she felt a great deal smaller. Wasn't it supposed to work the other way around? Short people only felt the worst when standing beside tall people, after all, and she had never in her life known someone as tall as the Chimeric alchemist.

Her father looked satisfied with something, as though everything that had occurred had been his plan from the start. Knowing quite well the smug snake the man was capable of being, it would not surprise his daughter if it had been. She understood him far too well to rule out the possibility. In the momentary silence that followed, her eyes swung first to Solomon, who was doing an excellent job looking unperturbed, and Jacques, who clearly was not. The younger of the two Auvergnians seemed to be asking something of her, albeit without words, but it was something she was either unwilling or unable to grant (she knew not which) and she shook her head minutely, before she too followed Pierre's advice and took her exit.

Not that there was much to pack, she reflected as she wound her way back through the corridors as well as she could remember. She'd barely settled in here, and already she was leaving to be somewhere else again. Was her life perhaps doomed to constant upheaval? It might not be as bad as the alternative would have been, but that was not to say that she particularly enjoyed the cynical flavor of the thought.

She spotted Beval, apparently lost in thought, and wondered if what her fool of a parent had said was still bothering him. He seemed... out-of-sorts. Her first instinct was to try and figure out what was wrong, but she stopped herself before she headed towards him. People were not puzzles, to be figured out and fixed into place. There was little she could say that would not sound trite or disingenuous; she knew him not well enough for that. Best to leave him to his thoughts for the moment.

Back in her dorm, Stella set about gathering the few things that she had the intention of taking with her. For a moment, she debated the usefulness of her sable cloak; it was surely becoming spring in the southern parts of the nation, after all. Perhaps it might be wise to bring the thing along, just in case. The Westmarckian crest on the clasp would lend credibility to the refugee story anyway. It was funny, that she was going to fake a tale that had been all too real not that long ago.

Back in his dorm, Beval studied over his belongings carefully. It was uncharacteristic of the bear, really, to put so much thought into anything such as packing, but his choice of equipment in this case could be the difference between life and death. How odd is it, he thought to himself, that almost everything I own is a tinkered device or failed experiment. Haven't I any precious belongings?

Without hesitation he packed the Steamfix. It was a powerful weapon to have, but Beval was glad to deposit it with his luggage. Carrying around a heavy piece of machinery like that could be bad for the body, perhaps the soul even. His vest and leggings were packed as well. Removing his bandoleer and studying it warily, Beval considered how it might look to come in fully armed. After a few minutes of consideration, he emptied its contents into a case and dug around the room for an inkwell and his Chemical Atlas. A transmutation was in order if he was to arrive at the Guild safe and fairly.

Taking the time to clear off some desk space, Beval spread the pages of his atlas out and looked over them. The book had the compositions of thousands of different materials and notes for going about their alteration. It was mainly gathered up from different sources and trimmed down to the minimum- the numbers, diagrams, salts, sugars, and what brief texts he was willing to read. A moments worth of shuffling presented a page on skins and leather, and then eventually one on wool and fabrics. Pulling a ruled compass from a drawer, he quickly set about drawing up a circle in ink on the desktop.

It wasn't often that Beval was careful enough to mind his transmutation circles or copy them precisely, but his knowledge regarding biological materials was minimal. To pull this off would take care. He folded the bandoleer neatly in the center of the circle and snatched a flask from the corner of his workspace. "Saline," He murmured to himself, "will have to do." Beval fell far short of having his own lab, or the materials to stock it, so water was always his go-to solvent. The bear removed a pocket watch from his packing and held it tightly in his right hand, moving his left over the compilation of items. The watch, which had moments ago been silent, began to tick.

Gears within began revving, releasing all of their tension and energy into Beval, who then let it course through his finger tips. The transmutation was fast. A flash released from his hand and the pocket watch suddenly felt cold, its power put forth into the transmutation. On the desk before Beval now sat a vest, a blacker than the bandoleer and with buttons a brown glass. The material was thin, but it was sizable enough to fit the large chimera. A smile flickered across his face and he felt the warmth of the newborn clothing article. "Not bad..." He let out an accomplished sigh before shooting a glance to his pants, burlap, and across the room at his sheets and his cases, beautiful linens and rough leathers. I could do a bit more... He thought.

Beval was in the room for well over an hour. His desk was scrawled with ink, all over, his room half cleansed of its once-dense clutter. Dozens of pages had been torn from his atlas, a handful pocket watches completely spent. The cotton of his sheets had been warped, pressed (with a great deal of energy), and made durable. The denim that resulted was black and soft, fashioned into a new pair of trousers. A belt, comprising half of the leather from his suitcase, was crafted and fixed around a silver buckle made from pocket watch. His leggings had been scrapped, and in their place was pair of sturdy boots. Beval wasn't accustomed to the feel of shoes, having to try well over ten times to transmute them comfortably. The green of the Merchant's scales had darkened to match his pants, and they now made a satisfying and defined noise when he stepped. Gentlemens clothes, that's what they are. The bear couldn't hide his grin. The outfit was far from comfortable, but it was empowering to wear. Even his shirt had been transmuted, refined to a thin and softly pleaded top and collar. Yet an obstacle remained.

On his desk sat his cloak, dark red and symbolic of his membership in the Guild. His stomach felt empty as he looked at it, knowing that it could not go with him in such a form. To even leave it here would be to dismiss his position, would it not? It must be changed... For the mission. Beval swallowed hard and shuffled through to his papers on cotton. Raising a hand to the iconic cloth, tangents of electricity sparked out and the material began to glow. Particles expanded and bonds were severed, molecules releasing themselves from the confines of matter. At once the cloak was there, and it was not. It existed in ethereal planes where it shifted and changed before settling, calming, returning to itself and newest form. A cape now sat before him, black as night and much thicker than the full cloak. Sans the hood, it was fashioned to an elegant shape and would drape nicely down his back. A last minute transmutation, Beval cast the silver from one watch onto the back, gilding in the coat of arms of Kietzky, remembered fondly from documents and articles that had belonged to his parents. "Nobleman's clothes, that's what they are." The bear spoke proudly.

Toting out a single (albeit large) trunk, Beval thought fondly of the weeks to come. Beyond this Guild, perhaps, was redemption. Redemption from all the fear, hiding, and insecurity of a caged beast. Alchemy had once been that escape, but was now a routine affair. Making his way to the courtyard, catching reflections of himself in glass panes and well-shined brass, an ambitious thought crossed his mind. Perhaps Pierre can even give me a good Auvergnian shave.

There was a soft knock at Stella’s door, and she whipped around from where she had been standing facing the bed. Not about to give just anyone free license to invade her space, she forewent calling for them to enter and crossed the room herself, cracking the miniaturized portcullis before swinging it wider.

She was greeted by a nondescript man in a blue cloak, but what caught her was the crest emblazoned on his shirt. This man was one of Jacques’s personal messengers, and she had absolutely no idea how to take that. “Can I help you?” she asked, and if her tone was a bit too cold, the man showed no sign of thinking so. Instead, he bowed at the waist and presented her with a small parcel.

“Lady Pennington, the Prince requests that you receive this and accept his apologies that he was not able to deliver it to you personally. He is for the moment headed back to Auvergne, but he wishes you to understand that he will be reachable by letter if you require anything of him.” Stella might have told this messenger exactly what she wanted of Jacques, which was rather long and complicated but perhaps best encapsulated by the phrase “leave me alone,” but in truth she was a strange mix of curious and slightly shamed by her behavior towards him, and so she accepted the parcel with nothing but a nod and a murmur of thanks.

He didn’t deserve her hostility, not really. The whole mess that had come of that was not truly his fault. If the blame lay anywhere, it was with her father. Closing the door behind her, Stella laid the package on her desk, staring at it for a few moments before ripping the brown paper with her recently-retransmuted knife. She’d made them different sizes this time, and this one was much smaller, suitable for utility.

A smooth bolt of fabric slid from the packaging onto the surface of the desk, pooling upon it as though it were made of water. It was incredibly soft, but also strong, as she discovered upon an examination. Judging from the shape, it was meant to be worn as a scarf. A notecard landed beside the scarf, and she picked it up with a burgeoning feeling of dread.

Etoile,

I know you are curious: it is spider silk. I would ask you to forgive me, but I know that this is something you must do on your own terms. If there should ever be a time that my assistance is necessary for you or one of your friends, remember that there is nothing you cannot ask of me.

Your Friend (for I am still thus),
-Jacques

The first line made her smile. He had always known her better than just about anyone, the jerk. He was right about the rest, though: coming to terms with everything that had transpired in her life would take time, and he was wound up in all of that very tightly indeed. Stella had an internal debate for a moment, then tucked the card away in a pocket and wound the orange scarf about her neck. It was quite long, and hit her knees even thus. Surely there was no harm in using a gift; there were no crests or other identifying marks upon it, and to weave that much spider silk together probably would have required Jacques’s own alchemy, which meant that it was more than some expensive trinket.

Satisfied, Stella gathered the rest of her meager belongings and headed out of her room. Nobody had specified where they were to meet or even if they were journeying together, but it was not as though there was more than one way to get to Southgate in a decent amount of time. They’d have to take the train, and probably the same one at that. They could stagger their arrivals at Francois’s Guild as they wished later.

She arrived in the entrance hall and waited for the others, rocking back and forth on her heels as she contemplated the artificial ceiling. It had impressed her so much the first time she saw it, and it still did now. She found herself wondering if she would ever return to this place, and was troubled that she could come up with no definitive answer. Life was just unpredictable, sometimes.

"We shall," Beval gave a curt nod to his curt friend, pocking his hands in his new trousers and shooting a glance across the courtyard. If Stella was anywhere near them then she wasn't terribly blunt about it. Still, that fact did little to halt the Bear, whose nose twitched characteristically as he tasted the sweet scents of the yard. His cunning olfaction had quickly dismissed the fertility of flowers and the salinity of a small flowing stream near by, instead looking for that distinct chemical smell of Ms. Pennington. No matter how much she bathed or cleansed herself of that scent, Beval could still detect the faintest hint of it on her person, intensified as if she were doused in the spray of geysers. Giving a slight nod in the direction of the entrance hall, with it's luminescent runes and chill like the surface, he motioned for Pierre to follow him as he moved.

They approached Stella briefly, Beval standing high with his minusculeincomparison trunk. He gave the girl a quick look over without being too obvious, bemused by the introduction of a new item to her wardrobe. The scarf was... an odd sight, but it instantaneously fit. It had an odd smell to it, however his mind was too disheveled to place it at the moment. "Stella, you're ready?"

Beval's voice rumbled behind her, and Stella jumped slightly. She'd been lost quite a bit down a particular train of thought, and had not noticed the approach of her companions. She was slightly confused by Beval's new wardrobe; it didn't seem much like him, if she were to be honest. He was an alchemist, not an aristocrat, and she respected him all the more for it. Still, aesthetically she supposed it would be wise to fit in as much as possible, and there was no denying that he was a few gargantuan steps closer to that now.

"I'm ready if you two are. I suppose we are to take the train?" She raised a speculative red eyebrow, then shrugged slightly and made for the exit. No matter how they were traveling, they had to properly leave the Guild first, and she was doubtless the one in need of least time to do whatever sentimental things people did when they left home for a while, being that it hadn't been her home for all that long.

What was it he said? Home is not a place, it's a feeling. Something like that. Shaking her head, she opened the entrance to the passage that would spit them out in the fireplace of the rune shop, and turned to lean against the entryway, waiting for the other two to follow.

(No mind here, just bummed we haven't got to be around Northgate for more than a second)

"Lucky us," Beval shrugged and turned to follow Pierre, his trunk in tow.

The station's calm buzz was mainly the departed at this hour- that was the way things were, people leaving early and arriving late, but the trio's trip was plenty more than couple hours away. Hope someone brought marks for food, The bear furrowed his eyebrows and shot a glance down to his belly. Neither of the three was a bioalchemist, and transmuted synthetic foods tasted awful anyways.

A colleague had once prepared a synthetic feast, all crafted from the little flora and fauna available in the Guild, and presented it to the dining hall. The food looked elegant and hearty, ranging from fine steaks to artichoke hearts. The toasted baguettes and eggs looked as legitimate as their authentic counterparts and surely, without a doubt, would taste as great.

That was a crock of shit, Beval reflected sternly. Even Goldman, for a moment, lost his bearing and spat some. "It was... an interesting experiment, Nicholas..." Solomon lied to their resident cook, Nikolai. "Certainly one for the books."

"It's been a while," Beval mumbled as they approached the loading platform. "I haven't rode a train since I first came to Northgate."

The large industrial beast cried out from the conductor's car, some several hundred feet away out in the yard. Every column of pistons that drove an engine car, the magnificent size and power, it all impressed Beval. He could do without the constant smell of coal, at which his nose twitched frequently, sure. But the idea that this was all achieved with combustive rocks and engineering sent shivers down his spine.

"Ticket please. Ticket please. Ticket please." The monotone voice of a man who stood at the door receiving them had become background noise. Beval hunched his shoulders some to get through the entrance, and then remained hunched on board the great bronze serpent. "Right, 27 D means we are..." Beval read off the punched numbers on his card with a pause for either of the two other alchemists to finish. He was... less than successful with numbers and direction.

(I'd like to have NPCs in our train car, if everyone's okay with that?)

The air outside was, perhaps predictably, quite cold, and whatever the weather might be in Southgate, Stella was immediately glad of her cloak in the present conditions. She had to admit that the scarf helped, too, and she wondered if there might not be some kind of warming reaction built into it somehow. Jacques was a specialist in bioalchemy, but occasionally showed some interest in tangentially-related fields as well.

Deciding to leave that particular train of thought be for the moment, she focused instead on looking around Northgate at the buildings they passed. Admittedly, she had not had much cause to reappear on the surface since she had first entered the subterranean Guild, so most of it was still quite new. Whether the pattern of wrought iron and gray stone architecture was merely reflective of this district or had some larger bearing on the structure of the city as a whole she could not say, but it meshed in a macabre sort of way with the wintry atmosphere.

She debated using her alchemy and a bit of bio-calculus to warm herself up, but trying to walk fast enough to keep up with the brisk strides of two much taller individuals seemed to be taking care of that for her anyway, so she didn't bother with it. The group reached the train station sooner than she had expected, and Stella took her ticket and handed it over again without comment, not unused to such modes of travel. On the continent across the Merchant Sea, trains were just as common as they were in Crossroads, if not moreso, though recently a surge in the development of dirigibles was putting that industry in a bit of an awkward position.

Public train cars, she was perhaps not quite as accustomed to traveling in, though when Beval seemed confused about directions, Stella merely shrugged and took the lead. 27D was probably... there. The plain sliding door was marked appropriately, and she tugged it open, slightly surprised to find that there were others within. Three others, in fact, though there would still be enough room for herself and her friends... assuming nobody else was assigned to this car. Beval was horizontally impressive as he was vertically, after all.

Pierre silently followed Stella as she lead them down the narrow corridor on the train. As they passed compartment after compartment, he could catch snippets of people's conversations: young couples professing their love for each other, old men arguing with their wives, and the occasional spirited debate between two bright minds. Pierre had always liked witnessing the clash of intellectuals, but he was hardly entitled to barge in on a room full of strangers just to fulfill his desire.

It didn't take long for the trio to reach compartment 27D, and even less time for Stella to open the frosted glass sliding door. As the alchemists filed in, Pierre noticed that there were already some people in the small space. Not that that was unusual; in the world of locomotive travel, it was commonplace for complete strangers to be stuffed in a small wooden box together. Pierre sat down on one of the overstuffed red velvet seats, carefully extracting a book from his bag before stowing it underneath him. He didn't like to put his luggage in the overhead compartments, there was too much of a risk of it falling on his head.

The book was entitled A Tale of Transmutation: The Evolution of Alchemy Throughout the Ages. Quickly flipping to the place where he had left off, Pierre almost immediately shut out the events of the surrounding car. He had gotten through a few pages before he felt a minor sense of foreboding; someone was watching him. Glancing around, Pierre easily found the source of his uneasiness. Seated next to him was a young man, probably several years younger than Pierre himself. The man had a deep tan and black hair, both generally southern traits. He also had strikingly green eyes, not exactly a common sight in Crossroads. He was staring at Pierre with a curious gaze that made Pierre slightly uncomfortable. "May I 'elp you?" Pierre asked, softly closing his book and setting it on his lap.

"You're an alchemist, aren't you?" the stranger asked. After receving a wary nod from Pierre, he continued. "So am I. I've been working in catalytics recently, so I'm hoping that this supposed 'Eternal Knowledge' will help me in my research. That's why you're going to Southgate, right? Of course that's why, what other reason could there be? I hope Southgate won't be anything like this city; being from a desert country myself, I hate the cold..."

Pierre sighed. Whoever this man was, he was talkative. It would definately be a long ride.

Following the other two along the train cars, Beval ducked his way into their own cabin and settled by the window. His massive trunk was... unwelcome in the small compartment, so he held it close between the already wide stance his legs took. I knew we should have payed for luggage, but Pierre said "Noooooo, we'll miss ze train." The bear shook his head disapprovingly and sank back in the seat. He was less than worried about the other characters they had been seated with, and wasn't going to pay them any mind until one spoke up.

"You're an alchemist, aren't you?" Beval's eyes petered over to the pipsqueak that sat beside Pierre. He fought back the urge to exclaim "Me too! I'm an alchemist, would you like to know more about what I do?", which was a sickeningly large temptation. His attention deprivation was appalling, even to himself. We need to keep low brow, I have to remember that... It's hard enough to do so in this tiny space. Beval already felt that he was taking up half of the cabin, so it did no good when it was pointed out to him.

"You should have bought an extra seat; you take up two." The voice came from across the small space, where a slender woman sat and spoke in an icy tone. She looked no older than the others and appeared to be as tall as Pierre, her entire body refined by two crystal blue eyes. A mane of black hair surrounded her face, carefully combed and reaching past her shoulders, a foil to her sheet white skin. Her angular face looked... deadly, to say the least, completely unsweetened by the pink of her lips or the dimples on her cheeks. She wore a fitted, warm looking coat of furs and synthetic cotton, its white color indicative of northern fauna. The Glacial Pass was home to many creatures that wore that color fur, particularly bears. The tall boots and leggings she wore probably would have confirmed her northern origin, that or the faintest Auvergnian accent she spoke with.

One feature that stood out upon the canvas of this icy huntress (to Beval) was strung across her back, a long rifle of elegant wood and steel. It seemed to be a custom design, nevertheless well crafted and furnished. A grizzly sharpened bayonet rested at the end of the weapon and threatened the ceiling of the cabin. There was a powder horn on her hip as well as a pouch for lead ammunition- clearly the gun was not a rifle, but a musket. Beval's eyes were caught studying the weapon best he could, and his mouth was all out of words when it came to respond to her. "I... I didn't think... S-sorry,"

"Hmmph," The woman smirked, "typical Slav. You come here with your own money and act like you're above everyone, entitled to your own of the west." The girl turned away from Beval, but he couldn't stop staring at her. He was completely shocked. For once, he thought, someone insulted me, and it wasn't because I'm a chimera. The statement was racist in its own right, perhaps, but he hadn't noticed. He was just too... amazed, really. Not only wasn't he accused of being a chimera, but he was referred to as a foreigner!

"I do..?" Beval's mouth moved idly as he stared, hardly aware he had spoken at all. "I didn't think... S-sorry."

Stella navigated the rather cramped tangle of limbs, picking her way rather carefully along so as not to trip over anyone. The last thing she needed was to appear clumsy. Why that was the last thing, she wasn't sure exactly, but she'd always hated it. through whatever mechanism people used when deciding where to sit, she wound up wedged somewhere between Pierre and Beval, which wasn't exactly comfortable considering the space constraint issue. Oh well. There were times, it seemed, when being rather too small had its advantages. Pierre was immediately accosted by an alchemist not much older than she, and Beval by someone less earnest, but all the more irritating.

Stella's eyes narrowed at the cold woman across from them. "I guess it's a good thing I only need half a seat then, isn't it?" It's not like he's bothering anything. Her tone was overly saccharine; anyone with a trace of subtlety would detect the disdain in it, but it was not so obvious that they could call her out on it. A delicate balance, one learned by rote long ago. The woman went so far as to insult him for being a Slav, of all things, and Stella barely suppressed the disgusted snort that she might have issued otherwise.

This was ridiculous; she should go see the conductor and demand a new train car. It was what... well, no, perhaps she shouldn't. Theoretically, her name alone would be enough to accomplish this, which was a good thing, as she had only an infinitesimal fraction of the money that would ordinarily be backing it. But that was hardly the issue, and she had the overwhelming desire to lay into this woman for being instantly rude to someone who hadn't so much as looked at her the wrong way. Something stayed her tongue, though- perhaps it was a more recent reservation, a newer fear. It might very well be that she was not a person that bold any longer.

She was saved from the necessity of contemplating it any further, though, when the person seated on the woman's other side spoke. "There's no need to be quite so blunt, is there?" The speaker was a child of no more than twelve or so, but his voice held far too much seriousness for his age. A mop of curly blond hair hung over a pale, drawn face, and gray eyes held all the solemnity and wisdom of someone quadruple his age. It was clear that his companion listened to him, though Stella was unsure if she would listen.

The speaker fixed Stella with a measuring stare, and she was not ashamed to say she was unnerved by it, coming from such a young face. "Forgive us. My name is Gabriel. I shall let my companion introduce herself; she is not all that fond of others doing it for her. Please do not concern yourselves too much with us; we have been journeying long, and we are quite weary." He shot a glance at the woman beside him, as though daring her to contradict him.

Beval's eyes widened with fear when Stella spoke up. For her to defend him was ironic all in its own, and though pleasing to hear, the bear was immediately terrified of a potential backlash from the icy woman. Instead, however, a small boy beside her spoke up. He wasn't exactly the picture of normalcy Beval had first chocked him up to be when scanning over the cabin. At once he was a nondescript child, but now he was forced to take into account the boy's deep eyes and terribly expressionless face. What... what is that? Clairvoyance? Disdain?

"Of course," The woman across from them spoke calmly, as if snapping out of a trance, or perhaps snapping into one. Was there a hint of fear on her voice? One of sheer terror? She didn't look back down at the boy, instead just responding accordingly. "I am Henrietta. We've come from the far North; Gabriel and I are Alchemillan." She gestured to the boy beside her. Her use of his name "Gabriel" instead of "brother" warranted further query as to their relation.

"I trust you all hail from the East?" Gabriel spoke almost absently, letting his eyes spread across all three of the Guild members. Pierre's young admirer seemed too preoccupied reading Pierre's book over his shoulder to hear the question. Beval heard the question perfectly, but didn't answer for loss of words. Whether it was the right time to lie or hold his tongue, he couldn't tell, so he instead shot a glance to Stella. She knew the right move more often than not.

"Yes," Stella replied nonchalantly, sensing Beval's discomfort but not acknowledging it. It would not be good for them to appear to be much more than casual acquaintances. She would admit that her comment earlier had been something of a slip in this regard, but she could play it off as a general aversion to snobbery well enough. That at least, she would not have to fake. "At least, I am. If you want to know where they're from, I couldn't really tell you."

She shrugged, and though she sensed the boy did not quite believe her, the woman seemed convinced enough. Somehow she truly doubted she could successfully lie to the child; though she could give no reason for her intuition. "My name is Stella, this is Beval, and the man over there is Pierre, I think. Travel is much better with company, don't you think?"

Gabriel smiled, though it was not the delighted one of a child, rather the sly one of a sharp-witted adult. "Indeed; I myself find it so as well." Though she did not think he was deceived by the subtle implications in her choice of words, he seemed willing enough to play along with it, and generally made pleasant, meaningless conversation with her for a while. It was a delicate dance of wit, and both of them knew it. Each was searching for information, subtle giveaways in body language or a careless flick of the tongue, neither willing to concede anything of true value, though trifles were spilt from lips with deliberateness, false leads to the contrary. She learned that Gabriel and Henrietta were headed to Southgate, though nothing about what their purpose might be. The boy almost seemed to be teasing her with it, dangling the obvious conclusion in front of her face, but she knew she could not seize upon it. Too many of the right, directed questions would give away her knowledge, facts and information that the person she implicitly claimed to be should not know, not have.

This boy was dangerous, and Stella felt it as an undercurrent beneath her skin, a purely internalized shiver of instinct that bade her be wary and watchful both, and already she was concerned that he knew things she did not. Things she needed to know.

"My name is Stella, this is Beval, and the man over there is Pierre, I think. Travel is much better with company, don't you think?"

"Zat is correct," Pierre responded nonchalantly. "I am from Auvergne. I arrived 'ere in Crossroads a few weeks ago. I 'ad 'eard zat ze snow 'ere in Northgate is as pure as it van be, so I sought I should, euh, what is ze term, 'check it out' before I 'ead down to Southgate. Zey say zat ze Sulfuric Tundra in ze South is like no ozer place in ze world, I just 'ad to see it for myself." Pierre had purposely thickened his accent slightly to play along with the whole tourist cover up. The scenario was actually quite plausible; because of Crossroads' variety of climates and landscapes, it had become a mecca for all Easterners who enjoyed travel.

"So you're not interested in the Stone?" Xavier spoke up, sounding slightly befuddled. "Well, I guess that's one less competitor then."

At least one person bought my ruse, Pierre thought, glancing around the cabin at the other passengers. Henrietta seemed as cold and rigid as ever, and the child's soulless eyes remained unchanged as he listened to Pierre's story. If anyone will see through it, it'll be zat little brat.

((YES! I remembered the location this time!))

( ^_^ Nice, Lightning)

Beval settled, somewhat uncomfortably, and added "I am... Hmm..." He took a mental note from Pierre's performance and considered how maybe he too should feign a Kietzkan accent. Thinking about it, however, he started to realize that he didn't really know how Kietzkans sounded. I can't fake an accent I've never heard! Beval performed a mental face palm, thinking carefully of what to do. I haven't spoke much up to this point. Perhaps I can just feign that I don't even know Westmarckian? The thought exploded in his mind, a liberty that had just been waiting to be found. I get to lie... innumerably. The bear's eyes lightened.

"A... a Kietzlander. How you say... Kietzkan." Beval rubbed his chin quixotically, hiding the smile which wanted to brazenly light the cabin. Henrietta sat across from him and twitched peevishly. The act had an immediate impact and Beval felt that maybe, if her face weren't so icy, her cheeks would redden to show this annoyance. "Your Bahn, it is schnell... In-yet, ours are much faster." Each word that Beval called forth, he did so with great effort. His father would toss such language around the house casually, but his mother reserved the tongue for "the old country". To speak it now, as a part of this act, made Beval feel sorely about the years he'd spent away from them. Were they still well?

Gabriel's gaze found the bear and threatened his ruse. He had been speaking casually to Stella, maintaining his own deceit, and yet still found time to hold a knife to Beval's throat with just his eyes. It was difficult for the bear not to gulp out of fear. "How fast?" Henrietta's voice, however cold, was a welcomed sound to tear Beval's eyes from the chilling boy. "Pardon?" Beval asked, causing her to reiterate; "How fast do your trains go?"

Hmm... Beval thought to himself. For a scientist, he didn't know a thing as to technical measurements, not regarding speed or distance anyways. On top of that, most of the East had reverted to Auvergnian Metrics, meaning that even the Imperial ones Beval knew were in disagreement with his lie. "Our Bahner travel... Erm..." Beval's eyes swooped and, keenly, fell back to Stella. Please... Do something about now. Be... Aggravating!

You're not making this any easier, Beval, Stella thought to herself. Truthfully, she didn't know a great deal about the trains being discussed, and yet she was somehow supposed to come up with something to get him out of this rather sticky situation. Come on, Stella, think. You don't have to know the answer, just distract them.

"Well," she replied easily, "that depends on whether you prefer your measures in Westmarckian or metric. If I'm not mistaken, Kietzkans use the latter, so the calculation would be off, but... I'd say about one and a quarter times as fast, regardless. Of course, I only ever went to Kietzland once, so perhaps that's changed..." she raised an eyebrow at Beval as though inviting him to explain, then appeared to remember something and shook her head.

"Es ist über einen und ein Viertel mal schneller, richtig?" Her Kietzan was barely half as good as her Auvergnian, but then she wondered how much of it Beval even knew, so maybe the fact that she had to speak a bit more slowly than she usually would was a good thing. It couldn't hurt the act though, since she'd intoned the last word in a way that clearly sought agreement.

Stella shot a glance at the woman, Henrietta, who now looked positively irked. Stella smiled inwardly; something about this woman just rubbed her the wrong way. It didn't help that she was clearly rude and a superior, pompous wench besides. Hm. Wench. My father would surely disown me again if he knew I'd thought to call someone that. Rather than making her second-guess it, such a thought only made Stella all the more certain that this was indeed what she felt.

there was a small smile playing across Gabriel's lips, and she was only further chilled by that. Why, why, why did she constantly have the impression that she was being outwitted? And by a child no less! Well, if she were being honest with herself, it wasn't really the fact that he was a child that bothered her. No, she knew firsthand how ridiculous it was to discount someone due to age. It was rather more the constant feeling of being bested that bothered her; it was not a sensation that Stella was used to or liked.

((Sorry for the wait, I've been sick for the past couple days.))

Pierre mentally sighed in relief as Stella came to Beval's rescue. The last thing the trio needed was for their fellow train mates to become any more suspicious than they already were. After Stella's little cover up, an awkward silence had filled the compartment, and Pierre soon found himself gazing aimlessly around the cabin. Looking out the window, the young man noticed that there was significantly less snow on the ground, a sure sign that they were heading south. I suppose I will not need my 'eavy coat anymore, Pierre thought, resting his head on hid hand and exhaling in boredom. Even though the group couldn't have been on the train for any more than half an hour, the time they had spent there already felt like an eternity.

((Wow. This is crap. Sorry!))

Beval followed Stella's words... vaguely. He learned his Kietzkan over the years, as bits and pieces of conversation, but Stella had clearly been schooled before. The inflection in her voice led him and he managed to slump out a response that fit the situation well enough. "Das is stimmt,"

Beval sheepishly welcomed the silence that followed. His eyes drifted out the window and, like Pierre, considered the changing landscape. Beval had always lived in the cold, but these trees were greening. The mountains were growing bare and the grass was taller. A herd of black masses gathered in a meadow not far from their train and Beval realized he didn't know a name to call them. Their big long faces and short, stubby horns weren't anything he'd ever seen before. Had he known the words he might have remarked, solemnly, that he was the most urbanized chimera in existence.

"I think I want some fresh air." Beval didn't feign an accent or mumble his words, he simply stood and moved to the thin door that separated their cramped cabin from the aisle. The movement wasn't simple, by any means; Beval stepped awkwardly over his fellow passengers laps and his own massive trunk, sliding the greased panel open with a heave and nearly stumbling out of it. The narrow space between cabins offered a cool breeze of air, suggesting that the cabins may have been heated with circumvented engine air, or something of the sort. Beval felt that he ought to know more about the concept, as an engineer, but the cramped everything in this train made it hard for him to think about it, especially with that Gabriel child. Those eyes...

Several meters down, past another two cabins, Beval could see the door which separated train cars. A window rested on either side of it- behind one, a ladder. "Hmm... Wonder how strict they are on transportation these days." Beval mumbled as he pocketed his hands and moved toward the exit.

Well, Beval had left and Pierre seemed more bored than anything. Was she really the only one who recognized how dangerous this situation could possibly be? What if these people worked with or for Francois? Then again, Pierre seeming totally unaffected was probably a good thing; too cautious and she'd wind up doing just as much damage as if she wasn't cautious enough. Which of course really only dictated that she be extremely careful indeed- in an inconspicuous way.

She stared at the door with envious eyes; if she had a choice in the matter, she would have left too. She considered trying to distract herself by striking up a conversation with Pierre, but to do so in Westmarckian would be risky and in Auvergnian suspect at best, considering that he at least made no pretenses about his ability to speak the language that everyone here understood. Plus, she wouldn't put it past either of the two she'd been deflecting to speak it- the woman's voice carried a hint of the accent, and Gabriel was just... well, she wouldn't discount the possibility.

Well, that left only one course of action. Hiding a false yawn behind her hand, Stella settled herself into her small space (if Beval should come back, he would have somewhere to sit, no matter what that horrid woman said) and took to staring out the window, letting her eyes slowly drop. Gabriel seemed content enough to let her do this, and went back to whatever he'd been writing, promptly ignoring everyone in the cabin again. Freed of the weight of his eyes, Stella drifted into a false slumber, though she did allow herself to relax the smallest bit, curling her knees to her chest and clasping them with her arms.