[Closed] The Order Of The Pendulum

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
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Sat Sep 07, 2019 8:52 am

Hamis 18th, 2719
It was a quiet evening in the office tonight, thanks to the strategic lack of staffing that particular night. Damen had spent a good few days rearranging rosters and replotting patrols, freeing up the east quadrant of Vienda, leaving the streets around the theatre open for the movements of the Kings Crop. There had been orders to step up the flow of the powerful opiate, to saturate the galdori city with the pleasant warm calm that the drug provided. To force any other product off the market.

And so, step up they had.

Diaxio had been busy, sending her web as far as Brunnhold to acquire fresh new victims to fall into the cycle of supply and demand, loathe to admit that now he was gone Benjamin Tolsby’s absence was noticed. For the sheer stupidity he bore, the ersehole had been good at his job. He lured fluttering young girls with his music and seduced them with tidbits of the Crop. A tiny bit to tempt their eager innocent souls into the darkness. For all the mess he caused, Ben had been part of the circle.

Part of the Order.

Of course, no one knew what happened to him. No one had seen him leave the theatre and no one saw him come back. The papers had speculated so much, and got nothing right.

Damen speculated too, but he had nothing that could support his speculations, and he knew how unsupported speculations could pan out. Well, he knew how supported ones could pan out too, depending on who was lining the judges pockets.

It was good, having the peace and quiet tonight.

It was good not to have Rhys clocking Valentin in his sight. The Bastian sat back from his paperwork and stroked a hand through his cropped beard. The bastard towhead had managed to get himself assigned to Damen’s own patrol, Gods knew how, but no matter how hard he made a case for the disgraced Sergent to be removed from his sight Haines wouldn’t budge. There were reasons of course. Redemption, water under the bridge, all that nonsense. His field flared and his fist curled tightly around the quill in his hand.

There was no water under the bridge. Not for the farmers boy that had corrupted his Charity. His daughter.

Hadn’t the moony fool learned his lesson? Hadn’t he felt the blows across his ribs, across his face? It was almost a surprise to Damen to know he’d survived his encounter with them, and the blue eyed man had to give him a little nod. He’d taken the beating like a good dog, and surely Charity knew then. She knew that she’d made a grave mistake. She’d come home to him after that, tail between her legs, begging for her husbands life.

Gah, the word made him want to vomit.

But she hadn’t, and Rhys had recovered. Ben had gone missing. And then, like the ever persistant thorn in his side the Valentin had appeared in his office like nothing had happened.

They both knew it had though, and as much as the Captain smirked at the memories, he also quickly frowned at the way the chroveshite smiled at him. The way he mocked him.

At least tonight, he wouldn’t be around. Tonight, he would be somewhere in the city, somewhere with his Charity. Somewhere Damen was yet to find, but he would. Oh, yes he would.

Sucking on his teeth, the D’Arthe returned to his paperwork, avoiding thoughts of his daughter and that filth. It was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.


The quill broke, spraying ink across the paper work. Damen hissed in frustration, throwing the broken thing down and reaching for his kerchief to wipe his hand.

"Officer Duxel? I require you a moment. Officer?" He called out, not bothering to glance up from his wiping, field brimming with annoyance and his temple throbbing with anger.

Where was that bloody--

"OFFICER DUXEL!?!" He roared, finally looking up with the crackling weight of Static mona threaded through his field. Standing, he began to storm around the desk.

"Officer when your superior calls you, you bloody well answer do you hear me?!"

word count: 737

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Rhys Valentin
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Location: Vienda
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Mon Sep 09, 2019 10:33 pm

710 headquarters
Evening of the 18th of Hamis, 2719
Rhys both loved and hated working late. He despised being away from Charity any longer than he had to, despised being so close to all these galdori in uniforms like his own, but he also loved being in the middle of the action, loved knowing that unlike so many of his peers, he was doing some damn good work out there on the streets. Someone had to because, gods, if there weren't far more corrupt officers than he'd ever bothered to take note of before his transfer. The half of the Patrol Division under Damen D'Arthes command was a fucking mess, but thankfully, his Constable didn't disagree. She saw it, too. He wasn't going clocking insane.

His wits hadn't been beaten out of him all those months ago.

Navinia Greymoore and Rhys Valentin had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, learning each other's strengths while she tauntingly called him a recruit. On the day his four snaps were begrudgingly returned to him, he was just Val again, and the pair had successfully begun making headway into a smuggling ring in the Soot District, following some of Rhys' old Inspector leads from before Vortas. Little did his Constable know, however, that she was also helping him follow up on his drug ring leads, too, also helping him to keep track of the movements of King's Crop and his very specific next targets.

He'd also come to make a nuisance of himself now that he worked under his father-in-law's shadow. He'd transferred on purpose. He'd moved to make sure he was always in the man's sight whenever possible: those scars on his face and ring on his finger sticks and stones, challenges, sharp edges. He smiled. He was almost polite. He said good morning, sir. He said good night, sir. He left snacks on the man's desk when he wasn't looking.

He was a total asshole.

It was the least he could do—the man had beat him to mere breaths of his own life, the man had condoned a rapist to be near Charity, and the man was just a monster in too many ways to count.

Rhys wasn't ready to go after him yet. He'd learned that the hard way. But he would be. Oh, gods, he would be.

Tonight, however, he'd stayed late for a big arrest. When everyone else had tried to drag him out drinking, he'd chosen to muck the stables—it wasn't even his night!—instead of end up drunk in Uptown without his lovely wife. Just a little late, stinking of chrove, was far more forgivable than ridiculously late and totally guttered. Sweaty work, even in Hamis, the young Valentin was just about ready to pack it up and head home when he realized he'd left all of his signed papers for the arrest on his desk instead of in Nia's inbox.


Not even bothering to change, if only to get a rise out of whoever was working HQ for the evening, if only to laugh at their reactions, he breezed in and toward his desk, nodding and chuckling—

Oh gods.

Damen's voice rang out and he would have cringed, but Rhys rolled his eyes instead, glancing at the messy, empty desk of Officer Duxel, the poor older Patrol Constable at least an hour or two gone. Blue eyes snapped up in time to catch the angry form of his beast of a father-in-law, of the Co-Captain, shuffle around his desk, making his way for his door. Tracing a thumb along his lower lip, pressing against that knot of flesh that scarred it, the Sergeant was already grinning by the time he met Damen's gaze, the not-galdor's Perceptive glamour a bastioned wall of calm,

"He's clocked out already, Captain. If I remember the schedule correctly—and I do because I made it—he's been off duty for a whole hour. Did I not leave a memo of everyone's time cards on your desk for signing, sir? I'm sorry. I can go get them now if you'd like—" It was hard not to bear his teeth a little, not to grin sarcastically, not to taunt the beast any more than he needed to. Rhys was sweaty. He smelled of chrove. His uniform coat was off, shirt untucked and half unbuttoned, totally out of regulation. His boots were scuffed. He'd been in the stables for a long time. There might have been a bit of hay in his strawberry blond hair, long as it was in a little tail at the base of his skull. Rhys' expression was full of bravado with the decent number of witnesses working the first half of night shift. He waggled a hand toward his desk, emphasizing his wedding ring with the motion,

"—perhaps someone else can help you, sir." It was fucking hard to be civil. A daily challenge to be the better man. But he was. But he didn't do it with a smile.
word count: 904
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