Humi Procumbere

     The rapidity of his blinking good eye did not change the specter before him, though he varied the rate. So many...blink...so many bodies...blink, blink...all those little kids...blink-blink-blink...all those wretched birds...long, slow blink...all those...fires...no blink, just a closed eye. He weaved as he toiled with the infinity of experiences that he’d suddenly become privy to when Iphi—that stupid bird, that phoenix—bit him. Nothing. Not one single scrap of her enlightenment existed to help him rationalize the Burning Grounds. “Why?” he croaked.

Ultro Citroque

     At the bottom of the stairwell, the Mercury’s Elite Guardsman sternly said, “wait here while I check it out.”
     Weaving and holding her knapsack tightly, Cassie growled, “you think someone’s hiding in there? What? Waiting to kill the Kaiser? Like they planned for you to bring him down here? No one even knows this place exists.”
     “The kitchen staff know,” Archel pointed out as the weight of her words hit him. Before he could say anything else, the Merc returned.
     “It’s safe,” he said. When the trio had entered the first compartment of the Bomb Shelter, the Merc pulled the heavy steel blast door closed, and spun the four cam latches into place with a grunt. “We’ll stay here until the danger passes,” he informed them.
     “And, how will we know?” Cassie asked. She stood in the middle of the empty room looking at the gun metal gray walls.

Incunabula Doctrinae

     After minutes of pacing between Preston’s desk and the door, the novice cook thought she’d lose her mind. Sitting down in the chair next to the couch where the Messenger lay sprawled, the young woman took time to really observe her unconscious charge. The Messenger’s wavy blond hair covered half of her sickly face which currently matched her pale tunic and contrasted sharply with her partially unbuttoned black jerkin. On the ground next to the couch lay a dingy old knapsack, its seams stretched, a couple unraveled. What is in that thing? the girl wondered. She reached toward the bag, then stopped herself, you can’t. That’s the Messenger’s. Sitting back in the rickety chair, she could barely hear it creak with the noise from the kitchen. How can she sleep through all that? At that last thought the cook leaned over again, flipped up the top of the bag, and stared at the contents. Of course she has a shit ton of notebooks, the cook chuckled. First, she glanced from the door to the Messenger. Then, after holding her breath for a count of three, she repeated the action. When she couldn’t stand it any more, she knelt down before the bag and gave the middle notebook a solid tug which caused her to rock back. Inhaling, she pushed herself off the ground, weaved, and then eased into the chair. Flipping open to a random page, the nosy little cook read:

Mala Cognitio

     Putting his shoulder to the brick wall, Jougs shoved and as he did so his boots slid across the cement. He quit shoving as he neared a 45º angle to the wall. Pushing himself upright, he asked, “you sure it’s this wall?”
     Glancing from the map to Jougs, the annoyed Inquisitor replied, “use the tools,” and tapped the bag slung across Vorant’s back.    
     Shaking his head, Vorant unslung the duffle, unzipped the main compartment, and proceeded to dig around. After a moment, he held up a short handled sledge hammer. “Here,” he said before disappearing back into the bag to withdraw a rusted railroad spike.
     “Is that all you brought?” Jougs asked. “Seriously?”    
     “Nope,” Vorant said, extracting a hammer and an incredibly long screw driver, “brought this too.”
     “So, we’re just supposed to start banging on the wall?” Jougs’ doubt as to the sanity of the plan had grown exponentially since leaving the Interrogation Room. He asked, “don’t you think someone on the other side will hear us?”

Bona Tempora

     Leaning her head against the arm of the small couch, Cassie kept her eyes closed. She deliberately took slow breaths, while holding on tightly to the couch cushion. Silently fighting to stay conscious as her world spun out of control, the only thought she managed, not really dignified behavior for Mercury’s Messenger, is it? As if she had any control over her sudden blackouts, ever-constant urge to blow chunks, and incredibly weakened body. Without opening her eyes, she croaked, “you here?”

     “Yes,” the novice line cook answered.

     “Water.” Cassie managed to lift her hand up a few inches off the couch.

     “Here,” she shoved the glass of sugar water into the Messenger’s wavering hand.

     Careful not to spill, Cassie got the cup to her face, but was incapable of drinking in that awkward position. “Take it,” she ordered as she attempted to push herself up onto one elbow. During the process, she forgot to keep her eyes closed, and nearly hurled for her efforts. “Oh, I can’t,” she muttered as she fell back into the couch arm.

Ad Libitum

     “Where did you learn to play?” Kent ‘the Bard’ Wheelock asked the old woman sitting across from him.

She looked up slyly, a slight smile slipping along her lips. “One does not become Archeireus et Celatrix Ministrae without learning a number of strategy games.”

     “Don’t become the Bard without it neither,” he muttered.

     Sizing him up, her grin faded, “oh, I do say.” She nodded sympathetically as she pushed her queen-side bishop into play.

     “A little premature, no?” he asked as he threatened the bishop with a pawn.

Iratae Voces

     Suddenly flooded with brilliant emerald light, the kitchen staff froze. Without giving a second thought to the sudden disco, Preston the Head Cook yelled, “snap to! Hungry people waiting! Go on!” His business as usual attitude hid his shock at seeing a young woman appear out of thin air. He spun towards her with a metal whisk in one hand, saying, “I don’t care who you are. You ever just pop in here like that again, I swear to Mercury, I’ll turn you over my knee! Do you know how close you came to making Scott drop the tray he’s carrying?” For his part, Scott had chosen that moment to disappear through the swinging doors leading into the Dining Hall. Regardless, Preston continued, “damned Royals, just come and go as they please. No consideration for those who slave away making sure they have all the luxuries they need. Ridiculous,” he shook his head as he turned back to the mixing bowl, “if you’re hungry, I suggest you find a seat out there,” he waved the whisk like a magic wand.

Pueris Problematis

     Standing in the foyer of the Chief Justice’s Chambers, Moira Thibodeaux once again stared at the depressing painting of the wrecked ship being pummeled on the rocks which served as its cause of destruction. “Osborne, do you think this place would make a good museum?”

     The young ensign looked at her quizzically, shrugged his shoulders and answered with, “yes ma’am, I believe it would. Might even quiet the rumors about it.” He smiled. “You do know your refusal to live here will cause an uproar. The papers will go nuts.”

     “I certainly hope so,” she said approvingly. “I’ve always been a simple, practical woman. I see nothing sensible about this,” she circled her forefinger, “palace.” She sighed. Turning away from the painting, she walked over to the door through which they’d originally entered. “When we get back to my house, I should like to speak with Colonel Dagon. Can that be quickly arranged?”