1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of ... (#6)

Pardys Isles

His Imperial Querant, Uther Filitzom the Fourth, carries on his amiable questioning about their visit (why, when, how, duration, and everything else that can be thought related if you squint and muffle your ears) with unwavering good cheer that that sets Wight on edge. Or maybe it's just how often he bares his teeth, which is by default a threat among anyone familiar with elementals.

(A member of the Emperor's Battalion would have to know that, wouldn't he? To avoid being murdered by his fellow soldiers?)

The querant—Wight thinks that means 'interrogator', but what else could it mean?—sits comfortably in Iluka's chair, ignoring the glances that keep escaping her at his arm.

He's overall nondescript—his height, build, and coloring are classic human, here. Skin dark enough to not burn easily, eyes darker than that. The most obvious oddity is how short his hair's shorn—but that's normal in the Emperor's Batallion. Toss the man in a crowd, and he'd easily blend in with the youths or adult of middling age.

Except for that arm, made visible after he settled in and rolled up his sleeves, as if he's relaxing with a friend rather than working.

The web of thin, fine lines starts at his wrist, sharply enough that something had to be protecting his hand at the time of injury. The scarring crisscrosses thickly like cobwebs, but from there, there's no consistency. Some's white, some's red, and some's a paler tint of the rest of his skin. Some's ridged, some's intended, some's smooth. Some ends on his forearm, and some climbs up over his elbow, to disappear under the rest of his sleeve on his upper arm.

Wight has no idea what could cause that. She has even less of an idea of how someone could be injured that badly and still have full function of their hand.

And Querant Filitzom obviously has no problem with it, which shows whenever he discreetly signals the translator. The hand moves easily, the fingers fluidly.

He listens as Brineli gives the facts of their arrival in Pardyam, not mentioning where they came from. He doesn't push for that, just seeks further elaboration on the details of what Brineli witnessed—not ignoring Wight, exactly, but obviously thinking the montai will have more valuable (and thorough) information.

That focus on Brineli is a good thing, since otherwise Wight would have to admit her status, defying the order to leave her collar off (which carries an implicit demand to keep quiet about what she is). Property is subject to its owners, and law officials have to respect that even in things as straightforward as questioning witnesses.

Annoyance pinches the translator's face, but maybe that's from being roused out of whatever left him with ink-blotched skin, disheveled tunic, and mismatched boots. He's taller than Barun and no broader than Brineli, but somehow manages the reed-thinness without actually looking elfin. It's not the purple under the eyes or the white of his tufts of hair—Wight spent a few months in Marsdenfel, and even a few years after escaping slavery, they tended to still look horrible. (She'd pretended not to hear the nightmares, and they'd been kind enough to never share the details of the memories that would cause them to wake up screaming.)

To Wight's understanding, interrogations are supposed to be separate from citizens who aren't part of the Battalion, themselves, but neither the querant nor the translator think anything of Iluka entering with a tray of milk and snacks.

"You could just ask them if Tully sent them to me," Iluka comments in seafarthen. "Or you could ask me how I know them, even. They're former customers. Wight's brother introduced me to Brineli a few months back."

Wight blinks. Her brother?

...Aldrik. Right.

She focuses on the cup of milk that Iluka hands her, hoping the lowered eyes and downward cant of her head masks her discomfort at the topic...and her confusion about why their hostess is ignoring the topic of Barun.