His eyes fell a little as he nodded. He'd been in quite a few confrontations with monsters. He didn't like them, felt that humans killed monsters needlessly rather often, but such was sedonition talk and could get him put on the Catherine wheel or hanged back in his own world. While he wasn't so restricted here, it was still an effort to speak of such things and his words were careful.
"Several times. Once, a pack of grinnlings, nimbleshrewds" he clarified, as the first was simply his own term for the second, come from the strange and nasty grins of sharp teeth the things perpetually wore, "on my way from Boschenberg to Winstermill. A second and third time at Winstermill among the lamplighters. There was also the gudgeon" and he shivered as the experience had been terrible, hidden in the fortegrade as he'd been, alone and screaming and fighting a nightmare of man and corpse and monster sewn together by the blackest arts "by myself" no pride there, just the remains of terror "and then finally, unfortunately, the last stand at Wormstool."
...which he'd been about to go on trial for before he'd been brought to this place. He still couldn't quite explain how he'd managed the events at Wormstool.
He didn't know what to do with that, not one bit, but his dial flushed with color.
"I only wished to protect myself and others," he said honestly, "and to do my duty."
As interim factotum, as a lamplighter, as a decent being. He had never taken any pleasure in any of it; the slaughter of üntermen was nothing to be proud of, as far as he was concerned, even if others thought him a sedorner. Master Fransitart had a cruorpunxis as he swore he never would, though, and he knew his old man from the marine society felt in some part the same.
Re: BarracksbythatmuchSeptember 13 2008, 01:28:53 UTC
"Duty," he repeats, nodding. "Yeah. I understand that."
Max takes no pleasure in killing, either, especially since it usually involves other human beings - but he has a job to do, and he swore to protect the citizens of the world from the forces of evil at any cost.
Of course a great spy would know of duty. Spies did the jobs which were considered unpleasant, were constantly in danger for their Emperor or King or Queen and knew that at any moment they could be discovered. They would go to death before dishonor, much like a Lampsman.
Or so he'd read. Max seemed to prove this so. There was just something about him.
His expression spoke louder than words at his delight and surprise. Fourty three? A simple lamp-stick like himself, small and named like a girl? A boy like him? Fourty three?
Which has him wondering a few things about Max, now that he can think through the fog. But of course people had to know his background, considering how they'd all come here, so perhaps it was bit of double espionage. Everyone would suspect the spy of spying so they'd think perhaps he wouldn't spy since it'd be so obvious!
Re: BarracksbythatmuchSeptember 13 2008, 02:50:57 UTC
"A known spy is as good as a dead spy," he says, looking solemn. "And that's usually what happens. Before I became an agent, KAOS broke into our headquarters, learned the identities of most of our agents, and started offing them, one by one."
"M'sorry for your loss, sir. I certainly understand how that can be."
They'd lost everyone at Wormstool, every single one of the men, the boys stationed there had been slaughtered by monsters before they'd come back. The seltzerman they'd been checking lamps with had died right before their eyes as he'd tried his darndest once they were there. Then it'd been just he and Threnody.
"Several times. Once, a pack of grinnlings, nimbleshrewds" he clarified, as the first was simply his own term for the second, come from the strange and nasty grins of sharp teeth the things perpetually wore, "on my way from Boschenberg to Winstermill. A second and third time at Winstermill among the lamplighters. There was also the gudgeon" and he shivered as the experience had been terrible, hidden in the fortegrade as he'd been, alone and screaming and fighting a nightmare of man and corpse and monster sewn together by the blackest arts "by myself" no pride there, just the remains of terror "and then finally, unfortunately, the last stand at Wormstool."
...which he'd been about to go on trial for before he'd been brought to this place. He still couldn't quite explain how he'd managed the events at Wormstool.
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KAOS agents are one thing. Monsters, though, are entirely different - he's not sure he could ever face a pack of gollywoggles.
"You," he says, blinking at the boy, "must be very, very brave."
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"I only wished to protect myself and others," he said honestly, "and to do my duty."
As interim factotum, as a lamplighter, as a decent being. He had never taken any pleasure in any of it; the slaughter of üntermen was nothing to be proud of, as far as he was concerned, even if others thought him a sedorner. Master Fransitart had a cruorpunxis as he swore he never would, though, and he knew his old man from the marine society felt in some part the same.
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Max takes no pleasure in killing, either, especially since it usually involves other human beings - but he has a job to do, and he swore to protect the citizens of the world from the forces of evil at any cost.
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Of course a great spy would know of duty. Spies did the jobs which were considered unpleasant, were constantly in danger for their Emperor or King or Queen and knew that at any moment they could be discovered. They would go to death before dishonor, much like a Lampsman.
Or so he'd read. Max seemed to prove this so. There was just something about him.
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This kid is, without a doubt, wise way beyond his years.
"My codename was 86," he says, conversationally. "Agents were all assigned numbers, to keep their identities secret. You... hmm."
He looks thoughtfully at Rossamünd.
"You look like a 40something. 43, maybe."
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Really?
His expression spoke louder than words at his delight and surprise. Fourty three? A simple lamp-stick like himself, small and named like a girl? A boy like him? Fourty three?
It seemed very high to him. A great compliment.
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He grins.
"We can start our own little spy agency. Not that there's anything to spy on, but..."
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"I am no leer, neither falseman nor laggard, but I'll do my best. A lampsman's eyes are bright and clear as his lamplight."
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Beat.
"Which is what it was back home, anyway."
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Which has him wondering a few things about Max, now that he can think through the fog. But of course people had to know his background, considering how they'd all come here, so perhaps it was bit of double espionage. Everyone would suspect the spy of spying so they'd think perhaps he wouldn't spy since it'd be so obvious!
Obviously.
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"Sir?"
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"M'sorry for your loss, sir. I certainly understand how that can be."
They'd lost everyone at Wormstool, every single one of the men, the boys stationed there had been slaughtered by monsters before they'd come back. The seltzerman they'd been checking lamps with had died right before their eyes as he'd tried his darndest once they were there. Then it'd been just he and Threnody.
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He looks so young and so fragile, Max thinks, but he's been through so much -
"How old are you, Rossamünd?"
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