Thomas Bergnass. Born and raised in Eliria, he lived to see the spiders arise from the earth, and watch them leave just as suddenly. One could describe him as a true patriot of Elwynn, choosing to forgo his families route of business and finances and become a assistant to the duke. He served at the side of Leo Dine, watching as he quelled the enemies of Nordland. He served Isabelle Allot, watching her masterful diplomacy as she served as Minister of the Exterior. And now he was to serve Cho'gall Dentarg, a man with no heritage, and by all accounts should not be here. The man who sat at his desk clutching a empty bottle of whiskey which had been full in the morning. The man who was condemned to watch nobles flee the Duchy like rats abandoning ship. Cho'gall was the doomed to watch the age of Elwynn end.

The duke sat at his desk, attempting to get the last drop of pain numbing liquid from its container. When he realized Thomas was standing before him, he violently stood up, dropping the bottle to the floor.
"What do you want, Roger?" the duke said.
Thomas decided to refrain from correcting him, for Thomas had heard of the Duke's outbursts. He heard the rumors of broken lamps and blood stained books. Thomas knew better than those.
"Your grace," said Thomas in the most soothing voice possible, "I have a letter from the expedition."
"Good," said the duke, "Give it here."
Thomas watched the duke read the letter. One could see the dark bags under his eyes, the unkempt beard which began to gray, and the sheer sadness in his eyes. He put down the letter with a sigh. After a long pause of silence the duke spoke once more.
"You don't like me, do you?"
Thomas was at a loss for words.
The duke spoke again, "You think I'm some foolish man, determined to drive this duchy into the soil."
"Your grace I-"
But Thomas couldn't figure out what to say, what could he say? A long pause followed, and when Thomas looked up the Duke was standing up, facing the window.
"She seeks to depose me," Uttered the Duke.
"Who, sir?" replied Thomas.
The duke turned to face his servant, "That wench from Araxion."
Thomas was at a loss for words again. The Duke withdrew a letter from his jacket.
"There is only one man who can help me now. Old prejudices must be put aside, see to it that this letter is delivered to him," said the Duke as he handed Thomas the letter, which was addressed to the Baron of Eliria.

A good judge of character knows that one's appearance is the surest sign of how one treats oneself; one can assume that an unshaven man wearing tattered clothing has very limited - if any - self-care, and a neglected social ability. The destitute man can be thought to have lost all hope in himself, by just a glance at his clothing. This same judge of character, upon observing a Noble, can observe that the freakish state of tidiness reflects the nit-picky, perfectionist attitude that is exemplified by - and expected from - him.

But even the best judge of character could not be even more wrong about the persona that Thomas Bergnass was hiding so well from Cho'gall. The way he presented himself as a cautious, beaten animal, possibly intending that he meant no harm - he must have practiced this routine a thousand times before. The perfect fashion in which he faltered while speaking, as if interrupted, possibly intending that he was unsure - the mere script of an actor. He had but to memorize his part.

Yes, Cho'gall had every reason to be suspicious. Thomas could be anyone. Truth, it seems, has Her innate capacity to adopt any manifestation that She so pleases. She has her stealthy way of letting no one be sure of if anyone ever has hold of her. Truth is untameable.

Luckily for Cho'gall, his part is also memorized. The rules of Politics ensue that fingers are not pointed except behind closed doors - indirectly, via trusted associate - and only when one is sure that the accused is really the accused.

Cho'gall, the potential victim of a perfect stage-preparation, could make no drastic moves. Not yet, at least. Entrusting Thomas with the letter was the only formal thing that he could have done. This is why he had to put blind Faith in Thomas to serve his cause; if Thomas is employed by Araxion, then the best must be done to win him over to Cho'gall's side. Blind faith in Thomas because he may be the greatest chance not to be deposed of. Blind faith in Thomas because he had to ensure that the Baron of Eliria at least has the possibility of intercepting the letter...

But in the end, Thomas could just be any regular messenger. This could just be a regular transaction. But Politics insists on such meticulous precautions.

For though Truth often deceives, Faith always hopes.

_________________
Yeah, you heard me. "Duty."
Kvothe Morrowind
Baron of Nordland

(OOC: Hmm...very Anouilh-esque. WANT MORE.)

Matthew
- - - - - -

Truth and Faith. One deceives, the other... The other...

He shook his head, unable to follow the train of thought. Like with most common men the subtleties of higher contemplation was lost of on Matthew. But his job wasn't to interpret. Simply collect.

It didn't take higher levels of thinking though to pick up on the inconsistency. Quite the contrary actually. It seemed no more then common sense that that a man who resembled the work of an amateur sculptor - not to mention sporting rags that were barely passable as cloths - would avoid such trains of thought like the plague. That begged the question: What was he hiding behind that physical carapace?

Thomas Bergnass, born and raised in Elira. Not much to go on. Wistfully he reflects that this was by far the worst informed commission he had ever taken. Yet regret had a bad habit of hanging back when the mind is tempered by thoughts of gold. As was its tendency - temperamental stuff that it was - the coins in his pocket elicited a nearly inaudible tinkle. Like a light breeze, images of the hundreds of hands and faces that had presumed to call themselves the "owners" of the shining pieces drifted through his mind. Strongest of the visions was a furtive looking Araxian man, pale - like himself - and rich. While it defied reason that Araxion - frozen wasteland that it is - had attracted so much wealth, reason rarely got people rich.

A car blocked his line of sight monetarily and he adjusted his position so as not to lose his target. It was time to act before the city swallowed him whole. A long stride - adjusted to suppress any impression of confidence or threat - brought him up close to Thomas. While he lamented the fact that having shown his face he would now have to work form the shadows - an insulting cliché which he avoided at all costs - this was the easiest way to size up the target's character.

He tripped him.

Terrible reflexes - he hit the ground with a thud. Had that been a flash of anger? A suppressed reflex to avoid the fall? No, he couldn't be sure. Inconclusive.

A few exchanged formalities and he retreated into the mob like crowd. Reason now dictates that the man is absolved of suspicion and that he is just that: simply a man. But a simple man, a common man, is flawed - it is inevitable. A perfect performance was what he had just witnessed. No simple man could have pulled it off.

But that was where his specialization came into play. In amongst the crowded street it had been impossible to distinguish the man's thoughts from the rest of the uproar - a pity but not important. There would be plenty more time to try to read the man in grater depth. He had managed to glimpse two strong images. The first, a synethiesia of fear - a distinct thought pattern unique to those who contemplated the Khan. The second, a single white tower rising above of plain of snow - a gaping hole marring the near perfect stone.

Araxion...

The Khan’s Hunting Lodge, on the Eliria-Araxion Border

“Chamberlain, what business is there to detain me today?”

“Lord Khan, we await the return of your envoy to Al’Magroth presently. His last communication indicates an auspicious response to your proposal.”

Aurangzeb nodded gravely. For the moment at least, the partition of the Kaiser’s imperium suited both parties.

“I expected nothing less. What else?”

“A gentleman by the name of Wrangle was looking for you earlier. We told him that you were hunting in the north and sent him on his way.”

“Wrangle, hmm. He works for that idiot woman who dallied with my son. Find Dravot; send him to fetch Lady Araxion from the Castle. She is probably skulking in the panic room. Tell him to take a company of cudgellers, some thermite and a blowtorch.”

“As your Sublimity wishes.”

“Is that all?”

“Not quite. A messenger was seen leaving the Duke’s quarters in a state of some agitation. Indeed our Watchers report that on at least one occasion he fell over.”

“Fell over?”

“Calamitously, Sahib.”

“Indeed? Well I am not one to endure the needless suffering of my fellow man. Have the cudgellers relieve this errand boy of his burden while they are on their way to accost the Lady Araxion.”

“It shall be done.”

“Excellent. Ahriman's cock! It is a fine day, a fine day indeed! I think I shall go hunting. The Panopticon Corps has discovered an Elfinshi encampment to the West of here and I am in the mood for some sport.”

"I should have known not to travel by bus," thought Thomas. He was in the most uncomfortable position one could imagine. On his left was a behemoth of a man, measuring six feet at least with a gut almost as large. To his right was a shrill old lady, who insisted on recounting every detail about her grandson's experience killing spiders. When Thomas had nearly reached his limit, and was at the point of explosion, the bus stopped. The room plummeted into silence. Slowly, a figure walked onto the bus. Shrouded beneath his cloak, the figure moved without making a sound. Chilled breath began to exhale from it's mouth, as each second the air became further chilled. As the figure took it's seat across from Thomas, the bus began to move once more, and with it, the old ladies chatter. Thomas couldn't distinguish her voice however, as the figure seemed to stare at him. Fear gripped Thomas tightly. He could barely move under the paralyzing gaze of this shrouded figure. Slowly, the figure drew it's hand underneath its cloak, and pulled out a twelve inch serrated blade.

Thomas barely was able to leap to the floor as figure lunged. The blade swung sideways, slashing the old woman's throat. She gasped for air, but there was none. "The note," said a voice seemingly without an owner, "Give this one the note!" Thomas pushed himself forward into the knee's of the figure, knocking it off balance. The man on the left of Thomas rose and took a swing at the figure, striking it in the face. The bus swerved to a halt, sending all the passengers flying forwards into each other. The bus driver leaped from his seat and withdrew his sidearm. Several people had already dialed the emergency numbers. "This one means nothing," the voice uttered once more, "You have only delayed the inevitable." The figure fell to the ground.

After hours of explaining what had happened to police officers, Thomas was taken into custody in the Ardashirshar police department. Sitting in a dark interrogation room, Thomas thought about the words that were spoken by the mysterious voice. Police insisted on telling him that no one else had heard these words. As detective after detective made their respective passes at grueling Thomas, the night grew longer and longer. After a long delay between detectives, three men entered the room. Thomas was relieved at first, thinking he was to be released. However the smile soon faded, as the men moved into the light, Thomas could see their unit's name.

Gentlemen Cudgellers.

Isabelle's comb was stuck in her hair. She stared at herself in the mirror. Well... she had seen worse. She struggled to get her dress over her head, which was impeded by the comb. She smoothed out the creases in her dress and tried in vain to remove the errant hairbrush from her head. There was a frantic knock at the door. She wrenched out the comb and stifled a cry.

"Your Grace?" said a nervous voice on the other side of the door.
"What?" shouted Isabelle.
"He's here, your Grace. His Niftiness is here!"

Thirty Seconds Later

Isabelle descended the steps down to the Great Hall, where the Kaiser's retinue was waiting for her. She opened her mouth when four men rushed by with what appeared to be the Kaiser on a stretcher.
"Quick!" shouted one of the men, who was dressed as an EMT, "We need to get him salt!"
"Where's the nearest McDonald's?" demanded one of the other men.
Isabelle pointed. They rushed off, leaving Isabelle alone with the rest of the Kaiser's embarrassed retinue.

An hour before

The cameras in the Panic Room had cut out just as the Khan's envoy entered Al'Magroth's lair. Everyone was staring at Percy Rutherford, who was staring intently at the monitors.

"Well?" asked Wrangle.
"Difficult," said Percy, "Certainly very difficult... Certainly he must know that Elwynn cannot defeat Al'Magroth militarily. Certainly also, the Dark Lord would be more inclined to take over Elwynn without a prolonged war, as can be deduced from his initial method of takeover. Therefore there are two distinct possibilities: the first, that he has reverted to his ancient Babkhan roots and will genuinely submit Elwynn to Al'Magroth. The second, and the preferable outcome, is that he has offered some sort of bribe to Al'Magroth in return for Elwynn's cooperation under the Khan. Both are equally plausible, and without information I cannot do more than that. I hope fervently that the latter is the reality."

Two of the officers had fallen asleep, but Isabelle said: "So that's a good thing?"
There was a pause. "On balance," said Percy, "Yes."