Quid Pro Quo ((By Invitation))

The pen paused on the page. Gnarled hands extended, trembling by the renewed candlelight, to retrieve the letter. By whom written, by whom left? The Grand General turned it over in his hands. The faint essence of magic hung about it, but not as though it bore a spell. It was a missive penned by a master caster, and The Master Tactician himself was no stranger to the style: necromantic magics, the faintest aura of sickly green. He pursed his lips behind his shroud.

With a single slice of his gnarled finger, the general broke the seal. Trembling hands unfurled the parchment. Luminous eyes scanned its contents--quickly, efficiently. The Raven on the table still tore away at her catch.

Crimson eyes narrowed as they scanned the page. When he had finished reading, the Grand General waved the missive over his half-finished document to dry the still-glistening ink. His gnarled hand spread the letter out on the table before him. He interlaced his fingers silently, the only noise in the room Beatrice's sharp beak tearing into the flesh of her prey. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the crest was not. House Cassalantar. It was enough to infer who "this one" was.

A few moments passed in silence, The Master Tactician deep in thought, before he rasped, "We may speak," to the gloom. He waited where he sat for the representative of House Cassalantar to show himself.

"Not at all. Otherwise, I should not have invited you hither." Crimson eyes blazed in the semi-darkness, as bright as the single candle that flickered in its brass. The Master Tactician drew open a drawer in the table before him, rolled up his document and placed it within. Beatrice perched yet upon the table, tearing away at her supper, seemingly unperturbed by the sudden theatrical presence of this shadowy man. Swain indicated the seat opposite him: a high-backed armchair gilded and lined with crimson velvet. "Please, have a seat." The chair drew out with a two-fingered flick of Swain's hand.

He folded his gnarled hands on the table before him, watching his guest, unblinking. "To what do I owe this visit, sorcerer." The name Cassalantar was nearly synonymous with the practiced craft of necromancy in the Grand General's mind. It was an old house, a noble house, and the associations with its crest were known to those who paid attention--as The Master Tactician so shrewdly did.

A final frail squeak came from Beatrice's prey as she ripped off its head and choked it down. The contents of its bowels leaked out over the mahogany as it gave in to death. The fiendish fowl clicked her beak contentedly, proud of herself. Her master's gaze never faltered, taking in every affected movement of his strange guest. What business he had here would be revealed in time, but whatever the nature of this "intriguing" proposition, the Grand General would gather what he could from its bearer's body language, his sardonic expression, his every extravagant gesture.

The Grand General's eyes narrowed in scrutiny of his flamboyant guest, their flames flaring with each theatrical utterance. The word 'decaying,' punctuated as it was, elicited the slightest of scowls. "I know who you are, Cassalantar," came Swain's coarse address. One gnarled hand disengaged itself with his other to re-position his pen in perfect proximity to its inkwell, exactly perpendicular to the edge of the table.

The Master Tactician's brisk demeanor contrasted sharply with the professor's affected air. "I do not know what you want," he concluded, retraining his piercing gaze upon the man who stood before him--despite being invited to sit.

"Tybresa Farrister-Cassalantar, Senior Steward of the League, envoy between champions and summoners, ambassador of a misguided cause--I know her. She is a descendant of your house, by her name." Bushy brows raised in punctuation of this assertion.

"The Institute continues in its hypocrisy. I have made my opinion on their folly abundantly clear," the Grand General frowned. "But I am a very generous man, philanthropist, when it suits my purposes. So tell me." He lifted his chin in dignified scrutiny of the necromancer, crimson eyes ablaze. "What do you wish with your kin."

Swain drummed his fingers in quick staccato over the polished mahogany. Beatrice swallowed the last of her meal and spread her wings as though in triumph: a span wider than her master's withered breadth. "And how does your proposition benefit our nation."

Swain sat still, his calculating gaze taking in the necromancer's sudden weariness. The man had answered the first half of the Grand General's question, but not the second. Again, gnarled fingers drummed the table in quick staccato. Blazing eyes flared expectantly. Swain lifted one brow as though to wordlessly inquire, "And?"

Quid pro quo. This for that. He would acquiesce this lord's request if given proper motivation to do so--but not until. Such was the way of things in a country where the strong and clever prosper. One could have whatever they wished so long as the rules of the game were followed, so long as the worth of what was proffered met or exceeded the worth of that requested.