A Contingent Occasion

Arboria

It had been the revised itineraries of the esquires of the Holy Lakes which had tipped the hand regarding the next move Ichirō would make as the latest drama in Shirekeep unfolded. As Commander of the Order of the Holy Lakes, the esquires assigned to the protection of Ichirō and his family were his to command as he saw fit, yet their movements, for purposes of administration, pay, and logistics, were routinely reported to the Hurmu Fyrð, whose Guards Corps furnished the aforementioned esquires. As such there was no preventing the office of the Secretary of State for Peace from having sight of the movement notices, and from there the matter was, within hours of first coming to the notice of a diligent secretary aspiring for advancement within the Coalition for Democratic Humanism, swiftly brought to the attention of the secretariat of the Council of Archons, and thence reported to the Hierophant, Felipe de Almagro, whose interest was duly piqued.

Marius Gallo, by then long accustomed to his comfortably furnished office within the headquarters of the Mirkdale Peninsula Development Authority, situated within a discrete compound situated upon the eponymous headland, had been startled out of a vaguely obscene reverie when the conspicuously red encrypted phone set he had been bestowed by his handlers began to trill incessantly. Hesitantly, seldom relishing being obliged to answer to those who were now in the position of acting as his benefactors, he picked up the receiver and tentatively uttered a greeting bereft of enthusiasm. On this occasion, however, after listening for a few brief moments, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself offering his fulsome consent to all that the voice down the other end of the line proposed. No sooner had he spoke in affirmation, than the caller had brusquely hung up. As was his habit after taking one of those calls, Marius found himself wandering across to the drinks cabinet situated in the corner of the room. However, on this occasion, as he ran his finger along a row of crystal decanters he realised that he was actually smiling.

Musica

The life of an "apostle" in the current era was a continuous blur of safe houses, dark side-alleys, moments of snatched conversation amongst circles of ever changing, necessarily fleeting, associates, and a regular vigil, awaiting the next chalked sigil on a wall than would indicate the direction to another dead-drop, such as the one which was guiding Naveed Rahmani now towards the edge of the Musica Naval Arsenal.