Rannveig did not like his uniform. It made him uneasy. The fashionable open coat was long, nearly to the knee in the traditional guardsman cut of Oreswell. The flat cap was nice too, though it could make his head a bit hot should he have to stay up late into the morning, though chasm winds often counteracted that. The buttoned shirt along with the trousers, hung from dark leather suspenders, were equally good looking, and cut well as to not get in the way should he need to actually carry out his duty of defending his master, which was incredibly rare, as there were few who would strike at Landmaster Oraquin in any way, except for that one time... No, he shouldn't think of that at the moment. All the looks, while still being the most comfortable thing in Rannveig D'Akarog's limited wardrobe.
There was very little to dislike about it all in all, yet still he did. When it was first given to him, upon his promotion, he couldn't quite place it. He just couldn't wear it without feeling like something was amiss, just out of view. It had taken him a few weeks to figure it out. It was the deep wine red color that all of the outfit besides the grey shirt was dyed, the color of blood spilled on a white carpet and left for hours, the color of his fathers blood in that closet... No. No, there was work to be done.
Rannveig had been sent away to investigate a disturbance at the house of a miner he didn't yet know much about, besides that he was supposedly an accomplished Pattern Weaver, which of course helped with his job, and a friend of Oraquin's. Rannveig had overheard a frazzled looking messenger boy talking to the Landmaster, and had offered to go ahead personally when the kid mentioned a Pattern Weaver.
While they weren't too rare, Rannveig had heard that a new one was found once every few months or so, it was hardly common to meet one. The accomodations offered to Weavers and their close family by the city were supposed to be more than luxurious, so it was nigh unheard of for one to decline them. But this one had, and Rannveig had a chance to meet him, a practically mythical creature to the common people. While boyhood wonder had long since fled from Rannveig, he was still avidly interested.
The guardsman picked up his pace despite his fatigue, as a thrum of excitement that of which he hadn't felt in a long time went through him. He hadn't slept well last day, and it was dawn again. Rounding a corner into an area of the city he didn't know well, he dodged a beam of sunlight that slipped through a hole in one of the many tough cloth sheets held between the tall buildings of the run down neighborhood. Though it would take around five seconds of standing still in the light before any seriously notable burns were caused, he made a habit of avoiding any and all sunlight in the few times he came across it, just in case. His sidestep however, caused him to ram straight into someone.
The man was shorter than Rannveig, most were, and was knocked off his feet with a shout. Rannveig stumbled back as well, cursing himself for not paying attention while on duty. The man scrambled to his knees, pulling the hood of a cloak over his head, and snatched up a few coins he had dropped. It was only a few Orums and a Terum, hardly anything, but he scoured to make sure he hadn't lost any.
Straightening his cap, Rannveig bent to pick up one of the coins that had bounced over the cobbled streat to him, tossing it back to the man, who caught it with surprising deftness.
Rannveig offered a hand to the man, "Ah, pardon citizen, didn't see you there." The man, who Rannveig now saw was only just barely, maybe sixteen at most, just looked at him for a second. He took the outstretched hand warily. Getting the boy to his feet Rannveig patted him on the shoulder. "You shouldn't be out this late boy, get along now." The youth spared him another glance before scampering off. Shaking his head, Rannveig continued on, still a bit embarrassed by his carelessness.
He carried on through the streets to his destination, not far now. As he arrived, he paused, it seemed there was already a guard there. Wasn't this just a small break in? She wore the simple faded blue of the city guard, seargents stripes on her shoulders, and was sitting on the steps into the home. She stood as he approached, and he could see the open door that there were more inside.
"Red... You're a personel guard, no? What's your buisiness?" The inquiry wasn't uncalled for, but her tone was uneasy, something wasn't right.
"I was told... uh, well I suppose I wasn' told what the problem was," he said, thinking back. "Weaver Derigar is friends with Landmaster Oraquin, my charge. There was a disturbance here, right? I though the Weaver just wanted someone personally invested to investigate."
She frowned. "A disturbance is one way to put it. I suppose i've gotten my fresh air. You're going to need some too if you go inside. You any sort of squeamish?"
"No?" which was a lie.
She just nodded, letting the question air, stepping into the house. Rannveig followed, cautiously. He instantly regretted it.
Inside the house was a gruesome scene, the body, who would be the Weaver he subcociously noted, by the dirt on his hands from the mine, was impaled by a tree. Entering near the waist, the small pine exited through the skull, a branch poking out of the right eye, many more through other parts of the corpse. This would be the work of a Flora Weaver. While Pattern Weavers, or sometimes referred to as Pattomancers, could take a segment of metal, such as a sword blade, water pipe, or even ingots themselves, and repeat it, Flora Weaver could rapidly grow any sort of flora, including trees. They were supposed to be used to grow crops, but as he could see now Rannveig realized he never really thought of what they could do with their abilities.
He looked down from the branch filled eye socket, a large part of the chest had been entirely displace onto the floor and... Thankfully he was forced to unfocus as he felt his dinner coming up. This was going to be a long day.
ns 15.158.61.12da2
