While the Whole World Shakes

[Brenner Dornkirk]

"While the Whole World Shakes"

62 Searing, 121

The jab that snapped Brenner's head to the left, sending a spray of blood and spit into the crisp, morning air felt stimulating even as the sharp pain spread from his face down his neck and beyond. It was a stark, and purifying sensation, that woke him from the morning's murk and enlivened senses dulled by the same. He danced backward and laughed up at the taller assailant as, all around them, airmen clapped and cheered at contact finally having been made.

"Well struck, Dahlbeck." The Air Commander complimented, wiping a streak of blood and only succeeding in spreading it from his chin up the side of his jaw to an end at one of his prominent cheekbones.

"If you'd stop bouncing around like a fucking grasshopper, I could end this all the faster, Dornkirk." The behemoth of a crewman observed through a snarl.

Brenner's sole reply was a snigger, which Dahlbeck attempted to dismiss from the Air Commander’s supercilious visage, as he lunged forward with a right hook. The youngest of the Dornkirk clan nimbly parried the assault, and delivered a one-two-punch to the lower abdomen of his sparring partner.

The match went on for some time, with Brenner taking advantage of his leaner build and superior speed, to wear out his physically stronger opponent. Evasive action and self-awareness won the day, when Dahlbeck finally collapsed face-down on the well-tended grass that served as their impromptu boxing ring. Brenner lifted his arms in triumph, and his fellow crewmen of the storied Searing Victory granted their lately estranged Executive Officer a hearty ovation.

At the Onneifer Officers’ Mess, Brenner held court over breakfast with a table full of airpersons typically under his command, and terribly curious about his recent absence from service aboard The Searing Victory of late.

“I don’t know where you’ve been, but I can tell you’ve been training.” Dahlbeck grumbled over his eggs. “So I reckon it hasn’t been a pleasure cruise.”

“That it hasn’t.” Brenner agreed with a chortle, “And I’m sorry there’s not much more I can tell you, apart from the fact that I miss serving with you all. The State has called me to other service lately, and I don’t dare question the wisdom of the Brass.” He demurred- perhaps even feinted a bit, as he had during the sparring match, by making it sound as though he was under someone else’s orders, rather than preparing for a mission he’d pitched himself that granted him relative autonomy.

Brenner dabbed at his lips with a serviette, and drew it back to see a bit of blood on the white fabric, left over from Dahlbeck’s handiwork. He ran his tongue over the cut to his lip, tasting the metallic, savoury flavour of his own blood.

“That said, I should get back to it. I just wanted to stop by whilst I had a free morning and the Victory is back from patrol.”

“Fancy a drink tonight, Commander?”

“Sorry, lieutenant, but I’ll be about my work until passing late this evening.” He rose from the bench and brushed off his civilian finery, as his uniformed subservient officers stood to see him off with handshakes, salutes and pats on the back and shoulders. “Enjoy your time in the city, and Hail Zaichaer!” He called, to a resounding response of the same.

Indeed, it was a little after midnight that Brenner returned to Dornkirk Manor after a long day of research and cultivation of some of the sundry skills he would soon need to employ upon embarking on his Great Endeavour.

He stopped at Stefan’s door, before heading for his own apartments, and knocked. He’d hoped to compare notes with his older brother and check on the progress in the science department, but it seemed that would have to wait as his knocking begot no answer. Perhaps Stefan had tuckered himself out, but more likely he was still at the Windworks or the archives poring over the work Brenner relied upon him to execute.

The Air Commander headed to his own chambers, and let out a sigh as he poured himself a nightcap of schnapps. He took a delicate sip, then placed the tumbler down and sat to tug his boots loose and eventually off, flexing his tired feet to the sound of audible cracks.

"Scheiße..." He muttered, wondering if he was getting old or perhaps he was just sore from vying against so potent an adversary in that sparring match this morning without much of a warm-up.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

Nimble fingers reached out, delicately threading into the young Air Commander’s hair. A soothing heat passed into the second son of House Dornkirk. It coiled into his sore muscles. It wrapped around the aches and pains throughout his body burrowing into the discomfort to produce a pleasurable sensation. Attempts to move, to jostle, to call out in surprise would find the young man’s body freeze.

“Shhh, no need to panic, Commander.” The fingers threaded through Brenner’s hair slid down the side of his face, leaving a trail of soft warmth in their wake. They grasped his chin, turning his head in the direction of his assailant. Her hair was black, falling low, past her shoulders down to her mid-chest. She was slim and pale, with skin that looked to be alabaster, an unnatural ghostly white hue that made the delicate blue lines of her veins visible at the wrist. Burgundy eyes met Brenner’s and the smile that touched her lips was filled with amusement.

There was no mistaking her. This was a woman who should have burned at the stake. This was a woman who should have been blasted to pieces from the discharge of Brenner’s rifle. This was a woman who should have been put down by the Reconciliators but who still lived.

“Hello, Brenner.” Venetia Childs made a gesture with one of her hands. One of the nearby chairs, a chair occupied by Stefan in the not too distant past, was picked up by another figure. He wore all black, with a cloth wrap that covered most of his face. The blue eyes that met Brenner’s were deadpan but it was clear that the man was built strong and was armed beneath the cloak that covered his shoulders. He presented the chair for his mistress wordlessly. She removed her hand from Brenner’s face and seated herself with the grace and elegance of a well groomed aristocrat.

“Before you scream, before you call for help, I want you to know that you cannot.” Venetia raised her hand. Brenner’s muscles suddenly locked. The heat inside of his body built up and his throat constricted. For a moment it felt as though he would ignite but just as soon as the searing agony filled him, it was gone and once again that warm soothing sensation flowed over his body.

“Your body is mine. For the time being. I may see fit to return it to you upon the conclusion of our conversation.” She eased into the chair, extending a hand as her bodyguard brought over a glass into which was poured some of the nearby liquor. Venetia tasted it, humming appreciatively. She stared into the glass for a long pause before her burgundy eyes shifted to him.

“I don’t think introductions are necessary. You know who I am. You are known to me.” She took another sip of the alcohol, an indulgent smile spreading across her lips. “You’ve been a busy man, Brenner Dornkirk.”

[Brenner Dornkirk]

He'd just taken another sip of schnapps and was reaching to place the tumbler back down, when Brenner felt a tickle at his scalp and an adjoining sensation of warmth emanating from the same spot. He released the glass before it had alighted on the table, but it was close enough that it only clattered lightly and made amber waves that nearly brimmed over the rim of the vessel. He'd had a steadier hand once, but the prior season had put the young Air Commander on edge for sundry reasons. The foremost of those reasons had been Glade the 8th, but Brenner didn't yet know how pertinent that event was to his current situation. It had only been a split second and, though his reflex was to whip his head round to see what was touching him from behind, his muscles refused to cooperate. His jaw went slack and the spirit he'd been rolling over his tongue moments earlier began to dribble free of his lips in rivulets of gold that traversed his chin to rain down onto his lap.

The warm feeling that was now travelling across his face might have been pleasant, if it had been invited or even expected. But given his sudden paralysis, it was just another bizarre sensation to further unnerve him. He felt slender fingers warming his schnapps-slickened chin and his line of sight shifted as his head was drawn to face the perpetrator.

His reflex was to widen his eyes and tense his muscles, but he had no reflexes now. He could only stare blankly with half-lidded eyes and his mouth slightly agape. For all his stillness of body, the one part of him that moved apace was his heart. It thrummed loudly in his ears, as he regarded the otherworldly gaze of a face that had been etched in his memory by the trauma of the massacre this woman had elicited.

He was unable to phonate, but he rasped out a rattling breath that seemed as muted as his limpid dearth of facial expression. It might have been a shout had he the faculties, but it didn't even come close. And moreover, he was rewarded for the effort with a searing and astringent convulsion that tightened hitherto slack muscles and twisted his visage into an expression of agony, before everything fell back to drooping paralysis.

Everything that was said, was processed at a delay. It had all happened so quickly and so much of his mental energy had been devoted to attempting to regain control of his body, that he hadn't been able to focus on additional functions like language comprehension. But once he yielded up this fruitless endeavour, he was able to process all that had been said. But what struck him most momentously was the phrase, 'You are known to me.' for how it echoed Talon's erstwhile prophecy, back when they'd been alone nigh of the airfield.

He looked on, for looking on was all he could do apart from raging impotently within.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

“Where are my manners? A drink such as this mustn’t be enjoyed in solitary company.” Venetia waved her hand. Control returned to Brenner’s muscles. His body was, for the moment, back under the volition of his own mental commands. The woman crossed one leg over the other, leaning back into her chair as she took another sip of the fine liquor. Her companion took up a post in front of the door, back resting against it as he stared at the young Air Commander.

“Please, Commander. I do believe you were unwinding for the evening. This is your home after all, make yourself comfortable.” She smiled. Amusement danced in her wine colored eyes as she regarded Brenner over the rim of her glass.

“I dare say, a man such as yourself deserves rest. You have had a demanding schedule for the past few seasons.” Venetia touched the rim of her glass to her chin as though in thought. “Let’s see, assuming a post on the Searing Victory. Executive Officer of one of Zaichaer’s grandest dreadnoughts. Such an accomplishment for one so young. There are more seasoned and accomplished officers who would have killed for such an opportunity. Mayhaps, your brother being its designer has something to do with it?”

She quirked a brow, the hint of a smirk on her lips as she recounted many of the whispers that circulated Brenner’s ascension to the rank of Commander at such a young age. By all accounts, most Air Defense Corps officers didn’t see such a role until their late thirties if not their mid-forties, if at all.

“You then get hailed as a brave hero for standing up to a dastardly witch who refused to burn. Gunning her down, to no avail, but praised for your decisive action nevertheless.” Venetia lowered the glass, bringing up a finger to run it along the lip of the glass. She stared into the liquid within the glass, consumed in her own thoughts for a moment before letting out a breathy sigh.

“Then you spend the rest of the season serving as personal escort to a very esteemed guest.” Venetia’s eyes rose to meet Brenner’s then.

“Eyes the color of liquid mercury. Wings that capture the light of dawn. A voice that speaks power with every breath. Tell me…” Her focus seemed entirely upon Brenner. “...what was it like? What was he like?”

[Brenner Dornkirk]

"Nng!" A formless utterance- a strained grunt fell from his throat, as if he'd just been released from being choked. He doubled forward slightly, as he'd been trying to bend his spine at the moment when his muscles returned to his control. He caught himself with his hands splayed on the desk before him, as not to smash his face into the mahogany.

With teeth clenched and bared, his head snapped up and whipped toward the guard at the door, before returning to glaring at Venetia. His mind was racing even more quickly than his heart. He ought to make an attempt on her life. That was the soldierly thing to do. It should be a simple thing- there was a letter opener within inches of his splayed fingers. In one, sharp motion he ought to be able to grab it and sheathe it in her bosom. He ought to be able to do that, indeed, but he was keen enough to know that it wouldn't work.

All it had taken was a wave of the hand to release him from the torpor with which she'd afflicted him. It was just as like she'd be able to restore the paralysis before his fingers so much as twitched toward the blade. His eyes remained locked with Venetia's all throughout this thought process. After a pregnant pause, his lips parted.

"You've good taste." His gaze darted to the amber spirit in her glass, "That's the Preminger '56..." The spirit had been aging for as long as his mother had, and was the nicest offering currently housed in his private chambers.

Usually Brenner was quite adept at concealing his emotions under a guise of stoicism, and he was attempting to do so, now. It was not as successful as usual. He began to sit up very, very slowly, drawing his hands back from where the letter opener rested, but keeping his palms upon the desktop as to steady them from their wont to quiver.

He listened as she recounted his achievements, in her backhanded way- insinuating nepotism, as if a scion of so young a house as that of Dornkirk wielded such influence as to advance his rank prematurely. Brenner wished his family held such sway, and wouldn't have shirked the advantage had it been offered, but his had been an uphill climb. At least as far as he knew. Next she highlighted his failure to put her down in the midst of the onslaught on Glade the 8th, the reminder of which vindicated his decision not to attempt to strike her down here and now. If she could subvert the deadly force of a rifle's shot, a fumbling attempt to stab her with a letter opener seemed supremely ill-advised.

Brenner hazarded, albeit slowly, to collect the glass of schnapps he'd poured for himself ere this intrusion had begun. He tipped the glass back and downed the full contents, before placing the empty tumbler back down.

"He was like a cautionary tale." Brenner replied, hotly- the burning of the schnapps enlivening him, and taking some small edge off of the high stakes tension currently brimming beneath his flesh. "A legend from some bygone era that should be cast back unto the void that swallowed its pernicious kin. I was, in a word... awed." He looked Venetia over, now, a spiteful glint in the blue fire of his eyes.

"Would you have your minion pour me glass of the Preminger?" He ventured with a gentle cant of his head, "I'd do it myself, but I wouldn't want you to think I was trying to be clever. Your show of force with the paralysis is a point well-taken." He inclined his head in apparent deference. As he spoke, he sounded as though he was trying to seem cool, calm and collected. He sounded like one who usually achieved this goal, when he sought it out. But tonight the façade was readily apparent. His face was flushed, his heart was feverishly apace, the corner of his eye was twitching. Brenner Dornkirk was utterly terrified.

"And won't you tell me to what I owe the honour of your illustrious visit, Mistress Childs?"

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

Her eyes remained fixed upon him as he spoke. There was a moment where it seemed she expected more but when nothing further was uttered from Brenner’s mouth, she nodded. Venetia smiled pleasantly. She reached over to pick up the bottle of Preminger ‘56 and poured Brenner a glass of his own. It was a smooth pour that tumbled cleanly into the glass without spilling a single drop. She pressed a finger to the neck of the bottle and tipped it back to cease the stream, wiping away the solitary droplet that was left to roll down the lip of the bottle.

“Venetia, please.” She nodded to the glass, waiting for Brenner to take a drink of his own before easing back into her seat.

“You are going into the Warrens to retrieve a particular creature. A parasite capable of diminishing the efficacy with which mages can wield aether.” Venetia tipped back her glass, taking another sip of the drink. She then peered into the liquid, examining it carefully. Reaching into the folds of her robes, Venetia withdrew a piece of black hide that was neatly folded. She set it upon the surface of the mahogany desk then slid it toward Brenner. Opening the hide would reveal that it had a piece of aged paper stitched into the interior.

“65 Ash 391

It is finished. They do not know it yet, but I do. They still comfort themselves into thinking that our grand endeavor can still be won. I am not the fool that they are. But though this battle is lost, the war is not over. They do not know what was buried in the Deeps. I do. They do not know the truth. I do. The prison stands firm. But I have found the key to unlocking it.

The Fademire awaits and in it, our future.”

She waited for him to finish reading, offering neither comment nor clarification on the contents of the passage that had clearly been taken from a journal. Who it belonged to was not clear. There was no signature and the page was missing a portion. Venetia observed Brenner patiently, allowing him to digest the information. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, she interrupted the silence.

“The details of the journal this was taken from discuss the parasites you are seeking. The ramblings of a fanatic mostly but some information is useable. Specifically, the location mentioned there. The Fademire.” Venetia brought both hands to cup the glass in his grasp gently. She looked down into her lap, a thumb rubbing along the crystal thoughtfully.

“Have you heard of it?”

[Brenner Dornkirk]

"Venetia, then." He inclined his head in what felt to him like a smooth gesture, though he couldn't be certain whether or not he was quaking all over. He was too overstimulated, or perhaps it was some side effect of having been ensorcelled by this murderous wench, but he wasn't processing everything normally. His wits were about him, but his senses were off- Like he could only focus on one or two at a time, which were hyper-sensitive, whilst the other senses faded into the background unacknowledged. When he focused on the bouquet of the libation, he didn't feel the chill on his skin. When he focused on the sound of her voice, he didn't notice the vibrancy of her otherworldly eyes. But he was all ears, as soon as she expressed knowledge of his forthcoming expedition.

He parted his lips sharply, poised to ask the obvious question- 'How did she know?' But he froze short of forming the words and his jaw snapped shut. It would be fruitless to inquire. She wielded strange and sundry powers. He'd seen it on Glade the 8th, and he'd felt it moments ago. There were any number of ways she might have acquired sensitive information illicitly, and in the end it didn't really matter. She knew. And his heart sank.

He felt the sting of tears threatening to breach the battlements, but he staved them off through sheer force of will. Venetia Childs was the reason his mission was paramount. She had inspired him, in her way, by wreaking such havoc before his eyes- tearing the crowd apart and rending the flesh of innocent, human citizens whose only folly was in attending her botched execution- only to meet their own. Bearing witness to her power had endowed in Brenner Dornkirk a sense of purpose... He was called perforce toward his godless crusade to rid the world of such pestilential power as that which this woman wielded.

He started, slightly, at the sound of leather whipping against wood and his eyes darted from Venetia's to the object being slid across the desk toward him. He let out a quivering breath- Was it relief that she hadn't slain him out-of-hand, or just a release of the air he'd withheld as he fought off the threat of humiliation in the form of tears shed? He reached for the schnapps before he reached for the document. Preminger '56 was a drink to be relished, not to be shot down like a Sky Pirate. But, if this was to be the last drink for Brenner Dornkirk, he would prioritise inebriation over the savouring of a complex flavour profile. He shot it back and reached forward to open the hide and regard the document therein, with no idea what to expect.

His eyes widened. He didn't even try to temper his emotional response, as he normally might have. He knew to what this pertained, at a glance.

"The Fademire." He repeated the term and it fell ponderously from his tongue, his jaw remaining slightly slack- hungover from his overly polished posh dialect of Common. "No..." He admitted, plainly, as his eyes slowly turned from the page on the desk to the woman at his side.

"But if you've found me out, I suppose that doesn't really matter, does it?" His gaze darted back down to the page... What a precious gift this might have been under other circumstances, but not now. Not like this. "Did you bring this here to mock me ere you strike me down? To let me know that I was right, only to execute me in cold blood?" He inhaled sharply, his break quaking through the inspiration.

"So be it. But let it be known, Venetia, that this mission is mine own. Zaichaer has suffered enough at your hands, but we have proven to be no threat to you. Not without the advantage this discovery might grant us..." He ran his fingers delicately along the edges of the old parchment, "So, kill me and be done with it, and none shall be the wiser on this matter. Without me, none shall think to pursue this quarry." He sighed deeply. He'd long prepared himself to die a martyr, but not like this. There was no audience to his heroism, here. It was just as like this woman would stop his heart, and it would look like a natural death. But even without the promise of his deeds outliving him, he chose to serve the State. It was in this moment that Brenner learned that, in the gravest most desperate of moments, he was actually inclined to be selfless.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

"No man is an island." Her voice was soft as she spoke. The words were almost sad as she said them. Venetia took another sip of her drink before lowering the glass to her lap. She didn't need to elaborate on her statement. The words rang true enough on their own. She let Brenner breathe for a few moments before speaking again.

"You will need Drimera's Whisper and an herbalist who can make a curative from the flower. The Fademire is home to creatures whose venom induce fevers and an ulcerative boil that is contagious once it bursts. The flower's milk can cure it and prevent the spread. You will also need a Dreamstone, Somnosyte. There are things in the Fademire that will prey upon your minds and feed upon your nightmares. Dreamstone will protect you from some but not all of the demons that lurk there." She knocked back the rest of her drink before setting the glass on the table. The guard stepped up, offering his hand to her. She took it and rose to her feet in one smooth motion.

"Look for the Ghostblooms that grow from the skulls of the fallen. They will lead the way to the Mire." With that, Venetia drew up her hood. She stepped over to the window of Brenner's room, gazing out into the skies. Beside her, the guard opened the window, letting in the breeze. As he did, his hood fell back revealing the very soldier set to watch over her execution that day. His movements, though fluid and natural, seemed disconnected from the blank look on his face and the glazed look in his eyes. Venetia extended a hand. He took it wordlessly.

"Remember why you went into the Mire, Brenner. Do not lose sight of that goal. It will give you your heart's wildest dream. But that's all it is, a dream."

[Brenner Dornkirk]

Brenner regarded Venetia with a blank stare, but he did not answer her counter to his feint. He could not force her to believe his deception that he was alone in planning this endeavour. She had ways he didn't begin to understand, but it was also entirely possible that she was feigning more knowledge than she bore in hopes that he would unwittingly reveal more. He would not grant her such satisfaction on this count, if that was the case.

He tilted his head, perplexed as Venetia delivered what seemed like crucial information to his mission, rather than gloating and cutting him down as he'd resigned himself to accept. When it was clear what she was doing, he reached for a pen and notepaper from the desk and scribbled down notes on what she imparted. 'Drimera's Whisper: herbalist, curative, Fademire toxins', 'Somnosyte-Dreamstone: protection from demons that prey upon the mind', 'Ghostblooms: grow from skulls of fallen- Follow to Fademire'.

He realised, belately, that she had stepped away when he heard the click of the window's latch. He placed his notepaper down atop the journal page Venetia had gifted him, and atop both he placed a paperweight shaped like the Searing Victory that had been gifted to him by Stefan when he'd been assigned to the dreadnought. With those crucial documents protected from the evening winds that Venetia's guard welcomed into his chambers, Brenner stood- taking a few soft, stockinged steps in her direction.

"Venetia, wait." He extended his hand, imploringly. "I must know why." He sounded more like he was demanding than begging. Moments earlier he'd been prepared to meet his end in what promised to be a cruel and painful manner, borne of the spite she doubtless felt for the man who sought to end not only Venetia's life but her entire way-of-life.

"Why would you ply me with these 'vantages, when you know very well what I would do with the treasure I seek? Why should I trust any of the information you've just afforded me, when there is no obvious reason for our purposes to be aligned. Explain your interest in my endeavour. Tell me..." He thought back to Talon's prophecy, "...whose torch do I bear, Venetia?"

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

“A weapon to use against us horrifying mages. As if those don’t exist already. Regardless, if you succeed, I win.” Venetia fixed her robe, prepping herself for her departure. “If you fail, you’ll be dead, and I still win.”

She shrugged her shoulders then looked up at Brenner from what she had been doing. The stare she fixed him with was that of an individual assessing whether or not to take someone seriously or not.

“Why not? If you do survive, you will at least be a more interesting adversary than the paranoid fool running this city right now. Believe me or don’t, Brenner. I’m not going to stop you either way. ” She turned to go but paused when Brenner posed his final question. Her head turned and she looked at Brenner, truly looked at him as though she were actually taking an interest in him for the first time that entire evening and not simply toying with him. She let out a breath through her nose before answering.

“If you have to ask that question, then the road ahead of you will be a dark one indeed. Light the Fire. Lead the Way.” Reaching out, Venetia took the forearm of her guard. The both of them were, in a single breath, then gone from in front of the young Dornkirk. One moment they had simply been standing there and the next they had simply vanished without any fanfare. All that was left in her wake was the passage from the journal that had been gifted to him and the knowledge that had followed it. The Fademire awaited, whether Brenner chose to heed her advice was in his hands. What did Venetia have to gain from helping him? Why was it she would win if he claimed victory in this task? Questions, the answers to which one could only guess. Regardless, Brenner’s life was still his own...at least for that night.