A • T R O U B L E D • H O U S E
Searing 88, 121 Age of Steel
A most unusual sight greeted the inhabitants of Verowa End one early Raellas morning, a horse drawn carriage gingerly making its way through its narrow streets as the sun first crept over the sky. Arriving at its destination, the ostentatiously decorated vehicle came to a stop before a particular rundown apartment block. The liveried servant who had driven it had, after much confusion from all parties, eventually arrived at the address on file for Private Florian Albrecht. A pristine white gloved hand rapped a slow, steady beat against the door, each knock sounding throughout the room beyond. For the inhabitants of the soldier's neighborhood such was odd, but not entirely unknown, for many a hero living in squalor had been granted audiences and boons for faithful service by far more comfortable lords.
The truth was far more complicated.
Whispers of outrage and scandal had filled the lunch clubs and salons of high society in the days since Anton Michaelis had been formally introduced, the lordling's father having swiftly confirmed that he was opposed to the fact that a Lysanrin and a Rathari had been permitted to enter his house. The bastard Angevin Warden had brought his wretched pet dog, and the Monteliyet's heir had decided to test the boundaries of propriety, but neither could be properly upbraided for their indulgences at such a pivotal moment in Anton's life. Even ignoring the fact that insulting either would be suicide, to do so would immediately undermine any credibility that the youth had just started creating. But questions demanded answers, and mistakes could be opportunities. The matter of the Rathari, Thysbae, could be handled quietly with Dreyfus at Anton's leisure. Unfortunately, Private Albrecht did not provide that measure of flexibility - especially not in light of the letter Eitan had deposited with the family's servants. Favors were called in and files were pulled, at least confirming that the Lysanrin's service was genuine.
Were they already suspected? Was the Ashborne there to collect proof of guilt, and the letter merely a polite way to bring him quietly into custody? Was it a calculated slight, reminding House Michaelis that House Angevin had always sat higher then them? Or was the half-breed as pitying of that despised race as his father was of him? Surely a Watcher of Purity did not genuinely believe that a Lysanrin was worthy of entering so august a manor based only off of his own worth. Surely.
Questions demanded answers. And requests required responses. Two birds, one stone.
Not, that is to say, that any of this was explained to the the air corpsman when he finally answered his door. Instead he was simply informed that he was requested to attend to Lord Anton at his familial estate, and a carriage was waiting to convey him there after he made himself presentable. Somehow, the manner in which the servant extended the request made it sound like no such thing. At very least he was professional enough to keep any animosity towards the Lysanrin on account of his race to himself, though whether that was out of confidence that his young and naive lord would recitfy his mistake or genuine tolerance was impossible to say.
The carriage's exterior was decorated with fine gold filigree and painted carvings of graceful animals, looking like something taken out of a fairy tale or a past century, an effect only exacerbated as the heraldry bearing servant opened the door for Florian. No one joined him within, leaving him to sit alone on the plush seats as the coachman drove back out of the East End. His only companions were the sounds of wheels and hooves over cobblestones, interspersed with those of the horses themselves and the slowly waking city. The coachman had pulled the curtains tight, ensuring that none without could see that a Lysanrin sat within, but no one could stop him raising the fabrics to gaze upon Zaichaer.
Eventually, the carriage drove up the stately drive that Florian had been upon some nights prior, but it did not come to a halt before the grand doors. Turning off onto a road, it rounded about the back of the house, halting before the servant's entrance of the manor. Ushered out, the ZADC private was directed towards Anton's apartments with the same professional voice the coachman had used throughout their morning together. Curt, but not rude, indulging in neither cruelty nor kindness towards the Lysanrin. The halls in which the men and women who maintained the house roamed were far different from the grand ballroom, spartan and unadorned, built for function instead of form. Butlers, maids, maidservants, valets, gardeners, and countless other servants all but ignored their horned guest, though one seemed to always be keeping an eye on him. Whether or not he required their assistance, it did not take him long to reach his destination, another servant opening the door for Florian as he approached without a word. And just as quickly shut it behind him.
While the room Florian found himself in clearly belonged to someone of great wealth, it was strangely free of the gilt and garnish he had come to expect. Though the furniture was finely wrought and sturdily made the pieces were simple and unadorned wood, and the walls were bare of any decoration aside from the occasional curtain. Yet at the same time it was clear someone had taken great care to appoint the room, the scent of flowers and perfume permeating the air. From afar, the soft sound of trickling water could be heard, further lending to the carefully crafted aura of serenity.
Anton Michaelis was eating breakfast as Florian entered, the short dining table he sat at visible from the entrance. He did not need to use Semblance for such a task, and did not trust himself to use it while within the Ashborne's sight now that he knew the truth of the man. Still in his dressing gown, the sightless lord ate slowly and meticulously, stopping only when he heard the door close. Gingerly taking his napkin in hand after even more carefully placing a grape in his mouth, he wiped his mouth and slumped back in his chair with a soft sigh. It was time to see if the game was ending almost as soon as it began.
"Private Florian Albrecht, Zaichaer Air Defense Corps. Ashborne Lysanrin. Entrusted to the care of Air Commander Eitan Angevin, Watcher of Purity," he said in a far less gregarious voice than he had used at his debut. "You are a very curious man, Private Albrecht," he added, finally turning his head in the direction of where he had last heard the Ashborne's footsteps. "But I would be lying if I said this was entirely a social call. They say that the best way to know a man is to learn who he trusts. Commander Angevin seems to trust you a great deal." He did his best to remain unflinchingly polite, not out of any particular regard for the Lysanrin but instead commitment to his earlier mistake. Either Eitan did suspect something, or he actually did care something for the man. No matter what was the case, rudeness now would both be counterproductive and paint him as confused. Or worse.
"Please, sit. Eat if you'd like," he said, turning back to the table and gesturing with one hand towards the other chair placed on its opposite end. The hand on which his signet ring was set was consciously extended towards Florian, a test that Anton fully expected to be entirely overlooked, but a useful one nonetheless.
"I will not beat around the bush. What made Commander Angevin decide that you ought attend my party?"
