Post by Burgundy on Dec 19, 2021 22:53:52 GMT -5
A bone was thrown, now it was just a matter of whether or not this government dog would play fetch. "Oh, a library? Hmm... I don't know if there's any proper books there, but there's a certain room with some wall drawings that might be sufficient. Fairweather can probably copy them down or something."
"That sounds workable. I do happen to carry paper and pens on me at all times, after all," Lawrence would brag as if it would not be a matter of his art skills. "Well then I can take you there. Follow me," he would say, before turning into another hallway amidst the lavish mess of interwoven corridors. Lawrence would follow in tow, hoping there would be no complications hereafter.
Of course, as with many things in the life of the working man, things didn't exactly pan out as expected. In particular, after a fairly long trek to what had to be the entirely opposite wing of the Mount, the marine disciple guiding him there would turn to face him. "Ah yes. Quiet in the Hall of Six, please. The hoplites value action over words, so no lecturing is allowed here, only seeing and learning. Drawing is a bit of a stretch, but we're outlanders so the rules get bent a lot to accomodate us, so long as we're respectful of the spirit of the rules," he would say.
At the start of his monologue, the door had opened and a pair of robed figures would step out of the Hall of Six. Familiar robed figures, who would turn their heads to see Lawrence. "Y-you!?" asked the talkative marine from earlier, Ensign Sunny. This was the absolute worst-case scenario.
"Yes, me. Did you forget? The money?" Lawrence would fire back, attempting to blind them with audacity. "The money? What about Buchanan?" Sunny riposted. Lawrence would shake his head, "He told you his terms, and I told you mine."
"...Mr. Fairweather?" the marine guide would ask, a bit lost, "These are the gentlemen you both were looking for, right? Should I go fetch Buchanan?"
"Yeah, give me a moment with these two and we'll meet by the gate," the suited sailor would reply, visibly agitated yet at the same time visibly calm. "Right away!" The marine guide would salute and tear off back to presumably the opposite wing of the Monastary.
"You two didn't have actual notes, huh?" Lawrence would ask them as the robed man left eyeshot, "Our deal still stands, but if Buchanan finds out you faked your notes, he'll probably cut your funding. And that will end our business deal."
"Why'd Sgt. Storm call you Mr. Fairweather?"
"My full name is Lawrence Fairweather. I run a respectable business, so I deserve respect when spoken to, don't you agree?" Lawrence lied, again, audaciously. His surname was actually 'Way'.
"How about I make you a deal. Hand me those drawings, and I'll take them to Buchanan. I'll distract him for a bit, but you need better notes than this. Descriptions, theory, logistics. That's what notes look should contain," he would explain. His words were awful demanding for a man who apparently had no real stake in this. How'd he get past the hoplites as an outlander? There were many questions which Lawrence was seeking to avoid them asking, so he needed to minimize their contact with them.
"Fine. But make it a good distraction. Honestly I can barely wrap my head around the lessons..." Sunny would acquiesce, not sure of what was going on, but not being ready to question a man who could very well save his career.
Lawrence acquired the 'notes' from them and he would look them over for a moment. Pictures of men in strange poses, mostly. Were these lines supposed to indicate motion? It was a lot of nonsense, neither number nor word was written on the page asides the names of the techniques being depicted.
"Hm... definitely needs more context. Hop to it gentlemen, the sooner Buchanan's out of our hair the sooner we can perform a now-legitimate business exchange," he would demand. Sunny and Snow would nod and start off towards the barracks to get more paper...
Lawrence dusted himself off, now alone in the Mount, near a place of mental honing. He needed to be near the gate soon, but perhaps a peek wouldn't hurt. Leaning his head in through the door of the dimly blue-lit room, his eyes would widen at what he would behold...
"That sounds workable. I do happen to carry paper and pens on me at all times, after all," Lawrence would brag as if it would not be a matter of his art skills. "Well then I can take you there. Follow me," he would say, before turning into another hallway amidst the lavish mess of interwoven corridors. Lawrence would follow in tow, hoping there would be no complications hereafter.
Of course, as with many things in the life of the working man, things didn't exactly pan out as expected. In particular, after a fairly long trek to what had to be the entirely opposite wing of the Mount, the marine disciple guiding him there would turn to face him. "Ah yes. Quiet in the Hall of Six, please. The hoplites value action over words, so no lecturing is allowed here, only seeing and learning. Drawing is a bit of a stretch, but we're outlanders so the rules get bent a lot to accomodate us, so long as we're respectful of the spirit of the rules," he would say.
At the start of his monologue, the door had opened and a pair of robed figures would step out of the Hall of Six. Familiar robed figures, who would turn their heads to see Lawrence. "Y-you!?" asked the talkative marine from earlier, Ensign Sunny. This was the absolute worst-case scenario.
"Yes, me. Did you forget? The money?" Lawrence would fire back, attempting to blind them with audacity. "The money? What about Buchanan?" Sunny riposted. Lawrence would shake his head, "He told you his terms, and I told you mine."
"...Mr. Fairweather?" the marine guide would ask, a bit lost, "These are the gentlemen you both were looking for, right? Should I go fetch Buchanan?"
"Yeah, give me a moment with these two and we'll meet by the gate," the suited sailor would reply, visibly agitated yet at the same time visibly calm. "Right away!" The marine guide would salute and tear off back to presumably the opposite wing of the Monastary.
"You two didn't have actual notes, huh?" Lawrence would ask them as the robed man left eyeshot, "Our deal still stands, but if Buchanan finds out you faked your notes, he'll probably cut your funding. And that will end our business deal."
"Why'd Sgt. Storm call you Mr. Fairweather?"
"My full name is Lawrence Fairweather. I run a respectable business, so I deserve respect when spoken to, don't you agree?" Lawrence lied, again, audaciously. His surname was actually 'Way'.
"How about I make you a deal. Hand me those drawings, and I'll take them to Buchanan. I'll distract him for a bit, but you need better notes than this. Descriptions, theory, logistics. That's what notes look should contain," he would explain. His words were awful demanding for a man who apparently had no real stake in this. How'd he get past the hoplites as an outlander? There were many questions which Lawrence was seeking to avoid them asking, so he needed to minimize their contact with them.
"Fine. But make it a good distraction. Honestly I can barely wrap my head around the lessons..." Sunny would acquiesce, not sure of what was going on, but not being ready to question a man who could very well save his career.
Lawrence acquired the 'notes' from them and he would look them over for a moment. Pictures of men in strange poses, mostly. Were these lines supposed to indicate motion? It was a lot of nonsense, neither number nor word was written on the page asides the names of the techniques being depicted.
"Hm... definitely needs more context. Hop to it gentlemen, the sooner Buchanan's out of our hair the sooner we can perform a now-legitimate business exchange," he would demand. Sunny and Snow would nod and start off towards the barracks to get more paper...
Lawrence dusted himself off, now alone in the Mount, near a place of mental honing. He needed to be near the gate soon, but perhaps a peek wouldn't hurt. Leaning his head in through the door of the dimly blue-lit room, his eyes would widen at what he would behold...