The guards nodded and eagerly retreated, closing the door behind themselves, leaving the two men facing one another. Despite the perfect lighting of his office, the Prisoner’s wild hair cast an impenetrable shadow over his face, only a pair of predatory eyes shining through - like those of a wild animal stalking its prey at night.
Without being prompted, the Prisoner ambled over to Crovacus’s desk and took a seat. He raised his hands above the table in a wordless request to be unshackled.
“I’m not a fool, Sodan,” said the governor.
“Call me Strake,” the Prisoner responded before putting his hands back down.
Crovacus sighed, opening one of the files that littered his desk and pulling out a sheaf of several papers. He began reading it out loud: “S. K. Sodan. Ikesian, lieutenant, special forces unit Pine Tree Riots. Two Iron Hands, Ebonford and Rivengue… Youngest man to be decorated by the Sage of Fog… And one of the few ever.”
The Prisoner had begun looking around by this point, scanning the room for escape routes. At a glance he just looked apathetic, relaxed, but Crovacus knew better. That man’s mere presence was like having a gun pointed at his forehead. Crovacus took a cigar, cut off the end, and lit it with a snap of his fingers before putting it in the corner of his mouth.
“You deserted right as the first border skirmishes started and stole some sort of invaluable military prototype on your way out…” he continued, flipping to the next page of the sheaf. “Vanished for the first third of the war, then reappeared as part of the mercenary-terrorist band Iron Brotherhood and got pardoned by a redacted governmental power for redacted reasons. Hired as an independent contractor, then nothing for years… Until after the end of the war you were discovered and captured in the Giant’s Graveyard region of the Ikes mountains by an Inquisitor. Three-week war tribunal, life sentence in a prison camp in those very same mountains… Until I pulled you out.”
Crovacus finished, and at that moment the bestial man took off on a coldly vitriolic rant while Crovacus idly looked down at the documents on his desk, “You mean three weeks of sitting in an interrogation room while the bugmen tried every dirty trick in their library to get the Inquisition to hand me over? Those mask fetish freaks stopped trying to interrogate me after the fourth day just ‘cause the zipperheads got to be a bigger annoyance than I. Just a shame that they eventually came to an agreement, would’ve loved to see what those flaming swords do to a man-sized locust.”
“You’ve been pinned with more war crimes than I knew existed,” Crovacus said flatly.
The Prisoner’s eyes rose to meet his, from their ice-cold blueness spilling naught but resentment.
“Give me the list and a couple months,” hissed the man. “I’ll make sure it’s accurate.”
Crovacus sighed, “I’d laugh, but you’re not the first or even third to say something like that. It’s hard to argue in your favor when you say you regret not doing it instead of pleading innocence.”
With a razor-toothed grin, the Prisoner leaned over the governor’s desk, snatching a cigar from his cigar-holder with his teeth. He bit off the end, flipped it in his mouth, then lit it off the smoldering nub of Crovacus’s own stogie, all without the use of his hands and maintaining eye contact with the Governor all throughout.
He leaned back in his seat, chains rattling as he did, toked from the cigar, and spoke, “You’d get like that too if you were locked up with nothin’ but snooty foreigners n’ their sycophants blarin’ in yer ear day in day out ‘bout “muh babykillers” this, “muh Ikesio-chauvinism” that. They already think we’re all beasts in the skins of men. I’m startin’ to think if we’d acted the part the country wouldn't've gone all to hell.”
It was plain by this point that Sodan didn’t like Crovacus, whether that was because of his ethnicity or merely the circumstances of their meeting.
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“I’m about ready to throw your ass back into that prison camp if you don’t want to cooperate,” the governor said coldly.
“And who are you?” asked the Prisoner haughtily, that self-same grin still plastering his face.
“Estoras,” he replied. “Provisional Governor of Willowdale.”
A flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes, “Crovacus Estoras… Rushing Dandy?”
He toked from his cigar and nodded, allowing the smoke to simply drift out of his mouth as he replied, “Former Gold-ranked Hunter with the State Hunter’s Guild under the name Rushing Dandy. We heard of you too back then, Sodan.”
“Why are we talking?” asked Sodan, taking a pull of his cigar as well, rolling it from one corner of his mouth to another.
“I have a deal for you. You will receive a full exoneration for every war-crime you’ve been accused of. There was an incident about a week and a half ago. What I believe to have been a false-flag attack was carried out in Rigport and it has since come under military occupation. Besides the city-state’s value as a center of import, the occupation has a vital individual trapped within city limits, name of Burgess. Last we’ve heard from him, he’s locked down in his workshop with his tools and a certain object of value, and thinks they’re looking for him. You might just know him.”
“Burgess… Burgess who?” Strake raised an eyebrow, though he made no attempt to hide the fact he knew who that name belonged to.
“That’s not funny, Sodan. You go in, find Burgess, bring him and his equipment out within two weeks, and you’re a free man. Arrange for the liberation of the city, and you may keep the object of value. I hear it’s just like the one you stole when you deserted.”
Sodan’s eyes well and truly lit up at that. He took another puff of the cigar and leaned in, “Two weeks huh?”
Crovacus nodded, “I’m making you an offer.”