Spymaster's Office
"Is that all, Gyrasym?"
"At the moment, Alyx, but we are not ready for the present winter." the fresh-faced agent reported to the seated elder, carved of stone.
Oh how true that was. The old spymaster had gotten cocky; his only opposition for the past decade was a bunch of republicans who couldn't tell subtlety if it got into a screaming match with them, nothing like how he had orchestrated the downfall of the Ochruhr.
He should've been paying attention to the unofficial motto of foreign affairs, Yshuyn one:
"Health follows pride - off a high balcony."
Mythladyn above, where did it all go wrong? He was sure that the Black Sheep had been handled, that he could trust one of the Dual Monarchy's better allies to not explode at the drop of a hat; and yet, the casualty reports of his agents were piling up on his desk. His agents in the Sketch had apparently been drinking too much tea and not paying enough attention to the Sketch upper class believing the Gylmaryn a greater threat than the Hespranxer. And to top it all off, the governors his Hung agents had swore up and down were the best available had managed to disappear thousands of tons of materiel, outdated as it might have been.
Oh. His hands were shaking again. Was the pipe out?
He tapped out his pipe and filled it with the good blend, half shaking out into the floor. His thumb went down on the mix once, twice, three times before he found the opening. Why was he standing up? Did it really matter? It'd be easier to strike his matches standing up, right? Yes, yes, surely that must be it.
He placed his pipe down on the table, another bit of mix falling out the side when it shook out. His matches, his matches, there. Once, twice, three times with the fire so close he could practically see his fingers catch, and the mix lit.
A huff, and his blackened finger and match went out. He lifted the pipe to his mouth, turning towards the veranda. The fresh air might do him some good.
He stood at the railing, pipe in mouth. He just wished he could've left his daughter something -
Someone was approaching his office. By instinct, he turned around.
Haddyth Nokly.
"Alyxunmun three."
"Every person is placed where they are by the Divine; it is up to the person and commander to ensure that they perform."
"No-Uchafbwynt, Yshuyn two, sire."
"Fools should make way for the wise and experienced."
Nokly's hand rested on the old man's frame. A warning, that he could stop him from taking that climb and fall.
"Does that not reflect more upon me than you, old Alyx?"
"Yshuyn one, sire."
Nokly sighed.
"What is it going to take before you understand that misfortune can strike us too, my friend?"
"Results befitting my station, sire," the old man responded.
"And stepping over that balcony will help you earn that?"
"I cannot, but maybe my daughter's son can."
"I contest that, old friend."
"Please, sire, I've already shamed my family enough," the spymaster softly weeped.
"Then," Nokly began, "I am sorry, old friend, but this is an order from your Haddyth of Gylruv and King of Ymar, Supreme Protector of All Ymaryn People: Come with me and serve your duty to the last."
"Sire!" the elder cried, tears streaming through the wrinkles on his face.
"That's an order, Alyx."
"Y-yes, sire."
"And one more thing:" Nokly interrupted, as his hand closed on the doorhandle.
"You forgot your pipe," Nokly said, handing a lit pipe to him.
He grabbed it, shaking. The drag was long and hard, and he had to pull out the pipe and hack up something for a few seconds, but he was functional again. One swipe of his sleeve and he was by and large presentable again, his face once again carved like granite.
"What do you want next, sir?"
"Tell me, how do you feel about taking a more...aggressive approach?"