Laquendi Called to the Head’s Office

[Jim Roberts]

[Feb 6 evening – The Godcarvers]

> Laqendi and sister Erin, I would like to speak to both of you
> together after dinner.

“Moodkill”.

That was the phrase that would come to mind for most of the participants
of what had been a celebratory dinner extraordinaire put on by bard
Tramma, aided by a number of her galpals. But after the theological
discussion, and especially the Abbot’s summary “invitation” for Laquendi
to speak with the Belmakian clergy afterwards, the remainder of the
post-dinner discussion was fairly quiet and short.

And all throughout, Laquendi couldn’t help but feel a vague sense of
Deja Vu, almost as if, just floating at the edge of memory, she had been
here before. Or rather, not her, but someone else, someone that she had
considered a friend. More than a friend? Perhaps, though not in any sort
of romantic notion, as odd as that concept sounded. But nothing in
Laquendi’s extensive memories could quite match the odd niggling
sensation that she’d helped someone close to her down this path before.

Once the dinner “party” ended, Laquendi wordlessly followed the Abbot
and Sister Erin away from the others. Silently, Ben led the way, with
the Belmakian clerk following along. Beside Laquendi, out of silent
companionship? Or behind, forming a guard in case Laquendi decided to
bolt? If the latter, Erin was destined to be disappointed. The silver
haired elf had no clear idea of just WHAT was in store for her, but
flight formed no part of Laquendi’s plans. Whatever was before her, she
was becoming increasingly convinced it was something she deserved, and
would face head on, and not try to avoid.

The odd half memories became just that tiny bit clearer as the silent
progression crossed through the Expedition’s camp. And with each step,
the strange half memories resolved themselves just that little bit more.
Objectively, she could see that she was being led to the Abbot’s large
tent that served both as his personal quarters and his office. This made
perfect sense to the dusky elf. This was indeed the moral equivalent of
being led to The Headmaster’s Office, there to face whatever was in her
immediate future.

And that thought brought a minor breakthru in her memories, at least for
their source, if not the actual detail. This was something that she had
experienced not on this or upon any other material plane she had lived
upon, but in a recent Vision whose odd memories kept battering at the
edges of her consciousness at all sorts of odd and inopportune times.
Like now, when she felt that each step towards the Abbot’s tent was
mirrored by memories of a long walk inexorably leading to an office door.

By the time the trio had reached the tent, part of that haunting memory
was, at least fleetingly, crystal clear. She was not just standing
before a tent flap. In a parallel memory, she was also standing before a
closed office door, a grim certainty filling her of what lay in wait
beyond. And like the principal in that odd half memory, Laquendi had no
intention of ducking what was before her. Though oddly, she did vaguely
regret that there was nobody here to straighten her uniform, or pretend
to neaten the knot in her belt. That she was wearing neither a uniform
nor an intricately knotted belt was immaterial.

As the Abbot held open the tent flap and silently invited the elf in,
Laquendi knew that this was her ultimate choice. Step in, and accept
what was before her? Or bolt, possibly even by way of Teleportation,
leading… where? To a different career path, to be certain, but just what
exactly was, at the moment, entirely opaque.

And like the subject of this odd Vision inspired memory, Laquendi
squared her shoulders and stepped within, accepting her fate. Inside was
the expected desk with a camp version of an office chair behind it, and
off to the side were the requisite standins for the straight backed
chairs, one of which Laquendi strongly sensed would be featuring
prominently in her near future.

The Abbot eased himself into his office chair behind his desk, and
silently waved Laquendi to one of the chairs that was occupying a
disproportionate amount of her attention. Silently, Laquendi shook her
head, declining the invitation. She and that chair would perhaps, and
quite possibly soon become quite well acquainted, but until that moment,
Laquendi preferred to stand.

And as she stood before the Abbot’s desk, another of those pesky images
from a recent Vision swam to mind. The sight of a dusky human waif, only
just past childhood and barely bigger than Laquendi was, looking
downcast, hands behind her back unconsciously straying to protect one
region in particular as she anxiously dug one toe into the ground. Only
to resolutely decide that looking up and standing to attention was what
was called for, and raise her gaze while brushing a pesky lock of her
short, black hair out of her eyes, then moving her arms to be straight
at her sides. This pose, Laquendi readily held, standing to attention,
awaiting the inevitable interrogation that would be the prelude for
whatever corrective measures were next.

Would it be a tongue lashing, worthy of Vowsister Avril? As respected
and as revered as the Holy Man was, Laquendi doubted that the Abbot had
that particular skill with words. So would he display that occasional
thunderous temper that he was reputed to sometimes let slip? This,
Laquendi could certainly face.

After confirming her guilt, would he then resort to more physical
measures? Those odd intruding memories suggested that such was not
beyond the realm of possibility. Not a horrible scourging or other
similar measure that had been a part of Laquendi’s own very much NOT
imagined past. But a lesser variation of the same, perhaps featuring
Sister Erin’s fabled ruler? Either delivered by the Belmakian clerk
herself, or with Erin present as a witness, one or the other option
preferred by the Abbot to assuage a Belmakian sense of propriety?

And oddly, for all that the ruler would cause less harm than the tools
of her Underdark past, in a sense, Laquendi found herself dreading
facing that tool of correction even more. Because IF the Belmakians went
down that path, Laquendi felt that she deserved to face whatever they
had in store for her, which hurt at an entirely different level than the
far more fearsome horrors inflicted by an Enemy. Correction handed out
by an ally… and one that those beginning to become close to her saw as
their Leader, would hurt not just her body, but her soul.

And if it came to that, would Laquendi submit? She… was not entirely
certain. Quite possibly, she would. “Fireball everything in sight” was
an odd thought that percolated up into her thoughts, and was promptly
discarded. Not just because at the moment, such an act was not possible.
All of her Fireballs had been expended in the Waterworks, and no more
would be available until she could fit in another Arcane spell
preparation cycle. But more importantly, she knew that at a fundamental
level, Fireballs were not called for. If anyone deserved to have a
portion of themselves warmed just now, it was Laquendi herself, and not
the Holy Man or his assistant.

Again, the silver haired elf felt kinship to the protagonist in those
strange fleeting Vision memories. Laquendi, like the subject of those
memories, had messed up, and was just as determined not to let those who
depended upon her down. And that meant facing the music.

If only it would start.

After a protracted silence, the Abbot finally spoke. “You know you’re
not truly in my chain of command?”

“Yes,” the small silver-haired Elf responded, “I realised the moment the
words left my mouth. That said, should you request I recuse myself from
leadership positions, I will comply - the overall mission is legions
more important than one person.”

Ben nodded, and gravely replied, “I am glad that on that much, at least,
we clearly agree.”

Had Laquendi not already been standing at attention, she would have
squared her shoulders, but she was already standing poka pole straight,
head up, shoulders back. “Before we begin,” she stated resolutely, “I
freely admit wrongdoing, and only ask that you understand that any fault
lies solely with me, and not in ANY way with any in my Command, as brief
as it may last.”

For several long moments, the Abbot stared hard at the elf standing
before his desk. Finally, he spoke. “Laquendi, Laquendi,” he sighed.
“Whatever are we to do with you?”

Laquendi couldn’t help it as she felt her gaze sneak over to the nearest
chair that she still felt was about to be a focal point of what was to
come, before returning to stare back at the Abbot, not quite
understanding where this line of interrogation was going. Was this not
supposed to be the extensive question and answer session designed to
prove that she was at fault and was fully deserving of everything that
was about to happen to her? But just as the protagonist in those odd
memories learned, silence was not an option available to her.

“Your Grace?” she asked quietly.

Ben shook his head sadly. “Why do you place so little value on yourself?”

Various answers immediately sprang to mind, and Laquendi’s facile mind
quickly sorted through them to find the most fitting. But before she
could answer, the Abbot gently held up an interrupting hand.

“I am going to be rude and ask that you indulge me in a few minutes of
uninterrupted speech,” Ben stated with gentle firmness. “Can you do that
for me?”

Bemused, Laquendi nodded her agreement. This was NOT part of the script
that her strange Vision inspired memories suggested that she was to
follow. Where was the extensive interrogation to get her to agree to her
guilt? Even if this was something to which Laquendi had already
confessed. A long monologue did not fit this pattern… but perhaps the
Abbot was used to handling the preludes to his judgement in a different
form than… whoever it was who had played the Disciplinarian in that odd
partly remembered Vision.

“What I am about to say,” the Holy Man continued, “is to be considered
covered by the Seal of the Confessional. Is that understood?” Off to the
side, Sister Erin readily nodded her assent, and after a moment, so too
did Laquendi.

“Good,” the Abbot continued. “As Sister Erin has not before heard any of
these details, and will only hear those that are needful, understanding
that nothing is to leave this tent.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sister Erin replied quietly.