#@curiobjd

[capsensislagamoprh]

Paper Army (3/?) "Sorcha," ground the dragon's voice from somewhere inside the mirage of a man.

"Uncle," she called back, pulling a smile onto her lips. "Good to see you. Nice human illusion. Is it new?"

The great dracolitch did not answer the direct question. He never did. His glowing eyes fastened on her. "What do you know of history?"

"History? I mean, I did okay in the exams, if that's what you're on about. Not exactly my ace subject. I mean, I'm not studying to be an archeologist."

Murry huffed a reply that sent papers flying. As the human apparition plucked forms from the air, neatly piling them back in order, its mouth opened and closed in a parody of speech. "I suppose that will have to do. Through that door," he said, indicating a mahogany egress pushing itself out of the wall at his will, "you will find clothes. Pick out something that suits your taste."

"Okay," she said skeptically, already heading towards the selection. "What's going on? Is there a celebration I have forgotten about?" Again, no answer. Turning her attention to the selections offered, she wondered about the old-fashioned cut and positively archaic lines. It was on the tip of her tongue to inquire, but after a long moment of crackling silence, she knew she'd get no reply. She'd only find out what was at the heart of all this by playing along. "I don't see any shoes," she called out a few minutes later. As the expected silence greeted her, Sorcha shoved her half tied boots back on.

"Murry?" she called out. "Murry, there are no shoes-" she got no further. A hand slammed into her back, ice-cold and painful. Stumbling, she turned, trying to figure out who and what. The scorch of brimstone stuck in her nostrils as the teleportation circle activated, pulling her down, even as it locked her into place. Then the floor fell away -  and Sorcha with it.

[capsensislagamoprh]

Another part, you say? *evil laughter* Paper Army (2/?)

"What do you mean it's gone?" Dhampir asked in a deceptively even tone.

"I mean it's gone. I have all the proper paperwork right here," said the clerk as he shuffled through the papers in one of the larger drawers in the old desk that dwarfed him. Everything seemed to tower over the young banker. From his robes to the hat he could barely fill out - a hat which was barely holding onto the puff of hair, doing its best to defy gravity. How old was this boy? He had to have passed his trials of manhood to work here, Dhampir knew, but did they hire him at just sixteen? He was way too young to have earned such a position, surely. All the other young men this clerk's age were out front greeting clients and doing smaller tasks as they learned the trade. Dhampir watched carefully for any mark of office - or note of priestly occupation - as the file was pushed across the scratched surface and flipped open. Dhampir found none, and concluded - not incorrectly - that this officer of the bank was a nepotism hire. It wasn't uncommon, but it didn't bode well.

"As you can see here, Sir, it's all been signed and approved," said the clerk with an appeasing edge to his voice. "Your own father authorized the withdrawals."

Dhampir lifted his eyes from the missive atop the piles of paperwork, catching the clerk in a practiced stare. "Lord."

"I… what?" the clerk said as if jerked from some pleasant revere.

"Lord. My father is Lord N'Resh, seventeenth Earl of Grove, bedecked with various other lesser titles and accompaniments, and you will address him - indeed all members of his lineage before or after - with correct familiarity, which is none." There was no quarter in his words, but he knew it was the colorless gleam behind his faded pink irises combined with the dusky white pallor of his skin that seemed to be doing the clerk in.

"Y-yes, M'lord. No disrespect. It's just that, well, as you can see here… it's been signed," the clerk finished lamely.

Dhampir's spidery fingers plucked up the note, scrutinizing it with great care. "This," he concluded with room chilling finality, "is forged."

The clerk stopped trying to look anywhere but at the angry lord in front of him, snatching away the paper, eyes bulging. "No, no, see, it says right here to release your funds into the care of your aunt for the foreseeable future. It's signed and sealed, and -"

"And," Dhampir cut into the prattle, "that is the seal of my cousin. A thirteen-year-old boy with sticky hands and no claims to the title, the lands or, indeed, my funds. Nor is that my father's signature."

The clerk pulled the letter so close to his face, Dhampir thought his nose would go right through the parchment. Taking it away, he spread it on the desk. "There is a key thing missing, you see," he explained, a slightly pink nail tapping the bottom of the page where no apostrophe separated the N and the R. "I am very sure, you will agree, that my father knows how to spell his own name."