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Halt,
I look forward to seeing you at the Gathering in a month, as it means I can finally YELL AT YOU for not returning my letters as frequently as I return yours. If I, the Commandant of the Corps, forever stuck in my office with paperwork, has the time to write correspondence with my best friend, you absolutely have enough time to return them.
Fix this. By the Gathering. Or else.
-Ranger Commandant Crowley
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Crowley, you insufferable man,
I’m responding. Are you happy? In all your time you take to write me these letters, did you consider that patrolling Redmont and training no other than Gilan Davidson as an apprentice gets infuriatingly time consuming. I know you miss me, but take it out on some other stretched-thin soul.
Gilan is obnoxiously loud and has a penchant for mischief. I too look forward to the Gathering so I can set him loose on you instead of myself. Just yesterday, he snuck all of our coffee mugs into the tree out front. He proceeded to tell me it was muggy outside, as he drank coffee from A BOWL. A BOWL, Crowley.
So pardon me, if I am slow in response. I have been attacked by a sixteen-year-old devil, and am expected to train him for the next five years. Lay off me, or every letter from here until I die will be written in Gallic.
-Halt O’Carrick, Ranger 2.
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Crowley scowled at the letter he held, his best friend’s infuriatingly perfect handwriting swooping across the page.
I’ll show him, that bastard.
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Halt,
Gallic, you say? If you even dare, I will personally take it upon myself to send you enough paperwork to run the Araluen military for two years. Do not test me. Respond with haste.
-Your very angry boss who also controls your payroll, in case that reminder is needed.
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When Crowley opened his next letter, only two sentences were on it.
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An áit thíos atá ceapaithe duit, a dhiabhal. Briseadh agus brú ort, a chonách san ort!
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Crowley stared. He had no idea Halt was serious about writing in Gallic. After staring at the parchment for several seconds, he deemed it incomprehensible.
I’ll have to go find a scribe… Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose.
Pushing his chair back, he trudged two floors down the spiral staircase to the main floor of the castle, and walked calmly (stomped) to the head scribemaster’s office.
“Vincent, I need you.” He slammed the door open, fuming.
Curse Halt and his multilingual, maddening-
Oh.
Vincent wasn’t in his office, but his assistant, Hugo, was.
Hugo looked up at him nervously. He had broad shoulders, and a bulky frame; and Crowley guessed that he would be around twenty years old. His dark skin shone in the torchlight and his tousled hair tended to have a habit of falling into his eyes; which now stared at him in disguised fear.
“Scribemaster Vincent is on the upper floor, with-"
Crowley cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Just tell me where I can find him,” he said, struggling to keep the impatience out of his voice.
Hugo looked like he was about to say something, then he stopped himself.
“Upstairs, third door on your right.”
Crowley curtly nodded his acknowledgment and left, not bothering to close the door behind him.
Hugo stared after the disappearing Ranger.
“…You’re welcome?”
Man, I do not get paid enough for this.
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Crowley practically flew up the stairs. There were two guards stationed in front of the double doors. The one on the left nodded to him, and he took that as her approval and identification, so he opened the doors and burst in.
"Vincent, finally. I-"
Crowley stopped short. Vincent looked up at him from where he was sitting at a council table with King Duncan and eight other advisors.
“Commandant Crowley,” the Scribemaster greeted him. “Is whatever you need urgent? Could one of my other scribes be of service instead?”
Beside him, Duncan was trying very hard not to laugh.
Crowley shot the king a glare, before turning back to the older man. “No, no, Scribemaster, it’s not urgent. I just needed a translator, but Icangogetoneofthelowerscribesinsteadit’sreallynoproblem.” He took a breath. “I will, ahm, leave you to it.” He fumbled.
Vincent tilted his head at him. “Very well. Ask Carter, he should be in the office next to mine.”
“Okay.” Crowley mumbled, flurrying out of the room.
He ignored the looks the guards gave him as he left.
They don’t exist, they don’t exist, stop looking at them, they don’t exist.
He climbed back up the stairs, and also pretended that Hugo didn’t exist. Then he opened up what he presumed to be Carter’s office. (Very calmly. He had more than learned his lesson from before.)
“Excuse me, Scribe Carter? I have some correspondence that needs translating.”
The man at the desk glanced up from where he was pouring over his work. Carter adjusted his glasses and gently pushed the papers to the side.
“Commandant. Let me see how I can be of service.”
Crowley slid the letter across the desk, "This should be in Gallic, and I can’t read it. Can you translate it?”
Carter held up the paper to the light squinting at it. Crowley sighed in impatience and plonked into a chair in the corner.
After a few minutes, Carter scribbled something on the bottom with a frown and returned the paper. “I can’t read this. I don’t know what language it’s from, but it’s certainly not Gallic. Perhaps it’s a variation of Nihon Jan? Send it over to Miranda next door, and tell her to look at it for you.”
Crowley huffed in exasperation. “Fine. Thanks for your time.”
Miranda was a middle-aged woman with long shiny black hair, and finely chiseled features, it turned out. A ghost of a smile played her lips as she inspected the note on the bottom.
“Sorry, I can’t help you either.” She shrugged apologetically. “Perhaps it’s Pictish? I hear Ella Lakehart is good at that.”
Crowley ran a hand down his face.
“Where can I find her?”
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Twenty-nine scribes later, he wound up in the archives, where Vincent was giving a lecture to about forty trainees.
“Vincent, I’m sorry to bother you again, but I really need your help.”
The pale man studied the Commandant. His red hair was askew and his face looked as tired as if he had been run over by a thousand carriages.
He took the parchment handed to him, inspecting the words.
“Lucky for you, sir, I happen to be giving a lecture on this right now.” He said, smoothing the paper out. “Class, this letter reads: ‘An áit thíos atá ceapaithe duit, a dhiabhal. Briseadh agus brú ort, a chonách san ort.’. Who can tell me what language this is from?”
A student in the front raised his hand eagerly. “Hibernian!”
“Yes, Michael; it is indeed. And would you please read the note at the bottom from Scribe Carter, Kyra?”
He passed the letter to a girl whom Crowley had met earlier, on his mad hunt for a translator.
The girl read it aloud, faltering slightly under the stern look that Vincent was giving her.
“So, then. Clearly the Scribeschool needs to have a lesson on respect and integrity. How many of you personally wasted Ranger Crowley’s time today?”
Hands slowly raised around the room.
“Right. Very well. All of you report to my office tomorrow morning for the briefing you will need to write the essay I just assigned. Dismissed.”
Groans echoed throughout the room as the students gathered their things and left.
Vincent turned to Crowley.
“My scribes seem to think it is very amusing to put angry letters addressed to persons in prominent positions on display for the world; and for that I apologize. It will not happen again.” He turned to leave.
Crowley grabbed his shoulder. “Vincent, what does the paper say?”
“Your mystery note reads: ‘It is the place below that is meant for you, you devil. Strife and stress upon you, it serves you right!’.”
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Redmont
1 week later…
Halt was in a good mood. Gilan was at Castle Redmont with MacNeil to practice his swordsmanship, and the more recent brigand of bandits had been rounded up.
It’s been a good day, he thought to himself as he sipped his coffee on the veranda.
Thumbing through his mail, he found an unopened letter from Crowley.
Halt smiled wolfishly at it.
This should be interesting.
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The gathering went mostly uneventful this year, aside from Halt, Ranger of Redmont, being shoved into the river by the Commandant, Crowley Meratyn.
Duncan raised his eyebrows at the report in his hand.