Regan was an absurd creature. Even now with a dangerous mission close at hand, she watched Warren with girlish, smitten rapture. Regan was painfully aware of his movements, of the way he formed his words, her gaze wandering every now and then before snapping back into place. She was listening—she was—but clearly, the seriousness of the conversation wasn’t enough to drag her mind entirely out of whatever depraved place it had taken up permanent residence.

But yes, the attacks.

Regan hadn’t entirely meant to let that bit slip, but she’d been trying to illustrate a point. She perhaps should have bee more aware that @berengar was not military leadership or anything close to it. Some things weren’t for his ears and information about what Isolde had been up to might fall into that category. But truth be told, Regan wasn’t entirely sure. But it turned out Ber had information of his own to share.

Regan dragged her eyes away from Warren to focus on Ber. Grissa. It wasn’t a name that Regan was familiar with, but she scribbled it down in the metaphorical mental notes as someone to follow up with. Strange about the letter to the commander though. Regan put that on her mental list as well.

“I have nothing to do with the gathering, but Ambassador Prowze (@norah ) might know more. Odina Ellis is to be installed as governor, so I’d imagine it has something to do with that.” Regan was a dog, set to fetch. She didn’t know about any plans beyond her own. Again, she turned her attention to Ber.

“Well, hopefully, there are more people like Grissa out there that aren’t drinking from Isolde’s cup,” She looked back at Warren, “The Cambrian women that are getting branded; it seems Isolde is the mastermind. Or the puppetmaster, more like.”

Bellatrix let the hens hash out the political background, even as a woman Othello assumed it didn't matter the cock or cooch that they were the political sort. Man or woman he was the muscle here, Belle/Othello would do whatever Regan requested of him.

Ambassador Prowze. Stiffening slightly at the name, Ber wistfully entertained the hope that Nevermere had sent multiple ambassadors to Cambria, but the overwhelming suspicion that his luck would never allow such a boon crushed the wish almost immediately. Though his interaction with Norah the evening before hadn’t gone downhill, he didn’t think either of them had parted ways particularly eager to seek out the other’s company if only because of the associated memories. If Woodwick planned to ask the ambassador about tomorrow’s meeting, Ber rather hoped the captain would leave him behind.

He also hoped Regan was wrong with her guess, and with the realizations falling into place, he turned back to her, newfound alarm written clearly across his face. “Wait, no, that doesn’t—” The protest came immediately, but the sound of Woodwick’s voice had him subsiding. His worries followed the line of the captain’s questioning, distracting him from the other man’s clear frustration. Why would anyone say anything about that now? Even hinting at Odina’s installation as governor before removing Isolde seemed dangerously like tempting fate: daring those loyal to her, however many there were, to rebel before their leader was apprehended. Unless the messenger had received his orders from the king himself, whoever had called that meeting had no clue as to the operation they would be interrupting. Ber might not know the intricacies of politics or why no one seemed to be telling anyone anything, but he knew that fighting a snake was a lot easier once its head had been cut off.

He rubbed his forehead. Maybe they could at least check that the announcement didn’t include anything incriminating. “If he’s not leading this gathering,” Ber said, gesturing to Woodwick, “then who would be?” Despite his best efforts, a note of mystified incredulity still entered his voice as he wrestled with the realization that the leaders whose orders he was expected to follow apparently knew as little as he did. Unless the king or the captain commander planned to make an appearance, Ber couldn’t think of anyone who had the authority to go over Woodwick’s or Regan’s heads, so had the two of them missed something or had they been intentionally left in the dark? He glanced between the other three before his gaze settled on Regan again. “If you’re right, I really think we need to make sure they’re not going to give anything away about what you two are doing tomorrow.”

Maybe a better soldier would fine with blindly following orders that seemed organized to get them killed, but in the time since the ball, Ber was not nearly so trusting. Regan and Othello had their magic to protect them, Woodwick had the benefit of being important, but Ber? Othello might have had faith in him, but the street rat was painfully aware that he was no one and effectively had only his sword to protect him against an unknown number of hostile Cambrians. If - when? - something went wrong, he was more likely to die than anyone else in this room because he was expendable and, relatively speaking, weak.

Berengar Stormcrest wanted very much to not die.

Even the sickening disgust that settled in the pit of his stomach at the mention of Isolde branding her own people - and the inherent reminder it posed of atrocities in other kingdoms - couldn’t entirely distract him from his concerns because he could only stop the branding in Dresmond if he survived Cambria first. And Ber had started to suspect that despite everyone claiming otherwise, when push came to shove, surviving the military was a lot like surviving the streets: in the end, the only one looking out for him - the only one capable of looking out for him - was himself.

Regan was not a politician. Not one who made a habit of questioning or thinking beyond the task she’d been assigned. She was exactly what her title advertised her to be: a Huntsman. A dog that the king let off its chain to do his bidding—not someone who dabbled in more complicated matters. Warren’s frustration was evident though, making Regan wonder if she should be irritated. She assumed that Norah would have briefed Warren on the brandings. But then maybe that was Hadrian’s responsibility. Regan wasn’t sure, but it would seem that somewhere there was a piece that had been missed. Her brow settled into a deep, guilty furrow.

“At night. In and out, in the dark. When the rest of Cambira wakes up, Isolde will be long gone. She’s been known to go off before—some of their little religious pilgrimages I guess—so as long as we’re not caught at the scene, hopefully, people will assume she’s left of her own volition.”

What Regan didn’t know was that some of Isolde’s ‘religious pilgrimages’ had been her secretly meeting with Rian and Kaalim. But that was neither here nor there.

Regan answered Ber's question about the gathering with a shrug. She didn't know. She'd hopefully be back in Nevermere by then.

“Tomorrow night,” Ber repeated flatly. “After the meeting tomorrow morning that may or may not be about the very covert operation you’re going to be trying to complete.” If the worst case scenario was realized and the announcement was about Odina, then he still suspected that at least some people would find her disappearance and the Princess’s return and immediate installment suspicious. In silence, Ber looked from Regan to Othello to Woodwick and shook his head. A quiet huff with all of the spirit but none of the blatant disrespect of a bitter snort escaped him.

Filled with unexpected betrayal accompanied by the little voice telling him that he should have known better than to expect anything of the military anyway, Ber put the blame for the obvious failure of Nevermere’s leadership to communicate anything of worth to each other on the Huntsman, the Captain, and the Campion. They were the highest ranking officials in the room and, as far as he knew, in Cambria, so they both represented and answered to the shortcomings of themselves and their superiors, regardless of their own opinions on the matter.

Someone had to speak for the expendable men and women who would pay for this potential disaster with their lives, and as the only one in the room who fit into that category, the task fell to him. “I know we’re all just foot-soldiers,” He addressed the room in general, eyes on some nondescript part of the wall, “and we’re probably never going to grow old.”

Ber had no choice but to follow orders. If they told him to die, he was supposed to throw himself on the sword - or in front of the hostile Cambrian - but he could damn well do his best to make sure his words haunted those who would so unnecessarily send him there. Those for whom survival was almost certainly guaranteed, whether through rank or ability or both.

“But I would have thought we’d mean enough to someone to not just toss us into fights that could be avoided.” After the parade and the tournament and all that talk about being Nevermere’s finest. “If only because you just spent all that time kicking our asses and discharging everyone who wasn’t good enough.” He shook his head again and only just managed to bite back his final statement, though it likely hung in the air regardless: Guess I was wrong.

Well, maybe it was better to find out now than in Dresmond. If he even made it to Dresmond. He took a deep breath, allowed himself one more moment to feel the sting, then began to pack away the hurt in favor of wrapping himself in the protective numbness of resignation. Anything else felt far too raw, and, really, what was the difference between the indifference of powerful men on the streets and that of powerful men in the military?

“Fine.” He looked at Regan, forcing himself to release the tension in his shoulders. “So we get ready for backlash and Odina’s installation?”

Belle or Othello when he spoke would think he was the realist of the group that filter was off too when he giggled during his reply to Ber, "sorry sugar, people in all walks of life are expendable...we're just shit blood and cum...some just die and the rest of us just get to wade and waller through," Belle stretched, "but...but," she realized she had said that out loud, "Don't take my word for it.."

Regan watched Ber as he spoke, her heart sinking. It was a mistake to bring him into the room. The nature of covert operations required their secrecy. Keeping the pretense that Isolde left of her own volition and not as the result of a Nevermerean kidnapping demanded secrecy — even from their own. But Ber didn’t understand. Looking at him now, Regan saw a kid. A boy who’d gotten his feelings hurt, and was carrying that bitterness around with him. Warren had reason to be angry, Regan acknowledged that, but Ber? The nature of the military meant doing what you were told. Assuming risk, and not asking questions. What was pity at first mingled with disappointment.

He’d been given a second chance after the ball. Regan thought Ber would let go of the resentment that had surfaced there, but it would seem…perhaps not. It still was enough to have him speaking things that weren’t his to say in front of a superior (though Regan did not know that Warren and Ber had an understanding beyond the ordinary Captain-to-underling dynamic).

She was grateful Warren intervened with calm reason because Regan’s next words would have had a little more bite to them than would have been helpful. She was equally grateful when Warren suggested they speak alone. It was what Regan should have done in the first place—a mistake that was hers alone. She nodded once, expression severe. Regan would make for the exit. When she passed Ber, she put her hand on his shoulder, face quite close to his.

“Watch yourself, Ber,” She said quietly, with big-sisterly sternness and care, “We all make sacrifices. We all have frustrations. But you voice them to anyone outside this room…” Regan let the sentence trail off ominously before squeezing his shoulder and following Warren out the door.

[ EXIT REGAN ]

Ber looked at Othello and bit back the urge to correct him. Equally mortal? Yes, in theory at least. One way or another, everyone would die. But equally expendable? Not at all. Everyone cared a whole lot more when some people died than they did when anyone else kicked the bucket. Otherwise someone would have cared enough to make sure that everyone giving the orders was on the same page, to make sure that they wouldn’t unnecessarily provoke however many Cambrians into a hasty defense of Isolde in the long hours between the meeting in the morning and nightfall when Regan and Othello would actually go to arrest the Priestess. Instead they were apparently willing to throw away lives like children tossing aside toys once they had finished playing with them.

Whatever.

Woodwick drew his attention next, speaking with the calm confidence that Ber had come to expect from the man, though the revelations of the past discussion threw it into doubt. The captain invited the huntsman to a private conversation, which was just as well because the soldier was ready for this entire meeting to be over. Ber, however, didn’t get to leave; he was to stay with the disguised Othello instead. Not particularly happy, he nodded his understanding, and when Regan approached with her warning, he silently nodded again.

Regan didn’t have to worry about that. Ber might have lacked the self-awareness to recognize that it was precisely because of who was in the room that he’d felt comfortable enough to speak his mind, but he did know that the only other people with whom he might have dared to share such frustrations lived in a cottage on the edge of Skia.

With a quiet click, four became two. Wishing he could escape the confines of the suddenly-too-small room as well, Ber glanced toward the closed door. He wanted to do something more active than stand around, something that would distract him from the discussion they had just held. Taking another deep breath, he ran his hands down his face before beginning to walk a lap of the room for lack of anything else to do, noting with idle curiosity the sparse belongings on each side of the space as he passed them. “Are you really not—” He found himself starting to ask earnestly before cutting himself off with a shake of the head. Searching for something else to occupy his mind, Ber asked instead, “How are you not going to go crazy from boredom in here? There’s nothing to do.”

Belle was squatting beside her bedroll, curious brown eyes following Warren and then Regan...curiouser and curiouser she was starting to figure about them two. She didn't react or respond at first to little walk about Berengar he was sorting his own shit out and she wasn't a counselor, he was smart enough to figure it out.

Then he started to ask something, stopped, Belle grunted, and he asked probably something entirely different she was sure about boredom.

"I've got tits now sugar, how can a man be bored with his own set of tits?" she answered like she thought the question was stupid before asking, "Are you really not- what Stormcrest? Speak your mind, you heard her you can say whatever the fuck you want here...'are you really not-what?'"

Othello’s answer had Ber snorting, amused despite himself, and looking over at where the Champion knelt by his bedroll. He had spoken as if it were the obvious response, which Ber supposed was fair enough given that he couldn’t count the number of soldiers in the barracks who would undoubtedly turn to the same kind of entertainment. Following that particular line of thought, he opened his mouth to ask what it was like being in a woman’s body when Othello tossed a question at him instead.

After a brief pause, Ber lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I don’t know,” He said after a moment, glancing away before looking back at Othello. "You're just really..." Relaxed? Unperturbed? Unable to think of the right word, he gestured vaguely with one hand toward the Champion and decided that had to be explanation enough. “Are you really not bothered by anything that just happened? Or that might happen?”

"Does the guy with the collar around his neck get much of a say? They say and I do, honestly that's the Gifted legacy dogs to the Crown and country Ber, it created families like the Eldouir," Belle huffed removing the scarf around her neck revealing the nasty collar, she instantly began to scratch, "just know I agree with you, I heard you, do we matter in the grand scheme? No. We just have to adapt Ber...you're smart and trusted or you wouldn't know anything if you want the truth, Woodcock knows this or he wouldn't have picked you to come here. Tells me you are capable of figuring out ways to resolve what is or what will come."

Belle tapped her chin, "do you think their fucking around?"