The Southern Gate [POST HERE FIRST]

“A…” He falters, allowing his eyes to wander as Serafine closes to a distance at which he can properly appraise her assets. The guard to his left elbows him.

He continues, “A-a spy for Goraia, presumably. The First and Second Legions are in the process of invading Medan, and we suspect - rightfully so - that the ploughin’ whoresons who run Goraia will retaliate. Send an army or spies or mages or somesuch to Isra to have a go at us. As such, we’ve orders not to let anyone past who cannot present valid citizenship paperwork or get the approval of Mr. Orville.”

With both of his hands occupied, the guard tilts his head backward and to his left, suggesting that Mr. Orville is behind him somewhere, perhaps within the structure of the gate or in the city. However, his eyes remain focused on Serafine, still in the process of appreciating her features.

“He’s with the Ministry of Immigration,” the guard offers as an afterthought.

“Well…” the soldier begins, leaning on his spear (which incidentally serves to give him a better view).

But before he can go any further, another voice cuts in somewhat loudly, that of the soldier to his immediate right. “The Kingdom of Medan was once a mighty and proud land. The first civilization to rise in the wake of The Cataclysm.”

The man speaking seems to have a few years on our impressionable guard, as evidenced by his neatly cut beard and the wrinkles visible on his face. His helmet remains on his head, as per regulation. He strikes one as something of a veteran, one who has seen much and lived to tell about it.

“I was a member of its army. Served on many deployments and fought in Medan’s defense against those who wished to see it crumble. … But the fatal blow was struck from within. In a coup led by one called Zephidel , The Venerable King Hylon Eremae was murdered, as was his son, Prince Evrand Eremae. Zephidel declared himself Lord of Goraia, and Medan was gone.”

The intonation of his voice, especially as he mentions Zephidel, convey that the man has very strong feelings about the matter, but is keeping them reigned in in the interest of composure.

“I was, at the time, stationed at the northern border, and as thus, was able to escape along with some of my comrades and nearby citizens. We walked to Isra, where we were accepted with open arms and given what we needed to begin new lives. Since then, Lord Zephidel has disappeared and Empress Jill has risen in his place, and the state of Goraia has committed multiple heinous atrocities. To begin with, they used the remains of the army and navy to sail to Sakand - that was city-state far down south - and seized it. Captured it in an act of war, killed whoever was in charge and put one of their own in charge. It has been their vassal since then. They have also treated their citizens as cattle. There are many rumors, and it’s often hard to tell how much is exaggeration, but I hear that they work people to the death in the mines, practice slavery, utilise foul dark magics to affect the minds of their soldiers and defend their holdings, and either kill or put into prison any who oppose their rule.”

At this point, he’s almost spitting words and seems somewhat red in the face, gripping his spear very tightly.

“It’s despicable. Despicable and vile and awful and terrible in every way, both in an objective sense and to see a kingdom that was once so great, once my home, descend into the depths of that cruel, totalitarian regime. So much so that Lady Naoki has - after far too long - declared war, and invaded Medan with the intention of removing the Goraian government. Hasn’t said what she intends to do with Medan after that, but she can’t do much worse than those traitorous bastards have done.”

Here, he offers something of a shrug, though a very obviously angry, ruffled sort of shrug.

“But we’ve not the time to spend chatting, you. We’ve got to stand here and look out over the plains for another four hours, watching for retaliation that those bastards are too scared to send, rather than fighting to retake Medan, chatting about world events with every minx that turns up, or doing anything productive with our time. So either present your papers, go see that Orville prick, or get to stepping.”

At this, the younger guard shoots the elder a glare. He would very much like to continue chatting. This is the most interesting event to have happened so far today, will probably remain as such for the rest of the week, and Serafine is the most beautiful and immodestly dressed woman to have willingly come within five feet of him in absolute ages. Yet the elder guard, while not his direct superior, carries seniority and presents truth, to an extent that his superiors would likely side with the older if it came to any sort of dispute.

The younger guard clenches and unclenches his left hand a few times, staring at her chest and trying to figure what all he should do, before - rather than saying anything - contorting his face in what he thinks to be a charming and roguish smile. In reality, many women might describe his facial expression it as ‘rude’, or ‘off-putting’, and may question if he might be about to vomit. Still, the intention is transparent enough.

As her hand reaches out, the older guard’s gauntleted hand moves up to intercept it, stopping her hand about a foot from his face by blocking her wrist from moving forward. He does not grab or push, but she’d need to at least adjust her angle to get at him. His expression is stern, irritated, and mildly disgusted. As much as the conscientious individual tries not to judge one by their appearance, Serafine is, to the elder of the two guards, reminiscent of someone he once knew and didn’t very much like: a soothsayer he had once been taken to and treated by in his childhood.

Though the younger guard seems somewhat jealous, he does offer a tidbit, “Damn right they will. Aside from the fact that their army is ragged, undersupplied and largely unwilling and our army is backed with all the industrial and economic might of Isra, Lady Naoki has some <i>reeal </i>scary sorts at her command. … I was near the High Marshal once. He stared at me, and I still have nightmares about it. If even half of what they say about him is true…”

The younger guard shivers a bit, evidently somewhat afraid of the man of which he speaks.

“Glad I’m on this side,” he offers as an afterthought. He seems mildly displeased with himself for choosing to speak of his own fear.

At this point, a voice interjects loudly from above, from the direction of the top of the gate. It’s a man’s voice, though the source isn’t immediately visible, and one with a bit of a heavy Gauldish accent, at that, “Ve vill not let you in illegally evhen if you blow the entire garrison. It vould cost us our jobs.”

At this, the elder of the two guards immediately before her offers a solemn nod. If it were only the two of them, or even ten or so guards, Serafine may have been able to persuade them with charm. As it stands, though, there are at least twenty soldiers visible, men and women both, on both sides of the gate, and evidently, more that are not visible, patrolling along the wall and within the structure of the gate.

“Wait!” the younger man calls as she turns to leave. He raises his left hand toward her, causing his helmet to fall and knock into his shin on the way down.

He winces, and curses under his breath, but continues, “If you’ve nothing to hide, just speak to Mister Orville! Pompous as he is, he’s reasonable. If he doesn’t see a spy of you, he’ll write you a pass into the city. It’s not as if we’re to deny everyone who would like to come in, just have to have a look at them first, is all.”

He seems somewhat desperate, having developed something of a liking for the exotic woman. The elder of the guards doesn’t seem particularly pleased with his comrade's conduct - he would rather she just go -, but if she wishes to get into the city, she could very well talk to Orville, get a pass, and then never cross his sight again, so it’s all the same to him, really.

“Him?” The younger guard jerks to point a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the gate.

He then chuckles a bit to himself before continuing, “Nah. That’s eh… Frank. Or Franz, maybe. Or something - something Gauldish, I don’t know him, he’s not part of our Cohort...”

“It’s Fabron!” interjects the voice once again, evidently still eavesdropping.

“Whatever!” calls back the younger of the guards, somewhat angrily. Turning his attention back to Serafine, he continues, “Mister Orville is within the gate, he’s got a little office-”

“Doesn’t like the sun on his skin,” the elder interjects with no small amount of animosity directed toward Orville.

Though he seems somewhat ruffled by the constant interrupting, the younger guard persists, “I’ll… I'll take you to him if you want.” He seems somewhat hesitant, as it is clear that he would like to, but he isn't quite comfortable proposing such a thing to Serafine. His confidence waxes and wanes, it seems.

For the space of several moments, the younger guard is floored. There’s a woman, a comely and exotic one, at that, this close to him, touching his armor and calling him ‘valiant’ such. Close enough to smell, even. … Smells of bear, among other things.

The senior guard rolls his eyes audibly and averts his gaze.

Then the younger guard recovers somewhat, and tilts his head to the left, toward the interior of the gate. The gate’s design is one of a standard sort, wherein there are a series of doors and portcullises are supported by two towers to either side, linked in the middle. Visible, there are two portcullises, one down, one up, and the bottoms of two wooden looking somethings. Likely doors that could be dropped. The whole thing is quite large in both height and width, wide enough to accommodate several carts side by side, and tall enough to fit all of the humanoids that have visited Isra to date.

Additionally, there are two small, person sized doors on the side of the gate that is Serafina’s left, one on the outside, and another on the inside, visible through the holes in the portcullis. They are very sturdy looking doors, of hard and thick wood, reinforced with metal in many places and, if Serafina has an ability by which she can sense magic, enchanted in some manner as well.

It is to the nearer of these two doors that the young guard leads Serafina. It seems to be unlocked, as it pulls open by a strong pull alone. Within, there’s something of a small and narrow hallway, leading across to what is presumably the wall of the structure of the gate. Against this wall, a wooden ladder is visible, leading upward. To the left, there is a wall. To the right, there is a single, decidedly less sturdy looking door roughly in the middle of the short hallway.

Assuming that Serafina is still following her and her bear remains where it is, the younger guard leads inward, to the door, upon which he knocks.

“Come in,” a voice sounds from within. It is the sort of voice that one might expect a professor or member of high society to have, with marked enunciation, a bit of an accent, and always one to say all of a word without slang or shortenings.

Pushing the door inward with his left hand, the young guard stands facing Serafina, blocking the way further down the hall, but presenting the room for her to enter. He offers her a small sort of unsure smile as she comes back into his sight, but does not address her, rather speaking to his left, to the man in the room.

“A woman wishing to enter the city without paperwork, Mr. Orville,” he presents her as such and continues to hold the door open.

If Serafina were to continue forward and look into the room, she would see it to be, as stated, a small office. Its meager floorspace is dominated by a desk far too large for the room, sitting just to the right of the door. Behind it, a man sits in a chair, of the padded leather variety.

The man, Orville, seems to be one of middling age, but one who has aged gracefully. No wrinkles marr his face and no gray hairs rest upon his head, the only manners by which one might think him to be as old as he is his beard - brown like his hair, unruly, and covering much of the bottom of his face and neck - and the look in his eyes. It’s the sort of look that young people simply do not have, that conveys seniority and a supreme lack of care for how things go. He is wearing a doublet of black and silver and has a badge pinned near his lapel, bearing Isra’s sun insignia and a second seal which is presumably that of the Ministry of Immigration.

One might begin to wonder how he got behind the desk, as it stretches from wall to wall and there does not seem to be any sort of door back there. What is back there is actually a pair of small bookcases, both all but stuffed. One book sits on the desk, closed, but with the tassel of a bookmark protruding from the end. There does not seem to be any title on its visible face or the spine, it is simply bound in blue leather. Along with it on the desk is a candle, lit and one of the two sources of light in the room.

The other source of light is a torch, hung in a sconce on the wall Orville is facing. Below it is a painting of high quality, but questionable content. It seems to depict a woman with nothing particularly interesting about her, dressed well and drawn in a flattering way, but otherwise without any defining characteristics. Someone important to Orville, perhaps.

If Serafine proceeds to enter the room, Orville would beckon, suggesting that she seat herself in the low-backed seat opposite him, directly in front of the door.

He nods once, and responds simply, “I am.”

Then his eyes begin to wander as he begins to speak, “It is my task, as an officer of the Ministry of Immigration, to screen prospective visitors to the city, lest anything untoward happen.”

The way he says it, one might suspect he’s referring to something in particular as far as ‘untoward’ events go, but he does not elaborate. To Serafine’s right, she would be able to see out of the corner of her eye, the young guard hesitantly swinging the door shut and then hear him shuffling his way back outside, the larger door shutting behind him.

Mr. Orville continues, still eyeing her, “Let’s begin by talking a bit about you. I should like to know such things as your name, place of origin, current residence and such. Tell me about yourself.”

Leaning back about as much as he can given the cramped nature of his workspace, Orville folds his hands in his lap and adopts a contemplative sort of listening expression, prepared to hear whatever she has to say.

Continuing to nod quietly to himself, Orville listens. From a drawer in the desk, he takes out a single, blank, bit of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. Setting all of these on the surface of the desk, he dips the quill and sets it to the parchment, murmuring to himself as he begins to write.

“One Ms. Serafine… visiting… from an as of yet unclaimed territory… reason: tourism. That all sound correct?”

Assuming Serafine offers a positive response, he continues silently, glancing between her and the parchment. If Serafine were to read his writing, she would see that he is making notes about her appearance.

Female; looks to be 25-35; black eyes; dark markings on face, more on upper body and arms, draconic figure on left lower arm; bright red hair, to waist…

He goes on to make some more notes about her appearance, build and such. Then he places the quill down, leans forward, and folds his hands on the desk’s surface as he begins to address her again, “Tell me… where have you been recently? You speak of a home in a bayou, about how far have you traveled from your home to reach Isra, and in which direction? Did you come straight here, or stop in any other settled areas?”

Orville returns his gaze to his paper and continues to make intermittent notes as Serafine continues, but looks up when she suggests that he asks too many questions. For a moment, he just stares.

Then he opens his mouth as if to say something, to perhaps defend himself or yell, but stops himself, pressing his lips together and forcing his focus back down to finish with what he’s writing. A few moments later, seemingly finished, he signs his name at the bottom and begins to reach into another drawer of his desk.

As he does, he begins to speak, somewhat more tersely than before, “This is your pass. It allows you to pass in and out of Isra freely for the next month. If you need another pass at the end of the month, visit The Citadel or come back to this office. Keep it on you at all times, and present it to city officials when asked to. Unless it is officially rescinded, they ought to always give it back to you.”

From within the desk, he takes a sort of seal, evidently with an adhesive on one side, and presses it onto the parchment next to his signature. Then he turns the paper about and slides it across the desk to Serafine.

“I don’t suppose you know Isra’s laws, do you.”

This is a statement, and he follows it up by bending to reach into yet another drawer. From it, he pulls a smaller bit of paper dense with small lettering. This too, he slides across the desk to Serafine. She would be able to see that at the top, it is titled “Isra’s Laws”. Then it proceeds to detail the laws of Isra as they might be applicable to one visiting the city. A fair number of them are applicable only to traveling merchants.

Then, another thought occurs to him, and he quirks an eyebrow in her direction, and hesitates for a moment before asking, “Can you read these?”

Both of the papers are written in the common language and script.