The Sketch Rift: The Eternal Crusade

Martian Soil

"You see, the condition is both urgent and unusual among the Crusaders," Hemingway lectured to the Master Bringer. "What we must do --"

"You never told us, Hemingway," Soal frowned, Irene sharing his concern, "that Ivel is an alcoholic."

"It is common knowledge in Hendera and the Crusade," the pseudo-Sulukridger harrumphed, "that Ivel often struggled with his own drunkenness. This time, he spread hundreds of bottles among his Crusaders, most of whom refused the offer, only for the higher officers to insist. I am unsure of the purpose of this act, or who is the messenger of the alcohol that came to him at all. The issue even appalls me."

"Indeed!" Irene flashed her mentor (in a way) a disgraced expression, in a method of reference to Ivel's natural stubbornness. "When we encountered him prior to meeting with the Ambassador for the first time in Northwest Waise, his demeanor was slightly less than hospitable. Not exactly drunken, but... threatened."

"And yet have we discovered the root of his addiction," Hemingway pressed his chin against his supportive fist, clenched in frustration. "I expect you two to investigate this. It may... hmm... explain some of this hostility? And who knows; the Ambassador and I have concluded that it is an issue of value after all. I will remain in Counter's Hall, and I wish you a safe journey. Be wary."

*     *     *

Grant's Shrine, as it was known (for the former full name of Countess Lucille) tempted the arrival of Soal and Irene as they wandered tensely to Ivel's spoken whereabouts, once again alternating back and forth from pacing between two withered ferns, or scattering his foolscap documents here and there, attempting to culminate a further realization in his mind regarding the Ambassador's worth.

Spooked, the Commander's noticeably gray eyes widened to the point of alarm as he scrambled to exit the room upon the Master Bringer's entrance, unintentionally releasing his firm grip on his prized katana along the way, much to his continued mild panic. The scrolls of shorthand that once topped a central "coffee table" -- a Henderian architectural staple -- bounced across the room in a highly unnatural manner, a jar of ink toppling amid the chaos.

This was hardly an ideal situation for Ivel to participate in an interview -- rather, as he rushed to escape to privacy while hurriedly kneeling to retrieve his blade from the floor, Irene immediately enacted Hemingway's Plan B: to consult some of the soldiers among them. That, however, was impossible within Grant's Shrine, which was under Ivel's authority restricted solely to the Commander, some of his highest officers, and Moth.

Thus, they unanimously agreed to set forth from the monument and into the shallow valley just south of Hendera, in which most of the lower soldiers were repeatedly practicing their drills. On their faces, a scene of regret reigned supreme, aware of how this earlier event may have permanently marked their reputation; yet another blow after perpetual controversies riddled their institution. Supervising the crowds was a lean, drowsy-eyed woman, a constant swathe of uneasiness enveloping her emotional output. "Master Bringer, Ivel expected Charles Hemingway to send you h-here," she bowed slightly, her teeth chattering. "I don't suppose that you would prefer to speak with him? He is currently waist-deep in work."

Soal shot her a condescending eye before taking his turn. "We just came back from Grant's Shrine. Ivel is only heel-deep in work, and he is not expecting visitors anytime soon. Instead, I would rather opt for a chat with some of the very Crusaders who were impacted. Does that suit their needs?"

"Some of them must be much obliged to do so," the supervisor caressed her forehead as if plagued by deep-running worry. "The most exhausted in particular. I'll call some of them out now and see if they would prefer a conversation."

"Thank you," both members of the Master Bringer chimed simultaneously, barely attempting in any plausible way to break this habit. The face of anguish departed solemnly, immediately shattering the brief cheerfulness exerted a moment earlier. There must be something greater going on here, Soal's thoughts accumulated in his head. Well, other than the whole 'Ivel is an alcoholic' thing.

In the blink of an eye, the supervisor had ferried the two most exhausted Crusaders to the Master Bringer's location, in the most coincidental form possible. "May I present," she wheezed, "two of our comrades, Marshall and Emma."

Both Soal and Irene gasped in astonishment, a continued response from their approach in the past minute. Emma seemed very much identical to her past self, exhibiting an astoundingly small level of growth in the past six years. Marsh, on the other hand, soared at over six feet in height, despite remaining among the exhausted soldiers on the field. Their leathery gear, although lacking a spot of dirt any of the others did not have, appeared more refined when on these old friends from Soal's distant boarding school.

"I have a job here, too," the unidentified supervisor coughed into her arm, prior to waddling back to her initial position on the plain. "I shall be returning to my work. As for all of you, don't get into any trouble. The Commander has his consequences."

"So, it's been a while," Irene took a deep breath, willing to forge a more untarnished friendship this time. "Marsh, have you grown!"

"The stakes have grown, as well," Marsh's voice had matured the most, proudly pitying any childish speech that used to echo from his lips. "Yes, we know all about you. And it has become the Crusade's secondary priority to give you a foothold in this bizarre world. However, only to the extent that you do not take over everything. What that is supposed to mean, Ivel has not completely explained."

"Alas, if old Martian has grown externally, he claims that I have only grown internally," Emma's deeper voice, now punctuated with eloquence and a tint of her seven-year-old nickname for Marsh, was the only thing that may have changed about her. "I planned to start a new beginning with you two when the three of us met again. Things could have been seeded with better, friendlier intentions."

"That is true," Soal glanced around in search of a more down-to-earth conversation topic. "Uh... why don't we have anything more to say to you after years of separation?"

"That is a question of significance," Marsh shrugged. "Clearly, however, we may be of greater worth to you surrounding what Ivel did of recent. That, after all, is the question whose answer you requested by going here today. Do not fret; I am certain that in due time, conversation topics will have a factory of their own."

"Anyways," Emma already possessed a trust for the honest Master Bringer, and could confide with them about something like this any day, "what really happened is that Ivel, a tried-and-true former alcoholic, had a relapse as he was sent a cartful of the stuff the other evening. Drunk, he offered every Crusader far more than enough of it -- which Marsh and I gladly refused -- in a lavish celebration and an attempt to regain his Crusade's confidence in his ability. Unfortunately, that definitely backfired, and now he is buried not only in paper, but in shame."

"Backfired indeed," Irene mentioned, Soal nodding swiftly afterward. "Well, I'm glad you two didn't go with everyone else."

"Oh, we weren't the only ones," Marsh gestured. "In fact, I think most of the Crusade objected. Ivel's popularity was really spiraling into an abyss already, but this has without denial worsened his plight. Surely, though, you knew this already? This cannot be all that you came to ask us? Even Count and Countess Lucille have received word."

"First and foremost," Irene took charge in the interrogation, "We want to know who actually sent the cartful, to begin with."

"It is common knowledge among the protectors of the Ambassador," Emma informed impersonally, "that the source was Sogbury."