rassafraggin

--[ Library ]---------------------------------------------[ Rose House ]---

Benedict's black-clad bodyguards, bad at housework but good at standing around and looking professional, let one of the servants escort Merrisol to see his Highness.

Benedict is seated behind a small but solid table on which several books are balanced. He gives Merrisol a look, and lifts his chin in greeting, but says nothing.

Captain Merrisol is back, apparently not quite done with awkward pussy footing about which has less to do with dodging Mayhem's headbutts than it sounds. He bows his head from the threshold, eyes taking the opportunity to sweep the layout. "Afternoon, Highness. I see you are occupied, shall I return at a better time? I hope for only a short discussion."

Benedict says, "I would have refused you entry already, had I wished to keep my silence. Enter. Sit. Talk." He indicates the various mismatched seating options with a gesture.

Merrisol starts to offer a reply, then changes his mind and walks the rest of the way in with a simple word of thanks. He selects a green armchair in which to quietly contrast, flicking back the skirt of his coat as he sits. Lastly, the talking: "Sir, to start, I am not sure how familiar you are with the supposed phenomenon concerning a number of people found within or having found their own way out of Arden, each suffering from traumatic memory loss. Only that your servant Liyandra was one of those, and you gave her shelter, and as well your niece Lady Margaret."

Benedict says, "I know a little about it, although I am no metaphysical expert." He leans over towards a rope that hangs by the servant's door, and then gets up to pull it rather than risking his dignity. "Will you take something to drink?"

Merrisol observes the reach in his periphery while he ostensibly studies the map art on a nearby wall. "Yes, a coffee would be much appreciated, Sir," he nods. "I myself would prefer to find a scientific explanation rather than chalk an experience up to magical whimsy, or the darker sort which implies a deliberate design."

Benedict opens the door to speak to the presumed-owner of the footsteps outside. "Guest for coffee," he says, and then goes to sit down. "Scientific explanation? You think that the Begmans are to blame?"

Benedict has a long reach, although the missing forearm makes him look ungainly. Even so, he was too far from the door and its bell pull to make the attempt worthwhile.

Merrisol frowns. "It's possible, with some kind of mind-damaging cocktail and a good catapult. But I meant the examination of physical evidence to draw conclusions."

Benedict says, "Oh. Well, if you wish to, feel free to talk."

Merrisol settles his hands on his knees, fingers tapping. "The point was that while I'd prefer to approach things from a logical standpoint, the reality of the matter is it may be impossible to find a commonality between myself, Satoshi Shao, Lady Margaret, Miss Liyandra, and others I have only recently heard about. I thought perhaps now that it has befallen a member of royalty, it would become a topic of interest to those with access to privileged resources."

Benedict says, "Ah, now you are underestimating those with access to those resources, as well as insulting them. Would you like to try casting that sentence again?" He then glances to the door just as it opens, and tea and coffee are brought in. The Prince Marshal stays quiet, letting that happen, and letting Merrisol gather his thoughts.

Merri develops a resigned sort of grimace at that reply, as though having known he was bound to give offense the longer he spoke. He searches the ceiling for another phrasing. "Uh.. Yes, Sir," he says after a moment. "I thought that, being it is a matter of personal importance, and in general a pervasive phenomenon deserving of study, that I would check with an authority on the subject of persistent memory-loss, in hopes he could offer learned insight and so direct my research down fruitful avenues."

Benedict asks, "Oh? And who calls me an authority?" as he leans forward to pick up his tea. If not the expression then he certainly has the air of a cat with a favoured mouse.

The ceiling has betrayed him, so it's the floor's counsel he seeks next. "Well, I do, Sir," he admits, looking back at the Prince stubbornly, "and no one else. I myself am having such a devil of a time recovering my memories that I have begun to think I must be in secret, subconscious opposition to their recovery."

Benedict says, "That can happen. But as I am not a metaphysicist, so I am not a psychiatrist. Can you tell me what if anything you know of the general situation of amnesiacs?" His voice is kinder now, and he sips his tea to give Merrisol another moment with his own thoughts.

Merri takes his coffee and looks over it, relieved in any case to be disappointed by the answer. Addressing the general question: "I know that it's a commonly accepted facet of local culture, enough that reaction has tended to be 'oh not another one'. The forest of Arden seems to be the environment in which one loses his memory, or at least gains awareness of the loss. I have gathered that it's largely a temporary condition however, apparently due to physical trauma to the head region, and doesn't appear to relapse. So far mine is the only case I know of where even a name was long in discovering, and even then not due to an actual memory breakthrough. But it's an exception.. which I suppose is why the general mystery is not as alarming to others.. for the most part it is harmless."

Benedict says, "Mm. I would put it slightly differently. Arden is the place where you appear." He has tea, and he self-deploys it, letting that sink in.

Merrisol's quick sidelong glance is surprised, as much for the revelation that the other man does have something to claim other than a lack of lettered credentials, as for the answer itself. "Yes.. appear," he cautiously agrees, "which would mean disappearing from elsewhere. Lady Margaret, for example, from her ship at sea. Of course there were no witnesses found to confirm a disappearance. It may have been a trump summons."

Benedict says, "No. However, the true answer - or the approximation I can give - may be difficult to swallow. Do you know what I am, devoid of titles?"

From the pause, Merrisol could be considering an answer he doesn't end up giving. "No, Sir.. if you do not refer to your being a son of Oberon, who created Amber."

Benedict says, "I do. But the creation of Amber part is the important bit. Much of our power comes from a grand design known as the Pattern, which perhaps holds the world together. That is, I believe it does. It may also cast out enough of itself that all of shadow exists - here, my understanding breaks down. I am not a god, but on most functional levels, that does not matter. I could appear to be one to most of humanity."

Merrisol looks studiously at his coffee for a moment, because how does one reply to that. If a reply is expected, however, he asks, "You could, Sir?" in a tone that suggests that he thinks Ben's chosen mortal disguise of a taciturn disabled homeowner is convincing indeed.

Benedict says, "That is because most of humanity lives in shadow, and I can choose any part of it in which to appear. It would be a cheap trick, but it is a side product of the fact of my existence. However, the main thing that the Pattern does is keep humanity - and all of creation - intact. Without it, things would fall apart. Interestingly, there is more than one Pattern. You may wish to open your mind a little for the next part."

Merrisol might be having enough trouble assimilating what's come so far, to want his understanding expanded even farther. "Yes, Sir, but I do know about the Pattern in Rebma," he protests abruptly. "And that something happened to it and caused a devastating undersea quake, from which the citizens have yet to recover.. but they are recovering, without it." Right? That was the next part.
Benedict says, "Yes. Do you know what Rebma represents?"

Merri looks at him, frowning at the textbook-type question. "A reflection of Amber under the waves.. or it used to be that."
Benedict says, "No, that is what it /is/. It represents, or protects, or could in some sense be called, the Past. The reflection is separate from that function, I believe."

Merrisol shakes his head slowly, admitting mental defeat. "Do they know that? The Prince Regent Martin? He seems to be looking ahead, planning a future for Rebma, from what I've seen. But how does this even relate to the original topic, the amnesia?"

Benedict says, "Oh, they live and breathe and one can visit them - but Rebma has a function in the Past that Amber does not have. The Pattern protects the fact that the past is as it should be, I suppose. And that Pattern is broken. That opens up the problems of identification of the reasons for amnesia. You could have any past at all."

Merrisol sits back with a grumble of leather, gazing at something in the middle distance while the suggestion tries to take root in his mind. He starts to nod as though a piece or two has fallen into place, then frowns over it, puzzled anew. "I... will look into the possibility of that, Sir. It's been strongly suggested by others that everything I have learned about myself so far is in fact the identity of someone else entirely." So... yeah. "Thank you, Sir," he adds, subdued.

Benedict says, "As far as your other identities go, it may be you were all destined to solve something, or all your deaths allowed or prevented some disaster. It may be entirely random. But in your case, you might not at all be the person you think you are - so you can strive to remember, but you also have license to go forth and be what you should be, and not what he was."

Merrisol squints lopsidedly like someone had just threatened to lick him upside the face. "Very motivational, Sir. It is the complications that make it.. wha. Deaths, sir?" he backtracks, though slowly, brow sloping.

Benedict says, "Often, but not always, amnesiacs have reported situations they did not think anyone could survive. The head injuries are always present, but are not always enough to account for the situation."

Merri's jaw slackens briefly. "Ah.. yes," he agrees distantly, "Shao-san insists he died from a sword to the head. The others, I am not sure, but for what kind purpose would we be sent to be revived in Arden for a second go at things. Perhaps, having been dead once already.." He trails off speculating, glancing once to the desk obliquely, then clears his throat. He puts aside the coffee and stands. "Thank you again, Sir. You've given me much to think over."

Benedict says, "Perhaps, if you are dead already, you offer no resistance. You begin your being as the past flexes, and eternally chases the present. You wake in a place where you can exist - perhaps, being dead, your will to survive brings you here. I tend to take the injury as being an expression on you of the damage that must have occurred for you to be injured in a forest - you could not appear without that injury, and the details of how it occurred are different, but it is the only truly consistent thing." He stands up, to show Merrisol to the door.

---------

--[ Main Concourse and Royal Way ]--------------------------[ Amber City ]----

Merrisol stalks the street from north to south, looking lost in thought, but just aware enough to walk around lamp posts instead of through them.

Tessa is posted at one of the lamp posts, another black cloaked Gull behind her. Seems as if their is some repairwork going on, judging by fustrated oaths and colorful languages.

Tessa, not having to do any fussing to relight stubborn wick, just seems amused if a bit cold.

The berth is a bit wider to get around due to the stationary folk, when Merrisol comes upon that next post. He doesn't account for the angle enough, and veers too close to Tessa, side-swiping her a bit. He feels the buffet and pivots in place to see her. "Oh.. beg your pardon, Officer.. ah. Hello again."

Tessa's hand is already in her cloak at the bump, turning to face the man. The club, iron-shod, is half up before she recognizes him and though she narrows gaze, at least weapon is not brought to bare. "Hello again," She hooks the weapon back to her belt, "Heading home?"

Merri looks at the club, then back to her expression, his own a bland question mark. "To the ship, yes. Can't gad about the city on social calls all day." His gaze slips and travels up the lamp post. "Something I can help with here?" How randomly helpful of him.. but he is tall. Maybe that's handy for wick lighting.

"Only if you have overly clever fingers, and an abudance of time." Tessa says, looking up to her compatriot as well. "I'm afraid I could not pay you for the work, though, so unless you are feeling especially charitable...?"

Well, when she puts it that way.. Merrisol lifts his hands, big strong hands which do not look particularly cunning. Plus, well, the hour has gotten late, too. He glances between the Gulls. "One out of three, that's practically half-qualified," he points out. "You need a windbreak, perhaps, or a bit of oil on the wick to get it going. Or both." He checks the height of the post.

"Thanks for the advice," Tessa says, turning back to face her fellow officer. "Guessin' you heard the man?" The muffled response is probably foul-mouthed and ill-tempered. "Well, thanks anyway... I'm sure we'll manage somehow, and don't mean to keep you from your own business. Fair tidings."

Merrisol humms in his throat, figuring out he's been dismissed, and with a bemused nod, begins to turn away. Then looks back again, dissatisfied. "Is it such a dull evening that I have to look forward to that it actually worries me you'll be at this all night?" he wonders with a slow grin. He demonstrates nesting his hands, palm upwards. "Allow me to give you a leg up, Officer. You'll be able to rub the wick and use yourself as the windbreak."

Tessa tilts her head at the request, "As you wish." She steps aside, clearing the way for the man to join her.

Merri does that, unlooping his grey muffler by a few feet so he can wind the length around his hand, mummy-like, but fastidious enough to suit a man who goes around in a coat like that. He puts the bound hand into his other, and stoops low enough for his extended hands to be accessed by Tessa's boot. A single swing of his gaze touches Officer Bad Attitude for a moment. "Hup," he prompts.

Tessa waits patiently until he gives the impression of being ready, and then places one hand on his shoulder and a boot into palm. She just arches a brow when he lifts her as if she was a child, the rise smooth and little signs of strain evident. So, she turns and does as he suggested, shielding the wick as the man beside her works... and....?

The edge catches, drawing a sigh of relief from overworked and overstressed Gull.

Merrisol watches the street instead of gazing upwards at their work, conscientiously keeping his arms steady once the woman is aloft, maintaining her own balance. "One has to imagine the headache after that winged thing tore through here one month previous, snuffing out the entire length of street. I don't recall that anyone bothered relighting them all that evening," he monologues while they work on the lamp. The sputtering, then steady glow that warms the air is his cue to slowly bring Tessa to a level where she can easily leap down again.

Tessa hops down, nodding. "I think that I recall that, though it was not my responsibility. Money is tight in public funds, as it turns out, and streetlighters are one of the many subsets that fall by the wayside. Sewer runners as well, as it turns out." She smirks, "What did you say your name was again?"

His head tilts curiously as the sewer jobs are brought up as an additional example. Sounds icky. Then he offers a surprised shape with his mouth. "Oh. Did it never come up? Hm. Uh. Captain Merrisol.. at your service," he admits. "And you are Miss Tessa.. but not a Lady," he adds, thinking back on extra details.

"Not in conversation, no, though I am sure you shared that in the past with me nearby." Tessa says, wrinkling her nose. "Dame, technically, though too many would say I am a terrible Knight. No matter, it's a pleasure, Captain. What ship do you command? That one under repair?"

Merrisol listens attentively, his brows sweeping up in an 'ahh' of realization, and he smiles at her humility. Then the subject goes almost inevitably to the water. He regards her steadily as he explains, "That ship is the Wave Dancer, and it is Captain Flame's vessel. I serve on board as her First Mate. My own ship is currently lost, probably in Shadow."

"Ah," Tessa says, allowing the note to drag on for a second. "Oh, that's right. That Penglai man serves on that ship as well. I'm sure that must be quite the crew then?" She hides hands under the layers of her cloak, perhaps to warm them. "Waiting on her... er, first sail? I don't know what that event would be considered, or if it even matters to most people. Not a sailor."

"Maiden voyage, I suppose you mean?" Merrisol muses, brows furrowing downwards. "But in this case, it's more of a shake-down, for the Dancer is already a proven ship. Also lost at sea, but in Maggie's case.. Captain Flame's, that is, it was recovered with the help of the Wandering Duchess, and several other volunteers such as myself and Satoshi Shao.. Miss Liyandra. Sir Bashar.. Doctor Mordecai. All good people."

"I am sure they are." Tessa says, nodding. "So, how does a Captain end up as a first mate? Found the title fitting, but the responsibility not to your taste?"

Merri says nothing for a moment, looking at once disappointed and wary. "Dame Tessa. Are you...?" he starts to inquire, studying her eyes. "Hm. As I said, my ship was lost, I ended up here with no memory of it or myself, and.. well, after some discoveries were made, it turned out I am an outlaw with a bounty on my head, and Captain Flame held the hunter contract. I surrendered, and my sword and seaman experience are sworn to her service until the ship is ready to set off for the Golden Circle again."

Tessa arches a brow, "What? It's a fair question, and I do not know much about ships but I understand duty and it seems like on a boat, a Captain would have his fair share of it. What's the ole Minosan saying? 'For every ship, a King?' Something like that anyway." She purses her lips, "Must be awkward for you."

Oh.. you think? says Merri's brow-lift. His mood's gone down, clearly, but he says, "It could be worse. Captain Flame is fair-minded and does understand her duty, as I do mine, despite the memory loss. You're half-right though, for a topsider," he smirks. "Sea Kings and Queens do rule their boats in much the same way as a royal Navy. It's on a pirate ship that you would see fair shares, for the Captain is elected from amongst the crew and the crew can un-elect him if he proves unworthy of their regard."

"Served as a pirate, did you?" Tessa asks, "Would explain the bounty. For curiosity only, how high up wassit?"

Merrisol stares a moment at the casual inquiry, then lets his head tip to one side, blinking half-lidded as he masks his anger. "Ah. You are joking now, my Lady. Of course you'd wonder how bad I've been.. Unless it really -is- the money that interests you? Gives me cause to wonder how terrible a Knight you are."

"Gulls are corrupt, dinnaya 'ear?" Tessa responds, baring teeth. "More importantly than any sins you don't remember, or the actual amount that someone scribbled on a paper, I'm more interested in whose toesies you might've stomped. Some out in the Golden Circle, they've got looooong reaches. So, who wants your head?"

The change in her disposition seems to disturb Merri out of his. He doesn't exactly move his feet but the angle of his body changes to make it look like he stepped back a fair pace from her. "Were you up there inhaling the oil fumes the whole time?" he wonders softly, tipping his cheek slightly upwards at the lit lamp. "Perhaps you ought to go inside somewhere and spend time in genuflection, my Lady Tess. Find yourself again, instead of fancying the likes of Pirates and Black Knights. And if you're still as corrupt on the morrow - find some rat to pay off for the details." At that point in his solicitous advice, he does turn to go.

Tessa lets him go, turning back to pat her fellow on the shoulder. "Let's go, got a few more of these left."

Merrisol goes on his not-so-merry way.