The Pursuit of Equilibrium

[ScalesofEquilibrium]

“Equilibrium is assured when this process strikes balance between justice and peace, demands reparation for society and victims alike, and forbids amnesty or pardon to those who commit atrocious crime.”

Senna was eleven years old when she first learned the importance of equilibrium. Newly indoctrinated, and without even a certainty of her quarters, the girl stood before a Senior Arbiter in his deliberation chamber, dressed in white robes with threads, gilded copper, upon edges and seams. The Bank of Abadar afforded aides to the legal workings of Korvosa through sending their initiates to Longacre, tending the basic needs of those within.

The nervous girl set down the tray and nodded her head repeatedly, awaiting an affirmation for the tea in kettle, cup, and bowl of sugar cubes. The Arbiter watched her for a long moment after uttering the words – and then explained away the necessity of sentencing a man to two-weeks tortures, followed by public execution, and why his previous statement justified it all. Though not upon deafened ears, he realized the state of his audience and dismissed it away.

--

Senna could not remember the crime that warranted the Senior Arbiter to award such punishment. However, her time in the Longacre was not regulated to simply serving drink – as she grew, so too did her duties, including an untold number of hours in the copying wings of the administrative building. The woman suspected a form of Treason, perhaps second or third degree. The punishment was just too similar.

The now Solicitor, eleven years later, in a realm alien and no doubt unknown to the halls of Longacre, found peace in a solitary writing chamber of the Grand Library in Port – but missed Longacre all the same, especially the copying wings. There was something peaceful and productive about a hundred or so quills being met to ink and paper, scratching along ruling and precedent into the annuls of Law, that afforded her a productivity that cared not for time itself. Alas, a small writing desk and two dozen candles would have to do. At present, she performed her Obedience.

The ritual concerned a set of scales, and a collection of keys, gems, and coins – both of the Core and Golarion. Each day she performed it, the random assortment of items was placed upon the scales – and then, through meditating on holy passages, past actions, and considerations for the present, Senna would sort the items to strike a balance – an Equilibrium – upon the scales before her. The process was not exact in time nor complexity, and if one was doing it for any more than simple repetition, they would find each occurrence an experience of introspection and growth.

Those eleven years between delivering tea and performing this ritual would afford her experiences with Equilibrium in matters she never thought they would apply. Fancying the mercantile affairs of worship in the faith came from a realization of just how much the balance of Equilibrium was enshrined; from the consideration of a just purchase, to the market conditions of a District – and the clear and present danger of inflation. All of it was based upon a study and respect for this one concept, which championed the unsung long term over the gratification of the short. This, Senna found, was the key to her very own faith in Abadar – be it as it may that her actions were not to be as loved or revered as others with the title ‘Paladin’, she rest assured that her duties affected a greater good – one that may not even take palpable form until long after her last breath escaped her.

A Korvosan Gold Sail, moved from left to right, settled atop a gray gemstone the size of her fingernail. The scales shifted, out of balance still, but closer to their intended destination.

The work of a Solicitor required a healthy respect for Equilibrium – a consideration for what each word, written or spoken, would justly reward in consequence. What precedents could be cited by stumbling into an improper context; what biases would be accused, correctly or otherwise, for a statement’s wording. Writs, Contracts, Official Letters – each derived thrice as many words as written to the initiated, and more often than not those unwritten words could unmake hours, days, even weeks of work.

A smaller golden key with faded etchings of an Abadaran holy symbol moved from right to left. The key to any longevity in Civilization was Just Law coupled with a careful consideration of its implementation upon the populace. The scales waned closer.

This was why the Silver-Errant kept herself contained to the reserved solitary writing chamber for long periods of time, writing and re-writing drafts of her present work, reviewing each with her accustomed pensiveness etched in her feature. Discarding mistakes served her little purpose save an avenue of unnecessary frustration – so each mistake was considered, and writings aside discussed to no one, save herself, lessons learned. An epiphany in her meditations required she read two previous mistakes, and begin a draft anew.

Two Solars sat atop one another on the left side. One was pulled and set upon the right. The scales inched closer. A sliver of iron was picked up, and considered.

Senna recalled the ever-present gusts of freezing winds on the mountainous pass to Krofburg. When discovering the route was seldom travelled and caravans were needed to see commerce both ways, she lead Oxen of goods herself – and then focused upon affording the opportunity to others, when tensions in the outskirts of Vallaki were high against those newly misted and little more than refugees. The outskirts in those early weeks would find the Silver-Errant offering a loan to rent an ox, directions to Krofburg, and offers of protection. Many days and nights were spent upon that road, aiding other venturing types to their feet, and ensuring a consistent movement of goods between the polities.

On a recent trip back into Barovia, she even spied a business hiring caravanners to do the same with regularity. Further, tensions seemed to be lessened, save the usual concern of outsiders that was more of a norm as far as the woman knew. Whether or not Senna could claim the responsibility of lighting that route anew with travel or lessening the perceived burden of newly misted was not for her to dwell upon – however, it was not far fetched to imagine that this effort, like many others, was a simple piece placed upon the scales of balance, with efforts to find an Equilibrium beneficial to all. 

What formed the path to bring her to this moment – what continued to guide her even now – was but the same concept – a single word, and the continued consideration and study of how it could impact anything and everything ever held important in her life. The scales had found Equilibrium, and so her Obedience ended. The woman returned to her writings with a new sense of ease.

[ScalesofEquilibrium]

“Resolve in the face of Hardship is a blessed Opportunity, inherent by nature of the effort alone.”

To hear those words from the Knight, no hidden contempt nor secondary meaning apparent, was a victory of the mind and spirit; a relief that made many things uncertain become valid and valued.

--

Despite the forests that crept up ever close to the Jeggare and beyond it the City of Korvosa, many hills to the East were cleared; long ago logged and settled for practical purpose. In particular, a flat hilltop that rose a few hundred feet above the tallest structures of the City afforded a commanding view of the Polity; the soft soils and rounded flats a natural locale to pursue martial training. And just so, the Gold Knights of the Coin – the Order which served the Bank of Abadar, made the grounds for such a purpose this day.

Senna kept her eyes on the City below. The Copper had done as she was bid, aiding in preparing the grounds, removing jagged rocks and other obstacles that could cause more harm than necessary, building a temporary rack with which to hold the wooden effigies of various weapons that would find their way onto the field, and tending to the donning of armors for other Coppers, a Silver-Errant, and a bratty Silver that always called her names when she tended him. One pleasantry of the day was in fact the gray skies of Autumn permitted cooler morning than days prior.

Beyond her vision, clacks of wood on wood and blunted strikes of wood on metal were met with a cheer, a raised voice offering advices, and calls from the marshal to cease. The dull thud of wood against flesh was something she could not drone out – and each time she heard it, pain shot from her left side, as well as her entire jawline. Reminders of her failures to avoid or black incoming blows experienced in the last few days.
 
The ritual by which she presently ignored was once that which she desired most and now dreaded with each reminder. A requirement of advancement, the three days of spars occurred once each Autumn, in which Coppers, the lowest ranking members of the Order, would take the very base training with arms they possessed, and fight in spars against each other or their superiors, in order to prove they were ready to become a Steel – or in layman’s terms, a Graduated Page. Knights and one or two Silver-Errants afforded the privilege watched on, selecting and promoting Coppers on the spot. To become a Steel was to accept the responsibility, and burden, of carrying a weapon.

Senna was the only Copper from the first day that had yet to relent for the year, or be accepted by a Knight. The Knight who had afforded her the Opportunity to serve the Church in the first place did not attend, and already had a Silver and Steels to attend him. The Knights and Silver-Errants who remained, watching the field with silent and assured judgement, were strangers to Senna. Sullen, and knowing she would not face the field for some time, Senna eyed the City.

Would she go back this eve a Copper, destined to another year in servitude and burdened by the shame of her inability?

Would the Church go further, and ask her to depart the Order? 

The girl’s eyes found Theumanexus, the College at which she was sure Mhairi was just as sullen about the basic tasks of attending the beginning courses there. A strong sense of envy took to the girl for a long moment – Emm (Mhairi’s initials and a nickname that Senna called her cousin) got exactly what she wanted, and did not have to abandon the family or lose their love to do so. Senna enjoyed courses, reading, debate – how could Emm complain each off-chance they had to see one another and reconnect? Senna was nearing thirteen years old – she needed to advance, not placate. She needed something to be proud of next she spoke to Emm.
The problem according to others was her choice of weapon upon the field, which had afforded her quiet snickers and abrupt laughter from her peers – both of which were quickly hushed by superiors present. Senna was fascinated by the Warsword – the unwieldy and largest blade any of the Knights would muster. The practice equivalent was as tall as she, and quite heavy. All the same, this was the weapon the girl wanted to fight with.

When paired against another Copper the first day (who was a head taller than her) she managed to stab at and knock about his shield thrice before a practice short sword swung and caught her chin just right; she swore she fainted, crumpling to the ground and blinking awake to the rush of being lifted and a whirling sky above. A Silver-Errant told her that her stature was not fit for such a weapon – that she should wear a shield and perhaps an axe, for such a weapon requires little strength to pierce armors.

Senna ignored his advice. The next spar that day saw her feet removed from her by a shield rush that pressed that practically imprinted her own weapon upon her armor followed by the tumble. The defeat was within mere seconds of the marshal’s shout of ‘Lay on!’

The second day afforded her a forlorn hope in that one of her opponents, a Steel, was wielding a longaxe. No shield with which to frustrate or tumble her. The two traded blows, Senna buckling in order to not permit herself to be disarmed – and ended in a grand mistake on her part. The Silver offered a feint, and as Senna made to defend, the longaxe swung over his head and around, cracking right into her side, robbing her of breath, weapon, and some dignities as she cried out in pain during her collapse.

Despite a Knight telling her the blow was not as dangerous as it could have been, Senna wondered now, in her sullen state, if one of her ribs had indeed cracked. Lifting her left arm caused sharp pains. Twisting to the right wasn’t an option. She was even more limited, and some had suggested she retire and await the next year – but her stubbornness would not permit it. Senna had spent the remainder of the last two days watching each spar – but she could no longer. Each victory named one of her peers her betters, and the celebratory meals and drink that accompanied each eve did not feel so much earned or worthy of revel.

Eventually, the sight of the City and the practice of solitude could no longer be kept. Senna watched three more Coppers become sponsored Steels – she watched admittedly daring and impressive feats, applauded with others, and drew the dark feelings away, replaced with consideration. The time came that the Marshal aimed the baton in her direction and called her forth. Senna was in chains, layered with boiled leathers – all loaned for the purpose of the event. She chose not to don a helmet, and again grabbed at the Practice Warsword.  Taking her place, she faced her opponent – a proper Silver – a squire, who sported a breastplate and a shield riveted with iron. A practice Longsword was at his side, and his eyes glinted behind visor. This one had not participated yet. He was fresh, appeared strong and veteran.

Senna wanted to scream. Cry out to the Gods above and demand what kind of foul joke this was. She wanted to toss the weapon aside, march into the forest and be left alone for eternity. She wanted to make demands of the Marshal…

…but something else stopped her sinking heart and instead afforded a calm that allowed her focus. No, that was not the way to handle this. As with all things, this was another opportunity that had to be grasped and challenged. If she could best her opponent here, surely she would advance. She had to. She wanted this, more than anything.

Lay on!

The first moments were careful. There were no rushes, no strong strikes, or quick footwork. The eyes of her opponent remained staring at her center, not at her eyes. This confused her, until she started to adopt as much. The shift of limbs. The shift of weight. It afforded her clues that she yet knew what to do with – but clues were better than nothing.

Next came the first bout. The sword swung in an arc, attempting to strike at almost the same point Senna was struck the day prior. She managed to parry and even send the blow away, stepping in to strike with guard and pommel. Though the shield took both, she placed her opponent on the defensive, and attempted a swing to follow through. Pain was registered but she ignored it – the arc of her own sword caused enough of a blow her opponent stepped away.

The second bout was almost immediate, and aggressive. A shield rush was just barely dodged. Stabs were deflected, and a parry turned into a counter that allowed guard to meet helm. Senna was on the offensive. She hefted the blade and swung downward, the shield brought up to take the hit managed, but she sensed the man buckle some. She heard herself scream . . . another slam. The guard caught under the shield, and she practically threw her entire self into pulling upward. The arm of her opponent twisted, and grip on the device failed. Senna dropped the pommel down toward his helm again, her opponent now shield less, and suddenly felt the pain of a haphazard swing catch her stomach. Air was knocked from her, but she pushed forward, sending both tumbling to the ground.

The girl rolled, ready to find heft up her blade and continue – when she heard the robbing voice of the Marhsal call the match. It was over. She heard applause, and she heard steps of a number of people approach her – but her eyes were shut, and internally she begged herself not to let the others see the tears that threatened to spill. She was too brazen. Too assured. Uncertainty flooded her mind. What now? What would they say and think of her…? What would become of her?

The voice directly above her startled Senna into listening.

“Resolve in the face of Hardship is a blessed Opportunity, inherent by nature of the effort alone.”

She opened her eyes to witness a Knight, hand outstretched, offering her aide. To hear those words from the Knight, no hidden contempt nor secondary meaning apparent, was a victory of the mind and spirit; a relief that made many things uncertain become valid and valued.. She knew him to be Ser Dedericus, a Knight that until this moment was otherwise a stranger of the Order who spent most of his days upon the road. He had never spoken a word throughout the ritual.

When she was aided to her feet, the look he gave her and the pat on the shoulder told her what his next words would be. Moments later, the Copper was a Steel, in the service of Dedericus, and invited to join him to watch the remainder of the day’s activity. Vindication afforded her some solace, and even a managed mood of revelry in the eve that followed.

[ScalesofEquilibrium]

“I would rather have a Shoanti Barbarian come from the Cinderlands to govern the people of this kingdom well and justly than that you should govern them ill in the sight of all the world.” – The Archbanker Marius to the Usurper, time immemorial.

Were Senna as eloquent and practiced in speech as she were in writing, she might have spoken the quote to the Criminal.

---

Senna sat alone with what felt the world pressed upon her. The murky waters of the Pernault were hardly comforting, and the pouring rain meeting the water was a cacophony of chaos that represented the conflicts in her mind. Dejected, she sat facing away from the once perceived Bastion of Civilization that was the City of Lights, uncertain what it was now, or if it ever was anything more than a fantasy, a trick of her mind and belief.

The War was over. Senna’s fears were justified. The wait for the inevitable was a long-hurried wait, that reminded her of the encampments she had found herself in when matters turned martial back home. Just like those times, the wait ended with a sudden climax that resolved before anyone could process what had occurred – but unlike those times, the method in which it resolved confounded her to the point it put to the question her faith in those she called friends and allies, the society around her, and even her own sanity. She knew as those raindrops soaked her being and welled about her Soul that she had lost control. She had lost the calm, collected personification she was supposed to afford to others. When, if ever, would such a break be justified? Certainly now?

Perhaps never.

--
Years ago, several leagues North of Korvosa

Though not as comforting as a sheltered hearthfire, Senna begrudgingly enjoyed a proper campfire in the wilderness. The Silver was tasked with creating whatever creature comforts her Knight desired, and never did the man relent from any and all that could be afforded. As such, the young Woman had spent a majority of the early evening clearing the grounds of debris, gathering deadwood, erecting a Marquee and driving stakes all about. A ring of stones collected from the area situated the campfire to illuminate the brush and trees that surrounded the camp with flickering orange light.

Senna at sermon once heard a Teller proclaim that the campfire was the representation, the spark, of the enlightening that Civilization promised upon the Wilderness. It was a comfort to think her actions afforded as much to this patch of land, albeit temporarily. She was made to consider her teachings in the eve, and did so cross-legged, absentmindedly cleaning and maintaining her warsword. When the Knight joined her and spoke the words ‘Right to Rule’, her consciousness drew upon the tales she had heard prior.

Ser Dedericus spent the eve affording her considerations of the past. Struggles of Nations once powerful, brought to their knees on this very subject. Almost all came with the saddened tale of ignoring the Grand Bank – of ignoring the servants of Abadar and tossing aside the Manual of City-Building prescribed for the very Polity, replaced with ambition and assuredness. Korvosa, thankfully, was different. Long before it was destined to be a City-State under a King, the Archbankers had kept a Manual and saw to it’s enaction. Those ascended to rulership over Korvosa did so with the blessings of the Bank. Almost every sizeable City and Nation had similar decrees, whether or not those who resided within them understood as much.

The quote of Archbanker Marius was among those that Dedericus recited but could not recall from when and where it came. Senna remembered it as well, an early staple of her education. Despite the lesson that eve, those of the faith were not to act in matters of Warfare between States, or act completely partisan in times of strife. However, should one with claim act in a manner that was detrimental to the safety and security of a Civilization and her progress, then those of the Order were Oathsworn to oppose it – and many had given their lives in such pursuits. One day, Senna could face as much, but Dedericus was assured that Korvosa and her Archbanker had the situation under relative control to prevent such necessities.

The young Woman had trouble sleeping that eve. Could she really claim to face an almost certain death in the pursuit of stability? Senna was resolute she would, but there were doubts in the back of her mind, and a troubled conscious in the morning.

---

When the Criminal marched forth onto the terraces earlier that eve, blade and pistol in hand, compatriots of magic and firearm at her side, and made her demands – it was not at all what the Silver-Errant could have imagined. The people of Dementlieu stood by, watching with bated breath and pause, but too with an inaction that could not be ~real~ to Senna’s mind.

There was no loud explosion. There was no fighting in the streets. There was no runner shouting warning. There was nothing to prepare those on the terraces – and as they turned to face the oncoming chaos that aimed to topple, Senna set her helm upon her head, drew her blade and stood against it. Others, both colleagues and friends alike, told her to stand down. A pistol leveled on her heart. Were Senna as eloquent and practiced in speech as she were in writing, she might have spoken the quote to the Criminal.

Senna finally did answer the question that plagued her prior, and charged. The blade swung down in an Arc attempting to catch both the Criminal and her Mage, and failed to do so. A great crack of noise with flame and fury pierced her armor – a terror the Silver-Errant knew she may face one day – and pain shot through her being. The Abadaran managed one final swing, knowing well enough that her strength and life were coming to a close . . . and then there was nothing. Senna could not know how long this purgatory was to last, or even how it had come to exist. Was she dead? Did she even have time to consider as much?

Awaking and collapsing, the battle was over, and the Criminal had taken the city – with apparently the only resistance having been brought by the hand of the Silver-Errant, easily dispatched, turned into a statue of folly. Senna not only lost her attempt at stopping the madness, but instead took it upon her own mind and raged, swearing oaths against the usurpers, accusing those at her side of cowardice or worse, questioning the society about her and it’s own resolution, wishing many troubles and terrible thoughts as she cried to the heavens, pacing, waiting for the inevitable.

---

That inevitable had yet to come, but the Woman suspected as much. Drenched in the rains that pattered the eve of the City of Lights, the Silver-Errant awaited her fate. She was sullen, both of mind and countenance, of herself, her action, her loss of control. She was a failure, with the only consolation being that she could face her demise with some scrap of opportune honor that facing as much would bring her.

What Senna built for herself in the City of Lights – what lofty goals and philosophies she had spoken of with those she called friends – were now at a close. They had to be. Who would dare take to the legal services of one who was supposedly seditious? And, further, how could she uphold and represent a Law that apparently was unenforceable and held the weight of the cheeseball delicacy?

Regardless of whether or not it was the reality, Senna was assured that she was alone. She wondered to herself why they had not come for her and dragged her away. If this new Government at the behest of the population was to be legitimate, surely punishment would be afforded her?

Eventually, the woman arose from her morose condition, seeking shelter and dignity. She supposed that she would have to march herself to her fate, and so she prepared for just that.