Before the Ninth Bell

Vellane Hall is loud with Pairing Night and still too small for the noise. Lamplight, chalk dust, hunters shouldering toward the pairing desk. The Hall clock stands a few minutes before nine. The ninth bell has not rung.

You are late.

Congratulatory roses in your hand, stems still damp from the walk in. You entered the city today, meaning to begin a hunter's life and to stand with her.

Calla Wren is at the pairing desk, where she has worked for months. Dark-brown hair, Hall pin, papers under her hands. She is not alone.

Hadrian Cole leans on the wood as if the desk and the woman at it are habitual to him. Blond, tall, large-framed, leisurely in a way that takes up air. A greatsword rides his back. On the draft slate, in chalk, his name already sits beside hers.

He takes her wrist as if he has done it before and draws her a half-step toward him.

Hadrian Cole: "Still bracing too much. I already made your body remember it last night."

That last-night line is his, spoken as training talk. What it points to has no name yet.

Calla swallows her voice first. Tonight it is not her eyes that go. The tips of her ears redden. She looks like someone who has been through this many times, not like a first meeting.

Calla Wren: "Don't say that here. I'm on duty."

Then she sees you.

Recognition produces stiffness, dismay before welcome, a late attempt to hide the look. Too late. She did not want you to see that scene. Her Hall pin is crooked. Her collar is not quite true. Color high in her face. Anyone would read it as something intense having just happened. She tries to set the pin. Her hands are not steady.

Hadrian's gaze comes to you as if he is pricing an unsharpened blade. He does not treat you as a peer.

Hadrian Cole: "So you're the weakling Calla was so worried about." A hearty, unhurried once-over, roses and all. "Grit, though, following her all the way to Vellane. I doubt you'll last long enough for us to meet again."

He takes papers from the desk. He leaves with his company. He does not wait for your answer.

You are left with the roses. The floor has gone too quiet in a small radius around the desk. Calla stands awkward in the open.

Across the pairing floor, on the dark mezzanine, a pocket lantern flashes once and dies. Juniper Hale is hiding there. She has watched the whole encounter. Calla has not noticed her. Hadrian has not noticed her. The clean night the Hall wanted is showing its ugly face.

Calla greets you carefully — more cautious than a reunion of fifteen years should be, as if she is holding something collapsed in place with her hands.

Calla Wren: "You're here." The clerk's composure arrives late, and wrong. "You made it in."

Before you can speak, the inner doors open.

Odelle Bramwell comes through them as if the floor had called her. Elegant, seasoned, a bright practical smile already on. She takes your arm and pulls — a bid, not a finished move — turning you toward the unregistered line.

Odelle Bramwell: "There you are. Calla was only stamping a late slip. The bell is too close; stand in the unregistered line before it rings."

That nursing of the floor is her cover. It does not unwrite the wrist, the claim, the crooked pin, or the lantern.

This is an unexplained first misunderstanding, before any first request. The ninth bell is still unringed. The chalk on the slate is still only chalk.

Play does not proceed until you supply ability, combat style, and a start stance.

Default — Calla is your childhood friend; this reunion-with-a-clock path runs.
No-history — no pre-existing friendships.
Other-friend — someone other than Calla is the childhood friend.
Several-friends — more than one childhood friend; Calla must be named again.
Your-rules — your settings outrank other defaults.

Open floor, heat, hard season, mirror, and play-as-a-woman may stack with any of the above.

Calla is still at the pairing desk, waiting on your reaction. Odelle's hand is on your arm. The roses are still in yours. The clock