53rd Vhalar 716
Summons to the judicial offices were not uncommon for members of the Iron Hand. Reports on arrests, warrants, bounties and court judgements all seemed to pass through the chambers at some point or another. Shuffled from room to room to be read by clerks, checked for consistency. Reports were added to files and moved on. Important cases were then passed to more senior staff to comb through. It was a narrow building beside the University and it was filled with neatly dress men and woman. Though the scent of parchment dust and ink seemed to always permeate the air. Some cases found their way to the Judges. Down a long and winding corridor was a suit of rooms for Judge Burhan. An antechamber with mis-matched furniture. There was a desk by the door, manned by two clerks. Bent over their work. Leather armchairs, a carved wooden bench turned dark by centuries of oil. Books piles on tables, history, astronomy and legal texts. Visitors to the Judge were often kept waiting in the chamber for extended periods of time. The clerks liked to place bets how far they’d manage to flick through one of the ancient tomes before they were summoned through the door. A Venoran widow had once managed three quarters of the ‘Illustrated Skies of Rynlism.’ It had been a record. The scratch of quills on paper marked the passing of time, along with the distant echo of footfalls.
A woman exited the large wooden door with a tray. She turned to study the man before her. Grey hair was swept back into the ever-fashionable victory curls and her dark eyes were piercing.
“The judge will see you now,” she informed Malcolm Krome and bustled down the hallway. Shoes clicking on the floor boards.
Beyond the door to the Judge’s office was a veritable library of books. Long windows looked over the University grounds on the Eastern wall. Behind a wide desk was an ancient map of the world, missing some of the known continents of Idalos. Pavoo was sat, studying the stack of files and papers before him. He looked up as the door opened and straightened. He rested his elbows on the desk. A slender man he wore a neat jacket over a crisp shirt. Dark hair was well groomed and matched by the rich brown tones in his eyes. His beard trimmed to a point beneath his chin.
He waited for Malcolm to advance, expression devoid of judgement or emotion. Once the man was close enough he gestured to the empty chair, “sit if you would, Ser.”
Pavoo sifted through the papers before him, pulling aside the brilliant pale leaves. Many of them covered in Malcolm’s own handwriting. Neat rows of reports and facts and findings from his past arcs as a Captain of the Iron Hand. Older papers from his time in Burhan.
“I hear you want to arrest my son?” Pavoo looked up.
