Garde Solutions

You take a few steps into your office and pay no mind to the overly-full trash next to your desk or the junk encroaching onto the desk itself that should really go in the trash, if only it weren't so full. Some papers, or discarded and crumpled drafts of notes all mix with food wrappers. Much of it is weighted down by short glasses with just a bit of discolored liquid in the bottom from the leftover ice. A small oasis is cleared in the center of the surface, the light from your single desk-lamp shining on it like a spotlight. You toss the mail you've collected into the cleared space. You are putting off opening it, mostly because the letters are marked with the Unified Banking logo, and the red stamp on the front reads urgent. In your experience, things marked urgent should be left alone until you're ready to deal with them.

You instead walk back to close the door to the office and lean close to the mirror-like black glass with your companies name written out in frosted letters. Garde Solutions, because you are Sion Garde, a woman that can offer various solutions to various problems, so long as they are not your own. You pull at the bottom lid while staring into the mirror-sheen of the window into your office. The problem, as you understand it, is not that you are a night owl. The problem is that no matter what hour you go to sleep at you can not seem to shake the habit of waking up at 6 AM. You arrive to your office an hour or so after that, usually. The sun has just started showing itself through the tall buildings that surround the one you are in. None of the 9-5 workers that occupy basic offices around yours will even be seen for another hour, and neither will any potential costumer.

You lean back and turn your head to the left, then the right. Other than the shading under your eyes from lack of sleep, you are quite attractive. Full lips, light skin and thin, blonde brows. Removing your hat to hang on the rack near the door releases wisps of long, blonde hair that could certainly be given better care. Your natural looks only faintly cover up a lack of effort in your appearance that is emblematic of your desired purpose; being taken seriously as a professional, not a woman. Rather than form-fitting suit, you chose something a bit less flattering. Your curves are still on display in some key places, but the desired effect of dulling your overall appearance is accomplished by the bland gray slacks, white button-up shirt, black tie, and finally your heavy brown duster; male of course.

As you are about to turn around to make room in the trash for bills, of all things, your sensible black-leather shoes slip a bit on something near the door. At first you think it could be another piece of trash that was blown off your desk. That would not be too strange. Instead, what you see when you lift your foot is a plain-looking white envelope with a hand-written address and a stamped emblem of the Old World Post Company. A hold-over from a darker age. Getting a letter marked from them for the most part just meant that someone absolutely wanted something to find you, regardless of how long it would take. Because it would absolutely take quite a while. Old world companies for the most part are marked by quality and certainty, but not efficiency. You have no doubt that if your building burnt down for some reason before you got in, with the letter with the OWPC stamp on the front would somehow be sitting on top of the black rubble in pristine condition.

After picking up the letter and walking around the desk to plop down in your cushioned chair, you unceremoniously open the tight envelope quite easily and pull out the thick, folded letter inside. The page folds open on it's own and straightens out, quickly losing all its creases. You whistle lightly at the effort put in and inspect the note from the top. The stationary is marked with the name Salvator. It is not a name you could forget. Just seeing it sends you back. You stand up and walk slowly over to a cabinet lining one the four small walls in your office. Next to a rack of medals in varying colors you eye a black and white photo. It is a group of women with you at the bottom-center. The military was not as generous in allowing you all to avoid gender norms, so skirts, stockings and the form-fitting jackets and scarfs emblematic of the Mage Corps are all on clear display. Kneeling down you see yourself six years younger, barely an adult when you were drafted for having magical abilities. Around you are all of the girls you remember from the corps. Most importantly, standing at the center is your commanding officer, Francisca Salvator. Not a woman to be taken lightly, by any means, but the attitudes in the photo betray the relationship she had with all of you. The somber look you all have in the picture is more due to the time in which it was taken. Just after the battle of Margot. You look down to read the text itself.

'I am not one for pleasantries, but contacting you so suddenly deserves some greeting and explanation. Garde. You were always the woman I trusted most when the stakes were high. I know at times it was not fair. Hopefully you are not bitter that I put so much on you. What I did, I did because you were genuinely better than the rest. I could never say it outright back then for fear of losing morale, but it was the case. Hopefully it is still the case.'

“No hard feelings.” You utter out loud. Peace had long since been made, in your mind. After the war was over, thinking about it, you owe a lot of lives and limbs to the decisions Fran made, and the ones that were put on you.

'I have no doubt you barely have any time on your hands to read this menial letter, but I do hope it will find you, because you are the only person left that I can turn to. Not only as someone I trust, but as an outsider. When looking for you I found out that you try to solve problems. A good choice. There are serious issues that are still in the process of being uncovered on my end. Do you remember when I spoke fondly of my land and where I grew up? Ever since the war things have been slowly changing in inexplicable ways. Despite my family's influence I have been unable to crack the surface of what is going on. In a way, my name and influence have become a barrier against my involvement. Everything I try to do or look into has a spotlight shined on it. This is what I know: People are going missing. If they ever come back they are different. That is just what I began seeing starting months ago. As of writing this I see strange silhouettes on the outskirts of my property. I hear noises at night and feel things pressing against my wards as if they are being tested. My family and the workers do not see them at all. I have an idea, but it is something big and I do not yet have evidence. I do not know if the gravity of this can be properly explained through letter. I am afraid if I say to much this text could be scrubbed so I will just ask this: Do you remember the underground in Margot?'

You drop the letter and feel the room beginning to turn, along with your stomach. The underground in Margot is something that holds significance to you, but you can not remember why. You have no concept of what she means but some weight is holding those words in your mind and forcing you to pay attention. You are intrigued, not only in the request but in this sudden blank space you apparently have in your memory. From what you know there was a battle in Margot. You were all stationed there. When you actually think back you suddenly realize there are a lot of voids in your memory during and after that battle. It is strange, because although it was a blood fight, there were plenty of those and you remember them just fine. You pick the letter back up and continue reading.

'If that meant anything to you, you should understand immediately what my theory is. If not, I am sorry. Please ignore this letter and be well. If you choose to follow up I have enclosed a key to my property and my personal seal, with permission to enter is on the letter itself. This is in the event that something has happened to me before this can reach you. Currently the property is maintained by my two brothers, groundskeeper, maid and our attorney, who does not live on the property. This letter should be enough to satisfy at least some of them should I not be there.'

'If I made it sound as if this is a favor, it is not. Also enclosed is account information that will allow you to bill my estate for the purpose of travel, expenses and payment. If you do not choose to take this request I do trust you to burn this letter so that it can not be used against me or my family.'

'With Trust - Francisca Salvator.'

You turn over the letter. The page is thick because it is in fact a legal document. On the other side is the Salvator seal, along with all of the account information you would need to scam a good portion of their money before they knew what was happening.

“Fran... What is going on out there?” You gently fold the letter and place it in one of the large pockets of your duster, intent on using it, but not for any scam. Your do not plan to overcharge, but your rates are not cheap for something like this. Especially something requiring travel. There is also going to be an increase in the fee due to the exclusivity of the job. You can not exactly work on anything else. So all things considered, even before you consider your own curiosity and personal relationship with Fran, this is the best client you could ask for. Staring at the stack of 'urgent' notices under the one opened envelope on your desk settles any other arguments against going. Salvator's are based out of an entirely different continent. The one where the Great War itself took place. You could go, if for no other reason than to escape your debts. Though, in reality you know that no one could escape the Unified Bank just by jumping one little ocean.

You begin packing your bags, which essentially just means filling your pockets with whatever things you can not stand to be without. The picture is one, though you leave the frame and choose to just take the photo itself. Next up on the list of importance is the suitcase hidden under your love-seat. It contains everything a working mage might need out in the world. You carry it everywhere when you are out on a job. Last but not least is of course your brown hat, colored to match your duster. With those items 'packed' you have everything you need to begin the job once you get there.

It takes two weeks by boat and by train to reach the European continent, and the coastal town of Jersey. The foggy town, according to a local guide, is host to a population of about three thousand, which is quite a lot. Indeed, the town is not sleepy, but a bustling port on the verge of becoming a city. Its outer moors are host to the Salvator manor, while the town itself has many traveler traps in the form of quaint inns that dot Jersey's bustling harbor. That is the first thing that strikes you. You were expecting some tiny, isolated village based on Fran's description of home during the war. When pressing your local transport they are fairly open about the fact that the town has changed quite a lot in recent years.

You have always planned to set up in the town itself. The only thing you need to decide is whether you want to settle in first, or visit the Salvator estate.

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