Claret flew from roof top to roof top, the pattern of sprinting and leaping across the city’s buildings closer to true, unbridled pleasure than any other feeling she knew. The full moon was high, the musk of the densely populated capital faint this high above the streets, and the muffled sounds of ordinary life were made hardly audible by the wind in her ears. Fog hung around the edges of her vision, hiding much of Lundine beneath its choking, clutching fingers, but the Lady Night saw nothing but the next gap to spring. She was as free as the hawk that represented her alias’s proud family, until she came to the last building on the fringe of the city. As the impressive outer wall loomed above her, Claret skidded to a halt and looked down at her hands, only to find them smeared with blood.

Then, with the distant cry of a hunter’s falcon, the young woman gasped awake from her daze. She was in her own opulent chambers, the too-warm fire illuminating hands stained with ink, not the crimson ichor of some poor fool’s heart. Claret glared accusingly at a bottle of deep red wine sitting on her writing desk. The next time she had a couple glasses, the Lady Night would be more careful with the potent vintage.

Very little light streamed through the window before her, and, past the bottles of ink and fine wine, the Lady Aren could see a midsummer evening falling on the castle grounds. She hadn’t slept more than a half an hour then; there would still be time to send the missive she had been writing to her contacts in the city. Claret made a point to always know what went on around her city. Such knowledge both made her better at her job, and gave her a means to save her own skin, if certain things about her past were to become known or Duncan’s not so stable reign were to end unexpectedly.

The red-headed woman cleaned ink off long, delicate fingers before deftly folding the letter and smoothing her clinging crimson gown. She was surprisingly clear headed: a chronic insomnia was more likely the cause of her unplanned nap than the wine she had consumed. The Red Countess left her rooms quickly and started up the eastern stair case to the rookery. Her burnished messenger hawk would be as eager for a mission as she herself was.

The Lady Night was bored. It had been two weeks since her last mission, and the court had been relatively quiet during all that time. There hadn’t been a whisper to distract her from her pococurantism. Hence the lack of sleep: with no activity to occupy her during the day, Claret’s overactive mental faculties refused to shut down after moonrise. Therefore, it is not difficult to imagine, even though she kept the emotion from her face, that Claret was delighted to see Lord Richard Mawr striding towards her from the general direction of the King’s quarters. The tall man had a purposeful look about him which boded well for the red woman’s monotony, even if it didn’t necessarily mean he had a task for her.

Lady Catherine du Aren dipped her chin gracefully to the approaching nobleman, before raising her head to meet his blue eyes. “Good evening, Lord Richard. I hope to find you well."