The Domain of Rhadamanthys

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Arms rattled as Roger Tellesworth jogged down the narrow corridor at a brisk pace. The space was poorly lit, with only a few candles along the walls illuminating the way every few yards. Roger hustled to the door, stopping just outside the threshold. He took the moment to make himself look presentable, smoothing the tunic covering his armor and flattening errant hairs on his head with a quick sweep of his hand. With dramatic flair, he pushed open the door hard enough for it to rebound off the wall and threw back his cloak upon entering.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen," Roger announced. "I am here!"

"Is that so? I would have certainly never guessed," said Count Rudolf von Sforza with a thin smile on his lips. Roger looked sideways at Rudolf. Both men were twenty-seven years of age, and it was only stupid luck that one was at the head of a very important county in Caledon and the other was a commandant on the southern border. Roger kept that thought in mind as he closed the door behind him and took a seat. His eyes were pulled to the older man seated at the far end of the room. Torchlight played with the shadows dancing across his face.

"Since we are all here, we may begin," said this man, his voice demanding - indeed, arresting - attention. "As we are all aware, His Majesty has been ill for a very long time. It was our hope that he might recover whilst on a regimen of regular bleeding and purging, but alas, he has made no progress."

Roger shifted in his seat. Having been in a number of border wars, it had always struck him that bleeding was a problem, not a solution. The other man continued.

"It is also no secret that His Majesty is regrettably without issue. This presents a problem. If he perishes, the royal lineage is extinguished. We face an imminent succession crisis and we do not know how long it shall be before that crisis becomes anarchic. We must act to ensure stability in Tara and all of Caledon."

"Your Royal Highness, what are we to do?" asked another in the room.

"It is simple. We must select a legitimate successor to His Majesty at once."

A susurration of consternation followed the suggestion. The man who had proposed the idea stood.

"For many years, we have served Caledon's royal family. I have served perhaps longer than some of you in this room have lived. I do not make this suggestion lightly. We have, however, worked too hard to let some unfortunate circumstance catapult our kingdom into chaos."

Roger now sat back in his chair. The man with the plan was Grand Duke Kendrick Constantine, one of the King's most trusted advisers. In fact, Roger could not picture a time when Kendrick had not been at the King's side, offering counsel. The many silver hairs on Kendrick's head reflected his experience and his many good decisions that had precluded complete breakdowns in order reflected his wisdom. Nonetheless, Roger had a question.

"Your Royal Highness, who are we going to choose?" he asked, probably speaking for everyone in the room at the moment. The dozen or so others gathered now all turned their eyes to Kendrick.

"That is entirely dependent upon the twists of fate," Kendrick answered, his dark eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Here is how we are to make this decision..."

---

Several days later...

Tara was abuzz that evening. Streamers and bunting hung from every available inch of surface space throughout the city. Court magicians had illuminated the sky with dazzling arrays of explosive, colorful lights. Nobles of every corner of the kingdom were filing into the city in grand procession. Jugglers and fire-eaters were entertaining the commoners on the city streets. Outside the royal palace, gladiatorial combat was enthralling a crowd of people who preferred a little violence in their diversions. At the doorways to the royal palace, Grand Duke Kendrick and Count Rudolf were warmly greeting every lord crossing the threshold.

"My dear Viscount!" exclaimed Kendrick, embracing an older gentlemen. "It has been too long! I am pleased to see you made the trip."

"Welcome to the King's jubilee," said Rudolf with a friendly, charming smile. The Viscount pulled away from Kendrick and nodded.

"Honestly, I am quite surprised," the Viscount remarked. "I did not know that His Majesty was feeling in such good spirits as to throw a party."

"It has been a miraculous recovery; hence, His Majesty's wish to celebrate rather suddenly," Rudolf said, nodding. "Allow me to show you into the great hall."

Kendrick ticked off another name on the guest list. Invitations had been sent out to every noble, even if he was of the most nominal importance. The objective was to make sure everyone who could be there would be there, from the highest duke to the lowest lord.

---

At the same time that festivities were beginning to get underway in Tara, there were festivities of a different kind happening in the little Caledonian hamlet of Gallia, far to the south of the country near the border. The local pub, the Leaping Mare, was pouring free drinks for anyone who could bring in a boar as big as one of the tables. So far, a few strapping men had hauled in boar meeting the standard. Joviality was now the order of the night as these boar became dinner for anyone who wanted a taste. Conviviality, and the smell of alcohol, was in the air.

One figure in the back of the pub was not participating in the jolly atmosphere. It was a young woman with fair skin and grey eyes. She was looking out of the window and tapping her fingers somewhat anxiously on the wooden table where she sat alone. A number of men had advanced upon her in an offer to be friendly to the pretty maiden, but she politely had refused them all. At some point in the height of the increasingly drunken state of the pub's clientele, she wandered outside and stood near the pub door, exhaling deeply. The tendrils of her breath curled into the chilly night.

"Well, aren't you a pretty little thing," said one man, standing not far away from her, smoking a pipe. She looked up at the sky without acknowledging him.

"The least you could do is respond to someone when he compliments you," the pipe smoker said, somewhat peeved. In reaction, she turned her head away from him. She was a striking figure in the silver moonlight, her hands clasped behind her back and her slim figure looking so fragile that a gentle breeze might push her over. The pipe smoker gave a loud whistle. Immediately, three more men appeared from around the corner of the pub, and together they approached her in a semi-circle. The pipe smoker grabbed her by the chin and shook his head.

"Pity. You get a pretty girl nowadays and instead of saying so much as a 'thank you' when a gentleman talks to her, she sticks her nose up in the air. What is the world coming to?"

He and his cohorts eyed the defenseless blonde woman with lascivious grins.

Draeven meandered through the streets of Gallia, deeply absorbed in philosophical contemplation. As his boots padded softly along the slick paving, the sorcerer flicked a lock of hair, blood red in the darkness, from his eyes. It felt good to be moving again, as he had spent most of the day and the start of the night reading forgotten tomes. Most of them were fake, even the most powerful magician would not have been able to coax actual power from their dusty pages. The tricks of illusionists and con artists, nothing more..

And yet, every idea had potential. Draeven readjusted his mask slightly, watching the Leaping Mare with a bemused smile as he walked towards it. The customs of the inhabitants of Gallia were enthusiastic, even endearing. Although he was nothing but a visitor, not staying in the town for very long, he considered staying longer than he had planned. And then, out of the corner of his eye..

Draeven cocked his head slightly to the side, listening to the interaction between the fair woman and the man, not overly interested until his three companions stepped from the shadows. He walked towards the group, slowly, before speaking in low tones, just loud enough to be heard. Not threatening, not passionate, simply curious contemplation.

"If all you seek is a 'thank you', why call for others? Or do you all feel you deserve her gratitude?"

Arameus stood at the window with his arms folded across his chest, for the moment he didnt feel much like sitting, his backside was still sore from riding nearly the whole way from the Western Border of the Realm at a gallop shortly after the Messenger had found him and his Men-at-Arms out on patrol and informed him that those still faithful to his Majesty were to hold a meeting this very eve. Momentarily lost in thought, he instantly snapped around, hand going to the hilt of his sword as the sound of the heavy wooden doors thumped against the wall hard enough to rattle the panes of window halfway across the room. He gingerly took his seat as Grand Duke Constantine began the meeting.


Arameus took an instant disliking as to the reason of the meeting being made apparent as the Grand Duke spoke. There were far too many implacations to his suggesting of their naming an Heir, such talked made foes of friends and started wars when sides were taken for or against a chosen sucessor and even more bitterly so when more then one successor was named and he didnt like the ideal of possibly standing across the field of battle against any of these men in the room, But the Grand Duke was right of course, should the King die and no successor, the chaos to the Realm would be catastrophic, he shifted in his seat as the Grand Duke continued.


SEVERAL DAYS LATER......


Arameus disliked the fancy clothes made of the most expensive materials to be found in the Realm, he found them impractical and yet just another way for those who took their Nobility to heart to show off their status and wealth, what good was a silk tunic when it came to deflecting the penetrating thrust of a lance or the flight of an arrow?. He stood a few Nobles and their Wives behind the Viscount wearing polished chainmail under a clean surcoat the displayed his Families Crest, unmindful of the looks from the more elegantly dressed. He was able to hear the exchange between the Grand Duke, Count Rudolf and the Viscount, They were clearly well practiced in the ways of the Court and would of made excellant Thespians had they not been men of Title instead. Upon his turn, he made his respects to the Grand Duke and the Count then entered and search for a place to await the evenings events to unfold.

Inquisitor Zenithian Rowel

Deep in the bowels of Tara, carved in darkness and fear, the dungeon waited. A stern maze of pain and deception, it had been built so that sunlight would never gaze on the faces of those unjustly tortured, nor on the bloody hands of their jailers. It was a price, that of clarity and honesty, a heavy price that righteous justice could not afford in times where questions were still asked with such primitive outlooks, and answers were never complete or satisfying. Most criminals never reached the dungeon. Blessed by obvious reasons and crystal misdeeds, their stay in the hands of justice was short, punishment brief and commensurate to their guilt, and freedom would always follow, either in this world or in the next one, where all souls go. There were other criminals though, dangerous minds, that the Inquisition had taken a special liking to. These were the lifeblood of the dungeon. However, it was not just in such a vibrant collection of screams, cries, pain and blood, that Inquisitor Zenithian Rowel exercised his power, and his deep knowledge of his kind. On the contrary, most of his duty was performed above, on the surface, walking among the free and the living, like a cat lurking for mice. He always searched, never letting his guard down, always ready to face the end of the world as he had known it.

That night was not different. Tara was a jubilee, a mix of happiness for the return of the king and of sadness for the postponing of so many plans to seize a power that belonged to no one of these mysterious conjurer. Every street was a feast, every spark in the sky reminded Zenithian of all the crushed bones he had questioned in the previous days: conspirers of all sorts, henchmen, pawns of bigger schemes that the Inquisition could not yet figure out. Had he heard a single name! The smalltime baker heard something from a conversation with a goldsmith while both in jail for abuse of certain plants that improved any ability at the price of a sense of moral numbness. The goldsmith denied, until the wheel crushed his joints, one after the other, and finally admitted the existence of certain rings, which were commissioned by a merchant. It seemed silly to think that these rings should bear any connections to the king's health, unless the royal doctor, who never heard of the merchant, had been scheduled to receive one. Intercepted, the golden token was never delivered, and it rested instead in the Grand Inuisitor's hands for further inspection. The merchant could not be found, his shop was searched, fully, even magically, but contained nothing more than junk. As for the doctor, they simply watched him, for the sudden recovery of the king shun the most obvious suspicions, and he was anyway too important to be questioned in the usual manner.

Powerful men were prime suspects and thus kept under close watch. The Grand Inquisitor had given clear instructions as to not lose track of them, to note every face, every strange sign, or unusual audience, especially with other men of lower social status. A hard task, for men like Grand Duke Kendrik, or Count von Sforza, or Roger Tellesworth were not new to scheming and employing all sorts of mercenaries for their dirtiest affairs. Unwillingly, Zenithian had been assigned to follow Kendrik, the pigeon, as they called him in code, which rested watchful upon the royal palace, or the nest, waiting for the egg to be broken, or the king to die. The Inquisitor stood feet away from the Duke, studying the faces around him not without contempt, in particular that of a knight, Duke Arameus, whose file was nearly empty in the Inquisition folders, for he had always seemed too righteous to be interesting. Yet, his proximity to Kendrik in the celebration of royal recovery made his integrity, and his unflinching allegiance to the one righteous king more than questionable.

"I beg your pardon milord, is he Duke Arameus Gyllenstierne that I have the honor of talking to?" asked Zenithian, offering a nod of his head as a sign of respect. He was born a commoner, yet his status as Inquisitor had made it acceptable to address nobles without having being invited to do so.

"Well hell if I'm going to give you a single mug!" The graying peasant behind the bar gestured offendingly at Jukka, who stood incredulously gawking at his niggardly handling.

"But he's as big as a table, we just measured him!" Cried Jukka in retort, shaking the enormous creature who's head was locked at the throat by his log thick arms.

"Yeah, and he broke the damn thing in a hundred little bits because you brought him in still squealing for his mother!" The barkeeper's voice rose exasperatedly as he spoke.

"Gave you a good laugh."

"Gave me a heart attack!" Exclaimed the parsimonious proprietor. "Those drunken fools were the ones who were splitting a side."

The swine let out another howl and tried its luck at squirming in Jukka's grasp once more. Though the beast bucked and writhed valiantly, Jukka's biceps flexed firmly and settled the account. "I don't remember asking you a gods damned thing!" He sternly growled at the animal. "Look," He began, turning back to his current adversary, "He's as big as a table."

"And you're as big as the whole tavern!" Declared the man, flailing an arm wildly out in every direction it could point. "If I give you a drop, you'll drink me dry and still want more." There was an audible crash behind Jukka, denoting a friendly brawl getting a bit more rowdy than intended, the two wrestling men toppling a set of chairs and throwing down pewter mugs in their wake. "Aw, now I'll have to replace stools and dented up mugs on top of your cretin's smashed table. Look, I won't give you a thing, understand?"

"Then I will give you a cracked face!" Announced the vast Taborischite, tightening his grip further and flaunting the bulges in his arms.

"Then you will get a good deal less than nothing. Who told you that I would be serving foreigners, anyhow?"

This reply dug into Jukka's skin deeper than practically any other comment, no matter how otherwise pernicious it may have been, could. An icy sternness took over the nordling's countenance as a frozen pride seeped into his blood. His grim stare turned to the lively varmint in his arms. The thing's lack of the familiar matted wool adorning northern beasts only amplified Jukka's isolation. "Then I will leave." He uttered, emanating through long vocal chords a deep, guttural, indignant, and solemn tone of speech. "But I have no use for this. So you keep it." Every one of Jukka's hundreds of pounds of muscle contracted simultaneously, heaving with the efforts of three men upon the mass of pork within his grasp. The unfortunate animal howled in obstinance, but was in no place to resist the efforts of the behemoth human. Into the air the creature went, in dramatic motion, bucking and thrashing and screaming in fear. Over the counter and behind the bar was he deposited, and in his new found freedom found a place to release his fury. Clamor of shattering glass and spilling liquor and splintering wood and a single fearful bartender rang out as a din to end all dins. Jukka turned and strode sullenly but determinedly towards the door through which he had entered, ignoring the shouts following him, exclaiming in various inebriated voices "Good show, fellow!" and "You can drink with me, Tabor, just for the show!" and "Oh, lighten up now, big boy!". In their drunken revelry they cared little of the grievous harm that was in that moment befalling the proprietor. Jukka cared less.

Once out in the blustery night air, Jukka felt much as the boar he had so recently unleashed in the establishment, with endless energy at the freedom from a cruel captor. Unlike the pig, he had no outlet for his liberty fueled anger. No bar to destroy in rage, though he wagered he could spend the night tearing the physical edifice board from board. Perhaps it would be provided, though, thought he, when the villagers came seeking him in the morning to reprimand him for the damages. It would be entertaining, of course. He doubted greatly if they had a rope in this town substantial enough to string his bulk up by, and half the town would not even turn out, believing it was an ogre thundering around their forest, rather than a Taborischite with good genes.

At that point the sound of indignant words fluttered on the wind of the night to his ear. It blew back the flowing blonde coiffure to whisper to him more efficiently, and Jukka traced the sounds he received to a group not far from he, and sauntered closer. He worried not about drawing attention, for there was not any point which he could think of. Thus he stamped up to the group with his average amount of grace - that is to say as little as a beached whale - and made himself known, speaking out over them "Now here I find five men and a lady, a handsy pipe smoker, three underfed wolves with rotten teeth, a scrawny masked marauder with a flame fetish and a pretty young blonde lass in the middle, with all due respect, miss." He nodded his powerfully featured head at the woman, taking note of how the moonlight refracted dazzlingly in her achromatic eyes. A sucker for sap, Jukka's mind faded from the situation at hand for just a second and contemplated the first inklings of a poem to use such an image in. Returning to himself, however, he spake again: "Erring on the side of chivalry, I'll ask if any of these men are causing you issue. Erring on the side of experience, I'll say you've got daggers stashed somewhere and are better prepared to deal with these thugs than any here give you credit for. Erring on the side of boredom, I'll ask if I can give you a helping hundred pound hand anyway."

For the pipe smoker and his comrades, their initial reaction was one of amusement at Draeven's appearance. That quickly turned to bemusement at the sight of Jukka lumbering toward them. Typical provincial Caledonians, they had never seen a man of Jukka's size and were temporarily startled into silence at this iceberg of a man.

"What...are you?" said the pipe smoker, his mouth hanging agape. His arms hung slack at his sides.

"What's this fellow's deal?" asked one of the three companions, still looking askance at Draeven. "Looks like he escaped off a joker card in a playing deck."

"This is exactly why things have gone to hell these days. Who let for'ners in these parts? No wonder the watch don't even come around anymore. What're we even paying taxes to the King for?" complained another one of the companions. The third companion remained stock still, petrified into total silence at Jukka's imposing presence.

The pale-eyed woman turned her head, scanning the unquestionably odd assortment of men that had gathered around her. It was beginning to become impossible to be a pretty female these days.

"That's a lot of erring you're doing," she said, looking Jukka up and down. "Is this what they mean by a knight errant?"

All six men regarded her. She was slim and pale, with her blonde hair clearly painstakingly arranged in a braid that wrapped around her head. Some elaborate pattern was woven along her otherwise plain green dress. There was no question this woman was Caledonian through and through, and quite an attractive Caledonian at that, but there was something that made her seem leagues apart from the uncouth bumpkins that had accosted her.

Rin treaded carefully at the entranceway to the grand party in Tara. Watching as high nobles donned in fancy outfits roamed the streets and plundered the dining tables filled with food and drink. Others consorting with the opposite sex near the fire twirlers and bands playing rather unusual music for his liking. Patiently waiting in line as the house nobles and the duke himself was greeting guests as they came in. Finally it was his turn.

"Ah welcome welcome.... err my apologies, but who may you be?" The duke asked hesitantly. Rin understood his confusion, why would a man donned in full armor and weapons enter a party dressed like that? "My apologies, my name is Rin Nakimura. Son of Lord Rekkimitsu Nakimura. My father has received an invitation from your house but as my father is very un-well he could not make it. Thus asking me to take his place. I hope this does not displease you, if you wish I can turn around and leave?" Rin said with quite a heavy accent. He was not used to leaving his land, but he would not disobey his fathers orders.

"Nonono- that is fine, fine indeed.... just please keep your weapons sheathed." The duke said. " unless you wish to participate in the arena that is?" A large smile went across the dukes face. "It would be an honor to see the Lords son in action." He said as if trying to apologize for his rudeness beforehand. Rin's eyes widened with excitement. "I would most honoribly accept your offer, please point me towards the sparring area?" He said with excitement. He did not know what kind of opponents he would be up against in these foreign lands, and that alone excited him greatly.

Jukka's broad lips cracked smirkingly at the hints of wit in the woman's speech. It seemed a modest attempt at humor, and was a pun not deserving of a copious amount of praise. However, as the young lady looked at him, he felt compelled to show some reaction. The urge of simple social courtesy called him, but he held himself in place and offered only the acknowledgement of a break in his austere countenance. However, he continued on the path she set, himself punning: "Errant I'm not, I only had an errand in the area, and don't allow yourself to make an error in judgement, madam, I have shown myself too erroneous for my king to lay a sword on my shoulders." He searched his mind for any other expression that would fit the scheme. "More like a barrage of arrows is what I could expect from he." A near enough alliteration to satisfy him. "We barely have them in Taborisch, in fact. Salissia may be the seat of the crown, but it is little more than a border outpost. The tiaras control a swath along the front with Caledon, but walk a mile north and you are in Tribe land. There, great men wear helms of caribou horn we follow behind, and greater men," His eyes turned to the trouble makers close at hand, and his knuckles cracked as he pressed upon them in each hand with the other palm, "are their enforcers, single handedly winning territory and keeping the peace."

Something which I barely get myself. Contemplated he, removing his voice from the ring of men for a moment, and asserting it within his own head. It's my own fault on this night, he continued, should I have been content to keep in my own hut in my own damn woods I would have been in no such situations tonight. Damn it all when a man can't even go to the pub for a swig without heckling and a damsel in distress. At least I give her a bit of peace.

"Now let me educate you all on another, more domestic subject." His face took on a shade of dire it had not reached at any other time in the evening. "The King's watch barely comes around anymore, true. A constable was one of the last of their ranks I saw in the area. Wandered in the woods, did he, a while back. My woods." His eyes darted between each man as his muscular tongue rolled out his thick drawl, heavy with years of viscous mead and a ponderous mother language. Though one man showed fear, another showed hate. One derision, and another barely anything at all. Through this individual's mask Jukka peered for an extra moment. It was painfully obvious that he belonged not with the assailants whom he otherwise faced, who seemed more amused than intimidated at the other outsider's presence. Jukka had no time to inquire of him what he wished, and thus was forced to continue his own tale. "The King's man must have seen the darting of luminescent cerulean wings as he wandered, as I caught him with something I did not appreciate his taking. He believed the stories about fairies being luck if put in a bottle and up on the hearth. When I accosted him for it, he was so frightened that his grip tightened around the thing. Fairies' bodies are more fragile than a grasshopper's wings, though. He crushed the breath from her very lungs. I crushed the thoughts from his very head. Took a rock half as big as he was and bowled him over as he ran. I knew the fairy. Viramea was her name. The elves and fairies and nymphs and even a troll couple and I buried her as was fit. She was kind. The constable we fed to the wolves of the glades and the troll wife uses his leg bone still to stir her pot. They stopped sending anyone except tax collectors through the woods to this town when every rescue attempt that went in failed to come out. I care about the lives of the vulnerable. I don't care about the lives of those who take advantage of them."

It is an odd thing; For everything he does to avoid the arena as its victim, now he was here as a freeman about to slaughter other victims. For his part he made it imposingly clear that he refused to fight slaved to the death, he would fight slaved to wound , freeman to wounded and freemen to the death but never would he subject those to such a one sided battle. Now he stood before a dwarf in full plate mail with a scythe in both hands while he kept his axe on his shoulder in an almost lazy position waiting for the fight to begin.

With ax in hand he didn't have to draw his weapon, just lower the blade with a practiced rolling heave of the shoulder. Dwarven armor was always the best, but armor still had the unavoidable truths: Neck, armpit, elbow, groin... He dropped the ax down to the top of one's head and watched as the blade sparked down the side to catch in the shoulder guard, while the shoulder guard's raised neck is designed to protect from a beheading horizontally, a blade coming down from above was at the mercy of the chainmail underneath. Chainmails greatest ability is to turn chopping blows into blunt trauma that the body can handle better, but with the force of the ax coming down, the clavicle was assuredly shattered with bone bits inside making the dwarf crumple into a heap. The short one was probably not dead but surely not going to fight anymore today or even for the month.

The crowd erupted into a mixture of cheers for the one-shot death and booing laments for the fight being too short. They came here for a show, but if they blinked then they missed it. Folks ran out to drag the dwarf off of the field but were stopped as Blue claimed a sickle off his belt where a dagger would be and then he squatted down holding his ax to await the next opponent while examining the new blade.

Tara

Obligingly, Grand Duke Kendrick escorted Rin to the arena. As the two men approached, Kendrick looked Rin over with a hint of curiosity.

"Forgive my intrusiveness, my lord, but you carry yourself in a manner that suggests you've...been abroad, perhaps?" Certainly, if anyone could identify all of the typical mannerisms of a Caledonian purebred, it would be a man like Kendrick. Maybe he was missing the mark, but in Kendrick's mind, there was something decidedly unusual about Rin. The grand duke cushioned his inquiry with a disarming smile. He was not aiming to insult the gentleman but he was trying to pinpoint what was so different about him.

The two stopped at a small, circular space in the courtyard before the palace. A dwarf and a slave were clubbing each other with wooden swords. Kendrick retained his smile, looking at Rin in anticipation of an answer. Not far away, cheers and jeers rose as Blue delivered a one-hit knock-out to his opponent.

Gallia

The blonde's face fell as Jukka went on a pun spree. Then it really fell when he recounted the tale of the last constable he encountered, yet that was a mild reaction when contrasted to those who had accosted her. The pipe smoker and his comrades were now ashen faced as they listened to Jukka's story. As the color drained from their faces, the blonde turned purposely to Jukka and smiled.

"You may carry a joke too far, but I must say, a sense of humor is appreciated at the moment."

The pipe smoker found his voice. "You...you just wait! When Luca hears about you, he's going to fix you!"

The reaction on the Taborischite's face was one of mild merriment at the feeble attempt at intimidation. "And who is Luca?"

The pipe smoker pointed a stubby, grimy finger at Jukka and retorted, "He's the boss around here. Nothing gets by without Luca knowing about it. He's felled bigger men 'n you, I don't mind saying. If someone whispers in the wind, Luca hears it. He's why no constables come around these parts no more, not 'cause of some fellow who thinks he's a manly man for defending fairies in the woods."

"That is interesting. And you're going to tell him about me?"

The pipe smoker felt like Jukka was looming over him despite a few feet between them. "You...you bet we are!"

"We?"

The pipe smoker turned to look over his shoulder. His three friends had fled into the night already. With agonizing slowness, the pipe smoker turned back to look up into the glinting eyes of Jukka. He retreated step by step around the corner of the bar and then ran away in a total panic.

"I think he can put that in his pipe and smoke it," quipped the blonde with a wry smile, looking Jukka up and down again. "So, you do a lot of this saving-pretty-girls-in-the-middle-of-the-night thing or is this something you do on the side?"

Her eyes fell upon Draeven. "And what's gotten you so tongue-tied? Hoped to swoop in and rescue me too?"