[IC] Brooksby Burning: a Medieval Murder-Mystery

[Lillian Thorne]

OOC

Bronwyn

Bronwyn stood in front of the small mirror her father had given her when she’d turned sixteen and winced. Her full lower lip was split and her cheeks and jaw were red and raw, irritated by what was unmistakably beard burn. There were bands of bruising along the slender white column of her throat, four on the right and one on the left. She gingerly touched the marks and winced again. She would wear deep bruises for a long time. She thought about all her summery blouses and tops with their modest but still lower neckline. She sighed and picked up a soft silk scarf, bright, cheerful and completely frivolous. It had been a gift from Zhago and normally she wore the bit of brightness nestled in her even brighter hair as a sort of tease for the man who couldn’t keep his hands off the crimson curls. It would hopefully not look too out of place around her neck. She gingerly wrapped it and then squinted, tilting her head and trying to see if it looked as out of place as it felt. It did but there was no helping it. She had just turned away from the mirror, ready to leave the nightmare images of the night before behind her and face the day when a great commotion was heard from the green in front of her tavern.

She ran out her back door, through her small garden and around the front just as a party of riders finished thundering into the center of her small village. At the lead was Lord Robert himself. She moved to drop a curtsy as was expected and froze. His face was a mask of fury and loss that stunned and moved her. She knew that look; she’d worn a muted version of it every day since her father had passed. She felt the blood drain from her face and stepped to her left to lean against one of the apple trees her father had planted in his front yard when he’d first built the Tavern. She needed the support because she thought she knew what was coming.

“Does he know?”she found herself wondering just as the man beside him, a salt and pepper man of middling years pulled out a huntsman’s horn and blew loudly on it. Bronwyn flinched at the noise and the way it seemed to smash into the relative peace of the village. No one, no matter how inebriated would be able to sleep through that. Sure enough, people began poking their heads out of their doors and then drifting into the green still littered with signs of the festivities from the night before. She kept her eyes down and tried to fade into the shadow of the tree she leaned against, she didn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes, she had a feeling she knew what this was about.

When everyone, or nearly everyone was assembled Lord Robert, who had been sitting in mute fury finally spoke.

“Who is responsible for this?” His voice, a mingling of authority that was a birthright and pain that was fresh, cut through the air even more thoroughly than the horn had. He gestured and two of his men dismounted and hauled down a wrapped bundle that was pretty unmistakable: a body. Her eyes fixed upon it and with silent horror she and the others of the village were treated to the sight of a badly mangled body, missing most of its soft abdomen and, she noted with some small satisfaction, most of its groin. There was enough of the face left to identify it: Marc Bessom. Black danced at the edge of her vision as a small child began to cry somewhere in the crowd that had gathered. Off to her left someone was noisily sick into the bushes. She swallowed hard and tried to school her features.

She knew what she had done, she knew what he had done, her body ached with what he had done. But nothing in her memories could account for the state of his body. Without thinking she stepped forward and stared hard at the ruins of a man. The night flashed back through her head. The community meal, everyone bringing the best their spring larders had to offer in an act of community and good will. The joyful cheer that had erupted when she’d tapped the midsummer ale and Wine which was dotted with woodruff and strawberries. She remembered the first sweet taste of it and then looking up to see Marc Bessom looking at her as he fed a wine-soaked strawberry to Lila. Beyond them Bronwyn had seen Lorelei watching the exchange and seething.

Memories sped up, flashing past the sight of the musicians setting up and then the dancing. The people in her memory moved in a whirl, dancing and laughing as they should. She saw Marc, dancing with a different girl each turn, stumble and then swear. Seconds later there was a yip of pain and a small white dog often seen in the company of Duncan sped out of the crowd, red staining its side. Marc stalked off of the dance floor and was met by the priest who offered him a drink and spoke softly to him as Marc swigged back what seemed like half of it. There had been another roar then as Duncan had thrown himself on Marc and a struggle ensued. It didn’t end well for Duncan and Marc had taunted him as he’d pinned him with a boot to his neck before releasing him and stalking off. She had ached for Duncan as she watched him swig back the rest of Marc’s drink before stalking off himself, his face like a thundercloud.

She’d been whisked away then, laughing and joking with her neighbors, getting served drinks instead of serving. Smiling more than she had in months, drunk on wine and her first taste of joy in over a year; she even went so far as to flirt with Carson as he handed off a sleeping Kit to his neighbor with her own parcel of chicks who were heading home for the night. She danced with Zhago and even managed to talk Angus into a reel or two. When she’d settled him back in his place by the bonfire she’d noted the absence of Carter whom she presumed to be off comforting Duncan whom hadn’t been seen for a bit.

She’d seen Fay then, storming off from Marc who had a nasty smile on his face as he watched her go. Bronwyn had intercepted her with a tankard of midsummer ale and a smile but thought it might have been small comfort for the angry woman. As Fay brushed past her with curt thanks Bronwyn had seen Alyss approach Marc with an expression that unsettled her. It seemed wrong for a nun to have such a welcoming expression on her face so she’d turned away and sought out Ioan, wanting to make certain her friend was taking as much of a night off as he could. She found him chatting with Leo and spent a few minutes talking with the two men. She didn’t see Marc again until much later.

She shivered to remember the way his face had looked when he’d seen her next, cruel and entitled and then surprised when she’d fought him and his crude advances. Not that it had done her much good. The rock, that had done her good, even if she’d mashed her own finger between it and the side of his head.

The voice of Lord Robert cut through her reverie again, welcome this time and she’d focused on him and his rage and tried to feel sorry that his son was dead, but she couldn’t, she simply could not do it.

“My son was Murdered by one of you and then dropped like garbage into a pig pen. I will have his killer at my mercy and you,” his finger made a sweep of the village, touching upon each of them and it was all Bronwyn could do not to run screaming when it pointed at her, “You will bring me his killer in twenty-four hours time or I will burn this village to the ground and let you all starve.”

With that he spurred his horse and rode out of the village, his men following behind him like a pack of wolves, the same two men gathering up the body of Marc. When the dust cleared one man remained, that salt and pepper haired man who was even then slipping from his mount. For a long moment it was as if the village itself was holding its breath. Bronwyn blinked back tears and tired to think of what to do. Should she say what she’d done or should she hold her tongue? It seemed a great many people had such thoughts.

[bumbledbee]

Carter

That blissful moment between sleep and consciousness, how he loved that sensation most when he fell upon slumber outdoors. He could smell the dew on the grass, so sweet to his senses which brought fond dreams. Looking from a not far distance, he was sitting on a tree stump near his mother’s old home. He could see his dearest sister, long blonde curls wrapped and pinned with one stubborn lock flowing in the breeze as she twirled a small boy. The beautiful smiles on their faces, smiles that blushed the cheeks and gave a warmth to your face. He too could feel that warmth, watching Cassy play outside with Duncan was the whole reason he enjoyed sleeping. It would be the only time he could ever do such a joyous thing. Little Duncan, all well and happy and aware. And she was alive. He only had these dreams when he would pass out in an open field or the grass between his home and the Tavern.

But his dream wasn’t about to last long this day, it came like a banshee’s wail the sound of the horn blowing. In his dream, Cassy and Duncan ad stopped twirling and looked at him, so sadly. He was leaving them again, not that he wanted to but that horn was giving him no choice. Awake, his eyes snapped opened as he exhaled a deep breath against the grass. His head turned to the side as he had fallen face down on his way home last night. Or, had he been returning to the Tavern for another round? It was hard to remember with that horn blowing through his skull, though that wasn’t the horn anymore, just the revenge of the ale from last night.

With a groan, Carter manages to pull himself up, stumbling for balance as he staggers in the direction he sees other blurred images going. Passing by a water barrel, he dips his hands in and splashes the cold contents on his face, the shock taking his breath but waking him a bit. Shaking his head he rubs his face then uses the moisture to pull back his hair. The grass stained town healer then staggers around a building where he comes upon a few others standing in shock and horror. Puzzled for a moment, he lingers a stare on everyone in his view, everyone was horror struck. Then finally he catches a glimpse of the two men who had pulled down a mangled calf from their horses. No, that wasn’t a calf. Dear God, that was a human body. Squinting his eyes he too finally felt the horror everyone else was feeling, that was Marc Bessom. One of his hands came trembling to his mouth, though the trembling was from the sudden sobriety he had just been forced into.

Carter’s eyes roamed the crowd again, catching sight of Bronwyn for a moment as his memories came flooding back in a drunken blur. Last night had been a glorious occasion, all the ale you could drink and no limit to the stories one could tell. He had stuck by Angus most that night, comparing his wild adventures to his own wild indoors adventures with the pretty brunette he had sitting, laughing on his knee. Marc had claimed most of the women that evening, using one up then moving on to the next. He remembered thinking, how a man could be so ignorant as to not treat a woman as the delicate blossom they are. Carelessness lead to wilting and more often he bare witness to Marc's mishandlings with a soft chuckle.

His focuses had been quite on Angus and his lap companion, until she too succumbed to wilting at the hands of our Lord’s son. Forgivable that had been but not what he had done to Duncan. It may had been true Duncan had started the scuffle but that spoiled child knew Duncan’s condition. As much as Carter wanted to break his mug over Marc’s head all he did was stand there, yelling reason, pleading. Had he not been Lord Robert’s son... none the less he failed Duncan. It shouldn’t have mattered, he should have stopped Marc’s insults, his abuse. When it was all done he followed after Duncan, followed him through the woods where he liked to go when he was upset or just wandering. It became blurry then, had he found Duncan? How did he get there behind the tavern, passed out where he fell?

Shaking his head he looked down at his ands, flipping them over and back. Small scraps were there, though he could have received those trying to find Duncan. He lifted his head just in time as he saw the Lord’s finger pointing directly at him and it filled him was such a fright he nearly dropped to his knees. He then heard the words spoken and his legs become so weak he had to fall back against the building behind him for support. Did he really believe that one of them killed his son? Carter knew everyone in the village and he couldn’t even try to wrap his brain around such madness. Even if everyone here had a damn good reason to see that spoiled, poor excuse for a man dead... it wasn’t one of them. But it seemed they had no choice, they only had a day before he punishes them all. Shaking his head again, his pounding and aching head, he slowly slides down the building onto the seat of his pants and brings both hands to his face. This was all too much to absorb, the shock making the man’s face pale beneath his fingers. Right now he couldn't bring himself willingly to say anything.

[Jilted Yellow]

Lorelei

The sorrow rose out of her throat, like some heavy thing clawing up from her stomach and scratching its way out through her mouth. It was an awful, horror-laden noise, and it was barely quieted by her hands clamped tightly over her lips. She felt her knees going weak, and her body trembling. A pained burn, spreading through her nose, her eyes, as tears began to overtake her vision. It was like fighting against a current that was beginning to pull her under. Something crushing in her chest, where her heart was, making it harder to breathe.

“No…” Was the word, unintelligible, and hidden behind her fingers. Standing towards the front of the crowd, she couldn’t bear to look anymore. At the mangled flesh, the gnawed portions of skin, the image of death where life used to be so vibrant.

She remembered the night in tattered bits, and the memories suddenly overcame her, more in instances of sensation than in any explicit image. She remembered feeling hot, in her chest and her face, boiling with rage. And she remembered the biting, sweet taste of drink on her tongue—she remembered having the thought, how it was funny she could have two such different feelings at one time. The heat of anger and the cool feeling of ale in her mouth. It seemed nonsensical that the two should exist at the same time and in one person, but they did, and they mingled together for some time.

Then Lorelei remembered the sound of leaves and branches crunching under foot, and cool air against her face. A musty stench of ale, breathed close against her neck. A fleeting, lusty warmth of desire. The feeling of a tussle, and of being grabbed and pulling away. There was a rising fervor in the atmosphere, a sensation in the wind that was almost tangible and thick. Her muscles tight, clamped fists, and suddenly hands that seemed to be under some control other than her own. And then red. She remembered red, spreading out, running down, in front of her, and on her hands, her hands, her….

Lorelei opened her eyes then to find a world in horizontal. She had collapsed at some point, overwhelmed, and had landed on the ground hard, no one looking to catch her when she fell. There were hands reaching her way now, and as she reached to take them she stopped short, staring in dismay at what she saw. Her own fingers, the palm of her hand, stained in red. She had pulled her hand away, scampering to her feet when her eyes met another terror—streaks of red on her dress. Like one had taken their hand, and tried to wipe it clean.

“No, no.” She uttered, fear gaining in her voice. “No, no, no.” What happened? What had she done last night? She hadn’t, she hadn’t…

“My son was murdered by one of you…bring me his killer in twenty-four hours time or I will burn this village to the ground and let you all starve.”

The words were like waves enough to submerge her, and she felt again like she was sinking, her head swimming. She wanted to get away, had to get away from the people in the crowd. She had to get home, to change her dress, to bathe. This was too much, it was all too much, and as she pushed her way through the bevy of onlookers, Lorelei wondered vaguely if maybe she was asleep after all. There’s no way this was happening. Marc wasn’t dead and no one had killed him. She hadn’t killed him.

She hadn’t.

[tirgesfu]

Carson


What? Carson stretched his sore shoulders and rolled his head on the straw. He woke to the sound of the horn. So what. He didn’t open his eyes. His body felt the stiffness of a brawl and his fingers ached. He could say he slept through the summons. Too much to drink, too much fun, too much celebrating could be his excuse. Who wouldn’t believe him?

Carson felt soft small hands on his cheeks and he opened his eyes. Kit was right on top of him looking at his face with her lips quivering ready to cry. Her fingers moved to his mouth and her eyes showed a sadness that tugged at his heart.

“No, no, everything is all right.” He put his arms around her and sat up. The small girl shared his mat and has become more important to him than he ever thought possible. She was the reason he had to go like a sheep when the Lords called. She and his horses. Someone would see that he wasn't there. Carson kissed her head and bounced her on his hip the way she liked. Kit rested her head on his shoulder. Grabbing the worn blanket he draped it around her and headed out to answer the call. Blow a horn and we come running, ready to be herded again. Yet Carson could feel a cold dread take hold.

He was one of the last to make it to the center of town, right in front of the tavern. He could tell by the faces this was not the left over’s of a celebration. His eyes went from each around him, Bronwyn face looked strange in the night puffy and discolored, Zhago was there with his head down twitching and glancing to the thing they tried not to focus on. It took Carson a minute to realize it was a body. Once he did he stared at it. His eyes squinted and his jaw clamped tight. It was the best the bastard ever looked in Carson mind. No tears or anywhere close. One less leach in this village, as far as Carson was concerned.

He watched the partial corpse without looking at anything else, until the words of Lord Robert reached his fuzzy understanding. He would burn them all? His startled look turned to the Lord right as Kit began to squirm and whimper. Is he insane? He would kill them and ruin the whole village over scum like Marc. Of course he would, Carson shifted Kit in his arms. That was why the bastard was such an ass, his father never saw him as anything but a cherished child.

The thought that Kit would be starved because that dung finally got what was coming made Carson’s heart beat fast and his skin begin to prickle. He began to pant slightly and tense. His anger was beginning to boil. With his teeth clenched he looked to the man beside him, Zhago. The Lord's men rode off.

“Get it over with,” Carson spat at the soft bronzed filly. “Show us how talented you really are and make a dramatic exit. Save the rest of us.” He shifted Kit down to his knees and then looked up into those blue eyes that shouldn’t be that color. His voice was as tight as his hands. “Who wouldn’t want that spectacular exit?” It all made sense to Carson. Zhago wasn't needed, why not him.

Carson’s fingers opened and closed, opened and closed again finding comfort in the form of a fist. Unable to control the pent up anger any longer he snapped his right fist into the freak’s stomach. It wasn’t a hard hit. It was a warning, and encouragement to do what Carson wanted. But it was a punch to Zhago and something he had wanted to do for some time now.

[KnightShade]

Duncan

“You not awake yet? Come on time to get up,” Duncan opened his eyes and peeked at the figure stood over him, he couldn’t see them because of the intensity of the light around them but it was his dad’s voice so someone must have helped him back to his bed. “What are the two things I always tell you son? Don’t drink and don’t fight, it’s not just bad you’re not made for it like others are. You’ll have to make your apologies sometime today,” his dad had raised his voice but that didn’t mean he was angry, it was when he got quiet that Duncan got upset and worried.

His dad moved out of the way and light flooded Duncan’s eyes making him curse, “Where’d you learn a filthy word like that? It was at that tavern you like hanging around right? I’ll not have you handling a cleaver like this today; you can be on delivery duty.” Duncan sat up with effort, “Did he come?” When his dad didn’t answer he pleaded, “Did he come for the meat scraps?” His dad sat down at the end of Duncan’s bed, “No son, I’m sorry.” Duncan took a moment to digest the news then nodded, then shook his head, “But he was the bear.” His dad looked at him puzzled. “He was the bear from Angus’ story and I was gonna act Angus.” “You’d make a good actor son,” said the elder Duncan Holdon but Duncan was already smiling complacently his thoughts elsewhere.

That was when the horn sounded out, cutting across the sounds of the waking village. “Come on son; let’s see what this is about.” Duncan blearily stood up, out of breath from just this small exertion. His dad frowned, “You okay son. Not bruised anywhere?” Duncan nodded his head then shook it, “Yes I’m fine. No I’m fine?” The shop and house was coiled upon itself around the first floor and rather than walk through the kitchen and shop they went out the back door and round. “What’s that smell?” said Duncan and his stomach turned over, making him vomit when he saw it’s source.

[Unlit]

Alain Longshot

Alain slid off his horse and tucked his hunting horn behind his saddle. Like or not, he wouldn't need it again. Not until the end, at least. When all these folk were called to see a killer hang. A killer hang, or their homes burn. The games warden grunted to himself, letting his eyes pass over the ugly red and pink lump that had been Marc. He'd seen mangled bodies before. Some in battle when he was younger. Most recently, some travelers mauled by animals, left to rot half-eaten in the woods. Not to mention all the animals he'd gutted himself after a hunt. It wasn't the sight nor stench of Marc that gave the huntsman that uneasy nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was what Alain had been tasked to do by Lord Robert that made him queasy. Alain was a hunter of game. Not people inside their own village.

But Lord Robert had made it clear when he'd come to Alain, face red and tight and angrier than Alain had ever seen it.

Who better to hunt a crazed dog than a huntsman?

Before everyone took off, Alain thought he better mention some things.

He cleared his throat, looking around, and called out in a rough voice made only slightly awkward by the situation, "For those of you who don't know me, I'm Alain Longshot, the Games Warden for Lord Robert. He's ordered me to root out his son's killer. I'll be coming around. Asking what I can think to ask. Go about your normal day, do what you do, but nobody leaves Brooksby. If I hear about anyone leaving, I'm going to have to assume you're the one what did this." He flung a hand disgustedly toward mangled Marc.

So here Alain was, already feeling way over his head, but he was a practical sort, as far as practicality went. These small towns didn't let much slip by them. Somebody knew something, and with the threat of razing over their heads, surely one of them would be more than eager to tell the tale.

He let his eyes sweep around the crowd. Disheveled and shocked faces, wide eyes. He saw some smug faces mixed in too. Marc wasn't well loved. Alain didn't live here, and even he knew that. The boy had been spoiled, and spoiled rotten. But being one of Lord Robert's favorites, Alain hadn't ever had any run-ins with the bastard son. He'd heard the stories, though. He knew in a lot of ways, Marc probably had this coming to him. Unfortunately, that didn't change things.

Not a bit.

He realized he wouldn't be looking for spores, footprints, or broken twigs. A man killed with violence would leave other marks of his passing. Marc would've left marks of his end somewhere. Alain was already sure about it. He knew the boy to be prone to a little violence, and he wouldn't have left this world quietly, most like. But what would those marks be...?

His keen eye for detail roved, noting a few things that stood out. Most notably some streaks of red on a woman.

"You," Alain said firmly, pointing to Lorelei. "I'll want to talk to you first." Then with a more general glance around, he added, "Any of you have anything you want to confess to doing or seeing now, I'll hear that. Otherwise, go on, and you can bet you'll see me before the day's out."

[May]

Ioan

He didn't need the sound of the horn to wake him. He'd been sat upright rather suddenly an hour or so before the blast of the horn had made its echoing way through the village. Nightmares were not an uncommon thing for him. They happened far more often then a man of his age and general 'iron will' would like to admit. But there were things that you couldn't help but be afraid of in your dreams. Things that you couldn't control.

But this night terror wasn't like the ones he normally had. No comforting faces of his mother and sister turned pale and hollow with sickness. Their bodies not distorted and made into monsters that came after him. This one lacked that familiarity of childhood and instead brought with it the uncertainty of last night.

He'd been very drunk. Very very drunk. And most of it wasn't because of celebration. He'd started off the night trying to get into the gay party feel. But every time he looked over at her she seemed to be looking at him. Or perhaps that was just in his head. He thought he'd seen things for a long time. Things that weren't obviously there. Always seeing the things he wanted and not the truth. But had he taken his blinders off or had he stuffed his ears with wool too to further hinder his perception?

But he drank anyway, glad to have an excuse for it so no one would question it. Plaster on a fake smile and maybe it would catch hold for real. Fake it till you make it.

It might have finally made it, but he couldn't remember. After a certain point the night blurred into that line he couldn't tell from reality or dream. The line that had him seated upright and staring into the dappled light coming in his window for an hour trying to figure out which was which. Until the horn cut through his thoughts and brought him back into reality for the moment at least. He couldn't ignore the call of that horn and he rolled out of bed and to his knees very quickly. His legs were still drunk it seemed. That might be a problem.

Groaning, he pushed himself up, not bothering to grab a shirt as he used the wall and door frames to walk him to the front door. There he grabbed one of the old man's walking sticks that he'd not been able to bring himself to get rid of and headed out to see what all the fuss was about. As he approached, his legs seemed to work more, but they still lacked total feeling in them. It only got worse as his dark eyes focused on who had gathered them all there.

The Lord. Father of that bastard son who couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. The bastard who...who...He just hoped that the bruises that made his knuckles ache had left even worse ones on that pretty boy's flesh. Like the few that were starting to show on his own chest. But it had been worth it. Even if it was going to make working a little harder for a few days. It had made him feel better. If only a little bit. And as long as his dreams weren't true, if he really wanted too, he could make himself feel good again.

Ioan looked up at the Lord's face and he knew that look. He'd seen it very well on his father's face after the death of his sister and mother. At least before he'd let himself slip away. Slower than he would have liked, his eyes went down to the ragged form of the man who he wanted to still punch in the face. Even though he was dead.

Did he do this? Was he the one that had brought the entitled prick down? Why was he so pleased about that thought? He set his face in a mask and only partly heard the words that were said by anyone. He didn't care who they were or what they said. He just looked at the pig eaten body of Marc and tried to collect his thoughts about the night before. With no luck. Even after the lord was gone he looked to the place on the ground, eyes unfocused.

Slowly he stirred and looked around him at the others in the village. There were too many emotions to read among them to figure anything out. Maybe he was the one? But the man who'd been sent to look into it didn't seem to think so. "Not her," he sighed, starting, stupidly slowly to make his way over to him where he spoke with Lorelei. He was still a little drunk in body, his brain hardly up to the task as it was. Hopefully his legs would work long enough to get him over there. He couldn't...No...

[Serge Drevlan]

Zhago||Cristobel

The young, bronze skinned man shuffled under his finely embroidered, silk sheet. He'd made it for himself-- it was a sort of alarm clock; whenever he woke up with it on, there was surely someone in bed with him. Zhago moved his leg, which was sat upon soft flesh, and tried to guess the person. It was a woman, that was clear. Zhago moved his arm, without looking, over the girls body, he ran his palm up her leg and over her waist. The curve was an immediate sign. Zhago quickly flipped himself and mounted the girl. He looked dreamily down at her.

"Good morning, my dear heart." He lowered himself very near Cristobel's lips. "How do you feel? Able to walk I hope." He said, smiling a dirty little smile.

Christobel was awake a bit before him, but still kept her eyes closed. She lay still, softly breathing under the embroidered sheet. It felt smooth, and she always knew when it was on whenever she slept with Zhago. Her eyes slightly opened, as she saw that Zhago had moved and was lowered very close to her. The night before she sort of remembered, but sort of didn't. After so many times she was comfortable with having him touch her like that, for the first time it was kind of weird. She looked to the side, to avoid looking at him.

"I can walk, and I feel fine,"she said in the normal stoic tone that she usually used. What she never did was return his smile, almost never, never in day time though. She didn't like the banter that occured the morning after, but it was just a part of it.

Zhago flashed a row of clean teeth. He purred as he dug his mouth into Cristobel's neck; and just as he slid his conniving tongue from his mouth to work all sorts of magic on Cristobel's soft, warm skin, a horn was blown. Zhago grunted heavily and pulled his skinny body up, away from Cristobel. He pulled his curled hair back and tied it into a big bun. Afterward he ran his finger down Cristobel's fine frame and then to her belly button. He held it there for a while and then, with the brisk decisiveness of a cat, Zhago jumped from the bed, and Cristobel as it were, and walked to his closet.

"My love, if it weren't for your abhorred personality in general and even more abhorred personality at social events, I might well have made you my wife long ago. However, alas..." he sighed and lifted a pair of cloth trousers on himself. "...alas, we both know the rules. We made them." He let a simple cotton shirt drift down his slim body and walked to a hook on the wall. He tied his belt around his waist and turned to look at Cristobel. "What's wrong?" he asked with a forced sincerity.

She only rolled her eyes at the mention of being a wife to him while rubbing her neck on the spot that he kissed. If she became his wife she wouldn't be able to take it really. When she got married, it would be to a more nicer and more appropiate gentleman, not someone like him. She turned, getting a spare dress from off the floor. Unless it was night, she didn't mind or react to his unimportant actions. The dress was simple, just a plain light lavender one that she was a bit fond of since it was one of her first works. Sitting on the side of the bed now she slipped it on, not tying all the strings yet. After putting her hair into a simple ponytail that hung low she wondered if she should stop being with him, but discarded the thought.

Getting up was not easy, she didn't admit that though. For a while she ignored the question that Zhago asked, it probably wasn't that serious anyway. "Nothing at all,"she said boredly with a sigh, rolling her eyes to what he couldn't see. They lived together for a long time, so she expected him to know by now that she always seemed bored. She tied the strings at her back, and while walking next to the door of the room made her hair more presentable into a low bun. "Is anything wrong with you?"

Zhago laughed loudly as he slipped on a brown, leather vest. He whipped his head toward his lover and walked toward her in a strange way. He'd done it before, he did it everytime he wanted to make someone feel uncomfortable. He took long steps which had a jellylike effect on his body; making it ripple toward Cristobel. It was a walk which usually sent chills up people's backs. It was something Zhago liked to do to annoy people, which he considered to be a pass-time of his.

"My dear heart, of course there is. However, it is exactly that fact which allows me to live the life I live today. It is why you perpetually walk with a limp and why I do as well. It is why, whenever I see you in a dress my first inclination is to rip it from your body." Zhago grasped at Cristobel's waist and pulled her in close. "It is why you love me so much." he said with a wicked smile. Zhago, like the turn of a page, left from Cristobel and walked out of the shop. As he did, the strong sun attacked Zhago's vision. He held up his hand as he was momentarily blinded.

Zhago twirled Bronwyn as the music fell from its crescendo.

"My dear heart," he said bowing, "I am utterly humbled that I was able to dance with the Queen of Fire..." he paused for a moment and looked up at her, a smile plastered on his menacing little face. "... And Firewater!" he cried to the crowd who gave him a wild roar.

Zhago smiled again at Bronwyn and respectfully kissed her hand. He was drunk but he hadn't lost his respect for the beautiful girl.

"If you'll excuse me, my brother seems to want a word with me."

Zhago stepped away from his dancing partner and toward Marc Bessom.

Zhago stepped to the center of the town to see Lord Robert, or Father as Zhago only half jokingly referred to him, sitting on his horse, overlooking the populous. Zhago stepped toward Bronwyn immediately, keeping an eye on the Lord. Zhago almost reached her and almost called out her name before Lord Bessom began on his tirade. Zhago stopped and stared quietly as the Lord spoke, like everyone. And like everyone, reacted physically to the sight he was presented. The half eaten body of Marc Bessom. Zhago's chapped lips parted slightly at the terrible sight. His brow furrowed and he brought his arms up to his chest. A flower flashed in front of his eyes, purple in nature, and flashed away just as quickly. Zhago looked around at all amassed. Glanced quickly at Cristobel, then at Father Toni, then finally at Bronwyn, wearing the scarf Zhago'd given here a while back. It was around her neck, uncommon, but stylish. When they made eye contact, he would smile and wave.

She hated him in a way, but did not feel fear or much disgust when he made his stride to her. He had done it before and she had gotten used to it. After he had left she sighed to herself. In a soft mumble she said to herself,"I need to get out of this place,"and went to a mirror to make herself look more presentable. Then she made her way out of the door just a bit later, taking a silky short ribbon into her hand, covering her eyes with her other knowing that the sun would have stun them if she hadn't.

Making her way to the center of the small village she saw some riders ride in. The body was certainly a sight, and most strangely, she felt herself smiling in the back of the others in the crowd. In fact, she wanted to laugh. That man had ruined a life of her sister, and even said a word to her last night as an ache of vague memories came back to remind her. It was only fitting that he would die early, but now the village would starve if there was no killer. If that happened then with the money she saved up maybe she would be able to leave, but there was her sister and parents to worry about. Quickly she took control of herself and wiped the smile off her face, looking off to some of the people she knew.

There was not an oppurtunity for her to murder him, even though she actually wanted too. On the night of the festival she remembered talking to Lila and dancing a little, but almost nothing else. She told herself that she would probably remember the rest later. In a small distance she saw Kit, the little girl that Carson had taken in. The girl was the only one that she could smile for, and no one else knew. It was rude not to smile for a child, as she thought, even though she didn't like to smile she did it for the girl anyway. Around Kit was Carson and Zhago, who had gotten punched. She clapped slowly quietly for how Carson was able to do what she could not.

What if she was the murderer, she asked herself. It could not be, it could not, it was not. She wouldn't do that, ever.

Zhago doubled over with a huge grunt. His stomach was empty, except for the remnants of the wine from last night, but he felt like he would vomit. Zhago's eyes stared at the ground for a moment before he reached his hand out to Carson's shoulder and pulled himself up. As he did, he pulled the small dagger from his boot and pushed the sharp tip to Carson's throat. It didn't pierce his skin but it was certainly close. Zhago held the blade with more force than he ever had anything else. Zhago's face was furious and intent on Carson's eyes.

"You implicate me of being a murderer and then hit me? Carson, I knew you were an idiot; but surely not this stupid!" Zhago, in the tenseness of it all, smiled. He got very near Carson, then. "You'd put Kit in danger?"

Zhago removed the dagger from Carson's throat and staggered a few steps back; as if he'd just gotten done with something passionate and sexual. He smiled maliciously and took a quick glance at everyone around him. Then at the dead body. The flower flashed once again. He had two of those flowers in his shop. They made a beautiful purple color but also were terribly poisonous. Zhago knew he hadn't done it, he couldn't have, but going to check on his stock wasn't a bad idea. For the moment, however, Zhago decided to stay with the group.

[Apalanche]

She didn't need to be close to the body to know what it looked like. She knew what pigs could do.
The embarrassment and shock of the people was too much for her. Quietly, tearlessly, she looked down to her hands. The voice of the Lord was far away to her. Pigs, pigs, pigs. Her pigs were hungry too, she bet. She studied the dirt between her callused knuckles. Did the cows get milked today. Her fingernails were dirty. Are her sisters keeping those god damned crows away from her crops. Her wrists were thick and capable roots for the good hands of a man. The palms were cut and rough, so unlike the tender fishbellies her youngest sister owned. Those damn stalls better be clean by the time she got back.

Fayette sat on the back of her small wagon outside of the butcher's, brushing her long black hair with one of her mother's old silver handled brushes. She knew she was going to stay in town for a few days because of the festival, but now by the looks of it she was trapped here. Lord Bessom seemed to think the village, as a collective unite, rose in the night to slaughter his son and toss aside the body to the pen like sick chickens. If she left now, the rumors of her sudden absence would spread faster than pig shit in water. God let the sisters have changed out the pig water.


Twist, up, tie. Her face was fully exposed, the birthmark slathered across her neck and jaw looking particularly bright and red today. It was somber throughout the town, but it wasn't anything she couldn't move through. She patted rose color back into her round cheeks, reached back to tear off some bread she had brought, wrapped it and hopped off the wagon. Horse tied and water near? Yes, yes, now time to see if the butcher had any scraps he'd be willing to sell for cheap. She reached the door just in time to see no one was in--the events in the square were still going on.
She crossed the path in time to hear a particularly strapping young fellow bark orders and then jab an accusing finger into the air. To her. To her? Behind her. Fay stopped, turned, saw a vaguely familiar girl streaked in red.
Fay had half a mind to walk over and brush birth skin off her.

Women get themselves into the worst situations Fay thought to herself as she continued to walk, trying to spot a familiar face in the crowd. She felt too alone in a sea of vomit-inducing emotions. Pigs and pigs and men and men. She felt a tightness in her chest and had to stop her fast pace just for a moment. Last night, the look on Marc's face--his sneer. Fayette pushed it out of her memory and kept on her search for someone to distract her.
Her trips to the heart of the village were short for a reason! Cows, horses and corn never gave this farmer so much grief!

[Herzinth]

Alyss Cloud

She had been on her way to Carter in order to get a remedy for her hangover when the Lord and his horn made their way into the village. Their arrival caused the street to quickly fill up around her, along with numerous heads peering through thier little windows, looking for all the world like squirrels checking if the rain had stopped yet. Curious, she stopped and watched as they came to a faltering stop across the street. Lord Robert himself was facing away from her, but she could still see the wrath that consumed him, almost as though it was an aura that threatened to consume the town.

She suddenly became aware of a smell, a miasma perhaps, one that thankfully she was rarely presented with, but still had enough encounters with to recognize.

Death.

No other smell was similar. Yes, some diseases could cause a man to rot while he still drew breath, but the rot of a corpse had a form of uniqueness, as though to warn those who lived that yet another had been taken, and once taken, could never be returned. Not exactly a pleasant smell all around.

However, her mood shifted when she recognized the bloody remains. Marc. The lords base born son, curse of the village, was dead. Mutilated, as was fitting for one of his character. The devil could have him. Take away his soul, along with the last who could point the finger for her sins. He had been the last who bore witness or suspected, all others had already passed away.

Ahead, atop his steed, the lord continued to shout judgement and consequences at the villagers, in an attempt to shame them into submission, and to share his misery. Alyss, however, found she could not. The wretch is finally dead! It had always been but a matter of time before the boy had decided telling would be more interesting than blackmailing, especially after their... conversation the night before.

Alyss bowed her head, the perfect image of a nun praying for a mans passage into heaven, but in reality she did so to hide her smile and usher him to the dark depths of hell. A quick laugh escaped her, but even as it left, she disguised it as a sob. He's dead, she thought in ecstasy. He's finally dead!