"Guileless son, I'll shape your belief,
And you'll always know that your father's a thief.
And you won't understand, the cause of your grief,
But you'll always follow the voices beneath..."

A tale as old as the kingdom, and Miranda knew it all too well. Having to seranade the streets with it everyday, one tended to grow very weary of hearing the story of Mordred and Morgan Le Faye; especially since it never changed. But with few gold coins in her pocket, the strawberry blond had no choice.

So she sang, positioned in the village square as normal. Dressed in what small finery she could find, be it the corset, gown, and sheer gloves, she danced for her audiance, a respectable crowd, and sang the tale they had come to appreciate. Maybe it was the dark melody of her troop behind her, aiding in the tragic tale. Maybe it was her haunting vocals, or perhaps the slow and hypnotizing movements.

Either way, it came to it's slow finish. There was clapping, and coins dropped in the bag. Miranda took a bow, and collected the bag.

"That'd be two for each of us," she sighed, shoulders dropping.

"it's Claude," the horn player elbowed the man behind the drum. "he's out of tune; drives them away he does."

"Hey!" Claude glared down at Carol. "You were the one skipping notes."

Khaylan Somisteel walked down the villages pathways, followed at a distance by a small entourage comprised of starry eyed peasant children and a pair of his fellow knights. Standing taller than both of his "brothers", and clad in a somewhat ostentatious set of clothing, it was Khaylan who had drawn most of the attention of the tag alongs. His black vest was embroidered with silver and leff open enough to expose a deep purple undershirt and was sinched together by a thick leather belt over a pair of loose fitting black pants that tucked neatly into a pair of high leather boots. He wore a single steel ring on his left hand, emblazoned with the seal of his house. All in all, he was the picture of wealth to the villagers who caught a glimpse of him, a dangerous prospect, were it not for the broadsword that hung comfortably on his hip.

The knights were both from houses that ranked lower than Khaylan's own, and were feigning friendship in order to curry favor towards their own respective houses. What he found most amusing was that both of the men beside him wouldn't hesitate to stab him in the back if they thought it would bring them power. Fortunately, like most nobility, this was a game he had been playing most of his life, and he'd had far better teachers than these two ever had. Still, although part of Khaylan berated himself for being so shallow, he was unable to lie to himself:

He loved the attention.

The trio approached the village square in time to catch the tail end of the performance. In truth, this had been his objective all along. Another peasant, hoping to earn a few gold coins had informed him of a delightful songstress who sang in the village square along with a small band of instrument players. Ordinarily he would have scolded the man for wasting his time, but the peasant had also mentioned that the songstress had long hair that was a very attractive color of strawberry blond. Instead, Khaylan paid the man a single gold coin and had arranged to investigate this rumor to see if it matched up with a girl he had encountered in the past. Now that he had seen her with his own eyes, the knight grinned in anticipation. When the crowd had dissipated, Khaylan clapped his hands together slowly and loudly, his two "friends" misunderstanding the sarcastic tone of the gesture and adding nervous claps of their own.

"A sad sum, my dear, and after such a wonderful performance," Khaylan said, directing his words at the singer. "What did you pull in I wonder? Wait, don't tell me. I'll double it if you and your friends here would play me a little song..."

Miranda tilted her head. Her composure grew stiff and cold at the sight, recognition falling in her deep brown eyes. As their song-lady suddenly grew very stiff, the band looked at her with shock and disdain.

"Miranda, don't," Carol, the red-head of the group with more girth to her, grabbed her by the shoulder, "Wake up would you?"

"...I am well, Carol," Miranda said, voice cool. She stepped forward and, as per custom here, bowed her head slightly. "You need but pick a song, my lord, and I will be your humble dancer. I know all the tales of the ministerial, so you need not worry for me."

Not that you ever would, her mind said. When was the last time you cared about something that wasn't yourself?

"Forgive her my lord, she's a little slow!" Claude rushed forward. "But she is correct in knowing all the tales. Would M'lord care for another legend? May'haps something more poetic?"

Miranda, for her part, refused to lower herself that far down. Kiss up, she thought, but still managed to retain a smile.

Khaylan flashed a frown at Miranda's icy tone, the look of displeasure gone almost as quickly as it arrived. As defiant as ever, he thought to himself, I offer to double her coin for the day and she acts as though I am the devil himself come to steal her firstborn. I should teach her a lesson...

Khaylan spent a few moments thinking about what tale would serve the best, pretending to be growing bored with the situation. After letting the question hang in the air for a while, he snapped his fingers dramatically, turning one of his best smiles to Miranda. "Ah, I believe I know just the one, since there seems to be an arthurian mood in the air..."

A story about a woman's folly that ruined two men, and destroyed a kingdom...

"I'll have the story of the fair lady Guinevere, and her seduction of the noble knight Lancelot," Khaylan said, then turned to look at one of his companions. "And you sir, perhaps you would care to play the noble knight himself?"

His fellow knight grinned, leaning over and whispering in a voice that almost certainly carried towards Miranda, "While I would enjoy doing more than some acting with that one, I must decline. Let the girl entertain us, if it please my lord."

Khaylan chuckled, continuing to give Miranda a smile that was dead of any warmth. He had to give her credit, she had already seemed to pick up on the game and was playing it well.

She saw where he was going there, and the corner of her mouth twisted up.

"Aye my lord, we can do that," she said, much smoother than before. "Perhaps the trial of the brave knight Lancelot will suit your fancy."

On that note, the players changed an instrument or two. Hilde, the quiet one in the back, pulled out her violin; a left over from her old life of nobility, and Miranda took a step back. She was grinning to herself, her own knowledge cooking in her mind. Woman's folly. she thought, and the pride of men, coming up..

"I imagine me'lord's time is short," Miranda added. "And tis a lengthy number; we'll be quick."

Miranda knew the minstrel's diddy inside and out. As the music started up again, she took a deep breath, and began her song.

"King Arthur's Knights they filled the table round, save for one who stood before them.
For once without a weapon.
For once he stood in shame.
The trial's charge was treason, and betrayal of an oath.
And should his guilt be proven, death would fall on traitors both.
The knights would council Arthur's hard decision.

And Lancelot, his head held high said "I'm tried for Love of Guinevere....
My crime was love."

The rest of the song continued in the same fashion, with each knight speaking either up or against the brave knight, and Laancelot offering nothing but honesty in the light of his fair lady. Ultimately, it fell on Arthur, whose section came as the last verse of song.

"As Arthur wept, he called the wrath of heaven on the lovers who'd betrayed him.
On the Knight he had called brother
Thought worthy of his trust.
On the queen who'd hid deception, but could say she loved him still.
On lost innocence and beauty, and in justice for their guilt.
King Arthur knew the only price for treason...

And Lancelot, his head held high, said "I'll die in love for Guinevere,...
I'd die for love."

And just like that, it was over. The lengthy number was difficult on double the speed, and the singer finally breathed easy when it was done. She bowed, and looked back up at Khaylan, still wearing that smile.

"Have we entertained my lord?" She asked.

Khaylan chuckled as the song came to a close, though underneath the false mirth, he was beginning to seethe. The twist was an admirable move, defying his intent while obeying his request. Had it come from another noble-born, he might have simply tipped his hat or been amused by the gesture. Coming from a peasant, he found it nothing less than insulting. Especially coming from this particular peasant. Beside him, his brother knights laughed as well, but an icy look from Khaylan silenced both of them.

There would be rumors around the tavern pits tonight about this encounter, and he would be damned before he let himself be outmanuevered by this girl. He matched her smile with one of his own.

"Have we entertained my lord?"

"Indeed you have. A fitting tribute to an old tragedy," Khaylan said, reaching into a pocket on his vest, "it is always a pleasure to know that we are protecting such a treasure as yourself." After counting out a handful of coins, he held them out towards Miranda, waiting for her to approach him as a reminder who was noble and who was peasant. After a moment passed, he wondered if she would slip up enough to refuse his money.

Inwardly, Miranda celebrated her little victory. Here's to hoping you've learned your lesson, my lord, she thought. There's always another side.

Still, the semi-redhead wasn't so uneducated that she'd object to coin; even if she did have to fetch it. So she took the invitation, and approached the noble at a respectful distance. Carefully, her soft hands took the metal coins from his pocket, and dropped them in her purse. "Much obliged," she said, polity. "M'lord is muh generous."

"Don't kid yourself."

A new voice spoke up, one much more defiant and biting than hers. Miranda's head jerked to the left, and she recoiled back in horror. Out of the throngs of people-all of which were quickly parting- was a tall, slender woman with hair black as night skimming to her waist, and skin as pale as the moon. Two dark, nearly black eyes bored straight into the noble, her robes clinging tightly to her not unattractive form.

"It's the witch!" Hilde shrieked, clinging to Claude. Miranda's breathing quickened, eyes wide, but she dared to speak.

"What brings you here?" she said, voice catching. "w-we're done here."

"I'm not interested in the base tunes of ancient history, you trollop," the witch said coolly. "Your noble friend has wronged my honor, and I demand retribution."

"Don't kid yourself."


The color visibly drained from Khaylan's face as a hauntingly familiar voice split the air between him and Miranda. God, Gods, or Goddesses no..., he turned slowly, the strength and haughtiness seemingly sapped from him by the sheer presence of this new woman. She looked as though she had stepped directly from Khaylan's memories, every detail about her just as he remembered it, not even a strand of her inky black hair out of place.

He spoke a word... her name he thought, but the air itself seemed to curdle in disgust in front of his lips, snatching the word from the air and his mind simultaneously. He knew it made little difference, women like her were really only know by one name, after all.

"It's the witch!"

Both his brother knights stiffened, and hands flew to the pommels of their weapons. The witches eyes never left Khaylan however, those twin pits of abyssal darkness seemingly boring a whole straight through his physical form and driving a spear of cold directly into his soul. Few times in his short life had Khaylan ever truly felt fear, and this witch was responsible for two such times now.

"I'm not interested in the base tunes of ancient history, you trollop," the witch said coolly. "Your noble friend has wronged my honor, and I demand retribution."

~~~

Memories flooded into Khaylan's mind, though if they were his or the witches, he wasn't able to say. All of them shown with an eerie clarity, as though he were witnessing the events as a spirit standing off to the side rather than an active participant. He looked around, realizing that he was no longer standing within the village boundaries but rather, at a location he'd swore he'd never return to, even if the devil himself tried to drag him there. The lighting in the quaint little home was poor, but it only seemed to accentuate the sense of dark foreboding that emanated from the room itself. Around him where shelves full of all manner of strange ingredients, from foreign plants to the preserved bodies of unusual creatures, their shadows dancing in the shifting light from a few small candles carved with a series of symbols that almost hurt to look at. And there, in the middle of the room, was a younger version of himself, clad in the outfit of a blacksmiths apprentice.

You remember.... good, that will make your punishment so much sweeter...

Khaylan did remember. He watched history repeat itself as the younger version of himself called the witches name again and again, as though summoning her from one of the planes of hell. Eventually she appeared, stepping out from one of the back rooms and smiling such a seemingly innocent smile, her white teeth glinting in the light. Khaylan shouted at his younger self, so easily distracted by the hauntingly pretty face that he forgot he was looking at the smile of a cat who had just caught a plump mouse.

Events began to speed up, and Khaylan watched helplessly as his younger self forged the deal that would end up damning him. He had asked for the one thing every peasant wished they could attain in life, noblility. Next to such a prize, her price seemed like a paltry thing indeed. The promise that once he'd become the knight he'd wanted so desperately to be he would agree to marry her so she too could enjoy the benefits of being nobility. Time slowed down to a crawl as the agreement was made, a simplle nod of his younger self's head being all that it took to seal his fate.

Events sped back up again, and Khaylan's memory became fuzzy, he watched the witch prepare some sort of spell, handing him an odd potion to drink. He remembered how the liquid had crawled down his throat ad saturated his entire body with an unnatural heat that made him feel as though he were burning alive. A soft caress of her hand, and the fire was gone, replaced instead by something else.

Khaylan's younger self approached the witch, his eyes glazed over with the same inky blackness that matched her own. He took her in his arms, bearing them both to the floor as he leaned down and kissed her.

~~~

Khaylan collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as the vision faded. He glanced to each side, terrified he hadn't been the only one to see the vision, but if either of the knights had seen, they displayed no signs of it. Both men rushed to his side, hauling him back up onto his feet.

"Never fear my lord, we'll see this hag off," one of them said, and both advanced, drawing their weapons. The witch looked almost bored by their actions, lifting a single slender hand in reply. The air twisted in protest to some unknown force, and both men froze in place as though time had stopped for them.

Khaylan stared at the witch in a mix of hatred and fear, his own sword half-drawn from his scabbard. He wanted to run, though if it was to charge the witch or get away from her, he couldn't say. It was all he could do just to maintain eye contact with her. Still, bravado had a way of showing itself even when courage itself was gone.

"What do you want here woman?," Khaylan said, his hand still on the hilt of his sword, "if you want revenge then come and take it, but don't expect me to die easily. I'll send us both to hell before I let you spread your corruption."

She chuckled, that same smile crossing her lips. "You would fight me?" she chuckled. "How curious. You seemed far more interested in other activities the last time we met."

Whispers would have spread, had the rest of the world not frozen before them. She approached slowly but not from fear, but with the confidence of a woman who knew she wouldn't be in any danger. She stopped halfway between him and the beggars, her obsidian eyes taking them in. One could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, twisted and evil as they were. Then, with that same sneer carved into her porcelain face, she turned back to the noble.

"You have done all you can to forget your roots, boy," she said. "and it will cost you. Your pride will be your rue."

She turned and snatched Miranda's wrist. From the contact, the singer was suddenly animated again, and eyeing the world with large, frightened eyes. her gaze caught the wtches, and those eyes narrowed in fearful rebellion.

"Let me go!" She demanded struggling in her grip. "Demon! Hag! I'll see you hanged!"

"Feisty one, she," the witch said, barely flinching from the girl's attempts to inflict injury."And yet none will save her; because chivalry is long since dead."

The witch plunged her nails into Miranda's shoulder, drawing fresh blood. With it on her pale fingers. "The blood in this wench's veins will be your undoing, Khaylan," she said. She dropped the blood on the ground, damned words flowing past her lips. As the girl bled onto the cobblestones, the liquid began to form a symbol of black magic on the ground. It glowed unearthly red, and what was left trailed over to Khaylan's knees, bathing him in the same red-light.

"Feisty one, she," the witch said, barely flinching from the girl's attempts to inflict injury."And yet none will save her; because chivalry is long since dead."


"Damn you, witch!," Khaylan shouted, freeig his sword from its sheath at last. There might be no love lost between him and Miranda, but he would rather be damned than watch this witch victimize someone else. "She has nothing to do with this. You want me."

The witch however, had something in mind. Even as Khaylan tried to approach, she drove her impossibly sharp fingernails into Miranda's shoulder."The blood in this wench's veins will be your undoing, Khaylan," she said, and words of power echoed from her throat, the flowing blood dripping to the ground and forming some sort of symbol that Khaylan had never seen before. He took a step forward, his sword raised, ready to end this once and for all when the spell's power overtook him.

He writhed in agony as the powerful curse began to take shape, the blood flowing from the magical symbol up his boots, legs, and onto his chest. The blood seeped through his vest, ruining the fabric, but what was even more concerning was the symbol it began to draw on Khaylan's chest. His sword clattered to the ground, his mind so full of pain he couldn't even control his own body. The blood felt more like silver that had been heated to its melting point and poured onto his bare flesh.

He screamed. For how long, he didn't know. He only knew that the moment the witch ceased casting her spell, his vision began to blur and fade. And the last thing he heard before losing consciousness wasthe sound of her grating laughter.

Suddenly, all Miranda was aware of was pain; vast amounts of pain the likes of which she never knew. She screamed as it tore through her body, as if ever vein on her body was being jerked and pulled in every direction. The witch cackled, dropping the songstress on the ground, shuddering and twitching. Finally, Miranda lost consciousness, slipping the cold cobblestones hitting her temples.

The witch approached Khaylan's body and knelt down, whispering into his ear. "Let's see what happens when your life is in the hands of another," she said. "When you reach the apex of your suffering, only then will I show you death's sweet embrace..."

~~~~~~~~~

It was a moment or two before Miranda woke up, Carol giving her a good shake with her stout arms.

"Miri! Miri!" Carol said, eyes wide in panic. "Wake up!"

The begger girl softly grunted, before her hand flew to her shoulder. There were indeed five places where the witch had pierced her, and they were still bleeding. Miranda scrambled to her feet, spying Khaylan on the ground, and the witch mysteriously out of sight,.

Something else felt...wrong. Miranda couldn't place why, but something felt so very out of place. It was almost the sense that someone else was standing behind her, practically breathing down her neck. Whatever this was, it felt so very very invasive, going past her physical boundaries directly into her soul. It made her shudder, and seemed to grow worse as Khaylan finally stirred.

"What...what happened?" she asked.

Hilde shuddered. "The witch vanished, and you both fainted. Miranda, you need to clean that wound..."

Khaylan stirred, his whole body shuddering as though life was only just now returning to his form. He let out a grown of pain, his every nerve feeling as though it were burning. How did I end up on the street, Khaylan thought to himself, struggling to push himself off the ground. He managed to rise to his knees, then blinked repeatedly in confusion as he realized there was a sword next to him. His sword.

"What in all the nine accursed hells happened to me?," he muttered, reaching over and stifling a moan of pain as another wave of agony slid through his body. He seized his sword, returning it to its sheath. As the sword slid home, he felt two strong arms slide under his own and pull him to his feet. Looking to either side, he saw the faces of the two knights that had been accompanying him on his foray into the village. That was when the memories came flooding back.

He thrashed and shoved both knights away, his eyes scanning the area for the whereabouts of the witch. She seemed to have slipped away while he was unconscious, however. His subconscious began to wonder why she didn't simply kill him while he lay there helpless. Witches were not known for their mercy, and the thought that he might be worse off alive sent a shudder down his spine. He glanced at the two knights at his side, wondering how much they knew about his connection with the witch. He could always deny the words of the peasants, but an accussation from not one, but two brother knights would damn him almost instantaneously. If either of them knew anything, they weren't showing it. Instead, they seemed focused on the songstress and her companions.

One of the knights approached the other group, pointing an accussatory finger at Miranda. "You. You brought a witch into the village!"

Khaylan put his hand on the shoulder of the knight. "Be at ease. Now is not the time for this."

"I don't even know her," Miranda said, defending herself even in distress. "I don't even know why she injured me..."

"Speaking of," Carol said, more instance. "Will you please let us bandage up that wound."

Miranda sighed. "Fine," she sighed. "Let's just go home."

The songstress had only taken one step to the left, when the world spun. Somehow, she was distinctly lacking in blood, and was feeling very very woozy. It took Hilde and Claude's strength to keep her upright, gently easing her up.

"Easy, girl," Claude said. "One step at a time..."

Miranda was blinking in and out...but she swore she saw a similar wound on Khaylan's shoulder, in early the exact same spots. This odd feeling that was now in her breast, and the images of the witch's spell...it all was becoming quite frightening.

"This is your fault," Carol, the stout woman with much more backbone, hissed at Khaylan. "I personally hold you responsible if she dies, you heartless knave. I bet you won't even spare a bed for her, even though it's your problem that dragged her into such a state."

Khaylan looked at the stout woman, a strangely dead look in his eyes. "You're right... I wouldn't."

He turned, the dizziness still present and a pounding in his skull. It seemed a titanic effort to call the other two knights to his side and walk away, throwing a last look over his shoulder at Miranda. what have I done?

He trudged onwards, fighting back the urge to fall unconscious, at least until they could make it back to the horses near the village's tavern. As his brother knights followed at his side, he could almost hear the wheels turning in their minds as they surely began to plot against him. And to think, he had damned his soul to join their ranks. What irony.

Khaylan ran into something barring his path, nearly knocking him from his feet. The fog in his mind was pushed back by a wave of outrage that something was delaying his rest even further until he noticed that he had run into the outstretched arm of one of his companions. Looking past the arm, Khaylan noted a group of four men standing next to three large familiar looking horses. The new group of men all wore traveling cloaks, obscuring much of their forms, but Khaylan could see the scars of burns given to those who had been found guilty of robbery on more than one of their faces.

"Good evening gentlemen," one of them said, approaching Khaylan. "Am I right to assume these are your horses? Its your lucky day my friends, these horses were about to run off but we fine folk stepped in and held them for you"

The man grinned at Khaylan, already eyeing his sack of gold. Khaylan's strength was slowly returning, and with it came his anger for the witches... and his own... actions.

"Then we thank you noble sirs, if our horses had run off, we might have had to walk him throughands roving with outlaws," Khaylan said dryly, clearly not buying their stories. "It is such a bother to kill so many men just for a walk home. Unfortunately many only see our oversized coins and not our swords."

The man's companions shifted uncomfortably at Khaylan's words, no longer as certain as they once were. The man who approached him, however, seemed in control of the rest and was unfazed. He'd likely heard such boasts a thousand times before.

"Ah well, if my lord wishes, we will relieve him of the burden of so many coins then. After all, it is our civic duty to help those in need, is it not?" The man said, making a small gesture with his hands. His three companions drew their weapons, two appeared to be holding short swords, not a very big threat to a knight, but what made Khaylan shift uncomfortably in his armor was the contraption the third man held. A crossbow. At this range it would pierce his armor like paper.

Khaylan considered his next move carefully, then seemed to slump his shoulders in submission. He reached for the sack at his waist, untying it and holding it out for the other man to take. The outlaw grinned, victory in his eyes as he stepped forward and moved to take the bag.

Khaylan smiled, throwing the bag up into the air and drawing his sword in one smooth motion. The steel blade crashed through the sack of gold, splitting it open and spreading coins everywhere as it continued its arc, slicing deeply into the other man's forearm and bringing a shriek of pain and rage.

Swords clashed as his fellow knights rushed forward, Khaylan kicking his opponent in the chest and sending the man sprawling to the ground. Shouting a battle cry, he charged the man with the crossbow, nimbly ducking under a hastily aimed and panicked shot.

"You only had one shot and you wasted it friend," Khaylan growled as he closed the distance sword descending in an arc of fury for the outlaws neck. The man wisely abandoned the crossbow, throwing it at Khaylan and buying himself the half second he needed to draw a crudely made dagger from withinhis cloak. Steel rang on steel as the sword was barely deflected by the man's desperate defense. The outlaw stood no real chance however, not against a knight.

Khaylan laughed and cut downwards once more, this time anticipating the man's defense. As the dagger came up to catch the sword, Khaylan stepped closer, placing a leg behind his opponents and grabbing the mans shoulder with his free arm. Khaylan twisted throwing the man bodily over his hip and slamming the outlaw onto the ground. His sword followed a moment later, burying itself in the man's heart.

Khaylan stood, and a spear of pain inflamed his chest as an impact nearly spun him around, dropping him to his knees. He gasped in pain as a crossbow bolt seemed to sprout magically from his shoulder, blood pouring from the wound. He blinked in surprise, his mind trying desperately to catch up with what he was seeing as his lifeblood seep end from the rent in his armor....

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!"

The Begger's screech pierced the air. Miranda froze deathly still, grasping her shoulder for dear life. She fell down to her knees, pain coursing through her body. When she turned her head, examining the wound, she saw that it had a puncture wound; likely from something huge and round. The girl looked around in a panic, trying to see who had inflicted such an injury on her. There was nothing to be found.

"What...the...hell?!" She said throught gritted teeth, not even bothering to care how blasphemous she sounded. The troop helped her back to her feet, looking just as shocked as she felt.

"Miranda, what happened?!" Claude demanded. "Did one of the cross-bolts-"

"No," she said, voice shaking. "There was...nothing. Nothing hit me..."

This had to be the witch's magic, she knew it. Something was eating her up inside, or destroying her in the most painful way possible. She shuddered in fear, hyperventilating steadily.

But she did catch something else. The fight that had broken out, not one street down, had resulted in her time-honored enemy's own pride. As she turned her head, she saw that a large cross-bolt had snugly buried itself into his shoulder. Her mind conjured back the image of the five puncture wounds on his other shoulder, in the same place she was in.

"No..." she mumbled. "No...no no no no-!"

Khaylan struggled back onto his feet, shouting in defiance of his pain. The crossbow bolt was firmly wedged in his shoulder, making his left arm all but useless. Fortunately, he knew enough about combat to know not to pull the bolt out, lest he lose even more blood from such a large wound. He knew he needed to end this fight now, before he lost consciousness and perhaps, his very life. As though from a great distance, he heard a woman screaming.

His fellow knights had already turned the what was a largely one sided battle into a full rout, falling amongst the brigands and almost casually slaughtering them where they stood. Already the men with crossbows lie dead, and each crossbow was shattered on the ground so they could not continue being used. What few outlaws remained were already making a run for it, no longer a match for steel swords and plate armor.

Khaylan gasped loudly in pain, stumbling over to the horses and calling out. "Brothers... I need a healer..."

He looked over to his two fellow knights, who appeared to be finishing off the wounded and cleaning their weapons on the fallen. The grisly task finished, they made their way towards Khaylan, each of them staring at the bolt embedded in his shoulder.

"Oh gods, Miranda," Hilde said. "What happened?"

"Has to be a stray bolt," Claude said. "Come on, we need to find a healer."

Miranda didn't respond, instead focusing on getting her rational mind back in order. Yes, it was just a stray cross-bolt, a randm piece of shrapnel that found her bare shoulder. The marks were all mere coincidences, and nothing she should worry about. It was with this mindset, that blond allowed herself to pass out. She groaned one last time, before her head went limp behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"That indeed looks nasty."

The town healer had a split reputation. Some said she was an angel, come down from the palace of the gods to help them. Some said she was a devil who mde their wounds worse. Either way, she was the only source of medical attention anyone was going to get, and usually trustworthy if you didn't try to trick her. Her name was Lola, an itallian maid of long, ruddy red hair yanked behind her well0worn head with a bandanna, with tired blue eyes and a small-set mouth. Miranda, had she been conscious at the time, would have clocked her near 30 winters.

"Stray shrapnel you said?" Lola questioned, working her bandages over Miranda's shoulder. "Odd. I didn't see any when I cleaned the wound, nor an exit wound. Whatever wounded this girl, it wasn't physical, I can tell you that."

"Maybe it was that witch," Hilde, the only one who had stayed, shuddered. "She made some kind of wound on the other shoulder with her nails. I have no idea what it was for...you don't think it cast a spell, do you?"

"I wouldn't doubt it." Lola finished the wounds, and dipped a clothe in water. "Witch's are a nasty breed; they specialize in magic of the soul, specifically in the damnation of it. They twist it, bend it, and disfigure it so no promised land would ever recognize it."

Hilde swallowed hard, and Lola chuckled. "Relax. girl," the healer said. "What harmed your friend is most certainly not any tainting magic. I know not what it is, but she'll be fine with some rest."

Leon groaned in pain and grogginess, his head swimming, though from what, he couldn't really say. He realized quickly that he was lying in an unfamiliar bed, the armor and clothing on his chest and arms having been stripped away and piled neatly on a chair next to the bed. Thick, itchy bandages, soaked with a mixture of his blood and something that smelled of herbs covered his shoulder and the upper part of his chest where the crossbow bolt had struck him. He rose to a sitting position, the effort alone nearly spilling him to the floor as his arm protested against the amount of weight he had placed on it.

The first thought that came to his mind was that he was still alive, an odd prospect, but a welcome one. His last memories were of a skirmish in the village, and a piercing pain that almost made him wish he was dead. His second thought as the memories returned were that he was not where he was supposed to be. The room around him stank of foreign herbs and sterile bandages, not the smoke and sweat of home. Still, he thought to himself, it was clear that someone had tried to heal him at least, based on the now bandaged shoulder, though what they wanted in return made him was what worried him. He idly wondered what had happened to his brother knights who had been with him, and he muttered a curse under his breath. It was likely that they followed the laws of chivalry far enough to deposit their comrade in this hut, but were now on their way to spread rumors of the knowledge they had gained about Khaylan.

"Damn witches...", Khaylan said, a little bit louder. He reached for his bloodstained shirt, the effort once more threatening to topple him from the bed, but he gritted his teeth and pushed past the sensation, throwing the garment on over his head. He took several deep breaths, steeling himself for the task of standing up. He needed to get back to his brothers, to quiet the rumors and then lead a purge of this witch whom had dared to attack him. He hesitated as he finally gathered the energy though, realizing that he was not alone within the small hut.

Lola paused, hearing a grunt from behind her.

"Sounds like my second patient has finally risen," The red-head switched sides, and approched the noblemen. "Evening, Milord. I'm the village healer, Lola Karell."

She saw his movements, and gently put a hand to his chest. "I wouldn't be so eager, were I you sir. Your wounds will reopen if you don't give them ample time to repair themselves."

It was around this time that Miranda was finally coming too as well. She groaned, and shifted to the left, immediately hissing from the pain. "Ah...what hit me."

"Miranda!" Hilde came over. "Don't get up, the healer just bandaged your wounds."

"Odd occurrence, I must say," Lola said, wetting a rag. "The both of you seem to have suffered the exact same injuries. Not uncommon, but curious all the same."

Lola went back to the noble, wet clothe in hand. "Now milord, I must insist you lay back," she said. "You're mildly feverish, and I need to cool your head."

Khaylan attempted to wave away the healer, but whether from his own exhaustion or some such tale magic, the pressure of her hand on his chest felt as unmoveable as a mountain, and he was half pushed and half lowered back onto the bed. After a few moments, he felt a damp cloth being g pressed to his forehead, a shiver passing through his body. "I'm fine...," he protested, trying in vain to sound commanding.

He wondered of the gods were punishing him somehow. What a strange coincidence that the witch just happened to find him, and then not twenty minutes later he was attacked by a gang of theives and very nearly killed. And to think, this was supposed to be such a good day for him.

He muttered curses under his breath, giving up on trying to rise for now as the healer tended to his wounds. His shoulder ached, but he found that he could move it, even though the effort caused him great pain. If he could only find his sword...

He heard more voices coming from elsewhere in the house. "Who else is here?," he asked, "and how did I get here?