The Most Dangerous Game...

Dreamer's advances worked the Magistrate over soundly. Filled with ideas over what kind of fun he might be up to later that night, he asked them to wait for him while he made the arrangements. Minutes later he returned.

"Well, His Majesty Villers did resist at first... but he suggested a wonderful idea. Wait right here."

The mages were still present at the party and kept a wary eye on Dreamer, however she would not feel their oppressive counter spells anymore. She had won them over, after all. The Magistrate went to one of them and spoke softly. The mage nodded then performed some manner of hand movements.

"Now hear this, noble Lords and Lady's," the mage spoke. His voice, surprisingly, boomed as if augmented by a bull horn and easily cut through the noise of the gathering. "An impromptu tour of the city has been praposed by our generous King. Our very own Magistrate shall lead any who wish to observe the festivites and plays going on in the Inner City."

One older couple, clearly filthy rich, and two younger adults stepped forward to join this tour (( along with any player characters who might take fancy to the idea)). The younger one seemed eager to find more adventure in this dying land. The next oldest was dressed more plainly and wore a beautifully crafted rapier on his hip. The older man and his wife had sharp, hawkish features and clear, intelligent eyes. All but the youngest seemed relatively sober.

"I'll take my guard," the older man said to his fellows as they gathered. "Let your men enjoy the party."

The one with the rapier cracked a playful grin and replied, "I haven't need for a guard. But feel free to bring some along if you are feeling insecure."

"Harumph," the elder noble said, deliberately drawing out the sound in feigned indignity. This earned a chuckle from the one with the sword.

"I do enjoy 'mingling' with the peasantry," said the youngest. He was near his mid twenties. "Like it or not, our power is built upon their backs. Might as well get to know some of them."

The older noble rolled his eyes but said nothing. The swordman chuckled and gestured toward the Magistrate. Eyes soon fell upon Niska and Dreamer.

"Oh," said the younger one. "I might have to petition to relax the laws against demons in my county." They all shared a chuckle at that.

Together, they left the castle. In the courtyard they met up with five gaudily dressed guards in black and deep blue fluffy uniforms. Their helmets sported similarly colored feathers standing straight up, some of which were tall enough that their own weight made them droop. They had brilliantly shiny half plate for armor and halberds for weapons with a backup long-bladed dagger for each of them. By contrast, the two Kingsguard who fell in with the Magistrate were quite plainly dressed in their red and black robes over half plate, shields and long spears.

A retainer met with the swordsman and helped him to don a thickly padded gambeson. It had intricate designs embroidered on it and, while gaudy, it was downright modest next to the flashy guards.

"My dear," the Magistrate said to Dreamer while offering her his arm.

As they walked, the swordsman found his way to Niska's side. He looked her over closely before asking, "Not used to a dress, are you?"

The tour would take them all over the Inner City. They stopped at the few fine drinking establishments and even more of the temporary roadside ones. They ate food meant for the 'lower castes' and watched plays put on by people for donations. Musicians played and people danced. The younger noble seemed to have a knack for starting up a song whenever they stayed at one watering spot for too long and the festive mood seemed even to infect the older two. At the main square, a significant band had been set up with expensive strings and sparkling brass. They played music for the noble's pleasure. The couple danced at their own pace. The Magistrate "insisted" Dreamer come dance with him while the swordsman quietly surmised that Niska probably wasn't in the mood. Instead, he offered to share with her some chocolate and honey dipped fruit he bought from a local stall.

Their adventure would continue with time for breaks in between. Naturally, the men would make advances on the women but they were far too well mannered to do anything serious in public. As the day grew long and night approached, the festivities would continue.

Back at the Party...

There was simply no way to miss the tour group's departure. Jackson, Zan and Sterling would know without a doubt what was going on.

Near to roughly three on the sun dial was when the basement was unofficially opened for visitations. At around five was when people began to wonder off to their own devices, often pulling one of the wayward women with them. Some went down stairs. Some went to quite corners of the castle. Others went to the luxurious hotel standing in the courtyard of the castle. Many remained at the party.

By now, there were a fair few guards, nobles and retainers alike who had been thoroughly liqured up. Despite this, the Hecatate guardsmen were (reasonably) alert and sober. The Hecatate Kingsguard (who were nealy indistinguishable from normal guardsmen) remained buzzkillingly alert and dutiful.

In the Dead of Night...

The stars shone brightly even through the slowly rising smoke of hundres of Safety Board Approved Non-Tipping braziers and Construction Code Compliant hearths throughout the city. While city ordinance prohibited loud activites during the Peace of the Traveler, on this night there were still many quite celebrations taking place. Even so close to midnight, some were up playing board games, sharing stories, practicing making babies or competing for the worst possible hangover in the morning.

A woman with long, striking silver hair in form-fitting half plate could be seen walking down the long, dusty road to the city. She rested a heavy looking greatsword over her shoulder. A helmet with the features of a snarling wolf was tethered to the back of her belt. Not far behind her were dozens of horse-drawn wagons. They all moved at a leasurely pace, growing inexorably closer to the last bastion of civilization in North Hectate.

At the Gate House...

Draco would hear a challenge from the guard at the gate. Something in the man's tone might have caught the dragon's interest. There was tension in his voice and maybe just a little bit of fear.

"Yes, right his way," said the guard, now slightly closer. Foot steps sounded all the way up to the door of the holding cells and then the door was pushed open quietly. The same guard who had stopped Draco when the dragon had carried Alani into the city stepped inside. Behind him was a woman with possibly the fiercest scowl Draco had ever seen on a person.

There were three other guards in the holding area at that time. They were seeing to the many drunks who had been brought in to sober up after too much partying.

"Well... There he is," the gate gaurd said, turning back to the lady and gesturing toward Draco's cell. He seemed wary of the woman but clearly thought of her as an ally. Outside there was a soft cry of surprise, a brief struggle and then the muffled, sickly sound of a neck being twisted far beyond its capacity to endure. Following that was the sound of feet racing into the gate house itself and up the stairs.

"What-"

The gate guard never got to finish his question as the Silver Lady brought her sword around, holding it with one hand on the handle and the other at the middle of the blade, and impaled him in the lower sternum. Neither his chain armor nor his rib cage resisted the sudden thrust. He let out a wheezing gasp of surprise, skipped pain and went straight into shock.

Vistra, the Silver Lady, stared into his confused eyes as she lifted him, with some effort, clear off of his feet and into the air. She held him there until the light in his eyes grew dark then tossed him - and the sword - over her shoulder. There was a clatter of man and metal against the stone floor. She clenched her fists tight enough to cause some of her knuckls to pop and then began advancing upon the rest of the guards.

They abruptly snapped out of their stupor when one of them yelled, "Oh shit! S-sound the alarm!"

There was no way out of that room except through her. When she neared the first one, he lunged at her with his short spear. Although he managed to strike her, Vistra's armor was more than enough to deflect the spear tip. The other two guards held back, having been rattled by her opening action.

Vistra retaliated by grabbing the edge of his shield and throwing it to the side, nearly dislocating his arm in the process. She stepped in close and unleashed a flurry of open-clawed strikes to his chest up to his neck ending with an open-palm strike up into his nose. The guard's helmet toppled off after his head snapped back then he fell to the floor in a heap. She swiftly stepped over the fallen man to engage the next guard. Sparks flew from the buckle of one guard's shield as he desperately used it to deflect one of her clawed swipes. The other was not so lucky and ended with his throat being opened by a swift thrust.

The guard attacked, frantic now after watching his fellows die so suddenly. His first thrust with the spear glanced off of her armor. She deftly stepped outside of the second thrust then tackled him under his weapon arm. He slammed against the cell then cried out in sheer, pain-induced panic as Vistra produced a dagger and slowly forced the blade through his chain mail into his abdomin. His voice cut off abruptly as his diaphragm was punctured.

She watched him until it was clear the man was dead. Then she extracted her knife and used his robes to clean it. The fight, from the first kill until the final stab, lasted all of thirty seconds.

She went back to gather her sword then stepped lightly to Draco's cell. With one mighty swing, she sundered the locking mechanism then kicked the cell door open. There was an acrid stench in the air from the sparks kicked up by her sword. Although he might not be an expert with metals, he would realize that a sword wasn't supposed to just slice through iron bars.

"You have much to do," she said.

Without another word, Vistra hefted her sword back to her shoulder and walked out of the bloody detention hall.

There was a sound of hammers against wood from the guard station above him along with confused shouts. Some manner of liquid was spilled, then came the sound of fire. The shouts became more frantic and alarmed and somebody began kicking at a door. There was more movement outside in the street.

Just Down the Street...

Convel was lightly snoozing on one of the chairs with his feet propped up on a low table. He had opted not to crawl into the same bed as Kit. He wasn't sure if Jackson had noticed but the foxkin sometimes had night terrors. The sounds she made bothered him immensely.

Kit, meanwhile, had been awake since dusk. She had busied herself with taking the fancy red dress of hers apart and neatly wrapping the resulting budle of fabric up for transport. She was in her normal travel clothes by now with her gear ready to go at a moment's notice. A sound of foot steps from outside drew her attention, causing her to pause and listen.

Foot steps in a city were common however the tempo of these sounded... purposeful. There was also a great many of them for this time of night.

The patch of fur on the back of her neck and at the top base of her tail stood on end and her eyes widened. She lept to her feet and silently stepped to the window.

"Convel," she whispered.

"Hmmhnn...?"

"Trouble."

And like that he was standing with his sword in hand before even coming fully awake. She liked that about him. He looked around, found no immediate threat then crept over to where Kit stood.

"Oh shit," he breathed.

Outside, they caught a firing line of ten archers in the street facing the inside of the gatehouse. Each wrapped an arrow head with cloth then knocked them while one person moved down the line with a flask of lamp oil. As they prepaired, a steady line of infantry flowed swiftly into the inner city. They moved at double-time and with a purpose.

Convel dashed away from the window and began putting his armor on. Kit stayed by the window. As she watched, the archers set fire to the cloth, drew their bows, aimed for the guard house and loosed their arrows into the narrow opening of the window covers. Smoke was already bellowing out from the guard station by this point from a fire that seemed to have been started from inside. The archers didn't bother for a second attack and began double-timing it deeper into the city.

Kit hissed in a breath and her ears went flat as she saw Vistra leave the gate house and begin walking toward the castle.

If there was anybody else in the suite with them, Convel would rouse them and order them to get ready for a fight.

"Meet me down stairs. I am going to get Draco out of there. Kit, get the wagon ready. Get supplies. Kill who you have to but get us ready to move."

In the Outer City...

Bells began to toll urgently, dragging Elendil out of the depths of his slumber. More could be heard across the city as fire were set. Oddly, out of all the bells he heard, not a sound came from the gate house or the garrisons and gaurd posts scattered around.

"The lumber store is ablaze! Get up! Get up! Put out the fire!"

The shouting was coming from outside. First responders rushed toward the fire. The lumber stores, as Elendil might have learned while looking for work, were staging grounds for construction on the outer wall. There was a lot of lumber in those depots. But that was only the closest of the blazes afflicting the city. The sky was illuminated by fires raging at the lumber depots, the food stores, the gate house and various other warehouses storing non-perishable goods.

"Where's the guard! Everybody! EVERYBODY! Grab bucket and water! Go, hurry!"

"Oh shit! There's a fire at the castle!"

"-So list, bonnie laddie, n' come to war wi' me!" The tune rang out from the pub window gracefully, the picking of strings and the moving line of the standing bass. He of course hadn't had the pocket change to even reason going inside, the interior of the bar glowing orange and emanating cheers and jeers from all its patrons, while there he sat, to the wet curb. He glanced to his watch, its cheap, cracked glass partially obscuring the still-functioning hands as he struggled to make out the time. Half past ten.

He'd been at the docks until half an hour ago, a kid that had no business being there but still was offered a few pence to hard pack Bedfords and set riggings on cranes. He'd been too gangly and skinny to do the most of the heavy lifting, but he'd earned the few coins that rattled in his pocket. It was all you could find as a job nowadays, after all Glasgow was a trade city. Damn near depended on the River Clyde, and every canal and tributary that snaked out towards the North Atlantic.

He continued to jangle the change in his pocket as he sat upon the curb. The music from the bar had since stopped, but the patrons had become even more boisterous in the absence of entertainment. He looked around the street, his eyes well-adjusted to the darkness and dimmed street lamps. Adjusted enough to catch the silhouette of a figure darting through the alley across from him. Then two figures, and a third.

"Cameron! Al Cameron!" The harsh voice called from the shadows, an unmistakable shrill call. Three boys- that wasn't right, these were men, practically, with how built they were. They spoke and chattered in a tinged accent- was it Irish? They revealed themselves in clothes as ragged as his own, and two wielded clubs of wood, with the smallest one, which appeared to be the leader, clutching a straightbladed razor. Cameron looked on in fear as the three figures now surged the cobblestone street towards him. Every option flashed through his head, but the one that won out was simply to run.

Jumping up from the curb, Cameron turned to consider his options. An alley, to his left. Risk of a dead end. Open street to the right, his only chance would be that a policeman might be about at this time. Unlikely. He looked ahead, at the almost full-to-overflowing pub, and he dashed through the doors as a razor nearly met his back.

Within, he found the scene common all over Glasgow on any working night. The bar was packed full of stout working men, he'd recognized some of them. Dock workers, meat packers, steelworkers, everybody who had pence to spare on a brew. He glanced back, noting that his pursuers had not followed him inside. Now, only to hang about and avoid being noticed. He snaked his lanky self through the groupings of men, seeking out the backrooms. They were always such good places to hide. Full of cleaning supplies, yes, but you could be assured they wouldn't look there until last call.

Soon enough, a thick Scots voice called from almost across the bar. "Lad, laddie!" The warm voice beckoned, drawing Cameron's eyes to trace it. And sure enough, at the edge of the room, a table had been pulled aside, a man in a sharp uniform seated rigid at it, a feathered Highland bonnet atop his head. It was clear he'd called specifically out to Cameron. Cameron reluctantly considered his options, before trudging over towards the table which seemed to be devoid of all other people, almost as if they were afraid of it.

"How old are ye, lad?" The man bore an elegant mustache and an air of authority around him, his voice carrying long across the room, even over the other patrons. Ah, he was a recruiting sergeant. Three chevrons upon his shoulder, and a bound notebook on the table in front of him.

"Seventeen, sir." Cameron stated.

"Ah, splendid, laddie. I'm frae the Firs' Battalion, 42nd Regiment, th' Black Watch. Crown's lookin' fer lads t' fill th' rankin's. 'S honest, twa shillin's a day." The recruiter continued, fidgeting with his pen in one hand.

Two shillings caught Cameron off guard. He'd always heard the Army didn't pay for shite, but two shillings wasn't nothing considering he walked home with forty pence a day at the docks. It wasn't a hard pass, but he did consider it a moment, inquiring.

"Territorial?"

"Nay, Regulars. Twa shillin's a day, twa more if they send ye off." The recruiter answered honestly.

His mind raced. The possibility of four shillings per day was insane. Tailors and shopkeeps might've had that to spare, but only the strongest and fastest of the dock workers got close to that on the daily. Certainly nothing he'd ever get on the outside.

"Think we'd be goin' off?" Cameron questioned earnestly, an ever-widening deadzone of people forming between the recruiting table and the bar's patrons.

"Not a chance, old Adolph's gettin' his outside the battlefield."

"Right, where d' I sign?" The recruiter smiled behind his mustache, pushing the book over and opening it to a contract. He offered the pen, which Cameron took and glided across the parchment, scratching out his horrific excuse for a signature.

The recruiter closed the book, binding it back with a leather strap. "Report t' Fort George barracks within' th' week. Army stipend'll cover th' train." The recruiter instructed, nodding. "N' what'd you say yer name was, laddie?"

"Alastair Cameron." He beamed.

The sound of a rooster woke Karl, the young lad rising up from his bed. He rose off of it, smoothing his hair down and going outside to wash his face off. He went to the chicken coop to collect the eggs and as he returned home he was quite confused as to why he did not see either his mother or his father yet.

Assuming they went down to the local market, so he shrugged and stepped outside of the yard to see if the cart was travelling by today. He saw one further down the road with men by it, so he went back home thinking that he still had about ten minutes before it rolled up and he'd step out to buy from it whatever his parents wouldn't buy at the market. Maybe a little more, there were a lot of men there after all.

He went out back to milk the first cow, carrying the bucket aside as he thought he had taken a little longer than he expected and decided to hurry outside to still catch the cart. He stopped by inside to grab some coins before once again rushing out of the yard.

Yet... the cart was still there? Karl was very confused, and decided to go up the rode to see what was up. The lad walked along the street trying to whistle a tune, until he saw that one of the figures by the cart was his father. He hurried over, hearing the distinct sound of one of the radios in the village. "Papa, what's happening?" he queried, approaching his father. The man was very distraught, looking to the radio and then back to his son with his lips not willing to frame the vile words. "Papa?" Karl said again, dread rising up from his stomach. "Papa?"

"War's been declared lad." One of the other men replied. "The Germans have attacked, they're perhaps an hour from here. We're all going to the front." Karl's father shook his head, trying to frame some sort of apology for something that wasn't his fault but words couldn't really form. Karl's entry into the scene had perhaps broken the men out of a shock, and they all went upon the cart to go to the local barracks as the radio directed.

Karl much like his father had completed his military training in the past, but right now the memory was so distant. Women cried and crossed themselves and the leaving men-folk, before going inside to pack their things and go further into the country. Time passed, and Karl knew he was further than he had every been from home.

I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die God I do not want to die

They came to the barracks, and were greeted by and elderly man Karl knew. "Victor." Karl's father said, nodding to his old friend. The man waved back, and directed the men into a line with a pen, inkwell and paper in his hands. After someone helped him find his glasses that he dropped Victor at last began taking names one by one of men who were here to volunteer. Another boy, Karl's age ran off but two men ran after him and after a short kicking pushed him back muttering insults along the lines of "coward." The line shifted on, as did the lips of the men present. "How far are the Germans? How many are there? Why are they attacking?" Questions circled, but they weren't answered as men were handed uniforms, and then rifles with stripper clips. German Gewehrs, ever so ironically.

Weapon in hand, they formed a column and so marched to the front. None of the men on the cart would survive the next day.

Paul Chappel felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he read the words. He had been five years old when his father returned from the Great War a man broken in body and spirit. He had been ten years old when his fathers demons got the best of him and he blew his head off in the old barn. He had never forgotten the haunted look in his fathers eyes that morning, a man seeing beyond, a man reliving a horror Paul could never have understood.

Only it seemed that he might understand at last. But where his father had served in the trenches, Paul was determined to take to the skies. He slapped the paper down on the rack and turned from the store without a word, ignoring the query of surprise from the shop keeper. He stepped into the early morning of the capital, already the heat was rising and he was beginning to sweat in his tweed suit. His footsteps seemed loud on the pavement as he wove his way through the early morning carts and pedlars.

Ahead, tucked into the face of an attractive brick building, as the recruiting office, a union jack hanging limply in the motionless air. Tall posters, clearly scrounged from some First World War stockpile, were plastered in the tall windows. The door was open and Paul strode in without so much a knock.

A huge Sergeant, his walrus moustache hanging down past his chin, looked up from the papers on his desk. The days newspaper lay beside him as well and Paul thought that the man looked a little sick.

"I have come to enlist." Paul said the words before his brain could stop him. It might be a bit rash to come so early but he had nothing else in South Africa. His elder brother had inherited the farm and Paul had been making a living flying small parties here and there across the country in a small bush plane.

"You're that young pilot fellow aren't you? Works all over the territory. Paul isn't it?"

"Yes sir." It was all Paul could say.

"Well, if you've come to join up, good thing you came early. We only have room four six pilots. Everyone else is going into the army." The Sergeant muttered as she pulled a sheaf of paper from one immense desk drawer. He drew out a form sheet and quickly added information into the blanks. Occupation was entered as pilot; military trade as pilot; height and weight were random guesses as best Paul could tell.

"Sign here." The Sergeant pushed the document across the battered wooden surface and held a pen out to Paul.

It suddenly seemed immensely hot in the small room and Paul found himself very aware of the huge moustache as it loomed over the desk, the two blue eyes above it watching him with an almost detached interest. He reached out a hand, willing himself to not start shaking in front of his huge man, and took the pen. He quickly dashed of his signature. It was done.

"Good. Report to Pretoria Airfield at the end of the week. 9 A.M. sharp. Ask for Captain Prescott. Welcome to the South African Airforce." The Sergeant held out a huge hand and shook Pauls hand so violently he thought his arm might tear from its socket.

He turned from the office with a sort of dazed look on his face and stepped out into the sun where he was shocked to find a small line had already formed, waiting for him to leave.

"Well done Paul!"

"There's a good chap!"

"Plucky chap, well done, bru!"

"Good on you, mate!"

He forced himself to smile as he shook hands with the other men in line; moving as quickly as he dared he hurried around distant corner and ducked into a small alleyway. He had done it. He had signed up! Would his father have been proud? He didn't know, instead he turned and vomitted into the gutter.

On August 14, 1940, Henri Geffroy celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday: if celebration can indeed be defined as sulking in a cold, damp jail cell in Belmarsh, England. He had a fine present, though: he was the only inmate in his new cell. The guard rarely checked on him, though there wasn't much he could do to escape, anyway: so he was surprised when he was ordered to stand to attention to receive a visitor - in army uniform, at that.

"Good morning, mate."

Henri offered a cursory glance.

"So, you're Henri?"

A nod.

"Captain Henry Spears, British Army." A gloved hand extended itself through the iron bars. "Funny, we have the same name."

The visitor's presence had been acknowledged. Henri did not even bother with eye contact anymore.

The hand retracted. There was a furtive look round the cell. "What are you in here for, again?"

"What do you want?"

"Just some answers to some questions." Spears forced a grin.

Henri rolled his eyes. "I am a communist."

"Why?"

"It only seems fair."

"Because?"

"The Americans are greedy imperialist capitalist pigs, and the Soviets are a change of pace." Henri offered a condescending grin. Even in prison, there was a strange freedom. Henri could say whatever he wanted: he was here already, after all.

Spears moved on. "Who are your parents?"

"My father was English, my mother Swiss. My father died of drink, leaving my mother to raise me alone in London."

"Any possible reason why your pa went like that?"

"He survived the Great War."

"I see." Spears was reading a file as he talked. "Did you have a good mother?"
"She managed. Wanted me to have a good education. She is why I can speak French and some German."

"She still around?"

"Pneumonia got to her two years ago."

Spears lit a pipe. "Your education, what was it in?"

"Chemical engineering."

"I see. Mr. Geffroy, are you aware of the nature of the chemical reaction between chlorine and any metal?"

"It is explosive."

"What about hydrogen and chlorine?"

"Likewise." Henri furrowed his brows. "What are you getting at here?"

Spears leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "Mr. Geffroy, do you hate National Socialism?"

Henri did not answer, letting the implications of his possible responses set in.

"I resent whoever has put me in this place."

"Mr. Geffroy, how would you like to be a part of the war to liberate Europe?"

Henri raised a brow. "You want me to help you fight against the Germans?"

"For a hefty salary, of course," Spears replied, anticipating Henri's next question. "We will get you out of here, first. Then we will train you, and put you in a team with other people just like you, talented young men and women hungry for liberty and justice. You will penetrate deep into enemy lines, and you will do whatever we will tell you to do - for a nice reward, and the freedom of Europe as well, if you're also interested in that."

Henri mulled his options. Captain Spears was taking advantage of him, using his own circumstances to his advantage. He would just be another pawn to the Allies, and he would probably die before Hitler did.

But what other choice did he have?

"This team, does it have a name?"

"It's still new, but for now we call it Special Operations Executive. The SOE."