The Music swirled over Fabled Tindar. Fabled Tindar that had been lost in the midst of time and legend but that lived in the songs and nursery rhymes and in the fever dreams of poets and madmen. Masked dancers swirled across the marble floored great hall in odd intricate dances, the couples intersected to form complicated patterns of swirling silk and flashing teeth carried on by the music in their ecstatic reverie. The great hall was immense, a hundred meters wide with columns of marble decorated with intricate friezes depicting dancers seeming to swirl up them like smoke till the detail was lost in the source-less gloom above. The weird light that illuminated the room did not seem to come from any one place, but almost to congeal from the air like a luminescent miasma. In the distance the gentle crash of waves could be heard in the rare lulls of the music, though the air carried no scent of salt or sea. Rather it seemed redolent with spices and strange night time lotus flowers that one sometimes catches a hint of on tropical breezes driven of equatorial jungles.

At one end of the great hall the musicians stood or sat at their instruments. There were a dozen of them, each a master of his or her art and dressed in a variety of styles and customs that would have baffled a scholar. Their hands moved as one with clockwork precision as they produced the same haunting melody in a deliberate discordance which seemed to make the music shimmer and hum as though alive. Julliete stood playing her gold chased lute with the same eerie perfection, her fingers moved, but her arms, body and even her eyes were locked in place, unable to move so much as a twitch. That didn't stop her fingers from hurting. Despite the callouses that resulted from years of practice they were already raw and tender. In that regard she was better than the strangely garbed viol player whose fingertips bled as he plucked his own instrument. She didn't quite recall how she had come to this place. She had a vague impression of playing a song for some villagers at one of their rude rural celebrations. As some times happened when she played she had lost herself in the music, improvising and improving the tune as she went until she reached something so complex and sublime that it approached perfection. Then she remembered a darkly clad man approaching her... and now she was here. Here in fabled Tindar.

At the other end of the hall sat a trio of thrones. Each of the thrones was made of stone, elaborately engraved with gold and other precious metals. Each was high backed to a height of sever or eight feet with fanning protrusion that drifted into arabesques of eerie and unsymmetrical form that made the view feel queasy to behold. Upon each of the thrones sat an androgynous figure, tall and slender and garbed in layers of silk that appeared ragged, yet had been layered to a perfection that could only have been deliberate. Every inch of the figures was swathed in the silk, save for the featureless white masks which covered their faces and the long wispy veils which concealed their eyes. Somehow Juliette knew that she didn't want to see the faces they concealed beneath those mask and beneath those veils, but she could no more look away than she could cease playing. The dancers swirled on in their endless procession. Juliette focused her mind, worked as hard as she could to make herself blink, to miss a note, anything at all to disrupt her utter inability to exercise any control. Her music continued, perfect and unchanging.

Cascading rain piddled upon the wet road, filling the hoof prints left behind by the galloping steed. A caterwaul of wind rose higher and higher in the forlorn sky, as if the Gods themselves wished woe upon the Knight that made all haste. The trees of the Vatherlund Forest stood dark among the cacophony of the storm, save when lightning flashed in the distance and drew shadows across the leaves, giving the impression of leering, baleful faces staring at the cavalier, awaiting to rip him off of Lycurgus with their claw-like branches. No doubt a bard or a poet would have quite enjoyed that turn of phrase, but Torm was a bit too stubborn and single minded to pause on scenery. He knew there was little time to dally, and he drove his large Destrier faster along the rode, his steed's head rearing up like a serpent about to strike.

Another flash. The castle came into sight among the foothills to the east, terrible in its baroque and alien design. Whatever it was, it was kept by man nor orc, or fey witch. Looming almost into the cloudline, or so it looked from the ground, he couldn't imagine anyone resided in the thin spire. The stories told to him by the serfs had explained they would be in the great hall among the court of the Three Counts of Crimson.

Lycurgus's hoof beats suddenly became audible as they went from mud to cobblestone, passing the broken gateway and entered through the arch left in the wall. Even in the dark, Torm saw it looked much like any abandoned castle yard. A smithy to the right and a stables that fed into an undercropping was on the left, with a broken wagon and tossed about pails and tools, showing signs of a hasty retreat. Were the stories to be believed, he knew the retreat was not likely successful. He took no more than a moment to see before he kicked Lycurgus into a hard gallop, leaping over the wagon and barreling forward toward the great hall's doors, praying to the Evergod and bracing for impact.

With a screeching crash and a powerful whinny from Lycurgus, the doors were sundered and thrown open in the midst of what Torm could only describe as a masquerade from hell. It felt alien and utterly wrong in its atmosphere. The knight could see the dancers and musicians were continuing to play without so much as skipping a beat, rhythmically moving as if on a madman's strings. Had anyone deigned to look, they would see ne'er but a cloaked figure upon a horse, soaked from the tip of his nose, the only part visible on his face, to his traveling boots just below the cloaks trim. As it were, no humans looked his way. Only those three monsters atop the thrones, and their servants standing at attention. He could see none of their faces, but he felt their eyes on him, boring into his brain to search for any sign of weakness.

One of the servants, something robed in indigo with its face masked by a jester mask made of iron, welded onto whatever had once been its face. It approached him, sword at the ready as it tilted its head. The mask leered at him, smiling with an eerie calm. Five strides away...three strides...

Its sword, a thin arming sword made for dueling, whipped out to cut Lycurgus' throat. But the warhorse was too well trained, dancing back and putting Torm in line. It would look almost like magic when the Knight brought his flanged mace to bear from within his cloak, bringing it down into the head of the servant with a hard crunch that even dented the top of its iron mask. The others would watch as the servant's body dropped noiselessly to the ground, none moving. All stared from within their masks as the Knight dismounted calmly, placing the reins back upon Lycurgus's powerful neck. He bent down and removed the hood from the corpse, unsurprised when he saw the servant had simply been a body that had long rotted, with blackened and bloated skin where there was any, and bone where there wasn't.

It was then the music had stopped with a wave of the one of the Count's hands, and all was dead still when the interloper raised himself once again. He unhooded himself, his hair thick and brown, and his wolfish face well formed and unmarred by his hard life of travel.

"Make your prayers to your dark Gods, fiends. Tonight, your court ends."
@Penny

Julliette felt her hand freeze in accordance to the wishes of the Count of Tindar, his will silencing the musicans as absolutely as it compelled them to play. The knight stalked across the dancefloor with his mace held ready. The dancers began to circle him like sharks circling a wounded orca, they feighted in and out, skipping out of range of blows from the weapon almost mockingly. The circle moved with the advancing knight, not impeding his progress but threatening it, promising swift death or worse than death with the slightest mistep. Julliette focused all her will, tried to force her body to move, but it was still a useless endeavor. As the knight neared the throne the two robed figures flanking the Count rose in the same eerie unison as the dancers, but the Count made an obscure gesture and stood up. Despite seeming of a height with his companions a moment ago, he now seemed to tower over them like a grown man over children. An aura of palpable rage washed over Julliette and to her amazement her left eye blinked of her own volition.

"You were a fool to come here without an invitation mortal worm," a voice as ancient and terrible as the bottom of the sea sounded in her mind, seeming to come from all directions while still originating with the Count. Julliette could not have said what language he spoke in save that it wasn't common and she understood it as perfectly as she understood that fire was hot.

"Take him," the Count commanded to the dancers with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. With a howl of dammned souls the dancers rushed in heedless of the danger of the knights weapon, perhaps even eager for the oblivion that it might promise. Abruptly Julliette could move. The lute fell from her neveless fingers and struck the ground with a tuneless thunk which might have been the sweetest sound she had ever produced with it. With the speed of someone who had spent subjective lifetimes planning what she would do, if only she were freed from the enchantment, she seized the harp which stood on a pedestal of antediluvian marble and hurled the gold and silver chased instrument into the crowd of dancers surrounding the knight, its heavy edge crunching into the press like a bludgeon.

Most of the musicians didn't react to her sudden outburst, but the conductor of the dammned ensemble turned and stretched a finger out towards her, flesh fell from the digit to reveal aged and cracked bone beneath and Juliette danced back, snatching a viol from the bleeding hands of another musician and smashing it against the conductor in a shower of kindling that seemed to blow the disarticulated bones of the creature across the hall like chaff before the wind. Screaming in terror she leaped from the dias where the musicans watched in vacant eyed non interest and grabbed for a sword clutched by an ancient suit of armor, pulling it free and sending the metal tumbling to the ground in discordant cacophony.

The Knight pivoted on his foot, swinging a backhanded swing that broke the collarbone of a cloaked fiend. He expected a squeal of pain, but the figure simply buckled under the blow, trying to swing a shortsword. Fortunately the fiend's arm did not complete its swing before the figure collapsed, floundering like a fish on the floor. It would have been sad if it was a normal man, but whoever followed this count was undeserving of mercy.

As he swung and struck the thing, another assailant darted in swinging a club. Torm turned and raised his shield to block, parrying the blow before another swing of a cudle knocked the mace out of his weapon hand. It flipped in mid air and landed far in the background. Torm shieldrushed the fiend he blocked, knocking it off its feet as the others rushed in, sensing weakness. It was impressive with which the speed Torm unsheathed his Aculeus longsword, crucifix-hilted and robust of blade. Double fullered to make it lighter with a strong center suitable for cutting, it gently transitioned to a lenticular cross section at the last third of the blade.

Needless to say, the first two attackers that got within range were cut down with one great swing. Torm felt the familiar resistance of the blade biting through bone and flesh. Had they been armored with more than cloth, it might have taken a bit more effort, but Torm was young and strong, full of vigor. His next stabbed missed, the fiend ducking under the jab. Instead Torm redirected his momentum and brained it with the circular pommel of his sword. The thing fell like a poleaxed ox, his field of view now more clear when the figure fell out of his vision. Torm suddenly realized a young, lithe woman was in the courtroom, acting unlike the others. He saw her scream and tear an old arming sword off the archaic suit on the wall. He recognized her as one of the musicians when he'd entered. She'd broken the spell!

"Lycurgus!" He cried, the word not even fully escaping his lips before he felt the rumble of shodden hooves. Cloaked men and women were trampled by the destrier as the warhorse charged to his master. Torm slid his shield out of his arm and lashed it to the saddle. He clicked his tongue twice as the 1,500 pound horse reared up. With a whinny, it shot forward through the crowd, knives and cudgles not nearly enough to seriously harm a beast with such mass, particularly while it was garbed in a modicum of armor itself.

"Take the shield and get on the horse!" He called across the court to her, swiping his blade two handed like a whirlwind of steel, keeping the servants and dancers at bay. He'd taken a vow to always honor a lady in need, and it rubbed him the wrong way when some of the female dancers sent knives at his throat. He would need to confess to a cleric once this was all over, and reluctantly he ran one through with his sword. The Count's mood was palpable, a pressure buzzing in the air from his displeasure at his servant's lack of success.

"Come to me..." He ordered, gnarled hands turned to face upwards, fingernails half as long as daggers raised as he beckoned. Immediately Torm felt a thrilling, inexorable call in his mind to fall to his knees. To be subjugated. That all of his dreams and desires would come true in perfect harmony and beautiful music if he but give in. He nearly dropped his blade, backing up from the advancing horde that menaced him as he fought his inner battle.

"Gods be with me!" He moaned in denial, breaking through slowly. Too slowly.

Julliette hissed in alarm as the newly acquired arming sword nearly dragged her to the ground, the weight of the thing throwing her. The knight shouted something but his words were lost in the vast hall, that seemed to drink even his full throated bellow. The guesture to the horse was understandable but the eerie dancers between her and the beast made it less than useful. One of the dancers whirled towards her grabbing for her with a long hand taloned with painted nails that gleamed like metal hooks. She swung the arming sword, in a clumsy arc that nearly pulled her off her feet again. The very crudity of the strike saved her life as her opponent assumed it a feint until the moment it bisected the things waist, there was no more resistance than a sharp knife meets against butter and she sprawled to the floor amidst the nauesiating yellow robes the thing wore and the painted nails. Scrambling to her feet she heaved the sword at the group around the knight with both hands, the flat of it crashing across the back of one of the dancers and sending him tumbling into another who instnctivly struck out, ripping a chunk of bloody rotting flesh from the first.

Knives sprang into Julliette's hands and flew like darts to other dancers as she cleared a path for herself, exhausting her meagre store of preciously balanced daggers in a few heartbeats before scrambling up onto the back of the warhorse. For it's own part the beast lived up to its name, kicking and biting at the strange assailants with an almost human enthusiasm. She grabbed at the reigns but the horse showed no signs of recognizing her authority other than to flick its ears irritably as she sawed at its bridle.

"Work with me here," she snapped at the horse and it lurched forward, driving its weight into the close packed attackers surrounding the knight, with a shatter of bones and unearthly screams.

The cultist's nose shattered in a spray of visceral blood, Torm pivoting on his foot and cutting off a woman's head at the base of the neck, her face a perpetual parody of ecstasy as her head bounced onto the castle floor. The minstrel had a good view of the Knight scything through them like wheat, looking only partially injured from the myriad of blows the desperate thralls attempted upon him. Other than a bruise under his armor and a gash across his forehead, Torm looked and felt as hale as ever. But the servants of this ruinous power had to be dozens upon dozens, and it was only when Lycurgus burst through their lines and broke the circle around him that he felt he might make it out alive. To his relief he saw the woman atop the beast, trying her best to hold on, having given up on giving his steed orders. Surprisingly a knife appeared in her hand and she slashed a man who reached for across the face, causing him to stumble back.

Torm didn't delay, mounting his horse in front of her. Knowing his master's wishes, Lycurgus spun, knocking aside various occultists surging in with insane fury, the press of bodies like a single, living entity. Torm impressively held his longsword in one hand, stabbing and pull cutting as he spurred Lycurgus forward half a dozen feet.

"What are you doing!?" Julliette yelled, seeing them wading further in rather than making a run for it.

"We have to kill the fiend!" The Knight exclaimed, wincing as someone cut into his leg with a butcher knife. The thrall took a pommel to the head for his efforts, causing his body to fall limply under the tide of his fellows. To better pave their way, Lycurgus whinnied and lifted the fore of his powerful body upwards, causing the minstrel to cling to Torm. Her mouth was very close to his ear when she exclaimed-

"We need to get the devil out of here! You're a bloody knight, save me!" She screeched.

Her words and the very real possibility that his failure might result in her death too gave him pause. Somehow he didn't feel she was the damsel in distress type, but anyone unwittingly facing death in the face would be a bit hysterical. He had come prepared to fight, whereas she had simply been under the accursed one's dominion, seeing a chance to escape when he arrived.

With a growl of frustration, he spun Lycurgus around once again. At the corner of his eye, he saw a rope being flung at their direction. On instinct, Torm shoved his forearm in the way, the rope entwining loosely around his hand. When he felt the rope go taut, he simply yanked on it and sent Lycurgus charging. The woman placed both her hands on Torm's head and turned it forward, causing the Knight to see the large doors closing before them. He felt a cold dread in his throat, quelling it when he kicked Lycurgus into action. The horse brayed and charged, lowering its head as if Torm expected the steed to burst through the thick oaken doors. They might be able to if they wished to break most of the bones in their bodies, but that wasn't a favorable prospect to anyone.

As the gateway swung closer and closer to closing, the minstrel tossed her last dispensable knife at one of the gaps beside the door hinges, slowing it just enough for the two of them and Lycrugus to burst into the torrent of wind and rain, nearly sliding and breaking their bodies as Lycurgus did his best not to slip along the wet stairway leading into the court yard, keeping balance just by making a desperate leap. Torm felt the rope he had go lax, glancing to see no one holding onto it as the doors closed with the finality of the gates of hell.
@Penny

The steed burst out of the mist like a leviathan lurching from the deep. So great was the mounts enthusiasm to escape the nightmare from which it had willingly followed its master, but nonetheless wished to leave, that trails of fog clung to it like questing fingers attempting to drag its victim back into its shroud. Juliette clung to the big beasts neck for dear life, her arms flung around it, feeling the great warhorses pulse thundering beneath her slender limbs. Despite a terrible urge not to look back, she found she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder. Even as she turned she felt the stirring of a chill ocean breeze and the fog behind them seemed to slide away like spider web before a hurricane. Juliet drew in her breath sharply. Instead of a dreadful castle or palace of evil aspect, there was nothing behind them but a promontory hill rising above the night darkened see. The moon, the normal moon under which she had been born, shone in the sky, illuminating a few lonely stones that were too square to have been natural, but had long since collapsed into vine choked ruin.

“Iiyada preserve us,” she breathed, though the prayer to the Goddess of Song was lost over the thundering of hooves on the overgrown slate path that lead from the ruins. Though it was doubtful the knight had heard her, the shift in her body obviously aroused his attention. Unable to look backward in his armored helmet he instead touched the reins expertly, the horse zagged to the side, with a shower of sparks from his iron shod hooves, permitting the armored man to glance backward at the impossibly empty path on which they had come. With a second tap the horse straightened and then with a gentle pressure on the bridle he slowed the big beast first to a clatter and then to a stop. They were nearly at the base of the hill that the ancient road ascended and the unrelieved darkness of a night time forest swept in front of them like a dark green ocean. Juliette slipped to the ground, conscious that wherever they were, it wasn’t anywhere near the inn in which she had gone to sleep… how long ago? Hours? Days? Longer?

“I thank you for rescuing me Sir Knight,” she said, feeling absurdly pompous as she did so. A moment later she warped her arms around her body as the chill of the evening began to overtake her adrenaline of moments before.

The early spring rain was still as cold as ice, in fact it was far colder than it had any right to be. The last time the bard had been outside, it had been in the verdent southern county of Haldenshire. The forest about them was thick and strange, and the ground was both soft and unforgiving in its hardness. She heard the warhorse whinny above her and two heavy sets of armored feet hit the ground beside her, and as she drifted into unconscious oblivion, the voice of the Knight saying softly. "It was my honor."

Seven hours later...

The world grew brighter again, and the sounds she had been only subconsciously aware of came into being with the gradual introduction of her senses. The wind lapped at her face and hair, but she didn't feel cold. She felt a constant bucking beneath her like a tireless lover, and only when she bothered to open her eyes did she see that she was on horseback once again. Her arms around the waist of who she knew was the Knight, and and all of her memories of the previous evening came flooding back into her skull. Had she still not felt the aches, it would have been easy to have imagined she dreamt it all now that they rode amid a lightly wooded forest on a bright day, ne'er a cloud in the sky.

"I've been waiting for you to come to." The Knight said, the horse cantering beneath them. The cloak he had worn now wrapped around her. Vague memories of being helped back onto the horse and swaddled were now flooding back whilst she realized just how cool the air was. The trees, though they rode in a lightly wooded area, were darker and thicker than the ones she was used to. As if reading her mind, he said. "I could tell by your accent you're not from around here. I'm not sure where you're from, but in Gossenland we don't get many foreigners. Human foreigners that is. Mostly just frontiersmen and traveling merchants. And the occasional barbarian horde."

His accent certain sounded like someone from the north. It was as hearty and strong as the oaks they rode past, with a hint of finery in his voice but nowhere near posh enough for the courts. The more stunning aspect of his speech, however, was their location. Gossenland was at least six hundred miles from Visamyrce, over the Blackwood and past the Capital of Andred in the Duchy of Anderon! The only things north was Gossenland was Nordenmark and the Dragonback Mountains that halted the frigid winds from covering the land in ice and savage Norgardians.

"We'll eat breakfast soon. Then you can tell me what happened. I'm Sir Ulfengrad, by the way. Knight of the Baron Hammerford." He told her as they crested a hill. However long they had been riding, his horse still looked hale and healthy, much like the young Knight that rode with her. He couldn't have been over twenty six, if that.

Torm truly was happy she had awoken. Carrying around a corpse wasn't his idea of a successful mission, and every life he could save was worth something. Evil had crept back into the lands like an infection these last decades. If the Knights couldn't do something to hold it at bay, who would? He took a deep breath, calming himself and pushing back his tiredness. Soon he could rest and speak to the woman, but until then he-

A banner rose before them on the country road, tall and splendidly whipping in the morning breeze. To any commoner it was a sight to behold, but Torm recognized the Griffon Emblem immediately. He wasn't so sure it was good news, at least for him. Still, he kept Lycurgus at a steady pace as they cantered down the hill without pausing, approaching the Knight upon the white Stallion who awaited them upon the path, as still as a statue.

The Knight was tall and resplendent, with gleaming plate encased upon his body, iron mail filling the gaps of his armor with an added layer of protection. His great helm was large and reminiscent of Holy Orders of the southern provinces, with two large sun colored wings reaching into the sky above him like great horns. A fearsome golden wyrm was emblazoned upon his kite shield. Behind his visor, his eyes were unreadable. Despite how ferocious Torm could look, this one had the look of a Paladin of Legend.

"Sir Haukenbrass!" Torm called to him, drawing Lycurgus to a walk until they halted a dozen paces from the other Knight. "What brings you out of Keep Hammerford?"

"I come to find you, Ulfengrad." He said, his voice echoing beneath his steel helm. He had an air of pompousness that only time amongst the finest of gentry could produce, but his accent was still certainly of northern stock. "The good Baron has grown weary of your rewards, or lack thereof. He sent me to ascertain if you had perished or brought back the head of the Warlock. Tell me, as you still ride upon your steed, do you have the head of the thing?"

Julliette could likely feel Torm tensing up, and the younger Knight was quiet for a moment. "I fought the thing. I found its lair and killed many of its minions. But it fled like a coward! Even now the castle it had resided in disappeared with some foul sorcery. This woman here was enchanted by their magics, but I managed to get her out of there once she broke out of the spell. I come back to show her to Baron Hammerford so he could ask her of her experiences."

"So," the other said, letting the word hang heavy in the air. "You did not bring the head of the warlock?"

"No." Torm said. "I will explain myself to the Baron, not to you."

"The Baron sent me to speak for him, boy!" The shining Knight declared. "That warlock was merely a nuisance to the county. He stole mere peasants and vagabonds, nothing more. This was so you could prove yourself and show him you were a Knight worth having in his retinue. And you have failed..."

Torm growled low enough to only be heard by Julliette. "You cannot strip me anything, no matter how much you stick your nose up the lord's rump."

It wasn't entirely a true statement, Torm had to admit. Haukenbrass served the lord loyally and brought him much loot, but in a way Torm knew he was still playing 'the game.' It didn't matter (at least to your patron Lord) how many men you unhorsed if you brought no loot to show for it. Torm was letting his anger get the better at him. He had nothing left to lose.

"No, I cannot...But I can and will strip of you of your patron." Haukenbrass said, deathly serious. "Torm Ulfengrad, I hereby relieve you of your connection to Baron Hammerford, and leave you to fade away into nothing. History will forget you, as it forgot your father." Torm stiffened but Haukenbrass continued. "You're a Knight only by the King's pity, and even the King's influence ends after a point. Do not come back to the Barony or I will skewer you upon my lance myself."

"What is your name Sir Knight?" Juliette asked. By the stiffening in the mans posture he was startled to be reminded she was there.

"I should like to be able to relate all the events of Sir Ulfengrad's heroic rescue when next I speak to my noble father, even such...minor trivialities as yourself," she said, her tone perfectly sweet and innocent despite the implied insult. She wouldn't be speaking to her 'noble father' anywhere this side of the grave but that, like the fact that any nobility she could claim was spoiled by her bastardry, didn't seem like the thing to stress. Haukenbrass was silent for a moment, clearly waying the risks of offending an unknown noblewoman against the desire to be insulting to anyone connected, no matter how innocently, to Sir Ulfengrad.

"Haukenbrass," he bit out, choosing the middle road of complying with the request but being truculent about it. Juliette almost but not quite repressed a snigger.

"And riding down on dew shone grass, he met the noble Horse's Ass,
Where like falcons who meet a-wing they with voice and ..." Juliette's voice rose in clear bardic song, meant to be recounted to the strumming of a lute. Her own lute, she realized with an inwards curse was lost in whatever cursed place she had awakened yesterday. Haukenbrass made a strangled grunt of anger.

"Haukenbrass..." he growled through clenched teeth.

"Oh Ill be sure to correct it before I sing it at the next tavern," she assured the knight with a smile that shone with perfect sincerity.

Torm barked a laugh, a sound as imposing and prepossessing as the knight who wielded it. He could see his adversary's expression even through Haukenbrass's closed great helm just by the older knight's lack of a reaction. At least until Torm had laughed.

"What's so amusing knave?" Haukenbrass asked acidly. The Knight lowered his lance threateningly. Torm couldn't hope to beat him in a duel unless he somehow bypassed the lance, since Torm did not have one himself. He was still confident his former superior wasn't actually going to attack him, even if the rules of honor could give him leeway. Haukenbrass had come here to demote him, not get his armor dented in a meaningless fight with no payment or glory to show for it.

"My new friend." Torm said sincerely. A grin on his face, he turned Lycurgus around so Haukenbrass saw the stallion's ass. "Fare thee well, Sir. I merely wanted to serve my lord Baron, but I think I'll take my business elsewhere. Perhaps we'll meet again at the tournament circuit." Or in battle, he thought silently. Inner provincial powers always vied for supremacy as long as they paid homage to the king. It was quite easy to see that he could someday be on a battlefield and find himself fighting to the death against former comrades. With a click of his tongue, Lycurgus began to canter away, now moving southward along the rode on this ever warming and sunny day.

As they began to pick up speed into a gallop, Torm felt an odd rush of freedom. Sure, he wasn't employed anymore. His armor wouldn't be cleaned or his horse shoed, nor would he have a permanent residence or any sort of job security. And yet...he didn't feel too effected by. Not at the current moment anyway. Perhaps later he would feel lost, but at the moment all he needed was a good drink. He didn't want to drop the woman off in the middle of the road, and he had truly nothing to lose.

"Madam, erm-" He began over the wind, realizing he didn't know her name. He laughed at how formal he was. "Hey, would you like a drink? I'm getting one, and after the night you had I'm sure you could use one too."

Lycurgus galloped another few miles down the road before Torm turned him eastward, through a small wooded area and up a hillock to a hamlet Torm knew as Raffordshire. Immediately Juliette would see the difference in architecture to the province she had been in before her enchantment. The houses were made of stone, with wooden thatched roofs and some had collapseable stairs leading up to second story doors. There were no bottom floor windows on any building save one, and single story houses had two entrances, many with underground tunnels where they could insulate heat from a fire to help warm their homes.

Torm reined Lycurgus at the tavern, the only place that seemed a bit less defensible than the other structures. A young girl in a wool dress and carrying a basket hurried past them, just as two older men laughed and stepped off the deck to go continue their business elsewhere. The Knight helped the lady off the stallion, looking up at the sky and seeing no clouds in sight. "Not to be forward, but I'm buying. I might have lost my patron but you've had it a bit worse." He told her.

Juliette swung down out of the saddle and wiped her hands on her trousers. It occured to her that everything she owned in the world had been at the inn she had slept at... last night? She tried not to think about how long she had been in the cursed orchestra and how much time might have passed in the real world. Whatever she owned would have long since been taken by the innkeeper, who probably assumed she had been mugged or otherwise met an unsavory end. She hefted the lute she had taken from the Court of Mist-Shrouded Tindar in one hand. It was evidently ancient, the dark timber having drunk the polish of generations, its gold inlay worn smooth against the fingertips of countless players. Well she supposed she could make do.

"I never refuse free drinks from knights who rescue me from cursed castles out of ledgend," Juliette deadpanned as she followed Torm into the tavern. It was only early afternoon but the place was already doing considerable business. A fat tapster with a lazy eye was bustling behind a bar of battered would, pulling pints of foamy ale into wooden tankards, making coins vanish in exchange for booze. Three adobe ovens squatted against a far wall, wafting the smell of course brown bread out to cover the familiar combination of sour ale, human sweat, and pipesmoke that clung to every tavern Juliette had ever visited, except for those in Tirabai, where the local duke had outlawed pipeweed on pain of an amputated nose. There were perhaps a score of people in the place, the usual oldsters who spend their days swapping stories and quaffing ale, a soot stained blacksmith taking an afternoon break from his labors, and a trio of farmers who were busily discussing what was either a live stock deal or a marriage, it was difficult to determine which without context. All of them wore homespun smocks and most of the coins Juliette saw were coppers. Simple people enjoying what little they had.

All eyes turned to them as they entered and conversation died down before rising up in a series of mutters that speculated on who the newcomers were. It was doubtful that a place like this got many knights, and probably not too many more bards. If she had coin in her pocket and a horse beneath her Juliette doubted she would have been tempted to stop. Roadside taverns were a place where a song and a tale might get you free lodging, but might also get you fleas, lice, or your throat cut if the locals were of a particularly rough sort. Fortunately these didn't and Juliette didn't have a horse or coin to seek better lodgings.

"Gods help us," she murmured in a voice so low that only Torm could catch it.

Torm was a strange mixture of dangerous and optimistically nice. Juliette had seen both sides of him, but for now he seemed to have chosen dangerous. Like as not from their very recent encounter with Haukenbrass, but truth be told he mostly wished for peace and quiet while he discussed just exactly what he was going to do with his Cavalier career with this comely and witty minstrel he had been lucky enough to save from eldritch clutches. The God of the Flaming Fist had his ways, he supposed. The oldsters of the establishment could plainly see the symbol of Baelyr emblazoned on his shield. Whilst he was still clearly a knight, his full armor was still very well strapped to Lycurgus. If anyone were to even approach his warhorse, the entire common room would know from the struggle.

"They won't bother us," He said softly, confidently walking past the first three tables, Juliette close behind.

A few of the men looked bold enough to either speak or reach for a pocket, but as soon as Torm placed his hand on the hilt of his longsword, gravity reversed and people inched away as far as possible as he strode by. Juliette glared at them, sticking her tongue out at a few of the bolder, uglier ones. Torm didn't want to seem like a threat to these people. Patronless knights were not too far removed from common folk. They had to find and prove themselves to patrons, do the worst tasks for recognition or coin, or do very well in the tournament circuit. None of those were mead-easy.

The mumblings didn't cease, but the general clamour of the room began to rekindle as they took their seats. Torm planted himself facing the door. His top was a long-sleeved, light green shirt with dark hemlines, with three buttons from his neck to the top of his chest, all unbuttoned. Even in the dim under the roof, it was clear he was well built. One could say what they wanted about Torm, but he had the build of a knight someone could write a song about. His eyes were a dark blue, but somehow they seemed silver-grey in the light.

Immediately Torm called for mead. It wasn't one of the harder alcoholic drinks, but it was sweet and gave a fine buzz if consumed enough. In the bigger cities they might grab some proper vodka, but this was a countryside town.

"Gods spede you" he told the tavernmaid when she delivered, the woman gave him an awkward curtsy and replied back with the same farewell before melting off into the crowd. Torm took a good sip of his drink, savoring the flavor before setting it on the table.

"So... I want to make a partnership," He admitted, all of their small talk and introductions made on the road, previously. He scratched his shock of dark hair, not entirely certain how he would go about doing this. He hadn't propositioned a woman in awhile, and he had never done it for purely business reasons. "What I'm considering is, you serve as my herald and bard. You go where I go, sing songs, vouche for me before lords or those looking for a hired sword, and after I do what needs to be done you get a cut of my coin or a section of whatever gift is granted me, if at all possible."

Juliette ordered an ale and asked for bread and stew, finding herself suddenly hungry despite the queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. The ale was wheat beer rather than the barley she was used to and cloudy, but it was cool and robust and she found she enjoyed it. The stew was the typical annual type, a pot that simmered continually with fresh ingredients added to the base each day. The predominant meat in the area was evidently mutton which gave the stew a greasy texture that was less pleasant but it was hot and went well enough with the fresh crusty bread that had just been taken out of the oven.

Juliette considered Torm's offer as she ate. It wasn't uncommon for a knight to employ a bard in such a capacity. Knights, particularly young landless ones, needed to make their reputations. A lord wouldn't open his halls to a knight with no reputation, who might be one step removed from a bandit, nor would villagers part with hard earned coin to hire such a man if he were not vouched for. It was obvious to her that Torm had lost his patron and as such was literally a freelance, or would be if he had a lance. His only hope of maintaining his horse and armor, much less rising in the world, was to make a reputation for himself. Juliette was not overly particular when it came to the paying of debts, but she owed Torm her life. More practically she needed money for a horse and new clothes, and lute strings having only what she carried. It might have been possible to gain that on her own, but particularly the first one would be a problem without any money. She supposed she could steal a horse, but just like Knights, bards needed to manage their reputations. The tale of a bard who stole would spread, and that bard would starve for lack of an audience anywhere except perhaps entertaining bandits.

"I would need a horse and a change of clothes," she said around a mouthful of bread, glancing down at the lute. For all its age the strings appeared to be new, new enough that she could probably hold off on purchasing spares till they reached a town that sold decent ones. She thought of her shortsword and her bow, both lost to her now. She would need to rearm herself too, though if she were traveling with Torm that certainly cut down on her chances of being attacked on the road, and of surviving said attack.

Torm gave a a single bark of a laugh, crossing his sinewy arms, amused at Juliette's statement. He was no hulking brute, but it was clear he was strong and knightly in countenance. And unlike Haukenbrass and most knights one encountered, he was young, with but a few cuts and scars and he could count his military battles on one hand.

"I would like a lance, a lord, and some land, but we'll get none unless we gather some coin or favor, and we only get that if we work together." He reasoned, smiling as if thinking of a private joke. It had the look of a grinning wolf. He reached for the flagon of barley mead, downing his fill. Knights had to be mindful of health and diet, particularly if they were active like Torm, but he could allow himself some mead. He was forging an alliance, after all. He placed the flagon on the wooden table and held his hand out as if to arm wrestle, though that was clearly not the goal.

"Do we have a deal?"

---

Three Days Hence...

The two moved southwest, deciding it was best to travel closer to Andred City in order to find potential patrons. North led to Nordenmark and the barren wilderness of the Marches, where many terrors lay but few people to bear witness. East was of similar status, though petty kingdoms and duchies had risen over the last few centuries, under the sway of Andred but technically not under direct rulership, meaning there was little prestige if Torm wished to be a knight of the realm. And so that meant either south to the greater kingdom, or west towards Vrettonia, Andred's ancient rival and frequent belligerent. They chose to meet a middle ground, moving towards Anderlon and the Capital of the realm. Whilst there was little upheaval and conflict save for assassinations and inner struggles, coin was far more frequent. The theory was they might get lucky, and it seemed that their idea had paid off, at least in a middling fashion.

A day before leaving Gossenland behind and hitting a small portion of Eisenland, Torm and Juliette had cantered into a hamlet amongst the hills before the great road, snuggled within the bosom of Blakiven Forest, and as soon as Torm was helping Juliette off the horse, they had been ushered into the surprisingly spacious and well built house of the village master.

"You see, sir. It seems Galena hath shown her mercy this day." The portly man fellow said, his neckbeard a hodgepodge of brown and grey. He wore a gambeson and a doublet, which was sensible armor for someone who could not afford iron. But it must have been dire or worrisome indeed if he just wore it day to day. "We have little coin to pay a knight of the southern realm, and we dare not ask for aid from our northern lords lest we be subject to their attention and taxes."

"We need to eat, Master Llewyn, and the Iron Wolf of Kradismarc does not work for free, though his heart and goals are pure." Juliette declared with flair. Torm kept his mouth shut, having discussed protocol with his new minstrel. He would speak if she took a step too far, but other than that it was her job to sell him. "We would not see your folk starve, but there must be something you have for us? And what of your ills, you've spoken of it not at all."

"Of course, of course we pay. Six silver lordlings and twelve copper commons, a-and once you slay what attacks us, you'll get a gold royal." He assured them, sweating from the day. Torm had seen Llewyn and his men, most no more than boys stacking up palisades around their town, creatively named Foresmere. "We will give you two cooked chickens to eat for your stay here."

Torm and Juliette shared looks, Juliette opening and closing her mouth. It sounded like a bargain, but it implied if the task took longer than three nights, they would have to pay for more food. Torm shrugged, understanding. The people of Foresmere couldn't be too careful with letting a knight stay too long, lest he take advantage and squeeze them for more than his fair share. Torm spoke before his bard could agree.

"What has happened?" Torm gazed at the man, betraying his curiosity and pity for whatever plight ailed them.

"Death, sir. It...It started as slaughtered chickens. We had thought a jackwolves had gotten to them, or foxes. But Lark Faldon's boy went missing after a few days, and then the Moldie girls were taken. We found one of the lasses a mile into the wood. We only knew it was her from her garb her ma' had sewn just a week prior. It weren't no jackwolf or proper wolf, or even a bear if I had to guess. Whatever beast killed them, it then went after one of the men, Old Flann O'harron. He barely escaped with his life, but he couldn't get a good look at it. Dark n' all when it went after him. He was badly cut. Nearly died anyway."

"Anything else?" Torm asked, his face deathly calm.

"Aye," the man swallowed, clearing his throat. "They say when it attacks, it laughs."

"Sounds like it might be kind of a handful," Juliette commented, tearing the leg of one of the roast chickens they had been given. They were in the stables preparing to ride out to investigate the last sighting of the creature. Juliette had outfitted herself with a leather coat and a shortsword as well as a small buckler and a shortbow. None of them were as fine as the weapons she had lost when she had been sucked into the the Cursed court but the were well made and serviceable. The took a bite from the chicken and chewed enthusiastically. They had been down to what they could hunt for the last couple of days and game had not been plentiful this late in the season.

"I've heard legends of laughing dogs, down beyond Arad Lund," she admitted, though she though they were fanciful tales. She stripped the bone with her teeth and dropped the bone into the a greased sack. The bones could be boiled to make soup particularly if they could scrounge some vegetables. She washed her hands with some of the rough saddle soap and rinsed them in a pale of tepid water. Then she unslung her lute and began to play a few bars of Sir Jackass, a tune which had been catching on like the red pox everywhere she had performed it. She digressed into a slight variation, decided she didn't like it and stuck it up in a more heroic melody.

Torm had hunted before. In fact, it was a pasttime for any knight or lord, along with hawking and tournaments. But he had never been the best one. The andredian cavalier knew he was far better fighting men than monsters, due to experience. Though it was a part of his curriculum and he did have some formal training. He just wished he knew what this thing was supposed to be. Juliette's suggestion had merit, though it begged the question why a foreign beast was so far north. He shook his head as he readied his saddle, more to himself than his companion.

"Could be a Varghulf," he responded with more than a bit of trepidation. They weren't the worst thing to face, but the large wolf-like beasts were cruel, and if the stories were true, smart. It was said some had mastered speech, but his teacher hadn't believed the tales, so he supposed he didn't. Either way, they would find out eventually. Torm lifted his flask up to his lips and downed some water, before mounting Lycurgus with the skill borne into a knight.

Their two mounts cantered out of the stables, Torm on Lycurgus and Juliette on a dappled mare named Swifttrot. Her tune followed them, and despite his anxieties, they dissipated when the epic melody began to play. Juliette was good, and Torm had simple tastes. He gave her a brilliant smile, unused to having a minstrel, bard, or even a retainer around him. It boosted his morale for the moment at least, and the two headed northwest into the treeline, passing up the old ox-path the villagers had used up until the last month. The forest wasn't nearly as foreboding as others Torm had experienced, but he immediately knew it would be easy for a predator or brigand to hide just off the road.

They reached the nook in the path soon enough, the body of the lass and even most of the blood already gone. Torm dismounted Lycurgus, whose ears were up and alert, though the beast showed no signs of distress at the moment. Small indentions in the earth and large impressions of what might be paws were visible beside a large birch. The Knight stood up, looking around the small clearing to see if the tracks led anywhere, but it looked like whatever had been here had just paced the road for a bit, as if it had toyed with its food. The thought disgusted him, wondering just what this creature was. It was at that moment something in the bush moved. Torm was no fey elf, but he still had a keen reaction and leaped back, halfway through unsheathing his sword before he noticed what came out of the thistle wasn't an animal or monster at all, but a small boy!

He had an unfortunate face. Fat cheeked and frowning, wearing a coif hat and holding a sack of cloth like it was a toy. Torm blinked, sighing with a groan and lowering his two-hander. The boy didn't seem scared, merely distraught. He swallowed and coughed. "Are you here to find out what happened to my friend, Gwyn?" He asked, shifting his little booted feet and looking down. Torm glanced at Juliette.

"Is Gwyn one of the Moldie girls?" The knight asked, softer now. He didn't expect to see a child out here, even so close to the village. Torm noticed just how big the child's head was, at least compared to his diminutive, half starved body. A roach scuttled across the kid's shoes, and whether it went up his pants leg or crawled away he couldn't tell.

"Yes, sir. She was here when it happened. I was here too, when the thing showed up."

Torm lifted his head, staring at the boy with eyes wrought of iron. "You were here?" He asked. "What was it?"

"I-..." He started, about to cry. Torm noticed something that he would not forget. The child was struggling with something, true fear in his eyes before it was replaced with rage. Mouth opening impossibly wide, wolfen teeth glinting in the sunlight. The knight knew it was, had been a real child until something took over. The scared boy in front of him had been devoured before his eyes, and what was left was a monster. Torm felt his heart seize, but his instinct kicked in, and as it leaped at him, he cut the thing in half with one stroke of his sword. The boy had leaped in one piece, and fell in two.

Juliette stood frozen, hand halfway to the hilt of the short sword that she wore thrust through her belt. The bisected child twitched slowly and then was still, the animal aspect fading until it was just a small boy wretchedly butchered. Blood leaked from both halves in a brackish stream, soaking into the loamy forest soil.

“By the Saint and the Sister,” Juliette breathed, feeling the gorge rise at the back of her throat. The sight and the smell competed to make her lose the stew she had eaten for dinner but she forced it down. Feeling foolish and too late to be of any help she took her hand away from her sword.



“They will never believe us that he was tainted,” she said after a moment. The corpse of the child had a cherubic innocence about it, his mouth open in death in what looked to be gentle surprise, not the devouring snarl she had seen a moment before. Juliette had seen mobs before, and in town where the people were not nearly as scared as they were here. They needed to be on horseback and putting as much distance between this place as they could manage before the killing was discovered.



“Something infected the boy,” Torm replied, a steely tone to his voice as he knelt down and seized the boy’s hat, wiping the great blade clean with practiced ease before tossing the soiled cloth to the ground. Julliette was shaking her head.

“They wont believe us,” she repeated, hand fiddling with the hilt of her weapon in spite of her best efforts. A wolf howled in the night, a long keening moan that seemed to shiver the trees around them, giving them a nightmarish aspect in the moonlight.

“You misunderstand, I do not shrink from the deed, but its author must be destroyed. Another howl split the night, seeming closer, though that could have been a trick of her nerves. They headed deeper into the forest, following the trail as best they could. It was clear that it was little more than a game run. Perhaps it had once been used by woodsman, but if so that was long ago. The howling continued every so often, often enough to make Juliette suspicious that they might be being led into a trap. Around midnight they came up onto a small rise where a hilltop broke the trees. Across a shallow mist shrouded valley another hill was visible. It was crowned with tumble down ruins of some ancient structure, perhaps a church or abbey. The skeletons of mostly rotted timber buildings stood around it like the stumps of decayed teeth. In the moonlight Juliette thought she saw movement at the base of the ruin.