---

Solomon wandered next to the lying corpse upon the ground. He looked down on the Gerralt. Beyond just the physical pain he was forced to endure in silence, he was also in emotional turmoil. Everything was taken from him, and now he was crudely resurrected to experience it again. He was to fully know the consequences his departure had brought. This would have killed lesser men, and here Gerralt lay, his psyche broken. Solomon knelt down, slowly until he was almost face to face with the animated corpse.

“No more hostility. This is your bed. This is only a fraction of the anguish you have dealt yourself. Never you mind what comes next. You are the king’s prisoner, and you will comply.”

Solomon stood back up, and faced the others. He stepped around Gerralt’s body to where the apothecary was leaning against the table. Blood had soaked his tunic around his shoulder, the pencil lay across the room, being tossed after Gerralt’s sudden attack.

“Let me see. I should mend this before you get an infection.” said Solomon. He reached beneath is cloak and removed his satchel. With fresh bandages and a bottle of antiseptic, Solomon cleaned Roland up, and wrapped the wound. Thankfully, it wasn’t too deep, but would be tender for a little while as it healed. In the mean time, the others went to take care of Gerralt. He remained motionless on the ground, with only the most minimal evidence he was animated to begin with.

“I can see myself back to my room.” said Solomon, as he was stowing his supplies away. “I have gathered what I need. I am appreciative of the opportunity. Solomon opened the heavy door and ascended the stairs. The night was aging, and morning was only a couple hours away. Solomon had a few more reservations he had to go through before meeting the King.

-----

Come morning, Solomon was chatting with Petra. She was equal parts intrigued and appalled by the events that occurred just hours before. She even went so far as to chastise him as a hypocrite. Solomon took it in stride, explained his reasons once more and left it at that. Solomon’s goals were not going to be an easy one. Though he would do everything in his power to prevent needless harm or suffering, sometimes the end justifies the means. Had he been successful, Solomon would have intended Gerralt join him and his allies within the new world where true resurrection and immortality could exist. Instead, Kindeance law had other plans.

Solomon went with the others farther back towards the west wing. He didn’t think they would be led to the sight of Gerralt, and was partially relieved when they passed by the hall that split off down a path leading to the basement. He still did not want Cedar to see what had happened there, for Cedar’s sake. Instead, they went farther into another secluded part of the castle. Solomon supposed that their involvement with the prince’s return is still meant to be kept from the people of Rascade. Which made sense, his absence was never meant to be know, so his rescuers would have to go on into obscurity in the eyes of the public.

He couldn’t say he was surprised the King wasn’t present. If not being celebrating his reunion with his son, he was at least involved with furthering his plan of Kindeance security. He could tell from the distance of his tailing shadows that the prince was also nowhere near the west wing. Solomon closed his eyes, with a slight smile as he listened to the rest of the chamberlain’s instruction. A horse would certainly speed up his travels. And the reward within the boxes were sure not to be small either. Any common man with the skill and opportunity to embark this quest would be happy with the reward.

“I thank you.” said Solomon, “It was both an honor and enlightening to have been requested to aide the king. If I may, I’ll take my leave. There is a matter I wish to check up on.” Solomon turned and left the room. A banquet tonight sounded nice, but there was another event coming, soon to be announced. He needed to be present in one form or another for its conclusion.

Good news - no one killed her in her sleep. Even better news, it's payday. About damn time. Yvonne came dressed in borrowed riding outfit, the size somehow fitting near perfectly as if it's been measured beforehand. Talk about creepy, but eh. At least it's convenient. Her rondel found a new place underneath the vest, while the relic sword hung loosely on her hips. Not much time to brush her hair, so she tied it into a simple ponytail for now.

"Why, we're not dead! Fancy seeing you all this beautiful morning, yeah?"

Someone had the bright idea of holding the event in the western wing, complete opposite of where they're staying. Yvonne greeted her fellow rescue teams as they filed out of the room and marched across the palace, somehow meeting no one on the way. At their destination her eyes unsubtly trained on the briefcases, inwardly calculating how much gold those things could fit... quite a lot, actually. At least as much as her free company earn in a particularly lucrative job, without the need to split it several hundred ways.

"Dont mind if I do." The weight of the briefcase was quite apparent when the servant brought it over. The reassurance went doubly up as Yvonne took the thing in her own hands, the sealing mechanism clicking open at the press of a button. Glint of gold greeted the mercenary, whose whistle took a higher pitch as she opened the smaller box within. "A king's ransom indeed. Yes, I can see the crown's sincerity alright."

Even got a nice horse as a bonus! She truly had won big this time around.

The following word mash coming out of the chamberlain was a lengthy way to say "there's more job, if you're interested". Honestly, Yvonne felt like quitting while she's ahead. The last job damn near killed her a few times, and if her party failed to take down Asevor she wouldn't even have any chance fighting back. But... there's no harm to listen in, was there? Perhaps she'll attend. It's only one evening anyway...

And until then, she'll take fullest advantage of the crown's hospitality. Chance like this wouldn't come every day.

It was a clear day. A perfect day to see some bloodshed.

As far as Roland could remember, Kindeance had several methods of capital punishment, that would be by hanging, decapitation, execution by firing squad being the most recent, and quartering, which was the most ancient, most gruesome, and reserved only for the most terrible traitors and their conspirators. It was so cruel that for many decades, nobody was executed that way, and the only account that told the details of the execution was dated so old it was almost apocryphal.

And now here he was. The prospect of seeing such cruel and unusual death had attracted people all around Rascade to gather in the public square. Beers will be provided and musicians be summoned. He should have known that this kind of occasion should be seen more as public entertainment rather than a way to instill fear.

But there was something more today. The mounting hatred after the failed assassination of King Fredricus had made the crowd even more roused.

They wanted blood. They wanted justice.

Four masked men ushered their condemned from an enclosed wagon that had been parked there since early this morning. Geralt had had his arms and legs chained, and he was brought out without any resistance. He was modestly clothed, too modest for the criminal imputed with the worse crime possible, his head however was left unhooded for everyone to see.

The crowd jeered. Yet the condemned followed quietly, his face feigned no emotion and his black eyes glanced down. His skin had been heavily powdered nobody save those who had the keenest eyes would notice the liver mortis

Though the wound he received was still throbbing, it was still a fascinating sight to behold. Roland wondered where Doctor Solomon was, earlier he had rejected the proposal of being a part of the team that carried out the execution so he could observe the process as close as possible. He wanted to ask how his spell managed to overcome the stiffness of rigor mortis, how the undead no longer spasmed and walked like a sedated normal man.

A master of ceremony, someone he wasn't acquainted with stepped forward, addressing the crowd after the condemned had been brought to his knee.

"Hear ye! Today I speak for the crown, and I will be brief. We gathered here to see the wretched squashed under the hammer of justice. To see him pay for--"

"Shut up and snuff that King slayer already!" one of the citizens shouted, to which the crowd replied with a chorus of an angry agreement

The master of the ceremony beckoned the executioner to fast ropes on Gerralt's appendage and the man would be suspended with head facing down. Four horses, the best in the entire Rascade waited solemnly, unagitated by the screaming crowds or wayward debris that was intended for the convicted...

..who merely stood there like a clay statue. Metal cuffs linked with ropes, now flaccid, but that won't be long.

"Gerralt of Black Serpent, you have been charged of crimes against the Sovereign Crown of Kindeance and crimes against the Nation and its people. The charges are as follows: Attempted Regicide. Murder. Enforced disappearance of individuals."

Roland could see the Jailer shudder.

"Enslavement. The abduction of children. Torture. Rape. You will be torn apart and your remains gibbeted. May Gods Have mercy on your soul."

In an instant, the ropes tensed. Geralt fell, but before his face could touch the ground he already hovered above ground, legs, and arms outstretched in four equal directions. A masked executioner watched not far, armed with a hatchet. Roland watched in morbid curiosity how the undead screamed in a piercing shriek before his body was torn in two, then into four.

Black putrid blood littered the earth and sprayed the unfortunate onlookers who watched too close. The smell was so horrendous some of them threw up on the spot. It happened so fast so brutal, nobody could have imagined that less than a minute ago there was an intact, walking human being before being turned into four lumps of meat. Silent for a while, then a mixture of confused murmurs until the master of the ceremony exclaimed.

"Behold! The blood of the wicked!"

Then the crowd cheered, applauding. The music played again, the folks danced, beer chugged and they yelled Long Live the King. It didn't matter whose blood was spilled, or if the trial was fair at all, Or if the preparation had been a pure fabrication. The state had eliminated a monster from their lives, and it was worthy of a celebration.

Cedar looked out onto the crowd that had gathered from the relative safety of the castle's wall.

He had severe reservations about accepting 'payment' for what he hag done at Fanghorn. His ears went backward hard every time he looked at the case he had hidden away in his 'room' after that morning's meeting.

If Yvonne's reaction was any indication, he was supposed to be impressed and pleased by the contents.. to him it was just a bunch of heavy, lustrous metal abd some shiny rocks. ... where other people had lost homes, necessities of living.. family... friends...

To him, the gesture seemed obscene, but he deemed it unwise to state overtly. Humans could be inscrutably and singularly vicious when slighted.

It was that very incomprehensible violence that had his full, nervous attention this very moment.

He had intended to try and obtain something 'suitably large, and situationally appropriate' to wear today, after being promised a meal and a more private merting with the young boy's father. Given the prior night's events, he found that he disliked being disrobed inside the castle's grounds-- the staff had adopted a very unsettling way of looking at him that made him nervous, and the utilitarian fabric of his robes seemed .. under dressed.. even by what the servants were wearing. He didnt really enjoy the idea of buying the kibds of clothing the chamberlain had worn, but something of fine, tightspun linen was suitable, and could be put away and then used again on special occasions. Even his dad had a pair of 'town clothes'-- that's what he had initially set out to get, after the meeting had concluded.

But here he was, on the castle's rampart wall, overlooking the spectacle from a safe distance.

"Shame to miss it!" Joked one of the men-at-arms from his station on the wall. 'It's been almost a hundred years since the last one like this. People will be talking about it for a long time."

Cedar would just assume not see or hear, even from this far back.

The castle had a higher elevation from much of the town, and from the wall, one could see the city's center, its streets, and the colored rooftops of the buildings. All the people seemed small and blended together like blades of grass into a lawn, but he could hear the jeering. Could just make out the spectacle taking place.

He was at a loss for words, and said nothing. Just watched in silent horror, as events unfolded down there.

How could they do this to someone? Who even imagined such a practice? How could so many if them meet such a spectacle with .. ... excitement.

These past few days had him questioning himself on a deeply spiritual and emotional level. Was he really the same 'thing' as these complex, and truly terrible creatures? Was his father, ... the same as this?

He grappled with these thoughts and feelings in silence.

'What a sorry day to be on duty, eh?' Came a response from the sentry stationed at the next post down. The two gossiping away like two crows overlooking a fresh corpse from a treetop. 'maybe when we get off, we can get some of that beer?'

Beer. ... ... it brought back memories. Happier memories.

He remembered the first time he had ever drunk any. He had been in the late summer of his third year, and mostly grown, but still a child. His brother had already run away by then, and he had been very sad. He had gone with his dad to buy supplies in town-- 'gunna be growed up faster'n I 'spected' his dad had drawled lovingly, giving him a warm hug from the side, and a playful shoulder punch. 'Whatya gunna do when ya has yer own place, uh Cedar?'

It had been the actual reason for this trip to town. He actually hated being in the village. All the people talked furtively behind their backs, seemed hesitant to do business with them. When he was younger, their children openly mocked his dad in front of him and his brother. The words hurt. The way he and his dad got treated in town hurt. He hated this place, but it was the only way to get certain items. Stewpots. Shovels. Saws. Pickaxes. Hammers. Nails. The things one needed to make a house. 'Ohhh, don't be so judgemental.' His dad had chided him. 'People's kin be right arses. Crueler 'an January-- but dey ain't all bad.'

It had been then, coming back from the shopping, where he and his dad had sold reagents to the apothecary; regular staples from the forest and the tower meadow used to make hot selling items, like liniment rubs, cough medicine, fever reducers. That sort of thing. The coin they had gotten seemed trivial on reflection, given the volume of the sale, but his dad had been jovial, and polite. The shop owner had eyed him suspiciously, then asked if they had seen Oak yet. His brother had been taken in by the blacksmith the year before, and had been a quick study, shaping plows and horse shoes at a rate of mastery that apparently drew worried attention from the townsfolk. That, and how quickly the two of them were growing. That seemed to always be a nagging concern of theirs. That, and how much they ate.

Now, coming back from having placed the order for ironwork at the smithy, and paying in advance, his dad had politely addressed his sullen mood. Oak had NOT been happy to see their dad, and had fallen further into the seething hatred for him that cedar failed to share or comprehend. It troubled him how perniciously contagious such disdain, even hate, could be. He missed his brother terribly, but his brother did not seem to miss him-- or their father.

"He don' unner'stan'" his dad had tried to explain. 'Buh I'll tells ya anuhway. I luvz you boys. Botha ya. He dun growed up afore his body dun did, but I still gunna care fer 'm muh own way, e'en naow. Ya knows all em plants weh sol'? Mosta 'at money gone ta dat nice smith lady. She knowed what I really doin. You gunna be growed up all da way nex' year pro'lly, same as he is. I doin' muh bes' ta care fer ya both, no ma'er what. That money gunna buy him's food, an' it gunna give 'im work ta do. You gunna git whatcha need ta be ya own man, wit a house a ya own. Nex' sprang, Mama prolly gunna kick ya out-- but dun worry none, I gotcha. Buht naow... heheh.. ya ol' e'nuff ta has a bit a fun wit ya ol' man! Le'ss go git some beer!'

He still remembers the way it tasted, that very first time, with the amused criticisms of the other patrons of the inn that doubled, and mostly served as, the village public house. His dad had assured the owner, a man his dad had prior dealings with, clearly, that they wouldn't need rooms, just big mugs to drink with, and the darkest stuff they had in the house, because his boy was mostly grown, and needed to learn what it was to be a man, which had gotten several approving jeers from the local regulars.

It had been a very memorable, and pleasurable night. It was the most he had ever felt accepted in the village, and the drunkards seemed to forget that he was half-bear, ... and what that meant about his father. They even asked when Oak would pay a visit....

Beer... even today, it held a special significance. Good times had with his dad. The acceptance only drunkenness seemed to bring out in people. The rich taste of the beverage itself, and the warm feelings it left inside. It was possibly one of the finest of human inventions, but it could also be among the worst, if you over-indulged. The stolen evenings when his dad would knock on his door, and ask if he wanted to go drinking, were some of the best in his life. He loved his dad, and he had come to love beer.

His thoughts returned to the jeering mass of people below. They were doing something he didn't understand. His vision wasn't as good as a full human's was, at least for distance anyway, and he struggled and squinted to make out what was happening. It LOOKED like they had brought out horses, and were...

'Look at 'em go! Whooo!' Jeered the first sentry.

'Tug! Tug! Tug!' Chanted the second.

Realization of what was going on down there dawned on him, and he became ill to his stomach, and to his soul, as he saw the horses suddenly lurch, and heard the jeering of crowd rise in crescendo.

Was this... THIS.. really the other half of what he was? What WAS he, really? He felt absolutely no pleasure from this, only mortified confusion, and disgust.

Was this what his father had meant, way back then?

The blissful revery of memory wrapped him again. It had been after his and Oak's first visit to the village. His dad had taken them 'to get tested', toward the end of their second year. It had been the first time either of them had seen other humans, besides their dad, and the first time they had seen other children. Naturally, they had wanted to play, and their dad had indulged them. ... it had gone very poorly.

It was after taking him and his brother home, both of them crying from the mean things the other children had said, and the heated argument his father had gotten into with the other humans, that he had, for the first time, questioned what he was, and why they lived apart from all the other humans. Why his dad lived with their mom, and not in the town.

His dad had become distant, and told him matter of factly, that it was because he had abandoned 'being human' a long time ago, and he no longer felt at ease among them, but did with the two of them, and their mother, and that he was sorry for what had happened in town. His brother was never the same after that. And he and dad grew more distant, while dad's hugs and praise had been a source of strength for himself.

Maybe ... maybe it was things like this, that had made his father leave, and live in the woods..

Abruptly, he stood up, and away from the castellation of the wall, and headed down the stairs. He had seen enough, and didn't want human company right now.

The chamberlain had mentioned he would be getting a horse... he wondered what that meant. No horses he had ever met were really big enough for him besides draft horses for pulling a plow, or a big heavy cart full of wood or produce...

Where would he even KEEP it?...

While equally distressing, it was at least a far better occupation of his mind than ... what was going on in town.

He set off to go meet this 'horse' of his.

Cedar was not feeling well. Physically, he was just fine, but emotionally-- mentally.. He was not well.

His thoughts kept returning to the memory of all those people.. Humans... So many humans... So many... More than he had ever seen at one time even, and every one of them-- all of them-- Jeering. Celebrating. Hooting and yelling in insane pleasure... At the gruesome death of a man who could not fight back, and who had already been defeated. Screamed with ecstasy as he was literally pulled apart by horses, who in all likelihood, had no idea what they were doing, and were probably terrified of the ordeal. A reality that just added another level of horror to what he had just observed.

And under all of it... What those people were... That's what his dad was. What half of he himself was. It terrified him. Worried him. Sickened him.

More-- He could not even comprehend how they could have such feelings-- but clearly-- all of them-- ALL OF THEM! they all had the same reaction, at the exact same time, the exact same way and yet... He did not.

He could not.

His thoughts retreated into memory, seeking an answer. It was back at home again; That same day he and his brother first heard the words "Bear-Fucker" and "Bastard Mongrel," and been told, brutally, what that meant by a score of cruel, and mean spirited children.

("Papi... Wut am I?")

He remembered asking that question to his father back then, tears streaming down the sides of his face, wetting the fur in dark patches. His voice wavering and high pitched with childhood.

("Whaddya mean, li'l wun?") his dad had asked, gentle, and soothing.

("... Wut.... AM ...I... Papi? .. I'm not wut you is papi.. I'm not! .. They tol' me I'm not!! ")

His voice had become lost in the feral mixed species-cries of a distraught child: A dissonant blend of a child's shrieking tears, with a bear cub's terrified and wounded calls.

It had taken several seconds for his father to answer, though his actions spoke more clearly. He had gathered him into his arms, held him tightly, and nuzzled the top of his head, while rocking him gently.

("You muh son... 'Ats wut you is... An' alwayz will beh...")

He thought the answer was a shitty answer then, but he lacked the language or experience to say it. He had just cried harder, while his father held him close.

It had been shortly after that, that he had asked about the things the kids had said about them-- he and his brother-- and what that meant about their mom and dad, and how they came to be. Why his dad was with their mom. Why they were here. Why they weren't like the other children. --Why they didn't live in the town.

He pushed the memory aside. He knew the answer to those questions, but he had unrelenting doubts about if his father... a full blooded human, like every other that had jeered out there in the streets.. Would he have jeered? Did he understand this terrible thing?... Did he feel such terrible things?... COULD he? What did he really mean, about "Leaving his humanity behind a long time ago?" If he wasn't human inside anymore, what was he?

What did that make he, himself?

He didn't have answers. --NEEDED answers.

That childhood voice echoed in his thoughts over and over.

(".. Papi... Wut am I?")

Angrily, he shoved the pain of those memories-- these feelings-- these doubts-- out of his mind. He didn't want anything to do with the kind of cruelty humans could inflict. It was one thing when a single human showed signs of such madness-- Even the old hunter had embarked on a singularly mad quest to kill his friend's killers, but that he could at least partially wrap his head around. Those people would simply go on to kill more people still, and ending them, made sense. The degree to which old Reinhold had taken to it did not-- but again, a single human losing its mind, was not hard to accept.

He had just seen an entire city, lose its mind. In unison.

That such violence; such perverse mentality could be inside each and every one of them, and come out all at once like that..

He wanted to be as far away from that madness right now as possible.

He hastened his pace, practically jogging to the stables. That was as likely a place as any to find this "Horse" he was supposed to have been awarded. Another mind-- Any other mind that wasn't a humans--- He needed to feel the comfort of thoughts he understood. Thoughts that were sensible, and sane. To feel that the world was still sane! Horses might not be the brightest creatures, but they weren't usually completely mad... Like the world outside the gates was.

His thoughts momentarily dwelled on the two sentries on the ramparts.

... Even inside the gates.

He hoped he did not have to speak to anyone. He DID NOT want to talk to humans right now, especially if they were continuing the madness.

At the rate he was moving, it didn't take long to reach his destination. In alarm and dismay, he sighted the heavy and bulky bodied, bearded and mustachioed man from the night before. He was busy fussing with an ornate looking saddle, cleaning and polishing the leather. Cedar did NOT want to talk to him, but knew he had to.

"Dis where dey keepin' our horses at?" he asked tersely and irritably.

The man looked up as if only just now realizing that a talking bear had walked up to, and greeted him.

"What?-- h... What?" the man stammered, first trying to process being spoken to by a bear, and then trying to process the question he had been asked. A look of dawning recollection crossed his bearded face, while Cedar scowled. He didn't have the energy to deal with this man being an ignorant, bigoted moron.

"DEH HORSES, DUMMY. Deh wunz we was awarded. Ya know-- By deh KING? Deh guy as own's 'is big arsed rockslide 'e call's a 'ouse? I'm 'ere ta see deh wun 'ats mine!"

The man blinked at the rudeness the bear was projecting at him, showing equal parts confusion, bewilderment, indignation, and anger as it collided with shock, awe, understanding, and fear.

"You--- You must be the one that has the BIG one..."

"Ya don' say..." Cedar scowled back at the man, mocking the stupidity of such an obvious question with acidic disdain and growing less patient by the second. He did NOT want to talk to this man-- ANY man.

"it... It's this way--- Last stall at the end....." blithered the man, rattled. Cedar ignored his mannerisms, and simply started striding into the livery, toward the indicated destination.

"You aren't going to... Eat it.. are you?"

The look cedar gave the man could have shattered glass, curdled milk, taken 10 years off a person's life, and withered flowers--- but all it really did was turn the man's face a languid pallor as all the blood drained from it in terror, before sending him clutching his chest as he scrambled back out of the livery, and out to where he had left the saddle he had been cleaning.

"GO AWAY!" he bellowed at the man angrily, then suddenly felt very sheepish. Even apologetic. This was not like him at all.

Just more proof he needed to be far away from humans right now.

He took a deep breath. Paused a moment, then walked more slowly toward the last stall at the end. Spooked and worried horses flared their nose at him and stamped hooves as he passed.

Finally, he came to the last stall on the end. Inside was a truly massive looking horse. A stud-horse, from the smell of it. It looked at him less worried, but with its ears back. It was more... Confident. Big as it was, it was less afraid of him, and for some reason, that made him feel better. It simply radiated an intent to kick the shit out of him, if he was stupid enough to go inside the stall. Cool and confident in its own ability to do so.

He looked around the livery's access run, before finding a rain barrel at the far end. He dumped it over, rolled it up just outside the stall, turned it open end down, then sat on it like a stool before leaning on the wall, looking the horse in its big, wary eyes.. Feeling his thoughts and its melt together in the way 'the connection' afforded.

It was a wonderful, and welcome experience-- the horse's wary bewilderment and naked confusion being so much better for him, than the cloying demands his active mind kept clawing at him with. The simplicity of this creature's thoughts was like cool water. It's alarm at the tempest raging just behind the thin veil he kept it at bay with-- welcome. Understandable. Wonderfully understandable.

He sat there for quite a long time. Just feeling. Feeling with his horse. Trying to make sense of the incomprehensible.. Right along beside it.

Together.

Neither of them really had a firm grasp of the time they stood there, awkwardly looking at each other. From an outside perspective, Cedar was just slumped against the wall, forlornly gazing at the horse, and the horse was simply standing in its stall, confusedly looking back at him. Both of them flicking their ears, or making other unconscious expressions from time to time. No talking. No other kinds of vocalizations. No movements to speak of.

A human might have wondered what was going on there. Why the bear didn't at least try to pet the horse, or talk at it, or give it treats. SOMETHING. No-- He was just leaning against the wall, staring forlornly at the damn thing-- and it in turn, just kept right on looking confusedly back at him.

In fact, that is exactly what the terrified groomsman was doing, every time he took a furtive look back inside the stables, and up from his work, which he had busied himself with in nervous occupation. The demeanor of the bearman had changed PRONOUNCEDLY from the jovial oddity he had been the night before, and into .... Something altogether fearsome and otherworldly. What *WAS* that creature even *DOING* in there!? He just kept sitting there, leaning against the wall, looking at the horse!

He spat on the polishing rag, then rubbed it in the small tin of saddle soap, and continued cleaning and polishing the leather, keeping it supple and smooth and in good order. It was the prince's hunting saddle, and with the young master back, it needed to be ready to go and in top shape in a moment's notice. There was no way to ever know when it might be needed-- and he was not about to be caught with it in disarray. He was tired and frazzled after being rousted in the night by the castle's watch to see to the animals the rag-tag group of motley agents had drug in. Some of the poor animals looked like they had suffered terrible abuse at some point-- one covered all over in a wash of white blotches, marring a beautiful roan coat. The skin was completely healed, but it spoke to the animal being horribly injured at some point. It sent a shiver down his spine. He hated to see horses treated so badly.

He looked back into the stable.

The bear was still there. Ignoring him completely. Almost in a trance maybe. Still leaning against the wall, doing fuck-all nothing. It was unnerving.

At least the bear wasn't hurting any of the animals in there, he thought to himself, before putting the saddle away. In the livery shed, he dug out the leather harness that the cart horses had been hitched with that prior night. It was by no means royal quality- Ordinary but serviceable. It too, was in need of a good cleaning. The leather felt a little dry from neglect. He gathered it up over both shoulders, then wandered back out to where he had left the tin of saddle soap, and the polishing rag, before situating the first of the collars on the sawhorse he used for these tasks and setting to work.

He looked down the access in the stables one last time, and noted with a bit of alarm, that the bearman was gone. He looked around worried for a moment, hoping that the scary beast of a man was not sneaking up on him to take a bite out of him-- but he was nowhere to be seen.

The mustachioed man heaved a deep breath, and felt 20 years older. He dipped the cloth in the tin, and set to work on the leather, a bit more at ease. The horses were unharmed, and so was he. The scary bearman was gone, and with luck, the day would return to normalcy....

----

Cedar felt a little bit better. The horse was actually rather pleasant, all things considered. They had 'discussed', or rather 'shared', a great many things in the time the two of them had spent with locked together thoughts and feelings. It had been even more confused about the human's behavior and even less capable of comprehension that he had been, but the experience had taken the edge off, regardless. He no longer felt like a bear with steel trap on his foot, at the very least-- no longer intrinsically trapped by his own mind, whipping him with painful memories. Things had take more pedestrian tracks-- Cedar had shared that at some point, the horse was supposed to be going home with him. The horse was not terribly pleased by this, but cedar was understanding. Forgiving and accepting, but quite serious. He had shared with the horse his reservations about it as well, wondering where exactly he would find a place to stable it, or find food for it to eat in the winter. He had wondered if there would be enough quality forage in the tower-meadow during the winter months, and the mental perception of that place bled over the connection unintentionally and lazily, causing a moment of excitement from the creature, followed by realization it would be alone there, and then subsequent return to quiet distress at the idea of traveling with cedar. Cedar confided that the horse would not actually, TRULY be alone unless it really wanted to be, (and that if it did, he would understand)-- it could come find him at his house-- another place who's awareness just bled through the link-- whenever it felt lonely, and they could 'just be' like they currently were (locked in the connection), for however long, or short it wanted. He was always open to visits from "Friends," of which he had several-- even more context of that bled over the connection-- A tatty looking old buck elk cedar had helped get unstuck from a fallen tree after its antlers got ensnared. Several deer that liked the blackberry brambles he planted. Wolves he shared fish with once. numerous others. All of them he counted as 'friends.' At home, he was never lonely, and if he was, he could go find his dad any time he wanted-- The old man LOVED to see him stop by, even if his mom was more reserved, and even displeased if he got too close to his little siblings with her around-- but that was normal and natural for a shebear to feel. He loved her anyway.

The horse, too, shared that it had made 'friends' since being brought to the stables. Images and smells of the other horses, and bits about how they behaved-- even the ones he had 'taken a fancy to', and would like very much to breed with-- drifted lazily through the connection, (making cedar blush a little under his fur and chuckle to himself), interspersed a few times by horses he himself remembered-- "Schnitzel" and "Extra Crispy" among them. Inwardly, cedar still felt worry for them, and wanted to continue caring for them, even though they were in as good health as he could put them in with magic alone. The idea that a giant bear would be able to, and even want, to do such a thing amused the horse immeasurably, and approval oozed through with it, even though the horse could not comprehend his motives. Cedar confided that he wished he had a barn built-- He would offer to take 'those two' along as well, to keep his new 'friend' company, garnering even more confused approval-- It would like that... .. Maybe Cedar could ask his dad for help with it-- He'd gladly pull in the logs needed to make a pole-barn...If it was nestled into the woods, and overgrown with bramble, it would even be warm, and protected from the wind and rain.. hidden from human sight...

and so it went-- lazily drifting between topics without real structure. Just a continual stream of two consciousnesses burbling around each other in any direction that had the least resistance at any one point. It had been extremely refreshing for Cedar, but he was still nowhere close to the answers he needed. He just felt a little better, knowing that not every creature in the world was a maelstrom of competing plots, or naked cruelty under a thin facade of sanity and control, like humans clearly were. That too, had burbled over the connection-- explanation and awareness of Cedar's mixed parentage- incredulity but agreement and acceptance of fact from the horse over the fact, after it snuffed at him, and recognized the hint of human his scent carried. Bewilderment and wonder that such a thing could happen-- curiosity what that's like, but rebounded by terror at the raging storm of human thoughts conspicuously herded into the corner of cedar's mind, but perceptible through the link. It felt wonder, but also sadness and sympathy for him-- having to live with ... THAT... inside him.

Eventually, he and the horse had nothing more to share that was in any way comprehensible by the other. There just wasn't anything more. Just awkward awareness of each other. He broke the link, then respectfully left the barn. He was glad the human stableman had decided to find someplace else to be for the moment, and availed himself of the opportunity to leave without saying anything... He'd probably scared that man so much that he needed new trousers-- though he didnt catch any scent of that being actual fact. Just a metaphorical depiction.

He was glad to have met his horse. He'd have to think long and hard about where and how he was going to keep it, but he was glad to have made the acquaintance.

Silently, he sauntered back to the castle proper, through the now daylit garden, enjoying the sun, and the beauty of the plants and flowers. He almost felt like himself again, when he made it to the giant wood and steel doors that sealed the palace. His heart sunk at the idea he would have to interact with people again so soon-- but in all likelihood, he would need to get one of them to help guide him through the rat-warren that this place was, and back to his room.

He stepped through the door, and into the foyer.

---

After Solomon left the private reward ceremony, he went to check up on Gerralt in the basement, making sure that no one was following him. Especially if any of his allies. He didn’t want to spoil the surprise. In reality, he actually wanted to minimize how much contact they had with him. He knew there was no hiding what Solomon had done to any who raided the Black Serpent Guild. But he also knew of the harm he brought to them even if indirectly. Solomon felt it best to keep any emotions they still felt about the incident minimal.

When Solomon arrived, he was already moved. Though he was asked to be among the executioners, Solomon politely refused. However, he did mention he would be among the audience. Solomon may have enabled them to even hold the execution, but he didn’t want his name tied to it. Not now, anyway. But he also knew his attendance would be necessary. Gerralt could still not respond to the pain he was experiencing, which worked against the king’s plan, and the Jailer’s hopes. Furthermore, Gerralt existed as undead. A poorly resurrected being, but still a creature that would easily survive being torn by the horses.

When it came time for the execution, Solomon was near, blended into the crowd, but otherwise front and center to watch. As soon as the ropes become taught, Solomon whispered softly. With everyone jeering and whooping around him, his voice was unheard by any, even those pressed next to him. All at once, Gerralt could express the torture he was going through, from both the pull of the horses, and the pain of his previously existing grievous wounds.

When the reanimated corpse’s blood stained the dirt below, and stench was horrendous. One who stood next to Solomon reeled back into him, spilling his beer, some splashing onto Solomon’s clothes. The man offered a quick apologies before he covered his nose, returning to his cheers. Gerralt was now in four distinct parts. His legs lay wrangled at the backs of two horses, and his arm lay several feet from the socket it was once connected. Gerralt’s screams were garbled as fluids filled his lungs. It was only a moment, but was an agonizing one for Gerralt. He would have felt and continue to feel the agony throughout his torn body. Solomon released his hold over the raised dead, freeing Gerralt’s soul from the perverse spell, letting it return to the afterlife. Gerralt’s eyes were once again lifeless. His face was more twisted than when Solomon first came across his body within the mortuary lab.

With the execution now over, Solomon made his way through the crowd. There was a banquet being held tonight in which he was invited. He needed to first clean off the beer that spilled onto his garb. Then he needed to find a tailor. Solomon rarely visited major cities, let alone was invited to royal banquets. He was going to need a set of proper clothes for the occasion, if only for the night.

The reward "ceremony", if the rather clandestine backroom deal could be called that, ended rather shortly. Yvonne didn't hang around, the reassuring weight of the suitcase accompanying her back to her room where she sat down and took everything out to estimate the value. That didn't take long either, she got a good idea of how much wealth it was - a hell fucking lot, that's what. How lovely.

In a visibly good mood, Yvonne kept the box of diamond before returned the gold and clicking the suitcase shut. She put it a bit out of the way, not that it'll deter thievery but there shouldn't be any such thing in the castle. At least the gold bars were harder to smuggle out in worst case. She'll just throw a fit if it disappear.

"There's a tailor in here somewhere, yeah? Bring me to them." That's the first thing the mercenary said as she left the room, spotting the maid standing by outside. There's an event in the evening, and she'll need to look presentable at least. Getting an entirely new thing from scratch may not be feasible, but surely there's extra spare or unfinished pieces that will fit with minimum modifications?

Jazdia didn't have any particular likes or dislikes regarding anything attributed to the word "Royal" in it. Sure she appreciates the comfort, the cleanest, and the resplendence it offers, but she also knew those qualities are the result of a pretension to brag, and for those who are deep in the hospitality business, pretentiousness seldom brings comfort.

That was also the reason why she didn't sleep that well last night and ended up waking up early at five. After having a small breakfast and a good soak, she asked the maid to bring her ink, quill, and a quire of papers. It took her two hours to complete. A full report detailing their mission. It was not an obligatory task, but Jazdia preferred to keep everything on the record.

The meeting commenced and concluded just like that. She returned to her quarter, her so-called reward was tucked inside the large mahogany cupboard, well hidden from prying eyes and locked. She didn't really expect the monetary reward, but valuables were still valuables.

Her attention returned to the pile of paper she had arranged neatly. It would be rechecked again.

It took her some time, but that was alright. When Jazdia strolled toward the main hall again, she could only imagine what happened outside. The entire execution must have been ended, but surely the people were still celebrating outside, and the gore must have been left there for quite a while to entertain the belated onlookers.

So going to the Angel's Share was not an option, no matter how eager she was to see how Lucas would handle the wave of patrons coming in today.

Without no one accompanying her, Jazdia walked back toward the main hall, carrying the bulk of documents crammed in a transparent wrapping and secured with a few knots of black ribbons. Apparently, Yvonne was also heading toward the main hall with one of the maids in tow.

"Good day." she said when she managed to catch up with her and currently walking side-by-side. "I heard you are going to visit the royal tailor. I'm tagging along with you!"

"Sparky! Fancy seeing you here." The mercenary barely made a few steps before she ran into Jazdia, the latter carrying a hefty stack of paper that still carried the scent of fresh ink. Pausing, pivoting, and turning around to walk by the elf's side, Yvonne glanced down on the notes with some curiosity regarding the content... though she lost interest almost immediately even before reading anything of note. "Been busy, I see. Got a nice dress planned in mind for later?"

The errant glance was turned at the nearest great window, where distant clamor managed to echo far enough to be heard from here. A bit hard to tell, but it sounds almost jolly as if there's a festival going on. But there shouldn't be any important event now, was there? Nothing for the public's eyes, at least. The prince was never gone, as far as the common peasants were concerned, and that's by far the biggest happening in recent days.

"What's going on in the city? Sounds like there's a party out there."

As cedar was strolling through the foyer, and into the main hall, he caught sight of the elf woman, Jazdia, and the lovely miss Yvonne, --attractively roguish as ever, engaged in idle banter. He had missed the first part of their conversation, but it did not appear to have been going on for long.

"What's going on in the city? Sounds like there's a party out there." Yvonne had said, with a bit of bravado.

He stood and glared for a second, then processed what had been said-- She had said nothing about the death of the man he had seen earlier, and was simply reacting to the sounds of the "Elated" people outside. There was a chance she had not been infected with the contagious madness spreading around out there, that he so desperately wished to avoid.

"..Not muh idear uv a good time.." he growled irritably. "Em idjiots ou' 'ere dun pull some fellar apart fer reason's I cain't unnerstand, an' is all hootin' and hollerin' like it the bes' thang they ever sawr. .. Bes' steer clear a crazy fuckers like 'at, ya ask me..."

He muttered under his breath.

".....Jus wanned some dayum clothes...."

It was Cedar the bear, and to say that he looked confused was an understatement.

It was a mixture of anger and disgust. His posture, eyes, and how they looked at them, the beating thump of his great heart. Jazdia, once a Sentinel of the Elven nation Varenheim didn't really need her eyes to identify a confused animal, and Cedar, despite his druidic background, was still part beast after all.

And his growling further reinforced this assessment.

Jazdia listened, and that was a lot of resentment in one sentence. The Bear finally finished talking, and the Rosenving girl was slightly stunned before she shook herself awake and chimed.

"If it isn't my favorite bear! Cedrick? Cedar? Which one's the right one? Anyway, what's with the long face? This day out of all should be one filled with joy!"

The greeting, cheerful as ever, but it was clear The Bear did not share the sentiment, and it onfly deepen frown in his bearish visage.

'...a cause we saved deh prince,..or acause we shud be happeh as people gittin ripped apart in de damn street?' he scowled, his tiny eyes darted to Yvonne as if searching, and expecting the reply to come more thoughtfully. Of course, it was hard to deliver such a response when you keep lashing out.

'Cause only one a' dem thangs worth bein' happy 'bout...though from de way dey's actin, dis whole damn place be thinkin' it de secon' one... crazy fuckers, all o' 'em.'

"What about new clothes?" Jazdia interrupted. Now Cedar's simmering anger was turned to the elf, but she tried to keep herself composed and unprovocative. "Most people buy a new set of clothes once a year. To know that our host had prepared one for a special occasion is enough 'something' to be happy about."

Pausing, Jazdia let her word hang between them, it was still a sharp rebuke, delivered matter-of-factly, but that was the gentlest she could muster,

"Let us not tarnish the hospitality provided by not cursing in his palace. About his people, about their way of life and the law of the land."

Cedar's ears flipped back and forth irritably. And for a mere second, Jazdia thought he would bark or growl some more. What actually followed was Bear hunched his back a bit, retelling what he just saw, fortunately with a slightly calmer tone.

'....it wut I was GUNNA do... afores I laid eyes on e'ryone all up each o'er's arses an' carryin' on out 'ere...climbed deh wall, an' looked out tuh see what de commotion was. ... idjiots up on de wall was making dumb fuck noises 'bout havin' ta be up 'ere, insteada out seein' it, an' gettin drunk...an 'ats when I seened what 'eys up tuh. Tiein some beat down barstard up tuh some horses, an slappin' 'em on deh butt ta makes em pull! Ripped at fellar inta chunks, righ' ere in da street, wit' all em people cheerin'! ... .. I jus' wanned sum damn clothes!'

The accent and the cursing were so overwhelming Jazdia could only shake her head when he finished.



A comment about missing quite the sight rose to the tip of the tongue, but seeing how upset the bear - whose exact name was still an enigma - were, Yvonne tactfully changed course. Just a little bit.

"They quarterin' someone? Must've been a damn mean motherfucker then, no one will miss the bastard."

'YA HAS A NAME FOR IT!?' His grumble echoed in the palace hall and both women tried to not shake their heads in exaggerated patience.

'Yes, the condemned gets divided into four parts of himself. That's where the name came from."

There was a pause, a hopeless pause radiating from the bear that was currently experiencing an extreme cultural shock. Jazdia's deadpan explanation regarding the origin of the name further depressed Cedar, apparently.

'What deh hell's wrong wit' you humans?!' Cedar rambled again, but now in a lower tone. None of them feel inclined to answer that.

Who's getting it though? Any idea?" Yvonne shifted Sparky, who seemed to be very informed of things somehow. She could bring up some names that may be deserving of the treatment, but there's the small little problem where those people were recently killed by her party. Cant execute a dead man now, can they?

But Sparky only inclined her head, tactfully shushed her with a single raise of her eyebrow. Not now!

Regardless, she shrugged and patted her disgruntled friend on the... waist, because the shoulders were too tall. "Dont overthink it, people can make a spectacle out of damn near anything. These people ain't seeing blood all their lives, they get curious. Especially when it happens to someone very much deserving of it, yeah?"

Perhaps Yvonne wasn't the best choice for comforting someone.

"Anyway, clothes! Since we all need some, let's go together." A glance confirmed that the maid still stood respectfully aside, waiting for them to stop chatting. Cedar, who seemed to be still in deep thought, but had nobody to entertain his grievance could be heard muttering under his snoring breath.

'... clothes. Yeas... clothes.. uh needs sum clothes'.

After a short walk toward the west wing, the trio climbed the warmer staircase leading to the first floor. In one of the corners was a room, and the sound of mechanical sewing could be heard from the outside. The maid beckoned them to follow, and the sound of a bell interrupted the workers as the door opened.

"Pardon the intrusion, Master Mario. But The King's Guests want to see you.

"Ah about time, don't bother to sit, I will be there shortly."
A tanned, bald man peeked from behind a large, hand-cranked sewing machine before showing himself to the group. He was probably as tall as Solomon, with wide shoulders and a pronounced, muscular physique. His clothing was nothing unusual people often attributed to clothing artisans; they were just a shirt and khaki trousers.

"Nice to meet you. I am Mario." He said, voice booming, but polite as any Royal staff would. His posture was straight, his gait dignified like a disciplined military sergeant. Immediately he eyed Cedar and removed his eyeglasses, showing a pair of eyes that were apparently misaligned and heterochromatic.

"Master Cedar, isn't it?" He said, his demeanor changed slightly when he beckoned his assistant to push a rack where what seemed to be large, single clothes stretched. It was black and some streaks of white, with silver adornings. One might say it was a typical elegant doublet often worn by courtiers alike but with its size quadrupled.

"To work on this particular request is challenging. To say the least. So I'd play safe with this one." he said, rushing his breath.
"Black is gentlemanly, ornamental use of metal buttons, and decorated leather to emphasize elite status, and you don't have to wear anything too garish to complement it. It is, Master Cedar, is a uniform best worn as is."

The Bear's stammering seemed to make the tailor's smugness grown.

"Of course despite 'best worn as is', Gentlemen still need a perfect undergarment for it. Embroidery, no matter how small or well hidden they are can still cause itch. And The Gentleman surely doesn't want his fur sticking out of his doublet."
His other assistant presented several white buttonless shirts folded neatly on a large metal tray. The tailor picked one and beckoned Cedar to feel the fabric. Or even wear it straight.

"Sadly such type of clothing does not allow for extravagant decors, but it will definitely serve its purpose. Made with thread combined with silk. It's smooth, strong... comfortable to wear. Suitable as nightwear after a long banquet. Or just as everyday clothes.

The bear seemed to be at a loss for words, and the lack of raw expression of gratitude or admiration didn't bother Mario a bit. To serve a various array of customers was already a homer for him, from kings, nobles, and now... a druid. It was the experience that matters the most.

He clapped his hand and ordered the accompanying maid to call the other maids to help deliver Cedar's sizable order to his room.

One more customer was satisfied, and two to go.

Like a living bronze statue, Mario the royal tailor wore his black eyeglasses and turned toward the other patron.

'Misus Yvonne. It has been a long time since I make a finery for Rosenving." he said with a perfectly straight face. "You may not remember me, but most of my career as a needleworker was usually spent in either Rosenving Mansion or The Royal Palace. I do not know if you would like it, but His Majesty had given his order.

One of his assistants brought up a wooden mannequin wearing a navy blue dress with embroidered bodice. "I know you would prefer gambeson and breeches, dyed in a darker color. But this is a Royal Celebration and a woman wearing back on such occasion might as well go to a funeral."

"Ah, I know I've seen you somewhere before." It finally clicked why she'd find the tailor familiar. Yvonne didn't get too close to the servants, back in the days, leaving her with a niggling sense of dejavu until the man introduced himself.

"Dont worry too much, it does looks nice. Maybe a bit tight around the waist..." The mercenary circled around the dress, noting that it did seemed around her size. A bit creepy if one think about it, but let's not dwell too much into it. "Easier to keep a blade under a dress, yeah? Then we can still make it a funeral if necessary."

She let out a hyena cackle after that, and it was unclear whether she's joking or not. Mario could only shake his head, while Yvonne returned to her party, eager to see what's in store for Sparky. The elf cut a stunning figure, that much was obvious.

"Well, glad if you like it." Said the tailor, and like Cedar's newly acquired garbs, it will be delivered to their room.

The man looked at his clipboard.

"Miss Jazdia Crystalspark...



Nobody knew since when Jazdia had slipped away unnoticed and was now busy looking around the machinery and finished produce. It wasn't a particularly novel sight to behold, but sometimes she missed the charm of industrial progress and was eager to wander about and sate her curiosity by using her power to inspect a hand-powered sewing machine that seemed the have been imported from Helvetia.

Next to it were lines of samples of finished gowns, colored with exotic dye-job that pleases the eye but seems to be too radical for today's fashion trends. Perched on a head of a wooden mannequin was a hat with semi-transparent trim adorned with eagle feathers. while the body of the display dummy itself wore a very ridiculous robe with a ridiculously high collar.

The tailor coughed to get her attention and Jazdia answered.

Next to the tailor was a box layered with cheaper-looking fabric. When Jazdia approached, he removed the lid and showed a red dress folded like an accordion. "It was commissioned by His Highness..." he shook his head and revised his words. "OF course everything was commissioned by our Milord, but this particular one came with instructions."

Smugly, he smiled again. "The details, I can't tell. But it's a sleeveless design to emphasize your flawless shoulder, neck, and collarbone. I figured you would prefer having the hem hanging slightly above your ankle, to amend your dislike of wearing high-heeled footwear. Yours was the first I finished, Milady," he said, beaming as he invited Jazdia to take a good look at her soon-to-be evening dress. The elf however gestured a polite decline and eyed the tailor.

"I don't see either Cedar or Miss Rosenving complaining. You seemed very sure with your handiwork. Mister Mario." Jazdia tried to keep it light and unoffensive, though to be honest, being complimented with a deadpan tone was rather unnerving.

"Ah, the question often asked," he replied with a mirth. "My crafts require precision I know, and you don't see measuring tape hanging on my neck, nor we have ever done any measurement." he tapped his eyeglasses. "That shouldn't trouble you, Milady, my clothes are made to fit their wearer, and how do I know your sizes? I can measure just by seeing, and I can confidently say that because my expertise is indeed that good."

Silently Jazdia acknowledged the claim, though, she couldn't resist but to quip gamely. "Is that so?"

"Yes, it is," said the man, staring emotionlessly at his clipboard. "your height is 173, your bust size is, 67, your waist is 49 or 50, and your hips are 84. Our young Lady Rosenving's height is 151 her bust is 77, her waist is 58 and hips is at 86. All in centimeters. If the measurements were proven wrong, I will be more than happy to refund His Majesty's generous payment and remake the commissioned outfits free of charge."

Jazdia stared at the box containing her ball gown, assuredly bemused. On another day and another time, she would have no qualms about slapping anyone who dared to spew her three sizes, but the tailor's detached and professional tone and the context behind it made her nod in acknowledgment. Not sure about Yvonne though.

She touched her dress once, feeling smooth satin before closing the lid, still refusing to do any further. It was after all, a gift, and it was best to not waste a good moment on one occasion.

---

Solomon found his way back into the castle. Several attendants and maids tried to either halt him or help him. It was actually quite amusing as some would recognize him as a guest, while others felt his presence out of place and attempted to remove him from the castle grounds. These humorous back and forth between staff members ceased by the time Solomon returned to the west wing of the castle. There the maids were busy cleaning. Dusting the busts on thin tables, and cleaning the curtains.

Solomon asked one of them if there about the tailor. He didn’t know specifically where he was. All Solomon really knew about him was that he was good, fast, and located somewhere in the west wing. The maid bowed and provided him some directions, offering to guide him herself. Solomon politely declined, turning his back. He walked down the hall in the direction the maid pointed. Despite this, the maid caught up with him.

“It’s no problem, sir. It’s only proper that one does not enter unannounced.” she said, dusting her hands on her apron. She then led him the rest of the way. Solomon only thanked her and followed. There wasn’t any point in arguing about it. After a short walk, she led him up a staircase. The door jingled as the maid opened the door.

“Pardon. I have another of the king’s guests here to see Master Mario.” she said.

When Jazdia closed the box, the tailor's steadfast expression falters. Hastily he marked several sections in his clipboard with three checklists and he ducked his chin as he speak to his assistant. "Please arrange the delivery," he said as he realized that every maid he summoned earlier had departed to transport Cedar's clothes.

"Well then, Ladies and Gentleman. I am profoundly delighted to be of service. Now if you will excuse me, I shall continue my work--"

At the time, the doorbell chimed again. A masked man entered the premises with a maid beside him.

"Pardon. I have another of the king’s guests here to see Master Mario." said the maid.

Mario's misaligned eyes darted at the stranger, wondering if he was really on the list, his stature seemed matched with the description in the dossier he received earlier, but his mask made it hard to verify.

"Are you Doctor Solomon?" He asked politely.

"Yes, I am."

There was a brief pause until Mario decided to sweep away his doubt to the back of his head. "I hope you can be lenient with questions earlier. Twas an old Habits during my service in the military. Unimportant now, in this context."

He straightened his posture and walked toward one of the cupboards on the other side of the room. "Unlike what I am working on earlier, the details for your order are the most basic. But that doesn't mean the end result should be basic too."

"For an esteemed Doctor like you, Master Solomon, I reckon it has to be sharp, but not gaudy. Elegant, and professional are the keywords."

He turned back and fondled a piece of black clothing before putting it on a metal tray

"Elegant shirt and tailcoat jacket with two-buttons style. Tapered trousers, and leather belt. And of course, a Helvetian fedora with a gray satin sweatband to complement... should you prefer to keep your mask on. All in black of course."

---

Solomon brought his thumb and index finger to his chin, imagining the outfit Mario recommended. It sounded quite fashionable, and very suitable for the occasion. The jacket and trousers, along with the hat. Yes, though he would still be dressed up, it would be less loose fabric. Still, he believed it enough to hide most of the atrophy undeath had brought upon his body.

“That sounds wonderful.” said Solomon, lowering his arm back down, “A sharp suit such as described should suit me well. If I may ask the belt be strong enough to hold not only the ensemble, but my admittedly cumbersome tome. I’m afraid I am unable to leave it behind. I hope that would not be any trouble. Beyond that, I look forward to the finished product.”

Yvonne hadn't actually measured herself for many years now. She'll trust Mario's skill for now. The man managed to land a job at the Rosenving estate back then, so he should at least have the skill to back it up... bah, Rosenving estate. The mere mention of the name brought a sour note to her mood, though she never really expected to get away from the name. Not here, where traces of their influence remained no matter how badly it withered.

"Doc Sol! My, you get the nice design. If we're of similar build I would've be tempted to steal yours." Another cackle from the mercenary, even as she walked aside to let Solomon and Mario chat better. Even if the latter seems to have done most of everything already and only have to reiterate the choices to the wearer. "So, we've got the clothes. You two going anywhere after this?" While the tailor was occupied with the doctor, Yvonne not-so-subtly nudged at Sparky and Cedar. Still midmorning, still some time before they need to start preparing for the party.

Cedar frowned.

He didn't have any real, solid plans. Nothing to do either, to take his mind off things. Normally, if he was in a bad mood, just "going to work"-- that is, going outside, and tending things needing tending, as he found them, would set everything right again. There was a simple pleasure in watching things grow, or in seeing the other animals happy and healthy.

Here in this misguided rubble-heap, the very plants decorating the grounds were planted in artificial plantings-- meticulously cared for. There was precisely NOTHING for him to do.

"Go tuh muh room, an' wait... mos' likely." he crooned dourly. "Ain't nuthin' ta do 'roun' 'ere."

"If you would look at the belt, Doctor Solomon." he said, walking toward the masked man and presenting the belt with both hands. Like the rest of the item that comes with it, it was polished black with pebbled textures, yet smooth to the touch.

When Solomon let the belt run pliantly across his gloved palm, Mario continued. Smiling proudly.

"Not made of your standard cowhide leather. No, The Crown wanted the best, and here in Kindeance, Shark shagreen is the best gold can get. At least five times stronger than its bovine counterpart. Water-resistant. And very durable. It will hold unless your tome is as heavy and cumbersome as an adult horse. You can take it with you now if you want to test it. The rest, will be delivered by the staff to your room before 3 o clock this afternoon."

It seemed everyone was satisfied with what they got. Returning his clipboard, the tailor added another checklist, before turning at them again. "That's the last on my list," he said before placing his right hand on the chest and bowing. "Ladies and gentlemen, it has been a pleasure working with you. I will see you tonight at the banquet, for I am also eager to see if my handyworks would do you justice."

Prudently, one of his assistants gestured the group toward the door.