Kasimir stalked down the hall, having left the party late. He had wished to linger, smiling as best he could and making small talk with whoever seemed receptive to it. He knew Hargulf was right. Tonight was the time he could repair his tarnished reputation, and then he would keep out of sight for a number of days, serving the Graf wherever the old Codger wished. He doubted Todbringer would make him do administrative work, nor anything social by nature. Bookkeeping was the most likely sentence, unless he had a shortage of swords in the drakwald. He had known him since childhood, but he had never been a direct vassal until now, or at least he had never been an [i]adult[/i] vassal. 

He turned a corner, passing by a resplendent painting of the Middenheim forces repelling the putrid goblin hordes of Grom the Paunch. Kasimir had read the histories extensively on that seige, being the closest the capital city had ever come to having its defenses shattered. Luckily for Middenheim, it had been the cunning but otherwise diminutive Goblins rather than a more ferocious enemy, and they did Middenland the favor of showing its prior weakness of not expecting an assault from under the very mountain the city stood upon. Now, after shoring up that veritable chink in its armor, the city truly was impregnable. 

The moral of the story the scholars had often flouted was that if an enemy wishes to attack, let them. They will betray their greatest strength in the initial attack, and from there the defender could only get stronger armed with this new knowledge. Kasimir wished that were true in court politics, he thought derisively. 

Utilizing his impressive memory and sense of direction, the bastard found his way back to the door of his room without needing an escort a second time. That was another reason he remained at the party longer than necessary. The guards had either been switched or had partaken a few drinks as well. He could slip out of the event easy enough once the moons were high above the city. 

Kasimir passed by the small, marble statue of Ulric holding an axe in his left and a sword in his right, and unlocked his door with a sigh. Truth be told, he needed sleep. The door lock did not retreat, and he lowered his brow in slight confusion. He turned the key back, and then forward. The bolt fell into place, and then he undid it once more. 

"Strange..." He said softly, and opened the door. 

The room looked much the same as it had been, but his grey eyes flicked back and forth, his instincts telling him something was amiss. Finally they fell on the chair beside the door, where he had left his sword. The blade and sheath were gone! It took him only a moment of hesitation before he cursed, feeling warm anger slowly flow into his body. 

"Bastards," He swore, fully convinced his blade had been confiscated while he was away. He would first go to Von Hammershaldt, and if the old soldier did not order it taken, he would go to the Graf himself. At the moment, he could not give two shits if that was a bad first impression after being gone for years. If the old bastard could not understand the duel had not been his fault, he might as well take his sword and leave the fucking city. A calmer side of him knew it was likely petulant, but he had done nothing wrong and everyone had shamed him for it. 

He growled and turned out into the dim hallway, closing the door and striding determinedly back into the corridor, only to collide with the sudden appearance of a hurried figure. Immediately he knew it was a woman from the impact, but just as he was about to apologize, the light of the torch caught her face. It was the supposed Lady d’Aberville. 

"You!" He remarked, his face two parts surprise, one part hostility.