The response from the guard was swift, two of them securing the location for her and also bringing her one of the bloodhounds. “Aye, there ‘e is. Thank ye.” The camera wouldn't be here yet, it needed preparation. Stratya nodded to the guard and knelt, showing the dog the scent. The poor thing, having to smell such an odor. The dog roved around after picking up the scent in question. The knight was happy to get away from the center of the stench, though she wondered how it was for the hound. It was following that foul odor, so he could still smell it, right? Echk. Interrupting her wandering thoughts, the hound caught the trail and started to lead her away.

The hound led her from the castle grounds and the inner wall, no surprise there. From there, though, she had no idea what to anticipate. They turned right, to the West, through the markets. As they ran, Stratya wrapped the leash around her hand a few times more to secure it, taking note of the path they followed. Along the outer wall, straight west. Along Flora Road, and not through any side pages or less prominent streets. They turned north at the far end of the city, past the enforcement centers. How very bold. They weren't shy to get caught, apparently. Personally, she would have gone down Victoria Ave. Much more aside than the main road. Had they been in a carriage, and thus behind a wall of privacy? They must have gotten into a carriage at the train station.

They passed the train station, and continued on into the woods. It must have been done in the night, or someone would have noticed, surely? To cut through town with such a thing without anyone noticing would be a feat. There had to have been someone that saw something, but how was she to divine whom?

At any rate, the hound led her from the town proper into the woods. She was armed, of course. She drew the pup closer in on his leash, growing cautious. She didn't much like following the trail of a murder into the woods, but if she kept her wits, she'd be able to handle herself just fine.

Thank the Gods for the hound. She was not likely to have found the site on her own. Finding the place was a feat, certainly, but identifying that this was, in fact, a body was its own. For something that was apparently done last night, this was horrifying. What was left of the body was a disturbing slop, all in a pile. She pulled on the leash as the dog inched closer, covering her nose and mouth while she steadied her gut, “nae, ye may no’. Come, sit, stay.” The dog did so, only laying down instead.

A guard had followed her from the train station, his captain having recognized the unaccompanied knight with a bloodhound on a seemingly urgent task. Stratya approached the large glob of remains and turned as she heard the guard approach, “ooh,” relief, “a guard. Haaaaah, ‘ere I though’ you migh’ ‘ave been.. someone else.” She'd been ready to spring back and draw, but that wasn't necessary. She looked briefly at the mess, grimacing again, before she turned back to the guard. The guard who seemed just as ill-at-ease as she was, or more so. “Could you ge’ me a fouraging ki’, please? Tell the apothecary in the Adventurar's Guild tha’ Ca’n Durmand wull compensate them for th’ supplais. Don' tell ‘em i's urgent unless you ‘ave to. Vials, cloth wrappin’s, everythin’. It does nae need to be very large nor plen’iful. Vaguely plentifully and various. I have.. one complex sample to collect from. Time is fleetin’, go nao.”

The guard gave her a salute and followed the trail Stratya had marked through the forest to get back out. Snapped branches and crushed bushes, things like that. She always loved the opportunity to leave a Stratya-shaped hole in the underbrush, but she wasn't deep enough in the forest for the bushes to be so thick.

While the guard went to fetch the requested supplies, Stratya considered things. She'd requested a camera. If she was going to make use of that request, she should leave the scene be for now. This pile of mush.. what used to be Darryn, the stable boy. He was seen yesterday, was he not? She saw him, in passing. He was alive yesterday morning. This sort of impossibility had one quick explanation.

Another point. Why do this? Why kill him, sure, but melting his body? Was it out of pettiness? Or was there something to hide? One way to find out was to find the hidden evidence, if it existed.

Her requested equipment arrived, camera and foraging kit, at the same time. "Aah, thank ye both." Fortuitous. She sent the two guards to monitor the perimeter and had the cameraman impress the scene on his copper plate. To protect his equipment, Stratya held an umbrella for the man, to ward off the drops falling from the canopy above. Once his job was done, the captain sent him away immediately (he was very happy to leave, even with instructions for secrecy), and then started gathering the evidence in front of her. Having long since tied her handkerchief over her nose and mouth, she began working through the pile with her parrying dagger and sword. She'd slice off a layer of melted body slop with her dagger from the top, onto her broadsword, and sift through it for any interesting bits before dumping the amount aside and repeating the procedure. Occasionally, she filled a vial with some of the slop, and she took several samples of bone meal and other, seemingly district masses within the slop. Bits of fabric, shards of bone, mass of bonemeal. What in the world had the boy done? Just a stable boy..

She closed the small box that her gathering supplies had come in. It was now filled with mushy remains. She wasn't even sure if the boy still had parents, or where they'd be. Stratya couldn't help but think of how heartbroken her own ma would be, and after being so proud of her. It filled her with a fury, but she knew she must temper herself. This was no commoner's crime. Probably.

She had to have someone analyze these remains. Done with her gathering, she called the guards back and led the way from the forest. She supposed she should return the hound, and probably deal with the remains at the site, somehow, too. Now, where to find a good chemist?

“‘Er gleamin’ spires an’ glitterin’ buildings?” Cynwaer repeated, his tone dripping with mocking amusement and voice laced with a failed attempt to suppress a guffaw. He couldn’t quite believe what he was reading, partially because none of it sounded like the Sorian he knew, and mostly because he could scarcely think of anyone who could write such tripe and still expect to be taken seriously. A childish snicker played on his lips as he turned the page. He had to admit, when he had pilfered this ‘Nobleman’s Guide to Sorian’ from a careless patron at a coffeehouse, he had expected to flick through perhaps a dozen or so pages before tossing the thing into the ocean. Sorian was, put kindly, a city Cynwaer wouldn’t even piss on if it were on fire, after all.

But as it turned out, this book proved to be far too entertaining – even if unintentionally so – to be so easily discarded. And it was for that reason that, even as the Remembrance approached the city not-too-far off in the distance, Cynwaer continued to thumb through the guide’s pages. He stood near the beak of his ship, leaning over the gunwale and loosely cradling the book over the rolling surf far below.

He laughed derisively as he read another page. “Listen ta’ this, Neirynn,” he called out. “‘Truly, Sorian is a city ‘at deserves all ta’ awe it inspires in e’ry creature ‘at passes through its gates’.” He snapped the guide shut and looked to his left. Waving the book at Neirynn, he said, “Can yer feckin’ believe some fecker got paid ta’ write this shite? Even yer could dae a bet’er job than this feckin’ idiot.”

A pair of beady eyes looked back at Cynwaer. Neirynn froze in the midst of pulling the last scraps of meat from the skeleton of her latest prey, an unfortunate seabird of some sort. Fresh blood, bright and crimson, stained the earthen-brown feathers of her slender face. Stringy slivers of flesh swayed from her dark beak as she tilted her head. For a moment, she merely regarded her owner with silence. Then, she squawked.

“Aye, yer right. Comparin’ yer ta’ this shite-scribbler’s an insult ta’ yer. Sorry.” Cynwaer chuckled, reaching over to scratch her head. The swamp harrier let out another, quieter squawk and pushed her head into his hand. Sharp talons dug into the wooden guardrail, and she half-spread her wings to balance herself.

Cynwaer smiled as he watched her. For a bird-of-prey and a predator, she was surprisingly docile. But he supposed that rescuing her when she had just been a fledgling chick may have gone a long way in making her friendly towards him and his crew. “Aw’righ’,” he said and pulled his hand back. “Finish up yer brekkie, lunch, whate’er yer want ta’ call it, then yer can go ‘ave yersel’ some rest. Gae’n ta’ be a busy time fer yer an’ I both, aye.”

She tilted her head, squawked once more, then went back to eating.

Cynwaer looked away from her and towards the city. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what the writer of the guide was talking about. He saw no glittering spires, no glimmering buildings that inspired awe. Well, that wasn’t quite true; he did see a number of mansions, estates, and other expensive-looking structures that shone in brilliant hues of white, gold, and silver under the light of the late morning sun. But he didn’t feel any sense of wonderment looking at them. Rather, he felt nothing but disgust. Each and every last one of them were emblematic of the problems he had with Sorian and Caesonia as a whole.

“Captain, we’re passing the breakwaters,” a dour voice called from behind him.

“Aye, I’ve eyes ta’ see that,” Cynwaer replied. “Anythin’ that catches yer eye?”

“There’s a few Alidashti ships in harbour, Captain.”

Cynwaer shrugged. “Nae bother, ‘tis the partyin’ season fae nobles. I’m nae surprised they’re here.”

“And there are ships none of us recognise, Captain.”

That got Cynwaer’s attention. He immediately dropped whatever levity he had, pulled out a spyglass from his coat pocket, and scanned the harbour. “Which ones?” He asked, but found his answer almost as soon as those words left his mouth. The first was almost impossible to miss; it was a behemoth of a ship, easily twice the size of the largest Caesonian freighter. Her flat – almost vertical – sides, and snub-nose told him that she hadn’t been built for speed. Even with six masts of fully-battened sails, Cynwaer doubted that she was capable of anything beyond a gentle cruise. Essentially walking pace for a ship. “That one’s probably no trouble,” he muttered, then shifted to the other unknown vessel.

This other ship was lashed to its moorings, and the angle made it difficult for Cynwaer to pick out anything aside from the obvious. “That’s a fightin’ ship, aw’righ’,” he murmured. There weren’t many uses for a ship with a hull that narrow; it was definitely not useful as a transport. And the blackened muzzles peeking from her sides were almost certainly cannons, and she carried plenty of them. Far more than what an average vessel needed for self-defence. Cynwaer looked up, and saw flags which he didn’t recognise.

He collapsed the spyglass. “Well, if they’re nae Caesonian, nae Alidahsti, an’ nae Varian, then we I dae’n think we’ve ta’ worry about them fae now. We’re nae ‘ere ta’ start a fight, at least nae fer now. Still, I’ll ‘ave the lads keep an ear out fae news about ‘em. Cheers fae lettin’ me know.”

“It’s my duty, Captain.” There was a pause. “Captain, some of the–”

“I know,” Cynwaer interrupted with a sigh. “Yer can gae tell ta’ magebloods ta’ get below, an’ tell ‘em ta’ be feckin’ quiet than a feckin’ graveyard if they’re nay wantin’ ta’ be put in one. ‘Tis nae’ our first time’ dae’n somethin’ like this. We’ll be grand.”

Another pause, then a begrudging, “Aye, Captain.”

Cynwaer grimaced. He didn’t like it when his quartermaster was upset, because that was usually a sign of greater discontent on his ship. But it couldn’t be helped. Transporting magebloods was risky business, and to transport them here, to the capital of Caesonia? That was just insane. Cynwaer, however, was confident that insanity was exactly what they needed. No sane person would imagine that a fugitive mage would be smuggled into Sorian. Furthermore, one could get anywhere from Sorian. Both of those factors made the city the perfect place for a fugitive mage to go to ground for a time.

Similarly, Cynwaer was confident that Remembrance would be able to slip into Sorian harbour with almost no trouble. For one, she wasn’t Remembrance anymore, at least not on paper and on her hull. A snow of two-and-a-half masts, Remembrance was, for a ship, incredibly plain and common. Almost every privateer or merchantman, and even some Caesonian navy vessels, were close to identical to her. And so, a quick re-painting of her hull and an even quicker renaming was all it took to transform Remembrance, a wanted corsair, into Recompense, an innocent privateer. There simply wasn’t a harbourmaster alive who had the time and patience to scrutinise each and every one of the hundreds of ships that passed their eye to such a degree that they could see through a disguise that wasn’t done half-heartedly.

Cynwaer’s crew had done this many, many times before, but their – not his – nervousness was something that never truly went away.

And as usual, it was a nervousness that proved to be unnecessary. Remembrance – or Recompense, as it was now known to the authorities – pulled into her berth not long after passing the breakwaters. Soon, she would also have a letter of marque bearing her assumed identity, courtesy of Cynwaer and his ways with a harbour official known for having flexible morals. But that would have to wait. For now, Cynwaer had other things to do.

He stepped off the gangplank and onto the pier, his first taste of Sorian land in years. It tasted as bad as he thought it would. “Aw’right’,” he muttered to no one but himself. “Time fae trouble.”

---

Fenrys regarded Ryn with a mixture of curiosity and caution, his senses attuned to the man's presence. The scent of rain mingled with the faint unique scent that clung to Ryn's clothes. The dire wolf's keen eyes studied Ryn, assessing him with a quiet intensity as he listened to the man's words.

After a moment of consideration, Fenrys rose to his feet, his movements fluid and graceful. With a flick of his tail, he gestured for Ryn to follow him, his steps deliberate as he made his way towards the door of the café. Pausing only briefly to ensure the coast was clear of any patrons that might be frightened by the wolf, Fenrys pushed open the door with a gentle nudge of his muzzle, the warm glow of the café's interior spilling out onto the rain-soaked streets.

Turning to face Ryn, Fenrys fixed him with a steady gaze before nodding towards the bustling interior of the café. It was as if he was inviting Ryn to take a peek inside, a silent gesture that spoke volumes without the need for words. And as Fenrys' gaze drifted towards a figure with hair the color of moonlight seated at one of the tables, he nodded towards her as if to say “she is why I'm here.”

Ryn followed the dire wolf’s amber stare across the café to a woman who looked like she had been spun out of moonbeams and sunlight. Her hair was a river of liquid silver that flowed over her shoulders, and her dress seemed to have been woven from strands of pure gold. Suddenly he felt immensely underdressed in his simple dusty blue dress shirt, mustard yellow ascot, and light grey waistcoat and houndstooth trousers. “Is she your friend?” he asked. Taking the resonant growl as affirmation, he surveyed the café’s patrons. “And where is your date? I find it hard to believe any of the canine variety would be foolish enough to leave an impressive specimen like you alone.”

As Ryn asked about Fenrys' date, the wolf almost chuckled, a low rumble vibrating deep in his throat. The concept of a date was foreign to him, and he hadn't given much thought to finding a mate. But the idea of being seen as an impressive specimen did bring a sense of pride to his wolfish heart.

A heartbeat passed before Ryn smiled at the massive beast next to him, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come inside? I am quite certain I can convince others that you’re simply an exceptionally large, fluffy dog—if you don’t find the notion too offensive, that is.”

The wolf paused, considering Ryn's offer. His gaze shifted to Torvi, who was now observing them with her characteristic golden gaze. There was a silent exchange between them, a wordless communication that spoke volumes.

After a moment, Torvi shrugged and nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. With her silent approval, he turned his attention back to Ryn, nodding in agreement. The idea of being mistaken for a large, fluffy dog didn't offend him—in fact, it seemed rather amusing. With a flick of his tail, Fenrys gestured for Ryn to lead the way into the café and he would follow closely behind Ryn. His presence drew curious glances from the other patrons and even some shocked gasps. It always amused Fenrys the way people were often so frightened of him or surprised by him. Perhaps that was what drew him to Ryn currently, the lack of that fear and judgment.

A few steps into the Morning Blossom Cafe, Ryn found himself bathed in the radiant smile of a cheerful waitress. The brunette stood near the entryway, a wicker basket cradled in her hands, her mere presence seeming to set the very air alight with warmth and welcome.

“Welcome to the Morning Blossom Cafe!” Her voice rang out like chiming bells, each word infused in genuine enthusiasm. “My name is Mingyu and I am so pleased that you have decided to come here today. I will be your guide for the courting event. I hope you love the food and enjoy the chance to meet a wonderful new person!”

Mingyu’s gaze flicked past Ryn to the massive wolf shadowing his footsteps. Her eyes widened slightly, but her smile never faltered.

“I hope you can accommodate for two? My companion here is Mr. Fluffins. Don’t let his size deceive you—he’s gentle, and better behaved than most.” Ryn sank to one knee, fingers ruffling the dense fur behind the wolf’s ears. “Isn’t that right boy? Yes! You’re such a good boy! Yes you are!” Ryn’s voice rose in pitch as he slipped into baby-talk, cooing and fawning over the wolf like a doting parent. And he savored every second. It was a rare privilege to pet a dire wolf in such a manner.

The display of affection between man and beast appeared to dissipate any lingering apprehension from onlookers and Mingyu alike. She extended the basket towards Ryn. “Please take a number from the basket. There will be a table with a big sign that matches your number!”

He reached into the basket and plucked out a neatly folded square of paper. Dark brows climbed as Ryn unfolded it to reveal the digits matching the table where a silver-haired woman sat, poised and regal. What were the odds of such a coincidence?

“Please let me know if you have any questions or even if you simply need someone to talk to!” Mingyu added.

A grateful smile graced Ryn’s lips as he nodded to Mingyu. He rose to his feet and made his unhurried way towards the designated table, the wolf padding silently at his heels. As they approached, his dark eyes locked the golden gaze of his date.

“Good day, fair lady.” Ryn greeted her with a bow and a smile. “My name is Fritz and I believe you already know our mutual friend, Mr. Fluffins? He also answers to the name…?” The invitation hung in the air between them, waiting for the moon maiden to introduce both herself and the wolf.

Torvi's lips curved into a devious grin as she regarded Ryn with amusement, her golden gaze sparkling with mischief. "Oh, I am tempted to let him suffer with the name Mr. Fluffins for the time being," she replied in her accented voice, her tone light and teasing. She received a growl and huff from her furry friend which only made her chuckle some.

Leaning forward slightly, she extended her hand in greeting. "I am Torvi," she introduced herself. "And this, as you so eloquently put it, is Mr. Fluffins also known as Fenrys." She gestured to the dire wolf beside him, who regarded Ryn with a regal air as he elegantly sat beside the table.

“Torvi, the pleasure is entirely my own.” His hand reached out, fingers closing softly around hers as he brought her knuckles to his mouth, grazing them with the lightest brush of a kiss. He then lowered himself to one knee before Fenrys and reached out to take one massive paw in his hands. Ryn touched his forehead to the fur. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you too, Fenrys.”

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Fritz, and I must say, you have quite the way with words," Torvi continued, her tone playful as she insinuated she'd overheard his conversation with Mingyu when he'd entered. "I trust you and Mr. Fluffins have been getting along, how do you say…swimmingly?"

“I certainly hope so! I shudder to think of the alternative.” Ryn wiggled his fingers to show that they remained blessedly attached to his hand. “At the very least, I appear to have escaped with all my appendages intact, so I daresay we’re off to a promising start.”

With a hearty chuckle that bubbled up from his toes, he eased himself into the vacant chair. “But I suspect you would be a far better judge of the current state of my rapport with your furred and fanged companion.” At this proximity, he could see that despite her beguiling features and elegant attire, Ms. Torvi was no sheltered noblewoman. The well-defined muscles and the scar peeking from underneath the gold bracer on her left forearm hinted at a life spent honing the deadly arts of combat. A warm, inquisitive smile fixed on her as Ryn steepled his fingers on the tabletop. “So tell me, on a scale from ‘fortunate to be breathing’ to ‘honorary pack member’ where do I stand?”

Torvi regarded Ryn with genuine interest, her gaze thoughtful yet welcoming. "I would say you have certainly earned his respect and very well may be on the path to honorary pack member," she replied, her tone light yet sincere. "Though I must warn you, Fenrys has high standards."

His smile grew wider, brighter, at the prospect of being part of a pack. The sense of togetherness and acceptance called to an ache deep inside him he never allowed himself to express. Not because he was forbidden from doing so, but because he was afraid. “Then I shall endeavor to rise to the challenge,” Ryn said.

She chuckled softly, a musical sound that echoed through the café, her eyes dancing with amusement. As she spoke, she took a moment to examine the man a bit further. Upon first glance, he seemed almost delicate. Perhaps that's all those without a trained eye would see, but she saw more. There was a contrasting subtle strength to him. His poised demeanor hinted at a resilience that belied his appearance, a quality she respected. While many from her tribe would write him off and think of him little more than a fragile flower, Torvi saw quite the opposite and this drew her to him.

”So tell me, Fritz, are you a native to Caesonia or do you come from somewhere else? I know there are many here in Sorian from different places, myself included, and so I can not help but be curious where you come from. Especially with you having what seems to be more than common knowledge of my dear friend here.” As she asked her question, she picked up her menu to glance over it, but quickly put it back down as the dishes merely confused her.

“On paper, I am Varian. I have a home there, along with family, a thriving business, and people who rely on me. My mother is an immigrant from a land far away, but my father’s side of the family hail from Caesonia. Frequent visits to my extended family had made Caesonia a second home to me.” Ryn picked up the menu the same time Ms. Torvi did, skimming over the options as he continued. “However, if I’m being honest, the majority of my life has been spent traveling the length and breadth of Eromora. There are times when both Varian and Caesonia feel somewhat foreign to me.” He paused and glanced up from the menu. “How about you, Torvi? Where do you and Fenrys come from?”

As Ms. Torvi set her menu back on the table, Ryn lowered his own, studying her expression. “Is there nothing that appeals to your taste?”

His dual identity resonated with her own experiences of straddling two worlds, and she couldn't help but feel a kinship with someone who understood the feeling of being caught between cultures. "Varian and Caesonia," she repeated softly, the names rolling off her tongue with a hint of curiosity. "It seems you have quite the rich tapestry of experiences woven into your life, Fritz."

Torvi met Ryn's gaze with a thoughtful expression. "As for myself, I am technically a Varian as well. Though some from my tribe, including the jarl, my father, might argue that we do not belong to any one kingdom." Leaning forward slightly, Torvi continued. "I hail from the far north, where the land is harsh and unforgiving, and few dare to venture." She offered him a small smile, a glimpse into a world that was vastly different from the bustling streets of Varian or the grandeur of Caesonia.

“Up north? Are you from Krasivaya?” Ryn canted his head as he mentally rifled through the tribes that called the northern wilds home, and which proudly stood apart from the Varian Kingdom. “Which tribe?”

The more she spoke of her origins, the more certain he became that Ms. Torvi was no hothouse flower. The wilderness had shaped her, forging her into one of its own. It was there in the way she carried herself, in the strength of her bearing—a resilience born from the harsh, unrelenting demands of necessity rather than choice.

It was a captivating contrast to the woman who sat in front of him, resplendent in glittering gold. Steel beneath silk.

When he inquired about her menu choice, Torvi hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering back to the discarded menu. "Truth be told, I am not familiar with these dishes," she confessed with a shrug. "I find myself unsure of what to try."

A playful glint entered her eyes as she regarded him once more. "However, since you have shown impeccable taste in companions," she said, inclining her head towards Fenrys with a smile, "perhaps you could choose something for me to try. I trust your judgment."

A similar glint reflected off of Ryn’s eyes. “Well now, if that be the case… Do you know what I do whenever I visit an unfamiliar eatery and find myself flummoxed by the menu?” He paused, allowing enough time to pass for her to venture a guess.

"You ask the waitress to surprise you and pray they have good taste?" She pondered after a brief moment of thought.

“I simply select a dish at random and pray to the Creators, spirits, fates and ancestors that I won’t be retching my guts out in the next several hours.” He flashed a grin before snatching up the menu and positioning himself beside Ms. Torvi. Leaning in close, he whispered, “Close your eyes.” Gently, he took her hand in his, guiding her finger to the menu. “I’ll trace your hand down the list, and whenever you want, say stop. Ready?”

Torvi felt a flicker of excitement as Ryn's closeness enveloped her, his boldness stirring something within her. His playful demeanor and confident approach resonated with her own appreciation for directness and spontaneity. With a playful glint in her golden gaze, she met his eyes, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "I must admit, your approach is as daring as it is charming," she murmured, her voice laced with a hint of flirtation. As his hand intertwined with hers, ready to guide her finger along the menu, she surrendered to the moment, relishing in the unexpected thrill of anticipation that coursed through her. "Lead the way, Fritz," she said in response with a smirk. She waited a moment, letting him guide her hand until she felt the moment was right. "And stop." slowly, she opened her eyes to see where she landed.

But as her lashes began to lift, Ryn whisked the menu away. “If you want it to be a tad bit more thrilling, let’s keep it a surprise,” he suggested, punctuating his words with a playful wink.

He drank in Ms. Torvi’s smile for a heartbeat longer before dropping to one knee and presenting the menu to Fenrys. “And what will it be for you, my hirsute lord?”

There was a moment when he just stared at Ryn before his eyes locked onto the menu. A few seconds later, Fenrys pressed his wet snout onto an item. “Excellent choice.”

Once resettled in his chair, Ryn beckoned to a passing server with an easy wave. “We would like to have one of this and one of that,” he said, pointing to the items his companions had selected. He took care to ensure that Fenrys’s dish was free of anything that might be harmful to a wolf. “And I’d also like to order the least popular dish, if you please.”

The waiter blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unusual request, regained his professional mien with a nod and dutifully noted the order. [color=9354FF]“Will that be all, sir?”
“Oh, if it’s no trouble, may we have extra small plates as well?” The waiter nodded, and with a final thank you from Ryn, he departed from the table.

Turning to face his enchanting date, Ryn clapped his hands together, his eyes alight with anticipation. “How exciting!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with enthusiasm, eager to see what they would get.

Torvi chuckled, a rich sound that matched the warmth in her golden eyes. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You have a knack for turning the mundane into an adventure, don’t you?” Her gaze flicked to the departing waiter before returning to Ryn. “I must admit, I am intrigued to see what the least popular dish is. Perhaps it is a hidden gem waiting to be discovered.”

“Precisely!” Ryn exclaimed, mirroring Ms. Torvi’s posture and leaning in closer. “And it would be a travesty, a true disservice, to let the fruits of someone’s labors go unrecognized and untasted. No! We must give this culinary potential its moment in the spotlight.”

She glanced at Fenrys, who had settled comfortably beside her chair after picking his own dish, then back at Ryn. “So, tell me more about your travels, Fritz. What is the most extraordinary place you have visited? And have you ever encountered something that truly left you in awe?” Her tone was light and conversational, yet her eyes held a deeper curiosity, reflecting her own love for adventure and the unknown.

He pondered the question. “Well that’s a far trickier question to answer than you might think. Every place has been extraordinary in its own way and each left a mark on me. It’d be impossible to narrow it down to a single destination.” He chuckled weakly, “But that would be a terribly unsatisfactory answer, wouldn’t it?”

So he lapsed into contemplative silence once more while he sifted through the memories. Suddenly, he laughed. “Excuse me,” Ryn shook his head as a blush crept across his cheeks. “I had the entire world to choose from, and the first place that springs to mind is my home city.” Despite a life spent traversing the globe, he still couldn’t stop loving Erwynn and its denizens.

“How about this,” he suggested, his eyes brightening with a sudden burst of inspiration. “What if I tell you the first story that comes to mind from my travels, and perhaps you could share one of your own in return?" He extended his hand, an open invitation to seal the deal.

Torvi smirked, nodding as she met his hand with her own and shook on it. She had many stories she could tell, but she was quite curious of his own story. So she sat and listened as he began his tale, captivated by how he spun his words.

Ryn’s dark eyes roamed around a bit before landing on the dire wolf and he smiled. “In the land of Ruz’Ghard,” he began, “I came across a tribe of people who wore the skin of animals. Their spirit animal, to be exact, and it was believed that they could transform into them at will. I never got the chance to see if that was true or not, but they had many folklore involving animals. The one that stuck out the most to me was the legend about a dog who turned into a human.”

Ryn turned his attention back to Ms. Torvi, studying her closely as she studied him. “Once upon a time,” he said, his voice taking on a storyteller’s cadence, “there was a chieftain’s son and a dog that were inseparable. They spent their days roaming the hills and forests together, hunting and playing and enjoying each other’s company. The chieftain’s son loved the dog as he would a brother, and the dog loved the chieftain’s son with a fierce loyalty that knew no bounds. But, as many of these stories go, their happiness would not last forever. War plagued the land, claiming many victims, including the chieftain’s son.”

“With his dying breath, the chieftain’s son asked his dog to take care of his people in his place. The dog vowed he would. And after his best friend and family died, the dog tore off the human’s skin.” He gestured with his hands, pretending to peel off his own skin before placing the imaginary skin over his face. It peeked through Ryn’s fingers.

“And wore it, transforming into the chieftain’s son. And no one was none the wiser. The dog lived out his days as the chieftain’s son, protecting his people. He won the war and brought peace to the land. He sired many children, who would become the great ancestors of these skin-changers.”

She chuckled as she clapped, her gaze shifting to Fenrys. “Well, Fenrys, what do you say? Are you secretly a human in disguise?” she teased, scratching behind the wolf’s ear. Fenrys gave a soft, playful growl, making her smile even wider.

Turning back to Ryn, Torvi leaned forward, her interest piqued. “My story does not come from my travels, but from my home,” she began, her tone light yet serious. “In my homeland, the far north where the winters are long and harsh, there are legends about the dire wolves. It is believed that long ago, these majestic creatures were magical. Their power was coveted by sorcerers and sorceresses, but the wolves were wise and wary, not easily trusting of others.”

She paused, her eyes distant as she recalled the tales of her people, trying to imitate the way the scalds of her village would tell the story. “Those who craved their magic began to hunt them, but the dire wolves were crafty and not easy to kill. So, those wicked men and women decided they needed something better. They worked together, weaving their dark magics to create a creature specifically to capture and kill the dire wolves, especially their young. These creatures were formidable, but they had a weakness: they needed to feast on blood…human blood.” She paused once more for dramatic effect as her eyes found Ryn’s, a dark and sinister look shining in her eyes.

”There was a tribe of humans that lived near the homeland of the wolves and they unfortunately became the target of these creatures' sanguine hunger. As the dire wolves and tribe of humans found themselves both hunted and dwindling in number, they decided to forge a pact.”

Torvi’s voice took on a reverent tone as she continued. “The wolves granted the humans some of their sacred magic, teaching them how to wield it. Together, they found a way to combat the sorcerers and their creatures. They saved each other and, though those ancient wolves and humans are long gone along with the magic, the bond between our tribe and the wolves of the far north remains strong. It is why you will often see a human and wolf companion in my homeland.”

She finished her tale, her eyes meeting Ryn’s once more with a much softer look. “And that is why Fenrys and I are so close. It is a bond that goes back generations, forged in blood and magic.” Her gaze softened, a small smile playing on her lips. “Your story was captivating, Fritz. It is fascinating how much our tales, though from different lands, share a common thread of loyalty and transformation.”

Ryn sat transfixed, the clatter of cutlery and din of conversation dissolving into a hazy backdrop as Ms. Torvi’s tale enveloped him. Her words painted vivid images in his mind, each stroke a vivid hue of magic and wonder.

Throughout the tale, his expression shifted. His eyes widened in fasination at the mention of the wolves’ awe-inspiring power, so potent and alluring that sorcerers yearned to harness it for themselves, and his brows furrowed when she described the wicked sorcerers and their bloodthirsty creations. Ryn even shivered and he uttered a single, poignant word: “Scary.” However, once it became clear that this was story about how a sacred bond was forged between beast and man, his expression brightened.

In the silence that followed the story’s conclusion, Ryn simply stared at Ms. Torvi. Then, slowly, he brought his hands together in a quiet applause. “Wow… I mean, wow. Words fail me. Thank you, Torvi, for sharing this incredible piece of your tribe’s history and culture with me. I simply must visit someday.”

Glancing furtively around the room, Ryn leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Though, I feel compelled to caution you that there are individuals in Caesonia who are rather sensitive to any mention of the arcane arts. So it might be prudent to refrain from using the word ‘magic’ during your stay here.” He settled back into his chair and adopted a more jovial tone. “In fact, there was this one time when I was reported to the authorities for performing a few harmless parlor tricks at a soirée.” He heaved a dramatic sigh, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I ended up spending the next three hours teaching everyone magic tricks, just to prove no real magic was involved.”

Torvi watched Ryn’s reactions with amusement, her own heart warming as she shared a piece of her heritage. When he applauded, her smile widened, a rare flush of pride coloring her cheeks. “I am glad you enjoyed it. Our history is dear to us, and it is always a pleasure to share it with those who appreciate its depth.” She chuckled softly at his eagerness to visit her homeland. “If my brothers and sisters and I can accomplish our goals and convince our people to embrace the present and accept outsiders, I would be more than happy to welcome you to our homeland. You would be able to see firsthand the bond we share with the wolves and our way of life. It is this goal that has brought me to Caesonia, actually.” She explained, not entirely a lie. She did wish to gather information to bring back to her tribe to convince them that their ways were outdated and it was time to adapt.

This intrigued him and also brought a question to mind. “Is that why you’re attending a courting mixer?”

Torvi laughed a little and nodded. “Partially, yes. I am trying to establish relationships and get to know the culture here.” She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering as she continued. “I must admit, I forget sometimes how frightened people in this new world are of something so deeply rooted in our histories. It is fascinating, yet also sad, that fear can overshadow understanding. So I thank you for the reminder, I certainly wouldn't want to end up detained and trying to explain myself like you had to.” Her brow furrowed slightly, but the arrival of the waiter drew her attention.

As the plates were set before them, Torvi’s eyes widened in surprise. The blossom salad was a vibrant array of colors, the sunrise plate a picturesque arrangement, and the chicken and waffles for Fenrys were presented with an elegance she had never encountered. “Thank you,” she murmured to the waiter, her eyes fixed on the food.

Before the meal commenced in earnest, Ryn carefully dished out a portion of each item onto the extra plates, ensuring both he and Ms. Torvi could sample each. He set down Fenrys's plate in front of him. “Bon appétit.”

She examined her dish, the artistry of it almost too beautiful to disturb. Carefully, she picked up her utensils, her hands moving with a deliberate grace as she debated how to start. With a small, decisive nod, she took a bite, her eyes lighting up as the flavors danced on her tongue. “This is….different, yet quite delightful,” she said, glancing at Ryn. “I have never had something presented so elegantly before. It is almost a shame to eat it, but the taste makes it worth it.”

Fenrys, meanwhile, eyed his dish with interest, and with a nudge from Torvi, he began to eat, his approval evident in the way he savored each bite. Torvi turned her attention back to Ryn, curiosity and admiration evident in her gaze. “You have quite a way of making an experience out of everything, Fritz. I appreciate that.”

As they savored their meal, and long after their plates were cleared, the conversation flowed effortlessly, meandering from one topic that floated to the surface of their minds to the next. Ryn’s curiosity eventually led him to ask, “I can’t believe I neglected to ask this earlier, but what do you do for a living, Torvi?”

To say she was surprised at how easily she found talking to this man would have been an understatement. Coming to the mixer today she was sure she would be stuck with some stuffy noble who only wished to talk about themselves, so this experience truly was a pleasant and welcome surprise. She pondered his question for a moment, trying to think of the best way to describe what she did to him. “Apologies, I am merely trying to think of how to tell you my job in your language. In my native tongue I suppose I would be called Kylflingar, but I believe the more common term here would be sellsword or mercenary even.” She began explaining, hoping she was using the correct terms.

“I was hired by the Danrose family as extra skilled protection for the children when they required it. In exchange, I get to attempt to form relationships with the nobles and learn of the different customs. All while also being paid, of course.” She laughed a little and shrugged. “Oh, I hope that does not frighten or worry you in any way?”

A jolt ran through him. It stirred. Ryn made no attempt to hide his surprise. “You are employed by the royal family!? What a illustrious position! Your skills as a Kylflingar must be unparalleled for the Crown itself to seek out your services. How did this come to be?”

Torvi shrugged nonchalantly, the weight of her position seemingly inconsequential to her. “To me, it matters not if I am working for royalty or a mere merchant. Pay is pay, and a job is a job. The idea of kings and queens is rather foreign to me, and I truly do not understand the prestige they hold nor the….glory they demand of others to view them in.” She had to pause at the end, trying to find the right word and even then she wasn't sure if she got it.

“My work as a Kylflingar has begun to spread, and word of my skills reached the Queen. She wrote to me, requesting my services. It was as simple as that.” Torvi’s eyes met Ryn’s, a flicker of amusement dancing within them. “I suppose it was my reputation that caught her attention, rather than any understanding of the status she holds. To me, she is simply another person.”

Ryn nodded, absorbing her words. The Queen’s personal involvement in her employment was noteworthy. Further inquiry into Ms. Torvi’s exploits might prove prudent.

She glanced at Fenrys, who seemed to hold her stare for a long moment and then she sighed. ”It seems I am to be reminded of another meeting I must attend soon and so we must depart here shortly. This was…nice. A lot more pleasant than anticipated. Perhaps we can speak more in the future?”

Ryn’s attention snapped to their surroundings, then to the clock, realizing with a start how much time had passed. The mixer had long since concluded. “I hadn’t noticed the hour! My apologies if I’ve caused you to be tardy for your next meeting.” Ryn hastened to draw out the chair behind Ms. Torvi, extending his hand to assist her. “Time has a way of slipping by when in delightful company. It was an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance, Torvi, and yours, Fenrys.” He dipped his head to the wolf before favoring the woman with a smile. “I quite enjoyed our conversation and look forward to our next meeting.” He bowed deeply, her hand still clasped in his.

When Ryn withdrew, he left behind a business card in her grasp. “Until then, farewell.”

Boring, it was all so, very boring.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t the right word to use. It wasn’t as if there was a shortage of wounds that needed a surgeon’s touch aboard Sada Kurau. But the scrapes, scratches, splinters, and miscellaneous diseases that were typical of a ship’s crew were humdrum to Dai-sehk. They kept him busy, but only physically – his mind could hardly be stimulated by procedures and diagnoses he could carry out in his sleep. He carried them out all the same, nevertheless. His oaths to the Commonwealth and Jafin Navies, and the loyalty he owed his Captain, demanded at least that much from him.

However, oaths and duties were one thing. This pervasive boredom was another.

And it was that very boredom which made him decide to spend some time ashore this morning. Perhaps, the bespectacled surgeon had thought, he simply needed a change in scenery. He was wrong. He was still bored; the only difference being that he was now bored on dry land instead of bored aboard Sada Kurau.

His visage was as cold and stoney as the cobbles he trudged upon as he made his way through Sorian. A plethora of unfamiliar sights and sounds – of buildings of novel designs, of peoples in odd attires speaking languages strange to his ears, of a city begging to be explored – surrounded him. Dai-sehk was more than certain that such things would excite most of his fellow shipmates. But him? He felt nothing. There wasn’t anything wrong with the city or its people, however. Dai-sehk could still acknowledge and appreciate what charms it had. He just couldn’t bring himself to feel much of anything towards…Anything, really. Emotions simply never were things that came easily to Dai-sehk. If they came at all.

Yes, perhaps ‘boredom’ wasn’t the right word to describe the flat dispassion that constantly filled him. One which coloured everything in shades of calm grey. ‘Apathy’, maybe? Or just plain ennui? Or was it – as he had considered before – a sort of rare malaise?

Well, none of that really mattered. This was how he had always been. And besides, he had better things to do with his time than to spend it on thought exercises that were – albeit somewhat interesting – ultimately of little use.

Dai-sehk scrutinised every storefront he passed. He looked at the signs, peered through windows, and he even stopped to ask passers-by about those which left little hints as to their trade. None proved to be what he sought, something which made little sense to him. Surely, this city had to have at least one herbalist or apothecary who dealt in raw herbs? Granted, he did walk past a few pharmacies, but he wasn’t confident enough in his Caesonian to purchase prepared medicines. Neither was he too keen on the notion of doing all the necessary tests to determine what an unknown solution did. Far better – and easier – for him to just synthesise his own concoctions from herbs he could identify through shape, touch, or smell. Assuming, of course, that there were herbs that grew in this part of the world that were identical or similar to the ones he was accustomed to in Viserjanta.

But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. There wasn’t any point in worrying over that issue now, not when he had yet to even find the shops he needed.

“I need a doctor! Is there a doctor here?”

That worried – almost frantic – shout cut through the din of the crowd to Dai-sehk’s ears. Without so much as a thought, he immediately changed course and marched towards its source. Not that there was a need for him to think in the first place. Someone needed a physician, that was his profession, and he didn’t have any reason not to respond. And so logically, he had to respond. Simple. He tugged on the roughspun strap of his haversack as he pushed through the crowd. “Away,” he said brusquely to those in his path. Several people gave him dirty looks as he passed, but he didn’t pay them any heed. Why would he need to? They did exactly as they were told, and stepped aside as he approached. There was no reason for Dai-sehk to bother with them.

As he reached the edge of the gathered press of nosy onlookers, and his eyes caught sight of a man, pale and panting, sitting on the ground beneath the shade of a canvas awning, and with his head placed snugly between his knees, Dai-sehk felt a familiar thrill rise within him. There was something about the moments just before examining a patient – the possibility of a mystery, the hope for a challenge – that he so greatly relished. The corners of his lips subtly twitched in a burgeoning smile, but as always, that smile never fully materialised. His face remained as impassive as ever.

“Who’re you?” Dai-sehk hadn’t noticed the other man standing over the prospective patient, and wouldn’t have noticed him at all had the thick-set man not addressed him with suspicion. Sheened in sweat, with a dark layer of grime mottling his hands and arms, and his clothes frayed and well-worn, Dai-sehk guessed that he was a manual labourer. And seeing as how he appeared to be an acquaintance of the prospective patient, Dai-sehk assumed the latter to be in a similar line of work.

“I am doctor.” Dai-sehk kept his words short and patted himself on the chest. The man continued to regard him with a wary gaze and stood protectively in front of his friend. Dai-sehk didn’t fault him for that – it was a perfectly reasonable act, all things considered. Wearing a tunic of Jafin cut, speaking with an accent that was most likely unrecognisable by the man, and bearing a face that was clearly foreign, Dai-sehk probably didn’t sound or look or even feel like how a Caesonian doctor should. The man was right to be suspicious, and it was up to Dai-sehk to convince him otherwise.

He patted his haversack, and flipped open the flap to show the man its contents. A small, bulky satchel sat between tied-up bamboo scrolls and well-thumbed notebooks. Laying over them was a stethoscope which had clearly seen far better days. “I am doctor,” Dai-sehk repeated, keeping his tone level, and his eyes on the man’s face. “Can help.”

The man held Dai-sehk’s gaze for the barest of moments before stepping aside to let him pass. “I-I never saw what happened. We were just unloading crates. Usual work, you know? And then Halsford over there suddenly says he feels like shite. Said he was dizzy and light-headed or something. So I told him to have a short break.” The words spilled from the man’s mouth in a rapid torrent. Dai-sehk listened to every word; there was no telling what might turn out to be vital. “I looked away for a moment and the next thing I know, the colour’s gone from Hal’s face and he’s a breeze away from collapsing.”

Dai-sehk knelt in front of Halsford and examined the infirm man with sharp eyes. Oddly enough, although his clothes were dark and soaked with sweat, and his beach-sand blonde hair matted to his forehead, his skin itself appeared to be merely damp. “Hal…Halsford.” The name rolled awkwardly off Dai-sehk’s tongue and didn’t sound right. As expected, the infirm man didn’t respond. “Halsford,” Dai-sehk repeated, this time with a more forceful tone. “Stop this. Look up. Look at me.”

Halsford groaned, but slowly complied. It was clear to Dai-sehk that just the simple act of straightening his neck took the man no small amount of effort, and even after he succeeded, his head swayed every which way unsteadily, as if the muscles in his neck couldn’t support its weight. His mouth hung open, making him appear like a fish washed ashore, and his breaths came in shallow, heaving wheezes. Dai-sehk placed his hands on either side of Halsford’s neck, just under the man’s jaw. The skin was warm and dry to the touch, and right away, Dai-sehk felt his initial thrill fade. “Breathe slow,” he said flatly.

“Wha–?” Halsford words came out in mumbled gibberish. His eyes – dull as they were – could still at least focus on Dai-sehk’s face. For the surgeon, that was both good and bad news. On the one hand, it meant that Halsford wasn’t that far gone yet. On the other, it also meant that there was no intricate mystery here for Dai-sehk to solve. Two questions were all he needed to figure everything out.

“You work…How long you work?”

Halsford blinked slowly, as if he hadn’t quite understood the question. For a moment, Dai-sehk wondered if his condition was actually worse than what he imagined. But just as he was about to re-examine Halsford, the man began to speak. “Since…We’ve been at it–working since this…Early morning.” His voice was little more than a mumble, and his words slurred into each other. “Moving–Lots of things to–to move. This place always–It always orders a lot–”

“No need to know,” Dai-sehk interrupted abruptly. “From early morning. So you work for hours.” He looked over his shoulder at Halsford’s friend, who nodded in confirmation. Dai-sehk’s pressed his already thin lips into an even thinner line and turned back to Halsford. “Water. When you drink last?”

“I uh–I drank some–I drank before working, Halsford replied and drew in a deep, ragged breath. “We–we do that all the…It’s usual. Then I wasn’t–I didn’t feel thirsty, so I–”

Dai-sehk cut him off with a click of his tongue. “Stupid,” he said, that single word as pointed as a dagger.

“Wha–I don’t–”

“Not thirsty not mean no need water.” There wasn’t any need, anymore, for Dai-sehk to listen to whatever else Halsford had to say. And so, he didn’t. He pushed his eyeglasses further up his nose and rummaged through his haversack for two small vials; one of plain salt, and the other of white sugar. Then, he turned to Halsford’s friend. “You. Find cup, water, spoon. Bring here quick.”

The friend furrowed his brow. “I don’t see what–”

“Cup. Water. Spoon,” Dai-sehk repeated, his growing impatience clear in his words. “Now!”

That was enough to convince the friend to stop arguing and scamper off.

“W-What’s wrong with–” Halsford started to ask.

“You work. In sun. For long time. And no water. You are sick from heat,” Dai-sehk replied tersely. Halford’s high body temperature; his suspicious lack of sweat; his dizziness, all could be explained by a simple case of heat exhaustion. A simple diagnosis, and one which had lost its charm on Dai-sehk years ago. He could feel the boredom – or whatever it was – edge its way back into his mind. Suddenly, everything seemed so dull to him. Halsford, his ailment, his friend, the crowd that refused to disperse, they were all so incredibly uninteresting to Dai-sehk. He wanted nothing more than to leave.

Thankfully, the friend soon returned, the items Dai-sehk requested in hand. With practised ease, he mixed measured spoonfuls of salt and sugar into the cup of water. “Three parts salt. One part sugar. In water and mix,” he droned, glancing at the man as he vigorously stirred the makeshift draught. “You listen. Make this and give. He must drink. Until he is good. Or you find medicine.”

“The thing you’re making…” The friend scratched his chin. “It’s not medicine?”

Dai-sehk looked at him and blinked once. “Salt. Sugar. Only…Temporary.” He turned back to Halsford and pushed the cup towards him. The ailing man took it with shaking hands and emptied its contents in a long, single gulp. “He get better, good,” Dai-sehk said and threw the vials back into his haversack. With a grunt, he stood up and slung it over his shoulder. “He drink, will be better. He still bad, then find other doctor.”

“Thank–” the friend began, and as was becoming typical, Dai-sehk didn’t let him finish.

“Stop that,” the surgeon said tersely, a vague hint of a scowl on his face. This was the part of his job which he most disliked. Undeserved praise and gratitude grated against him like Hai-shuun’s sandpaper. All this, everything he had done so far, was nothing to him. He wouldn’t congratulate himself for the same reason he wouldn’t congratulate a person for simply breathing successfully. It was pointless, anyway; no amount of adulation made him feel anything. The only satisfaction he ever felt came from solving a proper mystery, and this incident was far from being such a thing.

Dai-sehk left hurriedly before Halsford or his friend could say anything more. He didn’t have time to bother with inane, useless babble, anyway. There were better, more important things for him to do. He melted into the dissipating crowd. A quiet, imperceptible sigh blew through his lips.

If only everything wasn’t so, very boring.

“Night’s barely started and you’ve already had this much fun? I’m honestly impressed.”

The man sitting on the mud-streaked ground was barely sensate, his eyes half-lidded and mouth open like a fish. His shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths. Even with a passing glance, it was clear to anyone that this man had just been in a vicious brawl. Spittle, bloody and stringy, hung from lips that were swelling where they had been split. A line of angry red welts traced his left cheekbone, and would surely turn into a painful bruise by the following morning. Mud and street grime caked his black hair and dishevelled clothes.

With great effort, he tried to say something. Most of it came out as slurred and garbled gibberish, save for a weak, “There was this girl, Captain.”

Standing over him, Sjan-dehk sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. To be quite honest, he wasn’t as annoyed as he knew he likely appeared. True, he had been expecting far worse when the panicked runner had burst into his quarters whilst he was in the midst of writing his report for Lady Adiyan, and an ordinary tavern brawl was hardly the sort of thing that required his presence, but any excuse to get away from desk work was good in his books. If he felt any true annoyance, it was directed at the runner. The boy’s rushed and scant description of the incident had made Sjan-dehk believe that he was walking into a fight, and he had thus prepared accordingly.

Pistols and swords clattered against lamellar plates as Sjan-dehk squatted. Pushing the brim of his hat up, he looked at the man – one of his crew – in the eyes. “Really? Fighting over a woman?” There was a faint hint of a rebuke hidden beneath Sjan-dehk’s jocular tone. He sighed. “Thought Sada Kurau taught us all to be better than that, Yehn-tai.” He looked across the injured man at the adolescent boy kneeling by his side and asked nonchalantly, “What’s the damage, Sazarin?”

Sazarin was one of Dai-sehk’s subordinates. At just shy of sixteen, the dark-skinned youth was considered to be amongst the better Surgeon’s Assistants aboard both Sada Kurau and Sudah. He was, however, not as skilled as to have his absence felt too severely by Sada Kurau. That made him a perfect addition to the impromptu shore party Sjan-dehk had put together. After all, Sjan-dehk had expected a proper fight. To not bring along a physician – even one in training – would have been folly.

The youth placed two fingers on Yehn-tai’s neck. Then, he waved a hand in front of the man’s eyes. “Quick pulse, slow reactions,” Sazarin muttered to himself before clearing his throat. He looked at his Captain and bowed his head slightly in a simple salute. “The wounds we see are mostly superficial. Just the usual cuts and bruises, but I’ll know for sure once we’re back aboard Sada Kurau, Captain. The rest of his symptoms aren’t anything to worry over. Speech impairment, dilated pupils, general slowness in mind and body, they all point towards alcohol intoxication, Captain. A night of bedrest would be enough as a start.”

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly. “Glad to know you’ve been studying properly, Sazarin,” he replied with a chuckle and looked at the boy with a knowing grin. “Would’ve been a lot simpler if you just told me that he’s drunk out of his mind and he got his arse kicked, though. I know Master Dai-sehk makes you memorise all those textbooks and scrolls, but you don’t have to sound like you’ve eaten them for lunch.”

“Yes, Captain. Understood, Captain.” Sazarin said quickly and averted his gaze, a light flush creeping over his cheeks. “Sorry, Captain. I’ll keep your words in mind.”

“Don’t worry about it. Master Dai-sehk was like you when he first started. Couldn’t understand anything he was saying. Took years for him to get better.” Sjan-dehk gave the youth a reassuring smile before turning his attention back to Yehn-tai. With yet another sigh, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “And as for you, our impetuous Sharpshooter,” Sjan-dehk began. “You heard what Sazarin said. Once you’ve returned to Sada Kurau, you’ll have your injuries seen to, after which you’re to get the bedrest you need. We’ll deal with the consequences of your actions tomorrow. Though I think Master Mursi will likely want to talk to you as soon as possible once he knows what’s happened to one of his Sharpshooters.”

Yehn-tai started to protest. “But Captain, I–”

“I’ll stay here and investigate further. If your actions were justified, I’ll find out,” Sjan-dehk assured him, but then went on to say, “I’m not going to lie to you, Yehn-tai. There’s going to be consequences of some sort you’ll have to face eventually. We did warn all of you that brawling’s not going to be–”

“Yer ta’ Cap’n o’ the big’un that fecked my lads?”

Sjan-dehk understood less than half of what he heard, which was quite impressive, considering the brevity of the sentence. Still, he gathered enough to know that it was he whom the voice’s owner was looking for, and so he stood up and turned to face whoever had called for him.

“Cap’n Cynric Fletcher, o’ ta’ Recompense,” a red-haired, rugged-looking man greeted. The smell of brine hung about him like a heavy coat, almost as heavy as the over-patched, bark-brown, knee-length frock he wore over an off-white shirt and a pair of mossy green trousers. Sweat and the earlier rain matted strands of frayed and fiery hair to his cheeks and forehead. He tilted his chin towards Yehn-tai. “I was told yer man o’er there tanned ta’ ‘ides o’ three o’ mine well an’ proper-like.” Cyrinc rested his hands on his hips, directly above the two pistols and single cutlass hanging from his waistbelt. The slightly furrowed brows and scowl didn’t speak of anger, however, merely of slight frustration.

“Captain Wasun Sjan-dehk. Of Sada Kurau,” Sjan-dehk replied cautiously, his eyes surreptitiously tracking every move of Cynric’s hands, and his own hovering by his weapons. At the same time, he wasn’t certain if Cynric had actually introduced himself, or if he had said something that had gotten utterly lost within his thick accent. “Yes. Our men, they fight. I apologise for Yehn-tai. He cannot speak now. He is very drunk.”

Cynric waved his hand dismissively. “Nae bother, Cap’n. I got ta’ ‘ole story frae my lads. Yer man was’nae wrong ta’ gee’s ‘em a beatin’. I’d ‘ave tanned their ‘ides mysel’ if I’d been there, aye.” Sjan-dehk looked at him with confusion all about his face, and Cynric took that as a sign to continue with an explanation. “They ‘ad a bit too much drink, an’ got a wee bit too friendly wi’ a servin’ lass. She did’nae like that, yer man o’er there did’nae like that, an’ one thing led tae another. I think yer can fill in ta’ blanks yersel’, Cap’n.”

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly. He felt he had a rough idea as to what had happened. “Thank you, Captain. It is fortunate that your crew is so honest.”

Cynric laughed and shook his head. “They’d bet’er feckin’ be, if they know what’s good fae ‘em.” Then, he jerked his head towards the tavern’s doors. “Anyway, ‘tis aw’ just a misunderstandin’, but what say yer an’ I ‘ave a drink? My lads started e’rythin’, sae I’ll treat yer, then we can say we settled things proper-like.”

Now that, Sjan-dehk could understand even with the accent. He nodded. There wasn’t any reason for him to turn down Cynric’s goodwill and besides, a drink at the end of a confusing day was more than welcome, and it was all that better that Sjan-dehk didn’t have to pay for it.

“Captain?” Sazarin cut in before he could say anything to Cynric. “Do you have orders?”

“Excuse me a while,” Sjan-dehk said to Cynric, who responded with a simple shrug. Turning to the young Surgeon’s Assistant and the rest of the shore party, Sjan-dehk quickly issued his instructions. “We’re done here, so the lot of you can take Yehn-tai home. Sazarin, he’s your responsibility. Tend to his wounds, then make sure he gets the rest he needs. If Master Mursi comes looking for him, tell him that whatever he has can wait until tomorrow.” He started to dismiss them, but then remembered something. “Oh, and someone check on Master Dai-sehk. Haven’t seen the mad bastard since the afternoon. At least make sure that we still have a surgeon and that I don’t have to arrange a funeral.”

The shore party nodded their acknowledgements and snapped to a quick salute. Two of them, with the aid of Sazarin, hauled an unsteady Yehn-tai to his feet. Sjan-dehk watched just long enough to make sure that everything was fine before gesturing for Cynric to lead the way. “Right this way, Cap’n,” the redhead said with a grin.

As he stepped through the tavern’s doors, Sjan-dehk pushed his hat further up and back until it rested on his back, hanging by its chinstraps looped around his neck. Immediately, the sour stench of cheap alcohol and sweat assaulted his nose. Such smells weren’t new to him, but they were still unpleasant. The tavern was dimly-lit, and furnished with tables and chairs that had likely seen better days several years ago. Dark corners played host to the tavern’s few patrons; mostly tough-looking people nursing drinks and regarding Sjan-dehk and Cynric with suspicious gazes. If Cynric cared, or even noticed, he didn’t show it at all as he led Sjan-dehk to the bar.

“Oi, barkeep, gee’s us couple o’ ales, aye?” Cynric called out to the man behind the bar as he sat down on a stool. “An’ none o’ that shite that’ll make us feckin’ shite oursels aw’ night!”

“Shut your gob,” came the cantankerous response from the barkeep. He was an imposing man, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that placed his muscular arms on display. “We’ve only got the one drink. If you’re after something else, you can leave!”

Sjan-dehk took his seat beside Cynric. “So, you are Captain also?”

“Aye, of the Recompense,” Cynric replied. “Just pulled intae Sorian ta’day, in fact. And uh, Captain Wasun, is it? Yer ship’s called Sada Kurau? Which one’s that? The big fecker in ‘arbour or the wee’un at ta’ docks?”

“Captain Sjan-dehk,” Sjan-dehk corrected. “And yes. Sada Kurau is smaller. Big one is Sudah.”

Cynric chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll nae e’en try ta’ pronounce yer name, Cap’n,” he said. “But ‘tis a beautiful ship yer command, Cap’n. From ‘er looks, she’s a quick ane, aye?”

Sjan-dehk grinned and nodded. That Cynric could identify his Sada Kurau’s greatest boon from just a look meant that he had to be a capable seafarer. And that was enough for Sjan-dehk to decide that he couldn’t be too wrong of a person to know. “You are correct. Sada Kurau is fast. Very fast.”

“Recompense’s probably nae e’en half as fast, but I’d bet that she’s tougher.” Cynric returned the grin, and Sjan-dehk looked at him with raised brows. “Just sayin’, Cap’n. Nae ship can ‘ave e’erythin’. I’ll be ta’ first tae admit that Recompense moves slow, but she gets where she needs ta’ be.”

“Every ship has gifts,” Sjan-dehk said and nodded.

“I’ll drink ta’ that,” Cynric replied, and as if on cue, the barkeep arrived with two heavy, misshapen mugs of pungent ale. He placed them on the counter, and folded his arms, glaring at Cynric until he produced two coins from his coat pocket and placed them on the bar. The barkeep took the coins and walked away. “An’ it’s just on time,” Cynric said and picked up a mug. He raised it. “Sae, Cap’n. Tae good ships an' peaceful night?”

Sjan-dehk nodded, picking up the other mug and raising it to meet Cynric’s. “To ships and peace.”

Time:Afternoon to Evening (~7pm, an hour before current time)
Location: Damien Estate
Attire: Dress, Amulet
Interaction:@Potter Olivia @FunnyGuy Lorenzo

---

The Afternoon [+]

The Royal Curd experience had been disheartening, to say the least. Charlotte had hoped to spend more time with Lorenzo or perhaps even get to know someone new, such as the kind man she had invited over, who had defended her at the beach without even knowing her. Yet, as she sat at the table picking at a scone, she had never felt more alone. Throughout the meal, she had spoken to Leo the most, her concern for him outweighing her own discomfort. Strange occurrences seemed to swirl around him, and every time she looked at him, Calbert's ominous words echoed in her mind, Leo's name glowing on that globe.

However, she knew the recent incidents had nothing to do with Calbert. The fury in that man's eyes conveyed that if he were to take action, it would be much more sinister. The thought of anyone doing something terrible to Leo, was deeply troubling to her, all despite the fact she was upset with his behavior today.

Eventually, the ordeal ended and she had been ever so thankful when she finally was able to crash into the couch in the den of her home. Delilah and Gilbert had not been home just yet, and the house was still. She laid on her back and stared up at the ceiling. However, as quiet as it all was, her mind was so loud it was practically screaming. There was so much for her to ponder over still and so little time. There were many questions, such as how she was to protect everyone from Calbert's threat... And then there was the question of how did it come to such a thing so quickly.

The mystery novels she read seemed so simple in comparison.

...I believe the issue is not all of this as intertwined as one might find in a novel. Kazumin and Persephone troubling Calbert and their connection to me were mere misfortunes. Perhaps I need to focus on the dynamic between Calbert, Lorenzo, and myself from the very beginning.

The harrowing image of her mother's body sprawled on the grass intruded upon her thoughts, prompting Charlotte to rise from the couch and lean on her knees. She clutched them as she quietly pondered, "Count Damien did not exhibit much interest in Lorenzo and me before my mother's death... In fact..."

Champion, her loyal feline companion, sauntered in, responding to her voice. He hopped onto the table, his enormous eyes fixed on her with an almost human curiosity. Charlotte reached over to scratch behind his ear, "I believe he began appearing more frequently here just before her demise. Then there's the fact that my aura seems to suggest magic has been cast on me..." Her gaze returned to her hands as she recalled the sight she had witnessed at the ball.

She knew deep in her soul that there was more to that can of worms, however she wasn't so sure she was ready to open it yet.

Her brows furrowed in deep thought, and a small smile eventually graced her lips. Leaning in, she confided in Champion, "I think I was onto something from the start. I merely need to refine my detective skills to uncover the truth. Once I do, I can put an end to all this and ensure everyone's safety. It's not as if I have any real place in these courting events anyway, right, Champion?"

Champion meowed in response, his eyes devoid of understanding but filled with affection.

Charlotte giggled softly, "Oh, it's quite alright. You're a splendid listener."

_"Lottie."

The voice made her freeze, her pupils dilating as the hairs on her arms stood up.

It couldn't be.

Though her mind struggled to process the moment, she noted with a flicker of curiosity that Champion hadn't reacted at all to the new presence. Not in the slightest.

Slowly, she dared to turn her head, her breath catching as she saw Duke Walter Vikena standing before her. He appeared clearer than she could ever remember, more detailed than any portrait she had ever gazed upon.

His face was striking, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline. His skin was fair and smooth, contrasting sharply with his dark, wavy hair that framed his face and fell just above his brooding, deep-set eyes. Those hazel eyes were clear as the sun poured in through the window. They seemed to hold a lifetime of wisdom and sorrow, were fixed on her with an intensity that made her heart pound. His lips, full and slightly parted, looked as if they were on the verge of speaking. He wore a dark suit just as he always had. More notable than all, he was as young as he had been the day he died.

Charlotte felt a whirlwind of emotions stir within her as she stood there, rooted to the spot. For a moment, all she could do was stare, her mind racing to reconcile the impossible sight before her.

"... Father?"

Her voice did not seem to stir the man. Eventually, a warm smile did grace his features, and that kindness of his filled his eyes.

_{"Light of my life... Please follow me."}

He had been so close yet his voice seemed so far away. He turned on his feet and she scrambled off the couch to follow him as he walked toward the stairs.

"Is it you? Are you here??" She lifted her skirts off the ground, trying to match his pace as she called after him, her heart pounding in her chest.

There was no response to her questions and his face did not even twitch.

"Where have you been, Father? Do you know what's going on? ..." Her voice grew more frantic as she hastened her steps, trying to catch up. She reached out, attempting to step in front of him, but he simply walked right through her, his form ethereal and unyielding. Her eyes caught sight of the way the sun seemed to be setting outside the grand windows they passed, yet it was the middle of the afternoon. But her mind didn't dwell on the anomaly. Instead, she clenched her fists and cried out, "Please! ...Papa!?"

Her desperation echoed in the vast hallway, the sound swallowed by the silence. Her father's figure continued down the corridor. The sunlight streaming through the windows cast long shadows.

As they approached her bedroom door, he reached out and turned the handle, revealing a room that was not as she had left it. The furniture was the same wood set she always had, but her bed was littered with stuffed animals, and the floor was a chaotic array of toys. A grand canopy hung from the ceiling over the bed, and porcelain dolls sat neatly on the window sill. Her lip quivered as her eyes set upon the sleeping beagle on the bed. Lottie hurried over, her eyes watering. "Oh Buttercup... He's here..." A sigh made her gaze shift back to her father, who stood near her dresser.

_{"You've gone and left your toys all over the room again. You know your mother is going to give you a hard time when she sees... She'll say, 'Charlotte! Leaving messes is not becoming of a lady!'" His voice took on a lighter tone at the end of his statement as he imitated Emina with a chuckle, as he began to shuffle through his pocket, his expression saddening as the moment passed, "My apologies. I suppose it was my little Lottie who came in here like a tornado rather than... Well I presume you're all grown now, aren't you, darling?"}

He continued to speak as he finally yanked a chain from his pocket, a heart-shaped silver locket spilling out at the end.

_{"Come toward me now and have a look, butterfly."}

Her eyes watered as she stepped forward, her gaze falling on the locket. The silver amulet was adorned with elaborate, swirling patterns, and at its center, a delicate butterfly motif was etched in remarkable detail.

_{"I had it made just for you."}

Walter gently opened the locket, revealing its intricate inner workings. The inside was just as beautiful as the exterior, if not more so. It held a mechanism that looked like the heart of a music box, with tiny gears and springs arranged inside. At the center was also a small sapphire butterfly.

The Locket's Inside [+]

_{"It plays our song if you just twist this pretty little butterfly here. I chose blue to match your lovely eyes, of course!"}

The late Duke gave her a cheeky grin, and Charlotte couldn't help but smile faintly in return. He then proceeded to pat the top of the dresser.

_{"This top drawer has a false bottom. I'm placing this inside for you to find when the time is right. Once you put it on, never take it off. Ever. It will protect you in a very important way."}

Walter opened the drawer, and the noise of shifting wood filled the air. He dropped the necklace inside. Without facing her, he spoke one final time as tears spilled down his cheeks.

_{"I promised I'd protect you forever... I know I won't be there in the way that's most important, but please, let me protect you in the ways I can."}

As the end of his words reached her, she blinked, and the room darkened.

She was alone once more.

Charlotte stared at the dresser, her heart racing. Gathering her courage, she moved toward it. She began to open the drawer, chanting lowly under her breath, "...I'm not crazy... I'm not crazy..." It felt familiar to reassure herself, but the more she tried to delve into why such a statement felt nostalgic, the more her mind resisted. As she pushed her hand through the folded clothes inside, her mind rhythmically flickered with glimpses of an empty dark room with white walls and no furniture.

But then, she felt the wood move and exhaled shakily. Soon, she grasped a cold, metal chain and plucked it out. The locket dangled from the chain as she held it out in front of her with wide eyes.

Charlotte glanced toward the window, her pupils still dilated with shock. The pitter-patter of the rain against the window filled the silence.

---

Delilah had gently roused Lottie from her slumber for dinner around six o'clock. After changing into a fresh dress and having her hair tidied up, Charlotte arrived a little late, finding everyone already seated. She remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the meal, idly pushing her potatoes around the plate as if it were some game unbeknownst to the rest of the household. The dinner conversation was rather subdued. Gilbert was in and out of the room with plates of food, offering his usual sparse comments. Olivia, too, seemed less lively than Charlotte had hoped; she had appeared shaken ever since the ball. Fortunately, Delilah's bright spirit remained undimmed.

"Gilbert was absolutely hilarious, helping me eavesdrop. He was surprisingly considerate about things, not just fixated on the French toast not being as good as his. But you know, he was right. His French toast truly is the best... If only we could say the same about his atttttiitudeee!" Her voice took on a singsong quality at the end of her remark.

"For fuck's sake! Find something else to talk about other than me, woman!" Gilbert complained as he returned to the kitchen.

A smirk graced Charlotte's features as Delilah continued to chatter about Gilbert anyway. However, later in the conversation, Delilah made a suggestion that steered their fates for the rest of their night. "The sky is clear, and the stars are out! I bet there are going to be all kinds of cute boys at the amusement park for the circus in town... Lottie and Olivia, you girls should go have fun, and Olivia do me a solid and try to convince Lottie to at least try to talk to some men. I'd totally come with you, but I want to help Devan pack for his departure tonight... Oh, and Lorenzo, you go too! Have fun! Find a lady friend! You all deserve some enjoyment after all the drama."

Charlotte was absolutely not in the mood to go anywhere. She wanted to hide away from everyone, preferably even get away from this house. Even the nap had not been able to quiet the storm in her mind as it tried repeatedly to piece together what exactly was happening in her life lately. But then her eyes settled on Olivia, and she softened.

With a sigh, she relented for the second time today, "If that would lift your spirits, I'd love to attend with you, Olivia."

Count Landon Monet

Time: 8pm
Location: The Gentlemen’s Grill and Cabaret

---

The lounge was dimly lit with the glow from crystal chandeliers casting a soft, warm light that reflected off polished silver and glass. The deep rumble of men’s voices filled the air that was thick with the intoxicating blend of fine cigars and the smoky aroma of aged whiskey. Their chatter became a low cacophony over the noise of shuffling card and clinking glasses. It was obvious to anyone who entered that this was a spot where only the most elite of society gathered.

At the far end of the room, the jazz band was bathed in soft, intimate light on the stage. The charismatic Louis Blanchet commands the stage as his velvety smooth voice caressed the ears of all.

Count Landon Monet, dressed impeccably in a tailored uniform adorned with subtle golden embroidery, stood poised by the bar, a glass of fine scotch in hand. His striking features, marked by sharp blue eyes and platinum blonde hair slicked back, commanded attention as many gravitated to situate themselves around them. He raised his glass to toast the room, his voice smooth yet carrying a trace of the underlying tension he harbored.

"To a night free from the emotional turmoils of our wives!" he declared, his toast met with chuckles and nods from the surrounding patrons.

However, amidst the approving laughter, one voice cut sharply through the camaraderie.

A well-dressed gentleman from the corner, his expression masked in mock sympathy, raised his glass in return, his tone dripping with condescension. "Ah, Landon, always so quick to escape the 'emotional turmoils' as you call them," he began, capturing the attention of those nearby. "Maybe that’s why you probably poisoned your dick of a father. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree as they say afterall!"

The room hushed momentarily, the weight of the words hanging in the air. Eyes turned towards Landon, watching keenly for his reaction to the pointed jab.

Count Landon Monet's face flushed a deep shade of red, his fists clenching at his sides. Landon's voice then boomed across the room, filled with barely contained fury.

“You think you know me?" Landon spat out, “Mention my father again, and it'll be the last thing you do. " He then added with a growl, “And don't you dare compare me to that man. I am nothing like him, and you'd do well to remember that!"

Turning his back on the stunned gentleman, Landon downed the rest of his drink in one harsh gulp, slamming the glass down on the bar with enough force to draw a sharp look from the bartender.

It was then he noticed Count Calbert Damien approaching, his bastard son in tow. Calbert moved toward him and placed a comforting hand on Landon's shoulder, “Landon, take a moment, my friend," He advised in a low, soothing tone, his expression one of genuine concern. “Let's not give the night over to harsh words and tempers. Your guests are about to arrive and your grand event has just begun."

Turning his attention to the gathered crowd, Calbert raised his glass with a charismatic smile, instantly drawing the room's focus to him. “Gentlemen, let us remember why we are here—to enjoy an evening of good company and fine spirits. Let's lift our glasses to the many successes we share and those yet to come."

His words resonated throughout the room, easing the tension as men raised their drinks. Luckily, they were all already inebriated enough to go with the flow and probably wouldn’t even recall the outburst. Laughter and murmurs of agreement slowly replaced the earlier silence, as patrons returned to their conversations.

“Thank you… You always make it look so easy…” Landon murmured, his gaze shifting away as he leaned on the bar.

Calbert offered him a wry smile, “There’s an art to it, my friend, and we all are adept at different things…” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, ensuring only Landon could hear his next words, yet he maintained his friendly demeanor despite the subtle threat. “Landon… Do not to forget yourself again. I have my son present with me tonight and I intend to ensure him an opportunity to build himself a foundation with the other nobility. Present yourself with dignity. “

With a supportive pat on Landon's shoulder, Calbert stepped back."So how many tables did you acquire for this event?"

The blonde man gazed at him and hesitated with his reply as he seemed to be still processing Calbert's prior remarks. "I have three tables." He gestured to their roped-off section. "I think I will go situate myself at one now."

"Well. I'll go to another with my son, and we'll help keep things civil for you... Best of luck, Landon."