He wiped the sweat from his brow, brushing aside the fringe of his hair with a quick toss of his head. The room was like a puzzle, with and no doubt when he was done placing everything in their correct spots, la dame headache would no doubt want him to switch it around once again. It would be his pleasure to tell her no, but he did admit he had a certain responsibility to her happiness and well being now. A part of him wondered if he should abscond from the capital again, take what money he could find and make a living for himself back in Altdorf, or maybe go to Kislev. He would rather that than be the glorified babysitter to this one.

"Kissymir, Ai need zees! Kissimyr, Ai am in need of zom more seer-vants!" He mocked in a faux brettonian accent, shoving another one of the many hundreds of pounds of furniture to where they would best be suited. Usually he was not so juvenile, but Eleanor of Coucernne had a way of rankling his nerve.

She called to him again, and he grunted in response. He went to go do as she wished, but once he had returned, the situation had changed drastically. He found Eleanor stumbling out of the room, and a man with a severed arm and death in his eyes falling to his knees, a dagger clattering to the floor. Guards rushed to the scene from his call, and they swept passed Eleanor into the room, swords raised and eyes darting across the room.

Eleanor sat on the floor, stunned for a moment, before she began to cry.

"Are you hurt?" Kasimir demanded.

"Non Non but mon mak up eez ruined," she wailed.

Kasimir sighed, and sheathed his sword. For a moment he lamented this task his father had given him, yet again, but looking at her there with tears in her eyes, he felt his disdain turn to a modicum of sympathy. He suspected she was a liar and a charlatan, and at best she was an overdressed popinjay. But someone had tried to kill her twice, and as someone who had experienced the same, he felt a rapport despite himself. Kasimir knelt before her.

"We'll fix your make up before we go out, madame." He told her, trying to make his tone tender and reassuring. "And once it's fixed, we can get some sweets before we have to meet people."

"Bonbons? Oui?" She asked, sniffling. She peeked at him between her fingers.

"Oui," He responded, and pushed himself up, offering her a hand. "I brought someone to help you with your hair, and you two may the room I just set for you." He said the latter louder so the serving maid could hear, and she nodded at once, eyeing the room within nervously and glad to be using the other door, as the guards upended chairs and checked the windows. There's only one exit, and Kasimir was going to watch it personally. Whilst Eleanor and the maid walked into the room Kasimir had prepared, the swordsman stepped into the room the two watchmen were searching.

"Anything?" He asked them.

"No, my lord. And that is strange." The taller one said, stroking his read beard. Kasimir raised an eyebrow, and the man turned to the bastard. Even though Kasimir's station was unsure, he was still the graf's son. They showed him some hints of respect, every now and then. He cleared his throat and said. "The man's without a forearm, but we can't find it anywhere. And no blood on the window. It's as if the limb just disappeared."

The maid proved somewhat shaky, a fact that was unsurprising considering her first introduction to her mistress was to wash the sprayed arterial blood off her mistress. Her hands trembled so violently that she pulled Emmaline’s hair several times until Emmaline was forced to take over, relegating the woman to fetching things and holding the hand mirror. Emmaline herself was no better off but had the benefit of long practice of pretending everything was fine. When she was finally presentable she changed into a gown of green silk with brocade of gold thread. Her jewels, largely gifts from Oderick and other suitors had been brought to the room. Amazingly nothing was missing and Emmaline selected a gold ring with a large emerald as her only adornment.

Once she had been made presentable Kasimir and the Captain of the guard tramped in looking puzzled and troubled. Both men were scanning the area and had hands on swords, as though expecting another assassin to leap from the shadows at any moment. Emmaline gave a brief account of events, admitting only to a struggle with the killer.

“What I don’t understand is, what happened to the man’s hand?” the Captain, a rugged handsome man by the name of Kilbrook, puzzled.

“I zink ee cuts it of vith is own digger nes pa? Ven ee feel on moi?” Eleanor suggested. Both Kasimir and Kilbrook looked momentarily taken aback by such a monumentally stupid suggestion.

“Ma’dam,” Kilbrook began awkwardly, clearly embarrassed by her apparent ignorance “such a blade could never…”

“Perheeps ze bleed was inchanteeed vith vicked mageeks,” Eleanor continued, both men looked dubious but thoughtful. Magic blades were something with which they were familiar with, at least in theory. An improbable explanation was always preferable to the inexplicable.

“Oz more concseerned vith vou ee eez and vi ee tri to keel moi,” Eleanor said. Kilbrook looked blank but Kasimir, with more exposure to Eleanor’s erzat accent, leaned over and whispered a translation. Kilbrook’s eyes cleared though were no less troubled.

“He was dressed as a servant but none of the others knew him. I suspect he stole the livery,” Kilbrook said.

“Vy mee ou as nee-ver seed boo to ze gos?” she demanded. Both men exchanged puzzled looks at this but eventually grasped her meaning.

“We ahh… assume it has something to do with Sir Oderick,” Kilbrook said, as though this were not the most obvious thing in the world.

“Whoever killed him must think you know something, or saw something,” Kilbrook expanded. Eleanor nodded her head.

“Ai cannot imaginé what,” she told him, to the Captain’s obvious disappointment. After a few more desultory questions the interview wound to a close and the Captain departed, leaving Eleanor and Kasimir alone. She wrestled with her conscience. The assassin had said that he needed to kill both of them. Should she warn the man? She hadn’t mentioned it to Kilbrook because she was fast coming to the conclusion that there was no one she could trust. No one except Kasimir it seemed.

“Shall we go and get those bon-bons?” Kasimir asked.

“Oui,” Eleanor replied, brightening considerably.

The chamberlain had informed Kasimir that today they would be attending a mêlée, followed by lunch in the form of a feast, and then a theatrical production in the great atrium. All grand opportunities for Eleanor to be presented to an eligible bachelor, and all prime ways to get herself killed. Much to Kasimir's chagrin, that meant he would have to experience all of them. Perhaps the mêlée was not so bad, and it depended on which play was being performed. He had gained a taste for the arts in Altdorf, but just a taste. He still was not a diehard melodrama fan like some southern nobles or high-class merchants.

He lead her east through the palace, passed depictions of ancient battles and paintings of more recent excursions into the drakwald. Wolf pelts and well polished weapons were hung on display, and long drape curtains were embroidered with fatalistic, gothic motifs. Most southerners would have found it barbaric, but despite Kasimir's education, he felt a sense of nostalgia moving through these halls again. Unfortunately, it was not the only blast from the past he was going to view on their way to the ballroom.

The corridor hit a four way cross section, and before the bastard and his cargo could pass through to the eastern wing of the palace, a man Kasimir instantly recognized stepped out of the left hallway.

Lucien Schroder, Vicount of the Middle Mountains and Marchwarden of the Grand Gates, raised his brow and smiled wickedly. No one else would have noticed the scowl on his face that had so quickly vanished. He was the richest man in the realm, bar the Graff, though he had very little lands to his name. The Middle Mountains, though rich in minerals, were an infestation of goblins and other foul creatures. As a favor to his father, Boris Todbringer had gifted him the honorific of Marchwarden of the Grant Gates, as the family spent most of their time in the capital, and the title had passed to Lucien. Kasimir and he had never liked each other, even as small children.

"Ah Kasimir, have you been avoiding me?" He asked, his voice smooth and subtle. He was not unhandsome, with brown hair swept back and a broad face, though he wouldn't be called strapping or raffishly striking like the Graf's bastard. If Kasimir was a sturdy longsword; lean, dangerous, with some rust from previous battles, then Lucien was a ceremonial basilard; polished, cultured, but unsullied. His long blue tunic was embroidered beautifully with white thread, yet he carried himself as if it was a simple dayly coat. "Rumor has it you're Lady De Aberville's newest suitor."

Kasimir tried to keep his face neutral. "Hardly, my lord. I am responsible for her safety, and as such I am tasked with attending to her and accompanying her to what events she is wont to go. Beyond that I care little." He shrugged, glancing at Eleanor who watched with sharp eyes. "Court her if you wish."

For his part, Lucien inclined his head at Eleanor. "Every nobleman in middleheim would be delighted to hear it. And as her ward, you would do well to introduce me."

Kasimir did so without enthusiasm, letting Eleanor know just how wealthy he was. Perhaps Lucien could solve his problem here and now and the both of them would go elsewhere, but something kept the Vicount from asking her, currently, though he did appear to look at her as though she were a piece of meat. When Kasimir was finished, Lucien turned his blue eyes on him, a smile returning to his face. That meant something treacherous was on the way.

"I imagine, lady Eleanor, it must be a chore to have to deal with him." He said, his eyes never leaving Kasimir. Next he spoke directly to the bastard. "I had always thought you would make a fine upjumped bodyguard. It seems that is all you can amount to."

Kasimir would not take the bait. Instead, he bade Eleanor forward, attempting to step past the unpleasant Vicount. "My father, in his wisdom, evidently agrees with you. If you'll excuse us, my lord."

"Your father? The Graf you mean." Lucien corrected him from behind his back. The Vicount turned, and it was clear he was trying to provoke him, though it was also evident he believed every word he spoke. "Being his bastard does not exonerate you from tradition. And some of us are still unconvinced... you certainly do not look like him."

The bastard halted at that. "Nor do you, yet you strut around as if you're next in line to inherit. I would cease your incessant scheming my lord. That too, has not gone unnoticed." Kasimir replied without looking back. He did not even address him as 'my lord.' It was a cold statement. Lord Lucien's eyes flared, and he stepped forward, his hand under his surcoat as if grasping a blade. Suddenly, Eleanor stepped between them, her hand out as if to allow him to kiss it.

"Eet iz a puh-leazsher to meet you, mon Seigneur," She said. He blinked, unsure of what to do for a quick moment, before bowing before her and taking her hand in his to give a gentle kiss.

"The pleasure is mine, la dame." He replied sweetly. "I have been to Brettonia, though not to Couronne. I look forward to speaking to you-" His eyes flicked to Kasimir, who awaited Eleanor. "-alone."

The pair of them left him there to continue with his business, and shortly arrived to the ballroom, where the feast was being prepared. The doors to the kitchen were wide open, and after a a brief discussion with one of the maids, they brought out a sizeable glass plate with grooves beyond its center, carved in small intricate designs of flowers and woodland shapes. Upon it was numerous, fairly large balls of chocolate coated with shells made of sugar and corn syrup, the result being a sweet treat with a a crunch. Eleanor took the plate greedily and popped one into her mouth, and an elated 'mmmm oui, iz délicieux!' escaped her lips.

After she had devoured four, Kasimir design to try one. He reached for one of the balls, but she smacked his hand. "Non, ze ees mes bonbons!" She remarked, haughtily. Kasimir gave her a look, but shrugged and turned, eyeing the door in case anyone entered the large, now mostly empty room to threatened Eleanor's life. A few moment's later, he heard her voice say "Erm, Kissymir? I 'ave a ques-chun, iv you would answere?"

"I wouldn't worry. Your split ends are hardly noticable." He remarked dryly. He heard her give an intake of breathe, but whether to laugh or pout, he wasn't certain. The next moment, he heard a strange 'hhhrrrk', and a moment of silence. Kasimir turned at the curious noise, and he found Eleanor standing there with her eyes wide, a slim hand reaching for her neck. Her lips opened, but no sound came out. She dropped the plate, the glass shattering on the floor and reached for her throat with both hands, panic in her face.

Kasimir's face went from tired to alert, and he moved without thought. Sweeping around behind her, he place his strong hands just above the belly button and below the ribcage, and gave her three solid thrusts. On the third, a wet, sweet ball flew out of her mouth and hit the floor, rolled across the tiles. She coughed, gasping for lungfuls of air, but within moments the color came back to her cheeks. Kasimir let waist go, but held her forearm and hand to keep her steady.

"Are you alright, Eleanor?" He asked breathily.

Eleanor coughed and spluttered for a moment in an unladylike fashion. The sugar that had gone down her windpipe burned most unpleasantly, and it took her a few moments to compose herself. There was no wine to hand, but there was a barrico of ale, so she dipped a mug and drank deeply. It was the first time she had drunk ale since assuming her pose as Eleanor de Aberville, and she had to admit that it tasted good. Eleanor finished the mug, then wrinkled her nose performatively, as though objecting to the flavor. She looked over at the remaining bon-bons with some distaste.

“Ai 'ave decidéd to share mon bon-bons wiv evairyon,” she declared magnanimously.

The melee was held in a section of the palace gardens which had been cleared for the purpose. A square had been set up, its borders marked with rope and a layer of sand spread within its confines. Seating had been erected around it to allow the great and the good to watch the entertainment. One side was reserved for commoners; by tradition, these were supposed to be the apprentices of smiths, fletchers, armorers, and other martial trades. Over the years, most of these folk had found it more profitable to ‘enroll’ burgers and other merchants as apprentices for a few days and, for an exorbitant fee, allow the merchants to hobnob with the nobility for a few hours.

"Zat must be lé fattest blaksmiv ai 'ave evair seen,” Emmaline remarked as she took her seat. Kasimir was seated beside her, much to the annoyance of a minor aristocrat whose seat he had taken. News of her meeting with the Count had obviously raised her status, however, because the young man wasn’t making an issue of it beyond a sulk.

“He does look like he could use a little time pounding iron,” Kasimir agreed. Part of the pantomime was that the merchants had to dress as the apprentices they pretended to be. To a master of disguise like Emmaline, their attempts were pitiful, as even the most authentic of them was in cloth that would cost a month's wages for a tradesman, intentionally distressed to look work-worn and shabby. She suspected part of the reason the nobles tolerated it was to laugh at their grasping inferiors.

Further discussion was interrupted as horns sounded and two men rode into the square from opposite ends. One wore the regalia of a White Wolf, while the other wore mail in the Reikland style. The latter’s armor was battered and battle-worn, and his shield, quartered with the arms of Reikland and one of the southern lords (Denbirch, or Vassalheim maybe; the numerous scuffs in the paint made it hard to tell). Each knight had a herald who announced them. The White Wolf was named Ulf Hammersmit, while the southerner was revealed to be Sir Jonas Krieger.

“Ai thought zis was supposed to bé a mel,” Emmaline whispered.

“There are several single combats first; we don’t joust like your people, not in Middenheim anyway,” Kasimir replied, a slightly skeptical emphasis on ‘your people’. The crowd cheered as a bell was struck and the two combatants charged in. Krieger held a long sword and shield, while Ulf brandished a great two-handed hammer. The two combatants thundered together, horses kicking up sand as they spurred forward. Ulf stood in his stirrups and swung an overhand blow, but Krieger raised his shield at an angle and shed the blow. The crowd were, naturally enough, partisans of the White Wolf and booed vociferously as the steeds passed one another and wheeled around. This time the horses crashed together, their momentum arrested as they reared. Blows flicked back and forth as the horses stamped and circled, Ulf using the haft as well as the head of his hammer to defend himself.

Krieger drove the lip of his shield down hard on Ulf’s thigh. The Ulrican roared and jabbed his hammer at his opponent's visor; Krieger parried, his sword flying free from his hand. He ducked down beneath a stroke aimed at his head and then shoved at Ulf with his gauntlet. The Ulrican seemed to wobble, then crashed to the dirt as his saddle slid off the back of his mount, its straps neatly severed by a small knife that glittered in the Reiklander’s hand. A roar of disapproval went up from the crowd, nobles and merchants alike. Eleanor distinguished herself by cheering and clapping with delight.

“So much for the Land of Chivalry,” Kasimir griped.

“A jen-tellman can be clevair as wéll as bravé; eet doés 'im non 'arm. Maibe you should try?” Eleanor retorted.

"You said before you wanted to ask me a question?" Kasimir asked, changing the subject abruptly. Eleanor didn’t answer for a moment, her eyes twinkling as the furious White Wolf shook his fist at the retreating Reiklander.

“Ai was goeng to ask you if you waire 'appy hair.”

Kasimir actually agreed with Eleanor, at least when it came to real battle. He had never been in an engagement beyond a skirmish, but Kasimir had survived around half a dozen situations where he had to fight to live, twice by beastmen and once by orcs. He was not above using guile and wiles to win, but he was surprised Eleanor would have the same opinion. Or surprised that she would show it, more like, he thought to himself. Still, when it came to a melee, a part of him did maintain that winning should be done fairly, because the entire point of it was the show. If you did not win the crowd, winning the fight did little. You wanted to show you were good while also acting in a manner befitting a knight, or people would not endorse you.

Then again, if there was prize money, he couldn't fault Kreiger if he got paid a pretty penny.

It was her next question that surprised him the most. At first he thought he misunderstood her, but when he saw she looked at him expectantly, he took a moment to think. How much did he want to say to her? And why did she care, really? He supposed he did save her life an hour before. Or maybe she simply knew he wanted nothing from her. Still, she looked thoughtful, and he found himself answering as if it were someone else talking. "No... Well, I suppose I should be. I get to eat when so many people don't, I get to attend tourneys and plays. Hells, many men would fight duels for the right to accompany a woman like you," He admitted, shrugging so as not to have her read too much into that. He was surprised he said it, himself. But it was true, as much as she annoyed him, she was beautiful and clearly intelligent. He looked at the tourney grounds, the squires aiding Ulf out of the arena. "But I don't think so."

She was clearly surprised at the evident compliment, but appeared thoughtful of the entirety of his answer. The woman asked. "Why iz zat, Kissymir?"

"I guess I feel trapped. I suppose I feel like I'm always the last on everyone's list, or the first to be blamed. Just one poor comment from being tossed into the street, and it's not even based on my own merit, at the end of the day. Just on other's opinions of me." He glanced at her. If she was a noblewoman, this was likely foreign to her. And if she wasn't, he still didn't know if she cared. "I suppose that sounds silly."

After she responded, he would ask her the same question.

"Eet does sound seeh-l" Elanor agreed, a smile on her lips to show she was joking. In truth she could sympathize with Kasimir. Most of her short adult life had been spent in service to one scam or another, with only a few months in the College when Albrecht was away or two sick to invent new mischief for her. She supposed it might be different for her because she knew that at some point the scam would end and so all things were temporary. On the field below a pair of nobles were taking the field, both wielding swords. This was a duel between men who had quarreled over a woman, using the days spectacle to settle a score. In Altdorf this would have been settled with pistols, or with knives in an alley, but the taste for such blood sport was less acute this far north.

"An électair counts son, even a bastard un, must 'ave many oppairtunitees much risk much ruard," she observed as the two men below began to hack away with their blades. Emmaline was no judge, but they seemed to have more enthusiasm than skill. She wondered idly if she might pretend to be the bastard daughter of an Elector count at some point, it would have the advantage of not compelling her to adopt such a ridiculous accent.

"What about you? Are you happy here?" Kasimir asked. Eleanor tittered with amusement.

"Given zat mon lovair 'as already been keehled, ét zumone 'as tried to keehl mé twice, ai cannot sai ai am exact-lee 'appy," she giggled, a touch of nervous hysteria in her voice. She felt she should tell Kasimir that the cultists had mentioned killing him too, but she couldn't figure a way to do it without destroying her pose.

"Tryeng to gathair ransom eez exhausténg when ai 'ave nothéng to tradé but coy glancés, and ai miss mon 'omeland," she expanded, the sentiment true, though she was thinking of the taverns and play houses of Altdorf rather than the drafty keeps of Brettonia. She had gathered considerable wealth by her own standards, mostly in jewelry and other small gifts. She even had a few promissory notes for gold which in theory she could draft on banks. True wealth had been offered to her, but only in exchange for marriage and land. This she would have promised, though not delivered, but any actual moves in that direction would reveal her fraud. She was starting to feel the prickling in her palms that meant that this seem had nearly been mined dry. She thought about the arrogant Lucien Shroder. Maybe not quite mined try. One more score. One more and then she would be out of this flee infested nest of provincials if she had to ski over the winter snows. One of the nobles screamed as his opponent hacked down into his neck with a spray of arterial blood. The crowd howled their approval.

"Eez la mélee abut to bégin?"

She was a strange woman, but he could see what someone might find endearing about her. The lady had an odd quality about her that was intelligent yet manic, but Kasimir supposed someone might say that a man who found that attractive might have some problems of their own. He shoved the thought away, and nodded at her question. "Yes, the first bouts were ones where one man could challenge another beforehand. They're supposed to be more noteworthy, but really they're mere preliminaries compared to the real mélee."

Below them, courtiers and squires hustled back and forth, clearing the arena of fallen men and arms, moving the fenceposts and raising banners for the knights and champions that would be fighting in the coming battle royale. Grimly, Kasimir wondered if Oderick would have been one of the contenders, had he not died the night before. The time moved swiftly, and soon there were twelve men in heavy plate of varying designs, armed with swords and shields. One man held an axe in both hands, and another bore a great hammer. Kasimir was somewhat interested in the bout, but his eyes still wandered. The paranoia of assassins did that to the mind, and it was by Ulric's blessing then was the time he had chosen to do it.

As the trumpets sounded, and the men's cries rose up for battle, Kasimir spied a pair of eyes looking directly at him atop one of the wood towers overlooking the tourney. It took him the span of a second to realize it was a crossbowman, and he saw the main raise his weapon in his direction. Kasimir sucked in a breath, and then shoved himself into Eleanor, pushing the both of them off her chair to the floor as the quarrel struck the back of Kasimir's chair, quivering from the impact. Kasimir hadn't noticed it had been meant for him, until he looked up from his prone position and realized he had saved his own life instead. The crossbowmen must have been either a bad shot, or had wanted to eliminate him so that Eleanor would be an easier target.

"Let's go." He whispered to her, helping the shapely woman to her feet. He looked back at the tower, and saw the crossbowman had disappeared.

The two of them managed to squeeze their way past the other nobility, through the side corridor leading out of the stands. Unfortunately, they had to pass through a thick crowd of commoners congregating around the small areas outside of the stands where they might catch a glimpse of the bout. Kasimir walked ahead of her, eyes peeled.

"Kissymir!" She shouted, and he turned to see one of the teeming masses break off to his left, glimpsing the flash of steel. Kasimir pivoted and sidestepped, pushing Eleanor away as the claoked man, wielding a shortsword, cut and stabbed at him. Kasimir ducked and leaped back, and stepped behind a wooden support beam. The short sword, slicing at his head, cut into the wood. Kasimir grabbed the man's forearm as he tried to pry the weapon free, and punched him in the face as hard as he could. He went down in a heap, and those commoners that saw only watched in wonder, not bothering to help.

"Who are you!?" Kasimir ordered, stomping on the man's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. "Who in Ulric's name do you work for?"

As Kasimir grabbed the man's collar, he saw the fellow's face, finally. He had a long nose and a wizened visage, despite being younger than forty. His eyes wild, he smiled wickedly, and Kasimir saw one of his teeth missing. Within moments, foam and bile rose from the assassin's throat, and he began convulsing.

"Poiee-san" Eleanor gasped.

Kasimir stared a moment longer as the man turned into a corpse, and he dropped him to the floor.

"Why eez evairyone een zis citay tryeng to keehl me?" Eleanor complained bitterly as Kasimir led her away by the arm. Attention seemed to be largely focused on the ongoing melee, cheers half-drowning out the crash of steel in the gardens behind them.

"I think they might have been trying to kill me that time," Kasimir objected.

"Oui, cairtain-lee, but you are vairy annoyeng, et zat peoplé would went to keehl you eez... 'Ow do you sai... On-lee natural," Eleanor replied, unable, even in her fear, to resist jibing at the Middenlander.

"Nice," Kasimir replied, shaking his head in disbelief at the woman. He continued to drag her deeper into the castle towards her chambers.

"But me, ai would névair 'urt a f-lee, on-lee come to try et raize lé ransom fair mon dair papa..."

"Ulric’s teeth!" Kasimir exploded. "Is there anyone left in the city you haven’t swindled with your story or your hip…"

Eleanor stopped dead as they passed the archway leading to the grand ballroom. Her sudden resistance broke Kasimir’s grip, and he stumbled. Eleanor ducked into the ballroom, and Kasimir followed.

"What is wrong with you, woman? We need…" He fell silent as he saw that the interior of the ballroom was filled with theatrical props: velvet curtains, beautifully painted backdrops, racks of clothing, mirrors, and masks. Men and women in expensive motley were hurrying about, setting up for the play later in the evening. A large sign had been hoisted above a makeshift stage. It read in large gilt lettering: Selkirk Theatrical Company.

"Kasimir!" Emmaline called urgently, bile churning in her stomach as she spun in time to see a giant of a man in what looked like half an acre of motley swing a heavy wooden serving table at the Middenlander. He whipped around at her warning, taking the blow across the shoulders instead of having his skull stove in. Kasimir flew through the air, crashing into Emmaline and sending the pair of them careening into a gorgeously painted backdrop of a forest complete with a white hart with a slender, almost beautiful face.

Emmaline landed on soft loamy earth, the sweet smell of woodland in late spring filling her nostrils. There was something else in the air, but she was prevented from savoring it by Kasimir’s limp body landing atop her and driving the air from her lungs. She punched and kicked at him in blind panic until finally she was able to roll free, panting to fill her panicked lungs. Kasimir lay limp in the dirt, and she snatched up his sword, gripping it with both hands. She was in a forest; of the troupe of performers, there was no sign, nor any sign of the ballroom they had been in mere seconds before. The sky could be glimpsed through the canopy above, a gorgeous riot of orange and gold clouds underlit by a setting sun. Emmaline became aware of a myriad of small flowers ranging from bright red to pale pink, some no larger than her thumbnail. All of them seemed to be turning to face her with the slow, inevitable logic of plants. The birdsong was languid, almost choral, yet it held a hint of menace all the same. Icy fear gripped Emmaline’s guts and brought a coppery taste to her lips. Wherever they were, it wasn’t Middenheim, and it was no natural place.

"Kasimir!" Emmaline hissed, "Kasimir!" The bastard son of the Count of Middenheim wasn’t stirring, though his chest rose and fell. A trickle of blood ran out of his right ear, dripping to the ground where an enterprising honeysuckle plant dipped its gorgeous flowers to sample the vitae. Emmaline kicked him hard in the ribs, eliciting a grunt but no more.

"Oh, for Ranald’s sake!" she cursed and thrust the point of the blade into the dirt. Emmaline was no Jade Wizard who could mend ruptured organs and knit shattered bones, but she knew a few basic cantrips, mostly for use on herself after too much ale. She placed both hands on Kasimir’s face and spoke the incantation. The magic came greasy and unpleasant, but strong for all that. Kasimir shuddered, and his face twitched as the spell began to take effect. A sudden crashing through the undergrowth startled her, and she pulled the sword free from the dirt just in time to see a gorgeous white hart bound into the clearing. At least it looked gorgeous at first, sixteen hands tall with fur as white as midwinter snow. The longer the eye lingered, however, the less wholesome it appeared. As the beast circled, Emmaline noticed that its feet were not hoofed but rather ended in slender blades which punctured the earth. Its lips were oddly human-like, as were its lavender eyes, for all that they were the size of a doe’s. Despite the pleasant day, its breath seemed to steam from its lips. It had a heady scent, animalistic and hot, which set Emmaline’s heart pounding and loins twitching. Despite appearing to be a doe, it was very clearly also in possession of certain masculine traits. She tracked it with the point of her sword, turning slow circles in the leaf mold above Kasimir’s prostrate form.

"Shoo!" she called out, her voice an uncomfortable croak. The deer-thing made an undulating noise that had something of laughter to it. Kasimir too began to chuckle, but it cut off in a wracking cough. The deer took a step towards Emmaline, but she yelped a spell, and the blade of the sword erupted in flame. The arcane light lit the trees and leaves a brilliant white gold, and the flowers and leaves shivered as though trying to move away. The deer took a mincing step backwards and then turned and crashed away through the underbrush. Emmaline held the sword aloft for another few moments and then lowered it, the flame extinguishing. With disgust, she yanked her shoes away from flowers which had been trying to wrap themselves around her.

"I was right, you’re as much Brettonian as I am an orc," Kasimir crowed, his voice pained.

"To be fair, there are certain resemblances to an orc you can trade on: dim wits, bad manners, a certain smell," Emmaline replied tartly.

"I was right!" Kasimir crowed, then yelped in pain as Emmaline half-helped, half-hauled him to his feet.

"YOui, you are buku clevair," she responded in her Eleanor voice. She lashed out with the sword, chopping two inches off an oak branch that had been in the process of slowly trying to grasp Kasimir.

"Perhaps you can use your doubtlessly prodigious talents to help figure out a way out of this place."

Kasimir yanked the sword out of her hands. "My 'prestigious talent' has already saved your lying rump more than once." He reminded her, and though one might construe the words implied he had now decided to withhold his aid, he knew he wouldn't do that. She got on his last nerves, but that did not mean he wanted her dead. Plus, they would need to work together regardless. Before she could speak further, Kasimir grabbed her hand and lead her into the bushes. Kasimir crashed through the thickers like an imperial steamtank, the small cuts on his cheeks and arms ignored for prudence's sake. He took another step, and felt a hot stab of pain. Kasimir cursed, leaping out of the bushes to the left, and as Eleanor followed, they realized they were no longer in a woodland. Instead, Kasimir felt as if they were in the steaming jungles of Lustria, or the mysterious Southlands. The trees looked real enough, and the air was thick with moisture, but there were various statues of beasts larger and small, as well as some stills of dangerous natives.

"Shallya's tits!" Eleanor squealed as what had originally looked to be the statue of a hunting cat suddenly burst to life, turning and leaping at Kasimir in one fluid motion. The swordsman moved quickly, his still-flaming sword impaling the heavy beast even as it tackled him. The sword burst out of its back, and it gave a death growl, but not before its claws had raked against his arms and chest, ruining his jerkin and drawing beads of blood that began to trickle.

Eleanor hurried over to the closest statue, something that looked like a small rodent. She felt it, breathed a 'yes!' and began to perform an incantation. Kasimir felt the hairs on his arm and neck stand up, and within moments her hands glowed. The statues melted as if they were made of butter and had been under the scrutiny of the sun for hours.

"And you're a sorceress!?" Kasimir asked, bewildered.

"Not a very good one," She admitted with a guilty smile. "Though for some reason my powers are stronger here. I was planning on learning from the court mage after a drink or two with him, but I guess that ship has sailed now."

Without warning, the vines came alive, striking at Kasimir like serpents. To his credit, he cut through four of them with swift cuts from his sword before a dozen more wrapped around his limbs. The man struggled, but instead of asking for her, he glared at the woman. "Is there anyone in Middenheim you haven't tried to seduce!?" He cried, accusatory.

"Yes!" She said, fists balling up. "You!"

Before he could retort, he was dragged away to one of the trees. Luckily for him, he had kept a grip on his sword and, spinning it betwixt his fingers, cut two of the vines grasping his sword hand. His arm fell free, and he sliced through the rest within two seconds, dropping to the jungle floor. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and pointed at the blonde. "When we get out of here, I'm yelling at you some more!"

"Looking forward to it!" She snapped back.

"Do your wizardly powers give you any idea which direction we should be going? Kasimir demanded. Emmaline looked around the strange landscape. The flowers were growing thicker and larger by the moment, not to mention considerably more alien. The air was heavy with pollen and perfume that made Emmaline want to sneeze.

"Actually they do," Emmaline admitted, stepping carefully around a wrist thick stamen that probe blindly for her.

"Mind sharing that information with me?" Kasimir asked.

"Left," she said pointing vaguely into he forest. Kasimir looked skeptical, turning slowly and keeping the point of his sword in a low guard. A pair of squirrels chittered from a nearby elm tree, their eyes massive and faintly luminescent. Everything about this place was beautiful and menacing.

"How do you know?" Kasimir pressed as Emmaline set off in the direction she had indicated. She looked back over her shoulder.

"We are in a theatrical backdrop, exit is always stage left."

______________

The landscape drew slowly steeper and bare rock emerged through the leaf mold. The rocks divided up into numerous small pools, in which lotus like flowers floated serenely. The trees here were of no type Emmaline had seen, large broad leaves of deep green with purplish veins. The trunks were covered with ambler sap which coated them like old honey or incipient amber. There were shapes beneath he sap, human shapes. Emmaline saw a naked Imperial woman, eyes staring wide in ecstatic pleasure in her syrupy psuedodeath. Another cascade of sap contained a handsome man with staring horrified eyes.

Emmaline... the wind seemed to whisper.

"Did you hear that?" Emmaline demanded, spinning rapidly around to try to find the source of the sound.

"All I hear is the wind," Kasimir said then paused... "and maybe surf, why what..."
"Would you be quiet, I'm trying to listen!" Emmaline hissed, exasperated. Kasimir rolled his eyes but fell silent for a moment while she listened. The sap continued to run from the trees, slowly growing too thick to make out the people trapped beneath, rending them dark shadows against the sticky amber slime.

"It's not surf," Emmaline said after a moment, "it's applause. The show must have started."

"That is hours away," Kasimir objected, then fell silent, "of course we are in an insane painting so why should time work normally."

Emmaline ... she spun around, catching a glimpse of the white hart at the edge of the treeline.

"Aureum Fulmen Lucis!" Emmaline shouted, thrusting out both hands with fingers interlocked and palms turned out. The hart bounded away a moment before a golden beam of light the thickness of Emmaline's forearm scythed through the woodland it had occupied a moment before. One of the trees touched by the beam exploded with a shattering crash and chunks of syrup, wood and the unfortunate victim it had entombed rained down, waking great splashes from the pond. Emmaline slewed her beam after the retreating hart but it had already vanished among the trees.

"We have to follow it," Emmaline decided, heading off after the hart.

"Oh sure lets follow the monster," Kasimir griped.

"Feel free to stay here," Emmaline called. Kasimir glared at her back but followed a moment later.

______

Nor did the landscape grow more pleasant as they moved up hill in the direction the hart had fled. The trees gave way to large thick trunked flowers. They were in riotous colors in every shade and pattern imaginable. Emmaline had the uncomfortable impression of of women with their head and shoulders planted in the soil, an impression uncomfortably amplified when a dozen bees, the size of large dogs emerged from a glade. Instead of stingers the insects bore very large but very human phallus, if human phallus had been ebony black. They began to 'pollinate' the flowers furiously and Emmaline felt a dull vibration beneath the earth, though whether it was screaming or moaning she couldn't fightly say.

It can be both Emmaline... the voice in her head promised.

They wouldn't come to the forest, so we have bought the forest to them...

"We are running out of time," Emmaline breathed, holding out both hands against a sudden rush by the bee things, though they seemed focused enough on their task.

"If we don't get out of here fast, I'm afraid something very bad is going to happen in the palace..."

The thought of being in this place for any real length of time was enough to get Kasimir to wish for nothing less than to be gone from there forever. But if the Graf and innocents were in danger, he knew it was paramount they left immediately. He nearly gagged, and would cut the bees apart if he hadn't the most urgent desire to stay as far from them as possible.

"How do you propose we do that?" He asked her, though he was not being snippy. It was an earnest question coming from someone who was tired out of his mind. The flowers elicited eerie cries that sounded like women in the throes of passion, and it unnerved Kasimir to no end. Emmaline searched around frantically, but just at that moment, the eerie looking Hart bounded out of the treeline, its head tilted and its human eyes staring at them intently.

"That thing..." Emmaline breathed, pointing at it. "There's something..."

It stepped closer, its knife-like feet puncturing the ground with wet smacks, until it halted and lifted its head to give off a cry of pain and pleasure, its throat providing a chopping to the long bray. Its body began to contort, legs bending and back snapping. Its head suddenly jerked backward like an ape had broken it with a powerful tug, and within moments its flesh coalesced into something Kasimir had only ever heard of in stories.

A Daemonette.

Its body was tall and slim, and red so dark it almost looked indigo in color. In one hand it held a whip, and in the other there was nothing, for it had a claw that seemed sharp enough to snap bronze in two. On its left, it had the chiseled pec of a human male, and on its right was a large, rounded breast with a chain attached to it. Its large legs framed twin genitalia that even now roiled as if they had lives of their own.

"The lord of pleasures welcomes you to this small pocket of his reality," It said, its voice a sibilant whisper despite its volume carrying to both of their ears. Emmaline would recognize it as the voice in her head.

"Why are you trying to kill me," Emmaline demanded, her voice quavering with the fear that roiled bile in her stomach. The Daemonette licked its lips, its tongue long and deerlike even in this more humanoid form. The Daemonette took a step forward and Emmaline raised her hands warningly, golden energy sparking between her finger tips.

"Isn't that what Daemons do?" the creature asked sibilantly, rolling it's hips in a slow rotation that tired to draw the eye to its genitals. Emmaline took a step back, bumping into Kasimir who cursed.

"You were a threat to us, the winds of Chaos spoke both your names to us when we embarked on this scheme. Now that you are here though I think we can find something more pleasurable than death for you..." the Daemon moaned. Emmaline backed another step before the advancing daemon, hopping over a root that had been worming its way through the loam towards her.

"You have potential girl, the man... just a man..." Roots exploded from the ground, coiling around Kasimir's legs and lower body. He howled in rage and shock as rootlets exploded from the main trunk, wrapping his wrists and elbows. Emmaline had time to be revolted by the fact that small mouths had opened in the wood and were mindlessly kissing and sucking at Kasimir as he was slowly bent backwards by the constricting mass. Something shivered beneath the earth and Emmaline was mortal certain she didn't want to know what it was that was attached to those questing tendrils. The Daemonette held up her hand and the rootlets froze, halting but not releasing their grip on the struggling Kasimir.

"Unless your fond of him? If you kneel before me I shall spare his life, even let you keep him. Does that please you Emmaline?" the creature asked with a cruel lilt in its voice.

"Emmaline?" Kasimir asked, apparently not completely out of his wits. The Daemonette laughed in a rich throaty contralto, somewhat ruined but the rustling sursurence of the chitinous claw as it opened and closed.

"Our little liar has many names, but that is her favorite," the Daemon mocked. Emmaline turned and grabbed Kasimir's hand. She bent her head close to his.

"Don't do it..." Kasimir grunted.

"I'm not going to do it you idiot," Emmaline responded in a whisper and then kissed Kasimir on forhead.

"What are ... no!" Kasimir screamed but his scream froze as his flesh turned to gray stone, spreading down from his head like blood tainting a pond until he was entirely solid. A perfect life sized statue of a brave, if rather annoying man, rendered in detail beyond the skill of even the greatest sculptor.

"How sweet of you to spare him damnation," the Daemonette crooned. The rootlets fell away uninterested in their now inert pray. "Fortunately we won't let the same thing happen to you..." The Daemonette charged, bounding across the gap between them, it's whip striking out. Emmaline screamed as it wrapped around her wrist and yanked her towards the creature but she kept her nerve, drawing arcane power into herself as she used the momentum to turn the fall into a leap a sheet of golden fire blasting out before her. She struck the Daemonette in the chest, rocking it backwards. Emmaline shouted another spell and spikes of granite erupted from the hill side like blades through a silk coat. The attack flung the Daemonette back but the creature was still laughing cruelly.

"Foolish mortal, you are cunning but this our lords domain afterall..." the creature swept its claw through the granite spikes shattering them like glass as it sauntered towards her.

"We painted everything here afterall and we will share our art, first with the court of this so called Elector Count and then with your whole foolish Empire," The Daemonette cooed, then stamped imperiously. The roots exploded out of the ground once more this time seizing Emmaline. It wrapped her hands and writs, coiling between her fingers to foil any spell craft. Slim tendrils, slid up her legs, turning around her and slipping beneath her dress. Mouth like leaves sucked at her exposed flesh and began working their way up her neck making her shiver in revulsion and a horrifying fission of guilty pleasure. Several of the bees emerged from the undergrowth, moaning in an unsettling human way as they began to circle her. Emmaline could smell the mix of hormones and perfumes, heady and spicy and making her head swell.

"I'm going to enjoy this," the Daemonette cooed, it's beautiful face split into a leer of desire that could never be satisfied.

"Not... as much... as I will..." Emmaline chocked out as she was pinned back and fully spread eagled.

"That is the..." the Daemonette wheeled around at a sound behind her. Kasimir howled a warcry as his sword came down in a vast over handed stroke. The chaos spawn's claw flew away from it in a spatter of dark purple ichor and the immortal being's eyes bulged with horror and disbelief. Kasimir was shedding dust from the thin crust of stone Emmaline had encased him in as his momentum carried him past the shocked daemon. It whirled after him and lashed out with the whip but Kasimir pulled his arms down and turned his head, presenting the flat of his body to the blow. The whip snapped across him drawing blood in a thin line but failing to wrap around him, instead he gripped the whip chord in a powerful hand and jerked the wounded Daemonette towards him. It stumbled forward on its hooves, its chest meeting the point of Kasimir's sword between breast and pectoral. The creatures huge eyes bulged as the point of the blade erupted from its back, its own weight impaling it to the hilt. The bees surged forward but Emmaline, free of the roots now that the Daemon's attention had been terminally diverted, sprang to her feet and whirled her arm around her head. The shattered shards of granite flew into the air whirling like a tornado of razor edged glass around the two humans, half a dozen bees flew apart into twitching pieces that flopped and struggled on the earth. Emmaline stumbled to Kasimir and closed her hands around his, then with a wrench they pulled the sword free. The Daemon tumbled back into the storm, losing definition like a sandcastle when the waves reach it. Emmaline yanked the sword sideways, flicking the dark purple blood aside like an artist spattering a canvas. Reality parted where the blood hissed through the air and Emmaline leaped through dragging Kasimir after her.

Lucien had been enjoying the show immensely. The backdrops in particular were magnificent. He could have sworn at times that he saw creatures, even people moving on the painted canvas, a simply masterful display of stage craft. The play was building towards its denouement, when suddenly, with no warning there was a tremendous ripping sound. The fabric of the backdrop tore open and two figures tumbled out.

"Ulric's blood it cant be..." but it was, it was the damned Count's bastard and that Brettonian woman to boot. There was a sudden scream that chilled the blood of everyone in the room, and suddenly the background repaired itself, like a pond closing over a stone. A great white hart suddenly stood out on the canvas its eyes red with fury. One of the stage hands screamed and thrust at Kasimir with a heavy pole. The whelp batted it away and slashed at the man who went down with a scream and a spray of blood.

"Tréachairy!" Eleanor screamed, "Chaos and pairfidy, get le count to saftey!" One of the actors produced a very real sword and charged at her. There was a crack and the man toppled over, shot through the head by the Witch hunter who was drawing a second pistol even as he tossed the first one aside. One of the players screamed and leaped into the backdrop sliding through it appear in cruder two dimensional relief with the image. The White Hart pounced on him, driving its hooves into his body over and over with stylized flashes of blood. The Witch Hunter shot another player, a woman who had produced a jagged knife from her bodice, sending her toppling from the stage into the court below. Men and women were screaming, some trying to flee, others drawing weapons and trying to rush the stage. In moments it was over, the players and stage hands cut down to a man. The White Hart paced the canvas in fury until Elanor seized a torch and thrust it into the fabric. The backdrop began to char, then burst into flames that were tinged an unhealthy purple as they consumed the linen. Men at arms kicked the backdrop down, knocking the fabric off the improvised stage and onto the stonework where it stood less chance of burning the palace down. Concerned they might be but no one who had seen the image of the white hart its limbs covered in blood, suggested putting the thing out until it had burned down to nothing more than soot and ashes.

The following hour was a whirl of activity. Men rushed the stage, actors snarling as if they were wolves set upon by hounds, and Kasimir stood between Eleanor, or Emmaline, and the crowd with his sword at the ready. Ulric knew he had a lot of questions, not to mention a mountain of pent-up frustration at the woman, but her gambit had worked, and he at least knew she wasn't a Chaos Worshiper, which was more than he could say about an uncomfortable amount of people after the debacle. Had he been alone, he might have been more traumatized by the eldritch and untold things he had witnessed within that pocket realm, but he was too busy to think and too alert to be distracted.

The Knights of the White Wolf soon quarantined the entire theater, and even what small handful of Sigmarite priests there were had been called forward to help cleanse the place of any taint. Boris Todbringer had been at the back of the crowd, but had been escorted out by his most trusted guard, though not without complaint. You'd hardly find a more staunch foe of the dark gods than him. After his bastard and the Countess of Aberville had been escorted out, they had been sent to their rooms until asked for questioning, only to be stopped halfway back by the Witch Hunter, the questioning evidently starting at that moment.

Emmaline had grabbed Kasimir's hand as they were escorted to a small, guard chamber, and mouthed she would do the talking once they were there. He gave a subtle wink and turned back, whatever guard watching would likely think it was a correspondence of fondness rather than pragmatism. Once they reached the room, Emmaline had taken out a small fan, and whipped it back and forth to fan herself as she recounted a basterdized tale of what had occurred in her faux brettonian. Now that he knew she was a fake, he could hear some subtle mistakes here or there in her speech, but overall he was impressed how flawless she was in speaking it. By her account, they had not been transported to a daemon realm, but had instead been attacked by cultists who had hidden themselves in large clay pots of trees, set for stage design. Apparently one of them had been a dabbler of foul magics, and had performed some ritual that had let the paintings along the backdrop come to life. When questioned how the count and her protector had come through the imaginary yet animated work of art, she explained she simply did not know, and that it must have been some ruinous trick the sorcerer had played. A priest of Ulric and a Sigmarite priest both then stood before them, incanting to find if there was any taint upon the two of them. Kasimir saw Emmaline's eyes filled with fear, and he knew that part she did not need to act.

"They have no corruption upon them, though their humours are troubled." The Sigmarite said, lifting his hand from Kasimir's brow and opening his eyes.

"It's been quite a day, your holiness." Kasimir responded diplomatically. "Before this, we had been attacked twice. Hopefully, the White Wolves will see to it that this vile activity is expunged."

It grated him to give the credit to someone else, but he supposed if he was going to tell his father the whole truth of it at some point. Then he glanced at Emmaline, who seemed relieved. He wondered then if he was going to tell the Graf about her deception? He was not sure. By all rights he should, but perhaps tomorrow.

"I will speak with you both, further. But that suffices for now." The Witch Hunter said, looking down and them past his nose. Kasimir felt those eyes could see through anything, and though Emmaline had lied throughout all of it, he still hoped it was true. Maybe he could catch or kill any cultist or daemon that was left and leave Kasimir and Emmaline alone. When both the charlatan Countess and the bastard nodded their acquiescence, they were allowed to return to their connected rooms.

Kasimir opened the door for Emmaline, bowing to her as if he were a gentleman courtier vying for her favor. She walked passed him, and he closed the door to let the men discuss this entire situation further. A servant hurried by, and Kasimir halted him with a finger. "We require dinner, good sir. The lady is famished."

"Et du vin, er...drink!" Emmaline chimed in with a sweet smile.

"Y-Yes my lady, my lord." The sweating servant replied, bowing before hustling away to first complete whatever task he was trying to get done on this hectic night.

No one liked being examined by priests and Witch Hunters. Least of all actual witches. It came as a considerable relief to be pronounced free of taint, a fact no wizard was ever entirely confident of, but a lingering feel gripped her of what Kasimir might say. A word from him to his father might see her imprisoned, even executed. This northerners were touchy about their honor afterall and it would ill behoove the count to tolerate having his entire court hoodwinked for a season. Eleanor showed no sign of her misgivings over the wine and roasted pheasant they were served for dinner but plead exhaustion and retired early to her chambers. She did not however to to sleep.

"Thank you fair meeténg mé mon laird," Eleanor whispered. Lucien Schroder nodded conspiratorially. The pair of them were in the Rose Garden, one of the cloisters of the palace which had been given over to the cultivation of the snow white roses for which Middenheim was famous. It was well after midnight and it hadn't been easy to evade the guards who were on high alert after the disastrous theatrical show hours before.

"Of course mon Cheerie, though when I received your note, I rather hoped it was my charm which had inspired this midnight assignation," he chuckled. Eleanor simpered prettily. She was dressed in a dark traveling dress and coat, a small satchel over her shoulder that contained the jewelry, gold, and promissory notes she had amassed in six months in the Court of the White Wolf. It was quite a score, even by Altdorf standards where the cost of living life was high. Well, the cost of living the way Emmaline planned to was high.

"Ai did not know whaire elsé to turn," she replied to the hooded and cloaked lord, wringing her hands for theatrically effect.

"What can I do for you my dear," Lucien returned in a smooth soothing voice, the same tone you might use for a dog or a panicy animal.

"Ai need to gét oot of lé citay men 'ave tried to keehl me many times een ze past fu dais et ai fair if ai do not gét oot of haire now ai shall névair see mon belovéd Brettonia again," she fraudulently confessed. Lucien paused for a long moment, either considering her words or trying to puzzle out her outrageous accent.

"Ah," the nobleman said at last. "Don't you have the Counts bast...ah that is natural son to look after you?" Eleanor laughed with bitterness that she didn't need to simulate. Kasimir might very well 'look after her' if or when he told anyone what he knew, which probably wouldn't be long because he was spiteful and thick to boot.

"Look aftair me? Ze count méans to marry me to ze brute zo 'is sprog can claim a rich estate ét be far from la public eye hairé at curt, regardléz of mon feelengs abut zit!" she protested. Lucien nodded his eyes clearing as his hatred for Kasimir clouded his judgement just as Emmaline had known it would.

"And no one knows we are meeting?" he asked, still a trifle nervous. Eleanor shook her head.

"I can get you out of here, I have estates around Utenguard and no one will question my coach leaving they city even this late but we must go now," Lucien urged. Emmaline repressed a frown, a con woman's instinct warning her when something was going a little too well.

"Ai must gathair mon thengs," she temporized and turned to leave the garden. Light exploded across her vision and she was suddenly laying in the grass her vision swimming. Two men were standing over her, with rougher boots than Lucien's fine riding shoes.

"I do have a coach madmosielle, and it will take you out of the city, but that quaint little county of yours wont be going to the bastard Kasimir," he promised. A bag was thrust over her head and something sweet, cloying and wet was shoved up against her face. Everything went black.

She was unconscious when the coach clattered out of the city, unchallenged, just as Lucien had said.

"Where is she?" He asked, patience wearing thin. His hand behind his back, as if clutching an unseen dagger. The other rested on his sword for the benefit of the visual, but it was his eyes that looked sharp enough to kill. The shadows of the cellar helped with the menace, which was ironic, considering it was not Kasimir's idea to meet here. Himmel Loher looked nervous, likely wondering if Kasimir would dare try any harmful act against him. Kasimir himself did not know, either.

When he had first learned Eleanor was missing, around two hours after he had risen and learned she had never returned to her room after supper last night, he was relieved. Happy, even. He hadn't imagined he would be free of her without a concerted effort on his part, but Ulric had answered his prayers overnight. Even as he realized he did need to make some sort of investigation to serve his father, he decided he was not going to be quick about it. Perhaps enjoy the morning, and he did so by sparring in the yard, taking on a few of the off-duty guardsmen. They bet on the matches and joked, trading coins and jeers.

Afterwards he toured the halls, sharing a moment with a pretty maid. When she spoke, he flinched when he heard a Brettonian accent. Apparently she was from Parravon and had fled a poor marriage to seek opportunity in the more egalitarian Empire, and when she left to return to her duties, he sighed, pushing it out of his mind. But despite his best efforts, something brewed in the pit of his stomach. She was a coward, he thought, and had likely fled as soon as possible. But without talking to him about what he would do? They were not fond of one another, but after saving each other's lives more than once, he had thought they had formed a rapport. After spending days together in close proximity, and destroying a bloody chaos cult, it felt wrong.

After lunch, when his father had yet to call him and Eleanor, or Emmaline, to his presence, he decided to begin looking. He checked the ballroom, and the courtyards, and then began to ask around the more wealthy taverns close to the palace. And as looked, a thought occurred to him. Perhaps she had not fled, but some cultist had taken her? He changed tactics, and returned to the palace, seeking an old friend he had known as a child. One of the cooks, called Einhardt, that had been famous for knowing every dirty secret in Middenheim. But after speaking to a few maids, he learned Einhardt had retired, and so he made a bargain. Leave a note where men used to leave them for the chef, in the crook of a murder hole near the south wing, and see if someone came to collect. It seemed Ulric was the god of luck as well as wolves. Before an hour was up, a servant had passed through the hall and the note was gone. Kasimir followed, and before long he had found his way to the new master of secrets, Schafer.

Kasimir did not endear himself to the new 'chef' well. The man was ugly in speech as well as looks. He spoke to him quickly, and when the chef was not content to speak at the current moment, blustering Kasimir leaves before he called the guard, Kasimir had pulled him down to the cellar to remind him that a bastard still had some sway in the palace. A few harsh questions and a threat or two later, and the man was ready to relent.

"The lady...she was..." Schafer stammered, looking around in trepidation. He found his voice again. By the smell of him, Kasimir guessed he was not like old Einhardt. He was just a spy man, not a real cook. There was only sweat there, not burnt chicken or broth in the air. "She met someone, late last night. Lord...Lord Lucien. I don't know what was said but..."

Kasimir let him know that his hand did not clutch mere air. He pulled his dagger out, face neutral.

"She was taken! A bag placed over her head! I know nothing else! I was...I was planning to sell the information later but have it and leave me be!"

"Leave me be 'my lord'" Kasimir reminded him. He still did not really belong to the title, as of yet. But he was feeling unsympathetic at the moment.

"My lord," Schafer conceded.

Emmaline’s head pounded like a drum as consciousness sluggishly returned. The rattle of coach wheels across uneven roads added an additional layer of unpleasantness to her awakening. Her mouth tasted bitter with the aftereffects of the ether Lucien had used to knock her out, and she wanted to spit. Something blocked her mouth, and she began to struggle and curse. A moment later, the black shroud over her vision was pulled free, and painful lances of sunlight stabbed into her eyes.

“Mrrrmmph,” she groaned into the gag between her teeth. All in all, it felt like all the hangovers she had ever had rolled into one. With the deliberate care of a clockmaker, she opened one eyelid, slitting it immediately against the daylight. It took her a moment to make her protesting eyes comply, but she gradually comprehended that she was in a plush coach moving through thick forest. This was true forest, like the Drakwald, rather than the pleasure parks of the rich, its undergrowth thick and wild-looking. She shivered, uncomfortably aware that beastmen and worse things lurked in such dark places.

“We can take the gag out if you promise to behave,” a gruff voice suggested. Emmaline opened her other eye and focused on a muscular man in a leather jerkin and flared halberdier trousers tucked into scuffed riding boots. His head was shaved, though not recently judging by the fuzz of stubble on his scalp, and though he had no obvious weapons, he had the look of a veteran. Emmaline nodded, immediately regretting it as a wave of nausea swept over her. The thug reached over and untied the twisted linen gag from between her teeth.
“Water…” she croaked, momentarily forgetting to maintain her Brettonian accent. Fortunately, the sound that came from her parched throat was too unintelligible to decipher.

“One of the benefits of traveling in style, mademoiselle, is we don’t have to bother with water,” the thug said, his hatchet-hard features splitting into a grin that showed a glittering gold tooth on the right side. He opened a sideboard and pulled out a bottle of wine, removing the cork with a twist of his wrist and a hollow thunk sound. Emmaline tried to reach for it but found her hands bound behind her back. The thug lifted the bottle to her lips and poured a mouthful in. She drank greedily, rinsing the bitter taste from her mouth and wetting her parched throat.

“Will you be civil if I untie you?” the thug asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Oui,” Emmaline replied, twisting her torso to expose her hands. The man dutifully untied her, and she felt the prickling sensation of blood rushing back. Outside, the carriage rattled over a small bridge and began to climb a series of shallow switchbacks along a ridge. Ahead of the coach rode a quartet of pistoliers, trotting along as outriders. Turning around seemed an impossible effort, but she thought she could detect the hoofbeats of more horsemen to the rear.

“What is your name?” Emmaline asked her companion as she took the wine bottle from his hands and drank deeply.

“Jan Colditz,” the man introduced himself, pulling another bottle of wine from the sideboard and uncorking it with his teeth.
“And before you ask, we are taking you to one of Lord Schroder’s estates until he can arrange for your marriage,” Colditz explained. Emmaline was about to ask what kind of estate could exist in the middle of a forest when the coach crested a rise, and the view opened up over a narrow valley. The green valley had been extensively terraced with orchards and gardens trained along the sides of the hills. A large manor house occupied a flat area that ran for several hundred feet before the valley dropped to a broad stream at the bottom. Emmaline thought she could detect a smudge of smoke on the southern horizon, possibly Uterngard if anything Shroder had said could be believed. Scores of miles of trackless wilderness in all directions, she thought, the perfect place to keep a prisoner.

“It’s probably to one of his vassals so deep in debt that he will sign over your lands the second the ink is dry on the marriage contract,” Colditz said, a trifle apologetically. Emmaline concealed a hysterical giggle, wondering how long she would survive after that. That assumed Schroder didn’t learn she was about as Bretonian as a dwarf. The coach slowed at the top of the ridge, passing through a fortified gatehouse of stone and half-timber that covered the road through the forest. Armed men waved the coach through, sunlight glinting off handgun barrels.

“Welcome to Niederung,” Colditz intoned, lifting his wine bottle in salute before draining the contents in a single long pull.

The true drakwald was not for some days by horseback, but the woods infesting the roads out of Middenheim were still thick and ominous, and even when they thinned, steam wafted and small creaks of decrepit trees kept a man on edge. The road was soggy, but not so deep a horse couldn't traverse it well with an experienced rider. Kasimir kept the reins of his horse firmly in his hands, eyes glancing left and right every minute, ears opened and alert. He left the city of the white wolf nearly half a day ago, making his way down the mountain and reaching one of the many roads that led to Neiderung. He figured that would be where Lucius would take her, and unfortunately he knew Lucius better than most.

"Girl's an idiot," he sighed as his horse rounded the corner, and a small wayward village came into view. It spoke to the strength of the White Wolves and their constant patrolling that it was not a walled settlement, one of the very few in all of Middenland, as the shadow of Middenheim still towered over the region. It was relatively small as well, the main road directly apart of the travel road, cutting through the settlement as the central drag. Smoke puffed into the air from various small homes and businesses, and what men and women were out trudged by Kasimir with only giving him a cursory glance. He felt they were likely too busy to grant newcomers much notice, and the fact he was coming from the capital meant he was not a threat. But a moment later, he realized why so little attention was being granted to him.

Up the road, another rider approached. Kasimir raised an eyebrow, noticing the steed he rode was well bred and powerful, so stark white it almost glowed, even with the sky above overcast. Upon it rode an equally powerful looking man in a tabard and old-style chainmail, and as the man turned his steed to the left, Kasimir saw the grotesque display of three beastmen heads tied to the saddle, their mouths open in screams, fangs and tongues out for all to see. It took Kasimir a few moments to recognize the regalia on his tabard, and the what the antiquated armor signified. He looked up at the sky, thinking that Ulric had a real sense of humor. He kicked his horse forward, and tethered it at the same inn as the knight.

The fellow had taken off his plumed helm at the counter, searching through his bag and mutturing to himself in his foreign tongue when Kasimir approached.

"I would like to buy this man a drink." Kasimir remarked, placing two krowns on the counter. The barman pursed his lips, and then scooped up both coins. "Whatever he wants, and I'll have what he's having."

The man regarded Kasimir curiously, almost suspiciously. He bore a mustache a count would be envious of, and had deep set, green eyes that had an almost cerulean quality to them. His hair was matted and shaved into a short, flat top. He didn't invite Kasimir to sit, but he did give a nod in thanks. "Merci, monsieur."

"You do the land a service killing those monsters." Kasimir declared as the Brettonian knight ordered wine, pulling up a stool beside him. He had to hand it to the man, wearing heavy chainmail even when drinking showed dedication. "Could I ask what brings you so far north?"

"I serve ze ladee as zshe seez vit." He explained. "Ze derak wal iz dan-zsher-oos I am told. I seek ze favere of mon patron, and so I go weer ze monstres reside." The glasses of wine were placed before them both, and the Knight drank his without delay, Kasimir taking a more casual sip. After a few good gulps, he placed the beverage down and cleared his throat. "Wat breengs yoo to zis small villazsh?"

Kasimir smiled into his drink, but forced it to disappear. "I am the son of Graf Todbringer, Count of this besieged province. I am on the quest to rescue a noblewoman from an evil vassal. Ironically, the woman is Brettonian like you. My odds of success are slim to none, but I must see it through for my noble father."

The Knight's head slowly turned to look at Kasimir, his eyes penetrating into him. Kasimir saw the gleam, and it was as if the wine the man had so desperately focused on was swamp water. He turned in his stool, leaning forward, brows lowering. "Zis is non soom trick, oui?"

The rakish bastard raised an eyebrow as if the idea were preposterous. Truth be told, even he would have had a difficult time believing it were he not living the reality, and he reached into his pack to pull out the steel and silver sigil of Boris Todbringer's office. "This is my father's seal," He said, letting the knight examine the item. "And what would I have to gain by lying to you, sir? I only tell you because I know men like you are honorable, and would not dare betray me to my enemies."

He smelled the seal, and for a moment Kasimir thought he would test it by taste, but a few moments later he slammed the seal on the counter and raised his fist. "By ze ladee, I zshall 'elp you in zis quest, monsieur!"

Emmaline wondered if there were philosophical implications to a con being too successful. She had been pretending to be a Brettonian damsel in distress for months, and now here she was imprisoned in a tower, or at least a remote villa, while a power mad noble schemed to have her married against her will. Never let it be said that Ranald lacked a sense of humor .

In fairness she was not actually locked in a tower. This was clearly a summer retreat for Schroder, more of an extravagant hunting lodge than a mansion and she had the run of the place. A score or so of guards and half that many servants staffed the place under the direction of Jan. As prisons went it really wasn’t so bad. The food was simple but filling and she was allowed to walk around the valley provided she took an escort with her. Guards were placed outside her chambers at night and it was clear that Colditz wanted to take no chances of her escaping. Not that there was much chance of that. Even if she ditched her guards and made a run for it, there was nearly a hundred miles of primeval forest between here and civilization. Emmaline was many things but woodswise was not one of them, even if you discounted the very real possibility of beastmen and other dark things that dwelled in the deep forest.

Paradoxically she also found it harder to play the Brettonian noblewoman here than had in Middenheim. She knew, in a general sense, what a noble did at court, she was less sure about how they spent their leisure in the country. Colditz politely refused to allow her to ride, stating that the valley was very steep and she might be hurt, a polite fiction that seemed to almost stick in the man's throat. Instead she took to taking long walks through the valley, picking flowers, gathering wild strawberries and other activities that a Brettonian might waste their time with. Each day she was sure to visit the stream that ran along the bottom of the valley, introducing herself to the smooth river polished rocks that glittered just below the cool mountain stream.

Four days after her arrival a coach enamel in the red and buff livery of the Schroder family rattled down the path to the house. Emmaline was not summoned to meet it, but she went anyway wondering if this was the husband that Schroder was planning for her. Colditz and three guards were there as well, as were all the servants, immaculately turned out. The door opened to reveal a pimply man of perhaps eighteen summers, he bore a marked resemblance to Lucien though the frizz of red hair and wispy ill advised beard. His skin was drawn and he looked tired.

“Master Schroder,” Colditz bowed, leading a ripple of bows and curtsies from the staff. He smiled at them as he stepped down from the coach, a servant moving around to begin unloading his baggage of which there seemed quite a bit.

“For the last ime Colditz you can call me Jullian.It is good to see you all, I suspect I shall be here until father sees fit to let me return to civili… hello…” he trailed off as his eyes fell on Emmaline.

“Who have we here?” he asked crossing over to her.

“I iz Eleanor de Abberville and Yur fathair 'as imprisoned me hair,” she declared crossing her arms beneath her breasts.

“Oh well that… wait he has done what to your hair?”