Stratya Durmand

Time: 25th, Evening
Location: Pinebrook Camping
Attire: Very Light Armor Set
Zweihander Greatsword + Simple Leather Sheath
Swordbreaker
Family Dirk + Crest
Interactions: Ariella @Tpartywithzombi, Callum @Helo, Riona [@JJDoe]
Mentions: Kira @Potter

The thing that got her most was the scar. You don’t come back from that one. No one that lost their head ever recovered, it was a sure death. She supposed there were other ways to get a scar like that, but all the way around? Everything told her that the man there should be dead. Who’s body even was that? Had she even found his body in the first place? She had to believe the hound, but had someone else tried very deliberately to deceive any investigative pursuits, and make her think it had been his body? That seemed like a lot of effort, though.

Ariella was, indeed, interested in swordsmanship lessons. That was well. Self-defense was a good thing for a young lady to know. She would have broached the subject further, but the young lady had her attention caught by the youngest prince and excused herself. She watched her go to join the royal and Riona, before deciding she would follow as she slipped her foraging dagger back into her bag and slung her greatsword over her shoulder, a relaxed position not intended for drawing. She saw the expressions they were wearing. Yes, she wasn’t the only one.

As though they were thinking the same, Callum found her and motioned her to join them. She approached with a smile, with only a hint of weariness. If that was Darryn’s head, if his head had, for some reason, been selected for a new body and necromancy, what did that mean? Why go to the trouble? Could they see or hear them through his senses? Was he loyal, and would report back? With a possible known agent so close, she had to be careful.

And that woman. That woman that didn’t fit. Clearly not an average commoner, her clothes were too.. fine. Was she a foreign noble? Perhaps, but something about her seemed too.. roguish? She couldn’t risk saying anything such, but when she thought about the Alidasht nobles she’d met, that woman still didn’t quite sit right. Ah well. Maybe she’d figure it out later.

“Prince Callum,” Stratya smiled as she approached the group of three. She drew back the tartan cloth over her breadbasket, “a baked good tae steady yerr though’s? Rriona? Seems work ‘as followed us from t’ morgue, ey.” That’s where his head should have been. She spoke in a soft voice, “did y’ no’ice ‘is scarr?”

It wasn’t necessarily a question she needed answered. More boistrously, ”on an evenin’ like this, you shoul’ ‘ave a lit’le drrink, I think. Brrough’ two bot’les o’ me brrother’s mead, I did. There’s all t’is rroasted mea’ and camp nibblin’s tae go wit’ it, too! ‘ere’s some cookin’ even’, too, aye? I ‘avn’t cooked f’r owt ‘sides me in a while. Bakin’, aye, but ‘at’s diff’rrent.”

”Oh, Lady Arriella,” Stratya dug into her bag and produced the dagger, which she offered, “farr t’ firrs’ parr’ o’ y’ trrainin’, carry t’is and get accustomed tae i’s weigh’, and i’ bein’ a’ yerr side. We’ll got forraging la’er, tae ‘elp ye ge’ used tae usin’ i’. I’ll grrab my lieutena’ forr y’ tae prractice with boffles tomahrruh. Y’ may drraw tae inspect the blade only, and rr’memberr tha’ if you touch t’ steel, y’ll ‘ave tae clean it, or i' 'ill rrust in time.”

---

For the second time in less than half-a-day, Sjan-dehk left the Privateers’ Office. He moved with haste, his boots thumping loudly against well-trodden planks as he marched across the veranda and jogged down its steps to reach the cobblestones of the waterfront.

There wasn’t much of a crowd – Sjan-dehk supposed that it was late enough that most people had already found their haunts for the rest of the evening. Even so, there was still a steady trickle of longshoremen still grimey from labour; of well-to-do citizens who gave them wide berths; and of commoners strolling leisurely along the waterfront. Some moved with purpose, their heads bowed, shoulders hunched, and coats pulled tight against the chilly seaward breeze. Others instead stopped every so often to bask in the warm, yellow glows of street lamps, and gaze out over the dark waters of the harbour.

Sjan-dehk didn’t know what they were looking at. He heard no waves, and he doubted that the lamps were bright enough to show passers-by anything more than an endless, black expanse. But perhaps there was an attractive mystique to that, to stand before an ink-black void.

He shook his head and quickened his pace, pulling his hat a little lower over his eyes and holding the ratty book and bundle of fabrics in his arm close to his chest. This wasn’t any time to ponder; Sada Kurau was waiting for him to return before she could finally sail out for her mission. She would have gone out earlier, before the sun had fully set, had Sjan-dehk not needed to pay the Privateers’ Office another visit. It hadn’t been a long one, thankfully, but still he felt embarrassed for having needed to make it in the first place.

“Good evenin’, Cap’n,” a vaguely familiar voice called out to him. Sjan-dehk looked up and to his left, and saw a vaguely familiar man walk towards him. His head of fiery hair was in a mess, as was his green coat, unbuttoned down the middle to display a brown waistcoat and off-white shirt. Both his hands held onto the handles of a heavy crate.

“Good evening,” Sjan-dehk replied and furrowed his brow. “Captain…”

“Cynric,” the man completed for him with a mischievous grin as he approached. He hefted the crate with a grunt and rested it against his thigh. “Dae’n tell me yer’ve forgotten aw’ready?”

Sjan-dehk nodded sheepishly. “Apologies. Your names, they are still strange to me. Hard to say. Harder to remember.” He glanced at the crate. “These are…Supplies? No. Provisions?”

“Aye,” Cynric replied. “Figured I’d get ta’ lads an’ lassies some good drink tae keep ‘em ‘appy fae a whiles longer. Nae sailor like stayin’ in ‘arbour fae tae long, ‘tis sae.” He then tilted his chin towards the book and bundle that Sjan-dehk was carrying. “An’ I see yer’ve taken tae privateerin’?”

“Yes,” Sjan-dehk replied, shades of his surprise showing through. “How do you know?”

Cynric grinned. “I wan’ tae say that I recognise ‘at signal book that yer carryin’, but nae, ‘tis nae that. I jus’ saw you leavin’ tae privateer’s office earlier,” he said. “Hope yer dae’n mind me askin’, but did yer jus’ sign up, or are yer headin’ out on a job?”

“Sada Kurau will sail, yes,” Sjan-dehk said. “I joined in the afternoon, but I forgot to ask about your signals and your flags.” A sheepish tone tinted his words. As far as mistakes went, that was one that a captain as experienced as Sjan-dehk shouldn’t have made – signalling was how a ship talked, and it was as vital to a ship as her sails or hull or crew – and that he had made it brought him some modicum of shame. He took it as a lesson learned, however. At least now he knew one thing he had to look out for when sailing waters beyond the Commonwealth’s borders.

“Ah, dae’n s’pose yer mind ‘avin’ an extra ship tae ‘elp?” Cynric asked. “I was jus’ thinkin’ o’ signin’ mysel’ and my crew up as privateers tae, aye. Figured ‘at if I lend yer a ‘and, it migh’ dae us some favours in tiltin’ ta’ odds in our favour, ‘tis sae.”

He grinned again. “An’ maybe it migh’ convince yer tae put in a good word, tae.”

Neither of those seemed necessary to Sjan-dehk. Based on what he had seen, Kerr would be overjoyed to have another ship that wasn’t a gunboat, and a captain who knew what he was about, at his disposal. But Sjan-dehk was in a rush, and he had dawdled for long enough. And besides, if he was going to go hunting for an unknown ship – or ships – in the dark, he wasn’t about to turn away extra sets of eyes to help keep an eye out for things.

And so, he nodded. “Okay. That is good. How soon can you sail?”

Cynric hefted the crate off his thigh. “As soon as I get this bastard o’ a crate stowed awa’,” he replied. “I’ll ‘ave eyes on yer ship, aye? We’ll make sail when yer start makin’ way.”

“Yes, that will work,” Sjan-dehk said. “We should go now. Otherwise, will be too late.”

“Aye.” Cynwaer grunted as he took a few steps forward, trying to reacquire his balance. “I look forward tae sailin’ wi’ yer, Cap’n.”

Sjan-dehk nodded to him, said a few parting words, and continued on his way. It didn’t take long for him to return to Sada Kurau – the ship was docked only a short distance away from the Privateers’ Office – but it still felt as if he had been away for far too long. He went up the gangway. Just as he took his first step onto Sada Kurau’s deck, he caught the tail end of a conversation that was going by the bulwark, directly beside the gangway’s landing.

“...don’t know, Inshahri, I-I can’t sense anything.” It was Yasawen. “L-Look, the Captain’s back. Maybe you should ask him b-before you go any further.”

That got Sjan-dehk’s attention in an instant, and – the mission momentarily forgotten – he snapped around to face Yasawen. “Is there something you plan to do to Sada Kurau that I should – no, I must know about, Yasa?”

The boy wilted beneath his gaze, and he looked off to the side. “N-No, Captain,” he said in a small voice. It didn’t seem as if sending him off to explore Sada Kurau on his own had done him any favours. If anything, he seemed even more timid than when Sjan-dehk had first seen him.

“I-Inshahri’s the one who was doing…Things,” he continued, pointing to the girl standing beside him.

The girl pressed her fingers to her lips and giggled. “Aw, come on, Yasa,” she said, her voice melodic, and every syllable sounding as if they were part of a song. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have fun chasing down this mystery with me.”

Yasawen flushed. “I–”

“You can’t lie to me,” the girl sang. “I know you too well.”

Sjan-dehk sighed and held up his hand. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said and turned to the girl. It took him a moment to remember her name, as well as the reason why she was even aboard Sada Kurau in the first place. “Inshahri, yes?” He asked.

“That’s me,” the girl chirped.

Dark of skin and mischievous of face, Inshahri was another arcanist Sudah had sent over – a woodshaper and counter-arcane specialist. Sjan-dehk remembered that part about her clearly; both her specialisations were very much welcome aboard a ship-of-war, and he distinctly recalled being not as annoyed by her late arrival – a few hours after Yasawen – as he should have been because of that very fact. That she seemed to have some history with the geomancer, and was his utter opposite in terms of personality, had appeared to be an added bonus. Sjan-dehk had hoped that her presence would make it easier for Yasawen to ease into becoming part of Sada Kurau’s crew.

Now, however, that seemed to be wishful thinking.

Yasawen stood ill-at-ease beside her, his eyes looking at the sails; at the pier; at the sea; at everything but Sjan-dehk. His slouched shoulders made Inshahri look even taller than him, beyond the few scant inches that separated them. Coupled with his disheveled clothes – likely a result of squeezing through the narrow hatches and lower decks of Sada Kurau – he looked quite miserable.

Sjan-dehk let out a quiet sigh. He would have to do something about the boy at some point. Otherwise, he wasn’t going to last long as part of Sada Kurau.

Shaking his head slightly, Sjan-dehk spoke to Inshahri. “So, want to tell me what you’re doing?”

The girl hummed, her shoulders faintly swaying back-and-forth. “So you know I’m a counter-arcanist, right, Captain? That means I can sense magic and stuff like that.” She tapped a finger against her lip, turning to look towards the stern, then towards the prow. The cat-like smile on her face never faded. “I just thought I sensed something earlier. Still do, actually! It’s magic, that’s for sure, and it’s not Yasa’s.”

She looked at the boy with a playful look. “His magic has a nicer song. This one is just weird.”

Yasawen’s face flushed. “S-Stop it, I know y-you’re just teasing…” He muttered, eyes looking at the space between his feet.

“Enough of that,” Sjan-dehk interjected. He wasn’t quite sure why, but there was something familiar about how the two of them interacted with one another. Whether it was a good thing or not, he still didn’t know. “Inshahri, focus for now. When did you start detecting that magic?”

“Not too long ago. Maybe just a little while before you returned?” She hummed thoughtfully, then shrugged before wiping her hands over her shirt. It hung loosely about her shoulders, and was messily tucked into a calf-length skirt. A bright, yellow sash tied around her waist completed her simple outfit, one that reminded Sjan-dehk quite a lot of what Iyen preferred to wear. And now that Sjan-dehk took a proper look at her, she even wore her hair in a pair of tails that wasn’t too dissimilar from how Iyen wore hers.

“I tried looking, and Yasa helped, too!” She continued. “But we didn’t find anything, so I wanted us to go to the holds and the…And the…” Her smile faded slightly and she scratched her head. “What’s the place with all the gunpowder called?”

“The magazine,” Sjan-dehk said. He turned to Yasawen. “You did the right thing, stopping her. Nobody but Young Master Sohn-dahn and his boys, and Master Mursi and his gun crews should be there.”

Yasawen smiled hesitantly. “T-Thank you, Captain.”

“Boo,” Inshahri whined with a pout. “What about me? I found the magic first, Captain.”

Sjan-dehk flashed her a grin. “I’ll praise you once we find that magic, Inshahri,” he said and lifted the book and bundle. “Let me get these to Chief Sai-nahn and get us underway. Then, I’ll join the two of you to look for that source of magic. Just do exactly as I say and nothing else. I don’t want anyone accidentally killing themselves before we even leave harbour. It’s bad luck.”

Time: 10:40 am, 25th Sola

It always seemed like dead bodies were heavier, somehow. As though the soul occupying anybody's body were lighter than air, and removing it made a body sink toward the earth even harder. With just two of them, it was a bit of a chore, but they managed. The rope tied around the man's ankles was quite helpful in pulling him up.

Gale was just pondering the rope in question when James appeared, dressed down from his military uniform into something middle-class. The gruff, older man looked up from his resting when he heard steps on the cobble, after having struggled the body up with the man he hadn't sent away, “James.”

“Gale.” James had been trying to resist the stretch of the alleys, but it was quickly overcoming his ability to do so. “This is the body, then.” It wasn't really a question. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and covered his nose and mouth with it.

“Aye, ‘is is t’ bloke. There's two things abou’ ‘im. There's t’ rrope abou’ ‘is ankles, aye, but also..” Gale carefully tilted the head aside, “there's two, clean.. puncturre woun’s, on t’ neck.”

“Do you think that's what killed him?”

“Aahhck, I cannae be surre. I'm nae doctorr. If he wasn’t dead before, he’d ‘ave bled out righ’ quick.”

“Well, let's get him to the hospital, then. The morgue should have a look.”

“Ehhh… ‘old on.” Gale seemed to dislike the idea, “‘ooever did this an’ dumped the feller in t’ sewer ‘ad reason.”

“Reason enough to conceal a killing in the slums.” Which meant some kind of powerful secret? Those with powerful secrets had a tendency for pet rats. The dressed-down lieutenant examined the sewer grate and the body from where he stood. After a brief pause, he pondered, “they used a rope? They didn’t just lift him, or grab his limbs..” He took a deep breath and approached the body, crouching by the neck to examine the wounds Gale had described.

“Too posh?” Was that a remark of the disposer, of James, or both? “How far d’y’ suppose..” Gale looked around, wondering how much other activity had covered the tracks of this.

“I’ll look into it.” James nodded, and motioned his head at MacGregor. Mac carried a large, cheap cloth to wrap the body in, and maybe contain the smell for a little bit. The middle-class young man began looking for the signs of a body dragged. An overturned, loose cobble, scattered, loose rubbish trailing off from a larger pile, toward the dump site, a smeared ooze leading toward the same. An unoccupied space about the size of a body, among some refuse. Was that rust-colored stain blood?

The high-pitched squawks of a bird-of-prey – and an agitated one at that – interrupted the men.

Not long after, Cynwaer rounded the corner, the source of the squawks perched on his shoulder with mottled wings half-unfurled, and a shorter woman a step behind him. Neither person said or did anything for a moment, their eyes open in shock as they first looked at the foul and stinking corpse, then at the three men surrounding it.

Cynwaer was the first to recover, and he raised a brow. “Well, feck me,” he said, his level voice making it sound as if he had just stepped in rubbish, rather than run across the possible scene of a terrible crime. This feckin’ day jus’ keeps get’in’ bet’er and bet’er.” He brought a hand up to scratch the chin of the bird. It chirped and nuzzled against his finger. “‘Tis nae righ’, Neirynn?”

The woman, however, was markedly less calm about the whole situation. Her loose, auburn hair flew across her face as she snapped a hand to the pistol holstered at her side. Before she could pull it out, however, Cynwaer stopped her with a quip. “Come now, there’s nae need fae aw’ that song an’ dance.” He nodded to the trio. “Cannae imagine ‘ow they’re gae’n tae try an’ kill us wi’ ‘ow they’re standin’, aye.”

“That’s well and good, Captain,” the woman’s voice came out as a growl. Though she complied with Cynwaer and kept her weapon where it was, her dark, piercing eyes flitted between each of the men. Suspicion filled her gaze. “But I know a murdered stiff when I see one, and these three right here sure look like the ones that did our grey mate here in.”

Cynwaer shook his head and sighed. He had to admit that for a second surprise of his day, this was a pretty big one. The first had been running into Matilda – the woman, and also the surgeon of his ship – as she had been trying to corral Neirynn into returning to Remembrance. It seemed as if the harrier had gotten tired of waiting for her owner to return, and had decided to simply go off and find him herself, instead.

So, yes, stumbling across a likely – and possibly recent – murder was quite a step up from that.

“My surgeon o’er there,” Cynwaer addressed the men, pointing to Matilda. “She’s o’ the opinion that three o’ you are who fecked that poor fecker up. An’ I dae’n see any reason tae disagree wi’ ‘er, aye, sae dae any o’ yer three ‘ave an excuse, or should we cut ta’ nonsense an’ jus’ get tae ta’ part where yer run an’ we ‘ave tae catch an’ dae yer aw’ in?”

The birds had come already? Wait.. that wasn’t a crow or raven, or even a vulture, and they hadn't been there for that long. All four men looked at the bird and followed it with their eyes. James was unable to track the beast back to the man and woman that had approached the group of three. The man - the Captain - and the bird were close, which was impressive, but sadly not important immediately. That anyone had come across them and decided to pay attention was a surprise, unless these folk were party to whoever did this.

Gale was the first to respond, offering a chortle that might have been heartier if the air and circumstances were more pleasant, “beg parrd’n, but do I ‘earr someone else tha’ carres?” Genuinely surprised, he stood from rolling the body with the second man, while the third had stepped to block for Gale, seeing the gun.

First order of business was lower tension. There was no way of knowing if these two were here for the body in the first place or not. Then again, if they were here to take care of a body anyway, what was a few more? The way this man and woman were approaching the situation read strangely. About as strange as the trio of men currently bundling up the body. “Werren’t us, I c’n tell ye tha’.” Gale put his hand on the shoulder in front of him, stepping by calmly, “but yer nae enforcers, ‘at’s plain. Last place I'd expect tae see those lads.”

He looked over the situation carefully. James had kept quiet, perhaps he was continuing to investigate the origins of the body. Perhaps he was waiting for an opportune moment to reveal himself. “Step off, lads.” Gale motioned the other two back, stepping over by the dead man’s head and turning his attention to Matilda, “you think we done ‘im in? Nae. Come an’ see, Miss Surgeon, since I’ll guess my worrd would nae convince ye.” He knelt and watched the pair patiently as the two men with him moved away, giving the body space that the surgeon could approach without anyone standing over her. He was just in need of a doctor of some calling, a surgeon was great.

Matilda glanced at Cynwaer, who merely responded with a shrug. He did, however, drop a hand to his sword, and Neirynn kept a watchful gaze over the men with her beady eyes. “Cannae say I’ve e’er ‘eard o’ killers invitin’ a surgeon to check their victim, aye,” he remarked nonchalantly. It was perhaps a little too nonchalant if he wanted to play a nondescript pedestrian, but with a bird like Neirynn on his shoulder, and with Matilda – who had very clearly referred to him as ‘Captain’ despite having been told not to – following him, that role was likely not one he would play well in the first place.

He tilted his chin towards the corpse. “Off yer go then, Matty. ‘Ave a look at yer grey mate.”

Matilda nodded, and shot piercing glares at each of the three men as she pushed through them to the body. She knelt, eyes narrowed, and hand cupping her chin. With a light touch, she turned the dead man’s head to one side, just enough for her to see the two small holes in his neck. Her face darkened, and she chewed on her lip. “Two lancings to the jugular. He must have bled out in seconds,” she said, voice impassive and clinical.

Very carefully, she touched the holes. The man’s neck was, as expected, cold from being dead, and slimy from having been in the sewers. But Matilda didn’t seem to care about that. “Smooth edges, so the implement must have been sharp. Pointed.” She balled a hand into a fist, as if she were wielding a dagger, and mimicked a stabbing action into the corpse’s neck.

“The strikes had to be precise for the entry wounds to be this clean,” she commented. “But then why do it twice? Once would have been enough to bleed grey mate white.” She looked over the rest of the body. “No signs of a struggle, either, so I don’t think his killer had to worry about him fighting back. So anger? But the body is intact. Rage would manifest in mutilation, usually.”

“Could be jus’ one blow?” Cynwaer piped up.

“Like some strange two-pronged fork?” Matilda asked. From anyone else’s mouth, such words would have almost certainly sounded mocking, but Cynwaer knew better. She was actually considering it as a possibility. “Maybe. If not a fork, then perhaps some other implement with two points that are in close proximity to each other.”

She regarded the body with a scrutinising gaze for a moment longer, then stood up. “Ah well, it’s not my job, anyway,” she said, her voice suddenly regaining colour and emotion. She looked at the three men, her cheeks slightly flushed and gaze averted. “Sorry about that. I was too quick to pass judgment.”

Cynwaer cut in at that moment. “Aye, she’s righ’ about that, but…” He trailed off and glanced at the rope around the corpse’s legs, and the sheet held by Mac. “Maybe yer did’nae kill this poor bastard, but I’m still nae sure what yer dae’n tae ‘im.” He paused and smirked. “Yer nae cleanin’ ‘im up fae some other fella, are yer?”

“Nae trrouble, Miss.. Matty?” That went well. MacGreagor and Jonson stood aside, standing by and watching for any more uninvited guests. The tension seemed to have gone from the pair, and Gale found his muscles relaxing just a bit. Trying to deal with a gun in these circumstances wouldn’t have gone well, especially when he’s got just a dagger, bow, and arrows. “Tha’s a fairr question. We hauled the poorr scunner ou’ t’ sewer, there. Someone bothered tae ‘ide t’ body, beyond just put’in’ t’ feller in t’ slums. Oye, lads. Wrrap ‘im up. Cannae be left tae rot.”

“Miss Swann, to you,” Matilda snapped, her earlier bashfulness gone. “I’m Matilda Swann. Surgeon of the Rem–”

“Recompense,” Cynwaer quickly cut in, and gave Matilda a look of warning. Matilda caught it and nodded, her cheeks flushing once more at her near-mistake. Cynwaer turned back to Gale. “‘At’s what we call our current ship. Jus’ got ‘er nae tae long ago, aye. Pirates fecked our last one, an’ ‘tis pure luck we got awa’ wi’ ta’ skins on our backs.” He may have said too much, but he had to play it safe. Sprinkling a bit of truth over falsehoods never failed to make the latter seem that much more palatable. “Oh, an’ I’m ‘er Cap’n. Yer can call me Cynric Fletcher.”

He then turned to look down one of the alley paths, he could hear the familiar footfalls of the lieutenant approaching, “James.”

“Gale. You’ve,” James, dressed in his own civilian clothes and armed with a dagger and buckler, stepped into view from around a corner and eyed the woman and man that had appeared since he left, “made friends. Lovely bird.”

Neirynn chirped, as if thanking James for the compliment.

Cynwaer grinned and scratched her neck. “Aye, she is.”

The older man nodded, looking casually at the pair of strangers before turning back to James, “aye, aye, friends. Cap’n Cynrric ‘n Miss Swan. Did ye find anything?”

James looked at Gale questioningly, who merely motioned for him to continue. James eyed the Captain and his Surgeon again, before taking a slow breath and speaking, “the body seems to have been dragged from the next alcove, but I can’t say for certain. There seems to have been something large removed recently from a pile of refuse, about the size of our body, here. The rope would suggest it was used to do the dragging, which would further suggest whoever did so could not or would not lift the body’s legs or arms to drag it.”

“Jus’ wha’ I needed, thank ye,” Gale nodded graciously as he turned to the Captain and Surgeon fully, “as you ‘earrd, we’re,” he paused briefly, “bein’ nosy, an’ cleanin’ up. Speakin’ o’ nosey, does yerr fine featherred frriend there oft’n brring ye tae find bodies? Seems an odd business, it does, Cap’n.” The man grinned, not meaning to seem hostile. However, it was his turn to ask questions.

“If yer’ve e’er seen a sea ‘arrier, yer’ll know that they’ve a nose fae meat,” Cynwaer explained. That wasn’t a lie. Neirynn, little huntress that she was, could always be counted upon to find prime fishing spots, and if they were on land, wild game. It was just a shame that not everything she found was always edible for her non-harrier crewmates. “An’ ‘tis nae like we were followin’ ‘er. We jus’ got a little turned around findin’ our way back tae the ‘arbour, aye.”

Gale seemed to have negotiations with this unknown party in hand. James slowly turned from the three and looked back down the way he came. He took a moment, staring, and slowly followed the path he’d found from the alcove beyond, down the alley and to the grate, where he’d been then dumped, his expression concentrated with deep thought. He approached the grate, staring down as though the answers might just climb out for him to pick up.

Cynwaer glanced at James. He didn’t quite believe that these four men were here solely for the purpose of cleaning up the body. For one, altruism had its limits, and for two, James wasn’t exactly trying all that hard for his disguise. His clothes may have been that of a civilian’s, but the dagger and buckler? Those weren’t exactly the sort of things a civilian might use. A basic sword, an axe, or even a truncheon made sense, but daggers and bucklers called for a bit more skill than what your average citizen would possess.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. Whatever was going on here, he wanted no part in it. At least, not until Renegade and Songbird arrived at Sorian. Whilst he was still waiting for them, Cynwaer intended to make good on his word to lay low. Or as low as he would allow himself.

“Aw’righ’, well,” he began, motioning for Matilda that it was time they left. “Good luck an’ ‘ave fun wi’ what yer dae’n, aye? We’ll be makin’ tracks first.”

Gale nodded and grunted, before turning to the body again, “poor bloke bled ou’, ey? Wha’ a way tae go..”

Bled out? “Just a minute, please, Cynric,” James did a final sweep for blood stains from where he stood. He’d brought out his handkerchief, a plain white thing, to cover his nose and mouth, again. “I was unable to bring our benefactor with me today. Gale has expressed hesitance in taking the body to the morgue, and now, I think I agree. He bled out? There was no such large bloodstain or puddle. Was he killed elsewhere? Did someone clean up and not take care of the body? If someone were willing to use the sewer system, they could get to a great many places in the city. If they were the right person, no one would question them.” He looked again at the grate and then meaningfully inland, toward the city walls. “None of this makes sense. If Gale is right, someone of great influence could have had a hand in this. Someone who could have eyes in the hospital, in the morgue.” Finally, his eyes settled on Cynric, “Agrona would have had another way. Unfortunately, that is not a card I keep in my deck.”

Matilda shrugged. “It’s not my job to find out,” she said. “And it doesn’t look like it’s yours, either.”

It was Gale’s turn to look questioningly at James. Even if he wasn’t sure about relying on this guy they’d just met, James was right. They didn’t have a reliable way of disposing of this body besides taking it to the morgue. He turned to Cynric, as well, “hate ta ask a new frriend f’r such a strrange favorr. Can’t imagine anyone else’d even bother tae stop.”

Cynwaer stared at Gale, then at James, and blinked once. Were they seriously, seriously, asking him to do what he thought they were? “Aye, maybe we’re new pals, but I’m nae lookin’ tae get involved wi’ whatever ta’ feck’s gae’n on ‘ere, I’m nae.” He shook his head, still not quite believing what he had just heard. These men were as audacious as they were suspicious, asking him – practically a stranger – to help them hide a corpse. If Cynwaer had wanted to stay out of this out of respect for his promise to Renegade and Songbird earlier, he now wanted to do the same for himself.

Gale gave a pitch to his head and torso as he started laughing, and he shook his head. James gave relenting nods. Of course not.

“Gae try askin’ some other fecker down at ta’ docks fae ‘elp. Nae short’age o’ sailors lookin’ tae earn easy coin, aye,” Cynwaer continued. He was no stranger to the darker side of Sorian, and he dabbled with it as easily as he drew breath, but even he had his limits. This whole situation stank worse than the corpse, and his gut told him to put as much distance between it and himself.

The laughing subsided and the laugher looked at the corpse again, “aah, fuck. Yeah, she's got us doin’ some rrigh’ weirrd shit, she does. S’pose I’ll ‘ead down tae t’ dock, ‘en. Got any coin, James?”

“Yes, some silver from Agrona.” James reached into a pocket and pulled out a small satchel, handing it off. He didn’t like not having more of a plan.

As Gale took the satchel and went off, he stopped and spun in place, to turn and look at the sea captain, “any chance yer one o’ them sailors lookin’ f’r coin?”

Cynwaer’s first instinct was to reject the offer. Matilda, however, spoke before he could say anything. “The coin could be useful, Captain,” she said, her voice a quiet mutter just loud enough for him to hear. “We do need to replenish our medical supplies soon.”

She did have a point. The coin he had taken as his cut from the attack on the taxman hadn’t been much. It might cover for a few days of harbour fees and sailing, but nothing beyond that. And until he found another way to earn coin that didn’t involve blowing up the King’s men, he had to seize as many opportunities as he could to pad out his coffers.

And so, he harrumphed and turned back to Gale. “Bring ol’ gray mate to Recompense at night. There’s tae many folk about on ta’ wat’erfront righ’ now, an’ unless yer can make ‘im invisible, I’d nae e’en try. ‘Ow yer wan’ tae bring ‘im o’er, that’s up tae yer, but yer make it tae obvious, I’ll say I nae know yer, aye.” Then, he looked at the coin pouch in Gale’s hand. “An’ keep ta’ coin. I dae’n make a ‘abit o’ takin’ payment ‘fore ta’ jobs ‘nywhere done.”

When the surgeon had spoken first, it had sparked a bit of hope in his old bones. Indeed, the Captain seemed to be swayed. Gale stowed the coins away in his clothes and chuckled, relieved, “whew, nae ken ‘ow I was gonna pull ‘at off.”

A delivery to a ship. James nodded, a smile softly lifting the edges of his mouth underneath his handkerchief, “yes, I think we can manage that. How do you feel about durian?”

---

That night, a horse-drawn cart radiating the overpowering stench of durian approached The Recompense. It carried three crates in a row, the last of which carried the subject of the evening’s visit. James disembarked from beside the driver and approached. He carried a coin filled with 20 silver and 3 gold buried among the lesser coin, compliments of “Agrona”. He would wait until the right moment to hand that over.

Adaleida didn’t like any of this. Not one bit. But then again, she knew what she was getting into when she agreed to sail with Cynwaer.

As Remembrance’s – or Recompense’s, as she had to remind herself – quartermaster, keeping track of all that went into her holds was her primary business. And so, for Cynwaer to tell her to receive a shipment of durians – something which she knew he didn’t like having aboard, no less – out-of-nowhere came as not just an unpleasant surprise, but a suspicious one.

She frowned as she sat on the ship’s gunwale, looking down at the approaching cart. A cooling landward breeze made a mess of her pale, blonde hair. She brushed a few strands away from her face, but kept her gaze locked on the cart.

No, she didn’t like this at all.

But, Cynwaer was the Captain, and he had yet to make a decision that was too wrong. The two ships that had been shot out from under them aside, of course.

Adaleida harrumphed and hopped off her perch once the cart was at Remembrance’s gangway. “You’ll no take a step closer,” she called out, voice firm and imperious. She took her time getting ready – smoothing out her blouse and patting dust from her trousers, and tugging her gloves snugly over her hands – before striding down the gangway to meet James. “I’m Adaleida. Quartermaster of Recompense,” she introduced herself curtly, hands folded over her chest and head tilted back slightly. “The Captain’s away on business, but he gave me leave to handle our exchange.”

She glanced over the man’s shoulder, at the three crates in the cart. There was nothing outwardly strange about them, but still she knew for a fact that not everything was as it seemed. Her lips pressed into a thin line. If it was something that Cynwaer wouldn’t tell even her, then it had to be either something incredibly stupid, incredibly risky, or just something he hadn’t entirely wanted to do. She made a note to check with Matilda later. The surgeon had been with him; she had to know a thing or two about what was going on.

James stopped and lifted his dominant hand as she first addressed him, taking a couple small, respectful steps back as the woman came down to greet him. He nodded at her introduction, “I’m James, I usually work with the Adventurer's Guild. Seems there was a bit of a mixup, it's not all durian. It didn’t seem like your captain would mind, however. Two crates of mixed fruit and one crate of durian.” He’d picked up on a bit of distaste from the Captain at the mention of the particular fruit, but only thought of a change in his plan as he went to source the fruit. It was an easy change to explain away.

Plenty of good fruit for a ship full of sailors, though James was not about to make any assumptions of the story the Captain had spun, if any. The last container was full of, not just durian, but a fair bit of cracked durian, which is where the potent smell was coming from. Crack it open and the smell would only get worse, best not to. Which was good, because that was the one he didn’t want anyone opening until they were ready. MacGregor and Jonson were present and ready to carry cargo themselves, while Gale had taken the role of driver.

At any rate, the young man produced a very convincing faked shipment manifest for the Quartermaster’s perusal. He’d hand over the payment once Mac and Jon had taken the last crate.

Adaleida looked at the manifest, then waved it away. “I’ll no need that,” she said brusquely. “If the Captain agreed to take your shite on, then I’ll not argue with his ghost.” She would argue with his person when he returned, later. Everything about this arrangement felt sloppy and rushed in planning. Whoever had heard of a ship being paid to accept goods? It wasn’t as if they were transporting this anywhere, either. Anyone with half a functioning brain would find this whole thing suspicious.

Well, it wasn’t as if anyone aboard Remembrance would go running to the guards. Not without weapons in hand and malice in heart, at least.

“I’ll be taking your coin,” Adaleida said, extending her hand and jerking her head towards the ship. “And I’ll have my own boys bring your stuff aboard. You and yours can go once you’ve paid.”

The paper was folded and tucked away as James motioned for Mac and Jon to drop the crates in the dock. They were already handling the first two, so it was just a matter of bringing down the third. “Very well.” The quicker they could leave the last crate and be gone, the better. He deposited the satchel into the woman’s hand and watched his two hands set the last crate down.

“That's that. Have a good evening.” He nodded to the woman and boarded the wagon with the other two. Gale started driving them away promptly. That could have gone better, but he had some ideas of how this could go better for next time. Having an existing contact was a good start. They'd have to expand their operations into the docks, as it seemed like it would pay off to be in good graces down here.

Adaleida watched the wagon depart, hands on her hips and a frown on her face. There was something, an air about James, that she didn’t quite like. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but the man hadn’t acted as common or base as he had appeared to be. Perhaps he was just a well-read individual, maybe he used to be someone of higher-society, or maybe she was just being overly-cautious. Regardless of the reason, the niggling feeling in her heart refused to leave.

She shook her head. Well, if it did turn out that there was something wrong with this whole deal, Cynwaer could deal with it. He was Captain, after all. She looked at the crates, clicked her tongue, and turned back to ascend the gangway back onto the ship. “Oi, I need strong hands to bring cargo aboard! I’ll no have any layabouts aboard our ship!”

Meanwhile, the cart pulled away from the docks and into the streets. “This all coul‘ave gone bet’er.” Gale spoke softly as the other two disguised men-at-arms rode in the back. At least the horse was happier, with the cart now much emptier.

James nodded, responding without hesitation, “oh, absolutely. It, also, could have gone much, much worse. Things went about as well as we needed them to. I’m just glad durians smell strong enough.”

“Ha! F’rr once.” Gale was ready to grab some mead. What an awful, long-ass day.

Stratya Durmand

Time: 25th,
Location: Pinebrook Camping Event
Attire: Very Light Armor Set
Zweihander Greatsword + Simple Leather Sheath
Swordbreaker
Family Dirk + Crest
Interactions: Kira @Potter
Mentions: Matthias @Rodiak

Stratya had just been about to join Prince Callum’s gaggle when another voice addressed her. Ah! It was that woman. She seemed to be towing a noble along with her, though she might be mistaken. He seemed a little familiar, but the captain couldn’t put her finger on it.

What was more pressing was the woman that had approached her. She seemed very friendly, but something in the back of Stratya’s head made her weary. Brushing her off to go speak with the prince seemed like a move that would attract attention. Not necessarily a lot, but it only had to be the wrong person getting nosy once. She would be cautious by being casual.

”’ello, Miss Kirra,” she chimed, putting her most welcoming foot forward, “I’m Strratya, a pleasurre meetin’ ya. I do enjoy a bi’ o’ cookin’, especially camp cookin’. Though, I think my idea o’ campin’ is a wee bi’ diff’rren’ than t’ Crrown’s. Nae rreason tae go ‘untin’, for starr’ers. Ooh, I was lookin’ forrward tae frresh rroast, too.”

This woman was too mysterious. Alidasht, right? Almost certainly. The visiting party of foreign nobles only increased the chances, but it just didn’t sit right in her mind. There was s o m e t h i n g about her. Just thinking about it wouldn’t get her anywhere, and now wasn’t the time, either. ”Arre y’ frrom Alidasht? Such lov’ly skin tones, and fashion tae compl’men’, from ‘crross t’ sea.”

What a feckin’ eyesore.

Dark against the deep indigo sky, and imposing amidst a field of buildings dwarfed by its presence, Castle Sorian loomed over its city like an ominous shadow. Flickering orange dots, sparsely scattered across the main keep’s sheer walls, and visible from afar despite their faint glows, marked where windows had been carved out of monolithic stone blocks. Peering over the curtain wall separating the keep and its courtyard from the rest of Sorian, those pinpricks of light were like the eyes of beasts leering out from their den, and down upon the people wandering the streets below.

Cynwaer snorted as he gazed towards the damnable fortress from Remembrance’s quarterdeck. To draw any similarities between the people within that place and beasts would be a gross insult to the latter, as far as he was concerned. A beast’s actions were guided by instinct, and not thought. If they were cruel, if they were savage, or if they were depraved, it was only because it was in their nature to be so. They didn’t, and couldn’t be expected to, know any better.

The people of Castle Sorian, however, had no such excuse.

For they were creatures of thought, and could know better. Cynwaer knew that. After all, weren’t they like him, possessed of a rational mind with which to think, and senses with which to perceive the world? Even if the bastard king himself and his sycophants were bent on being as wicked as possible, surely they had to be someone, or many someones, who could see the miseries the Kingdom visited upon its own people, and were outraged enough by such injustices to do something about them.

But no, they did nothing. Once, Cynwaer had been disappointed by such a fact, but now he simply took it as one of the ugly truths of the world. Those people, like many others – not just in the castle, not just in the capital, but across all of Caesonia – were more than happy to keep themselves deaf and blind to the pains of their fellows, so long as they themselves could live in comfort.

And so, they would continue to toil for a king and court that cared little for anything but themselves, and for a kingdom that was so thoroughly rotten.

A grunt rumbled in Cynwaer’s throat as he swept his eyes from the castle to the rest of Sorian. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the gunwale. “What a feckin’ eyesore,” he repeated in a dark murmur. Then, he looked to his right.

“‘Tis nae the trut’, Neirynn?” He asked in a louder voice.

Perched on the gunwale right by his side, the harrier stopped in the midst of tearing apart her latest catch, an unfortunate rabbit. She still had a claw on the carcass’ neck, whilst the talons of the other held onto the gunwale, digging shallow notches into the wood. Sinewy threads of pale crimson streaked and hung from her hooked beak, and the mottled plumage around her face and chest was speckled with blood.

Neirynn regarded him with dark, beady eyes for a moment, her head cocked. Then, she chirped.

Cynwaer chuckled, shaking his head as he reached across to brush his fingers over her scalp. Letting out a series of satisfied coos, the harrier pushed herself against his touch. “‘At’s a good lass,” Cywaer said, his tone gentle and lips in a smile. It were such moments, when Neirynn acted like any other pet, that made it difficult for him to remember that she was in fact a vicious huntress in her own right, with plenty of victims to her name, both human and animal.

He ran his hand down her back, flattening a few stubborn feathers that jutted out from her otherwise sleek form. She bent low, head stretched towards him and eyes closed. “Someone’s feelin’ affectionate an’ such ta’day, hm?” He chuckled again, patted her on the head one more time, and drew his hand back. “Best yer be back tae yer dinner, lass. We’ve a lang night ahead o’ us, I reckon.”

Neirynn chirped, dipped her head in a nod, and promptly returned to her meal. Cynwaer watcher her for a moment before himself returning to leaning against Remembrance’s bulwark and looking at Sorian and its castle, his visage cold and hard. Silence descended over the pair.

Well, amidst as much silence as a ship could afford, at least. Behind him, and down a short flight of stairs, the main deck hummed and buzzed with activity as Remembrance’s crew prepared her to sail. A chorus of boots thumped across wooden planks, interrupted every so often by shouts. More calls came from above, amidst ratlines and rigging, and alongside ruffling sails, creaking yardarms, and clanging tackles. Cynwaer had long since gotten used to such noises, however, and paid them little heed. Remembrance was, to his ears, perfectly and pleasantly quiet.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The noise behind him intensified, then slowly withered away until all that remained were vague murmurs of chatter. Cynwaer leaned further forward, resting his weight on his arms as he glared at the city. The warmly-lit streets, sparse crowds, and smoking chimneys made for a peaceful scene. They reflected a city at rest; a city that had nothing to worry about.

And that felt so, very wrong.

“Yer e’er wonder, Neirynn,” Cynwaer started, casting a sidelong glance at the harrier. She looked up at him with a string of meat still swinging from her beak. Without missing a beat, she snapped her head back and swallowed it. Cynwaer chose to ignore that. He continued, “If any o’ those who work fae ta’ court e’er gave a thought about what they were dae’n? An’ I mean, gave it actual, serious thought, aye? Like, if ta’ fecker who ‘elps tae write aw’ these feckin’ piece o’ shite laws e’er realises just ‘ow fecking stupid they are? Or if ta’ cunt who sends ta’ taxmen out tae squeeze another wee village dry knows jus’ ‘ow many ‘ave tae suffer fae ta’ fat bastard o’ a king’s pleasure?”

Or if ta’ fecker who sends out mage’unters know jus’ who’s bein’ ‘unted.

Dark memories, painful ones, pushed their way into Cynwaer’s mind at that thought. With the sort of ease borne from suffering this exact thing many times over, he forced those images back to their corner. Still, he heard the chilling screams of that fateful night echo in his head. He heard the pounding of fists against his door; his daughters frightened cries, his wife’s desperate pleas; the crack of a pistol, the cold hiss of steel against leather. They had all been from a different life, experienced by a different Cynwaer Fiachin, but still they cut him deep all the same.

A worried chirp pulled Cynwaer from his mind. It was swiftly followed by a few taps of Neirynn’s beak upon his elbow. He turned his head, and the harrier raised hers, her dark, beady eyes meeting his mossy green ones. She chirped again, flapping her wings as she hopped towards him.

“Dae’n worry yer head about it,” Cynwaer said with a smile that was a touch more forced than what he had hoped. He rubbed a thumb over the top of her head. “Jus’ thinkin’ ou’ loud, ‘tis aw’. Dae’n worry.”

He glanced at the rabbit’s carcass, then looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. “On ta’ contrary, ‘tis yer food that worries me, aye. It did’nae belang tae someone, did it?” Neirynn averted her gaze, stretching out a wing to hide her face as she scratched it with a claw. Cynwaer groaned. “Dae’n tell me yer went an’ did it again, yer dafty. ‘Tis nae cheap tae pay off yer huntin’ debt, aye ‘tis nae, dae’n yer know?”

“It’s okay, Captain,” a woman said from his other side. That dry, monotonous voice came suddenly enough to make Cynwaer almost flinch. “She no caught it. ‘Tis Mister Bannoch who bought it for her when he went ashore earlier.”

Cynwaer spun around, and came face-to-face with Remembrance’s quartermaster. As always, Adaleida’s countenance was that of wood – empty of emotion and seemingly unchanging. That wasn’t to say that she looked unfriendly or unwelcoming, however. She simply looked neutral, with lips in a perfectly straight line and downturned hazel eyes giving nothing away. A stiff breeze whistled over the two of them, whipping her pale, blonde tresses across her face. She paid them little heed. “Talking politics with Neirynn again?”

“Nae, jus’ speakin’ me mind, is aw’,” Cynwaer replied and shook his head. “An’ ‘ow about yer? What’re yer dae’n bein’ aw’ sneaky?”

“Sorry, Captain,” Adaleida said with a slight bow of her head. She ran her fingers through her messy locks, smoothing them out, as she continued. “I heard you talking and I did no want to interrupt, that’s all.”

“Yer me quartermaster, Ada,” Cynwaer said. “It’s normal fae yer tae interrupt me. Of aw’ the people aboard Remembrance, yer probably ta’ only one I want tae interrupt me, aye.”

“Normal,” Adaleida repeated that word, her voice distant, as if she was ruminating on it. Then, she nodded and flashed Cynwaer an almost-smile – the corners of her lips twitched upwards, but didn’t go far enough or high enough to be perceptible by most. Cynwaer was one of the exceptions. “Got it, Captain.”

“Sae, what d’yer need me fae?”

“Ah, right,” Adaleida said and tilted her head towards the main deck. “Remembrance’s ready to set sail on your command, Captain, and…” She trailed off, her eyes focusing on something far behind Cynwaer, and the ghost of a frown clouding over her face. “Our friend over there’s already pulling from her pier.”

Cynwaer nodded slowly. Then, he pushed himself away from the gunwale and turned to face Adaleida, his lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Well, are yer gae’n tell me what’s botherin’ yer, Ada, or d’yer wan’ me tae keep proddin’ an’ pryin’ until yer annoyed enough tae jus’ tell me tae get me tae feck aff?”

“‘Tis nothing–”

“I’ve known yer fae a whiles now, Ada,” Cynwaer cut in. “I know when yer troubled, so dae’n e’en try ta’ lie tae me. An’ besides, I cannae ‘ave yer workin’ at yer best when there’s somethin’ weighin’ on yer, aye? So come on out wi’ it.”

Adaleida averted her gaze, and chewed on her lip for a moment before speaking. “I’m no questioning your decisions, Captain, and I can understand doing shifty work for coin. Gods above and below know we need a steady stream of that shite. But working with a privateer? Someone who sails for the piece of piss crown and the bastard wearing it? I’m no sure I understand why we’re doing any of that, Captain.”

Cynwaer nodded slowly, then jerked his head to his left. “Come along wi’ me,” he said and walked towards the port bulwark of the quarterdeck. As he passed Neirynn, he ran a hand along her back. She cooed, but didn’t look up from her dinner. “Dae’n leave a mess now, aye? ‘Tis nae easy cleanin’ blood an’ viscera frae wood, I’ll ‘ave yer know. Drop what yer cannae finish intae ta’ sea, an’ fae ta’ love o’ aw’ the Gods up there and down below, dae’n bring it up ta’ masts an’ leave it there.”

“It gives the crew reason to go up high regularly, though,” Adaleida offered. She mimicked Cynwaer, giving the harrier a gentle pat on her back as she walked past. Neirynn basked in the attention, standing up and leaning into her touch, chirping and cooing all the while.

“Aye, I s’pose there’s that,” Cynwaer said and chuckled.

He stopped at the gunwale and looked across the piers at the foreign ship. She had her strange, triangular sails fully unfurled, and hanging from long, slanted yardarms that bowed under their own weight. Lanterns affixed to her gunwales lit up the ship, their yellow glows strong enough to reveal the crimson fabric of her sails, and more importantly, the many gunports lining her svelte, dagger-like hull. “Tell me, Ada, what d’yer think o’ ‘er?” Cynwaer asked.

Adaleida stood beside him with arms crossed over her chest. She shrugged. “Well-armed, built to be quick and nimble, but I can’t see her being well-protected.” She cast a quick glance over to Cynwaer. “She can’t be, no with that many guns, aye. Her sails are interesting, though. They remind me of an Alidashti…What do they call those little cutters they like so much, again? Dhow, I think. But yes, those sails on her look like the ones used on those boats, aye they do.”

“Good eyes.” Cynwaer caught her glance and grinned. “But yer missin’ one big thing, an’ that’s she’s nae Caesonian, nae Varian, and nae e’en any o’ them Alidashti folks. I met ‘er Captain ta’ other night, an’ I can tell yer that ‘e might look Kimoonese, but ‘e’s sure as shite nae one o’ ‘em.”

“So we’ve got someone in our waters who’s a complete stranger,” Adaleida said. She looked at the ship as it quickly pulled away into the night. “And commands a ship that can match a light frigate gun-for-gun.”

Cynwaer nodded. “Aye. Now, frae what I’ve ‘eard, ‘e’s likely nae a fan o’ ta’ bastard king, or ‘e’s nae gae’n tae be one sooner rather than later. But still, ‘e’s a huge feckin’ question mark fae aw’ o’ us, an’ if good ol’ Renegade and Songbird’s gae’n dae what I think they’re gae’n dae, we cannae leave anythin’ tae chance, least o’ aw’ a ship that powerful ‘at’s nae under any flag we know, aye?”

“And if we sail with that ship, we get to see what she can do firsthand,” Adaleida surmised.

“Now yer gettin’ it,” Cynwaer said. “An’ who knows? If we play our cards righ’, an’ everythin’ gae’s well fae us, maybe we can e’en make oursel’s a new friend tae raise some ‘avoc wi’.”

Adaleida raised a brow. “You really think that’s possible, Captain?”

Cynwaer shrugged. Personally, that possibility wasn’t one he thought realistic. It was a pleasant thought to be sure, but as things stood, it was simply just that. But there were too many unknowns, even beyond the ones he had shared with Adaleida. For one, he didn’t even know for how long that ship would be in Sorian, and if it was even going to return after it left for home. Neither did he know for certain if the foreign Captain would agree with his ideals. Granted, he had sounded sympathetic, but Cynwaer knew firsthand that a gulf existed between sympathy and agreement.

But all the same, Cynwaer kept that idea in his back pocket. “Frae what I’ve ‘eard, ‘e’s a good mate tae ta’ smallfolk, an’ if ‘e’s nae got a bad impression o’ ta’ bastard king already, I’ve a feelin’ ‘e’ll learn tae think o’ that wee fecker as a cunt sooner or later.” He shrugged. “But ‘at’s nae our concern fae ta’day. Let’s jus’ get underway an’ catch up wi’ ‘er befae she slips intae ta’ night, aye?”

“Aye, Captain,” Adaleida said. “Should I give the order, or do you want to give it yourself?”

“Save yer voice, Ada,” Cynwaer replied. “I’ll ‘andle this one.”

He strode over to the guardrail overlooking the main deck. Adaleida followed close behind him, and stood beside him as he swept his eyes across the length and breadth of his ship, and those who milled about on her planking. Dozens of heads turned towards him with expectant looks. Cynwaer gave them a grin. “Right lads,” he shouted and raised a hand. “Time tae look lively! Let's bring 'er out!”

Flash Back
Sola 25th
Afternoon
Ravenwood Warehouse

---

Time: Night
Location: Streets of Sorian, from Vikena's estate to the guest houses of the palace
Mentions: Ryn

---

Leo kicked a rock down the street and stumbled after it. Each step felt like he might fall over and if he ended up on the ground he was almost certainly passing out right there. That was the last thing he needed; to be found passed out in the street like a certain degenerate prince, not after the blight he’d brought to his reputation today.

The world was a dizzying blur as his head throbbed and his stomach churned as the hangover started to creep in before the drunkenness had even left. Nothing seemed to help sober him; every drop of water, every bite of food, only served to drag him deeper into inebriation. Even a walk in the crisp night air left him miserable and exhausted. The only thing left to try was to sleep and hope he would wake up normal again.

Normal for a short while until the next stroke of misfortune painted his day with fresh calamity. What had first seemed like harmless pranks had escalated. He was sure that Lady Morrigan was behind these not-so-whimsical pranks. It was clear she enjoyed aggravating others simply because she could, but he could do nothing against a king’s favored cousin without irrefutable proof. And things only got worse. He kicked the rock again, this time it sputtered into the street and his eyes lost track of it.

Before he’d left the Vikena’s Manor, Count Hendrix had confirmed his worst suspicion.

---

“Earlier you asked about these glasses,” Count Hendrix's voice caught him by surprise; the man moved with the stealth of a cat. Or, equally likely, Leo was too drunk to notice the other man escort him to the door. Hendrix removed the strange spectacles he’d recently been wearing. “Would you like to try them on?”

Leo only nodded, relieved to find that Hendrix was not intentionally keeping him out of the loop but rather Fritz had waited until Wulfric and Lottie’s friends weren’t around to clue him in on a secret. He watched as the other man pulled a small box with rows of lenses, replaced the ones in the glasses, and carefully placed the glasses on Leo’s face. Leo could only stare with a confused expression at the obnoxious array of colors that surrounded Count Hendrix.

Then Leo caught sight of his reflection in a mirror. He saw himself surrounded by a white and yellow glow that at first glance beat with a steady, rhythmic pulse. His eyes began to focus on the edges of the aura, at dark twisted outlines that continued to rise and vanish only to rise again. Leo watched as something sinister appeared attached to him, and that rhythmic beating turned bounding and frantic.

“What?” He uttered an unfinished question.

“Magical energy,” Was the wholly unsatisfying answer he got from Fritz. Leo tore his gaze away from the mirror, removed the glasses, and quickly returned them to Fritz. Even looking at magical energies was more contact with magic than he wanted. He waited for, expected, a longer explanation.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but I think they’re better asked when you’re sober.” The corners of the man’s mouth briefly turned upwards but the smile vanished before it was fully formed. “Contact me whenever you’re ready.” The ever-enigmatic Hendrix had shared a secret that only put answers beyond his grasp.

Leo wasn’t sure he even wanted to understand anything related to magic. Something twisted, unnatural, and forbidden under the punishment of death. He'd prefer keeping himself far from anything that revolved around such evil, and the mere fact that such darkness had left its mark on him was disturbing enough for one night.

So Leo had agreed, before departing from the manor, confident that Fritz would hold to his word, and dreading that future conversation.

---

The more Leo thought about what he’d seen, those dark touches on the fringes of his energy, further confirmed that something, someone, dangerous was after him — one tied to magic, to witchery.

Something undoubtedly hatched by Lady Morrigan. Briefly, this thought left him with dread. How could he combat the schemes of someone who meddled with dark and unnatural forces?

Unless he could prove exactly that! Tonight’s meeting had made it clear that Marek was likely a witch, and Calbert, one of his associates. If he and others would be gathering evidence to take them down how much harder could it be for Leo to use those same tactics on another? With all the confidence of a drunkard, he imagined how satisfying it would be to prove Lady Morrigan a witch hiding under Edin’s very nose. If she desired to make an enemy of him, then Leo would show her the danger of provoking a lion.

When he returned to his room, he no longer shambled about. Leo strode with a drunken swagger, chest puffed out and head held high, eager for the fights to come.

---

Time: Night
Location: Guest Room


Leo didn’t bother with the lights as he entered his room, he simply flung his ruined jacket to the floor. Somewhere between the door and the bed he tripped over something and tumbled to the floor. He landed on a scattered bit of what he assumed to be broken furniture. He winced at the thought of having to explain how he’d clumsily broken some table or chair, he was already getting a reputation for being a difficult guest here. The pile he’d landed on rattled as he ran his hand over it and picked a piece of it up.

Immediately he sat up and scooted away until he felt only smooth, unlittered, floor beneath him. He still grasped the object in his hand, slivers of moonlight from the window glinting off it. He stared in disbelief for a long moment, turning what was unmistakably a bone over in his hands. As the realization set in, he tossed the bone away and clattered against the rest scattered about the floor.

He sprung to his feet so quickly he thought he might hurl. After a long and frustrating battle with some matches, he got a lantern lit and was able to see the rest of his room.

Bones. All over the floor of his room. Bones of various shapes and sizes, that made a creepy little trail to the closet.

Riona! His first thought went to the rogue maid who constantly meddled with his room. This was the last straw, he would see to it that she was arrested. Or tossed down a well and forgotten. Maybe exiled to some frozen tundra filled with hungry bears.

As he thought of a long list of punishments he could request for her bizarre and macabre actions he noticed the chest that now sat in his closet. A chest that was neither his nor one that belonged to the room. Cautiously, Leo approached it and gave it a gentle kick. Something in the chest rattled around and he briefly debated opening it.

I should summon the guards. It was the correct course of action, this was something the guards should be dealing with. But Leo made no move to do so.

What’s in there? Curiosity propelled his hand forward without further thought. It was better to know, he was sure of that. The top flung open with ease as Leo’s mouth hung ajar as he stared back at a very human-looking skull. Are there all human bones!?

This was something more serious than the childish actions of a disgruntled servant. It was a threat, and while he wouldn’t rule Morrigan out as a culprit, it could just as easily be the same people who wanted Count Hendrix dead.

Again he realized he should alert the guards, and again he made no move to do so. Leo stood unable to take his eyes away from the skull.

...A note? In the flickering light from the lantern his eyes caught the glossy reflection of something beneath the skull. Without touching the skull, he carefully grabbed a corner of the paper and pulled it out. Leo set the lantern on a dresser, his stomach dropped as he examined the paper.

An old photograph of him, as a child, perched on his father’s shoulder at a fair in Breoven. The memory flooded in, far more vivid than a faded photo could ever capture. Leo almost smiled, knowing that from his lofty vantage point, he watched the electric carousel go around and around as the picture was taken. That day at the fair had been so exciting he’d struggled not to smile, as only idiots smiled for photos, but he’d tried his best to match the dignified and stern expression his father held. The lack of color and the lifeless expressions gave the photograph a haunting edge. It made the pair look more like ghosts than people.

There was a message scrawled across the back of the photo.

“Don't worry, you’ll reunite with him soon.”

Once again someone had messed with his room. Touched his stuff. Rifled through his belongings. Tarnished his property. From now on any time he thought of his first trip to Breoven, he would also remember stumbling into a room littered with bones. This now infected his memories.

Someone was using his deeply painful loss, to threaten him.

He shoved the photograph into a pocket. His mind went dark.

Hands became fists, wild and free, and repeatedly he punched the heavy closet door until it came loose from the hinges. He grabbed the broken door. Ripped the rest of it free and bashed the other door with it. Jagged wood sliced flesh. Blood dripped from his fist. The pain didn’t register.

His attention turned to the chest and without thought his boot repeatedly slammed against the wooden box. Wood splintered and shattered. The skull, once tucked inside the chest and now no longer safe, bounced off a wall and rolled elsewhere in the room while its mandible lay among the broken chunks of wood.

His rage remained unsatisfied. It burned white hot and blinding, unfettered and blooming amid his intoxication. He threw the dresser to the ground, his boot smashed against the back of it breaking through the wood. Each time his foot got stuck he tore himself loose as more jagged bits of wood tore at his skin.

Chairs slammed against the walls, end tables were pummeled with chair legs, and a footstool was flung through a glass window. The room clattered like thunder.

Leo grabbed a femur off the floor and used it like a bat. The sound of shattered lamps, vases, and mirrors echoed down the once-quiet hallway.

Everything unraveled. Grief, betrayal, guilt, uncertainty, fear. A mix of emotions buried too deep to reach. Bottled up and ignored. Left to ferment into rage. Kept trapped and only expanding.

Until it exploded and destroyed a room. Nothing in his room remained untouched or intact. Including Leo, whose fists were shredded by broken furniture and shattered glass. His body, heaving with exhaustion, continued to destroy anything in front of him.

His rage only ended as guards stormed into his room. They dragged Leo, furious and shouting, from the flipped-over bed as he battered at the frame with a shattered bit of a table.

Leo was too far gone for an explanation. His drunken shouting was a confused mess that matched the state of his room. The rage only burned out in the lonely cell of the dungeon, with nothing to slam fists into except unforgiving stone walls.

Time: Evening
Location: Vikena Estate

---

As the others gradually left the house, the heavy atmosphere lingered like a storm cloud refusing to part. Charlotte sat quietly for a moment, her hands fidgeting with the delicate lace of her dress. Her thoughts whirled with everything that had been said. Yet, amidst it all, her gaze drifted toward Fritz. “I—I hope I am not being too forward, but…” she began softly, “Would it be terribly odd of me to ask if I might give you a hug?”

Her cheeks tinted faintly, though her gaze remained sincere. “It is just… you seem as though you might need one, and if I may admit so, I think I might as well.” Her lips curled into a tender, almost sheepish smile.

The request caught Ryn wholly unprepared. He blinked at her, certain his ears had twisted her words into shapes they were never meant to take.

It was not that he objected to hugs—Ryn quite enjoyed them—he simply was not sure if he needed one. Assassination attempts were hardly novel occurrences in his life; an unfortunate but ultimately unremarkable fact of existence, as common as blue skies or salted seas or winter’s bite.

However, when she admitted the hug was not just for him, Ryn crossed the space between them and gathered her into his arms without a second thought.

There they stood, sharing a silence and stillness that felt neither awkward nor heavy. After a long moment, he murmured against her hair, “What are you feeling?” Because “are you alright” would have been an exercise in stating the obvious.

“Frightened and a tad overwhelmed.” Charlotte admitted as her arms encircled him. After a gentle, brief rub of his back, the embrace lingered for a moment longer before she pulled back slightly, her hands still resting on his arms as her gaze rose to meet his.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with sincerity. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she hesitated, her thoughts swirling before she found the courage to continue.“I want to see this investigation through…” Her brows furrowed and determination shifted her features as she amended the initial statement firmly, “No. I must see this through. “

Her hands tightened slightly against his sleeves, a flicker of desperation crossing her features. “I cannot let any of you get hurt. If anything happens to any of you because of my inaction, I don’t think I could bear it.” Her voice wavered for a moment before steadying. “I need to get an upper hand somehow soon so I can be more useful.”

Her words struck a familiar chord in Ryn’s chest, echoing with a familiarity that made him pause. The sentiment could have been plucked straight from his own thoughts, and for a moment he was not entirely certain whether he was speaking to Lady Charlotte or addressing his own stubborn reflection. “I feel the same…” Ryn sighed.

“Which is precisely why I must ask,” he said, quieter now, “why you seem to think yourself exempt from the very concern you extend to others.” Lady Charlotte’s eyes lowered, her grip on his sleeves faltering.

His hand settled over hers where it still clutched his sleeve. “When were you planning to tell us how the meeting with Count Damien went?” The slight tension in her muscles told him enough before she could shape a response. A sad sort of smile tugged at his mouth.

“Had it gone well, I’d imagine you’d have burst through the door brandishing whatever information he gave like a sword. Instead, you’ve been tiptoeing around his name as if it might summon him.” Ryn tilted his head, studying her expression. “Something went rather spectacularly wrong, didn’t it?”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but the words tangled in her throat like knots she couldn’t untie. “You are not mistaken,” she began softly. With a sigh, she seated herself, her hands resting on her lap. Her gaze returned to him as she spoke after only a brief pause.

“It was my plan to enter Count Damien’s study deliberately—to willingly incur his wrath,” she admitted, her tone unwavering despite the vulnerability of the confession. “I thought… if I allowed him to believe he held the upper hand, if I played the part of a foolish, arrogant girl who dared overstep her bounds, he might indulge himself. That in his desire to revel in his own power, he would let slip the very information I sought.”

Charlotte’s lips curved faintly into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, a smile tinged with bittersweet regret. “And in a sense, I succeeded. He spoke, and he gave me answers I had hoped for… but ones I now wish I had never heard. To be quite frank, that man has gone mad.”

Her arms wrapped instinctively around her body, as though shielding herself from an invisible chill that lingered still. “It was never my intention to keep this from you,” she admitted, her voice softening as her gaze flickered to her hands. “But the truth is—I don’t know any of you well enough to predict how you might react. Kazumin and Persephone are brave, yes, but their bravery has shown itself as impulsivity. And even Lord Smithwood…” She hesitated, her tone careful but firm. “I cannot be certain he wouldn’t act rashly with this knowledge.”

Charlotte’s gaze rose to meet his once more. “Count Damien wields fear like a weapon, and he does so comfortably like a man who knows he cannot lose. King Edin seems content to listen to him, even trust him.” She shook her head, her concern evident on her features. “I do not yet understand the game we’ve stepped into, nor the rules he’s playing by. But I do know this: I cannot risk anyone else’s life, not when we are so unprepared.”

Her arms tightened faintly as she exhaled, her expression softening as she added with quiet sincerity, “I am glad I was able to take a moment to urge everyone to be careful and stick together. This… this is far from over.”

The settee’s cushions sank beneath his weight as Ryn settled beside Lady Charlotte. He listened, noting the careful spaces where her story skirted around what Count Damien actually told her. Not that he blamed her—they were still strangers in many ways. Though her reluctance to confide even in Lord Smithwood gave him pause.

“You know,” Ryn said carefully, “there’s an interesting paradox in trying to protect us from being unprepared by keeping us, well, in the dark.”

“Fear works best in isolation—when it convinces you that sharing the burden somehow might make the situation worse. Count Damien understands this, I suspect. He’s counting on that solitude… But Charlotte,” He caught her gaze, held it. “How can you know how we’d react unless you give us the chance? Unless you let us know you, and know us in return?”

There was a flicker of tension in Charlotte’s expression as her hands briefly tightened over her knees. She composed herself, then replied with quiet poise, “With all due respect, Count Fritz, I did not leave them entirely in the dark. We discussed the gravity of the situation, including how Count Calbert might be tied to the Black Rose. I urged caution, asked them to stay together, and offered my home as a refuge. Prince Wulfric underscored the danger as well. No one departed unaware of the stakes.”

“Revealing more at that moment, without understanding how others might react, could have been exactly what Count Calbert intended as well. Until I discern the game being played, I cannot risk moving a piece without strategy. It may serve his purpose more than ours.”

Ryn spread his hands in a questioning gesture. “What steps can we take together to build the kind of trust where sharing doesn’t feel like such a risk?”

“Of course, in time, as we grow to know each other better, trust will naturally follow. However, this was not simply a matter of mistrust, nor was it you specifically that concerned me. That is why I was willing to share the information so readily when you asked.” Her voice softened and she looked at him with a sad smile. “I withheld this information because the situation demanded caution—not secrecy. Some of our friends have acted impulsively in the past on more than one occasion, and I cannot risk putting their lives in greater danger without careful consideration. If Calbert, a man known for his calculated threats, was willing to threaten us so freely, it stands to reason that we must tread carefully. I was even concerned about what might happen if Prince Wulfric were to learn of this.” She sighed and further explained, “I am still deliberating the best way to inform everyone without sending anyone into a trap.”

Ryn caught her sad smile and reflected it back with one of his own. “I understand your caution. The tricky part is that withholding information, even with the best of intentions, can be interpreted as a lack of trust in their judgment.” Such doubts could impact morale.

“It also sets a delicate precedent,” he continued. “Should others decide to protect you by keeping you in the dark—even with information that might prove vital to our investigation—you wouldn’t be able to reasonably object.”

The window facing Damien Estate drew his gaze. “Our adversaries are powerful figures playing a long, dangerous game. And our friends’ spirited ways aren’t likely to change any time soon, nor are our unique positions and circumstances. Which means you might find yourself doing this multiple times, for the foreseeable future.”

His attention returned to Lady Charlotte, “With everything we’re caught up in, you’ll be spending rather a lot of time and energy deciding what to reveal and how to reveal it to your own team. Time and energy that might be better focused on unraveling this conspiracy and outmaneuvering those who'd like to see us fail.”

Leaning forward in his seat, Ryn clasped his hands loosely. “So perhaps the real question is how do you envision this group working together? Are we to operate on a need-to-know basis, with you as the curator of information?”

Charlotte sighed softly, her gaze falling to her hands as though weighing the heaviness of her thoughts. When she looked back up at Fritz, her expression was gentle yet resolute. “I see your point, Count Fritz, and leading with transparency has always been my goal. I never want anyone to feel as though they’re on a need-to-know basis—especially not after the bonds we’ve begun to build. But it becomes painfully clear as we navigate these situations that context can complicate things. It’s not always black or white, and sometimes, what seems like the right course at the moment carries unforeseen consequences.”

Her voice softened, tinged with regret. “That said, you’re right—keeping things from the group, even with the best intentions, is not a habit I want to form. I will ensure every one is as informed as possible moving forward… within reason.” Her lips curved into a faint, apologetic smile as she added, “I only ask for your patience if, at times, I take a moment to consider the safest way to do so. Keeping you all alive will always be my priority.”

“.... I couldn’t bear to see anyone hurt because of me.” Her voice wavered slightly, but there was no mistaking her sincerity. After a pause, her tone shifted as she met his eyes once more. “I mean no ill will in turning this back on you, but if we’re to lead with transparency, I have to ask—have you been completely transparent yourself? It’s something I hope you’ll reflect on as well.” Her gaze lingered on him, not accusatory, but curious. “For instance… Did you share everything you know about Violet with us? I can’t help but feel you may have held back some pieces.”

She hesitated, a flicker of compassion in her expression. “If you were sworn to secrecy, I would understand. Such only underscores my point—context matters…” Her voice softened further as she offered a faint, weary smile. “I think we’re all just doing our best to navigate this insane situation.”

The thought clicked like the final tumbler in a lock. “Ah. I should clarify something. As I’ve said at the masquerade, there are matters I haven’t told you about.”

“I cannot fault you for being cautious. We all have our pasts, our scars that shape us. And Creators know that there are things I’m withholding from you too.” As he placed a hand over his heart, Ryn closed his eyes. “I am afraid of being hurt and hurting others.”

“I’m not suggesting we need to share every detail of our lives.” A laugh escaped him as he brushed away an old memory. “No one needs to know about the bubble bath incident.”

His attention turned to the evidence board, its papers, and strings creating a web of connections. “What I’m speaking of is more specific to this investigation and this team.” He gestured at their collective work. “We gathered here to solve this together, but bits and pieces are being held back from each other for one reason or another. And sometimes hiding one detail obscures others by accident.”

In a fluid motion, the invitation to Count Damien’s masquerade appeared between Ryn’s fingers. “For example, because you couldn’t tell us about the tête-à-tête, you couldn’t explain just how closely the count is watching our group.” He tapped the paper with the temple tip of his enchanted glasses. “Small omissions add up. They make it harder to piece things together and harder for the team to strategize effectively.” He considered his next words carefully. “And they leave room for misunderstandings.”

“When I learned someone hired the Bloody Thorns, Count Damien was on the list of suspects. Given the timing, and how carefully you avoided mentioning your conversation with the count, I wondered if you might’ve known something about it. Not specifically about him hiring assassins, mind you, but I did suspect he threatened to inflict some kind of harm to you and those around you… And you kept that to yourself.” Ryn rose from his seat.

The invitation made a soft rustle as he pinned it up on the board. “Now, it’s true that I still get mistaken for a starry-eyed schoolboy more often than I care to admit, but I’ve lived long enough to know that precious little is black and white.” He turned around to fully face Lady Charlotte. “Which is precisely why it’s important to know how you expect us to handle information within this team going forward. Particularly if some of that information is to be withheld from specific members, whatever those reasons may be.”

Charlotte listened intently, her expression thoughtful as she gave a small nod. “You raise a fair point. Perhaps the best course of action is to address this openly with everyone next time, so we can establish how to communicate more effectively while keeping everyone’s safety our priority.”

After listening to her answer, he said, “Whatever you ultimately decide to do, let me know.” Ryn smiled and added, “And if you find yourself spinning in mental circles—it’s okay to consult others.” He knew, of course, that some found it harder to reach out than others.

“Now then!” Ryn crossed back to Lady Charlotte, fingers dancing over the rims as he swapped the spectacles’ lenses. “I’m sorry for the sudden shift in topic, but there’s something else that I noticed. Do you remember how your magicae looked before your meeting with Count Damien?” He extended the glasses toward her. “Would you mind taking a look again?”

Charlotte tilted her head much like a curious puppy, her brows furrowing as she accepted the glasses Ryn offered. Carefully, she slipped the spectacles onto her nose, her eyes focusing on her hands resting in her lap. Her breath hitched as her gaze landed on the blue aura radiating from her skin. It was thick and vibrant, enveloping her fingers in a luminous halo that seemed to pulse gently with each beat of her heart. The light was almost hypnotic—a serene, cerulean blue with subtle ripples, like sunlight dancing across a tranquil sea. It didn’t just glow; it seemed to hum with energy. “...Do they… change colors?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with wonder.

“It’s not impossible… however, in cases like yours, it’s highly unlikely.”

After a moment of thought, something clicked in her head. Her expression softened as her fingers brushed the chain at her neck. Sliding the chair back slightly, she reached for the pendant nestled beneath her collar. The silver butterfly amulet caught the light, its sapphire centerpiece gleaming brightly, almost as if it were alive. She placed her hand over it, a faint smile spreading across her lips.

“I know this will sound crazy,” she began, glancing up at Ryn, her cheeks flushed slightly as though bracing for skepticism. “But I’ve been… seeing things lately. Memories, I think. They play out right before me as if I’m watching them happen all over again.” Her fingers lightly traced the butterfly’s wings, her expression growing wistful. “In one of them, my father appeared… clear as day. He led me to this amulet.”

She looked up, meeting Fritz’s gaze. “It was hidden in a drawer. He said it was meant to protect me.” Her voice wavered slightly, but her resolve held firm. “I think… I think this locket is why my aura looks like this now.”

She let the silence linger for a moment, the weight of her words settling between them. Then, almost shyly, she added, “Do you think something like that is possible, Fritz?”

“Would you mind if I...?” Ryn gestured toward the butterfly pendant while Lady Charlotte spoke of her father and memories. At her nod, he leaned closer with his lens ready.

The moment his finger made contact, the magicae patterns on his skin shifted—cerulean blue bled through like ink spreading through water, matching the aura that surrounded Lady Charlotte. He lowered the lens, thoughts crystallizing into certainty.

“Not only do I think it’s more than possible,” he said, carefully folding his spectacles and returning them to their case, “this leads me to believe that your father knew more about magic than most.” He met Lady Charlotte’s gaze. “Did he ever show any particular interest in the subject?”

“... Not that I can remember.”

“Hmm.” After a thoughtful pause, Ryn’s expression gentled. “Regardless, your father’s love runs so deep that even his memories are finding ways to protect you.” Ryn avoided using past tense, though her father might have passed beyond mortal reach, his devotion remained very much alive. Ryn nodded at Lady Charlotte’s unexpected gift. “Given the nature of your magicae, it may be a good idea to keep this close to you at all times.”

“ I agree.” Charlotte told him with a smile. “…I suppose I should retire for the evening. I am rather tired. Please feel free to stay and utilize one of our guest rooms.”

Checking the time, Ryn nodded. “I think I will, thank you.”

She closed the distance between them to give him one more hug. As she withdrew, Charlotte told him, “ I will see to it that a meal is sent up to your room if you do choose to stay. Goodnight, Fritz. Thank you for speaking with me!”

“And thank you for listening. Goodnight, Charlotte. Sweet dreams. I’ll see you in the morning.” Lady Charlotte stepped over the threshold when Ryn added one last thing.

“About Lady Violet…” he said, “You’ve the right of it: I haven’t shared everything. But I think it’s best that you speak with her yourself. She needs a friend, now more than ever.” A long breath escaped him, his shoulders sinking slightly. “The poor woman’s heart is like a wounded cat—desperately lonely but too frightened to let anyone near. Every offered hand looks to her like a trap, waiting to snap shut.”

“Poor thing... I shall speak with her and see if she will accept my hand.”

They could only hope.

Time: Evening
Location: Vikena Estate → Outside
Attire: Dress, Amulet
Interaction: @JJ Doe Fritz @Potter Olivia

---

The soft rustle of Charlotte’s dress was the only sound accompanying her as she ascended the staircase of the dimly lit Vikena estate. She clenched her hands briefly at her sides, the ghost of her conversation with Fritz lingering. Her eyes flicked toward the flickering candle sconces along the walls as though seeking answers in their wavering light.

She was nearing her bedroom door when a familiar voice broke through the quiet.

“Lottie dear!”

The familiar feeling of a tender hand on her shoulder made her pause midstep.

"I forgot to give this to you earlier. I bet you it’s a love letter."

A small smile teased the corners of Charlotte’s lips, though it was faint and fleeting. "A love letter?" She repeated the words with a faint note of humor, her brow arching as she accepted the envelope.

"Well you never know…" With a kiss on her cheek and a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, Delilah retreated down the hallway, her humming fading into the distance. Alone once more, Charlotte glanced down at the envelope in her hands. Without further delay, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

Dear Lady Charlotte Vikena,

I trust this letter finds you in the best of spirits. It would be a delight to finally have the pleasure of meeting you in person for the very first time at the upcoming Sorian Art Gala. In the midst of such elegance, might I suggest a private meeting at 11:00 a.m.? I would love the opportunity to introduce myself and discuss a cause rather special to Prince Callum Danrose—one that involves your esteemed participation in a charity event that I believe would greatly benefit from your grace and influence. It would be an honor to share more with you in the enchanting atmosphere of the gala, and I eagerly await the chance to finally make your acquaintance.

With my warmest regards,
Alexander Deacon Vice President,
Black Rose Trading Company

Charlotte's breath hitched the moment her eyes landed on the signature, Alexander Deacon, Vice President, Black Rose Trading Company. The name seemed to pulse on the page before her. Her heart sank, and her fingers tightened around the letter, leaving slight creases in the parchment.

Her thoughts raced as she hurried back downstairs. The room was quiet now, still bearing some remnants of the earlier gathering. Charlotte crossed over to the board, the letter still clutched in her hand. Her gaze darted to the board as she approached it, her eyes scanning it rapidly as if seeking validation for what her gut already knew.

There it was scrawled on the board. Alexander Deacon.

"A love letter, indeed," she murmured dryly, her voice trembling with a fragile facade of humor that quickly faltered.
Her eyes remained on the name, a shaky sigh leaving her lips. A ripple of fear went through her as she considered the implications. There was no way this was a coincidence. No way this was benign.

A lure into the lion’s den.

She supposed this sort of matter was one she should share with the others, especially if anything happened to her if she were to go.
"… Fritz… Olivia!” Her voice carried through the quiet estate as she called out their names, but no response came. Her feet carried her toward the guest rooms, climbing the staircase with determination. Halfway up, she paused abruptly, her eyes catching sight of something through one of the grand windows.

A thick column of smoke rose into the night sky, billowing ominously from the direction of the warehouses. Charlotte’s stomach twisted, and a chill ran down her spine.

"Please don’t be over there," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. The words repeated in her mind like a desperate mantra.

Please don’t be over there. Please don’t be over there.

Her body moved before her mind could fully process the decision. Clutching the letter tightly, she quickly turned and bolted toward the front door, only taking a moment to grab her cape. The cool night air greeted her as she stepped outside, but her focus remained solely on the distant smoke.