JJ Doe

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Callum & Riona

Time: Evening
Location: Palace Grounds to the Camping Site
Mention(s): @princess@ReusableSword@CitrusArms@SilverPaw@Tae@Tpartywithzombi

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Coven & Secrets

Callum paced outside the gardener's hut as he tried to work up the nerve to enter.

“You’ve been here tons of times. And it was only weird the once.” He whispered to himself. He looked at the door; dark patterns of wood grain leaked from the door. The whisps melded into twisting shadow serpents that lashed out, fangs bared and eyes locked on him. He immediately recoiled from the door. Again. He jumped in place and tried to shake the fear from his arms.

“It’s not real. You know it’s not real.” He whispered to himself. “Suck it up, Cal, suck it up.” He felt it in the pit of his stomach. Dread at being caught out here, afraid of Riona’s home, knowing it would upset her if she saw him. He thought about that deeply unwelcoming feeling he’d had the last time he was here. Felt that same heat-bearing down his neck, felt the same chill deep in his bones. Something hadn’t wanted him here before, what if it was still in there?

He closed his eyes, tired of seeing things that weren’t real. At least it’s not Darryn. He thought only to feel disgusted with himself for thinking it. He deserved to see the horrible ghost Darryn, he deserved to suffer for not helping Darryn. For getting him killed.

Finally, Cal summoned enough courage to knock on the door, a bit too softly. Part of him hoped Riona wouldn’t answer and he could avoid going inside, wait a day until he wasn’t seeing things. Maybe even avoid finding out if she was just as angry with him as she’d been with Ana. But that would only be a delay. "Riona?" He asked. "Got time for a chat? If you still want to talk to me?" He asked softly through the door.

A muffled rustling sound came from behind the door, followed by the scrape of wood on wood. The door creaked open, and Riona’s face peeked out, eyebrow raised.

“What are you knocking for, Cal? You have a key, come in,” she said, puzzled. She left the door open and retreated back to the cluttered table.

He stared at the open door for a moment before slowly closing it. "Seemed rude to just walk in unannounced?” The explanation came easily but didn’t sound convincing.

Riona gathered an assortment of papers—a copy of the now previous Royal advisor’s journal, scribbled notes on castle gossip, and a few choice pieces of information that many of the servants knew but kept quiet about. With twine, she bound the pile together.

Even though she was going to take all this with her, Roman wouldn’t get everything at once. No, she’d learn the value of each piece of information. Parse it out individually, watch his reaction, gauge what really interests him. Adjust her focus, and payment, accordingly.

As she worked, Riona’s gaze flicked towards Callum. She noticed how he lingered by the threshold, tension visible in the set of his shoulders. Her hands stilled as his earlier words finally registered, and a flicker of worry crossed her face. “Why do you think I don’t want to talk to you?” she asked. “Is everything alright? Did... something happen?”

"If you’re mad at Ana, about what happened, you should be mad at me too.” He said quietly, finding a spot on the floor and keeping his eyes locked there. It probably made him look guilty, or overly broody, but that spot on the floor just looked like floor and he didn’t want to risk seeing anything else. "And you’re right to be mad, it might not have happened if we’d left him alone.” His eyes flickered to Riona for a second before returning to the same spot on the floor.

"How are you doing? I heard you were assisting Captain Durmand with her investigation.” He asked, imagining how much worse it had to be, focusing on everything that happened to Darryn, worse than just hearing about it. "That can’t be easy.”

At first, she had no idea what Cal was talking about. But as he continued—mentioning Anastasia, Stratya, the investigation, “him”—understanding dawned. The tavern. That gods-damned argument… Darryn.

“It isn’t…” she answered, then sighed and turned back to her packing. Her hands moved mechanically, stuffing items into the bag without really paying any attention to what it was she shoved in.

After a stretch of silence, Riona said, “Gods, I’m so f**king useless. Quack and I both sensed something was off, but we…did. Nothing. About it.” She yanked on a stubborn buckle, nearly tearing it off.

"You're the last person I’d call useless.” He said, a quick glance toward the sudden sound. He wondered what all was in that bag but didn’t care enough to ask about it.

“I analyzed his remains and what did I learn? Jacksh*t. Narrowed the substance that melted his body down from ‘literally anything’ to ‘strong non-organic chemical or magic’ that aren’t accessible to the public. Brilliant work, Riona. Really cracked the case there. Like it wasn’t bloody f**king obvious just looking at… what’s… left of him.”

Her movements slowed, then stopped altogether. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a shaky breath. When she spoke again, Riona whispered. “I want to know what happened to him.”

"I think we can assume magic.” He whispered that word, afraid to speak it too loudly. "Ana talked to him after the whole carriage ride thing. Argued with him, she saw his eyes glow red. Had a whole family meeting about it this morning. Alibeth, Wulfy, Ana, and oddly enough Captain Durmand was included.” He emphasized Stratya’s presence. "The Captain must be very close with Alibeth to get hear what all was discussed.” He added making it clear that he didn’t trust anyone who shared that much trust with the Queen.

Each name that rolled off his tongue tightened Riona’s muscles. The Queen. The First Prince. The Princess. Her jaw clenched, but she held her own tongue, letting him continue his revelations.

"Alibeth mentioned she’d caught spies in the palace before. Spies with glowing eyes who seemed on the ‘brink of insanity’. She asked if we all knew of the existence of magic.” He continued, moving closer to Riona, keeping his eyes down, not daring to look around the room. There wasn’t anything he could do to make this any easier, but he could give her all the information he had and hope it shifted some pieces of the puzzle into place.

That checked out. She also saw Darryn’s eyes and how unstable he was.

Riona turned back to Cal, who still refused to meet her eyes. “He warned me, you know? Darryn said there were people other than the Danroses I needed to watch out for. He was terrified, Cal. And it sounded like he had no choice but to do as they ordered. Whoever they are, they’ve got serious pull… and access to things most people don’t.”

Closing the gap between them, she stared at Cal’s downturned face. “That’s why I need you to introduce me to your secret party host.”

Before he had a chance to say anything, Riona pressed on. “I know your first instinct is to defend your friend. I get it. But Darryn’s death is linked to that party in some capacity. Your friend might have nothing to do with the murder, but they provided the space where anyone of any background could meet and magic was used. What if Darryn’s killer is one of the partygoers?”

He said nothing, only nodded his head. Everything she said made sense, and even if their murderer wasn’t a partygoer, Marek had connections. Callum was sure Marek would want to help, that was just the kind of guy he was.

“This is your chance to get your friend off the suspect list and zero in on who actually did this.” She took his hands in hers. “Please, Cal. Help me find out what happened to Darryn.”

"Ana and I will be meeting with Marek soon. Of course, you’re invited, and whatever you need, I got you. Maybe try not to fight with Ana, she might not show it, but I know how terrible she feels about this.” Cal met Riona’s eyes. He had to make sure she knew he meant what he said. He knew it now, he could trust Ana, she was different from the rest of his family. He had real proof of that, but he’d get that later.

Riona’s face lit up, a warm glow spreading through her. His unwavering support meant everything. But as quickly as it came, the feeling soured, her expression darkening at the mention of his sister. Callum wondered why Riona suddenly looked disappointed in him.

Her hands slipped away from Cal. Spinning around, she busied herself with cleaning up the table, shoulders tense. “Then maybe she should try harder showing it,” she muttered, voice edged with bitterness. “Because she’s not convincing me.”

He wanted to challenge that comment, wasn’t it enough that he’d seen it, that he believed Ana? She doesn’t trust you. Your word means nothing. Whispered a voice in the back of his mind. Instead, he said nothing and only watched her turn away from him.

"Darryn also gave Ana drugs, good drugs, when they had their argument. Weird thing to do right? Fight with someone and then give them a gift. Might be more to that than just a goodbye gift. The Captain mentioned an executioner’s blade nearby. Whoever did this, hounds tracked them right through the main part of town, they weren’t afraid of getting caught.” He offered more, tried to think of any other details regarding Darryn that might help, he owed Riona any information he had on the murder.

Riona huffed lightly, a weary smirk playing at the corners of her mouth as memories surfaced. “You have no idea the size of torch Darryn was carrying for Anastasia do you? Even laid up in the infirmary, he jumped to her defense. I swear, she could’ve gutted him with a rusty spoon and he’d have thanked her for the attention.”

Cal did have a point about the “good drugs” being more than “just a goodbye gift,” though. “Do you know what those drugs actually were?”

"She said they were tablets that make you feel happy, ecstasy I’m guessing.” He answered, pausing before asking, "Are you mad at Ana because she asked Darryn to drive that carriage, or because she didn’t love him the way he probably loved her?”

Riona shook her head, “I’m mad that she used his feelings against him.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, struggling to articulate her thoughts. “And for all that talk about how much she cares about him…” She trailed off, exhaled sharply, and tried again. “I wish she’d put as much effort into supporting him as she does with Lady Thea.”

Her eyes met Cal’s. “This whole mess with the afterparty lit something in you, didn’t it? It got those gears turning about making changes. Real ones. For yourself and others. And that was before they found the body. I guess… I thought, hoped, Darryn meant enough to spark something in her too.”

“Maybe she just needs a nudge.” He insisted, and it almost felt wrong to defend Ana. Almost.

“But no… it was just another day for Princess Anastasia Danrose.” Brows furrowed, her gaze intensified. “What does it mean that it took Darryn getting murdered for you to trust Anastasia again?”

Her gaze wandered back to the table in search of something to do, but there wasn’t anything else to clean or pack in the bag. “She’ll continue schmoozing, boozing, and whatever else it takes to fill that hole inside her… the loneliness… And that means there’s gonna be another Darryn soon enough.” There always was.

“It isn’t how she reacted to Darryn that makes me trust her,” Callum admitted. “At the meeting, Ana said she’d seen magic used before. That as a child another girl had threatened both her and Edin. She saw this other child’s eyes glow, saw a dark energy.” Callum took a few steps closer and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“But even as a frightened child, she wouldn’t send another child to a pyre. Even now, thinking magic and its users are evil, she protects that secret. It’s a very un-Danrose thing to do. I see something good in her. I am asking you to trust me enough to look for yourself.” He added gently, patted her shoulder, and pulled his hand away. He couldn’t see Ana’s flaws as any worse than his own. Callum leaned against the table, fingers tracing familiar grooves in the table, finally feeling comfortable in the hut again.

“And you’re right, she might become someone who uses people, like Darryn, for what they have to offer and then tosses them away. Finding ways to cope until people aren’t even people to her. A lot of nobles become that, I could’ve been that. But I had you. You helped me understand that I can’t focus solely on my own suffering, but no one helped Ana. I want to try, see what chooses to be.” He looked over at Riona, hoping the next thing he said didn’t kill the conversation.

“So that’s why I told her, about me. Just the witch stuff.” He smiled as he said it, Ana’s reaction had been so much warmer than he’d expected. “And then she told me it was Charlotte Vikena she’d once seen using magic.” He whispered, he had no secrets to keep from Riona. “Not who I was expecting at all.”

There was so much to unpack—Cal’s confession to Anastasia, Lady Charlotte’s hidden magical abilities, the ominous dark energy Ana had witnessed. But one detail snagged in her mind like a loose thread. “What a very un-Danrose thing for Edin to do too… you’re telling me he didn’t send Lady Charlotte to the pyre?” It felt like there was more to the story.

“I don’t think Edin was there, and I assumed the threat was verbal. But whatever happened, Ana said Charlotte had threatened her and Edin. It was enough to scare her, and I’m the only person she’s told who her magical threat-maker was. Guess I should’ve asked for more details.” He said and Callum doubted there was anything human enough lurking inside Edin that would compel him to show mercy to even a child.

Too bad she didn’t follow through on her threat.
“Yeah… you might need to.”

Callum nodded his agreement. He’d ask Ana about it again sometime soon, and try to get a better vibe of who Charlotte really was as well. That’s what he needed, a long to-do list to keep himself out of trouble.

After a few heartbeats of silence she circled back to what Cal said earlier. “It’s not that I don’t see some good in her. Hells, I even feel sorry for her sometimes. That’s exactly why she pisses me off so much—...” She took a moment to calm her rising hackles. “... I’ll see what she chooses to be, with you. I want to believe in her as much as you do. But it’s gonna come down to what she actually does—or doesn’t do.”

Reaching out, Riona patted his arm. “You continue to be the supportive brother she needs. I’ll be the bitch who’s being too hard on everyone’s favorite princess. Maybe between the two of us, we’ll strike the right balance. And you’ll never have to be the bad guy.”

“Hey, when she proves me wrong—and I hope she does—I’ll gladly hang up my villain hat.” Worry creeped into her as she looked up at Cal. “I know it’s not exactly what you wanted, but... it’s the best I’ve got right now.”

He wondered if her answer would be the same if he were defending someone else. Someone who wasn’t part of his family. He gave a half-hearted shrug, muttered an “okay”, and let it go. After everything his family had done to her, maybe asking her to believe in another Danrose was too much. He waved a hand above her head, swatting at the empty space.

“Weird, I don’t see or feel a villain hat up there.” He teased. “You’re not a bitch either. You are a good person with strong opinions.” There was enough going on, he didn’t want to make things worse for her. “And if you keep insulting my best friend, I’ll fight you. And we both know I’ll lose.” He lightly tapped her shoulder with a fist.

To have similar words she said to him the other day being flung back at her made Riona laugh. “True. And after our last glorious face-plant with Mr. Window Weirdo, I don't think you can handle another loss right now,” she said, returning the gesture.

The sound of laughter cut away some of the tension and Cal smiled back. “I’m not going to forget about Darryn, we will find who did this. They will wish for the crown’s mercy because they’ll get none from me. Doesn’t matter who it is.” He added; and whatever pain had been inflicted on Darryn, he’d make sure the culprit got the same or worse. He paused to see if she had anything more to add about Darryn. Callum wasn’t finished sharing bad news just yet.

“Good to hear.” After a long pause she added, “And… thanks.”

Riona caught Cal staring at her intently, and for a moment, she wondered if he was going to continue to press her about the tension with Anastasia. Part of her knew that wasn’t his style—Cal had never been one to pry. But then again, until recently, he hadn’t been one for violence either. Things were changing. She hesitated, unsure if she really wanted to launch into a rant about his sister, especially now that it seemed the siblings had patched things up.

The memory of Cal’s conversation with Quack and the potential fate of his royal siblings should the rebels win the revolution flashed through her mind. … Has his position on all that changed too?

“If you need to call Ana out for how she is, you should do it privately.” He added, realizing she hadn’t agreed to his request. “In a tavern, Riona? After what you said to Wulfric? I am worried about you. That you are going to get hurt, or worse, for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person in front of the wrong people.” Callum continued, fear etching its way into his voice. He scratched at his neck but his gnawed-off fingernails offered no relief from dread.

“If I can’t do stupid self-destructive things, you can’t either. It’s only fair. I can’t handle losing you.” His focus stayed on her, wondering how she couldn’t see the added danger she was putting herself in.

Riona’s hard expression melted away, her eyes softening as she looked at Callum. “It’s only fair,” she repeated. She couldn’t promise to stop being self-destructive, but she would try to be less stupid about it. “For what it’s worth, I can’t handle losing you either.”

Her fingers raked through her hair. A long breath escaped her, carrying with it some of the tension coiled in her shoulders. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.” she muttered, more to herself than to Callum. “I used to be better at keeping it together.”

“It’s like… Like everything I’ve bottled up for years is suddenly bursting out. Maybe…” Riona paused, searching for words. “Maybe I’m just tired of it all, you know?”

“And part of me wonders if I should just... end it.”

Realizing words that weren’t meant to be said out loud slipped out, Riona forced a smile. “But,” she said, her tone lightening in an obvious attempt at deflection, “if I do end up royally messing things up... will you avenge me?”

Callum pulled Riona into a hug. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” He said before something dark crept into his voice. “Anything ever happens to you, I’ll find all the spookiest curses and ensure all your enemies receive eternal torment. They won’t know a moment of peace in this world or the next.” His arms tightened around her.

Riona’s eyes widened as Callum suddenly pulled her into a hug. Heat spread to her face and pooled behind her eyes. Letting out a shaky breath, Riona leaned into the hug. “Damn it, Cal. You’re going to make me cry.” Even though it was already too late.

There was a twisted joy in knowing someone cared enough to promise vengeance on her behalf, mixed with guilt for feeling that way. Gods, how messed up was she to want anyone to carry that kind of burden? She thought of her family, of the townsfolk, and wondered if they had felt a similar bitter comfort when she had sworn revenge over their lifeless bodies.

She tightened her grip on him.

“And if you're tired, too exhausted to keep trying, lean on me. I understand how that feels, we’ll get through it together.” He let her go and pulled a small glass vial from his pocket, setting it on the table.

“I made calming potions today. For the next family meeting. Can’t be storming out any time they say something awful if I want to learn all their secrets. You should keep one, for when you need it, and we can keep making more.” He whispered as he let her go. There was no reason not to use magic, their biggest advantage, to its fullest potential.

“Are the meetings always that bad?”

He thought about how cold Alibeth had been, how she’d looked right at him and admitted she wanted Darryn to die. He wondered how she could call herself a mother and tell two of her children she wanted their friend dead. How excited his older brother had been to paint another friend as some evil mastermind. They both got some twisted enjoyment out of hurting him. “Usually.” He didn’t need to tell her how little the rest of his family cared about Darryn. Wulfy only seemed disappointed that he’d failed to keep a promise, that loss of life didn’t seem to matter. “When I’m even invited.” He shrugged.

Although she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to use the potion without it affecting the spell she carried, Riona accepted it. Might be helpful in a pinch. “Thanks.”

The clock chimed and Riona checked the time. “I better start heading out.” She said as she shouldered the bag. “I promised I’d meet Roman at the camping event tonight.”

Roman? His head tilted at the mention of his friend, wondering what the two were meeting about. “I’ve got one more thing,” and he needed to bring it up here, where he could be sure no one was listening in.

Callum cleared his throat, “I can’t stop thinking about what you said the other night. About Roman. And Mina. You’re right, they’re probably in danger after that ritual. We’re all probably in a lot of danger and things are going to get worse. If Alibeth’s bringing up magic it’s only a matter of time before they start looking for it. Start hunting. No one’s safe from that. Not us, not Roman, Mina, Marek…Ari.” His voice dropped to a barely audible level as he named people, but his words continued to spill out at a frantic pace.

“And if they’re looking for it, they’re going to find it, any way they can. Accuse whoever suits them.” His eyes shifted, no longer looking at Riona but past her, staring off at things only he could see. Thick smoke and shadows rose up from beneath the floorboards. It coalesced into dark pillars around the room.

“We have to protect each other. Have to keep those like us, other witches, safe. Strike first before people start burning.” Smoke became flame. Flames engulfed the shadowy pillars. Everything in the hut was blindingly bright. Twisted, pained expressions of those he cared about screamed without sound from within the flames. Bruning. Suffering. Unheard. The illusion only fueled his panic. The memory of the flame spell he’d cast in Wystan’s room reminded him what that felt like, how awful a fate it was. He stared wide-eyed at the illusion as his skin grew paler.

No one was safe. No one who practiced magic. No one who the crown saw as expendable, undesirable, or dangerous. It had happened before, worked for past monarchs, and the crown would do it again. Unless he made sure they were stopped.

“I can see it, Riona. Right now, like it’s happening. Been seeing things, illusions, all day. But I won’t see this again. Won’t let it be real.” Words hissed out through a clenched jaw. He couldn’t look away from the illusion, couldn’t let himself forget the too-real possibility that it could happen.

For a heartbeat, she wondered if he was speaking metaphorically, but the haunted look etched across his face told a different story. Whatever Callum was seeing, it was all too real to him.
“Cal?” Riona reached out, grasping his hand in hers. His skin felt clammy and cold. When he didn’t respond, his gaze still locked on some unseen horror, she squeezed his fingers and tried again. “Cal… These... things you’re seeing. When did they start?” A sinking feeling settled in her chest as she hazarded a guess. “Has it been happening since we found that hidden room?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“Today. After I showed Ana an illusion spell. Had to prove to her magic isn’t evil. It doesn’t have to be feared.” And she listened, Ana believed me. He relaxed a little, thinking about that. Flames flared and burned out. The smoke remained, stretching out, filling the space. Until it was only shadows, coating the walls, acting out nightmarish scenes with their ever-shifting forms. Shadow puppets performing every terrible thing he’d read about witch hunts.

“But this is payment for that spell. Probably compounded from using that curse scroll.” And probably made worse by making potions and dabbling in other spells following Drake’s party.

Riona visibly relaxed. If it was one thing if the illusions were from the side effects of using a spell from the book. It would’ve been another thing if it was the result of touching an ancient cursed object.

“But I did see things after we found that room. That felt, different from this. I don’t know what that was, maybe something to do with that tea I drank.” He added; today’s illusions felt more real, easier to pin down.

And just like that, the tension returned. “If it’s from the tea, we should ask Roman or Mina about it. But if it’s not… we should consider the possibility it’s from the objects from that room.”

He hesitated, he didn’t want to keep secrets from Riona but he wasn’t sure how to explain what happened last night without bringing up the unwelcoming presence in her home. “It wasn’t from the room, I felt it before we went in there.” He said cautiously and before she could ask where he added, “and if you’re worried about that crown I tried to put on, don’t be. Pretty sure I’m clear but if the illusions aren’t gone tomorrow I’ll let you know. We can practice a de-hexing on me. It’ll be fun.” He offered.

Riona narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms slowly. “Callum? … Do you want me to pretend I didn’t notice or do you have something you’d like to share with me?”

“I should tell you. I will tell you. Just not now, But what I saw after we went in that room, I felt it here first. And I don’t feel it right now but I don’t want to risk seeing it again.” He spoke as calmly as he could manage as a look of pure terror flashed across his eyes. “Please, just give me a day or two.” He asked.

What else could she say but sigh and whisper “Okay”?

He took a breath and returned to an easier topic. “In the past, witches formed covens for protection. They worked as one. Were more powerful that way.” Callum paused and smiled.

“I think it’s time we bring the old ways back, form a coven. And I’d hate to do that without you, but I will understand if don’t want to be involved. Roman and Ari should both be at Pinebrook tonight, I plan to start with them. A coven where we’re all equals. Watching out for each other. Keeping each other safe. Fighting back when we need to.” He offered, laying out the general idea of his plan for tonight.

“What do you think? It is my least self-destructive plan yet.”

“Well, well. Look who’s become a social butterfly. A few months ago you were trying your damnedest to keep everyone at arm’s length, and now you’re joining groups left and right.” Riona teased.

Her tone sobered as she continued, “But you’re right, it’s not a terrible idea. Especially if this witch-hunting thing is going to ramp up.” She met his gaze, her decision already made. “Count me in.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say that,” He gestured to the door. “Time to grab a carriage.” He added only to be hit with a puzzling question.

“What about your commitment with the Thornbreakers? Not worried if there might be a conflict of interest?”

He shook his head. “No, they’re after the crown and those that serve it, those who act to keep power in only a few hands. They’re not after witches. Not that I know, at least. If anything we share an enemy. And any witches who serve the crown, they’re on their own.” He might even be able to help Quack out more.

That was true. “Let me change the question… Say things get messy and you have to choose one or the other. Then what?”

Callum wasn’t sure how to answer that, he only shrugged. “I don’t know. Depends on why things are messy.” He answered honestly. “But nothing, no one, is getting in the way of goal number one. Rip that crown away from Danrose hands, expose every fucked up secret my family hides, and make sure Edin, Alibeth, and anyone else who’s earned it, finds retribution.” He repeated his promise, put an arm around her shoulders at that final word. Retribution, he liked the way that word sounded as it rolled from his tongue. If he couldn’t rid himself of a need to destroy something, then let his destruction be for something good. Let it be justice and vengeance tied up together.

Retribution. The fire in her blazed with excitement at his words. Yes. Yes! YES!

“You tell me whose names belong on that list, and I’ll work with whoever I can to make that happen. It’s more than a goal, it’s a reason to keep going, a purpose. And if I can do more than that, it will be tearing down the rest of this rotten system, the other houses in Caesonia, until titles mean nothing here. No one should be dying from a lack of coin.” He continued, and that was why he trusted Quack, why he believed in his vision. This kingdom didn’t need a chosen corrupted few living in excess while the rest suffered and starved.

“Magic is how that happens. It was part of the old ways. Witches used their power to lift others up. Not to control them, not to feed off them, but to help them. It was an act of mercy from the gods, their sacred gift to humanity. My ancestors tried to burn that out of the kingdom. I will restore it, but I can’t do any of that alone. Restoring magic, the way it was meant to be, is how we make this kingdom better for all its people.” Callum couldn’t see a conflict of interest between magic and the Thornbreakers, everything was linked together. His hand gripped her shoulder.

Partly overwhelmed by Cal’s passionate speech, Riona’s lips parted and closed without saying a word. It was more than obvious that, to him, the Thornbreakers and his new coven were just different hands reaching for the same prize: freedom and equality. In the world he dreamed of forging, neither could exist without the other.

“Witches, Thornbreakers, and anyone who suffers under the crown, our enemy is the same. The world’s not in our favor, our shared enemy is overwhelmingly powerful, and that unifies us. It’s going to take a lot of different people working together to overcome that, but we can. We must. Or nothing gets better for any of us.”

“Then I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you’re going to tell Quack about the coven.”

“Wasn’t planning to, unless it becomes necessary. I don’t plan to give him, anyone, any names, they don’t need to know who’s in the coven. And the coven doesn’t need to know who’s in Quack’s group. Less risk of information getting out, at least for now.”

She nodded in agreement, relieved that he decided to keep those two groups apart.

“As a co-founder though, I think we need to be careful about who you invite and who actually joins. Aside from Roman, Ariella, and Mina, who else do you plan to invite?”

“We’ll vote on new additions. Come to decisions as a group. It can’t be another monarchy, none of us should hold power over the others.”

“I like that.”

As she started for the door, the weight of the bag reminded her of its contents and Riona slowed to a stop. “Hey, speaking of Roman... has he asked you to do anything for him lately? Anything... unusual?”

“What?” That question caught him off guard. “Why? What has Roman asked you to do? I haven’t seen him much lately.” He glanced at the bag she carried. “What are you meeting with Roman about?” He asked since she’d brought him up again.

“I met him in the woods this morning. He’s actually been wanting to talk to you about something. I don’t know if it’s gonna be the same thing he told me, but since we’re all going to be at Pinebrooks tonight, it’s probably best to get the details directly from him.” Riona patted the bag. “He asked me to pass him any information and rumors that are going around in the castle.”

Cal could wonder what Roman was up to, but it sounded like he’d find out soon enough. “You’ll be careful, right? I know you’re the best spy in the city and all but-” He didn’t finish the thought, but no one made a good spy hanging from a noose.

“Don’t worry, he didn’t ask me to go dig up classified information or national secrets. He only wanted me to tell him about things that any servant working at the castle would’ve heard or seen.” She reached for the door handle, then let her head thunk against the wood with a groan. “Shoot. With all the things that happened I never got the chance to tell you about what I found in Alden’s room the other night.”

Callum made a face at the mention of Alden’s name. “Was it a list of what that guy’s been up to?” He asked. He glanced at the clock, they probably had enough time and he was too curious to hear what Edin’s advisor might be hiding.

Riona turned to face Cal. The scene in Alden’s quarters flashed through her mind—upended furniture, scattered papers, and the blood. “Alden’s room was ransacked. There was blood leading to the window and… no one’s seen or heard him. And now we suddenly have a new Royal Advisor who appeared out of nowhere.” Subconsciously, Riona reached over to cover the tear of a dress she changed out of hours ago. “Mister Alexander Deacon.”

“Deacon?!” Callum repeated the name with a mix of surprise and enthusiasm. “We’re planning a charity event together, Mina too. Isn’t he great? Wouldn’t have guessed he’d end up as advisor though.” He could only wonder why Alexander would want to work directly for Edin, but it was probably best to just ask the man himself.

“Deacon works with Black Rose and Marek, they’re all about doing more charity work around here.” He added catching her up on anything she might not already know.

Alexander Deacon. Working for Marek. The pieces clicked together with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the chest. Riona’s fingers went death-white around her bag strap. The party, Darryn’s warning, his murder—had she just helped them? Helped the people who might have—

No. Focus. Breathe.

“Black Rose, huh?” she echoed. “...Actually, Deacon invited me to participate in the auction.” Her voice stayed steady as bought time to get her racing thoughts in order.

“You seem less happy about this than me.” He pointed out, noticing the sudden change in her demeanor. “Did you agree to participate? It’s not a bad idea right, do some good? And looks like I’m taking my prince duties seriously, which could help me get closer to Wulfy. Be a better spy.” He asked.

“The charity is a great idea. I agreed to participate because he told me you’d be handling the donations. And I know you’ll make sure they reach actual people in need.” She added. “If joining can help raise more money, then I’m happy to help. Even if it might not be much.” Riona’s gaze drifted downward as her fingers twisted the fabric of her dress. “I’m… just not comfortable with Alexander Deacon.”

“What about Alexander makes you uncomfortable?” He asked with concern, noting the anxious movement of her fingers.

“It’s… hard to explain, but he comes off… disingenuous.” Greasy.

“I’ll pay closer attention to him next time.” He said, not knowing what she meant by that. When he’d talked to Alexander, the man seemed enthusiastic about everything.

Seeing how much Cal liked Marek, Riona thought he might get upset calling Alexander disingenuous on nothing more than a gut feeling. So his answer came as a relief. Her fingers relaxed and she nodded before asking something else she noticed.

“You don’t sound surprised about Alden’s disappearance. Was it brought up during the family meeting?”

“No, at least not while I was there. Can’t say I’m sad to see him gone.” He said with a shrug. He didn’t like Alden, he did like Alexander, and he could only assume that it would help Marek to have one of his top guys whispering in Edin’s ear. Maybe he didn’t have to worry so much about Marek being in danger, it sounded like he was already on top of the situation.

“So… you guys talked about Darryn’s murder, but nothing about the Royal Advisor? Doesn’t that sound kind of weird? How has no one noticed him missing? I mean, someone had to report his room being torn apart. The blood alone…”

“I left early, and so did Ana, I’m not sure what else they talked about. I could ask Captain Durmand, she might tell me.” He said, wishing he had stayed for the full meeting. He could’ve missed important information. “No, I will ask the Captain what I missed.”

Then it wouldn’t hurt to give him a head start. “You might want to read this. I haven’t told the Captain about it.” Riona reached into her bag, pulled out a single sheet—a copy of Alden’s journal entry—from the bundle of papers, and handed it to Cal. “I found his journal.”

Cal read the copy of a passage from Alden’s journal. “’My dear Calbert is dealing with his own struggles now, with Violet now in her own state of rest. He will be dying to know what happened exactly, and is desperately looking for answers. He will be easy to influence.’ What do you think he means by that?” He asked, reading part of it allowed. What happened to Violet?

“Your guess is as good as mine… but…” Riona thought back on the last few days, trying to remember when she saw Lady Violet. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

Callum thought about it for a moment. “She was at the tea party, same one I met Deacon at actually, talking to Wulfy.”

Having Lady Violet and Alexander mentioned in the same sentence didn’t sit well with Riona. “Did they come together?”

“Not sure, I didn’t see them together, but I was also late.” He said confused about the question. “You don’t think Deacon and Violet are conspiring together, do you?” He asked, his inflection on the word conspiring paired with a grin and raised eyebrows made it clear he didn’t mean plotting some grand conspiracy. “Ooohh, Calbert would lose his mind.”

Riona smirked wryly. If only what Alden was referring to in his journal was just that level of scandal. “How did Lady Violet seem to you?”

Cal shrugged, “I didn’t talk with her. Last time I talked to her was at the first ball of the summer. She seemed fine then, maybe a little annoyed about the “randomly paired dances” but nothing out of the ordinary. At the tea party though, she was dressed like she was in mourning.”

“Huh… I haven’t heard there being a death in the family.” Riona would have to double check on that, but she was pretty sure word would have gotten around if there was one. “But aside from that she looked fine?”

Again, all he could do was shrug. “I guess so?” He’d barely glanced at her but he hadn’t noticed anything too unusual.

A contemplative hmm escaped Riona as she chewed over Alden’s cryptic comments about Lady Violet’s “own state of rest.”

“‘Your majesty is still as dimwitted and unclever as ever’,” He laughed reading that out loud. “Any idea what he was planning? Guess he wasn’t as bad as I thought he was. ‘THEY will be necessary for the kingdom’s downfall…but they do not need to suffer. That will be reserved for “your majesty” solely.’ Guess it’s almost impossible to spend that much time around Edin and not hate him.” Cal smirked and handed the paper back to her.

She took the paper and put it back into the bundle. “I don’t know. Whatever it was, it’s possible that he was discovered.”

“Did you notice Alibeth isn’t mentioned anywhere?” Riona frowned slightly, “And the bit about the ‘sons’ being necessary for the kingdom’s downfall… what’s that supposed to mean?” Did Alden know about Cal joining the Thronbreakers?

“I didn’t…maybe Alden is… or was, working for Alibeth, kept her name out of it as a precaution?” He suggested.

“Maybe… but then why write any names at all? This could’ve been used as evidence against him.”

“Hubris?” He suggested. “Read anything else good in his journal? Maybe the answer to that question is in there, or at least a few more clues.”

“Bits and pieces, but I haven’t exactly had the chance to read the entire journal yet and—...” Riona looked at the time. “We should get going. If you want, we can read the journal together later. You might catch something I didn’t.”

Callum straightened his posture and offered his arm, which she took without missing a beat. “Would you escort me to Pinebrook, it’s dark out and the woods are very creepy.” He asked, only half joking.

“And if anyone asks, I was here tonight to get your advice on allocating funds from the charity event.” Callum said, crafting his story. If anyone saw him outside, he was nervous because the last time he’d asked palace staff for help, a carriage ride to a party, it had not ended well. He was here, for an extended time, discussing a charity project, they continued that conversation in a carriage to Pinebrook.

As they waited near the front gates of the palace for the carriage to pull around he shared another idea. “I would like to dedicate the charity auction to Darryn, if that’s alright with you.” He asked as the sound of hooves and wheels heralded the carriage’s arrival.

“Of course it is, you don’t need to ask me.” Riona turned her head towards the direction of the approaching carriage. “But if you are, can you send some of the money to his family? … If they’re around.”

“I could, if my plan to guilt my brother into making sure they’re taken care of doesn’t work. He did give me his word that Darryn would be safe, the least he can do now is make sure Darryn’s family is safe and cared for.” Cal said, it was better that the crown paid for that, and as far as Callum was concerned, Wulfric owed him that.

Riona scoffed. They both knew what a good job Wulfric did keeping Darryn safe. “Guess we’ll see how well that goes.”

“Either way, I’ll make sure it happens.” He assured.

__________________________________________________________________________

The carriage wheels clattered against the cobblestones as they made their way through the capital’s outer gates. Riona sat across from Cal, keeping her gaze fixed on the window.

With each turn of the wheels, each hoofbeat carrying them further from the city walls, something inside her began to unravel. The crushing weight of the Capital’s invisible miasma of spite and fury that had been her constant companion—began to thin.

She should have felt relieved. Should have welcomed the lifting of that burden.

Instead, its absence left her feeling hollow and scared.

The cursed fire within her, fed for so long on the city’s malice, flickered uncertainly. Riona pressed her palm against her sternum.

It was still there, quieter, but still there. And she knew it would remain as long as she had breath in her body and will in her heart.

It was a quiet carriage ride, and Cal could only attribute the somber atmosphere to the weight of Darryn’s murder. After a while, he moved from his seat and sat beside Riona. Still quiet, he didn't want to interrupt her thoughts, and there weren’t words that would make anything easier. He offered proximity until the silence became comfortable.

Sensing movement, Riona turned her head toward Cal. In the carriage’s dim interior, Riona’s eyes looked like bottomless pits and her skin had paled a bit from sudden weariness.

She gave Cal an appreciative smile before looking back out the window. “It’s been awhile since I’ve left the capital. Feels… strange.”

“Sorian, and all her problems, will still be there tomorrow. You deserve a break from it.” But Riona looked far from relaxed, so he pulled a flask from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Got a potion for that too.” He joked, shaking the flask.

Riona let out a small, amused sound—something between a sigh and a laugh. Her mouth twisted into a half-grin. “Really?” She shifted in her seat to face Cal fully. “You’d better be sharing that,” she said, reaching for the flask.

__________________________________________________________________________

The air became different; crisp and clean and infused with hints of campfire and roasted food. The clomping of hooves slowed to a stop and the carriage door opened, allowing them to step out into the carefully tamed wilderness. Everything at the campsite was lit by soft lanterns and moonlight, even the nearby lake seemed to shimmer. Friendly staff was quick to greet them, a handful of strange faces with familiar, mandatory, smiles.

And one all too familiar face. Callum froze for a moment, almost grateful for how lifelike the haunting image of Darryn now looked. Side effects must be getting weaker. He felt relief at the thought.

“Darryn?” The name fell from Riona’s lips in a breathless whisper that said she saw the impossible too.

Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: The River Port Lodge
Interactions/Mentions: @mole@Conscripts
Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

✠✠✠✠✠

The wall had been good company, but Vasco figured they’d spent enough quality time together. His body groaned in pain as he peeled himself away from it.

The dining room looked as if a tornado had tap-danced through it - chairs splintered into matchsticks, tables overturned, a mirror cracked spider-web style, and dark spots that might’ve been blood dotting the floorboards.

He shuffled to the bar like a punch-drunk boxer after twelve rounds, found the one stool that hadn’t joined the morning’s brouhaha.

“Where’s my beer?” Vasco asked the empty bar.

His head throbbed, rough and uneven as a Model T stuck in first gear. He pressed his palms against his temples and thought back on the hell of a dance number he’d pulled off earlier.

After Rowan fainted like a little princess, they nabbed him while Vasco was left to entertain the Black Maw boys alone. He’d done alright for a guy bringing fists to a knife fight, even sent one of them off to dreamland. But with that dead ear of his, fighting three-to-one in an enclosed space was a sucker’s game.

Glass hit the wooden bartop, snapping him back to the present. The barkeeper had materialized from wherever he was hiding to serve Vasco his drink.

“Thanks, pal,” Vasco said before baptizing his throat with the holy water of hops and barley.

“You’re bleeding.” The barkeeper pointed at him.

Vasco glanced down at the red spreading across his shirt and sighed. “Damn.”

The door slammed open hard enough to wake the dead, and there stood his cavalry, a day late and a dollar short, taking in the renovation job he’d had a hand in.

Hoisting his beer, Vasco greeted Barrock and Aurora. “We found a place to stay.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Roman & Riona Part 2

^{Trigger Warning: Blood}

---

_{Morning of Sola 25, 1739}

“Good” he spoke and with a flick of his wrist a leather pouch sailed toward the girl landing with the sound of metal coins rubbing against themselves. “Now as for payment.” he stated after his test of her reflexes.

“That should roughly be about what you normally make in a month. We can pay you however you wish, jewels, fine goods, a lock box in another city, disperse it among the lower class citizens, even a buried chest in the forest.”

He gestured towards the bag he tossed her. “Every time you hand off any information to any of the ravenwood citizens or workers that carry my sigil you will be paid. If it isn't good intel you'll still get this much, you get more depending on the quality of the information." He gave her another moment to process the info. His eyes and ears still scanned their surroundings for listening ears or prying eyes.

The pouch landed in Riona’s hands with a satisfying weight, the clink of coins within unmistakable. Her fingers traced the outlines of what must have been silver pieces—a month’s wages, he’d said. Her heart quickened at the possibilities. Then, her frugal mind instantly began allocating the unexpected windfall.

With extra coin, she could restock her dwindling supplies of components, maybe even splurge on expensive ingredients and better tools she normally had to pass over. Some would be set aside for emergencies. The rest would go to the charitable works she conducted through “Miss Vos’” banking account.

Riona’s attention shifted from the coin pouch to the ceremonial fire pit, then to the small burial spot. “I have some questions,” she said before returning her gaze to Roman. “First, does the payment have to be money?”

She didn't look to have any issue catching the bag flung at her, good reflexes and an inquisitive mind. “I would be worried if you didn’t.” he responded. Turning where he stood to make his way towards a tree on the outside of the cleared meadow. Several large and small rocks piled at its base in seemingly no order.

“No it does not.” he stated, shifting his head slightly towards her. “Like I said we can pay you with anything you like however you like. But it will not be anything more or less than what you are owed.” Roman knelt down at the tree and began slowly moving the stones away from the base.

Riona nodded, filing that tidbit away for later. She offered the coin pouch back to Roman. “You should take this back then, I haven’t done anything yet.”

Her mind latched onto his earlier words. “About those details you couldn’t say until I accepted. What are they? Are they tied to the offer you said you’re gonna give to Callum? Or that thing you claim I could use against you?”

He waved off her hand when she tried to give back the coins, “that is for hearing me out and accepting the job. I have built up the guild I started, enough that I don't need to worry about coins or money.” continued to clear the stones until he got to the base of the tree. A quick look would reveal a rune carved into the base of the tree and some kind of clear crystal embedded into the engraving.

“I will make one thing clear to you.” his gaze shifting to lock eyes with her’s. “Everything I have told you, I have told only you, and I can talk my way out of any of it.” not an outright threat but a warning, a clear one.

“... I really hope this isn’t the ‘thing I can use against you’ you were talking about, then.” Riona said as she put the pouch into her basket. “Kind of defeats the purpose.”

His gaze returned to the tree and he gestured to her to look closer. There was only a moment for her to see what he was looking for before his hand covered the mark in the tree. He spoke in a low whisper but with confidence, every word punctuated followed swiftly by the sound of wood splitting, “andar vísa veginn, endurbyggja, móta, endurvaxa.”

Grimacing slightly at the discomfort, the skin on his hand shifting to match the bark of the tree without the color. He drew his hand back allowing them both to see the crystal and rune sink into the tree while the bark moved to cover the wound. A small spell but enough for his needs.

Riona felt it before she saw it. A prickling sensation crawled across her skin, raising the fine hairs on her arms. The air around them seemed to thicken, to shift, as if reality itself was being rewritten. But it wasn’t just the atmosphere that changed; the thing deep within, stirred in response. She sucked in a sharp breath, and took an involuntary step back.

Roman had just confirmed what she’d begun to suspect, and he’d done it right in front of her. Was this what he’d meant? When he'd spoken of leverage, had he intended for her to witness this? Riona’s gaze flickered between Roman and the tree.

All he did for the next few moments was rub his hand deciding how to answer her other question. “I will not give you details or tell you how we know… we have found evidence of necromancy.” a short pause to allow her to keep up. Truth is he knew he was drawing attention to specific people and families by saying this but pressure needed to be applied and not just by him.

Yet it was still information that needed further investigation even if all he had to go on was Violet's resurrection and vampirism. “There are also somewhere between 2 to 4 vampires operating within the city.” The fact she was a vampire alone was enough information to say that there were at least a couple more without completely lying through his teeth.

Riona’s eyes widened. Vampires? In Sorian? The revelation left her momentarily speechless. “So…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “So your actual mission is to hunt down these vampires?” The words felt surreal as they left her lips. “Is that…” Her gaze returned to the tree where the crystal and rune sank into. “What House Ravenwood does? Hunt the supernatural?

“No” he stated bluntly to her question, his tone remained casual as if this was a common thing to talk about. He motioned for her to follow as he began to walk toward another tree on the edge of the field. She hesitated only for a moment before following him.

“Vampires can be reasoned with, it is just a curse after all. My grandfather worked with one before.” That part was true, one of the many secrets his father passed down to him. However, he was quickly reminded that he was again getting close to things he shouldn't be saying with the stinging flare of the mark on his arm.

“As long as they are fed and can control themselves they can be useful…” pausing for a moment as he thought of those cursed souls who were truly unpredictable. “no, it's the alter personality or twin soul curses you have to be worried about.” He knew that lesson far too well. The maid was still staring at him intently as if searching for something.

“You’re used to the supernatural.” She said. It wasn’t a question anymore, it was a statement of fact. And it brought her some comfort. “Why are you so concerned about vampire activity in Caesonia?”

“The supernatural is all around us, we just got worse at seeing it.” He answered again and began to pull stones from the base of another tree. “Vampires are solitary and territorial. They don't normally get together like this unless one is old and powerful enough to buy or intimidate their way past the inquisition or they are being paid to be here.” Some of that statement was speculation based off of what he was told by his father, but he wouldn't tell her that.

“So who would not only be able to contact them but be able to pay them to be here and why?” He asked while he was thinking through the problem and guiding her on the same thought process. “To cause fear in order to aid the employer in control? A secret weapon or disposable strike force? Perhaps some kind of enforcers in some kind of planned calamity?”

The last of the rocks were pulled away revealing another rune, different in design but built the same way. “Their presence here is a threat to everyone, a message.”

His explanation seemed plausible enough. As a noble, he did have people to take care of and Riona respected that Roman took his duties to heart. She even got the whole “loose lips sink ships” thing, but come on. “If their presence here is a threat to everyone, why are you working on this alone?” Not only did he say that Riona was his only confidant, he made it clear that he would deny everything if she breathed a word. That meant no one else knew.

Keeping people in the dark left them ripe for the bloodsuckers’ picking. “You need more backup. Real backup. Not just some random maid who’s your friend’s friend. I mean supernatural experts or someone with pull and resources that can coordinate things with you and keep casualties as low as possible.” Riona paused, realizing another reason why Roman needed a castle maid. “You think someone up top’s involved.”

Again he placed his hand over the bark and again he spoke their ancient tongue. Latin was much better at articulating spell craft and what you wanted to happen, its cost was also much more equivalent. Yet, their ancestors found their language was primal, elemental, powerful, but expensive for what it did.

His skin cracked and began to slowly weep blood as the bark disfiguration on his hand grew and dug into him. It made him grimace quietly to himself and there was still one more to go.

Riona’s hand shot out and closed around his arm before he could hide the damage. She tugged it closer, eyes narrowing as she studied the blood and wooden growth. A nearby spring could help with cleaning. But treatment? Her gaze flicked to her herb basket, mind racing through healing properties and combinations. Bandages, she definitely needed bandages. Her eyes darted to her skirt. It wasn’t exactly clean, but it beat nothing. Sorry, modesty.

“Okay, that’s it.” The question burst out of her, unable to hold back any longer. “What in the hells are you doing?”

His eyes scanned her expressions as she gripped his arm where he thought he might find suspicion or fear he was only met with a feeling of curiosity and the faintest bit or worry. “This is what I can't explain away. Those crystals will still be in these trees for a very long time. The magic we used was absorbed into them.”

For a moment, she didn’t know what he was talking about, but then she recalled the leverage; the “thing she could use against him.”

“First off, nice try, but you didn’t answer the question. Second, you can still lie about it,” she said. “And who do you think people will take the side of? The random commoner or the noble lord?” Riona shook her head. “No, you’re going to have to give me something concrete. Something you can’t weasel your way out of.”

Again he watched her eyes move from his arm to her basket, “I have what I need to bandage myself and there is still one more tree that I have to do this too. Your concern is appreciated.” it was a true statement, this was the exact reason he came out here. Well, that and to clear his head.

The man picked himself back up and began to walk to the next tree. Pulling his sleeve up to his elbow and letting the blood occasionally drip from his hand into the ground. “It is a sacrifice to our gods anyway, a price to be paid.”

His voice trailed off for a moment while he regarded her earlier words as he walked, “information on the vampiric curse is extremely hard to find, as is most curses. The only so-called ‘experts’ on these things are agents of the inquisition. Vampires are a threat but it's more of a show of power. It's rare that they are called into action but it does happen.” he paused in his ranting and looked at Riona.

“I am not alone, as I said I have plenty of eyes outside the castle but none inside. Using the inquisition as a bluff is the most ill do. Where the city guard here are a hammer in terms of their abilities to investigate and solve these issues, the royal guard is a sledge hammer. Both are equally able to scatter the rats but innocents can get caught in the crossfire.” another pause as if to strain his point.

“In those terms the inquisition is a cannon and many innocents will die while the roaches get away. The groups I work with are a scalpel, they go after supply lines and leadership, plant seeds of chaos and misinformation so that the vermin eat themselves.” he stated with confidence. “We just have to find them first.”

“Obviously the Inquisition isn’t much of an expert if all they do is make a mess and fail to get their target,” Riona said dryly, arching an eyebrow. Then she sighed, “I get it, you’re saying you guys are the closest thing to an expert. But I still think you’re putting innocent people at risk by keeping everyone in the dark about it.” It felt like sending a child out into the woods without telling them that there were wolves out there, all because Roman wanted to make sure that the pack leader didn’t notice he and his men were tracking them.

She fell silent, her eyes fixed on Roman’s hands as he worked his magic. Try as she might, she couldn’t quite puzzle out the purpose of the spell.

Stopping in his tracks he turned his head over his shoulder to look over at her with a cold stare. For a moment that's all he did, no smile barley any emotion at all. “You are NOT some random commoner Ríoghnach….” giving her his full attention for the moment he continued, “I am telling others just as I am doing now, slowly. Spreading this information to the wrong people can get the inquisition's attention and cause widespread panic.”

That was when Riona knew she couldn’t take everything he said at face value.
“Everything I have told you, I have told only you, and I can talk my way out of any of it.”
“I am telling others just as I am doing now, slowly.”
So which is it, Roman? You can’t have both.

Clenching his jaw in thought, Roman continued, “I intend to minimize the threat of both the criminal syndicate and rebel cell in this city and this kingdom. If either of them win, many innocent people will die.” reiterating the reason he was talking to her in the first place.

Riona frowned slightly. One second they’re discussing vampires, the next he’s on about criminal syndicates and rebels again? Sure, he mentioned the vampires having a powerful employer, and maybe he thought there was a connection with the criminal syndicates, but the rebels? Really? No… This felt less like altruism and more like a wolf eyeing up the neighbor’s henhouse.

Then again…

Innocent people would die regardless of who won: the syndicate, the rebels, or the current regime. They were dying now even as they spoke. Not in battlefields or massacres... but quietly.

Absent-mindedly, his hand reached up and rubbed his necklace spreading the red liquid across its surface. His arm ached from the spell’s and burned from the inflammation of his blood bond. It was up past his elbow now with the intricate pattern beginning to flare red across his skin.

His gaze was pulled away from the ache in his arm and back to her. He could tell her of the relics they brought with them but that might kill him. “Hidden in a secret compartment in my personal chest is a book. You need a magnet to lift the bottom of the chest out. The book is magic and it's old, I've been translating the book for some time.” showing her the crystal he gripped in his hand, “I found it deep in a mountain, on a pedestal of obsidian surrounded by crystals, jem’s, and jewels growing from the surrounding stone.”

The memory of the place made him sigh, it was peaceful there. “The crystals hold magic better than any other medium I have found. They are used in these trees as they absorb the spell we cast during our ritual here… this should make the effects of the spell last longer in this area.” should was the key word there although they understood some of what these crystals were for they didn't have a true understanding of them.

Fascination lit up Riona’s eyes. This was the stuff straight out of a novel or one of her cousin’s adventures—secret compartments, magic books, mountain crystals—each detail ignited her curiosity. “So this spell,” she said, gesturing at the trees. “What’s it actually supposed to do?” More importantly. “Can you teach me how to use those crystals?... Rune magic?”

Again she was met with silence as he regarded her. The silence continued as he removed the last of the stones from the last tree. Roman didn't even regard her again until after the spell was cast leaving his arm looking almost like the tree behind him. His breath became more strained with the use of the last spell.

“Peace, Luck, and healing.” he started as he retrieved a small bottle from his hip pouch. “A powerful ritual conducted at the same time as sixteen other similar rituals were performed across all three of the major kingdoms in hidden locations.” A sigh escaped him; he was not looking forward to what he had to do next.

Peace, Luck, and healing. The words echoed in her mind, taunting her. If true, it changed things.

Riona’s hand drifted to her chest, fingers splaying over the ever-present fire within. She thought she enjoyed her time in the forest because of the tranquility nature brought… well, naturally. But if it was magically induced?

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She might need to stop coming here.

For all she knew, the rune’s magic could be mucking with her own. Weakening it. Hells, maybe even be powerful enough to just undo what she had been working for for all these years entirely.

Riona’s grip tightened over her heart. Would she need to destroy these? The thought of it made her stomach twist with guilt. It felt like kicking puppies—if puppies were arcane safeguards meant to protect people. People. That meant them too: the Danroses.

Why?... If this was always here, why didn’t it protect us when we needed it the most?

“It affects everyone and everything differently, but it's a slow burn spell and will take its time. Until then chaos will be a normal occurrence while the natural world shifts to realign its balance.”

Roman’s concern about the rebels suddenly clicked into place: if he followed some Druidic philosophy, one that emphasized balance between chaos and order, then of course he’d be wary of sudden upheaval. Even if he claimed to care for the downtrodden.

Surely he must know that discontent doesn’t sprout from contentment. People didn’t risk their lives, their families, for trivial reasons. No, this unrest had deep roots—poverty, oppression, desperation: imbalance.

A sharp breath in and then a grimace, “Fuck.” spoken through gritted teeth as the green slimy concoction flowed from the bottle and over his arm. Audible sizzling and the strong stench of hard solvents filled the air. Pain evident on his face while he tried to think of something else, the bleeding slowly replaced by the dripping of the ooze.

Riona visibly flinched at his pain, hand raised to reach over to him before she stopped herself.

“If the information you get me is… good, I can teach you a… little at a time. It would count as some of your… payment.” Romans eyes flared and his arm shook while biting back the pain. “I… I can arrange it so that we pair up for the… up-upcoming camping event.”

Riona forced herself to nod, her eyes never leaving Roman. The acrid smell of chemicals made her nose wrinkle. “I’ll... see you at the camping event then,” she managed, her throat tight. “Are you done casting spells?”

The moment he grunted an affirmative, Riona didn’t hesitate. She grabbed his uninjured arm. “Come on,” she said, tugging him towards the nearest spring, her grip firm but gentle. “We’re patching you up. Now.” Her tone brooked no argument.

Glancing back, she grimaced at the ooze and blood. “First, we’re getting that off you,” Riona said, “Then I’ll whip up something for the pain with what I can. Any allergies I should know about?”

“One more thing to do.” He placed two rolls of cloth next to them and a clear bottle with an amber colored viscous liquid inside, “the honey will help with the burns… it needs to look like an accident at the forge.” he neither hesitated or explained more.

He didn't let her respond with a flick of his hand. The lighter he had retrieved from his pouch sparked to life. A bright white and orange flash traveled across his left arm burning off the ooze and searing his flesh.

His right hand plunged into the ground as deep breaths took him over. The pain was intense but far from the worst he has been through. The fall down the mountain when the rope snapped was still his least favorite experience. At the very least his shaman would be able to get it his hand working again by the morning.

“Ok… ok… now you can take care of it and no, I only have issues with Raspberries.” he spoke between breaths. Many years of training and work kicked in to keep himself calm and controlled. Mostly it was getting his mind over it, physically this would just be a few more scars on his arm in a few weeks. A benefit of the curse he thought.

Riona’s stomach lurched as Roman’s flesh sizzled. The stench of burning skin hit her nostrils, memories resurfaced, and she swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat. Sh*t. This was bad. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. Burns. She could treat burns.

“Keep your hand under the water,” she ordered, guiding his hand into the cool spring. “I’ll be right back.”

She darted into the underbrush, eyes scanning for anything useful. There—yarrows. And there—comfrey and plantain leaves. Into the basket they went. With her knife, she scored the bark of a willow tree, peeling back a strip to reveal the pale inner layer. Carefully shaving off what she needed, Riona snapped off a leafy branch, then sprinted back to Roman.

He did what he was told, the pain in his arm momentarily overpowering his train of thought. This might not have been the best idea but at least she is able to work like this. His thoughts ran over all the information he passed onto her, wondering if he made the right decision hiring her.

Back at the spring, she set Roman’s arm to air dry while she prepped. Riona rinsed the plants and her mouth before grinding them with her teeth into paste. It wasn’t exactly sanitary, but this would have to do. Her cotton skirt tore with a satisfying rip—damnit. Roman’s bandages. Could’ve used those. Ah well, waste not, want not.

Gently, she daubed the herbal paste over Roman’s angry red skin, layering willow leaves atop it before wrapping everything securely with the cloth. “Why are you doing all this?” Riona finally asked. “Out of the goodness of your heart? A sense of duty?... Why?”

Silence was all she was met with. He was obviously thinking. Either not knowing the answer or deciding how to answer. His gaze moved from his arm to meet hers, “you could say it's duty…” again silence his stare looking as if he was looking at something a thousand miles away. “My will is not entirely my own.” the confidence in his voice wavered for the first time during their conversation, his gaze shifting to his right arm.

“My will is not entirely my own.”

An unexpected, familiar ache rose in Riona’s chest. She understood—maybe not in the same way, not in the way Roman lived it every day—but she knew it through her cousin. A kind of curse that binds and hollows out a person bit by bit. Her mother had distanced them from the burden the family carried, carving out a life far from the duties that consumed those left behind. It had spared Riona the responsibility, but her cousin hadn’t been so lucky.

Then there was the more literal type of curse…
“...it’s the alter personality or twin soul curses you have to be worried about.”

Her fingers slowed as she finished securing the last knot. “I’m sorry,” Riona said to Roman, but also to the memory of her cousin. “It’s not fair…”

“If you are doing this for everyone’s sake… then thank you.” Riona withdrew her hands. “I hope there’s something or someone in your life that makes it all worthwhile.”

Again her answer was silence and a thousand yard stare. His thoughts replaying memories, quick flashes of suffering and strife, love and loss, only to end with death and rage. His gaze returned to hers, his confidence returning with a hint of anger. Not at her or the pain in his arm, no this was an anger towards the world.

... The spell fed on that anger, the hate, as it always did. And grew.

“There was once. I might be able to find someone again.” The large man stood pulling down his jacket sleeve carefully then slipped on his gloves. “I appreciate what you have done but don't thank me, at the end of this summer we may end up being enemies.” the man paused as if remembering something. “There was one other thing I have to pay you with but I'll talk to you more about it at the camping event. I wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors Riona.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 25 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edwards Estate, Drake Edwards’ Birthday Party
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @Rodiak @Potter

Ryn’s hand touched Luz’s shoulder, barely a whisper of contact it might have been imagined, yet it was enough to halt her retreat. He tutted softly and teased, “Folding so soon? You need to up your game, Luz.”

The hand trailed down her arm, lifted her elbow upward before finding her hand. With a gentle tug, he guided her towards a particularly inviting lush patch of grass.

As they settled onto nature’s emerald cushion, Ryn coaxed her feet onto his lap. A hint of mischief danced in his eyes. “Since you’ve so graciously conceded this round, I believe the rules state that you have to remove one item of clothing.” His fingers hovered over her shoe, a silent question in the pause. At her slight nod, he eased it off.

Under the guise of a massage, Ryn examined the condition of her foot. His fingers mapped the landscape of it, noting each twitch, each sigh, as he tried to piece together the story written in skin and muscle.

Across the sole, parallel welts ran from heel to arch, like furrows in a field long fallow. Faded lines crisscrossed newer welts, their uniform width and spacing as deliberate as any craftsman’s work. The cane’s signature was unmistakable. Ryn’s breath caught, a hitch so slight it might have been mistaken for a sigh. He met Luz’s gaze, his eyes reflecting deep understanding. For now, he held his tongue, allowing his touch to convey what words could not.

“I’m... we’re all managing as best we can, each in our own way. Peter, though... he’s struggling. Antsy. So angry that it’s driving him to take unnecessary risks. I’m worried about him.” He had hoped Peter’s infatuation with Ms. Persephone might temper his recklessness, but her silence only seemed to fuel it. A heavy sigh escaped him as he continued his ministrations.

The quiet between them stretched, filled only by the distant party sounds and the occasional sharp intake of breath as Ryn’s fingers found tender spots.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft, earnest. “Don’t be afraid, Luz. Whatever it is you desire, whatever would bring you happiness—I want to hear it. I want to help.” Even as said these words, a niggling suspicion took root in the back of Ryn’s mind. Her reluctance, the weight of words unspoken… they hinted at a request he both dreaded and, in the darkest corners of his soul, anticipated.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Evening Sola 21, 1739

◆◆◆◆◆ "△△△" ◆◆◆◆◆◆

△△△’s chair creaked a protest as he pushed away from his desk, muscles stiff from hours of stillness. Coaxing life back into his limbs, he stretched, then made his way to the sideboard where a porcelain teapot exhaled wisps of steam into the quiet room.

But the tea never touched his lips.

A chill raced down his spine, sharp and electric.

The room tilted on an unseen axis. The teacup slipped from his grasp, amber liquid spilling unheeded onto the carpet.

—Then came the pain.

It arrived in waves, each crest higher than the last. Invisible blades sliced his skin. Phantom bullets tore through muscle and sinew. His flesh felt as though it was being burned and torn apart. All without leaving a single mark on him. It took every ounce of his willpower to stifle the scream clawing its way up his throat.

Through vision blurred by pain, △△△’s gaze locked onto the fireplace mantle, where four colorful animal figurines stood in a row. The fish, hand-carved from lapis lazuli—began to crack. Hairline fissures spread like spider webs across its surface, and △△△ knew. The hourglass of fate had been upended. Udo’s time—the moment everyone, except Nnenne’s warrior himself, had all dreaded and prayed against—had come.

“W-wait,” he gasped, lurching toward the figurine as if his touch alone could mend the cracks.

His body betrayed him mid-motion, his left leg suddenly leaden and unresponsive. The paralysis spread like wildfire through his veins, stealing sensation from his limbs inch by agonizing inch. Yet the creeping numbness offered no reprieve from the agony that tore through him.

These were not his wounds. This torment was not truly his.

And that is why he did not try to block it out like he would have usually done. He would bear this. This was his penance, the barest fraction of what he owed to those who had given everything in service to their cause. Their faith, their sacrifice—he would honor it in the only way left to him.

A sound like splintering ice pierced the air.
The fractures deepened, spread.

△△△’s breath came in ragged gasps, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint. The figurine trembled on its perch, then, with a sound like a thunderclap, shattered.

His heart exploded in his chest, a maelstrom that obliterated all thought, all sensation. As the shards of blue rained down, darkness rose up to claim him. He crumpled to the floor, a marionette with cut strings, and knew no more.

---

---

Udo

The night sky erupted in bursts of light, each flare a fleeting star born and dying in the span of a breath. Streaks of gold and red split the darkness, cascading in shimmering arcs before fading into stardust as green flowered against the dark backdrop. The air thrummed with each boom, a deep vibration that Udo felt in his chest. Across the park, the thunderous heartbeats pulsed, eliciting the gasps and cheers of the crowd below.

In his hand, a half-eaten funnel cake left a dusting of powdered sugar on his fingertips as he stood transfixed. He had sampled nearly everything the festival had to offer and none of them suited his taste. The churros had been cloyingly sweet, the turkey legs overly salted, and the corn dogs... well, he still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of those. But he’d tried them all the same. Each new experience was a story to be collected and preserved; a fragment of this world to carry with him when the time came.

When Nnenne finally welcomed him home.

Eyes closed, Udo imagined himself by a fire on that distant beach. Long-lost family gathered close, eager to hear what he had seen and done in his long years of service. He would tell them of strange foods and stranger customs, of the lands he had walked, of lives saved and battles fought in Nnenne’s name. His tales would span centuries, recounting the wonders and horrors he had witnessed.

He had seen the rise and fall of empires, watched the Great Flood—a cataclysm that reshaped the Eastern Islands—transform from history into myth. “Home,” and hundreds of the surrounding islands, once vibrant and real, faded from the world’s memory like seafoam. But Udo remembered. He would always remember.

The scent of his wives’ cooking wafting through their modest hut. The laughter of children playing in the crystal-clear waters. His blood-father’s fishing spear, worn smooth. Stories shared by firelight. Everyone’s voices raised in song.

These small, everyday moments were as much a part of him as the crushing guilt. He’d survived only by chance, away at sea in prayer when the flood came. Returning to… nothing. No island, no village, no family.

Why?

Had he angered Nnenne somehow? Failed in his devotion? Was this divine punishment for some unknown transgression? These questions haunted Udo as he moved through life like a ghost, untethered and hollow. Days bled into years, years into decades, decades into centuries. The world moved on, but Udo remained trapped in an endless cycle of grief and longing. Until…

“Do you want to die?” Mercy came as a ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ with ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ as ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ as ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ and ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ to match appeared before Udo while he was drowning his sorrows in cheap rum. A ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ extended, a pact offered: “I promise to be the death of you.” Their hands met, and everything changed.

Traveling with ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎, Udo’s world expanded. Color slowly seeped back into his grayscale existence. Joy found him—rare at first, then often—in life’s small wonders and great marvels.

Memories flickered through his mind. Peter’s crooked grin as they faced down a band of thieves, back-to-back despite their constant bickering. Karleen, radiant on the ballroom floor, finally herself in a gown that fit her masculine frame. And Wayra, whose chaotic magic turned a simple walk through the forest into a desperate escape from an army of enchanted flowers. Together, they had traversed sun-scorched deserts and scaled frost-capped mountains. They had fought monsters—human and inhuman—, solved mysteries, and saved each other more times than Udo could count. Each adventure, and countless moments in between, became treasured memories for him—the happiest times he’d known since losing Home.

Another firework’s crack drew Udo back to the present. The park bustled around him, a riot of sights and sounds. His gaze drifted to the gathering on the hill, where the Varian Princess had laid out an impressive array of picnic blankets and pillows. There, playing with a child, was... was… ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎. Udo’s brow furrowed. Though he could describe every other person in perfect detail, everything about ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ remained frustratingly indistinct. ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ features blurred and shifted, refusing to solidify in Udo’s mind, and ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ name came out as a string of blanks.

The curse was working as intended. Udo should’ve felt relieved. Instead, a bittersweet ache settled in his chest. For it was ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ he wanted to tell his family about the most, the ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ who had saved him from an eternity of emptiness.

As fireworks lit the night, Udo made his decision. When he reunited with his family, he would tell them of these man-made stars, how they blazed against the darkness, leaving their mark despite their brief existence—just like ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎.

Though name and appearance eluded him, perhaps in describing fireworks, Udo could capture ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎’s essence: brilliant, powerful, and beautiful. They rekindled Udo’s dormant spirit, infusing his life with a vibrance he thought long lost. In his darkest moments, ⬜︎⬜︎ had been a guiding light, offering hope in the vast sea of endless years.

Perhaps that was enough. To carry the feeling, if not the memory.

Yes, he thought, watching a starburst of color ignite the sky. Fireworks would do nicely.

__________________________________________________________________________

Udo

Music Inspiration: K’Sante, The Pride of Nazumah | Champion Theme

Udo danced to the rhythm of the ocean. His body swayed with the strength of the deep. Each step, falling in time with crashing waves, traced bloodied patterns across rain-slick cobblestones. The spear in his hands became an extension of his body, cutting arcs through air and flesh alike. Every movement was a prayer, a warrior’s offering to Nnenne, Grandmother of All.

Her song swelled. Home beckoned across centuries—a siren’s call Udo answered with his entire being. For Nnenne, he danced, yes, but also for those who had made his endless life bearable. Harder. Faster. Though no mortal would live to speak of this performance, he poured himself into it all the same.

Steel bit. Arrows hissed. Bullets tore. Yet Udo felt nothing but the rhythm. Nnenne’s tears fell from the sky, cleansing him and the fallen, purifying the ground and washing away the carnage. One with the dance, one with the sea.

Even as poison from a coated blade seeped into his veins, making his movements sluggish, he refused to falter. Bodies crumpled in his wake until only one foe remained standing.

“Be seeing y’all in hell, motherf***ers,” Peter grinned, cocky and unrepentant.
Karleen shook her head and chided, “Too vulgar.”
“Agreed.” Udo chimed in.

Peter’s lower lip jutted out as he puffed up his chest like the man-child he was. “Yeah? What’d be your final words then, huh?”

Karleen straightened, a spark of challenge in her eyes. “Poetry... or a quote from one of my favorite novels.” She cleared her throat and began to recite:

“In the twilight of life’s grand play,
Where curtains fall and shadows sway,
I'll whisper to the fading light,
A verse to ease the coming night—”

“Karl,” Peter interrupted, “if you’ve got that much energy to deliver a soliloquy, you ain’t dying.”
Udo scoffed, “I’m shocked you know what a soliloquy is.”
“Shut up.”

⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ looked thoughtful, in the way that usually preceded either profound wisdom or utter nonsense. “You know, if we’re operating under the ‘monologues can never be interrupted’ rule, perhaps a lengthy soliloquy wouldn’t be such a bad move. In theory, it would ward off death until the speaker finishes. I could recite the entire ‘The Infinite Chronicle’ while waiting for medical attention.”

“And you think you’d pull it off?” Peter asked.
“Oh no,” came the reply, “there’s an 80% chance my parting words will be something profoundly eloquent like ‘Well, that sucks.’”

Laughter erupted from the group. “What about the other 20%?”

“It depends. If it’s an accident or a friend who kills me, I’d probably say ‘I forgive you.’ But if it’s someone I don’t like—”
“There’s people you don’t like?” Karleen interjected, surprised.
“Oh, absolutely. Anyone who voluntarily eats black licorice is clearly in league with forces beyond mortal comprehension.” ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ chuckled. “If it’s someone I don’t like, then I’d try to say something ominous, like... ‘The antidote... is in the…’” ⬜︎⬜︎ trailed off with a series of dramatic gasps and wheezes before going limp.

Peter snorted beer out his nose. “Diabolical. And surprisingly petty coming from you.”
“If they’ve gone to the trouble of murdering me, I think I’ve earned the right to be a little petty. It’s only polite.”
Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. “No arguments here, Boss.”

Karleen turned to Udo. “What about you?”
“A prayer,” he answered simply. “If I have time left.”
“Oh, come on!” Peter groaned, throwing his hands up. “It’s literally the last thing you’re ever gonna say. Your last hurrah! Make it count! Go out with a bang, not a whimper.”

The memory receded, leaving Udo facing his final opponent in the rain-soaked present, chests heaving. Fine, he thought, how’s this then?

Udo’s gaze locked onto the man before him, past him, beyond him to the one pulling the strings. He leveled his spear, pointed it at the puppeteer.
The enemy raised his gun.
Udo smirked defiantly, his lips curling around his final words. “F**k you, Marek.”
The spear flew.
The gun fired.

As Udo’s spear pierced through the other man, the bullet shattered his heart. The sky blurred above him as he fell.
He was plummeting, down, down…
The street melted into seafoam.
He plunged past earth and stone, sank into the endless blue.

Bubbles, pearls of air, escape skyward,
A rush of swirling brine.
Udo sinks, weightless,
Into depths beyond time.

Above, a vast shadow looms,
Its gaze piercing the watery veil.
The dark sentience seeks his mind,
Tendrils probe, grasping for memories,
Only to find echoes and absence.

Fury ripples the boundary of worlds.
Nets descend, hooks glint, a final reach
To claim a soul that was not its to possess.

But Nnenne will not be denied her Grandson;
Her currents cradle him,
Pulling towards her heart,
Away from harm.

Wind’s emissaries dive,
Sleek arrows of feather and bone,
Slice through waves with righteous fury.
Beaks and talons flashing silver,
Sever threads of malevolent design.

Movement catches his eye—
A beast, familiar yet unknowable,
Wounded and struggling, sinks beside him.
Its mouth works, forming shapes without sound,
Again and again, a name lost to the depths.

△△△ △△△△△△△ △△△△△△△△

Udo’s heart aches with unspoken apologies,
For this one thing he cannot carry home.

The abyss swallows them both, darkness absolute.
Then—light.

Udo’s eyes flutter open to cloudless skies,
As wavelets lap at outstretched limbs,
Home’s music fills his ears.
His head cradled in grandmother’s lap,
Her weathered hands, etched with time,
Caress his cheeks with boundless love.

“Nno n’ụlọ, nwa nwa m nwoke. Anyị echeworo gị ọtụtụ.”
Welcome home, my dear grandson. We’ve deeply missed you.

“M na-atụ uche unu niile.” Udo breathes, his heart full.
I missed you all.

“Kedu ka njem gị mere?” she asks.
How was your journey?

A lifetime of stories press against his lips:
“Enwere m ọtụtụ ihe m ga-agwa unu.”
I have so much to tell you.

As if in answer, the sky erupts—
A blossom of fire and light,
Dazzling as Udo remembers.

Home at last, with tales to tell,
Of a world changed and changing still,
Of those left behind, and those who wait,
On this shore where all journeys end.

---

---

Wayra

A figure cloaked in feathers stepped carefully over the cooling bodies, ​​intent on reaching the one that mattered. Wayra’s keen senses picked up the coppery scent of blood mixed with the petrichor from the rain and the smell of spent magic hanging heavy in the air. Beneath it all, a familiar scent. They approached what they knew to be the vessel that once housed Udo’s spirit.

Wayra knelt beside the still form and reached out, tracing the contours of Udo’s face. A smile, frozen in death, greeted their touch. Something tight coiled in Wayra’s chest—regret, perhaps, or a flicker of an emotion they thought long buried. They closed the man’s unseeing eyes and, with unnatural ease granted by arcane might, lifted his body.

As they made their way out of the alley, Wayra paused to retrieve Udo's spear still lodged in the corpse it had felled. The weapon came free with a soft squelch. Wayra left the other bodies littering the ground undisturbed; they were not their concern.

Above, native corvids and birds less familiar to these lands descended, drawn by some unspoken call. Soon, the air filled with the wet sounds of tearing flesh, but Wayra paid them no heed.

Carrying Udo’s body and the spear resting easily in their grasp, they moved on. Behind them, the scavengers continued their grim work, and the rain cleansed what remained.

---

---

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Consciousness returned in fragments as the world came into focus. Ryn lay prone on the carpet floor, his body struggling to move a muscle. Echoes of pain pulsated through him and his skull pounded relentlessly.

He blinked several times before he could make out the figure kneeling in front of him—Peter, with his trademark bright red hair seeming ablaze in the dim light.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Boss,” Peter said.

Sola 22, 1739

_{Sola 22, 1739}

Rhythmic clopping accompanied by the steady sound of carriage wheels turning made for a calming ambiance as Ryn regaled Luz the tale of a holy man who wanted nothing more than to reunite with his deceased family. Far to the east of the Three Kingdoms there was an archipelago located in one of the most dangerous oceans in Eromora. Amongst the thousands of islands was a small island Udo called home. Home, where his tribe and family resided. Home, where his most precious treasures lived—his many grandparents, his fathers, his mothers, his siblings, his three gorgeous wives, and all nine of his beautiful children. Home, the place that no longer existed above the ocean surface.

Years ago, a great tsunami swallowed hundreds of islands. A majority of the islands were spat back out, but the "chosen" few sank deep into Nnenne's embrace, never to resurface. One of the chosen islands was Home. And Udo was the only one left behind.

For years, Udo wandered the seas, taking on one dangerous quest after another, fighting for those who asked him, searching for an “honorable death.” For Nnenne’s taught her grandchildren to never waste one’s life unless it was to save another life. He fought and fought and fought and fought. Until one night, Nnenne came to Udo in his dreams, telling him about a boy with the abyss for eyes who would grant him his wish.

“And he got what he wanted.” Ryn turned his head away from the carriage window to look at Luz sitting across from him. “We should be celebrating his death, the end of his long journey, for a dream finally fulfilled but…” He smiled as he usually did, “I know I’m being selfish when I say this… I wish he stayed with us longer, even if it was hard for him… I wanted him to live a long life as Udo.”

“It’s not selfish to wish a friend a long life,” Zarai had kept her hand on his, squeezing every now and then to show her support for Fritz as he told Udo’s tale. “And we will celebrate the end of his journey, but first we must grieve. Should we not?”

“When you are ready we will throw the kind of celebration he would have wanted, we’ll make his memory proud, yes? Whatever he is reincarnated into or not, Udo will be proud.” She smiled at him, “We’ll exchange stories about Udo, wild stories of his bravery, and his killer charms. About how much he meant to us.” Her nose prickled, and Zarai had to stop talking before her voice broke. It took her a few seconds to blink the wetness from her eyes. “But for now, we grieve.”

Ryn leaned in and rubbed his thumb under her eye, “Not very convincing when you’re holding back.”

“I’m sorry I don’t want to cry in front of people.” Zarai rolled her eyes, “Some of us aren’t pretty criers.”

“Oh? Only pretty criers are allowed to cry? That’s too bad, I’m not much of a pretty crier either.” He sighed in an exaggerated fashion. “I guess I’ll keep my tears to myself since it bothers you.”

“Worry not; I won’t judge if you are.” Zarai cracked a smile at him. “Maybe only a little.” But all she wanted to do right now was crawl into bed and cry until she could no more.

“LLliiiaaR!” the parrot shrieked beside Luz’s ear. Ryn looked up at them. They looked back. His gaze traveled over to Karleen, who had been sitting right next to him and was also staring back at him. Although Peter was driving, Ryn could sense the weight of his attention.

A persistent feeling gnawed at Ryn, as if his crew were nudging him in a particular direction. They wanted him to divulge more to Luz, to have at least one confidant who had access to the power to protect him—the Hendrix family, the employees of Crosswinds Trading Co., the Erwynn citizens—should circumstances take a turn for the worse.

He finally looked at Luz, his friend. Heir of Puerto Vira, Lady Zarai Lesdeman. Daughter of a duchess who wanted nothing more than House Hendrix’s downfall. Did he trust her? Yes, he absolutely did, as both Luz and Zarai Lesdeman. No question about it. That was exactly why he did not want to reveal everything to her.

Zarai could see a shift in his eyes. Her stomach fell, and her chest tightened, readying herself for what could be coming.

Ryn felt the gentle warmth of Luz’s hands as he tightly clasped hers, “Udo died in peace. He didn’t feel any pain or was truly alone in his final moments.”

“I’m not saying this to comfort you. I’m saying this because… We made sure no one who swore fealty to us would ever depart this world in agony or solitude.”

On cue, Karleen, with her impeccable timing, extended her hand towards Luz, revealing a broken fish statuette. Alongside it, there were three other animal figurines, each crafted from different colored stones. Luz’s brows furrowed at his words and leaned in to look at the figurines closely.

“Everyone has their own. If they pass away, their figurine breaks.” He patted Luz reassuringly when the hand that reached over to the statuettes retracted. “Don’t worry, they won’t die if it breaks first. But I will get an ear full from Wayra.” Their avian companion confirmed his statement with a whistle.

“That moment when death becomes inevitable… my body takes on the experience of their death and my mind links to theirs until they cross over.” Ryn watched Luz’s reaction cautiously. He had just admitted to being involved in magic. There was no telling how she would respond. “So… whatever pain Udo felt transferred to me and… well, I suppose I was with him to the very end. If not in body, in spirit.”

Her lips parted, and she drew a breath in but quickly closed it before saying anything. A weight settled in her chest, heavy with unanswered questions and an unsettling sense of dread.

“How—how are you able to do this?” The hand around his tightened, trembling with a mix of concern and fear. “Why?” Why would he willingly link himself to others’ suffering? To feel a life slip away? To linger in the depths of death without its release? The thought sent chills racing down her spine.

The corner of Ryn’s mouth curled upward. “Magic,” he confessed. There. He said it. The plainest answer he could ever give. An answer that could cost Ryn his life, the Hendrixes’ status, reputation, and their livelihood. “As for the specifics, you’d have to ask Wayra yourself. This one’s their handiwork.” The parrot fluffed out in pride.

Bewildered would be one of the words Zarai would use to describe what she was feeling. She stared between Fritz and the bird, grappling with the enormity of the secret that had just been laid bare before her. She blinked once, twice, three times, as if hoping the revelation would dissolve into smoke. “The bird did this?” The implication hung in the air, heavy and surreal. If the bird could wield such power, maybe she should start calling it by its name. Her name? His name? Their name? Each possibility felt like a new layer of complexity to an already intricate web.

“Not this one, no. The person… people? Behind the bird.”

Ryn glanced down at Luz’s tight grip and he drew circles against her skin with his thumb. “Have your parents ever ordered someone to risk their life for their own purpose? And not necessarily for the benefit of the person whose life is actually on the line?” he asked instead of directly answering Luz’s last question.

Zarai frowned down at their hands, her heart racing as doubt clawed at her. In truth, her knowledge of her parents' dealings was a mystery, a dark cloud hanging over her understanding of them. She knew they were involved in some shady transactions, always brushing aside her suspicions by attributing them to tax evasion or business as usual. Duchess Francesca was the one in charge of the family’s trading company finances, while her father busied himself with their newly obtained railroads. The disconnect between her perception and reality gnawed at her.
“It wouldn’t be above them to do so,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with bitterness and resignation.
“How easy—” Ryn reconsidered his words, “or hard, would you say it is for them to send someone to their death?” Though he was well aware of the lengths Luz’s parents went to ruin Ryn’s family, he decided to give them the benefit of the doubt: it was always possible that they put such effort because they only disliked the Hendrixes. Almost flattering, if that were the case.

Zarai looked down, the weight of her family’s legacy pressing heavily upon her shoulders. She doubted her father cared enough to kill someone; he mostly retreated to his office, absorbed in his work or pinning insects. But her mother? That was a different story. She ruled their household with an iron fist, her brand of “discipline” often bordering on cruelty. The memory of her mother’s cold, calculating gaze sent a shiver through Zarai.

“Easy,” Zarai finally answered, her voice steadier than she felt. Yet, a knot tightened in her stomach as she ventured to ask, “... but why are you asking me this?” Her heart twisted at her own question, a quiet terror settling in as she braced herself for Fritz’s response.

He essayed a smile in hopes that it might gentle Luz’s disquiet. “I don’t want to become that sort of person.” Ryn held her gaze so she would understand he meant it, at the very least. “Power’s a funny thing, isn’t it? The more you gain, the higher you rise, the smaller all the little people seem. Like ants. And crushing an ant starts to feel like a small price for the ‘greater good.’” The “greater good” chiefly being the ruling house and not the people they ruled over.

“I don’t ever want such a decision to be easy. I want it to twist me up inside, make me lose sleep. I want to fight it, find another way even when it’s obvious there’s no other way. Sacrificing another’s life or well-being must be the last resort, never the first choice.” He glanced at the statuettes, “Those are supposed to remind me not to take anyone for granted. My anchor to earth… so I don’t fly away.” One of which had shattered; he allowed the figurine to break. Had that truly been Udo’s own wish, or was it self-deceit on Ryn’s part, to gloss his creeping resemblance to the Lesdemans and the Danroses?

Ryn peered at her, brow troubled. “Does… any scrap of that make sense?” he asked.

History itself bore witness to his words, a chronicle of countless lives recklessly cast aside at the altar of power and wealth. Zarai couldn’t help but reflect on her own family, who had been guilty of the very transgressions that fueled Fritz’s fears. The Lesdeman ascent to power in Puerto Vira had left a grim trail of bodies in its wake. How many lives had been sacrificed for their ambitions? How much blood stained her parents’ hands? Her own?
Zarai nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “It makes sense.” She gazed at her hands, opening and closing them repeatedly as if expecting thick, red liquid to suddenly surface. “Heh, fuck. It makes perfect sense.”

In the half-light of the carriage, Ryn gently covered Luz’s hands. He said, “Their sins are not yours, Luz.” Though he understood how she might have felt she inherited them, as if they were woven into her very being. How could it not be? Families like his and Luz’s ingrained in their offspring the obligation to uphold the legacies of their forebears. Did that not include their sins as well?

The deeds of the past were like shadows—they followed them and could loom large over their present, but these shadows need not define their steps. Remember their forebears’ faults as lessons to learn from, but no more than that. For if they were to bear their forebears’ sins as their own, they would be doomed to a cycle where hate begets hate, an endless, sorrowful spiral. “Your hands aren’t dirty.” He brought her palms to his lips—with hands far from “clean”—to prove it.
Heat flushed her cheeks, a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on her chest, which grew heavier with each passing moment. It felt as though rocks were piled on top of her heart, rock after rock after rock, until she was on the verge of sinking beneath the earth, gasping for breath. Despite the flutter of her heart, the sensation was suffocating, a consuming tide of helplessness that threatened to pull her under.

"But they’re not clean," Zarai murmured, shaking her head in denial. It was her inheritance now, immutable and unchangeable; of that, she was certain. The burden of her family's legacy pressed down on her shoulders, a constant reminder of the choices and actions of those who came before her. She longed to break free from its grip, to carve out her own path untainted by the bloodbath of the past, but the weight of expectation felt like chains wrapped around her, anchoring her to a history she wished to escape.

Crushed under the invisible weight of her family’s name, deeds, and hopes, Luz seemed to appear smaller than usual. “Oh? I didn’t realize I was dealing with a master assassin,” Ryn smiled briefly before asking the real question. “Why do you think they’re not clean?” His thumbs rubbed circles around the places he kissed.

Zarai found solace in his ability to make her smile, even in situations such as these. It was like magic. “I’m not sure,” she confessed. It was a difficult matter that she could not entirely articulate, but Zarai could not deny that she had reaped the rewards of her family’s history. Though neither of them had directly participated in the violent events of the past, she had nonetheless benefited from them. Every dress she wore, every jewel she adorned herself with, was paid for with the lives of who knows how many individuals. How many souls had been sacrificed for the sake of the simple dress she wore now?

“We’ll figure it out later,” Zarai tried a smile, wanting to set the matter aside, at least for the time being. They were nearing the guest house, and she could sense the weariness in everyone. They had lost a dear friend, someone who had been like family to them. Zarai did not want to detract from that no more than she already had.

"You all need to rest," Luz insisted, taking Fritz's hands this time. "A full night's sleep, perhaps with the aid of some alcohol if need be." She turned her gaze to Fritz, her eyes pleading for him to agree. "That includes you, sir. No arguments, no excuses. Please." She pressed his knuckles into her lips, hoping her insistence would finally end the discussion.

A tightness gripped Ryn’s chest as Luz made a desperate bid to end the conversation. His hands moved slowly, fingers threaded through hers with utmost care. “Remember asking if I will help you?”

“And never forget, you’re not alone. Just reach out and someone will take your hand. You’re the only one who can save yourself, but it’s okay to ask for help.”

Luz nodded, wiping the corners of her eyes. “I didn't know you were some kind of wise man.” She sniffed and laughted weakly, “Fuck.” Tears spilled over and trailed down your face. Beautiful despite everything; beautiful because of everything. “Fine. I'll ask for help.” She took a deep breath, reached for his hand. “Will— oh fuck, this is hard.” She tried everything in her power not to sob, to stay strong because in the world they lived in, vulnerability was a weakness to exploit. “Will you help me? Please?”

“I want to help you, but I can’t if you don’t let me…” Ryn’s voice dropped to a plea laced with a need for understanding. “Please… Don’t push me away, Luz.”

Zarai felt her lips part as if to speak, but no words came out. She quickly closed them, pressing them into a thin line. Was she pushing him away? This was still uncharted territory for her. One wrong move and the world could fall apart right under her. But this was Fritz. The man she so desperately wanted to help, and how could he ask her if she did not in return? She nodded slowly, swallowing back the forming knot in her throat. "I won’t, I’ll try." Fritz gave her a bitter sweet smile in response, but a hint of sorrow clouded his eyes.

“Your hands are beautiful. Clean or dirty, flawless or marred, pure or tainted. You are beautiful, Zarai.” He leaned in close until their faces were a hairsbreadth apart, leaving no room for her to deny or deflect his words with one of her quips. “You are.”

Dark eyes held her transfixed, a deep pool she could drown in. The count did not release the future dutchess’s hands or look away, not until the carriage jerked to a halt.

Zarai felt the rush of blood in her ears, the pounding in her chest so loud she feared Karleen might hear it. And yet, she found herself lost in his eyes, drawn in as if they held some irresistible enchantment. A familiar sense rushed to her, deep inside her, that she didn’t know was there. Zarai was drowning in those eyes, letting the darkness envelop her all around until there was nothing else but the darkness itself. At that moment, nothing else mattered; there was only the warmth of his hands and the depth of his gaze. She allowed herself to be taken over by the calmness and peace, if only for a fleeting moment.

“I won’t stop you if you really want to rest… But you did promise we’d celebrate Udo’s departure together.” Ryn’s tone took on a teasing lilt. “Join us? How else are we to finish all this stuff we got?” He nodded at the picnic basket beside her on the seat, filled with what they brought from The Tough Tavern.

"Okay," Zarai's voice cracked slightly, but she cleared her throat and reached for the basket. "Let's celebrate and drink to him." Despite her mind urging her to retreat to her room and seek solace in solitude, she couldn't bear to leave them. None of them wanted to be alone.

“Stay close to me; I’ve got the perfect room,” Zarai announced, lifting the basket and waiting for everyone to gather around her before leading them inside. A guard posted by the front door began to protest at their attire, but quickly bowed down when he noted Count Hendrix and Lady Zarai were amongst the group.

Zarai guided them through a series of hallways, the walls becoming barer and lacking the Caesonian art that adorned the more populated guest wing. She pushed open a pair of dark wooden doors, revealing a drawing room. Most surfaces were covered in a thin layer of dust, except for two couches, a small bookcase, and a liquor cabinet. They all settled on the couches surrounding the basket as they passed out the various hearty foods.

Surrounded by heavy drapes that had not danced with the wind in years and dust-covered antiques, they shared stories and laughter, toasting to memories that would never fade and ate every scrap of food they brought. As the night deepened, the room, filled with the echo of their camaraderie, gently lulled them into a collective slumber, their bodies finding rest in a jumble of antique settees and floor cushions.

In the soft glow of dawn, Ryn stirred, half-awake, to find Luz curled up beside him on one of the couches, their bodies entwined in a comforting embrace. With a featherlight touch, he reached out and gently brushed away the strand of hair that had fallen across her face, tucking it behind her ear. His fingertips lingered for a moment, tracing the curve of her cheek with tenderness.

Her lips twitched, and her brows furrowed, a subtle flinch rippling through her muscles. Under her closed eyelids, her eyes moved rapidly; she was dreaming. Moments later, Zarai stirred but kept her eyes closed, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She nestled closer to the warmth surrounding her, seeking solace in its embrace.

“Morning already?” Her voice was a mere whisper, heavy with the remnants of sleep. Her mind swam in a haze, the lingering alcohol in her system and the vivid images of her dreams. Delicate snowflakes drifted down like a gentle cascade of white, the metallic taste of iron lingered in her mouth, the comforting darkness of the lake and the stark silhouette of the bare willow tree remained vivid in her mind.

“Yeah… We’d better get you back to your room before your mother summons the entire garrison to hunt you down.” Neither of them moved, however, content to remain where they were… as long as they could.

Ryn’s fingers found their way into Luz’s long locks, gently working through the tousled knots. “It looked like you were dreaming. Was it a nice one?”

Zarai groaned at the mention of her mother. "She'd do that, wouldn't she?" The woman's determination to control her was maddening. No matter the punishment, it only pushed Zarai further away. It felt like she was standing at the edge of the cliff. “I don’t remember, but there was a nice lake.” She sighed contently, relishing the warmth of Fritz's fingers in her hair.
He hummed and after few strokes of her hair said, “Luz? I know it’s not easy to let someone in, letting them see the real struggles—you’re brave for taking this step. Thank you for trusting me.”

Strong was the complete opposite of what she felt, but the seed had already taken root. There was no turning back now, for either of them. Zarai now had to brace for the worst if her mother happened to catch wind of this.

“We’ve made promises to each other, and I’m committed to keeping mine. But to help you the way you deserve, can I ask you to do something for me?”

“Take some time—just a little—to think about what you truly want. It doesn’t matter if it feels out of reach or if you or others might call it selfish. What do you wish for? What needs to change for you to feel happy? You don’t have to tell me right now… you can think about it first. And then let’s talk so we can make a plan together.”

Zarai didn’t need time to think. She knew her desires were selfish, but she had made peace with that. She knew exactly what would bring her happiness.

Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from outside, accompanied by not-so-hushed voices. A commanding woman’s voice issued sharp orders to her two ladies-in-waiting to open the doors to the empty hall.

“...must be here…!”
“Find her, or you…punished!”

Zarai recognized the voice just as the door swung open. She tried to scramble to her feet, but it was too late. Panic set in as she thought about how to protect Fritz from her mother’s wrath. Perhaps she could pretend to have fallen asleep on the floor instead of the couch beside him. Duchess Francesca stormed in, pushing past her trembling ladies-in-waiting, her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

“Good morning, Mo—” Zarai began, but the icy look in her mother’s eyes cut her off mid-greeting. What happened next, she half expected.

The ground rushed up to meet Zarai as she fell, the old carpet scraping her palms, but the sting was nothing compared to the sharp slap across her cheek. She felt like a little girl caught red-handed, trying to sneak a cookie from the kitchen. Above her, she heard the Duchess turn her fury toward Fritz as she struggled to rise.

“You. You did this to her,” Francesca spat at Fritz, her voice dripping with disdain. “Have you no compassion? My daughter is already damaged goods; she does not need another stain on her reputation. If you truly cared for her, you would steer her away from you. For her sake and her future.” Before he could utter a word in his defense, she seized Zarai's arm in a vice-like grip and dragged her out of the room.

A rare emotion flooded Ryn's body when he witnessed the Duchess strike her daughter across the face with such force that Luz crumpled to the ground.

Rage.

Red fury ignited within him, a wrath directed at both the Duchess and himself—at his own impotence, his failure to shield Luz from harm. The emotion swelled, poised to rupture through his flesh.

Then, nothing.

Swift and sudden as its arrival, the feeling fled, leaving the world drained of color, reduced to black and white. Hollowness replaced the overwhelming sensations.

This emotional neutrality was fortunate, as it allowed the count to handle the situation with the ladies-in-waiting more effectively. Based on their body language and facial expressions, the women exhibited signs of distress. Negative emotional reactions would be counterproductive in this scenario. The optimal course of action: maintain a calm disposition and leverage the opportunity to establish rapport and trust.

He went through the motions. Hitting the right notes, selecting words calculated to yield the most favorable results.

Color bled into Ryn’s world, sensation returned
—and with it, fear.

__________________________________________________________________________

Later, when Luz was alone for the briefest moments, Ryn appeared beside her. A carefully orchestrated encounter facilitated by the ladies-in-waiting. “I should’ve returned you to your room sooner.” He pressed his lips to the spot where Luz’s mother had struck her. “I regret not preventing this, but I cannot regret our time together.” His whisper tickled her ear. “Think about what I said,” he urged, a plea and a reminder all at once. “Take care of yourself.” Another kiss on her cheek, and he vanished, as if the count had never been there at all.

TLDR

Fritz confides in Zarai about Udo’s death, expressing deep grief and regret, wishing Udo had lived longer. Zarai comforts him as they discuss the burdens of power and the fear of corruption. Fritz reveals that the spell cast on him makes him feel the deaths of those loyal to him, in their place. Zarai is overwhelmed by this revelation but believes him.

As they discuss their families and legacies, Zarai admits feeling weighed down by her own family’s dark history. Fritz reassures her that she isn’t defined by her parents’ actions. Their conversation becomes emotional, with Fritz urging Zarai not to push him away. She reluctantly agrees to let him help her.

That night, the group settles in an old drawing room to grieve and celebrate together, and by morning, Fritz and Zarai wake in each other’s arms. However, Duchess Francesca storms in and upon seeing them, she slaps Zarai, and blames Fritz for further corrupting her daughter before dragging her away. Fritz, filled with anger and guilt, stays calm. Later, he secretly visits Zarai and asks her to think about what she truly wants in life before disappearing.

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 25 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edwards Estate, Drake Edwards’ Birthday Party
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): Everyone around the tables; @Rodiak

“May I have a word, Count?” Luz asked. “In private.” She stood up and began walking away. To the others, she called over her shoulder, “Worry not; we will be back just in time for poker.”

Ryn blinked, taken aback by Luz’s abrupt request. He recovered swiftly, his features settling into a mask of casual amusement. As she announced they would return shortly, Ryn turned to the others with a grin. “Don’t start the fun without us!” He winked at them before pivoting to follow her retreating form.

He fell into step behind Luz, his stride easy while his eyes remained sharp. He could not help but notice the slight hitch in her gait.

Has she hurt herself? The thought flitted through his mind, chased by a darker one: Or has someone hurt her again?

A hot, prickling sensation skittered along his spine, an emotion he recognized yet refused to name. He tamped it down beneath layers of practiced nonchalance.

They emerged into a secluded corner of the garden. Here, the cacophony of the party dwindled to a distant murmur, replaced by the whisper of leaves.

“Strip poker might not be as entertaining with just two players, my lady.” Ryn joked, his tone light even as his eyes searched hers. “Although I’m flattered by the invitation.” He paused, then added more softly, “Are your feet giving you trouble?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Wulfric & Morrigan
Part II

FLASHBACK. Date and time: Sola 24th, morning.

---

---

“Was this the only thing bothering you?” she asked.

“It was not,” he accepted a cup from Haynes. “However, would you first answer me what you consider your duty, and why?” he reiterated his previous question. He took a sip of tea, and after a beat, added, “Please?”

“To be beautiful, of course. People like pretty things. They especially like to own it. If they can’t, some want a chance to ruin it.” She took the cup in hand. “As for why, because that was all that was expected of me since I couldn’t bear children.” Morrigan smiled in Haynes’ direction, “What do you think, pup?”

“I-I c-couldn’t p-possibly…” Haynes stammered. He puttered with the tray and the tea set, trying to look everywhere else, then finally peeked at Morrigan. “I t-think you are b-beautiful.” Sweat lined his forehead, and he trembled in place.

Pleased by the answer or the way Haynes answered, Morrigan reached for the man servant’s hand. “And you are absolutely adorable.” Her thumb traced suggestive circles on his skin. “It makes me want to gobble you right up.” The man gulped.

“Leave us be, Haynes,” Wulfric sighed, because he didn’t have the patience for Morrigan to continue toying with the man. The servant nodded rapidly, and after assuring he would be available if needed, he departed. “Morrigan, you aren’t a thing. You are a person,” he told her firmly. “No one should own you, and no one should be permitted to try to ruin you.” He regarded her seriously. “Besides, you have taken up tasks of your own will beside the nonsense that was imposed upon you, have you not?”

He enjoyed his tea for a moment, then broached the subject he had intended to discuss since before meeting her today. “Why are you torturing our servants?” he asked plainly.

“Torturing? Nooo,” she drawled. “I’m disciplining the problematic ones. Some at the request of others.” She sipped her tea. “... And to smoke out the occasional rats and snakes that like to slip in from time to time.” Morrigan placed down the cup. “Speaking of, you really need to do something about the quality of the royal guards.”

“Try not to take this the wrong way, but do you differentiate discipline from torture?” He shook his head. “Other nobles do not get to dictate our servants’ punishments. Edin should be more mindful too, but to expect anything of him…” he scoffed. “You, however?” he tilted his head. “I believe you could choose less cruel methods. To treat the people under our employ similarly to how you might criminals is detrimental in the long run,” he opined.

“I suppose I could.” But she won’t. It was obvious by her complete disinterest in the subject.

“If you could, but do not, then you are choosing to do something which is unnecessary, are you not?

She covered her mouth and yawned. “Based on your logic, dear, even though you could eat or sleep, but choose not to, because they are unnecessary. Should see how long you’d actually last without eat or sleep to test that theory?”

“How is torturing them necessary for survival? I am aware there are would-be spies, assassins, traitors, but to ’discipline’ whoever you or someone else deems ’problematic’...” he trailed off, frowning. He did not need her reminding him that he had done and ordered the same in the past, but even so... “Surely there are better ways? Ways which would be less likely to lead to retaliation? Ways with which we might lessen the turnover? Ways with which we would inspire loyalty rather than fear?”

Morrigan looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, as if struck by a sudden revelation, she clasped her hands together, a smile blooming on her face. “Hypocrite, that’s the word.” she said. “Last I checked, when your life and your family’s lives are being threatened, that counts as a matter of survival.”

“I only mentioned eating and sleeping as examples I thought you’d relate to the most. You know, reductio ad absurdum and all that.” She waved a hand, brushing aside a triviality.

“There are plenty of things that people choose not to do, for all sorts of reasons, that by your logic would be considered ’unnecessary’: Exercising, studying, keeping clean, socializing...” She ticked each item off on her fingers, the list seeming carefully chosen to strike at the heart of what Wulfric valued. “I can keep going if you’d like.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Just because you can choose not to do something, that doesn’t make it unnecessary.”

“My point is that in cases where protecting can be achieved without torture, torture is unnecessary. I am the last person to refute the usefulness of pain and violence as tools. Sacrifices are necessary at times,” that he recognized. “However, should we not strive for the least possible amount of sacrifices? The current practice is that we wave away any number of lives lost as necessary. I simply wish to minimize the suffering we induce because we never question if there are better alternatives. Alternatives which would still retain our lives while bettering the lives of our people. That is why I cannot agree to working with the Black Rose. I refuse to believe that is our best option.”

“Are we still on about this? I thought we’d moved past that silly business. Really darling, are you alright? Did you sleep enough? You keep coming back to this topic like a broken phonograph, thinking you’re going to get a different result this time around.”

“Why, yes, Morrigan, I have been engaging you in the same discussion, but you keep dismissing my points. You have not provided your reasoning when I have expounded mine. So, please tell me clearly: Could you negate or minimize your torture, disciplining, and harassment of our servants while safekeeping us? Do you approve of allying with Delronzo?”

Morrigan blinked, her doe eyes widening. “Goodness, if you’re having trouble picking up what I’m putting down, you must be terribly out of touch with the art of conversation.” Warmth appeared in her countenance as she smiled at a memory. “You never really liked those lessons involving diplomacy when you were younger.” She giggled. “Maybe we should arrange for your old tutor to pay a visit. Refresh your memory on the finer points of attentive listening and meaningful discourse.”

“I liked them just fine, Morrigan. You consider it pointless to act any differently from how we have so far. You are convinced that the only way you can accomplish your duty is to inflict endless brutality on others. You do not appear to trust that I could change, whether myself, anyone else, or the state of things. That there is no ’better’ and that it will always be the same. Are we - our family, or people in general - truly such a lost cause?”

Morrigan’s cheeks flushed pink, her lower lip jutting out in a perfect pout. “Now you’re lying to me? I very much remember how much you preferred swinging around a sword than spending even five minutes learning to butter people up, thank you very much.” With a dramatic huff, she folded her arms across her chest and turned away, nose in the air.

“Now you are mistaking me for Auguste,” he drawled. Granted, he found exchanges of false adulations tiresome. “Would you help me if I flattered you? As a favour to me? Or as a deal with me?”

The disappointment emanating from his cousin was tangible, a melancholic veil draping over her features and infusing her words. “... No, it’s you too. Because if you’d truly taken those lessons to heart, you’d know better than to say something like that.”

“Really, what sort of harlot do you take me for?” She placed her hands over her heart, as if to hold the pieces together. “I’ve always been there for you when you needed me. And as long as it doesn’t go against my job or my desires, I always will be. But now I see. You didn’t say all those nice things to me because you actually meant it.” She angled her face out of view as she sniffed and wiped her eyes.

“No, I was genuine. I can understand your doubt, however.” He gazed out at the overcast skies for a short moment. “I have always taken others for granted, even when I love them. Including you,” he recognized. He tilted his head towards her, and slowly extended a hand out to her. He raised his palm, moving it into her periphery, giving her all the time she needed to stop him or to express her discomfort at being touched right now. Finally, he settled his right hand atop her head, gently stroking her hair.

“I said what I did because I cannot affect change on my own, and you did not strike me as inclined to cooperation. I suppose…I should have asked first. Forgive me?”

Beneath his touch, Morrigan went still as a statue, so still she forgot to breathe. Disbelief colored her wide-eyed stare as she turned to face him. Not revulsion, Wulfric noted with relief. Just astonishment, pure and simple. She studied his face, lips parting as if to speak, but remaining silent.

As he withdrew his hand, her own hands shot out as if to catch it. She stopped short, fingertips barely grazing his skin. Slowly, Morrigan guided his hand to rest in her lap, cradling it between both of hers.

Seconds stretched into long minutes as she absently stroked his knuckles, gaze fixed on their hands.

Finally, softly, she broke the silence. “What is it you think I can do to help you deal with the Black Rose?”

Wulfric observed his cousin. At first, he had been puzzled by her reaction, but then…She appeared so vulnerable. “Say what you may about my diplomacy skills, but it would be in poor taste to ask you right now,” he huffed, only half-joking. An oddly melancholy smile formed as he bumped his shoulder into hers, light and amicable. He noticed that though he had probed if she could alter her approach with their servants, she offered to help with the Black Rose instead. He didn’t comment on her choice, however. Carefully, he turned his palm, lightly squeezing one of her hands, and let her keep it in her grasp as long as she liked.

That elicited a small smile from her. “Would it? If you’re trying to negotiate, isn’t this exactly the moment to tell me, when I’m at my sweetest? Besides, what if you ask me to do something that’s exactly the sort of thing I won’t do? Wouldn’t it be a crying shame if we both ended up all out of sorts later?”

Wulfric chuckled at that, and nodded once. “Then, will you aid me with obtaining information?” That was her forte, and he needed to find out as much as he could as quickly as possible. “Unless you think my father can be convinced to act,” he added, more so out of curiosity to hear her opinion than a belief that it could be done.

“I can manage that.” Morrigan tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “Now, about your daddy… have you ever thought about, you know, bending the truth? Just the tiniest little smidge?” She stretched out the word “tiniest”, letting it linger in the air like the last notes of a sweet melody.

“If you mean the truth that the Black Rose’s existence is more of a detriment than a merit to him, I can think of a few ways to make him realize it,” he drawled. “Though, I had hoped that miserable after-party would have clued him in,” he sighed. “If you have something concrete in mind, do share,” he quirked an eyebrow at her.

One of Morrigan’s hands reached up to caress his cheek. “You’re a clever boy, you’ll figure something out.” She pressed her lips against his other cheek, and received a huff in response.

“...You had mentioned the royal guards?” He addressed the topic she had brought up before. “I have a training session in mind for them. It will not be punitive in nature, and it will involve all those who are meant to protect us… I expect that those who complete the training will be appropriately competent, while those who do not will either be relegated to a lower position or leave the service entirely.”

“It’s going to have to be for some.” She snapped her fingers and the tongueless knight appeared, holding out a paper. “This is a partial copy of the report I have given to your parents. To summarize, Kalliope is unstable and not fit for her job. You did hear the ruckus she was causing at the restaurant, didn’t you?”

“Hm, thank you,” he accepted the paper and quickly scanned through them. Once done, he folded it twice, and stashed it within his tunic. “I have noticed your table’s disruptions. It is odd for Kalliope.” Had she changed? “Given she is working here contractually, she has never been loyal as such.” That had always been the issue with her, yet Edin kept her around because she was useful.

Arden and Morrigan had never seen eye to eye, however, despite the overlap in their jobs. “Did you needle her at all? I hold her responsible for her actions regardless, but I do recall you two did not get along.”

“Nonsense, we get along just fine… when it doesn’t involve certain people.”

Either way, Arden had shouted with unexpected abruptness. “I am sure Father will blame it all on Duke Vikena without our intervention. Do you recommend we get Kalliope fired instead?”

“That little fit she threw was over some boy she’s sweet on. What do you think? Can you really trust a girl who flies off the handle,” she snapped her fingers, “like that?”

“A boy she is sweet on? That is novel.” As far as he knew, Arden had a penchant for having fun with men, but that was all. “I have never seen much point keeping her employed here when it is clear she would rather not be. I will mention it to Edin, but do not hold out much hope. You know how he is.”

“For someone so jumpy, you’d think he’d spot a snake in the grass.” She let out a delicate sigh, her words trailing off into silence.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Speaking of the duke, are you trying to make headway with Lorenzo, of all people?”

“Why ever not? He’s simply precious, isn’t he?”

Wulfric’s dubious expression made it clear what he thought about the duke. “What are you expecting to gain from this venture?”

“A bit of fun.” Morrigan looked at him quizzically, “I’ve flirted with plenty of other people before, why are you so concerned about who I do what with now?”

“Because I wish to understand you better.”

“Aww, how sweet!” Before Wulfric could dodge, she swept him into her arms, rubbing her cheek against him. His protests came out as muffled huffs, lost in the softness of her ample breasts. “But why now, hmm? You’ve had twenty-eight years to figure me out.”

Once released, he carefully carded through his mussed hair, neatly rearranging it. “I did not care to do so before now. I did not notice that I hadn’t.”

“It’s a family trait, I suppose. Danrose men. Always looking, never quite seeing.”

“I always considered my father especially blind, but…” He had not recognized it in himself.

“You’re not giving your daddy enough credit, my dear.” Morrigan watched Wulfric as she leaned her head on her hand. “Maybe you should put a little more effort into understanding him better too?”

“Him?” He showcased his complete and utter disdain with that one word. “No,” he flatly denied.

Morrigan tossed her head and laughed. “Why ever not?” she asked.

“Why?” A displeased frown set in. “Not to underestimate the potential for manipulation if I did, but is there anything worthwhile about him to understand?”

Morrigan practically sparkled with delight at his response. She savored the feeling a little bit longer before leaning in close. Her breath tickled Wulfric’s ear as she whispered, “Yes. Buuut… if that isn’t reason enough.” A pause, a breath. “If you want to understand me, you have to understand him. And once you do, all those questions that’ve been rattling in your head about House Danrose will finally make some sense. You’ll see why we’re all so... messed up.” From the corner of his eye, Wulfric caught a glimpse of an impossibly wide smile. But when he turned to face Morrigan directly, she was her usual, unassuming sweetness.

“I do not merely want to make sense of it, but fine.” It could be helpful in the long run, though it didn’t exactly strike him as a priority. “Do you love him?” he questioned. She did not refer to him positively, yet was dedicated to protecting him. Was it just a twisted sense of loyalty? That since they were ’all so messed up’ they had to stick together?

“Of course I do! He’s my Edipoo!” Morrigan wrapped her hands in the air to hug the image of his father that only she could see, “Why do you ask?”

“Then of course you would be invested…” he was about to prod further, but recalled something. “Because you want to be his hero.” There had been another part to that which he had said, though it was difficult to believe. “And he was yours? Did he manage to save you?”

Suddenly, her expression turned blank. The smile was there, but it was hollow. “What?”

He knew bringing up Aiden even indirectly was risky, but that reaction was concerning. “Is this not the case anymore?” he asked carefully.

It took awhile for her to find her voice again. “Nothing will change the fact that Edin saved me. He will always be my hero.”

“I see.” Nothing would change it, not even Aiden’s death had. “What did he do for you?” There was a hint of accusation there, not for her, but for Edin. If that man had the capacity for saving, then why had he doomed him? Wulfric had been certain that the question of why had ceased to matter to him, but the notion that his father could be different yet had chosen not to be was even more repulsive.

“More than anyone has ever done for me.” Wulfric felt the gentle brush of her thumb against his palm. “He heard my screams when not a soul paid me any mind.” Morrigan’s gaze drifted over the blooming flowers. “He freed me.”

“I was… am a person to him.”

“Just to him?”

“And Jane. To everyone else I was - a woman.” An innocent word on the surface, but he sensed the weight it carried and how much yet remained unsaid.

“So, Edin was once capable of something like that.” It was difficult to accept, but according to Morrigan, he had done good by her, and he believed her. Inquisitiveness prompted him to ask, “From your perspective, when was the last time he was…heroic?” He couldn’t help but spit out that last word scornfully; it was the only way he could say it in reference to his father. “Could he still…?” He frowned heavily, and shook his head. Even if Edin would, even if it were useful or good, it wouldn’t matter, not to him personally.

Morrigan’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Honey, you can’t leave a girl hanging like that.” She patted his arm. “Finish the question.”

Wulfric shook his head. “I am glad he was by your side, cousin. You are dear to me, and he to you, but I cannot forgive him. Not ever, even if he changed,” he exhaled slowly. “Is it not similar with you and your father?”

Morrigan’s laughter bubbled up, light and airy as champagne. “Oh, Adelard! You’re so silly sometimes. Comparing Edin to Daddy? That’s just...” His cousin dismissed the very idea of it with the flick of her wrist. “Why, it’s like saying a rosebud is the same as a tumbleweed!”

“Bless your heart,” she said, though her smile did not quite reach her eyes. “Wherever did you get such a fanciful notion?”

“A rosebud which shouldn’t have sprung into existence?” he quipped, referencing her earlier ’if none of us were ever born’ statement. “I am comparing them because I hate mine, and you yours. So, Geoffrey is a worse piece of shit?” He indulged in some cursing. “And you are keeping him alive? Do you torture him much?” he inquired casually.

“Do you? Truly?” Morrigan’s finger traced a line across Wulfric’s neck, like a knife slicing through his throat. Then it stopped on an old, old scar. “If this is the extent of your hatred… You still care for him.” Her hand fluttered back down and landed onto their still intertwined hands.

A noise of surprise escaped him – not at the touch, but at the claim that he didn’t genuinely hate his father. He paused to consider it, then regarded his cousin. “Enlighten me, then,” he said after a while, “what is true hatred like?”

Fingers tapped a gentle rhythm against Wulfric’s hand as she pondered his question. “Well now, let me see… Without using that nasty H-word or anything like it, why don’t you tell me why you want to kill Edin.”

He hummed. “Oh, that is simple.” He had no intention of going into the specifics, but, “He betrayed me.” Even now, remembering that…Contrary to what his cousin said, there had been a time when he had been overtaken by hatred. Killing was all he had thought about. He’d spilled blood by the gallons in a futile attempt to wash away that one memory. As if the deaths of countless nameless people could overwrite that tragedy. Prisoners, bandits, spies, suspects…He had been losing himself in endless violence, the grief-driven cruelty and festering rage he had broken out of only after he got some innocents caught up in it all. Oh, how those unwitting victims had gnawed at him. But then - even then - he came to a realization. It could be all over with one single death. He would be free with one death. Edin’s. And so, for months he had plotted, utterly fixated on killing his father. If his mentor hadn’t stopped him…well.

“Just the one?” Amusement sparkled in Morrigan’s eyes, fully aware of what he was thinking about. “So after your little blood-soaked rampage, what did you think killing him would accomplish? Set you ’free’? Make everything ’right’?”

“Nothing could ever make it right.” She giggled. What she found so funny, Wulfric couldn’t tell.

“If that’s all there is to it, you don’t hate him half as much as you think you do. Oh sure, killing him haunted your thoughts, day and night, creeping into your dreams. You schemed and you plotted, and you counted down the days. But then…” She paused, letting the silence stretch taut. “Nothing. You didn’t go through with it.” Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Because someone else told you not to.”

“Because I did not think it would change much.”

Morrigan shook her head, clicking her tongue. “You were angry, sad, and all kinds of upset because of Edin, lashing out at anyone who crossed your path. But hate?” She huffed a breath. “No darling, that is not ’true hatred.’ What you had was a temper tantrum.”

Suddenly, she pressed him against the bench, her face inches from his. “True hatred is an obsession. It becomes your everything. It’s the air you breathe, the blood in your veins. You can’t talk it away any more than you can talk away your own skin.”

Her eyes glazed over, lost in a world Wulfric couldn’t see. “True hatred is keeping him alive so that he can watch everything he cherishes turn to dust and ashes. Savoring his every tear like fine wine, each cry of anguish like music.” A shiver ran through her, eliciting a soft, breathy sound.

“But you never let him break completely,” she whispered, her voice thick with something that wasn’t quite desire. “Oh no no no. You want him to hurt, day in and day out. Death would be too kind, madness too merciful.”

Morrigan’s eyes refocused on Wulfric and she patted his cheek. “When you truly hate someone, sweetie… there is no escape. No freedom. Only peace in their misery.” Her warm body pulled away, leaving Wulfric oddly chilled. “So you do whatever it takes to keep that suffering going.”

“Including destroying everything someone you love might care about? If you even have the space for love with an obsession like yours.” He spoke as if he could rationalize emotion, as if logic and analysis could grant him the understanding he lacked, as if he could precisely dissect something as irrational as the force driving her.

A peal of laughter erupted up from Morrigan, rich and full-bodied, so unlike her usual airy titter. It rippled through her, setting her golden rose curls dancing. She dabbed at the corner of one eye. “Oh, honey, don’t let little old me interrupt. Do go on.”

“Is hatred your singular desire? Is keeping him suffering your only duty?”

“Heavens above, talk about obsession. Duty this, duty that - every chance you get, it’s duty, duty, duty. Adelard, darling, you desperately need to find yourself a new hobby. Or better yet, find someone who’ll tangle with you between the sheets so passionately, you’ll forget ’duty’ was ever in your vocabulary.” Morrigan winked at him before returning back to the topic. “You asked what ’true hatred’ is like, so I simply obliged with an answer.”

He snorted at her comment. “It is a hobby for me as much as his misery is a pet project for you,” he remarked. Fair enough, though, he had asked, and she had answered. “I am admittedly intrigued to see what you have devised for him sometime,” he arched an inquiring eyebrow.

“Him? Morrigan asked. It should’ve seemed obvious who Wulfric was referring to, yet she asked as if she either was that clueless or she wanted to make Wulfric say ’his’ name for some reason.

“Geoffrey.”

Nimble fingers danced through Wulfric’s perfectly coiffed hair, rearranging what needed no attention. “Arrange a refresher lesson with your old tutor,” this time it sounded less of a suggestion. “You keep asking the wrong questions on the basis of assumptions you’ve never even bothered to check if they are true.”

She lifted her hand, giving a languid wave that somehow managed to convey both nonchalance and command. It took a few moments until Haynes appeared. A cat-like smile of satisfaction curled at the corners of her lips. “Now, it’s true I’m not fond of Daddy. But the feelings I have for that man are nothing compared to who… what, I ’truly hate.’”

Her words were met by a barking laugh. “Oh, so you wouldn’t mind if I killed your father, and tied up that pesky loose end?” he grinned deviously. The servant, who came within hearing range just then, startled, stopped in his tracks, and blanched.

“Did…Your Highness call?” he asked cautiously.

“Did I?” Wulfric retorted ever so nonchalantly.

The man’s eyes widened in realization. He ducked his head, and went about the business of cleaning up the long forgotten tea. Soon, he was scurrying off, far away from the two predators he really wished hadn’t set their sights on him.

“So rude, Adelard, why did you send him away? I still wanted to talk to him.” She nodded at something in the distance. Looking over, Wulfric caught the movement of the bushes just before they went still.

“Who or what is it that you truly hate, and why?”

A gentle breeze stirred, carrying with it a dance of delicate petals and verdant leaves through the air around Morrigan as she turned to face Wulfric. The movement caused her golden rose hair to catch the sunlight, creating a halo-like effect around her face. Violet eyes shimmered beneath this aureate crown. Her white dress rippled softly and the fabric seemed to glow in the warm sunlight. All of it lent her an almost celestial presence. Her smile, radiant, completed the vision.

Her lips parted, and in a sweet voice filled with love, she uttered two simple words: “This kingdom.”

What juxtaposition.

“As for the why, you already heard part of the answer.” Her hand patted his. “But if you want to know more, shall we make a little deal? For every new tidbit you learn about Edin, you can ask me one.” She lifted a finger up to her lips and repeated, “One,” before continuing, “question about me.”

“Agreed,” he held out his hand, which she shook without hesitation.

“I will take it upon myself to visit your father one of these times.”

“It’s better that you don’t, but if you insist. Just know that he’ll try to kill you given the chance.”

“So, you leave him with that much freedom?” he drawled. “Noted.”

The decision of a future fun family meeting settled, he asked her, “Was there anything else you wished to discuss?” She shook her head in the negative.

He did have one request himself. “I am in need of covert agents as soon as possible. I have some contacts myself, but I would be much obliged if you sent any competent people my way.”

“The best kind of covert agents are the ones you don’t know about, honey. Tell me what you want and I’ll let you know if they find anything.”

“Two apiece to track Anastasia and Callum and protect them from themselves. As many as are available to deal with the Black Rose,” he requested.

When asked if there was anything else he had in mind, he hummed. “Now that you mention it…” he stretched. “Do we have existent records on which servants were punished when, how, and what for? I would prefer to systemize such practices.”

However, concerning this, his cousin was less helpful. Simply shrugging.

“Very well. But if you suspect any of my servants, please be courteous enough to inform me, Morrigan. I do not know if that is the case for Haynes, but if need be, I can assign a portion of his time to be spent with you. But believe me, I have my own ways of confirming the loyalty of those I hire, and I generally keep my employees busy during their working hours.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Excerpts from the life of a prince

II. The art of torture: Year 1718, Ventu

The prince was recuperating within the medical chambers under the tightest of security. He had been rushed there immediately, doctors crowding his unconscious body. He’d regained consciousness hours later with tubes attached to his arm, and his neck heavily bandaged. His mother was by his side, and he’d talked to her some before falling into another restless sleep.

He was only starting to wake again when the door flew open with a bang that made Wulfric jump. Morrigan came tearing into the room like a storm. Her face was flushed, her breath escaped in puffs, and her eyes were bright and wild as they scanned the room.

“Adelard!” she cried out. He barely had time to react before she threw her arms around him and held him against her tightly. “Oh, Adelard," she said, softer this time, but no less thick with emotion. She planted kisses all over his cheek and a long one on the forehead.

Arms were around him, holding him down, suffocating. “It hurts,” he told her quietly. It wasn’t because of her hug, not really. But the heat of her body was stifling; it radiated from her, and seeped into his. The gash beneath his bandages felt as if lava was running through it. It pulsated slowly but painfully, each heartbeat bringing with it a fresh pang of pain.

“Morrigan!” his mother hissed sharply from his bedside. “Can you not see that he is injured?” He was let down gently, and he blinked from one woman to the other, dazed. “...No sudden movements,” she added, calming her tone as she brushed through his hair.

“You came to visit.” Wulfric was pleased to see her, so he smiled at Morrigan, though it was very faint. He felt so weak and awful, but the company was…nice. He didn’t want to be so childish, but he was secretly glad for all the coddling.

Morrigan sank to her knees beside the bed, careful so as not to cause Wulfric any more pain. She took his hand tenderly in her own, running her thumb over his knuckles in a soothing motion. “Of course I did, sweetie,” she said softly. Violet eyes roamed over him, checking how bad his injuries were. “What happened?”

“I was just playing,” he said. Wulfric was clearly confused; he knew what happened, but not why. “Then he- he attacked me, and wanted to kill me…”

The child gripped Morrigan’s hand as tight as a vice, fingers digging into her palm. His breathing sped up, lids screwing shut as part of the memory vividly flashed before his eyes.

Suddenly, the man lunged at him, a jagged piece of the broken vase in hand. The prince was tackled to the ground, and the man swung wildly, screaming as his eyes glinted madly. Wulfric yelped, trying to kick at the servant, struggling to break free. He couldn’t. The sharp edge made contact just before the guards grabbed the offender and dragged the man back. However, the damage was already done, and the child brought a hand to his neck. It was searing hot – something sticky and warm oozed between his hands. Red was spreading everywhere. Blood. His blood.

He felt his mother stroking his back, and calmed down. Even though he was cautious turning around, the pain made him gasp. He gazed at his mother, silently pleading. It was tiring to try and explain further, and he knew she could tell Morrigan more.

Alibeth did, even as she took hold of his other hand. He listened as she went over what she’d learned from him, the guards, and the doctors so far. Even though she was speaking softly, Wulfric could tell his mother was angry - angry for his sake. However, the way she retold the event was similar to his history lessons. He liked those; there was always a way to explain what happened and why.

“I knew I should’ve done more than break his bones.” Wulfric thought he heard Morrigan mutter. He glanced her way, saw the familiar comforting face, but something dark spiraled behind those eyes.

“Did he…Did he attack me because I’m important?” Wulfric asked his mother when she was finished. It wasn’t the first time someone tried hurting him. Two years ago, he had thoughtlessly accepted a gift, and ended up being poisoned. His mother had told him then that he had to be careful. She had said some people would want to hurt him because he was a prince.

“I am unsure yet, darling…But all will become clear in due time.” He opened his mouth to object, because it seemed there was something she was holding back. But she touched his cheek, and promised, “We can discuss it to your heart’s content when you are better, Wulfric.”

He huffed, but exhaustion was already taking him over. “Alright.”

“Get some rest, okay sweetie?” Morriagn stood up and helped his mother make Wulfric more comfortable in his bed. “When you’re all better, I’ll have a little present waiting for the good boy.” She tapped the good boy’s nose with her finger.

“In the meantime, do you want anything?”

“Tell me a story,” he requested.

“A story? Hmm.” Morrigan pondered for a moment. “Have you heard of The Lost Empire of the Silver Seas? It’s popular with the children and Aiden’s been absolutely obsessed with it lately.”

Wulfric’s eyes grew heavy as Morrigan’s melodic voice wove a tale of adventure on the high seas. She told of a dashing captain searching mythical islands for the fabled lost kingdom, filled with glittering treasure. Slowly, lulled by the epic story, he drifted into dreams of flashing blades and creaking ships, guided by the rhythm of crashing waves.

Just before sleep claimed him completely, he felt a light pressure on his forehead—Morrigan’s warm lips, kissing him goodnight. There was some quiet movement and a whispered exchange between his cousin and mother. The last thing he heard was, “If you need anything from me, Bettie, you know where to find me.”

Wulfric had slept through most of the first several days. When he was able to stay awake longer, he was allowed to play here and there under supervision. After a week, he was allowed to take short walks to the garden. The second week in, however, the routine became so terribly tedius and frustrating. He was still in pain, yes, but why did he have to be locked up as if he were some prisoner? He’d heard the doctors say how fortunate he was, and how he must truly be under divine protection.

If so, Wulfric wished the Gods would do something about all of this. He had no lessons, he couldn’t sleep in his room, his neck was painful and itchy, and he constantly had people all around whose most commonly uttered phrases consisted of “No,” and “I am terribly sorry, but.” In protest, he threw a tremendous tantrum, but after he tired himself out, he got the “Oh, see, you must still rest, after all,” treatment. It was driving him up the wall, and he didn’t know what to do about it, because no one was listening. Mother and Morrigan both were acting as if he still needed babying. Oh, how it grated that for every single step he took, there was someone looking down at him, judging him as weak and helpless. He hated it.

Morrigan laughed when Wulfric told her he wasn’t a baby anymore. “Oh honey,” she said, “no matter how old you are, you’ll always be your Mama’s precious little baby.” She cupped his puffed cheeks in her soft hands and nuzzled her nose against his, then kissed the frown creasing his brow.

“But… I suppose…” Her touch trailed down his neck, where the bandage covered his recent injury. She pressed down, down, down, until it stung and ached. Morrigan watched him closely, searching, assessing, testing as tears pricked his eyes. Waited to see if he would cry, if he would beg her to stop or flee. He would not. Wulfric swallowed hard, met her gaze. He was big. Strong. A prince. The Prince. He was not scared.

After what felt like forever, Morrigan withdrew her hand and smiled with pride. “What a strong wolf,” she praised. “I think you’re ready for my little present.”

“A present?” Wulfric asked eagerly. He blinked a few times to safely get rid of the uncomfortable dampness in his eyes, not letting a drop fall. He didn’t like crying, and besides, he had no reason to. It still hurt, true. But even worse was the urge to scratch, to claw at it like a mindless beast. Even with salves applied to the injury, that instinct was growing stronger and more frequent. The doctors had explained to him it was a sign of healing. He hoped it would go away soon.

Whether as a reward or as an appeasement, Morrigan told him to follow her, and led him out of the medical chambers. Seeing he was going somewhere different in a while, the child perked up. At times, he’d run ahead of his cousin, who, amused, told him which direction to take. “Oooh,” there was a sparkle of curiosity and delight in his gaze as they descended into the dungeons. He had explored there a few times, but adults mostly seemed to want to keep him away from the prisoners.

Except for Morrigan, who looked just as excited as he was. “Close your eyes, Adelard. Don’t open them until I say so. Can you do that?” Of course he could. Wulfric not only squeezed his eyes shut, but clapped his hands over them to prove it. Giggles filled his ears, then the heavy door shrieked open. Morrigan gently guided him through one room and into another. When they finally stopped he shifted from foot to foot, swaying with anticipation and fighting the urge to peek.

“You can look now.” Wulfric needed no further encouragement. He peeled his hands away, blinking as his vision adjusted to the dim light. Someone lay strapped to the most uncomfortable looking recliner. All kinds of strange tools decorated the table beside it. Morrigan flung her arms wide, matching the broadness of her grin. “Ta-da!”

Wulfric mimicked her smile, perplexed, but as he stared at the man chained to the rack, his expression turned blank. The man’s face was heavily bruised and bloodied, nose broken, lips swollen, yet he was still recognizable. His body was just as battered, his limbs twisted unnaturally. The servant had whimpered upon Morrigan’s entrance, but now his fearfully pleading eyes locked onto the child’s. “M-mph!” the man tried to say something through the gag.

“You,” he seethed. “You tried to kill me,” the prince accused. There was a turmoil of confusion and anger brewing within him. Vigorous muffled protests followed as the man tried to shake himself free. It was futile. Wulfric looked at Morrigan, then at the tools - though he didn’t recognize them, he knew they were weapons - then back at her. His cousin nodded happily, still grinning.

Wulfric approached the table, and chose something familiar. A simple knife. He slashed off the man’s gag, lightly cutting his cheek in the process. “I’b sorry - sorry, pwhe-ease forgib me,” the man started crying right away.

“Shut up.” His voice was eerily calm even as he gripped the knife tightly. The servant hiccuped, nervous eyes flitting here and there. “Hey,” Wulfric drew his attention. “Do you remember when you gave me this?” He pointed at his bandaged neck. The man swallowed, gave a tiny nod, was about to say something, but the prince hushed him. “You were saying…That I was a monster. That I should die,” he recalled. “Tell me why,” he demanded.

But the man started apologizing again, saying how he hadn’t meant it, how he didn’t know what had come over him, how he’d forgotten himself, and begged for mercy. Wulfric’s face grew darker as he listened. “That’s not what I asked.” He circled the man until he stood by his head. He held the knife in both hands, fingers tight around the handle. He stared down at the servant. When the man had attacked him, Wulfric had been just as helpless. Knocked onto the floor, an adult body pinning him down, a sharp improvised weapon wielded against him. His breathing picked up speed; he didn’t quite hear what the man was saying anymore. All he knew was that this person had caused him hurt, had meant to kill him.

With a shout, he brought the knife down, fast and hard - into the man’s shoulder. Even with all his strength, it didn’t plunge deeply, stopped by a bone. But the man screamed, and Wulfric knew he’d screamed just like that when he’d been stabbed too. He took deep breaths, mouth open, eyes wide as he stared at the wound he’d created, shocked. Yet…the person who’d hurt him was the one hurting now. That was good.

He closed his eyes for a bit, shaking. It passed after a while, and he started wiggling the knife out. It took a bit, prompting more screams, but then it was dislodged. Hands bloodied and slick, the child went back to where he could watch the man’s face. “Tell me,” he said again, voice rougher, tired out from the effort.

When the man failed to answer again, Morrigan’s hand flew out in a blur, backhanding him with a resounding crack that echoed through the stone chamber. She leaned in close, pressing a slender finger to his lips to hush his whimpers before they could fully form. “Now, now, darling,” she purred, her voice syrup-sweet. “Your prince asked you a question. It’s rude not to answer.” She clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. “Such dreadful manners. Do I have to teach you a lesson?” Her fingers slid across his cheek in a slow caress, gliding down the column of his throat. Her touch promised only pain as her nails began to circle over the fresh wound.

Wulfric observed the man, then glanced at his bloodied hands, at Morrigan, and finally at the servant. “Should I…cut?” he asked quietly. It was unclear whom he was asking, nor the exact emotions behind the question, but he was staring down at the immobile victim intently. He shuffled closer, the knife slick and slippery from blood.

The captive struggled to escape, but only managed to rattle his chains. “Wh-wait!” he gasped. “I - I’ll tell - so, jus -” the prisoner breathed heavily, eyes squeezing shut. Wulfric waited patiently, and when the servant next looked at him, there was something familiar in the way he did it.

“I did-did it,” he grit his teeth. “Be-be-coz, you’re like this.” He strained, and shook, gradually becoming more frenzied. “You-you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Jus-jus like back then. You thought it was so funny! Watchin’ me run, gettin’ your guards to bully me, threatenin’ me! And that damn vase! It wasn’t my damn fault! You saw tha-tha’! Bh-bhut, you beat me up s’bad s’a dog - worse than! Said I could never repay it, brought my family up—!”

The prince considered that. “But I was playing then,” he said, testing. “It was a game,” he insisted.

“A game? A game!” the man shouted abruptly, furious. “We ain’t your fuckin’ toys! Not yours, not the damn king’s – Gods! You, your father, all of you, you think we’re just tools to use till you throw us away! But no! Even a goddamned vase you care more about than any of us.”

“My father!” Wulfric repeated, visibly upset. Unprompted, the man went onto a rant about the king. He continued, on and on, even as the prince watched, surprise momentarily taking over the anger. After another minute, however, he was cut off - literally - by another fierce stab from the child. The man gasped as the weapon plunged into the soft tissue of his stomach area.

“So you hate him. It’s him you want to kill,” the prince reasoned. “Why not do it then?” He asked, laughing. A knowing grin spread across his features. “You can’t, right? But you thought that I was weak. That you could kill me,” he uttered darkly. “I was an easy target for you…” This clearly infuriated the child. “Not anymore,” he declared quietly. “And now you’ll die for it.”

Wulfric glanced at Morrigan. “He told me what I wanted,” he concluded.

At the finality of his words, Morrigan pouted. “You would let him off so easily?” Wulfric found himself confused; since when were executions being ‘let off lightly’?

Morrigan began to orbit the bound servant. Each step was calculated and precise, her heels clicking against the cold stone floor in a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. “When he still doesn’t understand the gravity of his crime?”

She halted her pacing to place a hand over the servant’s stomach. “Does he regret every decision that led him here? Every step, every breath?”

Without warning, her fingers plunged deep into the open wound, evoking a shrill scream. But somehow, through the howls, Wulfric could still hear Morrigan’s soft voice just as clearly as he did before. “Does he realize what a privilege it is to serve us? And this… this is how he chose to repay our generosity? What audacity to bite the hand that feeds.”

Morrigan continued her invasive exploration inside the servant. Whatever she was doing caused him to writhe violently against his restraints, his wails rising to an ear-splitting volume.

She paused momentarily to savor his anguish before speaking again. “He still believes what he did was right, that you and your daddy owe him an apology for his own actions.”

“Death is too swift an escape for vermin such as him. He needs a lesson he’ll never forget, one that will etch itself into his very soul and carry to the afterlife, where it’ll dawn on him that it’s impossible to atone for even a fraction of his sin against you, against us, against Caesonia.”

With a hint of reluctance, Morrigan withdrew her blood-soaked fingers from the servant’s abdomen. A resigned sigh escaped her lips and she turned to Wulfric. “But, this is your gift. You can do whatever you want with him.”

“Hmmm…” Wulfric was deep in thought. He didn’t especially care what the man thought; he would die anyhow. “He doesn’t need to regret everything.” Even so, a part of him was interested in what Morrigan was saying. It sounded similar to what his father so often did, yet a shade different. There was undeniable intrigue to find out exactly what she meant. Would she show him something new? Would the man say anything else? Would he regret what he did? Would he learn? And if he did - if he did, what then?

“Alright,” he decided. “You can make him pay for this,” he traced the bandaged neck injury. “For…treason,” he rolled the word on his tongue, pondering the bound criminal. As he settled on his verdict, he smiled at his cousin. “I can share,” he told her proudly.

“Aww! Aren’t you just the sweetest thing!” Morrigan cooed, “Thank you, Adelard. You’re so thoughtful.” She affectionately pinched his cheek, “Why don’t we turn this into a lesson on anatomy and persuasion?” She ushered Wulfric to the table and picked up a tool from it. “The most important thing about torturing is to cause maximum pain without accidentally killing them. There’s different kinds of pain, but let’s keep it simple and focus on physical pain, okay?” When he nodded, she smiled and placed the tool into his hand. “Everyone’s pain tolerance is different, and it can change from day to day. The very first step of torture is to find out how much the person can handle.” She gestured towards the servant. “Start with something that you think will cause mild discomfort then start increasing the pain until you reach his threshold.” Morrigan stopped herself and rephrased the last part in case Wulfric didn’t understand, “Stop when he screams, starts shaking, or jerks away from you.”

The young prince obeyed, curious about the impromptu lesson. He followed Morrigan’s guidance - and drew upon his own ingenuity - to torment the servant. Because of what the man said, and because of how much he was thinking about what had happened, it occurred to the child that he must have hurt him before, when he was playing. But when Wulfric asked his cousin if that had been torture, she gave a weird answer. “Pain comes in all shapes and sizes,” she said. “Torture is not being able to escape it.” So, he figured it was best to learn the difference. His outings to the dungeons with Morrigan lasted days and days. During his time there, he observed and absorbed the lessons on pain, and its effects on a person. His cousin and his victim both had much to teach him on the subject.

Around the time the man started begging to be killed, Wulfric decided he’d had enough. His cousin pointed out they could go further, but he did what Morrigan termed ‘granting a merciful death’ to the prisoner. She’d asked if he’d ever like to do this with her again, and he told her maybe, if someone tried killing him again.

Either way, he had much to think about. He’d involved his mother too, when he started pestering her with questions. She was more than willing to indulge him - not just then, but throughout the following years, during which she taught him many, many things.

TLDR: At seven, Wulfric is nearly killed. But hey, he gets a cool scar out of it! Being the good cousin she is, Morrigan comes up with a very child-appropriate activity to bond over - torturing the culprit. Isn’t it sweet how she’s looking out for him?

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

^{In collaboration with @Cool Ghoul as Detlev Schäfer}

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Jesse’s foot bounced restlessly under the table as she watched the two gents’ exchange. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but it wasn’t like she could stop her ears from catching bits and pieces of the conversation… That and curiosity got the better of her. An undercurrent of tension crackled between them and she had no idea where it came from. Whatever it was, it was making her uneasy.

When the silver-haired man set his sights on her, Jesse quickly pushed to her feet and squared up. “Evening, mister,” she greeted, thrusting out a hand, ready to give a strong, firm handshake.

“Good evening, son.” Detlev’s hand shot out to meet the young man’s own in a swift, practiced motion - he offered a tight, strong grip, befitting a hardened western man, and gestured for the young man to sit after the greeting was done. Whatever bitter taste had lingered after the previous conversation’s sour conclusion had been cleansed wholesale by the young man’s forthrightness and candor - it impressed him alright, but he wasn’t quite yet ready to let his guard down.

“Do you smoke? The older man quipped, holding out a folded stogie to the bright-eyed youth before him, the enclosing papers a shade of dull brown rolled neat and tight around their dried, herbaceous contents. It was, by both nature and design, a true, old-western cowboy killer, and perhaps the finest specimen she’d ever seen.

Jesse’s eyebrows shot up at the offer, a surprised chuckle escaping her. It caught her off guard, in a good way. “Sorry,” she said, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re the first fella in this town to treat me like I ain’t still suckling at my ma’s teat.”

She glanced down at the proffered stogie, breathing in the rich aroma that wafted up. It smelled like quality tobacco, the kind you didn’t come across every day. Jesse’s eyes flicked back up to meet the older man’s gaze.

“If you’re offering, I’d be much obliged,” she said. “But are you sure? I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, but that looks and smells like the good stuff. Ain’t you wanna save it for a special occasion?”

Detlev’s stony countenance broke for a moment, a grin parting his lips involuntarily as the young man’s words sunk in. ”Tough being underestimated, isn’t it? Well, in my experience, you’re not too young to lose something, and the West sure seems keen to take whatever it can get.” His hand remained where it was, clutching the dented old cigarette case and the singular scag offered forward between two extended fingers. ”Oh, it’s the good stuff alright, but not good enough I mind parting with it. We can’t live as though the reaper’s gonna take his time getting to us, you know? I hear his horse doesn’t need to stop for water nor feed.”

The grin on Detlev’s lips lingered: the foundation of a joke was there, but in the tone of his delivery it’d lost that soft edge, and resulted in it instead sounding like something he’d genuinely heard, once upon a time. With a rehearsed, slow, and deliberate retreat of his hand, he did his best to inspire action from the young man to snatch at the stogie before it left his reach.

Jesse nodded slowly, her eyes distant for a moment. Twenty-one years on the trails had taught her that lesson all too well. “True enough,” she conceded.

With a smooth, unhurried motion, Jesse plucked the stogie. Her other hand dipped into her coat pocket, fishing out a small tin.

“Still, it’s worth having something to look forward to,” she continued. “The reaper may be a rude guest who don’t bother to send word before he comes knocking, but that ain’t no reason to stop making plans or getting excited for tomorrow. Might as well give old Reaper something to interrupt when he finally shows his bony face.” Jesse held up the stogie. “Like how I’m fixing to light this up under the stars, where I can savor it proper without all these other smells mucking it up.” Her nose wrinkled as she frowned at the saloon, waving away a haze of tobacco smoke and stale whiskey that clung to everything.

Carefully, she nestled the stogie in the tin and pocketed it. A smile crossed her face. “Thank you kindly for the stogie,” Jesse said, tipping her hat slightly. She gestured toward the table. “Did you wanna palaver here?”

A chuckle emanated from Detlev as he listened to Jesse go on - the young man had gotten a lot of things right, by his estimation, and the outlook he’d displayed thus far had been impressive in its freshness. ”You know, you’re beginning to make the reaper seem like a pretty crappy guest, all told. But you’re right, and I’m glad we agree - as precious as something might be, you can’t take it with you, better to enjoy it in good company and on your terms than having it pinched from your pockets by the undertaker.”

The cigarette case closed with a resonant snap, his amber eyes shimmering with curiosity as the young man’s words sunk deeper into his understanding. A feeling within him bubbled up as he observed the young man’s wisdom first-hand, an ancient surge of motivation he’d long since ceased the consideration of… And though that hadn’t changed, he had to admit: the young man had the makings of an honest-to-god Texas Ranger, and back in the day, he would’ve shipped him off in a heartbeat. But those days were gone - he was done sending boys to die. ”Keep this between us, but: there’s a ladder ‘round back of the old Ranger’s safehouse down the way, clamber on up and it’s just you and the stars. As private as it gets in a town as tightly-packed as this.” He offered, with a twinkle in his eye - but the smile faded, as did that telltale shimmer of mischief, as business was mentioned… and the mental images of what Ramos had described came flooding back. “Yeah, here’s fine. Ramos has me checking in with everyone after the fight, you know, making sure everyone’s grievances are put on record. A better sheriff you won’t find anywhere - man gives a shit even when it isn’t his turn.”

Jesse’s expression sobered as the silver-haired gent’s face grew serious. She straightened up a mite and gave a curt nod of understanding. Even if she wasn’t rightly sure how much help she’d be.

At the mention of a particular word, her ears pricked up. “You said sheriff? That wouldn’t happen to be Sheriff Estrada, would it? Our wagonmaster mentioned him before I got dropped off. Said he was one of the good ones.” Jesse’s eyes flicked towards the saloon doors, as if half-expecting the man himself to come striding through. “It’s good to put a face to the name.”

Turning back to the man, a new thought struck her. “Say, mister, are you a deputy?”

”The very same.” He said, with no small measure of pride: Ramos had built a great reputation for himself since their days working together, and it was good to finally see him be truly recognised for his efforts to invoke positive change. ”Not a deputy in the traditional sense, nah. I don’t have a badge or anything like that - but me and Ramos go back a long ways, long enough he can ask me to step in and I’ll trip over myself to oblige.” His intonation alone was tinged with an underlying current of respect and reverence - the words he’d spoken had come from somewhere deep within himself, somewhere honest and true.

Jesse regarded the man with open admiration. There was something to be said for a citizen who’d step up to help keep order without the official mandate. “So you’re the Sheriff’s favorite posseman. Reckon that makes both of you the cream of the crop around these parts.”

”My apologies, by the by. I’ve not shown you the decency of introducing myself: I’m Detlev Schäfer. What do they call you, son?”

“Jesse. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Schäfer. Just rode in with Rodrigo’s caravan. Been beating the bushes for work, but…” She gestured to herself—her dark skin, baby face, and slight build—with a wry smile. “Turns out I don’t inspire a whole lot of confidence in folks looking to hire.” Not without trying to rip her off, that is.

Pointing her chin towards the seat she was earlier, she continued, “I was sitting there trying to sort out my next move when that ruckus broke out.”

Detlev’s eyes narrowed as he watched Jesse articulate himself - from what he’d gleaned so far, it was almost criminal that such a promising young man was being overlooked. The words he’d previously offered once more rang true - it is tough to be underestimated, and it appeared Jesse was no stranger to such. ”Their loss, then… If I was the man I was a couple decades ago, I likely as not would’ve sent you off to join the Rangers with a personal recommendation.” The man’s pause wasn’t one of consideration - his countenance contorting briefly as he was once more visited by unfortunate, and unpleasant memories of those years. ”I guess what I’m trying to say is: I see your potential, son. And when we’ve dug ourselves out of this mess we’re in, I’ll recommend you to Ramos as a deputy at the very least. You have my word on that.”

Jesse felt a sudden rush of excitement course through her veins. A deputy? Her? The prospect seemed almost too good to be true, yet Mr. Schäfer’s earnest expression left no room for doubt. Unable to contain her enthusiasm, Jesse’s face split into a wide grin. “Really? That’d be grand! Thank you.” she exclaimed, her eyes and voice brimming with genuine gratitude.

A chill wind swept through the establishment, emanating from the direction of those traditional saloon doors, and oh, how they clattered in its wake. Whatever this dark portent was, it seemed to snap Detlev back on course, and he leaned in slightly, his tone ominous in its seriousness.”Of course, this mess I’m mentioning isn’t a trifling one. If I can speak plainly? People have been going missing for a little while: maybe you’ve heard rumors of such, maybe you’ve not - but I’d like your word, if you see anything odd out there, you spot anyone creeping around you don’t feel should be, even if you’ve only got your gut’s feeling for proof, you come and tell me, alright?”

The giddy warmth of potential opportunity drained from Jesse’s body, replaced by an icy trickle down her spine as Mr. Schäfer’s words sank in. With a deliberate nod, Jesse’s voice dropped low. “You have my word, Mr. Schäfer. Anything that don’t sit right, I’ll bring it straight to you or the Sheriff.” Pausing for a heartbeat, she added firmly, “And that’s a promise I aim to keep, deputy’s badge or no.” Jesse didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding—she’d do right by those missing people regardless of how things shook out for her about employment. “I was fixing to introduce myself to the Sheriff come morning, see about work. But I’m guessing he might need an extra set of eyes and ears for a posse, given the circumstances?”

Detlev’s expression remained stern and strong, his eyes burning white-hot into Jesse’s very soul as he offered his word. This was the first time, in all the collective moments that’d passed since they started talking, that he’d finally committed to taking the young man’s measure. The severity of the situation, combined with the immense value he placed in honoring one’s word, left little room for levity or warmth in the proceedings - in his perception, Jesse had just sworn an oath of allegiance, and Detlev was committed to ensuring it was sworn with utmost sincerity. ”I’ll mention you by name when I share my findings with him, as well as your eagerness to help. But keep in mind, the payoff for such will be in the future… in the here and now, you’re my eyes and ears, and the more you give me, the more examples I can give to Ramos when the time comes. Quid pro quo.”

A flicker of hurt crossed Jesse’s face as the older man’s words stung her. “With all due respect, Mr. Schäfer,” she started, meeting his amber eyes straight on, “this talk of quid pro quo ain’t necessary. I appreciate the offer, but the way I see it, if there’re folks going missing, that’s everybody’s problem.”

She paused to drain the last of her drink, “Sides, it ain't like I don’t benefit from pitching in. Out here, we’re all we’ve got. If I can prove myself trustworthy to folks, maybe I can carve out a place for myself.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “Course, I reckon there ain’t much chance of me sniffing out something the Sheriff and his ace posseman haven’t already caught wind of. But like I said, you two’ll be the first to know if I find anything suspicious.”

“My… apologies, my young friend.” Detlev offered, his expression still stern, but his eyes betrayed a more personal level of regret. “It was not my intention to offer you an incentive where your honor had sought none.” He slowly rose to his feet, his hat tipped in the young man’s direction as he half-turned away, to stare out into the world beyond those saloon doors - his lonely world, his desolate home: wandering. Yet as the rattling of his spurs took him one step away from the table, he turned to face the young man again: “You ever need anything, a little talk or something more tangible, come by the old ranger safehouse whenever. Maybe… maybe I’ll get used to talking to decent folk quicker that way, you know, with practice.”

“Thank you, Mr. Schäfer. I will. Have a good night.”

A half-smile was all he could manage, and he stomped off towards those saloon doors - looking like the pearly gates themselves, from where he was standing: he’d been more sociable in the past bell than he had in the last five years of his life, and he was not adjusting well.

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Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: The River Port Lodge
Interactions/Mentions: @princess@mole
Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

✠✠✠✠✠

The second that ugly mug Zarnak came lumbering over, jaw flapping about debts and tabs like Vasco was some two-bit chiseler, Vasco let out a long sigh.

A crooked smile played on his lips as he leaned against the counter. “Well, whaddya know. Didn’t peg the Black Maw Syndicate was full of sore losers. What’s the matter? You forget I won them goods fair and square in a game of bones?” And a couple of actual bone cracking too, but, hey, details. “Not my fault your lackeys ain’t up to snuff.”

He stifled a yawn and started perusing the menu while the Syndicate clowns prattled on about consequences, debts, and whatever else these thugs loved to babble about. Blah, blah, blah. When the chatter dragged on longer than his patience, he gestured for them to hurry it up.

Truth be told, he wasn’t paying much attention and it didn’t really matter what they were actually saying either. It all boiled down to whether they’d be trading lead or not.

Whichever way this little meeting went, Vasco still wanted a drink. So he flagged down the bartender and ordered himself a beer.

When Zarnak decided to get frisky with a blade to his neck, he didn’t flinch. Vasco just gave the shiny steel a once-over. “Done? Swell.” He tossed a look at Rowan. “It’s up to you what you wanna do, pal.”

Without another word, Vasco grabbed the back of Zarnak’s head and pulled him in close. He planted one right on his kisser. A real slobberknocker of a kiss that left her face a picture. Grinning like the cat that got the cream, Vasco danced out of reach, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 25 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edwards Estate, Drake Edwards’ Birthday Party
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): Everyone around the tables

The lord’s birthday celebration took an unexpected turn. The once refined atmosphere quickly gave way to something rowdier, more reminiscent of a tavern at night than a noble gathering. Inhibitions loosened, voices grew louder, and hands wandered with newfound boldness.

A frisson of worry threaded through Ryn’s thoughts. The last party involving nobility and alcohol had ended with collective amnesia and a surfeit of unanswered questions.

He plucked a glass from the nearby table, held it up to the light. Through his spectacles, he examined the liquid, shimmering innocently within, then brought it to his nose. The pungent aroma made him wrinkle his nose, but small relief softened his features. “Hmm. And here I thought this would be a family-friendly party,” he remarked as he placed the glass back down.

Smiling, Ryn addressed the group, “I suppose this means the scheduled debauchery has been bumped up to brunch time, then?”

From an inner pocket, Ryn produced a well-worn deck of cards. “Shall we play out here where everyone can admire the gradual unveiling of nature’s finest sculptures, or shall we move somewhere more private?” He chuckled, “I’m equally open to playing games that don’t involve disrobing.”