JJ Doe

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Cynwaer & Quack

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The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows across the stonewalls of the underground chamber. Crates and barrels were stacked haphazardly throughout the space as a group of commoners, young and old, worked to organise the supplies. The scrape of wood against stone and murmured conversations echoed off the walls, punctuated by the occasional giggle or shout from the children who darted between the adults, more interested in their games than the work at hand.

Sexton “Quack” Cryer stood hunched over a sturdy wooden crate, his brow furrowed in concentration as he examined its contents, comparing them to the list he held. He scratched his quill against parchment as he tallied each item.

Suddenly, a commotion near the entrance disrupted the steady rhythm of work. Excited voices steadily grew to a crescendo and the children abandoned their mischief and scampered towards the newcomer. The young women beside Quack began to titter and grin, smoothing their hair and adjusting their skirts as they shot coy glances towards the approaching figure.

But Quack ignored it all. Even when Cynwaer’s rich voice called out a greeting, he continued inventory-taking.

Quack hadn’t been an easy man to find. He never was, which – all things considered – Cynwaer took to be a good thing. It was hardly appropriate for a man of Quack’s line of work to be easily found. But then again, Cynwaer hadn’t tried particularly hard to find the man. It had just slipped his mind, that’s all. Getting reacquainted with a city as sprawling as Sorian took time for anyone, what more for Cynwaer, who hadn’t stepped onto its streets in ages?

Surely, it had nothing to do with Cynwaer dragging his feet. Or with him having a few drinks with that foreign captain the previous night.

He shrugged to no one in particular as he walked between stacks of crates and barrels. It didn’t matter, he supposed. If Quack was as good as he was supposed to be at what he did, he would already know that Cynwaer was in the city as soon as Remembrance slipped into harbour. And if Quack had really wanted to see him, then surely he would have sent for him.

With smiles and waves, Cynwaer greeted the children that ran up to him before advising them to return to their work, lest they draw the ire of their crotchety overseer. Similarly, he flashed winks and grins to the ladies who looked his way. “Mornin’ lassies,” he said politely with nods to each of them before pointing to whatever it was that required their attention. “Best youse get back tae yet work, aye. Would’nae wan’tae make yer boss lose ‘is ‘ead, would we nae?” The ladies giggled and nodded in response.

That Quack didn’t even acknowledge his presence bothered Cynwaer little. He had expected as much from the man. Instead, the Remembrance’s Captain merely sidled up to the man, taking his time to lean against a stack of crates before pulling out a sack of coins and jiggling in front of Quack’s face, almost teasingly. “Regards frae Renny, Songbird, and mesel’,” he said and placed the sack on top of whatever it was Quack had been examining. “Cheers fae sendin’ us ta’ word. ‘At’s one less taxman and a dozen or sae less o’ the king’s lads.”

One... two... three beats of silence passed, broken only by the rhythmic scritch-scratch of Quack’s quill. The ladies fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot and casting uneasy glances between Cynwaer and Quack. Cynwaer cast reassuring glances at them over his shoulder. This was just part of their banter; there was nothing to be worried about.

Finally, a petite blonde cleared her throat. “Erm... Sexton?”

Quack’s head jerked up, his eyes widening as they landed on the sack of coins. “Cor love a duck! Where in the bleedin’ ’ells did this come from?” The man’s brogue thickened noticeably, as it always did when he was irritated.

He thumbed through his papers, “Ain’t no mention of this ’ere.” Scooping up the bag, he tossed it at a buxom brunette. “Oi, Moll! Take this to Bess, will ya? ’Ave ’er count the brass.”

“Right away,” Moll replied, hesitating. She glanced at her friend, then at Cynwaer, clearly at a loss.

The blonde stepped in. “Sexton, love, it’s Cynwaer. He’s here.”

Quack spun around, his face a mask of exaggerated shock. “Wot? Cynwaer, ye say? The same galoot wot couldn’t be arsed to send word ’e’d be two days late? Left us wonderin’ if ’e’d gone and got ’imself scragged? The same cheeky bugger wot thinks a man’s time ain’t worth a fleck of dust and can just waddle in whenever ’e bloody well pleases? And don’t even ’ave the decency to beg pardon? That Cynwaer?” He made a show of scanning the room, gaze sliding right past Cynwaer. “I don’t see ’ide nor ’air of ’im.”

Cynwaer rolled his eyes, but allowed Quack to carry on.

“Nah,” Quack added, returning to work, “our Cyn might be a rude git, but ’e ain’t soft in the ’ead. ’E wouldn’t dare show ’is fizog ’round ’ere without a peace offerin’ fer ’is tardiness. Like a few bottles of the good stuff ’e’s plundered, maybe.”

“Sorry pal, but if I ‘ad any o’ the good shite, I’d ‘ave drunk it aw’ mesel’,” Cynwaer said, shaking his head and chuckling. He hovered around Quack like a fly buzzing around honey. “Come now, there’s nae need tae be sae upset, aye? I ‘ad me reasons tae be late this time.” The lilting tone in his words and lightness of his voice betrayed his amusement with the whole situation. “An’ it’s aw’ good ones tae, aye.”

When that still failed to get Quack to respond, he sighed. “The last ship I ‘eld up ‘ad nothin’ but a few tuns o’ blastin’ powder, nothin’ yer cannae get on yer ane wi’ less trouble, I reckon. Besides, I used most o’ it tae turn our taxman an’ some o’ ta’ king’s lads intae butcher’s work.”

He looked over his shoulder at the blonde, giving her a smile, a nod, and a small gesture for her to leave them for now. “Cheers, lass,” he mouthed to her before returning his attention to Quack, a serious expression hardening his features. “I’m nae here fae a social visit, pal. I’m just ‘ere tae dae a favour fae Renny an’ Songbird. Ta’ twa o’ ‘em tell me that folks ‘ave been gae’n missin’, an’ obviously in enough numbers tae make ‘em worried, aye. Yer probably ta’ best man tae ask fae somethin’ like this, but yer know ‘ow it’s like. ‘Tis always best tae get yersel’ stuck in before dae’n anythin’ else. So now I’m ‘ere, aw’ stuck in an’ lost, an’ offerin’ yer a trade. If yer’ve any bit o’ information on these missin’ folk, I’ll take ‘em in exchange fae a favour done yer way.”

This was a risky play, Cynwaer knew. For all he knew, Quack’s price could prove to be far more trouble than it was worth, or Quack might not even have what he wanted in the first place. But it was a risk Cynwaer considered worth taking. Investigative work had never been his strength, or even something he liked; he simply hadn’t the patience or aptitude for it.

Quack let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head. “’Pon me life, Cyn, yer tighter than a duck’s arse in water. Can’t even shell oot fer a wee dram, can ye? Bloody cheapskate, ye are.”

With a sharp whistle, Quack summoned a lanky young lad who rushed over to his side. After removing a sheet of paper, he handed the rest to the lad along with the quill. “Finish this ’ere fer me, will ye? There’s a good lad.”

Turning to Cynwaer, Quack jerked his head towards the entrance. “Right then, ye great lummox. Let’s ’ave us a proper chin-wag. Come on, shift yer arse.”

As he led Cynwaer through the twisting passages, dodging barrels and crates, he continued, “Now then, gie us the particulars, Cyn. Ye might nae believe it, but there’s mair folk gone missin’ than ye might reckon. Only reason it ain’t common knowledge is ’cos it’s rarely the toffs what vanish, ye ken?”

Cynwaer grimaced. He understood perfectly. A noble goes missing, and the entire city would be up in arms. Perhaps even the entire kingdom. But a commoner? Whole streets of them could up and disappear, and few would care. Fewer still would even notice.

They stopped in a quiet alcove where the torchlight barely reached. Quack fixed Cynwaer with a shrewd look. “So, oot wi’ it. Who exactly are ye lookin’ fer?”

“Nae’dy in particular,” Cynwaer replied. Neither Songbird nor Renegade had told him anything in that regard, and Cynwaer hadn’t expected them to. People were going missing, and that was all the pair – and Cynwaer himself – needed to know. And besides, if someone they knew had truly gone missing, Renegade and Songbird wouldn’t have bothered with sending Cynwaer ahead to investigate. The two of them would have likely torn Sorian apart brick-by-brick themselves.

Cynwaer scratched the back of his head. “Knowin’ Renegade and Songbird, they’re nae after just rescuin’ one or twa. They’re gae’n tae wan’ tae take the ‘ole damn operation down an’ tear it up by ta’ roots, an’ to tell yer ta’ trut’, that’s what I’m thinkin’ o’ dae’n mesel’.” He paused, hoping that the weight of what he was saying was sinking in. He didn’t know about Quack, but he had no illusions that this would lead to anything other than major – and very violent – actions.

“Sae if there’s anythin’ yer know about what’s gae’n on, it’d be real ‘elpful if yer could dae us a favour an’ share,” Cynwaer continued. “Especially if yer ‘ave any idea who’s behind it. I dae’n wan’ tae walk intae a fight when I dae’n e’en know who ta’ feck I’m fightin’, yer ken?”

Quack kneaded his forehead, exhaling forcefully through his nostrils. “Blimey, that’s about as useful as a lead balloon, innit? Ye can pass that on to yer Renegade an’ Songbird mates too. Might as well be tryin’ to nail jelly to the wall.” He fell silent for a moment, his eyes taking on a distant look as he seemed to rummage through the cluttered attic of his mind. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, a glimmer of recollection sparking to life.

Cynwaer chuckled. Quack wasn’t wrong; Renegade and Songbird had pretty much tasked him with seeking for a needle in a haystack. Only in this case, he wasn’t even sure if it was a needle which he sought, or even if he should be looking in haystacks. “Well, yer can tell ‘em yersel’ in a week or twa when they get ‘ere.”

“There’s been mutterin’s makin’ ’round in the rookeries ’bout some crew wha’s been climbin’ the greasy pole right quick in Caesonia. Bunch of wrong ’uns, they are.” He leaned against the stone wall. “Word is, they’ve got their fingers in more pies than a baker’s dozen. Every dodgy deal, like human traffickin’,” Quack emphasized, “and honest trade from ’ere to the bleedin’ horizon, they’re in on it. Buildin’ a right proper empire, they are, right under our very noses. But ’ere’s the rub…” The man hunched forward, “They got the backin’ of toffs.” Slowly, he lifted his finger to point upward, “Maybe even the Crown.”

That was close to what Cynwaer had guessed. He hadn’t believed for a moment that something as brazen as the abduction of dozens – even if they were of commoners – could go unnoticed in Sorian without the involvement of influential, powerful, and rich people. “Well, aw’ empires ‘ave a lifespan,” he said with a grin that wasn’t as cocksure as he had hoped it would be. And could anyone blame him? To call the task ahead daunting would be an understatement. Especially if Quack was right, and the Crown was indeed involved.

Cynwaer shook his head slightly. There was no point in fretting over that now. He had to focus on what he could do, and worry about the rest later. Otherwise, the anxiety would surely render him paralysed. “I reckon they’d ‘ave tae smuggle folk by ship an’ nae sae much by land. It’d be a lit’le hard tae drag sae many unwillin’ folk out ta’ gates, aye?” He mused aloud. It was a gamble, and one that seemed more and more like a longshot the more he thought about it. But it was at least something with which he could work.

“I’ll take ol’ Remembrance out tae sea taenight an’ see if I can catch ‘nybody tryin’ tae slip awa’ frae Sorian ‘arbour. Reckon they’d try tae use cover o’ dark.” He looked at Quack. “Might ‘ave ta’ trouble yer, pal, tae ‘elp disappear ‘nyone I might end up rescuin’. Think it’s bet’er if they leave Sorian entirely, or go tae ground, aye?”

“Aye, ye can count on us, Cyn,” Quack replied without hesitation as he clapped a hand on Cynwaer’s shoulder, a resolute fire burning brightly behind his eyes. “Wot’s a bunch o’ rabble-rousers like us good fer if not fer the common folk, eh?”

“As fer wot to do wiv ’em after... well, that’s a pickle, ain’t it? Reckon we’ll ’ave to suss it out as we go along. Some might need to scarper right quick, others might do better layin’ low ’ere fer a spell.” His expression grew grave, his brow furrowing. “Thin’ is, mate, there’s summat else ye ought to know. When I said this lot is involved in every dodgy deal, I weren’t just flappin’ me gums. I mean every bleedin’ deal, includin’ magic.”

“If these bastards are nabbin’ folk left, right, and centre. who’s to say they ain’t usin’ some hocus-pocus ta make it easier? Could be turnin’ their victims into mindless puppets, or wipin’ the guard’s memories clean as a whistle. What if we do take ’em in and the bastards ’ave got ’em under a hex and sniff out our hideaways? Or worse yet, the poor sods just go off like a powder keg, blowin’ us all to smithereens?”

Cynwaer grimaced. That was something he hadn’t considered. “Ah feck, ‘tis times like these I’d rather ‘ave Songbird around. They’ve a good nose fae aw’ this magic shite. But I s’pose I’ll ‘ave tae think o’ somethin’ when it comes tae it. Fae aw’ I know, I might end ta’ night with not’in’ tae show fae it.”

He planted both his hands on Cynwaer’s shoulders, his tone deadly serious. “Ye best be ready fer anythin’, Cyn.”

“Aye, dae’n worry yer head about me,” Cynwaer replied and pulled away from Quack. “Yer might ‘ave tae worry mer about ta’ taxman we blew up, though,” he said as he made to go back the way he had come. “Reckon ta’ king’s gae’n not’ice saen that ‘e’s nae get’in’ aw’ ‘is coin, an’ e’s gae’n start lookin’ fae answers.”

Quack shrugged, “Aye, an’ we know nowt ’bout it, do we? Nothin’ but reg’lar folk doin’ reg’lar commoner stuff.”

He ambled after the other man and jabbed a finger accusingly at Cynwaer’s face. “Wot you need ta worry ’bout is ’ow ta make up fer bein’ a tardy stingy bastard.” When they reached a junction, Quack made to turn off, waving. “It better be good too, ya ‘ear? Summat I can share wi’ the uvvers.”

A low chuckle rumbled from Quack as he disappeared around the corner, wondering how long it would take the poor sod to discover the crudely scrawled note he’d left stuck to his back.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

__________________________________________________________________________

________

The scrubland surrounding Amistad stirred to life as dawn broke, painting the horizon in muted golds and soft pinks. Jesse Li stood at the edge of the Wandering Emporium’s camp, her gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the town. The air, crisp and cool, carried the earthy scent of mesquite and morning dew. A jackrabbit darted between prickly pear patches, startling a covey of quail into sudden flight, their wings flapping against the stillness of the morning.

Jesse’s heart thrummed in her chest, matching the frantic flutter of wings—a steady, rhythmic beat of excitement and nervous energy. Her fingers instinctively tightened around the strap of her well-worn satchel.

“Now, you sure you ain’t forgettin’ nothin’, baby?” Louisa Li’s voice, thick with a Southern drawl and worry, cut through Jesse’s thoughts. It was easily the hundredth time she’d asked that morning.

With a blend of affection and exasperation, Jesse turned to face her mother. “Yes, 妈妈. I triple-checked everything, just like you taught me.” Jesse patted her satchel. “It’s all here, I promise.”

The Li family were gathered in a tight semicircle around Jesse, on the threshold of her new adventure. Her father, Xing, rested his hands on Jesse’s shoulders as he spoke, “Remember, 囡囡, town big, many people. Some good, some not. You watch, you learn, you stay safe. Not everyone see past... outside.”

Quincy, her brother, stepped forward. His usual cocksure grin was tempered by a hint of worry in his eyes. “You've got this, Jess,” he said, lifting her hat to playfully ruffle her short-cropped hair. “Just keep your wits about you and your weapon in top condition.”

Elijah, the eldest, added, “Trust your gut, 小妹, and if push comes to shove…” He mimed a quick jab and a kick, winking. “Aim for the soft spots.”

Jesse couldn’t help but smile, despite the knot of nerves in her stomach. “Quick feet, quicker fists if I need ’em. Got it.”

Marion, the youngest of the Li family, tugged gently at the hem of Jesse’s coat, her eyes still red and glistening from tears. “Bring me back something pretty, okay?”

Jesse crouched down, “I’ll find something special just for you.” She gave Marion’s hand a light squeeze before standing.

Around them, a small crowd of well-wishers from the caravan gathered to see Jesse off. Old Zora, their resident hedgewitch, wheezed out a blessing. Wagonmaster Rodrigo, clapped her on the back so hard she nearly stumbled and gave her an advice, “If you find yourself in a tight spot, go to Sheriff Estrada. I hear he’s one of the good ones.” Even grumpy Mr. Holloway, the tinker who rarely left his wagon, shuffled over to offer a gruffly muttered, “Don't get yourself killed out there, kid.”

Overwhelmed by the outpouring of support, Jesse felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back, determined to appear strong. “Thank you all for believing in me. I won’t let you down.” With a deep breath, Jesse embraced each family member in turn. “Thanks for giving me this chance,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Louisa cupped Jesse’s face in her hands, “We’ll be camped just outside town for a week. If you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” Jesse interrupted, but her mother’s warning look quickly shut her up.
“If it gets to be too much, you come on back, you hear? Ain’t no shame in knowing when it don’t work out."
This time Jesse just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Jesse offered a final wave before heading towards Amistad, her steps, light and purposeful. Entirely absorbed in the path ahead, she missed the subtle nod Xing gave to Elijah.

As the town’s buildings drew nearer, Jesse squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Hope swelled in her chest as she took in the sights and sounds of her new adventure. This was it.

The weight of her family’s expectations and her own dreams propelled her forward. Whatever challenges Amistad might throw at her, she was ready to prove herself and carve out her own place in this frontier town. Or so she thought.

Little did Jesse know that by the time the sun set on her first day in Amistad, she would find herself slumped against the wall of a nameless alley. Her stomach growling, the crushing weight of repeated rejections having deflated the day’s earlier optimism. In its place, a gnawing worry would take root in the pit of her stomach.

________

__________________________________________________________________________

As his daughter’s figure receded into the distance, Xing’s eyes narrowed. He turned to Elijah, jerking his chin in the direction of the town. The eldest son met his father’s gaze, understanding the unspoken command. With a subtle nod, Elijah slipped away from the group, following his sister’s path at a discreet distance.

Quincy observed the exchange and frowned. “爸爸, Jess ain’t gonna like that,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Xing’s head snapped towards his younger son, eyes flashing. “我不在乎她喜不喜欢,” he hissed rapidly. Switching to English, he continued, “Better this than find her dead in street. Or worse, sold to bad men. Wishing she dead. You want that? Hmm?”

Quincy held his father’s stern gaze for a moment before letting out a resigned sigh. He turned and trudged back to his wagon.

Meanwhile, Louisa stood rooted to the spot, her eyes never leaving the distant town. Her lips moved in a silent, fervent prayer to any benevolent force that might safeguard her naive daughter.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

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

Ryn smiled sympathetically at Lord Edwards, the weariness already settled on the lord’s shoulders and the hint of anxiety flickered behind his eyes. The party had scarcely begun, yet the birthday boy already bore the weight of a thousand pleasantries.

“Lord Edwards, I thank you for your gracious welcome. But please, do not trouble yourself over me. I’ve already taken up more than my fair share of your attention.” Ryn gestured with a sweep of his hand towards the crowd. “Your admirers await.” He paused, then added gently, “Do remember to pace yourself, my friend. It would be a terrible shame if the man of the hour couldn’t enjoy his own party.”

With a final, cordial pat on Lord Edwards’ arm and a promise to speak again soon, Ryn released the lord to attend to his other guests.

Ryn’s gaze wandered the expanse of the garden, a sea of color and movement, until it settled on a familiar silhouette.

Luz.

She was some distance away, engaged in conversation with Peter’s not-so-secret infatuation. A flutter of something unnamed stirred in his chest. Despite crossing paths here and there, they had not properly spoken since the morning incident a few days prior.

Drawn as if by an invisible thread, Ryn found himself gravitating towards her. Before he could close the distance, however, Shahzade Farim and Princess Anastasia reached the two ladies first. Ryn waited, giving the others a chance to exchange greetings before joining their circle. “Good morning, everyone.”

“Shahzade Farim,” Ryn intoned, bowing low in the traditional Alidasht style, “peace be upon you.”

Then, turning to Princess Anastasia with a grin, he exclaimed, “Annie!” In one fluid motion, he took her hand, bowed, and twirled her in an impromptu dance move. Their hands met in a playful clap at the end of the spin. “How’s the music practice coming along? Only a few more days until the concert! Exciting, isn’t it?”

To Miss Persephone, he offered a courteous bow, his lips kissed the air above her knuckles. “A pleasure to see you here, ‘Miss Olivia.’ Are you settling in alright?”

Finally, inevitably, Ryn’s attention fell on Luz. His hand rose of its own accord, paused—a heartbeat’s worth of uncertainty—before fingers brushed across the apple of her cheek with feather-light tenderness. “Hello, My Lady,” he said softly. Ryn’s lips formed silent words: Are you okay?

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Flashback: Night Sola 23, 1739

Callum & Riona Part 8

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Everything hurt again. He couldn’t get back up, the most Cal could manage was to press a hand against his side where a knife had been. He had definitely gotten blood on Wystan’s floor. He’d lost the scroll. He should’ve cast that curse again. He should’ve kept a better grip on the enemy. He should’ve tried to strangle him. He should’ve- he’d messed this all up…failed, again.

Cal closed his eyes. He felt the flames return. He felt chills rack his body at the same time. Is this what dying felt like?

The air was full of screams, they kept growing louder. Fire crackled; that awful smell caught in his throat mixing with the frothy bile. His hands moved to cover his ears and the screams only grew louder.

Something bad was happening. Pain that wasn’t his own coated the air as an immense sorrow bore down on him.

And Callum remained as useless as he’d ever been. Can’t get up. Can barely move. Useless. Failed. He tried to mumble an apology to Riona but couldn’t even get the words out. Can’t give up. He opened his eyes, moved his hands away from his ears, and slowly the room began to come back into focus.

“Ira.” He whispered as he pressed a finger into his stab wound, twisting it and hoping it made for a worthy sacrifice for the first spell that came to mind. His pain quieted to a murmur as pure rage filled him. Doubt melted away.

The rage spell gave him enough fight to half get up, just enough to launch himself at the red-headed man’s knees.

Irritation boiled over. Without releasing his chokehold on Riona, the man struck out in a vicious kick, single-minded in his determination to end her before turning on the prince.

The blow slammed Cal’s eyes shut. When they fluttered open he saw…

Something that shouldn’t be, couldn’t be, yet undeniably was. A being. A horror. A nightmare given form.

It towered over them, an entity with two monstrous heads built from countless writhing bodies. Men, women, children—all sizes, all ages. Some appeared almost normal. Others bore the marks of their demise. All were bent and twisted into impossible angles, crammed together to give the monstrosity shape. Their eternal screams and moans filled the air.

The two-headed thing gorged itself on the miasma that oozed from Callum and the redhead. With each wisp it devoured, the creature grew. Infinitesimally, but enough to make its components scream anew as their tormented bodies stretched and warped beyond all limits. Never allowed the relief of breaking.

“More…” the twin heads rasped. “More!” As the horrors pressed closer, Cal could make out the faces in pitiless detail.

Cal tried to cover his ears again. But he still heard it; a cacophony of suffering. Final screams and death rattles echoed and filled the room.

“Shut up!” He forced out a raspy command, eyes never leaving the demonic apparition, its skin bubbling with faces of the dead.

Near him, a cluster of faces fell suddenly silent. Recognition dawned on them. Pain gave way to sheer hatred. They roared. Thrashed against their prison of flesh. Hundreds of hands grasped for the prince, teeth bit at the invisible contours of the entity, straining to break free and tear him apart.

Several eyes moved as one and focused on Callum. Hands grabbed for him even as tried to crawl away. His hands reached out for the sword, his thoughts focused on an obsessive desire to destroy something.

Among the legions, Cal saw his own face. Familiar eyes burned with loathing. A cacophony of condemnation battered him from all sides, but it was his voice that rose above the din. “I hate you.”

Cal’s hands found the hilt, his arms shook as he lifted the blade and swung wildly. No form or precision behind his strikes, it was the wild fury of a child’s tantrum fueled by rage that only intensified and expanded with each passing moment. His attention split between the apparition that had added his face to its quilt of faces, and the redheaded stranger.

The stranger twisted, using Riona as a human shield against Callum’s wild flailing.

“The burning smell intensified. Small streams of smoke rose from the tips of Riona’s shoes as if they were about to catch fire.

“Stop.” A voice cut through the maelstrom of hate-fueled noise, firm yet gentle. “Alaric.” Then came a soft touch.

A hand, callused and strong from years of hard work, broke through the flesh cage and grasped Cal’s arm.

“Shh, easy now,” the voice murmured, conjuring images of a stablehand calming a skittish horse. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be all right. Just breathe. Close your eyes and focus on breathing.”

Something grabbed his arm. Called him Alaric. And he could think of only one person called him that. He threw an elbow back, dropping the sword in the process, hoping to hit hard enough to silence the voice.

“That is NOT my name.” Aggravation only flared at being told to breathe. Being talked to like an unruly child. It reminded him Morrigan snooping around his room, her constant backhanded comments, how she walked around acting like she knew everything, how she only ever called him by his middle name. His rage burned brighter. “Do not tell me what to do!” An impetuous command flew out, and he flung his elbow again. All he saw was a confusing blend of smoke, twisted faces, and a blanket of red.

But the hand didn’t let go. “Even knowing that will kill her?” the man’s voice asked. Although the mass of bodies covered the owner, Cal sensed the man’s gaze turn to the two heads that continued their feast. “Continue to feed that, and it will kill Riona.” The pressure on Cal’s wrist increased slightly. “No one has to die here tonight. I don’t want anyone to die. Not you, not Riona. I’m begging you.” The man’s voice cracked on the final word, “Please stop.”

He struggled to no avail to free his hands. Even knowing that will kill her. It sounded like a threat. A voice that belonged to someone he couldn’t quite see. Threatening him, his friend, in his house. He stared at the two-headed beast, a ghoulish illusion he could only assume had been cast by the intruder.

Callum wanted to fight. He needed to hit somebody, hurt someone, destroy something with his own hands. An urge that consumed and burned away any other thoughts. It felt righteous, justified, to unleash all that on a man who’d come here to ruin all of his and Riona’s work. To snatch their small victory from them and turn it over to Edin.

But the strange voice broke as it uttered, please. “He needs to die.” Callum whispered, with single-minded focus, as he tried again to jerk his hand free towards the redheaded man. “He’s trying to kill her.” He argued with a voice he wasn’t even sure was real.

The owner of the hand didn’t reply right away. None could deny the lethal intent in the stranger's eyes.

“This spell feeds on the very things that birthed it. Rage. Hate. The purer, the stronger it becomes… which is rarer than you’d think. There’s plenty of anger and hate around here, but they usually contain ‘impurities’ of other emotions that the spell has to sift through.”

Cal pulled and thrashed against the force that held him back. Break free. Kill the stranger. Break free. Kill the stranger. His mind was sharply focused, he grew increasingly desperate as each wild attempt to free himself and charge forward was continuously thwarted. Break free. Kill the stranger.

The unseen gaze left him to look at the two heads again. The energy it drew from him and the redhead seemed the same, and yet… “There’s more fury coming from you than him.”

Yes. Yes! I am fury. My rage is pure. My wrath is justice. The voice understood. His rage was pure, it was perfection. No mercy to dilute it, no other desires to pollute it, only pure and perfect wrath with a single target in mind. And his mind thought of what he could do once his arm was freed. Fingers digging into eye sockets, teeth gnawing through flesh, fists and skull used like a battering ram. He wanted it. Needed it. Break free. Kill the stranger.

The mass of bodies shifted violently, accompanied by piercing screams and a stifled grunt from the hand’s owner. Fumes seeped from the writhing tangle of limbs, coalescing into the unstable, flickering form of the redheaded stranger. It was saying something. A lot of things.

Callum’s knees buckled as a symphony of shrieking rattled his bones, and pounded against his head. “Stop doing that.” He half hissed, half whined. No beating or hangover could compare to the pain those screams left writhing inside his head. He wondered if a sound could crack a head open, he wondered if it already had.

His ears strained to make out the fragmented sentences. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” the voice that wasn’t quite the same voice as the redhead said. “Why couldn’t they just leave the f**king sword behind?” Other details escaped Callum’s understanding, but one name stood out: Riona. The redhead wished they had contacted the maid, believing she could have helped them.

Cal’s eyes flickered from the redheaded to the distorted doppelganger. A confusing mix of words came from one of them but he wasn’t sure which. “My sword. Mine. I’LL KILL YOU! You. You! Here to steal. Here to spy. A thug with cheap tricks.” His violent thrashing came to a sudden halt following a faint pop.

—the entity vanished, along with the others.

Callum sunk to his knees, his arm hurt too much to move it. Riona is going to die because I can’t be useful, not one godsdamn time. Not now. Not ever. The cold thought blew through him. Despair turned Callum into something so cold and hollow that the rage couldn’t burn. It was suffocated out of him. “Just take it. Take the stupid sword and let Riona go. Please, kill me, let her go. She’s just a servant.”

Silence stretched. Then, a single word: “What?”

The redhead stood motionless, amber eyes boring into Cal. “What... did you just say? ‘Riona’?” His gaze snapped to the maid in his chokehold.

“F*ck.” He let go. Riona’s body crumpled to the floor, lungs heaving for air. “F*ck,” he repeated, the word gaining heat. “F*CK!” The third time, he punctuated it by slamming his boot into a nearby chair and sending it skittering across the room.

Minutes ticked by, marked only by the sounds of “f*ck” and wall kicking. Finally, spent, he braced himself against the table, chest heaving. “F*ck,” he whispered, the fight drained from him.

There was another pause while the redhead seemed to weigh his options. With a grunt, he shoved away from the table, fishing a vial from his pocket. He uncorked it with his teeth and knocked back the contents in one swift motion, then tugged his mask back into place. A second appeared in his hand. Carefully, he knelt beside Riona, cradling her head as he tipped the liquid past her lips.

Callum continued to sink onto the floor, his good arm moved to press against the wound in his side. He heard the stranger swearing, shouting, and a body dropping to the ground. The gasps of air that followed told him Riona was still alive. He heard furniture and the wall being kicked at, he recognized the irony that their best chance of getting out of this was for the guards to hear and show up.

As the room grew quiet he turned his head to look at Riona and saw the stranger forcing her to drink something. Poison! He lifted his leg enough to stomp his foot against the floor. “Help.” He tried to shout but his voice came out faint and tired. He stomped his foot again. “Riona. Sorry, I let you down. Again.” He whispered as he tried to stop his foot once more only for his heel to slide weakly against the floor.

The ginger-haired man huffed as he lowered Riona to the ground. He strode over to Callum and just splashed the rest of the liquid over his face. It seemed to dance across Callum’s skin, knitting together the gashes, soothing away the discolorations, and shifting cartilage until his nose realigned itself with a muffled pop.

Rough hands fisted in Callum’s shirtfront, yanking the fabric up. “Why’d you have to pull it out like an idiot?”

Fresh agony lancing through his midsection as something brushed against the raw, aching hole. But soon after, the peculiar sensation followed. Sinew and skin crept together, sealing the ugly puncture as the pain ebbed to a distant throb.

The redhead released him and rocked back on his heels. “Let’s make a deal,” he said. “We both weren’t here tonight.”

“I’m not making a deal until I know who, and what, I’m dealing with.” Callum answered, sounding more confused than anything. The stranger had won, so why had he stopped and given them healing potions? “You get your rocks off sneaking into windows are starting fights? Can’t say that makes you seem trustworthy.”

“I didn’t kill you even though I coulda, still can, I really want to, and,” he pointed at himself, “I asked nicely first.” He then pointed at Cal. “You started it.” As if to remind Cal what he was thinking before the man kneed him, he patted the boot that contained the spell scroll. “So, we both weren’t here tonight. Agreed or should I just finish you off for good?”

“Nicely? You broke in through the window, looking like an assassin, and threatened to tell Edin I was up to something. Not nice. You started it.”

The redhead made an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes. “Wow, well excuuuuuuse me, princess. So, I’m ‘not nice’ because of my clothes? Shame on you.”

“And yeah, considering how I let you talk and continue to let you talk? I’m a holy saint.” On cue, two blades appeared in his hands, one was the knife that stabbed Callum, the other belonged to Riona. He tucked his own weapon away but held onto Riona’s. “Course, I’m happy to fix my mistake if Your Royal Highness would prefer.”

“Maybe later, for now, let’s start with tell me why you’re here…Is it to kill Wystan?” Callum asked, curiosity stronger than any concern for himself. “And give me back my scroll.”

“Tell me your business first and I’ll think about telling you mine.” The stranger propped his chin on his free hand. “Sure, but only if I get to take her.” He flicked the dagger in Riona’s direction.

“Try it and I will shout for the guards.” Cal glanced toward Riona, only turning his attention back to the redhead once he was sure she was still breathing. “Isn’t my business obvious? I’m snooping, digging around the palace for secrets. And forbidden reading materials.”

“What a coinkydink, me too.” The words came muffled through the stranger’s mask. His amber eyes locked onto Callum, unblinking and curious. A heartbeat passed. Two. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m a spiteful goodfornothing shithead? Because I felt like it? Because I know they hide things that shouldn’t stay hidden. Pick one.” Cal offered. “If I ask you why, are you just going to copy my answer again?” He asked.

“Ha! Maybe. Wanna have a go at it?” The man waited for Cal’s response, clearly amused.

When Cal asked why, he answered. “I’m a grade-A a**hole with an ax to grind. See, there was this one scumbag I never got to settle up with, so I’ve been taking it out on every other scumbag I can find.” A humorless chuckle escaped him. “And these types? They’ve all got skeletons rattling around in their closets. Dirty little secrets they’d rather keep buried.” The stranger leaned closer to Cal. “I’m the spiteful-good-for-nothing graverobber who’s gonna dig ‘em up and use ‘em as clubs.”

Callum laughed, hard enough that hurt his sides but especially the side that had recently been stabbed. “You should’ve led with that. I think we’re more alike than you think. I’d be more than happy to help you dig up every skeleton in this place if you club my old man with a rotten femur.” His laughter turned to wheezing.

The stranger scoffed. “Don’t go insulting me now, obviously I’m more good looking.” He stood, brushing dust from his pants. “So, are we keeping this powwow off the books or what?

“Off the books, but I’ll curse you with boils if you harm Riona again.” He said with a smile and offered his hand for the man to shake on it.

A weary sigh left the stranger as he reached down, clasped Cal’s hand, and hauled the prince up to his feet. “I’m already going to get an ear full for this.” His gaze traveled down to Riona, who looked to be stirring. “If you’re not full of sh*t,” the stranger said, strapping the sword onto his back, “tell Riona: ‘Remember what the giant said in the alley.’ She does that, she gets your scroll back. Play nice, and the sword might find its way home too.”

“Weird request, but sure. Deal.” Cal agreed, it wasn’t like he had another option anyway, no way was he up for round two.

The stranger gave a curt nod. Then, in a blink, he ghosted across the chamber, vaulted through the open window, and melted into the summer night without a sound.

TLDR

As the fight against the mysterious figure continues, Callum sees a nightmarish entity appear, burning Riona from her feet with its arrival. The entity seems to feed off the volatile energy in the room, and while it speaks, and shrieks, with many voices, one voice stands out and attempts to reason with Callum. As the entity vanishes just as suddenly as it appeared, the fight ends once the intruder hears Riona’s name. Callum and the intruder come to a begrudging agreement before the man leaps out the window.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Ríoghnach "Riona"

Time: Daytime, Sola 25th
Location: Royal Guest House
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @Helo@Lava Alckon

Riona wheeled the cart out of the kitchen, the extra breakfast Lordling Smithwood had ordered balanced atop its surface. It had been some time since she'd delivered his morning coffee and croissant, laced with her “special seasoning.” Now, summoned again, she made her way to his guest room.

As she walked down the hallway leading to his room, Riona found a cluster of Smithwood’s servants huddled by the door, whispering to each other. She arched an eyebrow. “What’s going on here?”

The servants exchanged uneasy glances. “It’s... well,” one began, then turned to the half-open door. “you'd better see for yourself.”

Curious, Riona edged closer and peeked in. The scene inside was... not what she expected. At all. There, caught in a fit of near-hysterical laughter, was Lordling Smithwood struggling to extricate himself from one of the chairs Shehzade Farim had selected the day before.

He seemed to have skipped right past merry and landed smack in the middle of tavern-drunk territory. Riona wondered if the powder she’d slipped into his earlier meal was having the same effect as the potion she gave the other day. Well, his laughter sounded normal, enough. So maybe not exactly the same.

Riona rapped her knuckles on the door frame and pushed the cart inside, acutely aware of the other servants’ eyes on her back. "“Good morning, milord. Your extra breakfast, as requested.”

Smithwood’s only response was another burst of hysterical giggling. She waited, watching quietly. When enough time passed and it looked like he was getting no closer to freeing his butt from the chair’s clutches, Riona stepped forward. “Would you like some assistance, milord?”

As she came closer, a sharp scent assaulted her nostrils. The unmistakable reek of alcohol, heavy on his breath. Riona’s brows knitted together. “Are you... drunk?”

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

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" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "
" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "

" J E S S E L I "
" J E S S E L I "

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_____________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________ " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " JESSE LI _____________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, ON THE ROAD, UNITED STATES _____________________________________________________ " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " Personal Details ★ Age? 21 ★ Birthdate? October 13, 1867 ★ Height? 5’4” (162 cm) ★ Weight? 130 lbs (59 kg) ★ Ethnicity? Mixed (African and Chinese descent) ★ Gender? Female (Posing as male)

______________________________________________________________________________________________ " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " Personality Jesse Li is a resilient and determined young woman, shaped by life on the road. Cautious and practical by necessity, she approaches situations with a resourceful mindset. However, beneath this grounded exterior lies an idealistic spirit and a touch of naivety, fueled by an optimistic outlook and a curiosity that sometimes leads her into trouble. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " Appearance Jesse has a compact, athletic build, honed by years of constant travel and training. Her mixed heritage is evident in her features, with warm brown skin and slightly almond-shaped eyes. To maintain her disguise as a man, she cuts her curly black hair short, binds her chest, and wears loose-fitting, practical clothing suitable for the harsh frontier environment. Her typical attire consists of sturdy leather boots, wool trousers, a utility belt laden with pouches and holsters, and a cotton shirt under a vest. The long duster coat, neckerchief, and wide-brimmed slouch hat shields her from both the elements and curious eyes. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " History Born in 1867 to a former slave and a Chinese immigrant, Jesse Li grew up in a nomadic caravan formed by various outcasts and fortune-seekers. The caravan, known as the ‘Wandering Emporium,’ was a motley collection of wagons and makeshift homes, banded together for survival and opportunity in America. Among the caravan’s eclectic mix of merchants, artisans, and entertainers, the Li family carved out a unique niche. They specialized in procuring and trading supernatural materials and rare ingredients, their keen eye for the arcane and deep knowledge of mystical phenomena setting them apart. This expertise not only ensured the family’s place within the Wandering Emporium but often proved crucial for the entire caravan’s survival when traveling closer to The Storm. Life in the caravan was far from ordinary, with constant threats from the wilderness, twisted creatures born of wild magick, and regular old humans, alike. The landscape they traveled was as unpredictable as it was dangerous, with weather and terrain warped by arcane energies. Jesse witnessed emerald thunderstorms that left crystallized lightning in their wake, forests that rearranged themselves overnight, and rain that flowed up to the sky, defying natural laws. These supernatural phenomena were often accompanied by terrifying creatures. Jesse would never forget the night they were pursued by a pack of ‘shadow coyotes’ - spectral beasts that could phase through solid matter and whose howls induced paralyzing fear. The caravan once lost an entire week’s worth of supplies to ‘rust locusts’, metallic insects that devoured anything made of iron in seconds. Perhaps most terrifying were the ‘mind-weaver spiders’, arachnids the size of wagons that spun webs of pure thought. Anyone caught in their traps would have their memories and personality unraveled, leaving behind an empty husk. Even the plants posed a threat, with carnivorous trees that could uproot themselves to chase prey, and fields of whisper-grass that drove listeners to madness with their susurrating voices. Human threats were equally perilous. Outlaws and bandits, desperate men hardened by the unforgiving frontier, frequently targeted the caravan. They saw the Wandering Emporium as a treasure trove ripe for plundering, often unaware of the supernatural dangers that came with some of the goods. Beyond the outright danger of bandits, the caravan faced a more insidious threat - the discrimination and prejudice from the settled folk they encountered. Many saw the caravan as a collection of misfits and ne’er-do-wells, untrustworthy and undesirable. It wasn’t unusual for towns to refuse trade with them, or charge exorbitant prices for basic supplies. More than once, the caravan was run out of a settlement by an angry mob, spurred on by rumors and fear. Jesse’s family taught her invaluable skills to navigate this unforgiving environment. Her father and mother had both studied the supernatural extensively over the years and did their best to pass on their knowledge to Jesse. Her father, a shrewd businessman with an uncanny ability to sense the potential in seemingly mundane objects, taught her how to appraise the value of supernatural materials and drive hard bargains. Her mother, a skilled apothecary and master of herbal lore, showed Jesse how to identify and harvest ingredients, and how to use them to concoct basic remedies. From her brothers, Jesse learned the art of combat. They taught her how to shoot a gun, how to fight with a knife, and how to use the environment to her advantage. Jesse idolized her older brothers and longed to join their monster hunts. Instead, she was left behind in the relative safety of the caravan, tasked with a never-ending list of mundane chores. While her brothers went on their adventures, Jesse mended clothes, cooked meals, packed and unpacked wagons, sorted goods, prepared remedies, ran errands, and cared for animals. Despite the supposed freedom of the nomadic lifestyle, she felt trapped, restless, and craved more from life. Deep down, Jesse felt a call pulling her beyond the horizon. On some nights, she’d slip away to sit under the stars, wondering what it would feel like to finally answer that call. Her frustration grew with each passing day until, not too long after her eldest brother returned from his ‘Lone Star Journey,’ a rite of passage for young adults to prove their ability to survive independently, Jesse’s frustration hit its limit. For months, years, Jesse begged her parents for the chance to undertake the rite with little success. Her parents, acutely aware of the dangers facing a young woman of color in the frontier, resisted. They insisted she was safer - and freer - with the caravan. “Am I? A moving cage is still a cage, 妈妈.” Her words struck a chord. Reluctantly, her parents relented, and the caravan would drop her off at Amistad, Texas. Mr. and Mrs. Li half-expected, half-wished, that their naive daughter would quickly learn how cruel civilization is and come to her senses, returning to the Wandering Emporium. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " Amistad, Texas To test her ability to survive independently, the caravan intentionally left Jesse in this frontier town. Amistad was chosen due to its strategic location near the Rio Grande and its reputation as a growing boom-town, offering both opportunities and challenges for a young person seeking to prove themselves. If Jesse could thrive here, she could handle herself anywhere in the untamed West.

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The Cursèd West

Avalia

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

✠✠✠✠✠

“You look like you need food,” he heard the elf say.

Vasco hummed as he remained laying on the forest floor. He probably did. He couldn’t remember what he ate last. Unless giggle water and nose candy counted as eats.

Rowan’s voice broke through his thoughts, mentioning about some joint nearby with a flop and chow. Well, ain’t that the berries? Lady Luck must’ve been feeling generous - he’d figured they’d be bedding down with the skeeters tonight, serenaded by the croaking of bullfrogs.

“Follow me,” came Rowan’s command, followed by the sound of his footsteps crunching on the leaves. Vasco groaned, reluctant to move. After a moment, he forced himself to his feet.

“Don’t run off. We have enough problems on our hands, and remember, this is your idea,” Rowan tossed over his shoulder. Vasco had about as much idea what the elf was jabbering about as he did about the price of tea in China.

“If you need me to carry you the whole way, just in case, let me know,” At this offer, Vasco flinched, but kept his trap shut, chomping on his bottom lip instead.

As they neared the lodge, Rowan yanked him into the shadows between two buildings. The elf's hands were in his hair. Fingers running through his hair felt... nice. Soothing almost. And Vasco found himself enjoying it a lot more than he ought to.

“You’re a human. You smell like one, too,” the elf stated the obvious, wrinkling his nose. “It shouldn’t matter. They don’t understand your scent yet. With your hair like this — don’t touch it, we should be able to get by until we get you a disguise.”

A low, amused rumble came from Vasco’s throat. “So you’ve got my smell down pat, is that right?” He leaned in close to Rowan, his breath hot on the elf’s ear. “Been getting a good whiff this whole time?” Smirking, his fingers traced the waistband of the elf’s trousers. “Good to know.”

Side stepping, Vasco eyeballed their destination. “Once we get our flop, I’m going shopping,” he declared. “Unless you want me going toe-to-toe with nothing but my mitts and a knife, I need some real heat.” He gestured at his threadbare getup.

Not waiting for pointy-ears to run his mouth, Vasco marched straight to and through the front door. True to form, the first thing he did was exactly what Rowan told him not to do: talk. “Hey, what’s the good word? You got any rooms we can crash in for the night?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Ryn kept a watchful eye on Lord Smithwood after they left the Gentlemen’s Grill and Cabaret and made their way to the spa. Though the lord’s sudden pinkness was the result of nothing more than a dye job, the enchanted glasses revealed a familiar magicae imprint—one Ryn recognized from the day Lord Smithwood’s voice had climbed to a squeak and sudden, uncontrollable laughter overtook him.

Thankfully, the imprint was far less strong or menacing this time, reduced to wisps of tiny, surprised-looking faces swaying at the edges of Lord Smithwood’s magicae like stalks of ryegrass in a gentle breeze.

A field of… tiny little faces... Eerie, but harmless. Even a little adorable, as it turned out.

With every contented sigh and blissful groan elicited from Lord Smithwood by the masseur’s skilled hands kneading away the knots of tension, the heat of the sauna’s steam seeping into his weary bones, and the scented bathwater cleansed the day’s troubles, the faces faded away, their expressions softening into something almost resembling smiles.

Long before the dye washed clean from Lord Smithwood’s skin and hair, all remnants of the magicae imprint had vanished. Still, the count lingered at the lord’s side, until the deepening creases in Lord Smithwood’s brow warned Ryn he teetered on the brink of overstaying his welcome.

---

Time: Sola 25, 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edwards Estate, Backyard
Interaction(s)/Mention(s):@Lava Alckon@princess

Just as he had done for the Damien’s masquerade party two nights ago, Ryn arrived early to Lord Edwards’ fête with the intention to catalog the unique traits of each person’s magicae as they filtered in.

Not to toot his own horn—though a small toot might be forgiven—he became rather adept at identifying the hosts of each magicae. He circulated the garden with an easy smile, exchanging pleasantries while continuing his observations.

At last, the birthday boy made his entrance, resplendent in his fine clothes and immediately surrounded by well-wishers. Ryn crossed the garden to pay his respects, greeting those who surrounded him politely before turning his attention to Lord Edwards himself. “Happy twenty-fourth birthday, my lord,” he said warmly, clasping the man’s hand. “I trust you’ve recovered from yesterday?”

Avalia

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

✠✠✠✠✠

The damn forest floor swam beneath Vasco’s feet and the trees blurred into a dizzying mish-mash of greens and browns. Nausea hit him in waves, each wallop more of a doozy than the last. His stomach churned, and he could taste bile rising in his throat. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he muttered, his usual swagger more of a stagger now. Vasco knew he was on the ropes, and he couldn’t go on like this.

Pressing his back against the rough bark of a towering oak, he sank to the ground. With a groan, he lowered himself onto the soft bed of moss and fallen leaves, squeezing his peepers shut. Flat on his back, Vasco focused on his breathing, willing the world to stop its wild spin.

Slowly, the vertigo eased off. He became aware of the cool dampness of the moss against his back, the earthy scent of rotting leaves filling his nostrils. The gentle rustle of leaves overhead replaced the roaring in his ear.

Just as things started feeling halfway normal again, Vasco sensed he had company. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to risk stirring up another round of the spins. Besides, he didn’t need his eyes to know who it was.

Vasco arranged himself into a picture of nonchalance. He crossed his arms behind his head and propped one knee up, draping the other leg over it like he was catching a mid-afternoon siesta.

To anyone giving him the once-over, he’d look like a guy just kicking back, shirking his duties without a care. Better Rowan—and the others—saw him as nothing more than a lazy good-for-nothing bum. It beat the hell out of the truth, that’s for sure.

A crooked smirk quirked Vasco’s lips. “Ya score us some grub and a place to flop, mac?” Vasco asked Rowan.