Mists of Winter: Epilogue

[ewancummins]

(One post, maximum, each player character. See OOC for guidelines).

THREAD NOW CLOSED


-THE DUNGEON MASTER

[steveflam]

Next day

Franz leaves his Inn room with Munchen, set on finding Mathilde. He leaves word for Raen that he would like to speak with the man about something important.

Soon he and Munchen are in Mathilde's quarter, near her home. Arriving at the appartment complex he enters through the back so as not to alert his presence and quietly makes his way to her appartment. He listens first and a smile appears on his face. There is noise from within. The door is pretty flimsy if at best. He knocks lightly and hears more rustling from within and steps coming towards the door. Once the steps are close enough, the Falkov steps slightly back and kicks the door in!

He rushes in, only to see Mathilde's father backpeddling, and tripping. He falls flat on his ass in total surprise.

"You are not as fast as you vere yesterday," Franz states as he steps inside the place, moving fast to stand over the man.
He looks down at him, face grim. "I am goink to offer you this one time deal. You take it or you do not. Twenty gold pieces.
Go get drunk. Leaff Mathilde in my care. She vill be vell taken care uff I promise you. Unt if I ever see you near her again, I vill break you in little pieces. Den Munchen here vill eat you unt spit you into deiner river. Decide now."

The man blinks, sweat beading down his face. "I'll take it, I'll take it." He moves to stand, but at the same time attempts to fake out Franz by kicking his fat leg out to knock the soldier down. He fails and Franz reaches down quickly to hoist him up by the collar with one hand. His right arm cocks back and his fist flies true and breaks the man's nose. He is not finished.

The man whimpers as blood runs from his nose. The ex soldier grips him by the crotch and neck. He lifts him over his head and slams him down onto the floor. He stomps on the mans stomach.

Looking down at him, Franz spits in his face. He reaches for his belt, tossing a coin purse onto the mans chest.
"Your gold, schweinhunde. If I see you near Mathilde ever, you die." He kicks him between the legs for good measure before turning and leaving. Munchen take a page from Franz' actions and walks over to Mathilde's father and raising a leg,
urinates in the mans face before following Franz out.


The Falkov is already on his way back when by luck he runs into Mathilde. She is leery if him at first but he convinces her to follow him. "I promise you I will take gut care uff you and treat you right, unlike your father. Trust me, Mathilde, I only vant vat ist gut for you. I haff come to an agreement vist your papa. I am your guardian now. Your life vill be better now.
Come vist me unt Munchen. I vill get you some new clothes unt a room to liff in. Come, I vant you to meet a frient uff mine. His name ist Raen."

After much convincing and talking, Mathilde follows Franz and Munchen. They arrive back at the Inn and Franz gets her a room and with the aid of the same barmaid, gets her to have a bath. He makes arrangements to get her a few outfits.
At the same time, Raen happens by. He explains to the man what has happened this morning.

"Sit. I vish to ask you sometink."

Once the man does sit, he relaxes. "Lissen. I vish to learn how to do magicks. I see you are adept at it unt voult like to ask you if you vould teach me."

A discussion ensues. In the end Raen does agree to teach Franz but there are conditions*.


*Raen will go into details about this.


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Over the next few days, Franz splits his time with Raen at a home they purchase and with Mathilde. The girl slowly warms up to Franz after she realizes he will take care of her and most importantly, respect her.

At the Inn, Mathilde begins working as a chambermaid, under the guidance of the elder woman, Gertrude. It is difficult at first. But when she actually applies herself she does a decent enough job. After a few weeks, she realizes that the money she earns will be hers and not her fathers. This incites her to work even harder and apply herself.

Gertrude has a few words with Franz on her subject and it is decided that Mathilde will apprentice under Gertrude to become a damn good maid. Franz pays Gertrude a fee each week for the apprenticeship.


Meanwhile Franz , with Raen, begin planning the work to be done on their new "home". The soldier senses Raen is a bit
retentive to Franz' helping out with the repairs and especially about the soldier helping out money wise for magical supplies. This has not really bothered Franz and he is glad to help his new friend out. He realizes he saved the man's life but this doesn't matter to him and he lets Raen know.

[Adam]

Subject: Witch/Hag of the Pont-au-Museau Waterways. “Jenny.”

Bennedict scrawls the notes in his leather journal with a pencil. The handwriting is precise, controlled. He quickly sketches the body that is lying on a metal slab in the middle of the laboratory, highlighting the distorted features, the lengthened fingers and elongated face. He examines the body with a detached, clinical expression, emotionless as he sets the journal down on his desk. He pauses a moment, thoughtful, and then reaches onto the tray sitting in front of him, picking up a long silver knife.

He looks at his reflection in the bright polished face of the blade, before standing and stepping to the side of the table.

***

A line of light pierces a dark wall as a sliding door is drug slowly open, damp, rusted hinges squeaking in protest. A man steps into a warehouse, draped in a long overcoat and wearing a bowler hat. His breath steams in the chill, damp air. The moonlight streaming in through the windows and open door casts a long shadow into the middle of the room in front of him. He stamps his feet and breathes into his hands to warm them up, looking around expectantly.

“Hello?” he shouts into the darkness. “I’m here, as you asked.”

“Your boss,” a thickly accented voice answers from deeper in the shadow, “He’s quite a piece of work. Does he usually send you to take risks for him?”

“Herr Gehrman is made of stronger stuff than you’re crediting him,” the man answers, still looking for the origin of the sounds.

The source steps into the beam of moonlight, revealing himself to be one of the Barovian burglars. He is surrounded by half a dozen more of his fellows. “And yet here you are, while he is sitting in that nice house of his, probably by a warm fire. You don’t get paid enough, my friend.” The men chuckle. “That black eye is clearing up nicely, by the way.”

The man in the doorway takes off the bowler hat. It is Hornsby, Bennedict’s serving man. “Let’s just conclude our business and be done with it.”

The Barovian’s expression darkens. “You have the scroll?” he asks.

“You know that I don’t. Herr Gehrman told you during your first break in, we were contracted to retrieve it. Someone stole it before we even knew it existed. We can’t give you something we don’t have.”

“Bad news for ‘Herr Gehrman’ then,” the Barovian says, “And bad news for you too.” He pulls a dagger from a hidden pocket inside his coat.

***
Jenny lies on the slab, her torso sliced open in a precise “Y” pattern, organs pulled free and arranged carefully around the body. Bennedict stands at the top of the table with a stained apron. The hag’s blood, a greenish-black ichor, stains everything despite the body having been dead for some time prior to examination. For those schooled in anatomy, there are small discrepancies: heart slightly undersized, one lobe of the liver larger than the others. But, without the context of the body, there would not be enough to even tell that she wasn’t human.

Bennedict crosses the room, placing the lungs on a set of scales. He shakes his head as he reads the result, reaching over to make another quick note in his notebook. The lungs are quickly removed from the scale and placed just as clinically back on the dissecting table. Bennedict stands by the hag’s feet, hands resting on the tabletop, eyes unfocused and staring. He sighs in irritation, obviously not finding what he was looking for. He reaches for the fingers of his black-stained gloves, pulling at them angrily before stopping, a thought having obviously occurred to him. He reaches back to the table, picking up the now thoroughly blackened knife.

He walks back towards the head.

***
“Let’s not be hasty,” Hornsby says, holding his empty hands up in front of himself. “There is no need for violence.”

“Too late for that,” the Barovian answers, stepping forward, “Not after what that elf did to my men.”

“I’m sorry for that, but you were breaking into the master’s house. Galandel was only acting to protect a friend.”

“Some friend,” the Barovian says, “He knew what would happen to the man who came here, and he sent you in his place. But don’t worry, once we’re done with you, we’ll pay him a little visit as well.”

“This is your last chance,” Hornsby says, backing up slowly to the doorway, “Drop this matter and leave the city now, and no one else has to die.”

“Oh, I’m afraid someone does have to die,” the Barovian growls, raising his knife and walking forward. He grabs hold of Hornsby’s lapel and raises the weapon but stops as all pretense of fear drops off of the butler’s face.

Hornsby shakes his head sadly. “You don’t know how right you are.”

Suddenly, in the darkness of the warehouse, a dozen pairs of red eyes appear. A wave of high pitched squeaks, sounding disturbingly like laughter, echoes off the bare walls. The Barovian’s men turn out towards them, fear obvious on their faces. On the left, one drops to the ground, a crossbow bolt stuck into his chest. Another clutches at his throat where the rusted handle of a dagger protrudes, arterial spray arcing through the moonlight. A blurred, brown figure dashes forward and lands on one man’s chest, while another is drug, screaming, into the darkness, his fingernails scraping over the cobblestone.

The Barovian turns to the doorway to find his path barred by Hornsby, pointing a small flintlock pistol at his chest. “What is this?” he shouts.

“You asked why Herr Gehrman sent me instead of coming himself?” Hornsby answers, “It’s because he is a busy man. He gets involved when matters warrant his attention, not for taking out trash like you. He would simply have turned you over to the gendarmes, but you made it personal. You threatened his friends, his family.”

“I’m sorry!” the burglar pleads, looking over his shoulder at the massacre of his men, “I’ll leave! You’ll never see me again! JUST LET ME LEA-“

His voice is cut off as a dagger slides across his throat. Blood, black in the moonlight, pours out as he drops to his knees, the life already leaving his horrified eyes. Hornsby looks down at his jacket, obviously disgusted as he pulls a handkerchief and dobs blood off of his shirt. He sighs as the stain is already setting. “You have things under control, here?” he asks.

“Oh yes,” Ignatz answers, bristling with brown fur. His whiskers twitch in pleasure as he laps some of the blood off of the blade. “You’ll thank Bennedict for us, won’t you? We haven’t eaten this well in weeks.”

Hornsby’s mask of indifference slips briefly, his lip curling in distaste. “I’ll pass along your gratitude.”

Ignatz chuckles, flashing Hornsby a wink as he reaches down and grabs the back of the Barovian’s trousers, dragging him back into the shadows of the warehouse. As Hornsby turns to leave, the sliding door slams loudly shut behind him.

***

Bennedict sits behind his desk, his chair turned away from the front door of the office, staring at the shelf of curios behind him. A line of smoke curls lazily from the pipe clenched in his teeth. He takes a long, slow drag, feeling the smoke fill his chest with heat that pushes back the chill of the night. The dissecting knife is in his right hand, the left wiping it repeatedly with a polishing cloth. Bennedict’s attention couldn’t be any further away from the task, his stare looking through the wall and far off to things only he can see. The desktop is scattered with sheets of paper covered with scribbled notes and diagrams, all the evidence that remains of what used to be Jenny.

The bell jingles quietly in the room as the front door opens. Hornsby steps inside, stamping his feet again and pulling off his gloves. He hangs his coat over the rack placed nearby and drops his hat over another peg.

“It’s done, then?” Bennedict asks.

“The matter is taken care of, sir.”

“Very good, Hornsby,” Bennedict answers, “You’ve done more than I could have asked, through all of this. I’ve left a small bonus for you on your desk. You deserve much more.”

Hornsby looks over at his master, concern evident on his features. He seems to consider his words for a moment, but finally answers, “Thank you, sir. It is my pleasure to serve.”

Bennedict nods, tapping his pipe out over an ash tray. He stands, throwing down the knife onto the desktop. Despite his efforts, the blade is still tarnished, some quality of the hag’s blood having corrupted the metal. Bennedict doesn’t give it anymore thought. He plucks his own coat off the back of his chair, slinging it over his shoulders. “In the morning, send a message to my wife. Let her know I’ll be traveling to join them soon, and that the matter in town is safely concluded.”

“Very good, sir.”

Bennedict walks to the door. He pulls his own hat down, fitting it over his head. “All things considered, I'd say this has turned out for the best, Hornsby. I have word that the harbormaster is very grateful for our aid. He is…known for his generosity. Perhaps we’ll be able to expand the agency soon, hire some new investigators, perhaps even some assistants for you.”

Hornsby nods, repeating “Very good, sir,” in the same monotone. Bennedict turns and walks out into the night, his cane tapping in time with his steps over the cobblestone as the door slowly closes behind him. Hornsby stares after the man for a moment, before turning and walking to the desk. He picks up the dissecting knife, tutting quietly to himself at the state of it. He goes to pick up the cloth and clean it when he stops, catching sight of something new on the bookshelf. A glass jar rests on the middle shelf, filled with a greenish-grey liquid. Floating, a thin trail of fresh blood streaming around them, are a pair of eyes.

As Hornsby watches, the eyes rotate, turning from the door to look up and meet his gaze.

[Brock Marsh Runoff]

"The longest night, my friends,
Here again and gone, one spoke in a wheel.
The bare trees will sprout once more.
The earth will melt and yield again.

"The coming days will be dark,
But not as dark as tonight.
The chill will bite tomorrow.
But not as hard as tonight.

"So tonight, my friends, embrace the dark.
Wear it like a cloak, greet it like a brother.
For one day, the Wheel will stop turning.
And even Darkness will end."

"Tonight, we wish well to all,
All feuds forgotten, all grudges borne away.
Treat all as brothers tonight, sons of Gundar,
And give this night its due."

The crowd of Gundarakites gathered in the temple had been drinking since before breakfast, and they roar their amens as their priest finishes his prayer. Men and women clap each other on the shoulders and wish each other the blessings of Nevermore Night. A burly man in the back of their makeshift temple begins belting out a Nevermore carol in guttural Luktar, with the rest quickly joining in. And Brother Dorgio Varga, who in years past would have been drunker than his own flock, slips away from the crowd with his young bride.

“Your friend Oszkar gave me a right lovely bottle of wine before the service,” she told him. “I said thank you Ozzie, but I really shouldn’t not with the baby. He told me to give it to you, that’d you’d need it more!”

There’s a hint of a strain in Dorgio’s chuckle. He’s mostly kept away from alcohol, just as he said he would. Mostly. “And did you take it?”

“No. He threw up on the bottle. Happy Nevermore Night!”

He grins and pulls her close to him as they walk together in the chill night air, torchlight reflecting off the crust of newfallen snow. “I’m thinking we have more brutish ways of celebrating the solstice than what you’re used to.”

Lorna scoffs. “You think nobody ever shows up to an Ezran temple drunk? In Mordentshire? Gods and booze, I don’t know why they go together, but they do.”

“But of course, my love. The gods want us to be happy, yes? And you are happy here, yes? My kinsmen are certainly loving you well enough.”

She blushes, but it’s the truth. The Gundarakites had been treating her like nobility ever since Dorgio had brought her here. “It helps that I already know Luktar,” she replies. All those years spent cleaning Madame Annuska’s house back Mordentshire. I thought she was daft for making me learn it.” She gives his hand a squeeze. “But I’m glad she did. Poor woman. Not exactly a lot of Gundarakites in Mordent. I think she just wanted to her somebody else speak it. How lonely is that?”

Dorgio’s smile evaporates. “Do you feel like that here? A stranger in a foreign land?”

He can’t help but miss the tightness pulling down at the corners of her mouth, even though it’s gone in an instant. “No Dorge.” She squeezes his arm, “Your people are a lot bloody less shy than mine. In Mordent you’d get a nasty look if you said hello to a stranger. But your lot, you’d say hello, make best friends, fall out, and swear a blood feud in the time it’d take you to walk past each other. Never a lonely moment here. Besides,” and here her eyes light up, “it helps, being married to the local hero.”

It’s his turn for the tight smile. “I don’t feel like much of a hero, not after this last case. You should have seen that wizard, Raen. He nearly blew himself to bits just to stop the hag. Now that is heroism. And I did my part, sure, though nothing so bold as that. But a younger me? Who knows what I’d have done.”

“A younger you didn’t have much to lose, though, did he?”

A small noise escapes the back of Dorgio’s throat. “Nothing like what I have now.”

They walk arm in arm until they reach the house they’ve made together. It is modest, but far better than the hovel he’d occupied like a rat when he’d first moved to Pont. And with the reward from hunting down the hag, he could make it better, give Lorna and their child a better life, one that had been denied Dorgio himself.

They are discussing dinner as they step to the door, with Dorgio insisting that she rest, that he will cook tonight. And her insisting that he’ll do no such thing, that she’d tried his stew enough times to know better. But the teasing stops as soon as Dorgio opens the door, and smells the cookfire, and cookfire neither of them lit before leaving.

“Finally!” A woman’s voice, clear and stern, from somewhere further in the house. Dorgio barks out a quick prayer, flooding the home with light.

The woman stands in the kitchen. She looks to be seventy years at least, but a seventy years wreathed in iron and stone. She is small, yet she strides up to Dorgio with no fear, as if the house were hers. Her hair is raven black, showing not a wisp of gray. She peers at him through green eyes, eyes as green as his own. And it’s only here, at the corner of the woman’s eyes, that the full measure of her years cannot hide.

“You know how long I”ve been looking for you, Dorgio Varga? She thumps a rail-thin finger into his chest? Too long, too long to hunt for someone so…settled!” She shakes her head. “Your blood is thin. No wonder you are hiding here, with these Gundarmen. Pretending to be one of them. It’s just as well, I should have been knowing better. Your father was the same way.”

The lanky priest can only blink. “You knew my father?”

Lorna takes a step behind her husband at this. There is anger in her eyes for this intruder, but she doesn’t interfere. She sees and begins to understand, makes the connection that eludes her lover.

The stranger scowls as Dorgio mentions his father. “My Nadia, she was never meant to settle in one place. The life of the road, the open steppe, the wind in her hair. That was the life for her, for all of us. She should have found a man among the Vatraska. Taught her children the ways of her tribe. Made me a doting error of a grandmother many times over.”

But then came Mózes Varga. Mózes, with all his plans and his ideals. So she left me, left the tribe, and cleaved to him like moss to stone. In the end, that’s what killed her, despite what anyone else says. My poor Nadia. My poor Nadia…”

“You are…my mother’s mother, then?”

She flashes him a shark’s smile, all her teeth gleaming white. “As bright as everyone told me you’d be!” She gives Lorna a sympathetic look. “I’m sure he’s not always this slow. Now, let me look at you!” The woman moves toward young wife. “Another three moons yet at least, yes? I am hardly believing it. Only a year ago, I find out I have a grandson, and now, a great grandchild. We’ve much to discuss, you and I, girl. Much to discuss. I am Jaelle. And who might you be, since my newfound grandson seems too dumbstruck for formal introductions?”

Lorna cracks a hint of a smile, and somethings about that smile sends a chill down Dorgio’s spine. “Lorna,” she says. “And forgive me, Jaelle, but I thought Dorge—Dorgio, was an orphan?”

Jaelle shrugs. “He may as well have been. Not long after he was born, I was given…reason to leave The Core. By the time I returned, my poor Nadia was in the ground, and nobody would tell me how she’d died.”

“Father never told me either,” Dorgio says.

“No? A kindness, maybe. But by the time I knew you existed, you’d fled the realm. But I’ve found you at last. You may be a half-bred Gundarman, but you’re my half-breed, and that will have to do.”

Dorgio should feel elated, he knows that. His father had died half a lifetime ago, and he’d been too young to remember his mother’s passing. And now, for the first time in nearly fifteen years, stands someone of his own bloodline. But something churns in his gut as he begins putting it together.

“Jaelle..uh, grandmother. What now? Do you intend to be staying with us?”

“Feh! It is in my blood to wander, it would be in your blood to if you weren’t a giogoto. But now that I know where to be finding you, I will be dropping in, stopping by during my travels. Making sure my great grandchild grows up strong, grows up with something besides all those silly Gundarman myths. Making sure they grow up knowing how the world…really works.”

Dorgio and Jaelle lock eyes then, and now he can see himself in her eyes, wonders how he’d mist it before. And there is a challenge in her smile, something that dares him to answer, and something that knows he won’t.”

Jaelle motioned to the kitchen. “But let’s not delay. Dinner awaits, so let’s dig in.”

[kintire]

Katrin stares out at the frozen city, musing on the past events. She had learnt much from the adventure, but she had lost a good deal of confidence too. She had frozen at the critical moment, and the final battle had been resolved without her. Just an instant of panic and it could all have been over.

The heat of her last shift at the inn faded slowly as the cold air bit through her, although she was well wrapped against the winter wind. The light faded in the windows one by one as the folk of the city retired to their beds, silence settling under the glittering stars. Water witches, ogres... what else did the night hide? What else was going on in those darkened streets, or perhaps under the roofs of some of those innocent-seeming houses?

She shivered, and not just from the cold. Whatever trouble she had been in before, it had always involved people with understandable motives. Her brush with the weird had unsettled her.

She shrugged, and wrapped her long legs around the grotesque on which she was sitting. Sliding smoothly around it until she was hanging below the thing, she deftly unlatched the window below.

She was going to have to keep an eye on this weird stuff. Moving about at night made her vulnerable to things that hid when the sun was up and many people were about. Also, solving such problems could be profitable. Connections with the harbourmaster's men were useful...

Warmth slipped around her as she slid in through the window, and began to deftly inventory the room she was in.

She was going to have to stay useful to Benn though. Her cover was blown in that direction, and it wasn't comfortable to have a cunning man aware of her talents. She had been careless, she supposed. Ah well. Nothing to be done about it now. Who knew? Solving problems might have almost as much profit in it as causing them!

Glittering things slid into dark pouches, then she paused and closed the window as a watch aptrol went by. You could tell this was the wealthy part of town. Watch patrols on a cold night! The clearest sign of wealth.

Nothing stirred in the house as she moved from room to room, avoiding the bedrooms. There was a dog that slept by the back door, but that was two floors down. A clean job.

It was a risk, doing these alone and without backup, but she needed a confidence boost after her debacle at the boat. And it helped her think. She had much to mull over.

Magic as well! She trusted the wizard, but it was weird watching him do all that stuff. Useful though. A nice edge to have. And it was good to have a partner as well. Trustworthy friends were good to have. Even untrustworthy ones were better than nothing!

Cleaning out the top floor, she slipped back to her window. Not a superb haul, especially once the fences had taken their cut, but enough for a few nights fine entertainment, and perhaps a bit of furniture for the house. Spare bed, perhaps, if she was going to have house guests a lot.

As the cold night air surrounded her again, the thought reminded her of what she had to lose. She had come a long way since...

She glanced away from it, the building just in view from here, squat and ugly. A long way since there, and yet it still waited for her. A few mistakes, a bit of bad luck and she could still lose it all. Yes. Sticking with allies, trustworthy or otherwise, that was the future.

As long as they didn't drag her into something they couldn't handle. As she deftly exited the scene over white rooftops, she reminded herself of the first rule.

No matter how valuable your assets, or allies, always keep an escape route open!

[alhoon]

"... and as you predicted sergeant, the culprit tried to leave through the back window when he saw the gendarmerie pair knocking on his door. The guard I've turned invisible waiting for him, had not trouble subduing the surprised thief. They should arrive in a few minutes, after they finish searching the house for the valuables stolen."
Raen found that talking to the sergeant openly about his powers still gave him a feeling of danger, even though he had started socializing with wizards open about their trade, selling and buying spells and components to make scrolls and items. In the days since he nearly died in the cold river, he seems to have went far. Merchants were happy to gift him the nice clothes he now wore, he found out he had credit in good taverns and it wasn't rare to find a bottle of fine wine waiting for him in the morning. The merchants agreed to sell him and Franz some of the materials needed for the repairs of the house they've chosen for a very good price.
He had made good on his promise to use his powers to help the gendarmerie keep the peace and he found out that despite his profession, most of the guards treated him and his powers with respect.
After the sergeant thanked him for his help, Raen smiled, invited the sergeant for a game of cards at the inn he was staying after the sergeant's shift ended and excused himself. He had to look for an engineer and workers for the house.

A few minutes later he was entering a public house that the workforce was often using at their breaks. His fancy clothes draw the attention of the workers there; he became conscious that his clothes alone were probably worth what they made in 6 months or more. The aquamarine gem on the dull silver necklace around his neck also draw some attention, although even as a jewelry it didn't seem out of place along with his clothes. Still, it marked him as a foreigner; Richemulotease weren't kin on displaying wealth.
He looked around the tavern as the laborers turned back to their conversations and food. His gaze stopping at one after another of the tables... till he felt the telltale pull of the magical necklace while looking a group of three hardy looking laborers with the dirt of a builder on their clothes and arms. He thought whether to approach them with a toast; with an offer of beer; with a good joke... the necklace seem to jitter most when he thought about the beer. So be it then.
He quickly found a waitress and told her to bring 4 mugs of beer to the table of the builders. As the waitress set down the mugs and the men looked at her with surprise, Raen wearing a friendly smile took a seat at an empty chair. "Good afternoon gentlemen. This beer is my treat!" he said. "I am Raen" he said offering a hand to the man next to him, to show that he didn't look down on folk doing an honest job. "I found a nice house a few blocks away, not far from the river. The house though, needs repairs. You seem honest looking folk. I would like to hire a group, including a master builder or engineer, to start repairs on the house. Do you know who I should start looking for?" He grabbed his mug and took a sip. The men looked between themselves and smiled. Within a few minutes Raen had the names and addresses of a couple engineers that would do a nice job without asking for too much. Raen decided to stay a few more minutes with this group anyway; money or not, he wasn't about to leave half his beer in the mug and the laborers were a pleasant distraction.
As the subjects drifted to various subjects Raen's hand rested over his ribs, unconsciously prodding over the clothes; he made a small wince. He could still feel the dent on the ribs at the place where the blast has hit him worse.

[ewancummins]

BARONET SICART’S ESTATE, LATE AFTERNOON

The mule team hauls the last big log up from the lower fields near the frozen river, across the open ground and into the woodlot. Massive pine trunk, much larger than the coppiced ashes and alders of the lot.

The driver moves his mules along the slushy path, deeper into the estate’s source of firewood. He brings the animals to a halt as he reaches a clearing. Kneeling, the man unhooks the log chains. He squints at a paw print in the snow. Too big for a fox; likely left by feral dog. Wolves, he recalls, don't come this close to the city. He stands and looks about at the trees of the interior lot, which don’t show recent cutting and have grown larger than the pruned growth of the outer lot.

An owl cries.

The man turns away and hurries with getting his team turned round and moving down the path towards the river.

Over the clop of the mules’ hooves and the jangle of the trailing log chains, he hears whispering voices. Once he spots a lean shape moving in the trees on the right of the path, a gray hooded cloak flapping behind the walker like the wings of a huge moth.

The drover hurries on, pushing his team hard.
He stops when he gets well clear of the woodlot, unharnesses his steaming animals, and rests leaning against a broken strip of stone fence.

His grown daughter trudges up from the little canvas tent the haulers share, shaking mud and sleet from her shoes, a covered basket hanging in her right hand.
“I brought you an early supper, Papa.” She hands him the basket.

He opens just one corner and inhales the sweet scent of roast lamb and rum-pickled apples; his favorite meal.

Noise rises from the lot’s interior, notes blown through the stripped branches, fragmented words in a sibilant alien tongue. The crack of splitting wood, chopping thuds, woodpecker taps magnified tenfold.

“That’s a good girl.” He casts a hasty glance back into the woodlot. “But let’s go home and eat it there.”


SARA’S HOME, MORNING

The letter from Saint Ronges, delivered a few minutes ago by a courier boy, now sits unsealed and unfolded on the table before Sara as she takes her breakfast.

Dearest Daughter,
Please return home as soon as the weather permits. We miss you. What is more, we have happy news that we wish to impart in person.
Yours in Faithfulness,
Martin Bordelon
Anne Bordelon

Everything about the letter appears genuine. The handwriting is an exact match for that on every other missive from her parents. But one detail stands out as odd; her parents signed with the obscure High Mordentish form of the family name. Bordelon, rather than Croft.



BENN’S OFFICE

After Vlad says his last goodbyes and walks out, Hornsby shows in a prospective client.

The sad-faced young lady sits down in the chair across from Benn’s desk, arranging the petticoats of her worn but once fine gown with practiced ease.

“Please, Monsieur Gerhman can you help me find my husband? He’s been missing for almost a month.”
She sighs.

“He ran off into the marshes with a gang of ruffians who called themselves adventurers. Treasure hunters. I warned him not to go, I pleaded with him. In my anger, I said some cruel things when he left. Monsieur, I may not look it now, but I come from a good family. My René, he always wanted to provide for me as he felt I desired. But he gambled too much. The cards were unkind to him.

Please find him and bring him back. If he’s staying somewhere in the city, afraid I’m still angry at him for leaving, tell him to come home. Tell him I love him.”
She reaches into her handbag and retrieves a small oil painting, framed in tarnished silver.
The woman depicted stands before Benn now, though in the picture she’s younger and better clothed. The handsome, slim man with fashionably long dark hair also looks familiar, but only with the aid of a candle and his magnifying lens does Benn recognize him.

Benn has seen this missing man just once before, under the docks in the Chamber of Eyes.


FINIS