The Tattooed Woman Pt. 53

THE TATTOOED WOMAN - Chapter 53

The Tattooed Woman Volume 3 - Chapter 53: Blood Will Out

The tavern was awash with all manner of characters, ranging from those garbed in the most outlandish and extravagant of costume to others of a more sombre demeanor, who chose instead to conceal their features beneath murky cloaks that probably hid more than mere daggers.

Bearded Dwarves, proud in their iron, raised tankards and bellowed their songs; drunken gladiators and inebriated sellswords mixed with rogues and ruffians as they contested for the eye of some comely wench or likely lad. Half-Orc bodyguards played at 'dice and daggers' with Elfish scouts, as, from the rafters above their heads, the beady eyes of summoned familiars and conjured imps kept watch over their masters.

The common room was of significant size, lit by flickering witchfire lanterns set in engraved brass sconces that somehow, and doubtless by careful and deliberate design, only partially illuminated the many nooks and crannies.

Some folks sat by the fire, enjoying its warmth and light, others preferred to lurk in the shadowy pews set further back. The whole place seemed awash with sounds and movement, with talking, singing and cursing in a truly bewildering myriad of languages. The air was pungent with the smell of wood and tobacco smoke, as it competed with the aroma of roasting meats, rich spices and strong spirits.

Here and there, dancing girls whirled atop a table, spinning in enticing displays of silk and skin as they weaved with beguiling grace, or leapt from one tabletop to another, attracted like magpies to the glitter of gold coins tossed at their nimble feet by clapping and cheering patrons.

Figures in chain shirts, and studded leather hauberks called out to serving wenches for wine and ale, or perhaps one of the pies baking on the skillet over the fire, while at another table, off to one side, hooded figures hunched close, deep in murmured conversation as they pored over the maps and unrolled parchments that lay between them.

At yet another table, a cluster of urchins or potboys watched with child-like delight as a wizard of some kind conjured a tiny figure of bright flame from a candle and set it to dancing and playing atop the table for their entertainment. The magi chuckled at their laughter as he showed off. That the sprite left tiny burning footprints in its wake did not seem to discourage his amusement in the slightest. Though his expression changed somewhat, as without direction it paused in its capering, and in a most eerie movement deliberately turned to peer towards the door. It was a motion copied and unseen by the handful of familiars lurking in the rafters above.

Cassie felt her mouth drop open, for though she had worked in a tavern during much of her young life, she had never experienced such a place as this. Nor anything like such a company.

They were of so many different shapes and forms; all engaged in their own business, or their own merrymaking. Yet, as she looked about with wide eyed astonishment, she could not help but sense there was something of a similarity about them. That they were all armed was not so strange these days, but many had a certain predatory quickness of eye and hand that spoke volumes.

For this was an establishment where so-called "adventurers" were known to frequent. And though other sell-swords, ruffians, rogues, or indeed anyone with coin enough in their pocket, was certainly welcome, and while there was bravado enough to be had in any quantity, there was surprisingly little of the thievery or thuggery one might expect to find in a place filled with such fatal and disreputable creatures.

The Dark Elves were a prideful folk, intolerant of strangers, quick to take offence and long to forgive, if ever. But they were crafty, and even they recognised that sometimes there was more to be gained by not paying overmuch attention to the comings and goings of such folk. After all, it was well known that adventurers, by their very nature, were both demented and perilously unpredictable. Besides, more than one House had, at times, made use of, or profited from their reckless insanity, so, unless provoked, they left them be.

The tavern was somewhat hard to find; it being situated deep in the warren-like sprawl of the Shambles. It was ensconced at one darkened corner of a small and dimly lit square that was itself situated off the furthest end of a particularly well-hidden and secluded lane.

There was rumour that a glamour had been laid upon the taproom, that its door could not be found by aimless tipplers, and that secret passwords needs must be spoken before entry could be gained, but glamours and other such petty enchantments were common enough in the city of the dark elves, so the story was probably just bunkum... probably.

But even so, it did not appear to be a place easily found, or casually frequented for that matter, certainly not by well-bred ladies of refinement and the like. Such august and delicate personages would surely be horrified and set to swooning if compelled to endure such raucous company.

Apparently not; for this was Emain, the city of the Dark Elves, and swooning was distinctly not in their wicked natures. Which was probably why Leita apparently was most familiar with the place, and thus, after their night of theatre and spectacle, she happily led Cassie there, unerringly finding her way to the door, skipping, and giggling with a merry lack of concern as she guided the increasingly nervous girl through the maze of narrow alleys and cobbled lanes that made up the thieves' quarter.

One would have thought, perhaps, that the sight of two young women, wandering at night seemingly without escort or care, in such nefarious environs would attract a certain level of unfriendly attention. But it seemed that if Leita knew these avenues intimately, then so too did they know her; and thus, the wolves that lurked and watched from the shadows wisely turned away, deciding to try their luck elsewhere, and perhaps with less hazardous prey.

Leita muttered a few words and tossed a gold crown to the burly ostarius warding the door. He was a bald, lumpy fellow of significant size, clad in a sturdy leather garb that left his muscular arms bare. His face was a battlefield of old scars and his grin at being so well-paid revealed teeth like lonely tombstones as he bit the coin.

Beady eyes gleamed with happy avarice as the gold proved true, and his fingers moved to tug an imaginary forelock. Hefting his cudgel, he heaved himself from his stool and led the two women through the throng and into the depths of the tavern proper, using his bulk, or the stout hickory in his hand to plow a path for them to follow.

Upon reaching an empty table situated in a comfortable nook, he gestured, "This should do ye, though if it's privacy yer after, we have a few rooms in back," he grinned, "the divans are padded and comfortable, and there are houris to be had for a few coins if it's bedplay yer after."

Seeing Cassie's aghast look, he sniffed and lifted his chin to growl, "Both are clean, I'll have ye know, for 'tis a respectable place we run here."

Fetching him a cheerful smile, Leita did not seem even slightly intimidated by his gruff demeanor, "Maybe later."

With a mortified gasp Cassie turned to stare at her in shock, but the insouciant dark elf merely shrugged, "You never know."

The younger woman couldn't help but cast a furtive glance at the scantily clad dancing girls, and much to the obvious delight of the still grinning elf, she reddened spectacularly, "I bloody do know. Lady Shalidar would clip my ears back if I indulged in such illicit - hanky-panky, and deservedly so."

Leita's chuckle was as musical as the laughter of all Elves, but to Cassie's ears it held a distinctly mischievous note. She watched as the lithe and graceful Dökkálfar motioned towards a serving wench, beckoning her to their table with a languid gesture, and the promise of the shining coin now held betwixt outstretched fingers.

The girl wove between tables and stools with her tray held aloft, nimbly dodging one groping hand and playfully slapping away another, until she stood before them, eyes fixed brightly upon the enticing lure of the gold piece that Leita deliberately placed down upon the table before sliding it towards her, "What say you fetch my companion and I a measure of good wine, a couple of clean goblets and perhaps a brace of those fine pies that I see warming by the fire? If you are swift enough, I see no reason to trouble yourself by bringing back any change left over, and should you keep an eye on our further needs as we take our repast then I shall ensure that another coin is left for your troubles before we leave."

The girl gave them both a dainty curtsy, "'Tis no trouble, milady, I am pleased to serve," and with a smile she hurried off on her errand.

Cassie watched her go, and the dark elf could see the pensive expression on her face as she did, "A copper for your thoughts, Princess."

There was a snort, "Don't call me that, my life is absurd enough as it is," she gave a wry chuckle and pointed after the girl, "I was just thinking how not so very long ago that was me. Oh, not in so fine a place as this, nothing like it in fact. We had no music, or dancing girls, and the only houris I can think of are those buxom dairy maids who took such delight in mocking me when they shoved their overside tits into the faces of any travelling vagabond or witless farmhand who spared them the time of day and the price of an ale. And if anyone ever tossed about a gold coin to pay for a simple pastie, we would think them entirely demented," she sighed, "but... that was my life back then, such as it was."

The dark elf nodded as she regarded her, inhuman eyes as brilliant and unblinking as a cat's, "Until we stole you?"

"Aye, until you stole me."

Leita's teeth were white and sharp-looking, as she smiled her predatory smile, "But you are a Princess, are you not? I was told so this very afternoon by my aunt no less, and she is not one to make such a mistake. Oh no, most definitely not."

"If I am it is only by fluke and happenstance."

This time it was Leita's turn to snort dismissively, "I very much doubt that."

"Huh?"

The dark elf continued to chuckle, pausing only when the serving wench returned to spread their victuals down upon a clean tablecloth, "There ye go, ma'am, a flagon of our bestest red, and two meat pies fresh from the oven."

With a nod of thanks and a wave of her hand the slender dark elf dismissed her, before filling the goblets and pushing one in front of the human girl sitting opposite, "Does it matter, Cassie? You've gone from orphan pot-scrubber in some backwater Borderlands tavern, to being enslaved by the Sidhe and carried off into the Fae as chattel, and now? See? Here am I, a daughter of dark elves swearing fealty to your House and serving you with my own hand."

She chuckled again, "in truth, if the tale were any more heroic, the Bards would be making up songs about it, and you."

Fetching the girl a distinctly impish smirk, she turned to her pie and hefting her beltknife used the hilt to break open the flaky crust, allowing a delicious waft of aromatic steam to escape. Taking a sniff of the flavoursome scent, she deftly flipped the blade and cut herself a slice.

Across the table, Cassie's complexion had darkened as she blushed again in embarrassment and she snorted, "Fat chance. Ain't nobody in their right mind making up no songs about me. All I've done is stumble and stagger from one mad calamity to another, and it's naught but blind luck that's saved me."

Leita shrugged, and gestured to the throng around her, "Maybe so, but I've heard it said by some right here in this tavern no less, that luck will often enough save you, but only if your courage holds."

The girl's disgruntled reply only caused the dark elf's smile to broaden, and she refilled both goblets, "Here, what say we forget about such things for a while and enjoy our supper? The pies here are particularly fine. The cook is Dwarven, for all that he uses Gnomish spices, and he knows his way around a stove."

They ate for a while, and Cassie had to admit both pie and company were enjoyable. Though she was mindful to but sip from the goblet, for she had not forgotten the warnings of enchanted elvish draughts.

After a spell, she glanced back at her companion, "Why?"

The dark elf seemed distracted by her thoughts, for she was sitting there, spoon in hand, looking up into the rafters with a strangely curious expression on her face. And it was a moment before her eyes flicked back to the girl, "Huh?"

Cassie took another sip of her wine and leaned closer, "Why would you swear yourself to me?"

Leita was once again casting her eyes upward. She shifted slightly in her seat and her reply was offhand, "Oh, my aunt asked me to..."

"Again, why?"

"Hmm? Oh," she blinked, "I'm told your guardian approached her, offering favours if she would find a suitable companion for you."

Cassie frowned, "Companion?"

The dark elf nodded, "Aye, from what I gather, Lady Shalidar felt you were growing somewhat discontented by your current situation," she shrugged, "and who could blame you? Cast adrift in this land of strangers, while your friends have gone off into likely danger? From what my aunt says, your guardian may not be entirely familiar with such concerns of the heart, whatever that means, but she seems to know boredom and loneliness when she sees it."

Cassie considered, "So, why you?"

Leita pursed her lips, "Why, you ask? Well, 'tis true my aunt is a most devious creature, and her choice would have been anything but random. But I presume she felt we would be a good match."

Seeing Cassie's look of dawning horror, the dark elf burst out laughing, "Nooo, not like that! Or," she frowned, "at least I think not, you can never tell with dark elves and our schemes. But I am an assassin, trained and blooded, so I can serve as your watchdog and protector at need. I am also young among my kind, thus not so ancient that you would find me completely alien and unrelatable."

She sighed and her fingers played with the stem of her goblet, "Then, of course, there is my background; for I am also not entirely of this realm, for as you have a smidgeon of elvish blood in your veins, so too have I human blood in mine, just a little anyway."

Cassie was fascinated, "You do?"

"Indeed so. My father was half elven, for he was the son of a human woman and an elf from the sunlit lands, both taken captive in border skirmishes long ago. They were kept as a breeding pair, and he was the result."

"D-did you know him?"

"No, he was a gladiator in the arena," with a wry grin she looked up at the human girl, "I'm told he was quite the handsome devil, and well knew it. His company was much sought after by ladies and maidens alike, for his skills were not restricted only to the sands, but also to a hotter cockpit altogether."

"What happened to him?"

Leita grimaced slightly, "My mother says she offered to buy the man, for she was well taken with him. Had he been willing he could have lived with her in pampered luxury for the rest of his days, but he demurred, wanting to win his freedom in the arena instead. He died during a bout. It was in a championship match they say, for by all accounts he was a skilled fighter," she shrugged, "I suppose he just met a better blade that day - it happens. I was born not long after his passing."

"I'm sorry."

With a wry chuckle, Leita drained her goblet, "Don't be, for I never met the man, and besides, I am dark elven and dark elves have no use for pity."

Cassie gave a snort, but decided not to argue, "If you say so. Still, no doubt your aunt calculates the tale will engender feelings of sympathy in the mush-headed little human child."

"Won't it?"

With a grumbling mutter, Cassie looked away, causing Leita to chuckle.

She reached out to the girl, patting the back of her hand in an amiable gesture as she spoke, "'Tis true my kind oft view compassion as a weakness that is most easily exploited, but even so, it still does not go entirely unappreciated, Cassie. Besides, I doubt my aunt thinks you mush-minded. She is far too canny and cunning a creature to so grievously underestime you. Even if she did, there are far too many secrets and hazards surrounding you to take lightly."

Cassie almost burst out laughing. For anyone to describe her so was almost too comedic for words, "Hazardous? Me? Oh yes, I'm terrifying, to be sure. Anyone seeing me fight would be more at risk of dying of laughter, than at my hands. I think your aunt is safe enough from any dread secrets I may have."

The dark elf made a face, "Are you jesting?"

"Huh?"

Glancing about, Leita leaned close, her voice low, "Cassie, ever since you appeared in House Varro, sitting at Lady Aventine's side, there are those in other Houses, unfriendly Houses, who have bent their will to discerning who and what you are. My aunt says there have been myriad attempts to scry upon you and all manner of incantations have been directed against your person. Yet all have failed, and, from what our spies tell us, in some cases catastrophically so."

Cassie goggled, "What?"

The dark elf nodded, "Oh yes, the magical defences of House Varro are not insignificant, nor are they gentle, so doubtless they have played their part. But from all accounts, even outwith that, you are entirely shrouded from magical sight, and more than one enemy sorceress has suffered a fatal mishap by attempting to pierce whatever enchantment it is that wards you."

Almost unconsciously, Cassie's fingers drifted to the old black shawl she habitually wore around her shoulders these days. The wool was worn and well used, but it was not threadbare yet, for it had been exceedingly well crafted. Instead, it was soft and warm, almost smugly so.

Doubtless the dark elf noted the gesture, but if she had any thoughts on the matter, she wisely kept them to herself.

Instead, her fingers lightly drummed a little tune upon the tabletop for a moment, before she changed the subject, "Um, Cassie, is that normal?"

"Huh?"

Leita's eyes flicked upwards, and Cassie felt her gaze following.

On the smoke-stained rafters above them a small throng of ravens, cats, rats, and even an owl or two had mustered, and bright little eyes of gold and red peered down at her, watching her every move with avid intent.

The familiars had quietly gathered, but they were not still. Here a cat lazily licked its paws, while two rats jostled for space on the beam right next to it. A proud raven showed off its glossy black feathers as it preened. Only the imps were missing, and of them there was no sign whatsoever.

"Uhhh, what's going on?"

The dark elf shrugged, "Why are you asking me?"

Eyes wide, the girl swallowed, "D-do you think they're after a bit of the pie?"

Leita stared at her.

Cassie floundered, "I mean, there's scraps enough to share..."

...

The realm of Otherworld was not a place for stray mortals to go carelessly a-wandering. Its forests and fens were vast, and beyond trackless, while the gloaming beneath the trees was dark enough to confound the keenest senses and haunted by all manner of fel beast.

Yet, for those lucky enough to be warded by some potent sorcery, or perhaps fortunate enough to have found the favour of some benevolent entity, then, perhaps they might find themselves set upon a path true enough to lead them in safety from here to there without them becoming hopelessly lost, or haplessly devoured.

For this place was neither empty, nor uninhabited, and it was not to be tread lightly, or without cost...

The feast was drawing to a close. The bonfire had not burned low, nor had food and drink ceased to flow, but many were headed towards bedroll and slumber for all that. And not all were going alone, as Ashunara saw that more than a few of her Orcs were being followed by a train of scantily clad nymphs, all scampering and giggling in their wake.

For their part the warriors did not seem to mind.

With something of a weary groan, the Captain sighed, "This is definitely going to come back and bite us on the arse some day."

Spying her reaction, the Huntsman - that most ancient and feral of entities, leaned back upon his throne of bone and hide, lips curled in a thoroughly toothsome grin, as he gestured with his drinking horn, "Worry not, lass, for what harm can come of it? Besides, as I see things, you and they have grim and bloody days of battle ahead. And not all will see it through to the end, I think. So, for my part, I'd not be the one to grudge them a small measure of earthly pleasure in the meantime," he turned to look at her, his voice a low rumble, "let them have their night, Captain. As I say, no harm will come of it."

She regarded the creature. His eyes were as red as blood, and his dark visage entirely unreadable, but she fancied she could hear something in those words, "You care, Lord Herne?"

Lifting his chin, he turned his face away, looking towards the bonfire, "It surprises you?"

Peering down into the crimson wine in her own goblet, she paused for a moment to collect her thoughts before replying, "Perhaps a little, though less now than I would have once thought."

The Horned Man chuckled, and the trees surrounding the camp stirred as he did, "I am as cruel as Winter, Captain, but I take no perverse joy in it. It is simply my nature is all. But I confess, I have always had something of a fondness for courage, and your warriors are braver than most."

Ashunara swallowed, her voice hoarse as she replied, "They're the best."

The creature nodded, "Indeed so," he turned his stare fully upon her and she could feel the hot weight of those burning crimson eyes as he spoke, "you could do worse than prove yourself worthy of that courage, I think."

For once, as she looked around at her Company - at her friends, her bravado almost failed her, and there may, just, have been the slightest of quivers in her voice, but her gaze remained unblinking when she met his eyes again, "I shall try."

The entity scrutinized her for a moment longer before it growled, "See that you do."

She stared up at this hoary mountain of flesh and horn, an entity so old, so ancient, that it existed before her people's first dream. It was a thing that prowled in the night, a creature of nightmare. But Ashunara was a dark elf, and not the least proud of her kind, and she had met nightmares before. Her eyes flashed with an angry light as the hot reply formed on her lips...

"Captain?"

Emerging from the umbral shadows, Nyx slid closer, moving with all the sleekit grace of a cat skulking into the henhouse, her hand rested lightly upon the pommel of her sword and her lip was curled in that sly smile that she so often had as she eyed the two, "Apologies, ma'am, but I was wondering about the displacement of our sentries..."

The Captain blinked, "Sentries?"

To her side, the Huntsman turned his glare upon the tiny scrap of Elf-flesh that had interrupted him so, "You do not trust the safety of my hospitality, little sellsword?"

Nyx's reply was typically acerbic, "Fuck no." She glared up at the hulking creature, "And it's Leftenant to you, Longshanks."

The creature's burst of laughter was loud enough to set the wolves, if such was what they were, howling in the distance, and it grinned, "Ohh, I like this one, Captain," it's hot burning gaze fixed hungrily on the woman, "can I keep her?"

Ashunara fetched her old friend a wry smile before snorting disdainfully, "Be careful what you wish for, Monster. You may be a vexatious poltroon, but I don't despise you enough to lumber you with this old reprobate."

Nyx made a show of pouting, but neither her hand nor her eyes wavered, "Hey, I resemble that remark."

The thing regarded them both, its gaze strangely intent, as if measuring something that only it could see, "It might be, good Captain, that one day I will make the offer again, we shall have to see. But for this night at least, I shall withdraw and leave you to your rest."

It gave them both a bow, strangely graceful for a creature of its size, "Set what sentries you will, she-elf, I shall take no offence. But know you and yours are safe here regardless."

With that, it turned and stalked off towards the trees, pulling its hunting spear from the ground as it did so.

Ashunara watched it go, until it was lost in the shadows under the trees. Then Nyx turned to her, "Were you really about to tell the Lord of the Wild Hunt to go fuck himself?"

The Captain made a vaguely noncommittal and dismissive gesture, "As if I would."

Nyx nodded, "Yea, course not, I didn't think so. I mean, nobody, not even you, could possibly be that demented, surely."

With a wearisome sigh, Ashunara turned to her, "And why is it you were following me about the camp, Leftenant?"

Nyx sniffed as she pulled a flask from her pocket, "Probably because I knew it was only a matter of time before you told that lanky prick to go fuck himself."

Taking a swig, she passed it over, "Not awful."

Ashunara sniffed at it, "Smells familiar, what is it?"

The phlegmatic swordswoman shrugged, "Not a clue. I filled it from the ewers those half-naked pixies were carrying about. Funny thing is; I think it's got a kick like a mule, but Lashelle drank the same stuff and thinks its sweet as the honey-mead she's so fond of," she sniffed, "so it's probably enchanted as fuck."

"Tastes good?"

The woman nodded happily, "It gets the job done."

Ashunara huffed, "Fuck it, it's been that kind of day."

Lifting the flask to her lips, she tilted her head back and drained about half of it, before shoving the thing back into Nyx's hands and blowing out a breath with an appreciative sound, "Not bad at all," she considered, "tastes like yon Dwarvish vodka we once purloined some years back."

There was a snort of laughter, "I remember! We filched it from that cheating bastard of a trader in the whore's quarter. Man was he pissed. I think the wee fucker must have chased us for a mile at least."

"Made it taste all the better though, didn't it?"

"It did that," she eyed the flask, "so, enchanted?"

"Most definitely. I'd be wary of that shit."

Nyx shrugged, "I'll give it to Elsadore," she grinned, "what's the worst that could happen?"

"Oh, fuck me..."

"She'll probably try after drinking this stuff."

Rolling her eyes, Ashunara waved the woman off, "Oh, away with you. Go see to the sentries."

"Any thought as to their disposition?"

The Captain pursed her lips for a moment as she weighed her thoughts, "You know best, but for my part I would see them set in pairs, no-one to wander alone in this place; and make sure a pair are watching over the latrines. I don't want anyone snatched in the dark for want of needing a shit."

"Aye, nothing worse than fumbling for your sword with your damned knickers tangled round your ankles."

"Well, you would know."

"Hey! That was a long time ago."

...

In time the camp drew still. The bonfire burned a little lower, but it still gave off warmth enough for comfort, and light enough to ease any troubled mind.

The sounds of revelry had quietened and even the wanton cries of those engaged in more carnal pursuits had finally faded, and now the only sounds were the murmurs and muted snores from filled bedrolls. Even Tallis and Lilly, young lovers that they were, had finally ceased their exuberant cries and lascivious whimpering as sleep eventually claimed them.

Over there lay Gorsini and the foreign skald, Magda Bor, wrapped together in the warmth of a shared bedroll. And even stalwart Nyx, after a final tour of guard positions of course, had slunk into the waiting arms of her swordsman, and now lay asleep, her long silver hair unbound, a contented smile replacing the suspicious scowl that was more her norm.

Only the sentries continued their lonely prowling, moving silently about the perimeter, watchful and wary.

Adair sat under the trees, her spear embedded by its point into the earth by her side as she watched the camp. In her hands was a flagon of the brew that had flowed so freely, but no sleep came to her. It almost never did... almost.

She knew he was there, watching from the darkness. His approach had been utterly soundless, and his passing stirred neither leaf, nor blade of grass. But then he was the Lord of the Hunt, and for him to do any less would have been ridiculous.

But she knew he was there, nonetheless. Such power as his left its mark, like ripples in a pond perhaps, and her senses were all too keen to such things.

There was a movement as he came to stand by her side. And now she could smell him. His scent was of leather and bone, an earthy musk of iron and horn that was not entirely unpleasant, and his voice rumbled, "You knew I was there."

She sipped from her cup, "I'm not blind."

Nodding absently, he watched her for a moment, "Nor are you asleep."

There was a soft chuckle before she looked up at him, "I doubt even so fine and potent a brew as yours could render me insensible, Huntsman."

"That was not my intent."

He lifted his head to look out over the camp, his voice for once so strangely gentle for one with so bloody and savage a reputation, "I thought, perchance, to give them at least one last night of peace, for they have such dark deeds ahead of them."

Following is gaze, Adair sighed, "Sentiment?"

The creature's answering growl of indignation could be felt through the earth, "They are my guests, so I owed them a fair measure of hospitality, nothing more."

The lie was obvious enough to cause her to grin, and she raised her cup in salute, "As you say."

He sniffed, "You mock me?"

Shaking her head, she sipped from her cup again, "Not for this." Gesturing to the ground beside her, "will you sit?"

There was a snort, "I am welcome?"

Hefting the ewer at her side, she shook it, causing the contents to slosh audibly, "I have drink left, and I'd not be averse to sharing a cup or two."

Looking about, the creature considered for a moment, before slumping down by her side. He held out his drinking horn to be filled, "To be served by your own hand," he chuckled, "'tis a rare honour."

"Don't spoil it."

He grunted, "Fair enough."

They sat under the moonlight in silence for a while, each perhaps prowling deep in their own thoughts, before something of a soft murmur garnered their attention. Glancing towards where Ellén had settled near the bonfire, they saw that in her sleep she had thrown back the blankets of her bedroll. The orange firelight reflected from her skin, turning her hair to gold, while the sounds she made indicated her dreams were not entirely unpleasant.

The Huntsman made a quiet sound of appreciation and gestured with his drinking horn, "A fine specimen."

He shifted, settling his bulk back against the tree, long legs stretched out before him as he cast his eyes up at the bright stars above, musing to himself as he did, "What, I wonder, is the stuff of a Dragon's dreaming? Gold maybe?"

Adair spared him a glance as she shook her head, "No great mystery there. She dreams of a scullery maid."

His eyes flicked to her, "Truly?"

"Aye."

Reaching to refresh their cups, he chuckled again as he saw her expression, "The thought makes you smile?"

"As you say."

Taking a draught from his horn, he gestured, "And what fills thine own dreams and reflections, Adair? They cannot all be of blood and battle, surely. Your smile tells me that much at least."

With a sigh, she looked to her cup for a moment before tilting her eyes back up at him, "In truth, I was wondering when you would be done with pleasant pantomime, and get to telling me why you've come to me and what it is you really wanted," she chuckled, "not that the wine, nor even the company, isn't entirely disagreeable."

He laughed again, "You're funny; I did not think you would be," his smile faded, "in truth I thought there would be more of your mother about you."

"What is it you want, Huntsman?"

His eyes gleamed in the dark as he turned to her, "You, obviously."

She nodded slowly, "Obviously..."

Sitting up, he took another draught, "Have you considered the strange symmetry of this conflict that your mother has thrust you into? How it seems to come down to stroke and measured counterstroke?"

He scoffed, "This is not how one does battle! When there is a foe set before you, you should rip its throat out, not play games with it." Shaking his head, he sighed, "I suppose this is why the Gods so seldom make war, and why they are so very bad at it."

Adair's grin was as wolfish as her reply, "I'd not speak such words aloud to my mother. She's the kind that might take offence."

The Huntsman snorted, "True enough, but consider; when your foe summoned his dragons, your mother called her own. And when he then slew her dragon, she, in turn, slaughtered his. When you broke open the door to the land of the dead and rescued that mortal child? Now, that was a mighty feat indeed, but it also allowed your foe to conjure demons from that same realm. And when the door finally slammed shut behind you, all the world felt it in their very bones.

And now? Now you have used your own blood to break apart the ancient curse binding the dragons to eternal servitude."

He nodded slowly, "Again, a great and mighty deed, but again, there are consequences. Your enemy now uses his own blood to his own purpose."

"What purpose?"

Herne's growl was much like the rumble of distant thunder, "He forges a weapon. And when it is ready he will aim the barb at your mother's heart and let fly."

Adair sipped from her cup, and then shrugged, "Well, that doesn't sound good."

The thing stared at her, its mouth falling open in amazement, "Doesn't sound...? Adair, I warn you of an oncoming cataclysm and all you can say is that 'It doesn't sound good?'"

He looked about, "Perhaps the wine has affected you more than you think."

With a sniff, Adair lowered her cup, "Come, you did not offer me this knowledge freely, or out of the generosity of your heart. It is clearly bait, a lure for your trap, so," she gestured, "get on with it."

Such response gave him pause, and he found himself licking his lips in momentary uncertainty, "I... I could perhaps intervene. Mayhap I could interfere in the forging of this weapon, or perhaps with the Fomorians who aid in its crafting."

"And in exchange?"

"You would be mine."

She reached for her spear.

"Not forever! And not until this business was done! But," he hesitated, "I want..."

She paused, voice hardening, eyes beginning to smolder, "What? What is it you want?"

He looked back towards the bonfire, "I want a son..."

The spearpoint emerged from the earth with a sound of such vorpal keenness that it was as though the heavens drew their breath in dread anticipation of her bloody response. Its blade gleamed in the moonlight with the same cold fury as her eyes, "So, you would keep me here, collared and cuffed to your bed no doubt, to be bred like some prized heifer? Is this the sum of your offer?"

He raised a hand to ward off the accusation, "No! No collar, no cuffs. I am no slaver."

"Your hounds might disagree."

His brow furrowed and his own eyes began to blaze in answering fury as he pounded his great chest with a gnarled fist, "They came to me! They challenged me to a hunt, and they lost! But I did not seek them out. Oh no, they came of their own free will, driven by basest pride and a lustful hunger for power. They sought to pit their skills against mine, and when they failed, they paid the price. They knew the terms and naught was hid. They have none to blame but themselves!"

He subsided, "But even then, I am not so cruel as to keep them past their prime. When they can no longer run, I set them free."

"A small mercy," she scoffed.

"But a mercy nonetheless."

She glared at him, "Why me? There are creatures of the Fae aplenty who would be glad of your attentions, and more than willing to sire you a son."

He shook his head, "None with your prowess or pedigree"

The breath she drew was a furious one, "MY PEDIGR-"

"It was a compliment, damn you! Besides, you are mortal now. And so, our son would be mortal. Long-lived and mighty to be sure, but mortal, and I would have him so."

"Why?"

"Because only mortals really live, Adair. Your mother? The Danu? They are creatures of spirit, not flesh. They exist. And I would have so much more for him."

"Are you not immortal?"

He chuckled, "I am eternal, not immortal. I can die. But so long as The Hunt exists another Huntsman will eventually rise," he shrugged, "it just won't be me."

She stared at him for the longest time, her dark gaze locked on his, and he could feel her reading who knew what in his eyes. Then, she blinked, "I accept."

"What?"

"I said I accept, but I have terms of my own."

His savage heart began to pound fiercely as he forced down the urge to cry out and howl to the moon in wild exultation. Then there came that cold feeling, the one running down his spine, as he remembered who, and what, he was bargaining with.

He looked to her, "What terms?"

"Simple, I will do as you ask, but only until I bear you a child. I make no promises of a son..."

"But..."

"I'm not done. I shall come and go as I please, and if you try to stop me, I will kill you where you stand."

He nodded, "Fair. It was never my intent to hold you hostage," his lips curled back in something of a smile, "though I had hoped you would choose to stay a while," he gestured, "my domain is vast, and it's not all dreary forest. It would give me pleasure to show it to you."

"We'll see."

Her smile was one of such beguiling slyness that he could actually feel his hackles rising in response, as he began to wonder who was trapping who. His eyes narrowed ominously as the suspicion pricked his mind, "What else?"

"You will go to my mother's aid when she has need of you."

This time, he flustered, "Unbidden and unasked? Are you mad? She might take it as insult, as if I was accusing her of weakness." He shuddered and shook his head in horror at the thought, "if she were to take umbrage..."

Adair smiled sweetly, "Then she would be vexed."

He barked, "She'd use my head for a fucking chamberpot! No. There's risk, and then there's reckless insanity..."

He froze as the ice-cold tip of a spear touched his breast, and he found himself staring into eyes as black as midnight, as dark and fathomless as those of the creature that spawned her, and when she spoke, her voice did not sound best pleased, "Are you saying I'm not worth it?"

Glancing down at this most fatal barb, lethal to even one of his might, one hoary brow lifted as the delicious threat made his heart beat all the faster. His lips parted in a hungry smile of his own, "I see your point. Your terms are acceptable."

She sniffed, "Good."

...

The battle was done. The outer walls had finally fallen, and the enemy horde poured through the breaches like an incoming tide, marching over the bodies in unstoppable ranks, grinding them to gruesome mush under calloused heel and hobnailed boot. They were a dark sea, surging over the abandoned bastions and battlements that the garrison had fought so hard and so doggedly to hold.

The rearguard had finally been smashed, but they had not died easy, nor had they died alone, and the gruesome carpet of corpses that surrounded the place where they had made their stand gave eloquent testimony of their unyielding defiance.

And they had not died in vain. Their obstinacy had held the enemy long enough for defenders to withdraw to the safety of the inner walls, however temporary such sanctuary might be. And now they watched as the enemy ranks formed before them once again.

Finally denied the shield of river and moat, their foes could at last close the noose, and surround them completely, thoroughly investing the siege once and for all. Firbolg battalions, under the canny direction of gnomish sappers began the digging of trenches and the emplacement of engine and catapult, while others worked feverishly to construct ladders and great pavesses of wood and iron. Orgres, armoured and mighty, formed into ranks, their wicked pikes held at the ready as they prepared for the charge, and the stench of undead filled the air.

Careful to stay just out of bow range, the vast host made their preparations in full view of the defenders, chanting their war songs as they worked.

Only the Drow were silent. They stood in their files, clad in black mail, armed with bow and spear. Slender and quick as knives they were, and just as deadly.

Vulgara Bal, elderly Matriarch of the besieged city, stood beneath her personal standard as she surveyed the enemy legions moving into position, and if their numbers or their works caused her to fear, she did not show it.

A bodyguard was heard to mutter, "There's a lot of the bastards."

Spitting over the walls, she snarled a reply, "All the more for us to kill."

The Orcs around her grinned. For they were warriors born, and the only thing they feared was a coward's death.

...

Stalking back into the fortress, Vulgara made her way to where the healers had set up shop. The hospice was scrubbed clean but stank of blood nonetheless, as it was filled with the wounded and dying. Chirurgeons moved about them, easing their hurts as best they could. Healers murmured their incantations, while sisters administered potions and tinctures.

Even lying wounded on their cots, the soldiers stirred as she passed. Some trying to rise, only for the Matriarch to wave them back into their beds or the waiting arms of the healers.

Striding towards the chamber at the furthest end of the ward, she paused, turning to gaze back at those who had given blood and limb for the defence of her city.

Some would say that the hearts of the Dark Elves burned cold and wicked, but they might have thought differently when they saw the look of pride in the woman's eyes. She wasted no time with pretty words; they knew who they were and did not need to hear such dross. Instead, she drew herself up and slammed fist to breastplate in a warrior's salute.

Their answer was a roar.

Moving into the chamber, she deliberately avoided looking at the broken body lying sprawled and leaking on the cot. The chamber was well aired, but to her it stank of blood and liniment. Instead, she cast her gaze about those within, before moving directly to the senior Medicus, "Will she live?"

The healer didn't even look up, instead snarling, "Do I look like I have time to answer stupid questions?"

Possessing her soul in patience, the Matriarch resisted the urge to beat the annoying curmudgeon senseless. Instead, she grit her teeth and spoke with as much calm as she was able, "I need her."

There was an aggravated sigh, and the doctor lifted her head from her work. Blood stained her apron, spattering her arms to the elbow, and she looked exhausted. But the bright glint of determination in her eyes was undiminished, for she had fought a battle against an unbeatable foe all her life, and she'd not give in until the bastard came for her in person, "She's been cut open and punctured in a dozen places. There's a bolt through her femur, another has pierced her lung, and I have no idea how many broken bones she has, and I think it's only what's left of her armour that's keeping her guts on the inside of her. By rights she should be long dead."

The Matriarch snorted, "That bitch is too stubborn to die so easily."

"Maybe so, but she's trying damned hard to prove you wrong."

There were a few other battered looking warriors sprawled about the chamber, all being treated by sisters, "How many survived?"

A soldier looked up, eyes glazed in weary, "A handful only," she gestured to the fallen Warmaiden, "an orc carried her from the fray after she had fallen. The last of her bodyguard commanded us to fall back and shield her as we did," a tear trickled down her face. "We were all wounded by then and not much use for anything else. Somehow, we managed to stagger to the archers holding our rear. There were magi among them and with their help we were able to withdraw. The rest..."

The soldier looked up, eyes filled with pain and hurt, "I-I'm sorry. I should have stayed..."

The Matriarch stilled the woman by resting a hand upon her shoulder. The touch was gentle, but her words were as iron, "No. You did your part and more, I'll not hear any say otherwise. Now rest and recover; let the leeches have their way, for I have direst need of soldiers as brave as you. When you are well again, I would have you standing at my side."

The warrior subsided, slumping back onto her bed with a stifled moan of relief as the words washed at least a little of the black shame she felt at having lived when so many others had died where they stood. Even so, she knew in her heart, it would be a long time before the guilt ceased to torment her, if ever.

Letting her rest, the Matriarch looked about curiously, "So, where is this mad orc who pulled my general from the fire?"

Her question was met by blank looks until a sister spoke up, "He did not stay, Mistress. He but handed her over to the care of the stretcher-bearers and snarled at us when we tried to tend a wound on his arm. He took an axe from one of the door wardens and went back out."

The Matriarch grunted, "Then to which House does he belong? What heraldry did he bear upon his gear?"

The sister licked her lips nervously as she recalled the wild look the creature had given her, "I do not know, my Matriarch, and," she swallowed, "in truth I did not think it prudent to enquire at the time."

Nodding her thanks to the nurse, she turned to her Captain, "If you can find him, I'd have his clan rewarded with good steel, for he has done me a significant service this day."

The Captain curled her lip and snorted, "You know orcs, Milady. If he doesn't care to be found, then he won't be, but I'll ask around," she made a wry sound, "assuming I'm not busy with other things, like say, the huge army currently beating at our doors."

"Meh..."

They might have continued with their familiar bickering had not the Medicus given them a glower, "If you two are quite finished with your puerile distractions, I have much work to do. So, either leave me to it, or dig in and lend a hand."

The Matriarch met her glare for a fulminating heartbeat, then with a sigh she began stripping her armour, "Very well, you old termagant, you've thrown down your gauntlet. Let's see if I am worthy of lifting this gauge."

Making an exasperated sound, the Medicus shooed her away, "Not in here, you don't. I have no time for petty gestures, and you have neither the skill nor the patience for what must be done in here. Go out into the general ward and make yourself useful there if you must. If nothing else, a sister can find you mop and bucket."

The Captain's face blackened into a scowl, and her blade was half-drawn, when the Matriarch halted the motion by grabbing her wrist, "Let's not be hasty, lass. It will take the enemy a full day at least to move into position and prepare for an assault. Go see to the disposition of our defence in the meantime. Ensure those on the walls are rested and fed, and that they have a good supply of arrows and other munitions."

She sniffed as she unbuckled her breastplate, "I can spare the Medicus the afternoon I think in the meantime, and I've not entirely forgotten how to stitch a wound. Though in truth, I was usually more concerned with the inflicting rather than the mending of such things."

Her last glower at the healer was wasted, for the woman had already turned back to her charges. With a muttering growl of irritation, the Captain slammed an angry salute before spinning on her heel and marching off, pausing only to set two of the royal bodyguard to keep watch by the door in her absence.

Watching the angry woman go, the Matriarch shook her head. Rolling up the sleeves of her tunica, she snapped her fingers at a passing sister, "You there! Where can I find me a bucket and a mop?"

...

The day passed slowly. Wounded were carried in to be tended, while occasionally wrapped bodies were taken out for burning. And all the time the drums of the enemy continued to pound.

Despite her intentions, the Matriarch found herself not doing much actual labour, for every time she picked up a cloth to clean, or a mop to sop up spilled blood, some sister or other would have it off her a moment later. It was clearly deliberate, and berating a healer just did not sit well with her. So instead, she found herself moving between the cots, passing a few words of comfort with the wounded, mopping brows, or fetching them water from a jug. Now and again, she held needle and thread, or a hot iron for one of the sisters, watching as they sowed and seared with determined speed.

She worked steadily, making her rounds. At one time she would have thought such drudgery far beneath one of her station. But now, after so many weeks of calamity and disaster, it was almost restful to snatch an hour or two of comparative peace, even in such dread circumstances as these. The soldiers she tended were grateful for what little she could do. In fact, it was often them who whispered encouragement to her, many boasting of the tales they would tell their children, or of how, in years to come, they would be able to bare their scars in pride to their kin and brag of how the Matriarch of the city herself had tended their wounds.

One soldier laughed when his friend suggested that the wicked furrow gouged in his face might finally allow him to attract a serving wench to his lap, "For all lasses like a brave scar do they not?"

A sister raised a brow when asked to comment but mercifully kept her skepticism to herself.

Finally, the Medicus emerged from the chamber where she had been ensconced. She was pale and near to staggering, having spent so much of her power as she exercised her arts. Supported by a sister she moved to a bench and wearily sat.

Moving closer, the Matriarch bit her lip, plagued by the need to know, but not wishing to harrow the obviously exhausted woman further with her questions.

Mercifully, the woman looked up, first nodding her thanks to a sister who pressed a draught of some kind into her hand. She drank deep before lowering her cup with a weary sigh, "I need to sleep..."

She blinked, as if clearing her mind, and looked to the Matriarch, "Your friend will live, I think, but her hurts are many and they will be a long-time healing. Even then, I doubt she will fight again."

The Matriarch snorted, "Clearly, you don't know the woman."

With a sad smile, the Medicus shook her head, "A strong will can do many things, but it cannot regrow an arm."

"You took her arm?!"

"No, I saved it, or most of it, but it was cut to the bone and all but severed. With the proper application of potion and spell the muscles will regrow in time, but, Matriarch, the woman is nigh on a thousand years old. And you know our healing magics grow less efficacious as the subject ages. I can mend the hurt, but it is unlikely she will regain her full strength."

She lowered her head with a sorrowful sigh, "I will do what I can for her, but do not come to me expecting miracles."

For a moment, the Matriarch stared down at the spent woman. The urge to strike at her for having only mortal limits warring with the desire to embrace her for having saved her friend despite them.

Not for the first time that day her voice was hoarse, "You have done all that your good office and a thankful Matriarch can demand, and much more besides. I would reward you if I could, but I doubt I have anything to give you that is worthy of such service."

The woman looked up with a tattered grin, "I could do with a new hospice when this mess is done, and maybe a few more sisters..."

"Done and done! If we live through to the end, I shall build you a healing hall to the envy of all others, and I shall have a garrison company train there. For this siege reveals we have need of stretcher-bearers with skill at mending wounds in the field, and not just a strong back."

The Medicus groaned, "Oh, just what I need - more soldiers."

"You'll get used to it."

Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a harried-looking Leftenant. The woman looked about a moment before hurrying towards them and making her salute, "Matriarch! The Captain calls! There's a..."

Vulgara smiled at her, "Easy there, lass, easy. Take a breath; you'll live longer."

The woman flushed but took a grip on her emotions and visibly composed herself, "Apologies, Milady. But the doorwardens report some great disturbance in the Necropolis. They say they can hear a mighty clamour coming from deep below, and the very gates have begun to shake. The Captain of your guard has gone to see what is amiss but begs leave to reinforce the company tasked with holding the place."

Cursing, the Matriarch would have spat, but a hard look from the Medicus halted her mid-gesture and she swallowed, "Damn it all to the outer Hells! Now the bastards seek to dig their way in!"

She looked to the Leftenant, "What reserves do we have left?"

The soldier shook her head, "None at present. All is still chaos from the retreat from the outer walls. Units are reforming and at present all stand to post. In a day we shall know what's what, and our logistics will be restored."

"We might not have a day."

Frowning, the Leftenant grimaced, "Your bodyguard stands ready, as do the Wolves. Other than that, a couple of Free Companies might be mustered..."

The Matriarch closed her eyes for a moment as she considered, "My bodyguard? No, they are the only heavily armoured company that remains untouched. We shall hold them back as reserves if things go completely awry. The wolves are too big a hammer for this task, they will be needed if the enemy manage to gain a foothold upon our walls."

Decision made, her eyes flicked open, "Muster what free companies you can. Put that maniac who held the Broch of Kouni in command..."

"Kasa Dur?"

"Aye! That's the one. She's as stubborn and thrawin' a bitch as ever I've heard. She'd piss on a devil before giving it the time of day. Nobody's pushing her aside without a hard fight. Tell her to hold the gate to the Necropolis at all costs. Have a Battlemage move to support her."

"Which one?"

"I don't care! Pick one! If it's undead digging their way out mayhap someone good with fire?"

Slamming fist to chest, the woman gave a curt bow and hastily retired.

In her wake, the Matriarch shook her head with an angry mutter, "Shite."

Summoning the two guards from the doorway, she gestured curtly, "Fetch me my armour. Time to get back to it."

...

House Varro was one of the great Houses of the Dark Elven nobility, and its manse reflected its vast wealth and power in full. It was a mighty structure, as much citadel as mansion, with outer walls that any fortress would envy, and a household guard that could be matched against any free company or regiment.

The grounds composed of gardens and mazes of spectacular beauty, grown and kept by ancient magics. There were ponds and follies, menageries and terraces, as well as many hidden nooks where one might come across ancient vine-covered statuary or a flower bed set out to some arcane pattern.

Within the manse itself, all was centred around a grand hall of great magnificence, with many wings leading off. Some lead to the kitchens, always busy, while others led to servant's quarters, bathhouses, gymnasiums, dining rooms, armouries and stores, as well as the staircases. Some of these stairwells led upwards to where the grand library might be, or to the various vestibules and galleries, or even to the chambers of the great Ladies and Lords who made this place their home.

But other staircases led downward, into areas somewhat more gloomy and shadow filled. Places and chambers where perhaps the witchfire lanterns burned less bright, and the servants were more hushed as they went about their work.

Cassie had found herself waking from a troubled sleep. One filled with strange dreams and disquieting visions. At first, she had put it down to the surfeit of wine she and Leita had consumed throughout their evening, but though the elven vintages were as magical and intoxicating as to be found in any fairy tale of her youth, her mind had remained entirely her own, until even Leita had taken to making whimsical comment upon her peculiar sobriety.

The strange behaviour of all those familiars was also unnerving to her. Leita had explained how such creatures were, in fact, conjured spirits, bound to their masters by some arcane pact or other chicanery. But the ones that had gathered above her that evening showed not the slightest inclination towards obeying their summoners and instead only had eyes for her.

It was peculiar, and distinctly queer. Yet, somehow... Somehow it felt - expected.

She rose, reaching for a glass of water.

From the makeshift bower set up on the divan that Leita had dragged closer to the door the dark elf instantly stirred at her movement.

Cassie mumbled an embarrassed apology, "Sorry, I just had a dream, 'tis nothing, you should go back to sleep."

With a quiet sound, the bodyguard slumped back into slumber.

The water was refreshing and cool, but her mind remained troubled, and she fretted, "Mayhap 'tis a little fresh air I need."

Looking to the giant windows that led out into the garden, she shook her head, glancing at her sleeping companion, "Don't want to disturb her with a chill draft creeping down her neck."

Wrapping her shawl about her, she tiptoed to the door, and quiet as a mouse, went out into the passageway beyond.

She wandered a while. Idly contemplating the dream that had disturbed her so, occasionally nodding to the footmen keeping watch, or the night servants as they moved about the house. None paid her much mind, though a dark elf in black paused to look after her as she passed the woman by.

The library was familiar to her, for her lessons took her there often. The Matriarch's study was distinctly out of bounds, and she frowned at the very thought of going into the small dining room where she was obliged to endure the mindless tedium of etiquette lessons, "As if it matters which bloody spoon you use to eat your soup."

Instead, she found herself wandering from one hall to another, down stairwells and along silent galleries where she stared up in wonder at ancient portraits. She sniffed as one of the nearby witchlamps flickered, but it blazed high again as she glanced at it, "Must be a draft down here."

Another stairwell, narrower this time, led yet further down, ending in a doorway of carved ebony. The wood was old, and black, smoothed by centuries, and yet with a deep lustre that hinted at hidden depths. The stone frame was deeply engraved with peculiar markings, but they had no ominous feel to them, nor did they react when she pushed the door open.

The chamber beyond was a snug little room, with bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling. More books were piled on the floor while yet more tomes lay open on a desk dominated by diagrams and instruments of intricate design and doubtless incomprehensible purpose.

Other benches were set against the walls, and each was covered with quietly bubbling alembics, softly glowing crystals, or some other eclectic peculiarity, doubtless serving a function that Cassie could not even begin to discern.

The woman sitting behind the giant mahogany writing desk that dominating the centre of this curious chamber was poring over a manuscript, tracing its complex passages and diagrams with the long fingers of one hand while she idly stroked the small black cat perched at her side with the other.

The cat, for its part, turned its head towards Cassie as she opened the door, but other than the tiniest flick of its tail, it seemed content to watch what transpired with the unblinking eyes and typical aloof disinterest of its kind.

The woman glanced at the cat, and then up at Cassie.

Her dark eyes widened in clear surprise at what she saw, and she pushed herself abruptly back in her chair, one hand moving swiftly as she made a warding gesture.

Cassie winced and scrunched up her face, expecting to be instantly turned into a newt, or some other unfortunate thing.

A great deal of nothing happened.

After a moment, the girl cautiously opened her eyes a sliver and squeaked, "I'm sorry..."

The woman stared at her, expression as unreadable as the cat's.

She was dark elven to be sure, tall and gaunt, with the silver hair of her kind flowing down her back. Her ears were long and most distinctly pointed, and her arched brows and the sly curve of her lips gave her an entirely vulpine look.

Those eyes were dark, but Cassie had seen darker, much darker. Still, she thought, as boasts go, right now that left much to be desired.

The creature stirred, glancing at her cat as she did so, her voice sibilant and soft, "You are the one they call Cassie."

The girl curtsied as best as she remembered, "Yes, Miss."

Tilting her head in a gesture much like that of the cat at her side, she regarded the girl curiously, "How did you open the door?"

"It wasn't locked, Miss. I'm sorry, I couldn't sleep and so was wandering and not paying attention. I didn't mean to intrude. I... I can go back to my bed and leave you in peace."

The woman seemingly ignored her words, "And upstairs? Did you pass through the gallery perchance?"

"W-where all them pictures were? Yes, Miss."

"And the ghosts didn't kill you, obviously."

Cassie's eyes went wide, "What?"

"The ghosts? Did you see them?"

"Ghosts, Miss?" She shook her head with a shiver, "I'd have screamed and likely run for my life if I'd seen a ghost."

The woman nodded, "Most wise," her smile broadened slightly. "Useless, but wise."

Slightly less frightened than she was, Cassie found herself staring back at the woman. On closer inspection, she saw there were dark rings under her eyes, her skin looked pale, and her expression was drawn. She licked her lips nervously and took a small step forward, "Are... are you alright, Miss? Can I maybe get you something?"

The woman's eyes widened as she glanced at the doorframe through which Cassie had just stepped. After a moment, she lifted a hand and pointed one long finger towards the far side of the room, "You see the stand in yon nook over yonder? If you could fetch me the walking stick resting there, I would be most obliged."

Eager to please, Cassie smiled brightly and moved across the chamber, pausing as she looked at the gnarled piece of blackwood leaning against the wall, "Oh! My stepmother sometimes leans upon a shillelagh just like this, though not so fancy mind. It doesn't have all these pretty carvings and such."

Picking it up, she carried it to the woman and held it out, "Here, though if it's a hand you need, I'd be happy to lend you my arm."

The dark elf blinked, "I'd be careful making offers like that, child."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

The woman stared at the stick for the longest moment before taking it. Scratching her head, she leaned it against the desk, "Well, that did nothing."

"Pardon?"

Moving around her and across to the door, the dark elf peered closely at the frame, muttering to herself as she did.

Cassie watched her, "Is there anything amiss? I didn't break something did I?"

The woman chuckled and shook her head, her expression turning to one of curious amazement, "No. No, you didn't," she gestured carelessly, "you just... walked right through it."

"Uh, it's a door, Miss. Isn't that what they're sort of for? Are you sure you're alright?"

Still staring at the doorway the dark elf muttered, "You know, sometimes I wonder myself."

"Miss?"

Unbidden, the cat lifted itself and lazily dropped to the floor, sinuously stretching, before slinking across to the girl and rubbing against her ankles. Almost unconsciously, she bent to pet the happily purring thing.

The dark elf turned abruptly, peering at her intently before pointing towards her breast, "What is that?"

Cassie's hand went to the little crystal hanging from the silver chain around her neck. At her touch, it glowed and flickered happily, "Oh, um... it's nothing. Just a bauble."

The woman held out her hand, "May I see?"

Nervously, Cassie slipped the necklace off. The little crystal sparkled in her hand, and she hesitated before holding it out, "You won't hurt it, will you?"

The woman examined the thing without touching it, "Ah, 'tis a fire spirit. Worry not, girl, I'll not harm it. A nice piece of binding, even if I do say so myself," she frowned, "though I'm not familiar with this form of crystal."

Cassie blushed, "M-my stepmother made it. She said I was wrong to carelessly pull the thing from its own home, so she made it a place to stay and told me I had to look after it."

"She is the one who bound it?"

Blush deepening, Cassie heard herself admitting, "Well, no... She said it was my doing, so I had to fix it myself. But she held my hand and showed me how. Shalidar said it was just as well, as I might have set the house afire with my foolishness."

The woman started, abruptly stepping back, "Wait... This was here? SHE was here? In this House? This house that I'm standing in?"

"Well, yes Miss. She often visits, though it's usually Maggie she comes to see."

"Maggie?"

Cassie blinked, "She works in the kitchens, Miss. I've not gotten her into trouble, have I?"

The dark elf swore, a lot.