The Duchess [closed-ish]

[Aphraelle]

(( This is a closed RP in the sense that there is a story arc with a defined endpoint. Please PM me before you post, for plot and guidelines. The story concerns political intrigue in the Sin'dorei government, so non-Sin'dorei would need some sort of IC reason to be involved. The thread setting this up is here (http://wow-tng.org/showthread.php?t=15332). ))

With an effort of will, the guard stopped himself from shifting nervously as the heavily veiled woman walked past him carrying a heavy basket. He assumed it was food, as he'd seen her giving food to the beggars and other riffraff of Murder Row a few times now. Personally, he thought it was a wasted effort, but she appeared to be some sort of religious renunciate, so presumably she got whatever satisfaction out of such activities that such people did.

He'd had a close call with her a few days ago, though, his disguise beginning to slip just as he was passing her. He'd almost eliminated her then and there, but she'd floated on by without seeming to have registered anything out of the ordinary. Too busy being an angel of the Light, probably, he thought sourly.

As he'd expected, a crowd of beggars soon clustered around her, calling her Sister and scuffling a little to be next in line. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of them attempt to grab her basket, only to receive a punch to the stomach from another equally disreputable specimen that left him doubled over and gasping for breath.

Technically, of course, the guard was supposed to interfere, but most of the Silvermoon Guardians had long since adopted a policy of letting the denizens of Murder Row dispense their own justice among themselves, provided that said justice didn't involve death or permanent maiming, and tended to turn a blind eye to the frequent assaults like the one that had just occurred. Clearly, the Sister was in no danger, as she clicked her tongue in a tut-tut of reproof and continued to dole out food.

When she was done, she smiled and uttered a short blessing of the Light in a rather countrified accent - from the southwest of what was now the Ghostlands, he thought - before picking up her basket and returning the way she came, passing the guard with a dip of her head and another murmured blessing.

[Lysimachus]

Groundskeeper Jorge Mark VII, the most recent model of the Kirin Tor's anti-alcohol intervention bots to be sent to House dej Dynastus, sputtered and fumed in the trash bin of the Marquess' office.

"Yes, I think our cook has become a rather fine BARTENDER, as well! Perhaps he deserves a raise?!"

Lysimachus chuckled at his own joke, taking another sip of his vodka-drink. Rifling through some papers and pretending to be busy, he hummed quietly to himself for some time.

The curtains swept aside. The magister Nevitt Autumnburst stood in the doorway.

"My lord, there is a caller in the foyer. He says he means to make swift business with you." Nevitt's eyes traveled to the wastebin. Frowning, he looked back to his employer.

"Oh? What an unpleasant surprise. The heller's name?"

"He would not say. He wears a mask."

Lysimachus sneered. "I'm not going to waste my time with hellers who haven't even the decency to identify themselves! God! What do you people think I am, a mere count? Haw! Haw haw!" Nevitt blinked, his expression unchanging. The Marquess cleared his throat. "Perhaps it will be a trifling amusement for me. Send him in."

Nevitt nodded and left the room, returning moments later with a masked individual in a finely embroidered tunic. Lysimachus activated the recording function on his Scryer.

"My Lord dej Dynastus. I am grateful for your time."

"You BETTER be helling grateful. I'm a busy man." He motioned to a seat. The guest took it.

"I have come to request your presence at a private gathering tomorrow evening. It shall be attended by several of your fellow lords and ladies, and will be an engagement of exception."

Now Lysimachus was interested. "And the host?"

"The caretaker of a nearby Duchy, my Lord. I have been instructed not to discuss his identity any further than this." He smiled. "You shall be making his acquaintance on the morrow, should you accept this invitation."

Lysimachus knew well the strictures of Elven etiquette, and would not be demanding identities of generous hosts possibly more esteemed than he. A soiree would be pleasant, at any rate. "Very well. I will make arrangements. He motions to Nevitt. "Inform my advisor of the details, and give your Lord my thanks."

Nodding, the courier rose, escorted out by Helling Magister.

Lysimachus looked down at the hodge-podge of jewelcrafting designs, wedding documents, and other such miscellany scattered across his desk.

"God hell."

He finished his vodka in one swig.

[Aphraelle]

A few days later the guard, now on evening shift and posted to the entrance to Murder Row leading off from the Court of the Sun, was standing with a comrade and whispering with a tone of irritation.

"Of course he pays well, you fool, what do you think I'm in this for? Duke Sunta-"

He broke off abruptly as the Sister, veiled to the eyes as always, came from the direction of Farstrider Square, passing the two guards and entering Murder Row with the heavy basket she always carried. He gave the other guard a smirk as they looked over their shoulders to see her immediately surrounded by a crowd of beggars, whores down on their luck, and other riffraff. The mob was, as usual, composed of both elves and foreigners in about equal proportions. Like many of the other guards, he privately divided them into two classes, Stinkers and Slinkers.

The Stinkers were usually former Blood Knights who had either failed in their training or refused to accept the disappearance of the naaru-creature and the alteration in their circumstances, along with a failed mage or two and a few disreputable hunters with emaciated and frequently mangy pets. They tended, as a class, to be belligerent and not particularly bright. Slinkers were primarily warlocks and rogues, along with the occasional priest. Of the two classes, the Slinkers were much the more troublesome: whereas the Stinkers were more likely to mug or assault unwise passers-by and frequently got into loud brawls in or outside the tavern, often with a good deal of collateral property damage, the Slinkers were cagier and tended to go in for murder and the sale of various illegal drugs, which were frequently adulterated with various poisonous but cheap and readily available substances.

In a few minutes, satisfied that the woman couldn't possibly hear him, surrounded as she was by the clamouring mob who were themselves far too focused on her to listen to his conversation, he turned back to his companion and resumed his urgent whispering.

"I'm telling you, the Duke will reward his supporters after the... transition is complete. Handsomely reward them, I tell you." He turned his back to the crowd of lowlifes and their anonymous benefactress and pulled out a small pouch, hefting it with a significant look at the other guard, whose eyes widened at the heavy, liquid clink and clash of gold coins. Satisfied that he'd made his point, he nodded meaningfully as he put away the pouch and resumed his on-duty position. The other guard appeared thoughtful but said no more, as the food distribution appeared to be coming to an end and they might be overheard.

The veiled woman pronounced her usual blessing of the Light on the sundry denizens of the quarter that had not already left and walked toward the guards, dropping a somewhat graceless curtsey as she passed them and continuing back the way she had come in the direction of Farstrider Square.

"And there's more where that came from," the guard said in a low voice, "if you're sensible about things. Only makes sense to be on the winning side, don't it?"

Behind them, a short distance away, a scuffle broke out between a couple of Slinkers, rogues by the look of them. It was apparently a question of a debt that one owed the other, and the guards stepped in quickly as one of them put a hand to her knife, before blood could be shed. The combatants were separated and ordered to leave the area in different directions on pain of a thorough beating. Alone again, the guards turned back to their conversation.

Neither of them noticed the small ball of green fel energy that floated up toward them from the tavern, hugging the wall and keeping low to the ground, and ensconced itself in an alcove right behind them.

[Aphraelle]

A letter, written in a delicate Thalassian calligraphic script.


To: Athin, Baron D'Origaille, Silvermoon City - Personal and Confidential

My dear Baron,

I hope you will forgive the impertinence of my requiring your servant to deliver a message to you, as I have gone to your residence several times in the last week or two but you have been engaged in your duties elsewhere.

I am in urgent need of someone of unquestioning loyalty to the Sin'dorei people, who has the gift of healing and is firm enough of mind to rise above petty scruples concerning the interrogation of traitors. His Grace the Regent Lord speaks in quite glowing terms of your dedication to our people and of your excellent performance in the discharge of your duties, no matter how distasteful or personally upsetting they may be.

If you will of your kindness consider the matter at hand - your utmost discretion will naturally be necessary, and I dare not write too openly of details, lest this missive fall into the wrong hands - I would greatly esteem the honour of a private tête-à-tête at your earliest convenience.

With great respect,

A. Winterlight

[Lysimachus]

For the journey to the Duke's estate, Lysimachus chose his formerly new Caravan Mammoth (the cost of which he had taken from the House coffers, much to the dismay of both his sister and Helling Magister) to deliver the dej Dynastus retinue. So far as the Marquess was concerned, they were riding in comfort and style.

The servants -- being consistently repelled off of the enormous beast and gripping for dear life onto its sides --might have divulged otherwise, of course.

An ornately decorated traveling booth was situated at the top of the whole affair, within which Sabeinne dej Dynastus fanned herself opposite of her brother, despite the day's cool temperature. "Such a tedious venture." She watched the trees appear and disappear again into the distance. "After nearly two-hundred years, the scenery just grows a bit... droll."

The sojourn produced in her brother, too, an unbearable ennui. "Indeed. Perhaps the helling 'Ghostlands' situation was really for the better." He scowled at two passing farmers, their clothes dirtied from a hard day at work in the fields. "Ugh. How... common."

Sabeinne smirked. "So, tell me -- do we know anything more about this elusive gentleman who has come calling upon us?"

"I'm afraid not. The heller has been notably secretive." Lysimachus suddenly leapt up, leaning out of the booth towards the driver. "What the HELL. STOP that." He swatted the small elf on the back of the head, then retreated back to his seat. The Marchioness arched a finely-sculpted eyebrow at him. "He was eavesdropping. At any rate, I'd expect this trip to work out to our benefit, one way or the other. I'm sure we'll at least be able to wrest information concerning our rivals, if nothing else."

"Indeed. We have been lacking in our intrigues, of late."

"Your helling DAUGHTER'S fault, I'd say. If she weren't so pervasive in our affairs..."

"You're obsessed."

"Hardly! Just concerned."

"I'm sure."

"..." Lysimachus narrowed his eyes. "We're fighting, you misdirected WHORE."

"God, you're such a child." She looked away. "Dispassionate bastard."

They didn't speak for some amount of time, until the driver announced their impending arrival. Both leaned back, that they might observe their upcoming destination. The gasp was simultaneous. An enormous, walled plantation stood before them, the gate exceptional in its resplendency. All along the entryway stood perfectly formed rows of guards, their uniforms bedecked in golden baubles.

This outer threshold alone was a vision of magnificence.

Lysimachus flushed red, casting his attention to the seat in front of him. "Probably all stolen from the Houses that fell during the war."

Sabeinne snapped at him. "You're just jealous. Now collect yourself. Exercise pragmatism, for once."

A harbinger heralded their arrival.
"The Marquess and Marchioness dej Dynastus of Dynastus Hall, Silvermoon City proper!"

[Malethia]

"You must understand that I have little interest - or patience, really - regarding the intrigue of the Court. You're wasting your time coming to me, not to mention insulting my home by refusing to remove your mask in a place dedicated to truth." Malethia leaned back in the chair of her desk, looking across her receiving room at the masked stranger whom had insisted on being allowed an audience.

"I do apologize for that, Lady Lightshope, but my task is a sensitive one. Until I know you are willing to at least hear my master's request, I cannot divulge my identity or his. All I can ask is that you come to a gathering he is preparing to host. If nothing else, do so for a man who was a close friend of your father's."

"A friend. So you've said before, but my father was a leader of this city and interacted with countless men as part of his duties. Trying to win my favor by attempting to -"

"If I may, milady? My master thought you might be a skeptic, and so he gave me this to serve as proof of his relationship with your family." He crossed the room, pulling a paper from within his vest and handing it to Malethia.

She opened the folded sheet, which turned out to be a letter of some sort. As she read it, her eyes grew wider...especially when she reached the missive's end.


You were right, old friend...I had thought myself incapable of the love and dedication required of a father, but when I look into the face of my newborn daughter I cannot help but swear all my power to ensuring her happiness and well-being. Alas, she has my wife's blonde tresses instead of the blazing red of the family line; considering how much of her mother's beauty she inherited though...perhaps it is for the best.

I believe Delaria will be recovered from her ordeal in a few days; when she has regained her strength, we will gladly accept your invitation to visit. I look forward to being able to show my darling Malethia off.

Your friend,

QuindelShe sat in silence for a long moment, trying desperately to keep the tears from her eyes. She finally looked up, into the eyes glowing above the mask.

"You have my attention."

==================================================

Malethia stood before the entrance hall, trying very desperately not to simply walk away and forget this night was ever supposed to happen. She ran her hands over her dress, smoothing it out absentmindedly. At first, she had been planning to wear her usual vestments, but after some thought had changed her mind.

Instead, she had arrived in her family's traditional red and gold, the colors of the Blazestone lineage. She had also pulled the family's chariot out from its long period of dust-gathering, supposing it was only proper to arrive in it instead of riding there herself as she usually would have.

The gathering, with all of its lords and ladies, all of the deceit and power plays, was a few short steps in front of her. She took a long steadying breath - "I'm doing this for you, daddy." - and walked to the herald to present her invitation.

"The Magistrix Malethia Blazestone, Mistress of the Halls of the Sun, Quel'Thalas!"

[Athin]

Athin, nearly a week after receiving the letter, finally found a moment to sit at his desk, and compose a proper reply.




This missive is classified RESTRICTED.

To the Lady Aphraelle, Duchess Winterlight, I bid you fair greetings.

I pray your forgiveness for my tardy reply; my duties have been swelling as of late, I suppose partly in my need for a vacation away from my duties.

I'm digressing. When we met briefly in the halls of Naxxramas, I told you I had received your letter...this is my follow-up. I am willing to meet with you at your earliest convenience to discuss your suspicions. Thank you for taking the time to come to me.

Yours in the Light,

Cmd. Athin d'Origaille

[Aphraelle]

A week or two later, the guard once again noticed the Sister making her customary way from the Court of the Sun to Murder Row, her usual heavy basket of food slung over her arm. He elbowed his companion, jerking his chin at her with a snicker at her useless charity, and his companion rolled his eyes in agreement.

Neither paid much attention to her as the usual free-for-all squabble erupted around her, and in a few minutes the guard departed on his scheduled patrol, whistling to himself.

Returning half an hour later on his return circuit, he noted that the clot of scrabbling bodies around the veiled woman was gone. The woman herself was standing in front of a small alcove, looking down, her hand to her mouth in an attitude of shock. Even as he looked at her, she turned away. She seemed to notice him for the first time, and ran toward him, almost tripping on her long heavy robes.

"Sorr, sorr, ye've got to come," she began as she approached him, "there's somethin' terrible bad there." Her accent was thicker than usual, her eyes wide. He blinked, wondering what could have upset her so. Surely she was used to dead bodies in Murder Row by now?

"Please, sorr," she continued when he appeared to hesitate, plucking at his sleeve. With a sigh, he nodded, and the two walked back to the small alcove. On the ground in front of the alcove was drawn a complex circle of fel runes that glowed an unhealthy green, pulsing slowly and hurting the eyes if one looked at it directly. The guard sighed again.

"It's a warlock's circle, Miss. Nasty to look at but it won't harm you." He smiled reassuringly at her, wondering again what might lie beneath the enveloping robes, and turned to go. She plucked at his sleeve again, stammering, "N-no, sorr, it's more. Go-got to be. Don' feel right." She pointed at it, shrinking back.

"No, Miss, that's all it is. Helling warlocks - your pardon, Miss, I don't mean to swear - are getting uppity, leaving their circles all about." Truth to tell, he was annoyed - warlocks were a fact of life in this day and age, but did they have to be so cursed open about it? He patted her shoulder lightly, saying, "Come along now, Miss, there's no cause to be upset, and the circle will fade soon enough. No need for us to hang about here." She looked up at him, no trace of her former fear to be seen.

"In point of fact, we are precisely where we need to be." The stammering was gone, along with the south-country twang and the air of hesitancy. The woman stood tall, one eyebrow visible as it arched up in a mocking expression, and her speech was the purest Court Thalassian. She was no country girl, nor even a lady-in-waiting of the gentry, but a noblewoman bred and born. A trap!

His hand flew toward his blade, but fell limp as a succubus materialized behind him with an exultant hiss. She - it, he tried desperately to remember as he whirled to face it - stretched luxuriously, its preternaturally pale skin gleaming in the shadowed half-light of Murder Row as it focused on the guard with a throaty giggle. His breath caught in his throat as it undulated before him.

He could see its leathery wings, he could see its tail and hooves, he could see the wickedly barbed whip in its hand - and none of it mattered. None of it mattered at all. Pale ripe curves shone as it appeared to offer itself to him, simulated breasts straining against the scrap of material that confined them. The aura of sexuality emanating from the thing was almost visible, a cloud of desire whispering, Come closer, come to me, look at me, do it to me, do it here and here and here...

He swayed, fighting the overwhelming urge to go to it, seize it, take it right there and then on the sidewalk, until pain exploded in a flash of light behind his right ear and he fell senseless to the ground.

"That was rather well done," the woman murmured approvingly to the young Blood Knight emerging from the shadowed alcove, "Now, let's get him to the dungeons. The jailers are expecting us and will ask no questions - I've referred them to His Grace if they do. I assume Baron-Commander D'Origaille briefed you on what you are expected to do, before his unfortunate demise?"

The young Blood Knight swallowed, nodding uncomfortably, and bent to shoulder the unconscious guard. Staggering a little under the dead weight of his burden, he nodded tensely at his veiled companion and the two made their way out of Murder Row.

At the entrance to the Court of the Sun, they were stopped by two guards, who were naturally suspicious of a veiled priestess accompanied by some sort of Blood Knight carrying an unconscious member of their company. The veiled woman produced a scroll bearing the seal of the Regent Lord and thrust it at them impatiently. The senior guard read it, paled slightly, and handed the scroll back to her. The woman paused for a moment, looking at him.

"You have seen nothing," she said in a commanding tone, "You will remember nothing. You will say nothing, to anyone, on pain of His Grace's extreme displeasure. His most extreme displeasure," she repeated, fixing him with a flat look that brooked no argument, "do you understand me?"

The guard nodded, swallowing, and gestured respectfully for the two of them to continue on their way.

[Aphraelle]

Pain shot through the guard's head as he regained consciousness. He was being carried, that much was clear from the jolt each of his bearer's steps gave him. The air was dank and stale - they were clearly underground. But where?

He opened his eyes cautiously, wincing at the continued jolting of the little party's progress. The woman he'd taken for a priestess stalked ahead of him, her left hand holding her skirts up above the muck of the floor and her right hand raising a torch to illuminate the damp stone walls of the passage and the grim iron bars of the cells to either side.

They paused at a door, which the woman opened with a key after a moment of fumbling with the lock. It opened stiffly, with a squeal of protesting hinges, and they passed through into another passage identical with the one they had just left. The guard's stomach lurched as he noted the Sunstrider coat of arms on the door: they were in the Court dungeons.

His sudden tension didn't go unnoticed. The man carrying him dropped him, his head hitting the stone floor and making him cry out. The man, a Blood Knight by his uniform, leaned over him with a dagger reversed in his hand and clipped him smartly over the left ear with the handle. Consciousness fled away.

[Aphraelle]

(( compressed somewhat - the actual interrogation would have taken much longer, but overly lengthy descriptions of torture are boring and unnecessary ))

He awoke again as cold metal enclosed his ankle with a dull clink. He pulled away, attempting to sit up, but could not. Both of his wrists were shackled to a flat table, and the taciturn Blood Knight was even now similarly restraining his other leg.

The woman stood a little distance away, removing her veil and letting her pale blond hair fall about her shoulders. She was undeniably beautiful, but far too icy and self-contained for his tastes, which ran to the passionate and uninhibited. If this woman had ever in her life surrendered to passion, there was no sign of it in her bearing or expression.

"Bitch," he snarled, "what do you think you're playing at? Don't know you I'm a Silvermoon Guardian?" She paused, one eyebrow lifting, before unhurriedly removing the rest of her veil, folding it neatly and placing it on one of a nearby pair of chairs, which, to judge by their cleanliness, had clearly been brought into the dungeon very recently. She turned, eyebrow still lifted, and made a small intricate gesture with one hand, her lips moving silently. Searing pain exploded in his chest and he cried out. He tasted blood: he had bitten his tongue.

"Manners, Sirrah, manners," she said, her tone one of lazy amusement, "You will address me as 'my Lady' and my companion as 'Sir Knight.' And you are manifestly not a Silvermoon Guardian, uniform or no, or you would have no need of this." She held up the shimmering Orb of the Sin'dorei that he had had altered to cast the illusion of a Guardian's height and blond good looks on himself.

He began to recite the cover story he'd painstakingly created. He was a Guardian, had always been a Guardian, but due to a curse of sickness he had withered and changed, and now needed the Orb to continue his work or the citizens would not believe he was a real Guardian, and... He trailed off. The woman was laughing at him, bell-like notes of purest mockery.

"Do you take me for a complete idiot, Sirrah? If such a sickness even existed - and I've never heard of such a thing - you would have been removed from active duty immediately until such time as you were fit to perform your duties. I need not even verify your story with the Captain of the Guard to know that it is patently false. Do at least try to be convincing." She was still laughing as she tossed the Orb onto the chair where her veil lay, before turning to him again.

"Now, are you going to tell me who you really are, and what you're really doing - although I have some idea already - or are we going to have to wade through the usual tedious preliminaries?"

"I won't tell you a helling thing, my Lady, no matter what your bully boy thinks he can do." The honorific had the tone of a gutter insult.

"Oh?" The eyebrow again, as a smile quirked about her mouth, "I'm afraid you've quite mistaken our roles here. I will be questioning you, not he." She gazed at him with an expression of cold amusement as he half-raised his head to look at her.

"What are you going to do, scratch my eyes out?" He laughed contemptuously. "That little burn you gave me hurt a little, I'll give you that, but not that much."

She came to stand by his head, a hand hovering over his face, slim fingers flexing a little.

"It's more of a plucking motion than a scratching, actually," she said matter-of-factly, "but as I dislike soiling myself with commoner blood, you're safe. For the moment." She withdrew her hand, moving back to the empty chair and sitting gracefully, smoothing the skirts of the thick blue robe.

"Let us begin with the name of your employer, the duke. Which duke, precisely?"

He set his mouth in a hard line. Did this arrogant bitch really think he was going to betray his employer that easily? He was a little afraid, deep down - mages were tricksy, and they did command the power of fire, among others, as this one clearly did - but for all her brave talk, he doubted that any fastidious creature of the Court was going to bring herself to the ugly, messy business of torture. Not in those expensive robes.

She waited impassively for a moment, delicate fingers drumming on the arm of the chair where she reclined. He stared back, silent. She lifted one shoulder in a world-weary shrug, and made another rapid gesture, speaking aloud this time in the hissing gutturals of Demonic. Pain began to fill his body, blossoming into agony as fire licked along his nerves. He snarled wordlessly at her, his body betraying him as he writhed gasping, but gave no other reply.

"Still nothing? Be sensible, Sirrah. You will tell me what I want to know. Save yourself the pain." Another gesture, and he felt a wave of sickness, as beneath the pain the cells of his body began to age, sicken and decay. Corruption spread through him.

This is no mage. The thought came to him with a lurch of dismay. She's a helling warlock. He fought down terror. What was she going to do? And how far would she go?

She stood up, smiling glacially, her hands extended as she murmured again in Demonic. Cold and nausea overwhelmed him as memories, thoughts, dreams, his very soul leeched out of him in a steady drain. He thrashed, trying to fight the hideous sensation, but to no avail. Darkness and dizziness closed in on him, and somewhere, very far away, he thought he heard the slow menacing flap of dark wings, hovering over him.

Cold. Darkness. The Void. Nothingness, and then... And then suddenly he was back, slammed into his tormented aching body, gasping. Holy Light filled him, cool and soothing, as the Blood Knight lowered his hands. Alive! He was alive!

"You see, Sirrah?" Her tone was gentle, "Not even death is a refuge for you. I can deliver you to the Void, and he will bring you back, as many times as becomes necessary." Her tone hardened, and she stared at him. "There is no escape. Now, then: the duke's name?"

He'd always been stubborn. Hadn't his mother always said so? There was no way he would betray the generosity of the duke -

"Suntalon!" He heard the name in an agonized shriek. Was that me? he wondered, suffused with a dull shame. It must have been, as her expression smoothed into an approving smile.

"Well, now. Finally we're getting somewhere. And who else has His Grace invited, I wonder?"

No. No. He wasn't going to answer. Let her do what she willed.

Time slowed, then stopped altogether. There was nothing now but a universe of shifting agony, his body suspended in it, convulsing. At some point he became aware that he'd soiled himself, and felt a distant, unimportant embarrassment. Hang on, hang on, he told himself, no longer knowing what he should hang on to, or why, only that he must not, could not, give this demonic woman what she wanted.

He broke when she took his eyes, one after the other, wiping her fingers - the last thing he would ever see - on a piece of cloth offered to her by the Blood Knight. Names spilled out of him, so gabbled in his desperation that she several times had to ask him to repeat himself. One in particular caught her interest.

"The Marquess dej Dynastus? How very interesting." She paused, then spoke again, her tone gentle, almost maternal. Could he have seen her, he would have seen an angelic smile befitting the priestess of the Light she had once disguised herself as. "I believe I know what I need to know now. We will end this." The familiar cold drain of his soul began again, and he slid gratefully into the beyond.

His body lay cooling on the table. Only the rats heard, uncomprehendingly, the woman's quiet, regretful words and the Blood Knight's horrified protests, and the shrieks and whipcracks that followed for a little time.

There would be no witnesses.

[Lysimachus]

Lysimachus sipped at his milk and vodka cocktail, as he always did, while lounging comfortably in his favorite chair, smoking an ivory pipe -- as he always had. "Mmmm..." A folded letter sat on the table beside him, its recently-unsealed envelope lying torn in his own lap. "It has been some time, after all..."

With a precursory puff of smoke, he set his pipe upon the table and picked up the letter, re-reading it for a third time. "So, his affairs are finally coming about as planned, then?" He shook his head, a small smile beginning to develop on the edges of his lips. "Well, then I suppose OUR end of the bargain ought to be coming about, too!"

Rising from his seat, the Marquess of House dej Dynastus took with him only his now half-full goblet of his favored beverage. The darkened corridors of Dynastus Hall swept past him, their shadows suggesting existence as only within a dream.

Finally reaching his destination, he raised his hand at the great oaken doors before him and tapped once, then, waiting a moment, twice again in quick succession. They proceeded to creak open of their own accord.

A muted though audibly irritated voice emanated from within the pitch black of the vast chamber.

"Yes?"

"I've news from Suntalon." A small influx of wind was all that accompanied the sudden closure of the room's doors. "It begins, and soon."