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Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 01

By: Metal_Slime



The carriage couldn't wind its way through the crowded streets fast enough for Alan Tinsley, Sir Alan Tinsley now, leading his anxious eyes to stare out at the people scurrying to and fro as they sought shelter. The rain had come suddenly, and the downpour cut his own errands short. Now, Alan could hardly wait to get home to Elizabeth. The very anticipation of seeing her radiant smile brought a pleasant upturn to his own lips.

'Lightning' Alan Tinsley, smoothest operator in any of the Free Cities, had faced righteous knights and angry wizards in his day. The master thief had tricked his way into dragon's lairs and even broken into the King's Vault, for a good reason of course. For all his bravery and will, for all of his experience and worldliness, one look from his young wife could stop him in his tracks. True love had just been a foolish fantasy of bard's tales and storybooks, that is until that fateful night at the home of his friend Lord Varonne.

It was a party the likes of which hadn't been seen in years, celebrating their merry band's triumph over the usurper Jaron Daar. All of the nobility attended, as well as many much less noble, so long as they had a hand in the dark sorcerer's downfall. At the time, Alan was amongst the latter. For all his wondrous deeds, all the aging thief thought of was how much he would profit when his friends helped put the rightful heir on the throne. An idle glance over a crowd of revelry to ascertain the source of a particular high and musical peal of laughter changed his thinking and his life in one moment.

Elizabeth was exquisite in a way that defied explanation. Young and fair, she was beautiful without being unearthly. Noble without being detached. Alan had seen enchantresses and vampires, sirens and succubi who had her beat in spades in terms of raw beauty, and yet they had all been unnatural. Something predatory, or something artificial. The way Elizabeth smiled, her full lips, her sparkling emerald eyes, the way her blonde curls danced about her face with every movement. It was enchanting in its reality. Her clothing and bearing marked her amongst the aristocracy, but she was laughing at the jest of one of Alan's own men, a scruffy, simple fellow named Henri. The giant of a man was imposing, rough looking, and bore the scars of many fights, and yet this woman seemed at ease around him, enough to see the gentle, childlike nature within.

Alan had approached that night with the intention of sweeping her off her feet with his practiced charm and poise. Although he was more than twice her age, he still considered himself handsome. Fit and lean, with roguish features and short cropped gray hair. A neatly trimmed beard complimented his jawline well, and he knew his own smile had captured the attentions of many a noble lady in his time. While not a noble himself, he was a man of wealth and fair taste, an adventurer who had seen the world, and thanks to the actions his friends had pressed upon him during the usurpation crisis, now a hero of the realm. But when he finally managed to speak with Elizabeth, all of his suave sophistication and ready wit fled from him as an ice wall melting in the hot summer sun.

That night, Alan had simply spoken with her for hours. When his lieutenant Devron greeted him on the way out, the boy had ribbed him unmercifully. And while Alan bore the teasing in good grace, the next day he resigned from the thieves' guild and started on his path to legitimacy. In one night, a single girl had done what foes of the realm had tried to do for years: remove Lightning Alan from the workings of the underworld.

Alan's little trip down memory lane was interrupted by a knock on the carriage door. The rogue's steely eyes snapped to focus, and there amidst the rain, his manor loomed large. The land he'd been granted with his knighthood for service to the realm was nothing special. No vast agricultural or mineral resources lurked within its bounds, but as far as he was concerned, it held the grandest treasure in the kingdom.

"We are home, Sir," the footman bowed deeply as he held open the door.

Alan stepped out, drawing his cloak about his frame to stave off the still pouring rain. "So I see," and with those words, he hurried up toward the safe and dry confines of the house. 

Within the rich interior, it didn't take long for one of the maids to hurry to help him out of his wet cloak, and usher him into the sitting room before the great hearth. 

"Where's Lizzy?"

"Oh, she left for a walk shortly after you stepped out, Sir," The maid cast over her shoulder as she spread the cloak out to dry before the flames.

"What?! In this weather? And it's been hours..." Alan's voice bore perhaps a little more desperation than he had meant, for his tone brought a chuckle from the maid.

"My lord, it wasn't raining when she left. And Henri is with her, she'll be alright. They probably just stopped somewhere to get out of the rain."

After a moment regarding the woman's words, Alan finally nodded, and slumped back into his chair. She was right of course, but he couldn't help but feel something was amiss. Something in his gut felt ill at ease, and he'd lived decades by going with his gut's reactions.

"Let me get you some tea to help you relax, Sir. I'll let you know as soon as she shows up."

Alan nodded numbly, realizing he had grown chilled even from that short walk, "Of course, of course, and thank you, Marcy."

The maid simply nodded and smiled, and left him to his peace.

It was hours later when Alan finally awoke. That much he could tell by the lack of light shining through the windows. Someone had tucked a blanket about him, and tended the fire while he was at rest. He simply assumed Elizabeth had decided to let him sleep through on her return. It seemed the rain had stopped, at least. Alan rose stiffly, stretching and rubbing at his joints. The weather inflamed old scars, and he'd spent a lifetime collecting them. A casual step took him toward the great windows looking out over the rear of the estate.

A grand porch lay just beyond those windowed doors, with steps leading down toward the gardens. Most of the flowers had been Elizabeth's idea, but he couldn't deny she had taste. There was a pond which sometimes housed ducks, and as the moon broke the still thick clouds, it shined down on the white gazebo where his wife so enjoyed sitting during pleasant days. A path of white gravel lead out toward the wooded surroundings, a path Alan had built to make the walk to the cliff-side overlook where he'd proposed to her that much easier.

And there, struggling to crawl along the path, trailing a glistening, dark red streak behind him, was a hulk of a man that could only be Henri. 

Lightning Alan had never been quicker on his feet than in that instant. He didn't even remember opening the door, just the pump of his legs and the hammering of his heart as he crossed the porch, the steps, and the gardens toward Henri. A hand strayed instinctively to his side, years of danger had told him what to expect. But Alan had long since stopped carrying a weapon in his own home. He was respectable now, after all.

"Boss," the big man's wheezing didn't bode well, but Alan could already tell that Henri's wounds were serious from halfway across the grounds, "They took her."

"Hush boy," Alan knelt by Henri, and his eyes cast over the wounds. The big man was lucky to be alive that long, and who knew how long that could last. He needed to keep Henri from panicking, and yet get what information he could. Ice already gripped Alan's heart as he tore off his coat, and began to tear the lining into suitable bandages, "MARCY!" He called toward the house, then addressed Henri again, "Where were you, boy?"

"At the overlook. She wanted... she wanted to see if she could see you coming. I... I'm so sorry boss."

"Hush, hush, just answer what I ask, don't waste your breath on apologies. You did good, Henri, to bring me these words. Who was it? Do we know who took her?" Alan began to bind Henri's wounds as best he could, then called to the house again, "MARCY! Bring me a healing potion NOW!" He was certain she could hear him, he had a commanding voice in times of trouble.

"No boss, I never seen 'em before. Maybe a new gang, I dunno. There were six of 'em. They knocked me out, it's been a long time."

"They did more than knock you out, boy..." Alan sighed heavily as he put on a brave face. With hours' lead they could be anywhere by now. As the maid hustled down the path in her robes, her cry brought Alan's attention to her. "Come now, give me the potion."

"Henri, oh Henri what happened?" The frightened woman began to chatter, moving to cradle Henri's head to her ample breasts. As she knelt on the white gravel, her robes parted to reveal a hint of her smooth thighs beneath, and more of that expansive cleavage. "My poor, poor boy."

Her actions lead Alan to wonder about the two. Marcy wasn't unattractive, far from it, but she wasn't beautiful either. Her features were lined with worry, her own dark hair was beginning to shoot through with gray, but she had a kind face, and a figure that could merit a second or even third look when she presented it. And the way the big man looked up to her in his hour of need, the boy had done well. 

"Drink up," Alan offered, and uncorked that potion's vial. The mystic contents glimmered in the moonlight, and he tilted it slowly, watching as Marcy carefully held Henri's head up. It wouldn't work miracles, but it did stop the worst of the bleeding. Those wounds seemed to pucker in upon themselves before their very eyes. Sword wounds. Alan knew what that looked like.

"It tastes bad," Henri complained. His complaints were drowned out by a soft, nervous laugh from Marcy, before she dotted his face with kisses.

"If you've got enough strength to complain about the taste, you've got enough to live through this," despite Marcy's bravado, tears still streamed down her face.

It took almost five minutes to get Henri inside with Marcy's help, and then send for a healer. By all rights, Alan should have stayed by him, but Marcy would do just as fine a job at keeping the fellow calm. Something dark was stirring in Alan's soul. Something he hadn't felt since meeting Elizabeth. He would find who had done this, he would get his wife back, and he would torture the ones who took her from him until they couldn't remember their own name. When he was with the guild, he'd dealt with foes aplenty, but few had been so brazen as to attack him on his own ground. This couldn't have been a random attack, out here on his own estate. Someone had to have targeted his wife specifically.

Alan was no sorcerer, no wizard, but in times like this magic was often the best solution. He needed to find Elizabeth, and quickly, and aside from spells, only a trained tracker could uncover what had happened. He wasn't a tracker either, and the only one in his old merry band who could do so was a full day's travel away. It would take a day to alert her, then a day for her to arrive, time Alan simply did not have. What he did have, though, was goods and trinkets gleaned from over three and a half decades of thievery. His private stash, collected from all the corners of the known world. The master thief unlocked the vault deep beneath his manor house, and began searching through things. He knew exactly what he needed, and in short order he had them out.

The reflection in the silver mirror almost shocked Alan. It shouldn't have. There was something murderous in his steely gaze, something he hadn't seen on his own features in a long time. Even the usurper's crisis hadn't made him feel the anger swelling within him that this action had. But he had to calm himself. One dextrous hand slipped forth to grip the side of the mirror, and the gray haired rogue took a few deep breaths. His broad chest heaved as he tried to calm his nerves, and once he was cold as ice again, he proceeded.

The scroll in hand wasn't particularly ancient. It had been penned maybe months before he had claimed it from the wizard's tower. And then it sat in a box for a decade, untouched, unused. But Alan knew what it would do. With steady hands he unscrolled the parchment, revealing the eldritch diagrams and words scribed upon it. The ink shimmered glistening black by the light of the lone lamp set on the table nearest. A wizard wrote such scrolls to invoke their power as needed, or to teach the contents to another lesser sorcerer. Like many items of enchantment, each scroll, each potion was imbued with a bit of their creator's essence. The healing potion from before had been granted to Alan by a friend. This scroll was much more powerful, and had been taken by force of arms. He had to be careful, as there would be only one chance. Slowly, cautiously he began to intone the words upon the scroll, relying on the power therein rather than any particular magic of his own.

As the arcane, difficult to pronounce syllables left his lips, magic hung heavy on the air. The diagrams seemed to burn themselves into his retinas, and then occasionally one would literally leap from the scroll's surface, only to flow toward the mirror before him. Each line of strange black lettering or drawing read from the page disappeared from it, leaving a somewhat charred discoloration in its wake. The surface of the mirror began to shift, began to cloud. When the last of the scroll was read, the air hung heavy and silent. For a long moment, it seemed nothing had happened.

After almost a full minute, the fog cleared from the mirror, but Alan was no longer looking at his own reflection. Rather the image within the polished silver depicted a dark chamber, lit by flickering candles, shining dancing shadows up along fine wood paneled walls. It was an upscale building, to be sure, with thick burgundy curtains drawn close. A gilded chandelier with crystal decor hung above, but what captured his attention were a delicate pair of feet.

The stockings were of fine ivory silk, of a sort that Elizabeth favored, and though one foot was still clad in a black suede shoe he'd bought her not more than two months past, the other was bared. Well kept toes curled within the silk, painted a soft red color that showed even through the otherwise opaque stocking. The stocking of that bared foot had a hole, torn just from the ankle upward, exposing a glimpse of her elegantly boned ankle, and her pale skin beneath. Those feet were in the air, toes pointed toward the ceiling, just as they bobbed back and forth at a frenetic pace. Back and forth, back and forth, parted at about a shoulder's width, those lovely feet continued to move, and the toes of the shoeless one alternately stretched and curled, clenching in counterpoint to that bobbing rhythm.

It didn't take a genius to guess what was happening, but what clues were visible in the mirror as to her surroundings were vague at best. An upscale building, perhaps a house? The curtains could be visible from the street, but weren't a common color. As distracting as the image before him was, Alan's mind set to work effectively examining the room to determine where it was. He had to be cold, ice cold, but he had to get more information as well. A moment of focusing on that mirror, and the image began to shift. 

Another soon formed, the same room, but from a different angle. This one included a gilded headboard, and to those bars a pair of hands were cuffed. There was no sign of the long sleeves Elizabeth favored, but the glint of gold rings on one hand confirmed the owner of those hands. The wedding ring itself was distinct, gold serpents twined together, with a diamond shining between their coils. Her long nails had been chipped, and at last one was broken, signs that she had put up a fight. The cuffs about her delicate wrists were thick, leather reinforced with metal, and with heavy locks. There was red chafing about her wrists already. Those slender fingers laced together, both hands gripped one of the bars of the headboard, a white knuckled grasp for dear life. And then there was a glimpse of the floor beyond, hard wood without carpeting. Something began to nag at Alan's mind. Something familiar.

The next image was of her torso, bared, with no sign of her blouse or corset. Her slender back was perfectly arched, her flat belly taut. A man's hands were settled there just at the small of her back, forcing her upward, gripping her hard enough to leave marks where his fingers and thumbs pressed against her skin. Those ripe, full breasts he so adored quaked and jiggled with the shock of rhythmic impacts, even as they rose and fell with gasped breaths. It was the same rhythm those feet had been moving in before, a sharp upward sway, then a jiggle as they settled back into place, only to be rocketed upward again. That soft, pale flesh was marked with hand prints, as if someone had targeted those lovely swells with sharp slaps. Rosy, expressive nipples stood at full attention, peaked, though whether it was from desire or torment one could hardly tell.

Her pale skin was dusted with a sheen of perspiration, but more unwholesomely, a drying whitish residue was spattered across her belly and across her cleavage, the slowly dripping spend of men before her, giving hint to how long the scene had been going on. As distressing as the old thief found the image, the most shocking part had nothing to do with the sight of his wife's body, shifting on those crimson sheets, held in such a delicious arch. No, it had to do with what he saw beyond. A fireplace, a mantle, and above that a strange portrait mounted just in view. 

Even though only the lower half could be seen in the mirror, it was distinct enough that Alan knew, without a doubt, what it depicted. A black rat wearing a crown, overseeing a court of rats dressed in finery, like some mockery of a royal retinue. It was a painting hung in his old guild-house, a mansion on the south side of town. Rage began to boil through his veins, and Alan turned from the image. How dare they, those men he'd raised from rags to wealth, and Devron especially, whom he'd granted leadership of the guild to on his retirement. The betrayal hit him almost as hard as seeing his wife so abused. Alan began to rummage through the chests and stands within the vault. He would kill them all for this.

The gray haired rogue ransacked his own vault, picking up items, trinkets he thought he might need in the upcoming conflict. So preoccupied was he that he hadn't noticed the final change in the image, not until it was almost too late. With weapons in hand, he was moving for the sleek black leather armor he once wore, dark as night and twice as sinister. And then he caught sight of the mirror and what it displayed. It brought him to a sudden halt.

Her blonde curls were laid about the pillow, radiant as a halo in the dim light of the room. Her beautiful green eyes were wide with rage, pain, and glimmered with tears. Her features, so used to displaying a ready smile and an easy laugh were instead twisted with rage. The little makeup Elizabeth wore ran in dark rivulets, from her own tears and the drying, dripping white ooze that coated much of her face. Her jaws were held open by a peculiar metal gag, forcing her teeth to part and her lips wide. Those lips were red and swollen, bruised and kept apart in a constant 'o'. Even as Alan watched, her neck arched as she shuddered in unwilling climax. The constant stimulation was taking its toll on her will. Still, her eyes only hardened thereafter, gazing up at the man above her with murderous intent.

He didn't recognize the man, but it was clear that some faces would have changed in the years since he retired. Alan didn't have to recognize him to see what he was doing, however. Hands gripped smooth, supple thighs that had once been his alone, and those stockinged legs were forced over his shoulders, feet left to point at the ceiling. He was clearly buried to the hilt within her, but that bouncing of her feet, the rippling of her breasts had stopped. Slowly, the man in the mirror pulled out of Elizabeth, leaving her gaping in his wake. Alan could tell the man had been far from the first to claim her, and her overfilled body oozed onto those fine sheets. Another pair of hands grasped her stockinged legs, holding them up, keeping them parted, and as the next fellow positioned himself between Elizabeth's thighs, the mirror went dark, showing only Alan's own deadly features in dim reflection. The magic of the scroll had expired.


Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 01



Alan closed his eyes, and balled his hands into fists. He wanted to rush over immediately. He wanted to burst in and decimate the place, to kill every member of the guild. But blind rage would gain him nothing. He forced himself to calm as he buckled on his shadow armor, then drew his cloak about his form to conceal it. Sword at his side, knives in their sheathes, he headed up and toward the door.

"Sir Tinsley?" Marcy called as she saw him move past the sitting room, "Are you going out? Are you going to fetch the guard?"

Alan paused, weighing his answer carefully. It wouldn't hurt to let her know what was going on, surely. "I may be gone for a while, Marcy. But right now, I'm going to Count Varonne's estate."

And with those words, Alan Tinsley stepped out into the night.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 02



The Count was not one to take visitors in the middle of the night, but Sir Alan Tinsley was a different matter. In their youth, they had formed part of the core of the renowned adventuring group 'Reavers of Aethwin'. Membership had changed over the years, but during that formative decade they had been among the cornerstones of the band. 'Lightning' Alan Tinsley, Vick 'Blackblade' Varonne, Garthur Steelwright, Windhawk, and Miena of the Startower were the ones known throughout the land back in their days of glory, though there had been others. Most other faces joined only for specific quests or perished early, some left due to disagreements with how things were done, but the band had been responsible for some great tales under the watch of those five. They had slain Faryx the frostwyrm, they'd had a hand in the downfall of Jaron Daar, and numerous other exploits that had earned them recognition in the eyes of the realm. 

Over the years, the band had drifted apart. There were still some young blood who adventured under the name 'Reavers of Aethwin', but it had fallen from the days of glory. When peace settled over the land, many of the casual members went their separate ways. Garthur was the first of the core members to leave, returning to the subterranean halls of his forefathers to enter the tales of his journeys into the dwarven annals. The heir they had restored to the throne appointed Windhawk as Warden of the Royal Forests, and the elven woman ranged freely through them, keeping to the old traditions of her people. Miena had vanished years ago, her tower left a smoldering ruin, her assistants fled and her libraries burned. It was assumed she died in some dangerous experiment. 

This left Alan and Vick to their retirement. Alan had begrudgingly accepted his knighthood, leaving the majority of the fame from the group to Varonne, who was appointed Count of Aethwin and entrusted with the guardianship of the city. On the few occasions that Alan had to observe the work involved with such a task, the old rogue was glad to leave it to Vick.

This wasn't to say that being a Count was all toil and trouble, a point made clear by the very grounds which Alan hurried across. The path to the front doors passed manicured lawns and a grand fountain. Before him, the wings of the manor spread out to either side. The white stone architecture managed to look new, although the place had been built centuries before. Although the exterior looked polished smooth, here and there were still signs of bas relief carvings long weathered away, likely from an even older structure from whence the stone of the building was quarried.

The doors were massive oak, reinforced with iron, and even at this late hour a pair of guards stood watch. Clad in red and black colors over tunics of mail that had seen more time being prepared for pageantry than anything approximating actual combat. Each was armed with a halberd, with tassels of red and black, as well as a more useful wooden truncheon at their sides. They appeared as if they were there for show, but if Alan knew Vick, the Count had likely kept them in peak fighting form through some means or other. 

Suspicions were confirmed when the two immediately shifted into a challenging stance, blades swinging down and feet spreading. Alan couldn't blame them, a mysterious cloaked man hustling in haste across the lawn in the middle of the night was the sort of thing that could set a man on edge. He paused out of reach of their halberds, and drew the hood of his cloak back in response to their call of challenge. It was really all he needed to do.

"Sir Tinsley!" They drew their halberds back, "What brings you out at this hour?"

"Grim tidings, friends. I must speak with Count Varonne. It is a matter of utmost urgency."

The guards looked to one another hesitantly, then one finally turned to address Alan, "He's ... entertaining Madame Pryce."

Alan's wince was noted by the guards, but still, the old rogue pressed on, "This is more urgent than Miss Pryce's charms, I assure you. My estate was just attacked." He didn't go into the details, of course. The stoney look on his own features spoke for him. Looking to one another again, the guards seemed to come to some silent decision, and opened the doors for him to pass. Without further hesitation, Alan strode past them and into the quiet halls beyond.

The interior of the manor was as lavish as its environs, with centuries of history of previous Counts displayed prominently on walls and stands. Paintings, tapestries, old sets of armor, everywhere one looked, new sights awaited the curious eye. Alan had seen it all before, and continued his long strides unimpressed. In his wake, there was soon the click of heels and swish of skirts as one of the maids stepped in behind him. The fact she said nothing to him told Alan all he needed of who she was.

"Daphne." It was as close to a greeting as he would offer as he continued on his way.

"Alan," The response came in soft, sultry tones. "You seem troubled."

She was beautiful. That much Alan knew even without looking at her. He could picture Daphne in his mind's eye, just from the rustle of her clothing, the click of those heels. She was fond of towering stilettos despite her already impressive height, and while the suede ankle-boots she usually favored would be inappropriate in her position as Varonne's maid, a pair of strappy leather soled heels would fit right in, likely complimented with lacy stockings. A quick glance down to the woman's legs as she came to stalk beside him confirmed those imaginings. Crisscross black leather straps left the arch of her foot and her toes on display through white lace stockings. Those stockings hugged up along legs that were long and sleek. Her skirt came to just above the knee, a somewhat utilitarian pleated black that still managed to cling to the curve of her ass, the swell of her hip. About her slender waist, an apron of white edged in lace with the same pattern of her stockings was bound.

The blouse itself was of a softer, clingier silk, black like the skirt, but cut low upon her shoulders and laid across the gentle swells of breasts that were just a little larger than a handful. Her smooth, flawless skin was a rich tan, almost golden in the flickering lamplight that lined the hall. Daphne appeared almost some fae creature below the graceful line of her slender neck, but above, her face was devastating. Angular and soft all at once, the elven woman seemed better suited to regal finery than the servant's outfit she admittedly wore so well. Full, pouty lips brushed moist and crimson would be inviting if they weren't set in a severe, flat expression. Her brows were delicately arched, and dark lashes were thick about eyes of startling amethyst, flecked with hints of gold. Long, dark chocolate locks were bound into an updo, pinned atop her head with small ivory combs that might be well above her station in any other household.

The two of them had history, a history Alan didn't want to think about at that point in time. But the old rogue knew he could hide nothing from the elf. "My estate was attacked earlier. They took Lizzy."

It was startling to see the elven maid unsettled by anything, but the look of surprise that crossed her lovely features was clear, however fleeting it might have been. She laid one slender hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry Alan. Is she alive?"

"I can only hope. That's why I'm here actually."

"To see Lord Varonne," She completed the thought, "You must be truly concerned about the ones who took her to seek his help."

"The guild turned on me."

"Devron wouldn't do that. You know that, Alan."

Tears threatened in the old thief's eyes as he turned upon Daphne, "Don't you think I want to believe that? But I saw her... I used the old mirror scroll and saw her. She was in the guild house. They were hurting her. They were using her."

"Then they must die." The words came so readily to the elven maid's lips that a lesser man might find them chilling. Her expression had hardened instantly, into a terrible, cold facade. Suddenly she resumed her stride, walking before him with a purpose, leading him onward. In other circumstances, he would certainly have enjoyed the view, and for more than one reason. The swish of that brief skirt as it played about her supple rear and the backs of her thighs, the way her hips ticked back and forth were all very pleasant. But more so, when she was like this, it was just good to know that her anger was directed elsewhere. Behind her just might be the safest place to be.

Daphne marched right up to the grand doors leading to the Count's chambers, and flung them open without so much as a knock. Immediately, the hallway was flooded with the pungent scent of whatever devilish concoction from the east that the Count and his guest were smoking. A massive, circular bed dominated the room beyond, in the same black and red the rest of the house followed, and laid out upon the bed, to either side of a grand, gilded hookah lay the Count and his guest.

Madame Pryce was not the exotic, natural beauty that Daphne was, but she certainly had her good points. Two such points were on display, as she lounged topless on the bed. She was a whore, and seemed proud of it. Her auburn hair fell in loose ringlets about her shoulders, doing nothing to cover the full, pert swells of the fairest breasts magic could conjure. Her figure was obviously augmented, likely the main beneficiary of having the Count as one of her clients. A golden ring pierced her navel, and then her skirt draped over her broad hips, resting down about bared legs. Lazily, she turned her eyes toward the maid, and made no move to cover herself. Instead she just exhaled a stream of bluish smoke.

The Count was a substantially less pleasant sight. In his youth, Vick Varonne had been a large man, with dark hair and dashing looks. A few decades of pampered living, and he was still large. Just not in the same way. His ponderous bulk lay upon the bed without a stitch to cover him. He'd long started to go bald, his bare pate just ringed about with graying hair. The burst open doors left him drawing a pipe from between his own lips and offering a mustache-topped scowl. A thick neck flowed to still broad shoulders, and what had once been a physique suited for barreling through lines of foes was now significantly rounder. Alan's eyes retreated to the relative safety of Daphne's ass to avoid the vision so revealed.

"Damn it woman, haven't you ever heard of knocking?" Varonne snarled as he quickly grabbed a sheet, tugging it about himself. "We could have been indecent in here."

"If this isn't indecent, old friend, then you and I apparently have a very different definition of what is and what is not," Alan quipped, which drew Vick's eyes toward him.

The Count's brow furrowed as he shifted his gaze away from the elven maid and toward Alan. "Alan? What is going on? Do you have any idea what time it is?" And yet whatever outrage was behind his words quickly began to dissipate. Alan Tinsley was not one to pay purely social visits at strange hours.

"Alan's home was attacked. They took Lizzy," Daphne's words were brutally succinct, but then she continued, "It's time to put the toys away, my Lord, there's work to be done." At the word 'toys', those gorgeous amethyst and gold eyes shifted to Madame Pryce, who responded with a scowl.

"Who took her?"

"The guild." The answer came in unison from Daphne and Alan alike, which caused Varonne to stumble to his feet from the bed, dragging the sheets wrapped bout his waist. At the tug of the sheets from beneath her, the whore gave a little squeak of protest, half tumbling aside before she righted herself.

Despite his apparent intoxication, in moments Varonne was all business, albeit in a hazy and unfocused way. "Has Devron gone mad? First Mia Fayne, and now this-"

"Wait," Alan interrupted, "What about Lady Fayne?"

"She disappeared from her home three weeks ago. The Merchant's League put the blame squarely on your former colleagues and demanded that I eliminate them once and for all. They don't understand that having an organization like yours makes it easier and cleaner to deal with things. Instead of dealing with fractious gangs and hordes of freelancers, there's one point of contact, however shady. One group to track and watch for-"

He was rambling, and this time it was Daphne who cut the count off, "Yes yes, but what happened to Mia Fayne?"

Vick Varonne shrugged broadly, "No one knows. I went down with a few fellows to ask Devron a few pointed questions, he denied being involved and we couldn't find any evidence at the time. But you say that you're certain they took Elizabeth?" Those steely eyes of his fixed on Alan.

The master thief nodded, "They did, I confirmed it with something from my vaults. She was there in the guild safe-house. They were abusing her."

"This sounds more like the work of common banditry than the organization you used to head, old friend." Varonne's words were heavy and grim.

Madame Pryce had the keen sense to stay out of the conversation, but she did look on lazily. Alan glanced to her nervously from time to time. Her kind were notorious for spilling sensitive information for the right price. "Can we discuss this elsewhere?" the old rogue suggested.

"Oh, oh right. Let me get dressed-" 

"Please do." Once more the count was cut off, this time by Daphne and Alan both.

A scowl crossed Varonne's features, then he chuckled, "and I'll meet you in the war room." He concluded his words, then shooed the two on their way.

Daphne turned on a heel and lead Alan onward. Alan glanced across to her from time to time, but otherwise remained silent. It was easy to let one's worries fall to the wayside with the elven woman so near. Everything about her seemed mesmerizing, even to one who's heart lay with another. Still, there was always the cold truth of what she truly was, such a far cry from a lowly maid in some aging warrior's retinue. The old rogue quickly shook his head of such thoughts. It was time to concentrate on the matter at hand.

The war room itself was a simple set up. An interior room with no windows to minimize spying. The dark woodwork was hung with four plaques that, while depicting decorative designs, were primarily utilitarian. Each was enchanted to provide protection against common forms of far seeing. A broad, rectangular wooden table dominated the room, of solid construction. The surface was utterly smooth, save for nicks here and there where errant dagger thrusts or pounding gauntlets had scarred the surface over the years. On one wall, maps of the kingdom and then the county hung, on another both a map of the city and a detailed map of the estate itself. There were shelves with parchment and charcoal, various markers and tokens to represent potential troop layouts, and other items of interest. In one corner, a stand held several gleaming swords and daggers. There were a few chairs scattered about the room, casually left wherever their last occupants had set them.

While Alan paced back and forth, Daphne moved to the table with swaying hips, then turned and hoisted her luscious ass onto the surface. Alan glanced over to her, pausing in his pacing, just long enough to watch the elven woman deliberately and slowly cross one leg over the other. The silk of her stockings hissed against one another, and the action caused her brief skirt to ride high enough to reveal the flash of smooth, tanned thigh above the frilly garters that supported those stockings. She made no effort to correct the fabric, instead her hands came to rest on the edge of the table, and her delicate, long nailed fingers curled under the edge. As she leaned forward, that blouse fell forward just enough to let one think one could see more of those breasts than the shadows actually allowed. Everything the elven maid did positively oozed sensuality. It had been that way since they had met, all those years ago.

"She must be treating you well, Alan." Her words caused Alan's gaze to snap upward, where he caught the amusement dancing in Daphne's eyes. The elven woman's tongue traced out deliberately, teasing the tip over those soft, moist, red lips. "You still look good enough to eat," she purred the words out, pursing those inviting lips into a semblance of a blown kiss.

The old rogue turned his head away with a frown. He resumed his pacing, his waiting. "Behave," was all that he could muster in answer.

"Oh don't worry, Alan, we'll get her back. I still owe you, after all. Besides, you make such a cute couple."

Alan found little solace in Daphne's words, and indeed became almost angered by them, but any response he was going to make was silenced by the sudden opening of the door.

Varonne waddled in, his ponderous girth clad in red and black finery, a robe casually tossed over tunic and trousers. The thick belt about his waist supported his old sword, a sign he meant business. A frown was offered to Daphne, but he made no attempt to chase the woman from her perch. Instead he drew a chair out and settled into it. The sturdy wood still groaned under his bulk. "Alright Alan, tell me exactly what happened."

Alan began to relate the events he knew, while the two listened raptly. He had gone on an errand, and come back only to find she had been gone on a walk. The attack most likely happened while he was out on an errand, in the middle of the day. He hadn't followed up on it because there had been no clue that anything was amiss until later. When Alan mentioned Henri's injuries, Varonne looked troubled.

"Will he survive?"

"He should, Marcy is taking care of him now, and a healer should be there by now."

"Good. The lad may be simple, but he's loyal and honest. Men like that are hard to find these days. It's just a damned shame he took up with you lot."

Alan smirked faintly "You would have had him marching under your orders, risking his life on the battlefield."

"As if he's done any better under your watch. At least on the field of war he would have earned honor and glory."

"Neither of which he seems particularly interested in, old friend." Alan sighed, it was easy to get back into the old tit for tat with the old warrior. It made him miss the old days. "But he'll be fine now. After getting him settled, I used one of the Jaron's old scrolls."

"Foul sorcerer," Varonne muttered, then waved for Alan to continue.

"It let me use a mirror for far seeing. I was able to confirm they were in the old guild safe-house. There was the portrait of the black rat on one of the walls, and I recognized the room."

"Well it certainly sounds as if your man Devron has gone rogue, excuse the pun. I thought you had hand picked him for his loyalty?" The Count raised one brow as he regarded Alan.

"This is all true," The old thief finally slumped into one of the chairs. Almost immediately, Daphne slipped from the table and walked about behind him, the click of her heels marked her progress. Those cool, skillful hands slipped to Alan's shoulders, cutting off any attempt to shake her off with a firm squeeze. And then, despite himself, Alan's tension began to melt away under the onslaught of her fingers. She seemed to know exactly which muscles to work, which nerves carried the weight of his worry, and exactly how to release that built up tightness.

"Just storming the guild will be problematic," Varonne seemed nonplussed by the massage. His old friend looked like he needed it after all. "Aside from the traps and potential casualties, if I remember right, that safe-house is in a fairly upscale neighborhood. They don't take movement of troops through their streets quietly. If we alert the guild to our intentions, they'll undoubtedly do something nasty. It will be safer to just have a team of elites go in."




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 02



"Just like the old days," A soft laugh escaped Alan, as his eyes half closed. Daphne had good hands. Damned good hands.

"You and me," The Count began to lay out the plan, "Maybe one of the up and comers from the new batch of Reavers."

"Does your armor even still fit?" 

It was a genuine question Alan posed, but the reaction was an immediate expression of rage and bluster. Varonne's face went red, "Of course it fits! You damned fool, I'm still in full combat strength." The Count thumped his chest, which sent a flabby ripple through the his gut and arm.

Daphne laughed musically, then leaned down, her lips near Alan's ear. It was meant to be a whisper, but it was clearly loud enough for Varonne to overhear, "Don't worry, magical armor can sometimes re size itself."

It was hard enough for Alan to keep a straight face, but a snicker finally escaped him. As the master thief raised a hand to stifle his laughter, Varonne stared at the two, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"Well fuck you two. And here I am trying to help."

"And we appreciate it," Alan managed to wheeze out, controlling his laughter for the moment, "But you have to admit, you've let yourself go."

"Maybe I have gained a few pounds, but I can still swing my sword, and that's all that matters."

Daphne had remained bent forward, her lips lingered near Alan's neck for an uncomfortably long time, likely only allowed because of the exchange before her. Before he could object, she straightened, and then spoke with a decisive tone, "I'll come as well."

Her words made both men tense again. "Daphne, I don't think-" Alan started, only to have Varonne barge in.

"Elf bitch, if you think for one moment that I'm going to trust you anywhere near a blade, you've lost your mind."

Daphne rolled her eyes, going back to work on Alan's shoulders, then pressed along the back of his neck with her thumbs, where that new tension had settled. "You trust me with blades every day. This house is full of them. If I had wanted to do you in it would've been years ago. Possibly while you were in the bath, or the lavatory, for maximum embarrassment. You need every hand you can on this venture, and you know what I'm capable of."

"Oh, we know what you're capable of, alright."

Alan lifted a hand to rub at his temples. "We may as well let her, Vick." The suggestion brought the Count's wide eyes upon Alan. The old rogue continued, "She was almost as adept at infiltration as I was, and as an elf, she hasn't aged."

A long silence followed, as the two men stared at one another. Finally, Varonne addressed Daphne, "This doesn't mean that you're free from the obligations of your surrender."

"Of course not," Daphne purred the words, and her touch shifted from that firm kneading to a sensual caress. Her long nails trailed down Alan's neck, then over his chest. This time, when the old rogue shook them off, those hand remained off, and tucked lightly behind the maid's back instead. "I'm only doing this because Elizabeth makes Sir Tinsley happy, and we know how much I want to see Alan... happy."

This brought another glare from both men, but after another moment of silence, it seemed agreement was reached. As Daphne returned to her perch at the edge of the table, Alan brought up another point, "We may need magical backup, and we haven't met a trustworthy wizard since Miena."

"Not that she was ever that trustworthy," Varonne added, but then he mused idly, "There is one person..."

It took a few heartbeats of tense silence for Alan to realize who the man meant, "No."

"She's a real up and comer in the Reavers, and you have to admit she's talented."

"No."

"And she's available."

"NO."

"The illustrious Miss Faringalia-"

"NO! Do not complete that sentence, so help me."

The Counter's fist descended on the tabletop before him with a thunderous impact. "Look, if I have to put up with the elf bitch, you can put up with a fucking gnome for one fucking night. It's for your wife, Alan."

The thief clapped his hands over his face and bowed his head. He took slow, deep breaths to steady himself. "She's going to be more trouble than she's worth," he mumbled out about his palms.

Varonne leaned forward, cupping a hand to one ear, "What was that Alan? Did you say, 'That sounds like a good idea, Vick?'"

There was a long pause, then Alan Tinsley pulled his hands away from his face. He looked up at the ceiling, at the walls, anywhere but Vick at that moment. "Alright, we'll use her, if she agrees."

"You know she will," And with that, Vick Varonne, Count of Aethwin rose to his feet, hoisting his ponderous bulk from that chair. "Then it's settled. I'll go get my gear. Daphne, you fetch yours, and we'll all go down to get Faringalia Phantasmagoria from the Reavers' headquarters. We'll have this settled before dawn." After the other two nodded, the Count turned to depart.

Alan rose from his own chair, and moved to follow. He hadn't got more than a few steps, however, before an elegant, cool hand slipped up to his shoulder. Despite his sharp senses, he hadn't heard the maid move, hadn't heard so much as click of those heels as she moved up behind him. It only made it more obvious that her usual footsteps were just for show, or for a tease.

"Alan, wait." Daphne's voice purred out against his ear. 

He did stop, and her body pressed against his own. Even through the supple leather he wore under his cloak, he could feel the soft pressure of her firm breasts against his back, the faint brush of her hip against his rear end. The hand at his shoulder descended down toward his chest, slipping the smooth skin of her arm over his shoulder. Her other hand descended to trace her long, sharp nails along his side, and then to his abs. Muted as her touch was through the night-woven leather, it was still as sensual as ever.

"We need to get ready," Alan's protest was soft, and yet he remained still as her dextrous hands roamed his body.

"You're already ready, and I'll just grab a few knives on the way out." Her breath played over his neck, eliciting a shiver that quickly traversed the length of his spine. The elf maid's hands continued to toy with him, raking her nails back and forth across his leather-bound chest, while her other hand toyed in a slow spiral over his belly. Gradually, that lower touch descended, her fingers moved inexorably toward the clasp of his trousers. "If you go in inflamed with passion and need and hate, you'll make mistakes, Alan. You know this to be true." This time her full, moist lips grazed the lobe of his ear.

Daphne's teasing had Alan's breath quickening. He spoke another protest, just as his own hand descended to rest over hers, stopping it as it reached the buttons of his snug leggings, "You're not helping on the need issue, Daphne."

"Oh but I am," the elven woman cooed into his ear, and one stockinged leg came up, hooking at his hip, rubbing luxuriously along his own side, the heel traced against his own limb. The distraction was enough for her to slip her hand from his, and easily work the buttons of his fly open, "You need this Alan."

"Not with you, Daphne." The words were softer now, and he closed his eyes. His form remained standing still, so she could remain balanced, pressed against his back. A moment's hesitation followed, and then his trembling fingers descended, not to her hand, but rather to the thigh pressed against his hip. He traced his touch over her stockinged limb, just below that garter. She was as soft as he remembered, as smooth as those fingers recalled. She hadn't aged a day, but that wasn't really a surprise.

The elf pressed her moist lips against his neck, so he could feel as a smile spread across them. "If not me, then who?" The words were hardly over a whisper, and her lips played over his skin with each syllable. "Even if all goes perfectly tonight," her hand slipped into those leather trousers, slipping along bared flesh under his waistline, "you know she won't be in a position to give you release for many more nights. Not after what you saw." Daphne's fingers were warmed by the contact with his heated flesh, and soon curled gently about his cock. Slowly she began to stroke his length, fishing him out of those leggings. 

"You're a bitch, Daphne." It was all he could offer, as his eyes closed. It had been so long since he had felt her touch. The idea of what she was was the farthest thing from Alan's mind at that moment. His breathing quickened, and he laid his head aside, exposing his neck to her lips. His hand played slowly along her thigh, curling under to grip just behind the knee, before his strong hand glided upward. Those fingers trailed in a caress along the back of the elf woman's leg, first over the soft lace stocking, then further up, along skin so smooth that it would put the finest silk to shame. The rest of her body was still so cool to the touch.

Daphne laughed, and then those lush lips closed just at the corner of Alan's jaw. The kiss was subtle, suckling and teasing all at once. Her tongue darted over his flesh, tasting him for the first time in years. Her still breasts squashed against his firm back as she closed their contact further. Her hips gave a little grind as she felt his hand, pressing her damp core against his hip, separated as they were by layers of fabric and leather. The hand at his chest dug in further, so those sharp nails threatened to press right through the leather. The elf's other hand was far more gentle, stroking along his length, thumb gliding along that hot flesh. She curled her fingers so the knuckles stroked along the underside of his cock with each movement of her hand, then once more shifted so those fingers wrapped about his growing length. Her wrist gave a little flick as she stroked him gradually faster, her palm so utterly smooth.

His chest heaved with deeper breaths, and Alan managed to moan out in a low, rumbling tone, "Lizzy... will be pissed." His hips bucked to the movement of the elf woman's hand. The grasp he had on her thigh shifted upward, caressing along bared flesh and under her skirt, only to grip her hip firmly. His other hand reached back to grasp at her hair, still held pinned as it was. 

A few drops escaped his tip, which she quickly moved to gather up, only to swipe it back down along his length, providing some lubrication. It encouraged her, her hand moved faster still, and when his grasp found her hip, she ground herself against him from behind. "Only if you tell her," Her own words rose in a teasing moan. She began to squeeze his long cock with each movement of her hand, aiming it downward, toward where her stockinged leg wrapped about his. The tug at her own hair had her laughing again, and she closed her lips about his earlobe, catching it between her sharp incisors.

It had been a long day. A day full of teasing and trouble, a day full of stress and anxiety. Perhaps the elf was right, perhaps he did need release. Despite her words, Alan wished beyond anything that it was anyone else stroking him off at that moment, any other woman pressed so firmly against his heated body. Even the whore Pryce would have been preferable, for a number of reasons. But in all his years and of all the women he'd met in his youthful travels, only one could play his body as well as his wife. And that one woman was currently wrapped about his body, her hand about him. 

"Come on Alan, release for me," Daphne's voice teased over his thoughts as surely as her breath played over the pulse of his neck. "We don't have all night." Her stroking hand put more pressure on him with each, teasing stroke, tight then loose, then tight again. Her tongue played down his neck toward his shoulder. There was the scrape of her sharp, sharp teeth over his skin, then the close of those succulent lips to sooth the sting. Her leg drew up, pressing between his knees a bit, rising so that the stockinged surface of her limb brushed against his rigid member.

When he came, Daphne drew her hand quickly from Alan's chest, just to press lightly on the back of his head. She made him watch as she milked his cock with her still moving hand, urging that pent up release in thick torrents. His seed jetted in thick ropes over the white lace of her stocking. Soaking in, glistening on the visible flesh beneath. She continued to stroke him for long moments, until she was certain he had finished. A soft laugh bubbled from her lips as she lowered her leg, letting his spend slowly drip down along her lean limb, creeping its way through the fine lace. With her hand still on his cock, she stepped to stand before him. Her lips were so close to the old thief's as she spoke, catching his gaze with her own. "As lovely as ever, Alan." 

Alan stared into those eyes, then down at her lips. His hands finally regained their strength, and he placed them on her shoulders. His intent was not to draw her forward, but rather to keep her at arm's length. "I'm going to regret taking you along with me, aren't I?" His words were still breathless as he recovered himself.

Daphne just smiled, then gently wiped his tip off with her fingers, gathering the last of his fluids. Before Alan's eyes, she lifted her two fingers and thrust them between her own lips. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked them clean, pumping her own fingers between those plump lips. A flick of her tongue coursed over her digits as she drew them back. And then her hands resumed their gentle touch, tucking his softening member back, fastening the buttons of that fly up. "Do you ever regret anything about me, Alan?"

"All the time, all my life."

"Then I'm sure you're used to it. Best get moving, apparently I do need to slip into something a little more... appropriate." Another teasing smile graced those exotic features, and the elven woman stepped toward the door, and out into the hall.

This was going to be a difficult night. 



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 03



The procession would not have seemed out of place in the old days, even in the darkest hours of night. The warrior Vick Varonne, in gleaming plate mail, his helmet tucked under one arm and his hand and a half sword hung at his hip, very nearly dragging to the ground. A cloak was slung about his shoulders, then pinned close to his back by his lion's head shield. The metal was worked to resemble a snarling lion, with the mane flared out to cover most of the surface of the metal. Always first to battle, always leading the way, Vick stood proud in front. 

Behind him, Daphne was as devastating as ever. Her long, lustrous hair hung unbound, a cascade of night about her slender form. Her tanned flesh was squeezed into the tight embrace of black leathers. More supple than the ones Alan Tinsley wore, they were fitted to her body. Flashes of smooth, tanned flesh were visible here and there: at her shoulders, a thin strip across her midriff, and just the slightest glimpse of her thighs between where the fall of her pleated leather skirt didn't quite cover the tops of her thigh high, stiletto heeled, black leather boots. Long black gloves covered her dextrous hands, and a pair of viciously curved daggers crisscrossed one another in sheaths at the small of her back. Within one hand a short hunting bow of black lacquered wood and layered sinew was held, already strung, and slung over one shoulder was a quiver with perhaps a dozen black fletched arrows.

Then came Alan Tinsley. Perhaps the least obtrusive of the bunch by design, his own lean frame was draped about with his worn travel cloak. It concealed the dark leathers beneath, patches of strange tanned hide that seemed to shift with the shadows, when the material was visible from time to time it could hardly be told from the darkness of night itself. Beneath that cloak, a gloved hand rested upon the hilt of his short bladed sword, as if he expected ambush at any moment.

It was like something out of the old days, the night air still fresh from the earlier rain, the moon glimmered down from above, and there Alan was looking at a perfectly peaceful stroll down to the old haunt as a potential spot to get his ass kicked. He thought he left these days far behind. Nervous glances into the shadows of each alley and side-street they passed revealed nothing threatening.

Of course, it wasn't all like the old days. He was much grayer, Vick was much fatter, and Daphne? Well she hadn't aged a day. Even an elf should have earned an extra strand or two of gray. But then, they all knew the reason why she was as fresh as ever. Then there was the matter of their tail. Two guards from the Count's estate followed like eager dogs. Fresh faced and just out of training, from the looks of them, Alan wasn't certain what the two boys would do if they encountered any real resistance.

"Are they really necessary?" Alan near hissed the question, which was met only with a laugh.

"It would look more suspicious if I went out after dark without an escort. Don't you agree? Just relax old friend, this city isn't like it was under the Usurper."

"Both of you should spend more time paying attention to your surroundings," Daphne's words had an unexpected edge, "We've had a tail for almost three blocks now."

Alan cast his gaze about without moving his head, trying to catch some sign of their so called pursuer. "I don't see anyone," He finally admitted.

"Behind you and to your left, about a hundred feet back."

That was disturbingly and unnecessarily close for a night with no crowds to hide amongst. Alan lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, and took the opportunity to glance back over his shoulder. There was no one he could see, but, "A rat."

"Yeah. It's been following us purposefully." The elf maid did not seem amused. "And it's not one of mine."

"Still hanging out with vermin, Daph?" Vick's merry voice rose with more volume than either Daphne or Alan were comfortable with. Both winced as he continued in that same tone, "I guess it takes a parasite to know a parasite."

Daphne frowned, but thought better of voicing her rejoinder. 

Ahead, there was the familiar sight of the old tavern the company had purchased long ago. Even before they were an official group, the founding members of the Reavers had always taken their drinks there. When the old man who owned the place retired, it seemed only natural that they pool their money and purchase it. Ever since, it had been the headquarters of the Reavers, providing a place to stay and rest between adventures, a steady source of income for the operations of the adventuring company during hard times, and a ready source of rumors from travelers passing through. 'Reavers' Rest -- Food, Drink, Lodging', the sign outside proclaimed, and outside there were stone statues of the seven members that had been current during the usurpation crisis. A low stone wall surrounded the inn yard, separating it from the city streets by some distance. 

A lone figure in a long, hooded cloak plucked the strings of a lute as he sat upon the wall. Dressed in forest greens, neither Vick nor Alan had seen the man before. His head was covered, but the dark goatee upon his smiling features was definitely not something either was familiar with. As the group came into view, the hooded man slipped from the wall and sauntered over, still plucking a mournful tune from that instrument. Soft soled boots creaked lightly under each step, and a single, elegant broad sword with a basket hilt swing against his thigh with each step. Tall and lean, the purpose of his approach was unclear to any of them.

Vick slowed his own pace, then stopped, while Alan and Daphne stepped in to either side. All three let hands rest upon their own weapons. The curious minstrel approached to within a dozen yards, before he called forth in a voice as clear as the tones which he drew from the strings of his instrument. "Alan Tinsley, I presume?"

The gray haired thief nodded cautiously, "I take it we're expected then?" His hard eyes looked the fellow over. Dark hair, hidden features, but yet he didn't look that old. Alan got the feeling he was missing something, though. "You don't look like any of the Reavers I know."

A smile lit the stranger's face, "That's because I'm not. I've been sent to delay your task tonight."

At the admission, Vick's sword was instantly in his hands, the gleaming length of his enchanted blade flew from its scabbard. The shining metal glowed with an infernal heat, and the mystic writing along its length shone with a baleful red light. Daphne's own daggers were draw, little razors held in delicate hands that somehow seemed far more threatening than either the woman's stature or their own relatively modest side would suggest. Alan alone left his sword in its sheathe, even when other figures began to come forth from alleys about them.

Alan counted eight of them. Four from behind, two from the cross street between them and the Reaver's Rest, and there upon the rooftops of buildings adjacent, one on each side of the street, drawing up bows to hand. Their forms were silhouetted against the night sky, but at least the ones at street level could be seen more clearly. There was a single lamp stuck on a high post by the roadside, and its soft yellow light shone down on rough fellows garbed in thick black cloaks, forms clad in thicker leather hauberks sewn with rough iron rings. Crude armor for crude men, but cheap at that. They held long, jagged swords in two hands, and Alan could only guess the ones approaching from behind wielded the same. The rat that had been spotted earlier walked a few paces behind the men circling their rear, definitely not a normal animal.

"What's your name, stranger?" Vick's growl finally broke the silence, and his focus was fixed upon the minstrel.

"Stranger. I like that. You may certainly call me that if you wish." It was exactly the sort of answer that got under Vick's skin, as if it had been rehearsed.

"Lord Varonne, the inn is right there. If we make enough effort, we can push right through to it," Daphne's plan was sensible as ever, but it seemed to make little difference to the increasingly agitated warrior.

Alan wasn't convinced. Three before them, four plus whatever that rat was behind them, it felt like they were being shepherded toward the Reaver's Rest, rather than away from it. There could be any number of reasons, but one immediately sprang to mind. "Take out the damned minstrel."

"On it," Vick and Daphne spoke in unison, and then all hell broke loose. 

The two archers loosed their readied shots just as Vick raised his helm up to place on his head. Mere inches before his eyes, the arrow impacted Vick's helm as he raised it, glancing off with a spark. It was enough to give the old warrior pause, and he pointed his sword up to that archer. "I'm coming after you next, bitch!" He bellowed out, just as he stuffed his helm down on his balding head.

"How do you know it's a bitch?" Daphne quipped, even as she began her forward dash. "Maybe it's a bastard?" Her voice rose even with the steady clack of her heels on the cobblestone as she charged forth.

The second arrow whistled down toward Alan as he whirled on the ones approaching from behind. His right hand drew his short bladed sword, and there was a resounding clink as he slashed it upward toward the arrow bound toward him, striking it out of the air with the same fluid motion of blade leaving scabbard. The fact that the deflected arrow very nearly struck him anyway was not lost on him, just as it swished through the air behind his head. He was indeed getting too old for this. As the four thugs that had circled behind them approached with sword's drawn, Alan dived for the one on the far left. Sliding low as he passed to the very left of the blade wielding thug, his leather boots skidded on the cobblestone street. The old thief gave an upward thrust with that short sword as he dropped to one knee, driving the point of his own blade up into the man's side, just below the ribs. A quick thrust and twist sent the man staggering sideways into his companions.

With dual daggers drawn, the elf maid Daphne moved faster than either the ruffians before them or the stranger in green seemed to be ready for. With a dagger in each hand, she slashed at the man on the right, which the fellow easily dodged. Her left hand swung upward, only to lay a scratch across the ruffian's forearm. The fellow she'd cut laughed in her face, "That all you got, sweet-" His face fell in mid sentence, as the burning fire of whatever venom had coated Daphne's blade spread upward along his limb. He began to scream.

Vick, in his lumbering armor, was less quick than his companions, yet the steady tramp of his boots and jingle of his mail picked up speed. Daphne had opened the way toward the minstrel, but Vick wasn't too keen on receiving a blade in the back, so as he began his charge, he shifted his sword to a firm two handed grip. Swinging the blade upward from a point down arc, Vick Varonne's slash was intercepted in mid swing by the thug's own sword. And then after the cheap steel shattered, by the thug's arm. Then his torso. Cleaving through the thug entirely, the corpulent Count shoulder checked the man's body, and a manic grin crossed his features. It had been ages since he'd felt that.

The two guards who had accompanied the trio spun in place, then braced their own weapons, long halberds. They visibly trembled as they looked to their oncoming enemies. It was only their devotion to their Count which kept them from breaking away.

In but a few seconds, they'd lost three men, but some sort of fervor was driving the thugs. Perhaps it was fear of failing whomever had sent them, or perhaps it was the music that until that point had still been rising from the minstrel's instrument. Regardless, they pressed the attack. The two that Vick and Alan had struck fell to the ground, while the man Daphne had poisoned stumbled back. He clutched his now limp arm and screamed as the venom coursed through his system.

The three thugs still facing Alan moved to surround him, swords still drawn against the old thief. One slashed in an arc that betrayed his own inexperience, easily allowing the gray haired rogue to roll to the right, while the second one's slash landed. The impact cut through Alan's cloak, and into the midnight hue leathers he wore beneath. There was no blood from the slash, however, for it seemed the stiff leather was enough to spare the old thief the worst of the wound. The third man had better luck, and cut a narrow and shallow slash across Alan's bicep, sending searing pain along that taut muscle.

In the background, the rat that had been watching the chaos began to shift and squeak. Squeaks turned to screeches as the rat's bones cracked. Muscles shifted under dark fur, and the rat began to grow larger. It was enough to draw Alan's attention from his own battle. He watched in horror as the rat's limbs grew longer, its body sleeker. Soon paws turned to clawed hands and feet that had more in common with a human, and the furry monstrosity was easily five feet tall.

"Shifter!" Alan called off to his friends, though they had their own trouble at that moment.

The minstrel stepped back a few paces as he watched his fellows cut down, closer to the wall of the tavern beyond. He stopped his playing, swinging his lute to rest over one shoulder by its strap. He didn't look frightened, in fact a dark grin crossed his features. His eyes gleamed in the little reflected lamplight that managed to penetrate the shadows of his hood, and a dextrous hand slipped to a pouch tethered at his waist. Clutching a fist full of holly leaves and mistletoe, the minstrel fixed his gaze on the oncoming Varonne, and began to speak in the Old Tongue. Varonne's charge slowed, but there was little he could do. His armor and his sword flashed brightly, and began to heat up.

The archers, still with a fair view of the battle below, both took aim. This time, two arrows streaked down toward Daphne. The first missed by a hair's breadth, snapping her attention away from Varonne's gruesome charge. As the elf maid turned her eyes up to the first archer, the second archer's arrow struck her right in the head. She stumbled forward from the impact, and then, with an arrow still stuck out of the back of her head, Daphne whipped around to face the second archer. Those eyes that so many had thought beautiful fixed upon that archer with a feral intensity.

A soft gasp rose from the rooftop archer that Daphne's gaze transfixed, and the figure rose. Slender and willowy, her form was outlined against the sky fully. She threw down her bow, as her eyes remain fixed on the elf's. Daphne sheathed one dagger, then reached up and yanked the arrow out of her own skull, before she dropped it to the floor. The wound rapidly began to close itself up, until it appeared as though it had never happened. Only the faint stain of blood along her luxurious hair would tell the tale. Daphne raised that hand back up, and crooked her finger, beckoning the archer. As if in a daze, the woman on the rooftop began to walk toward the elf, and right off of the rooftop. She hit the ground with a meaty thud, and lay still.

His charge broken, Vick cursed and wheezed as he approached the minstrel. His armor began to steam, as did the sword in his hands. Perhaps it was the growing discomfort from the heating metal, but his next swing was a bit slow. The stranger in green danced backward out of reach, and then again as Vick took a lurching step froward, bringing his sword in a two handed over-head hack. The tip of the blade bit into the pavement mere inches from the stranger's feet.

Alan raised his short sword to parry another sword blade, then turned toward the rat shifter. He threw his shoulder into one of the thugs surrounding him, bowling the man over, and then looked over to the two guards who had accompanied them. They had leveled their halberds at the rat monstrosity, and began to give clumsy thrusts toward it, poking at the beast with the pointy tips. The old rogue paused long enough to thrust his blade down into the chest of the man he'd knocked over, then shouted at the guards, "Run!"

It was to no avail, the next poke brought a sudden lash out of the rat creature's paw, which wrapped about one of those halberds. When his weapon was tugged forward, the inexperienced guard stumbled forth. It was to be his doom. The rat-man lunged forward in that moment, and brutally closed its jaws about the young guard's throat. With a crack and a gurgle, the young man's body went limp.

The thugs, down to just three, blinked their eyes in confusion. The music was gone, their companions lay dead or dying, and more importantly, one of their targets had just taken an arrow to her head and remained standing. The two remaining near Alan backed carefully away at first, then turned tail to begin to run into the darkness. The remaining archer crept back along the rooftop perch, into the shadows.

"Well well, you are more capable than I was told," the stranger in green spoke with a smile. "I only hope that when I am as old and fat as you are, I will be half as effective." Stepping back from Varonne's repeated sword strokes, the minstrel seemed intent on egging the Count on. He still hadn't drawn his own sword, as if he were playing with them. "We shall meet again, I promise," His voice rang with laughter, just as he lowered his hand to retrieve a finely decorated horn hanging from his belt. The stranger lifted it to his lips, and blew.

A long, low tone was produced from the horn, and a thick fog billowed forth, blinding Vick and surrounding him and the minstrel in the mists. Daphne cursed, calling forth, "Vick! Get out of there!"

"I know, woman!" the old Count stumbled back out of the fog. He threw his smoldering sword to the ground as he reappeared, and tugged at the straps to his armor hurriedly. "Help me get this off, damn it, the little bastard enchanted my steel somehow."

Alan looked back to where his companions struggled at Vick's armor, then frowned. The second guard began to retreat from the were-rat, and Alan didn't need more prompting. He stepped forth between the beast and the youth, bringing his short sword to bear. "A single scratch and these things can infect you, be careful." He warned the boy more to get him out of the way than for any real fear of the beast's bite.

Facing off against the rat, Alan expected another attack, but none came. Rather a confused look crossed the beast's features. The snarl that had seemed so fixed upon its jaws dropped to a sleepy pout, and its eyes half closed. And then, then Alan heard her voice. Soft, sweet, lazy, it was almost enough to make him drowsy as well.

"There there, your friends are gone, it's useless to fight," Her voice drifted from the shadowed alley nearby, "Why don't you just run away? Turn and head back home. It's useless to die here."

"Useless to die here," the ratman droned in response to the slightly high pitched voice and its droning tone. Slowly, the monster turned and began to step away from Alan. 

For a moment, Alan was tempted to end the creature with a quick thrust, but he knew enough to realize it likely wouldn't be so simple. Likewise, if he failed, it would break the spell the creature appeared to be under. Instead, he turned his gaze to where Daphne was quickly helping Vick strip out of his armor. The Count was burned by the contact with that armor, and was already red in the face from his exertions. But it looked like he would live.

A tiny hand brushed Alan's knee, drawing his gaze in that direction, and then down. Further down still, until finally that shock of unkempt fiery red hair came into view. She was maybe waist high to him, with pale skin and a broad face. Her nose was large, her eyes a piercing green, and her lips were dusted with a glistening red. She wore her multicolored robes loose, tied at the waist and with the front only barely closed over her ample chest, giving anyone with a height advantage a clear view down the creamy swells of her cleavage, which was just about anybody. As the gnome gazed up to him, she seemed so earnest, so worried. She was actually quite a pretty little thing for one of her stature.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 03



"Oh my gosh, you're hurt, Sir Tinsley! Did I not get here in time? Oh I knew I should have come immediately when I heard the commotion, but we were having a contest to see which of us could put away the most tankards of Jolsten's Stout, and I had my money on Fexx, so I wanted to see if he'd pull off an upset, and you know how Mister Marcus is with 'forgetting' to pay out if you aren't right there, so I had to stay. And it looked like Fexx was going to do it too, but just as they got into the home stretch he threw up all over the place, and some even got into Lindsey's hair, and she ran around screaming, so while that was all going on I thought I'd come out and see what all the fuss was about, but then I just saw this bank of fog appear from no where, so I decided to sneak around the side, and I saw you and that wererat..."

And there was the headache. Alan lifted his hand and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. It was enough to make him forget the slash that still seeped blood down his own arm. "That's quite alright Faringalia. I'll live. We need to get Count Varonne in and tended to, he's been burned."

"Oh no! Well he's in luck because Charity just came back from her expedition to Northwing, did you know she fought a dra-"

"The Count, burned. We can talk about things later Faringalia," Alan cut Phantasmagoria off as he often did, then turned to advance wearily toward Vick and Daphne. The gnome woman padded along on sandal clad feet in his wake, gazing out at the bodies they passed. She was still chattering away, but Alan could hardly be bothered to listen. By now, the bank of fog had largely cleared, and as expected, the stranger was gone.

Alan crouched near Vick, "You going to be alright, old man?"

The Count nodded, "Yeah, it'll take a bit more than some pansy bard to end me."

"And you, Daphne? You took a pretty bad hit."

The elf looked paler than she had. Much of that robust tan was gone, but it only left her looking more haunting in the mixture of moonlight and lamplight. "Nothing you can't help me with, Alan." She traced the tip of her tongue over her lips, and gazed to him hungrily.

"You never stop, do you Daphne?" Alan sighed. "Come on, let's go. We need to get these wounds tended to. Then we can explain to Faringalia what's going on." As much as he hated to delay the rescue, he knew they'd need to be in top shape to carry on. He cast one last look back across the carnage in the street. Already the sound of the city guard approaching could be heard in the distance. He didn't mind leaving their assailants there so much, they'd deserved it, but the boy from the Count's service. That stung. The poor bastard had probably gone his whole life without so much as seeing a monster like that, then went and got offed by one. It was a real shame.

Daphne nodded, then moved to help Alan lift Vick to his feet. It was fortunate she was so much stronger than she looked. As Vick's discarded armor glowed cherry red on the pavement, Faringalia watched it with curiosity.

"It should cool down in a few minutes. We'll have someone come out and collect it," she finally decided. By the time she looked up, the other three were already stumbling into the tavern. "Wait for me!" The gnome squeaked as she ran to catch up with the three.

It didn't take that long to get their wounds tended to, and not much longer to explain the situation to Faringalia. She wasn't the only spellcaster the Reavers could claim now, but she was the most capable one present in the headquarters on a regular basis. After hearing what had befallen Elizabeth, the gnome girl agreed without hesitation to accompany them. Although there were plenty of others available there as well, most of them believed that raiding the thieves' guild was beyond their abilities, and frankly Alan was inclined to agree.

The best piece of news, however, was when one of the serving girls said something about needing to clear up 'Master Steelwright's room'. Apparently, old Garthur was due to arrive in town sometime that day.

"We have to wait and ask him." Vick had voiced his opinion immediately, "I know he'll be willing to help."

"I can't stand Elizabeth being abused any longer than I can help."

"Alan, I know it must be tearing your heart out here, but you've seen what we're up against. That minstrel must have been hired by Devron, and that wererat can't be the only one they have lurking around. Elizabeth's a strong woman, she'll be able to endure."

"The minstrel said something about delaying us. He didn't say he was there to stop us. Just delay us. Delay us how long?" Alan tried not to sound frightened, but he couldn't hide it from someone he'd known as long as Vick.

"Pull yourself together man. It won't do Elizabeth or anyone any good if you just run in and get yourself killed. It's also very late. You don't want to be in the midst of infiltrating the place, only to have dawn come up on us."

Alan frowned at that statement, "What does dawn have to do with anything?"

"You're the one who wanted the damned elf along, you figure it out." Vick near spat the words, but quickly calmed himself, "Look, I didn't mean anything by it Alan. You know if she is hurt, you'll want someone who can help her, and Garthur-"

"Garthur's the only one I'd trust, you're right." Alan rested his head in his hands. "So we wait through tomorrow, set out as soon as night falls."

"That's the plan."

Alan pushed himself up and started toward the stairs. "I need to get some rest then." By then, Daphne had already disappeared with some servant girl, and Vick was flanked by a barmaid on one side, and the studious priestess Charity on the other, although Charity's attentions seemed focused on the faint glow of healing blessings that radiated from her hands. Vick said nothing more, just watched his old friend go.

Alan ascended the stairs quietly, then gazed out from the balcony over the common room. The Reaver's Rest hadn't really changed over the years. Solid wood construction with a cozy atmosphere. The guest rooms were on the first and second floors, though most were on the second. A grand bar dominated the common room below, and a few barmaids still dashed back and forth even at this late hour. Light came primarily from the hearth and a pair of hanging iron chandeliers overhead, the latter of which were riddled with numerous candles. The walls were decorated with trophies gathered by those who fought under their banner over the years, mostly from Alan's time, although a few impressive specimens had been added in recent years. There was a wyvern head mounted in the rafters that he hadn't known about, and an impressive one at that. Maybe the slump their little adventuring company had been going through in recent years had come to an end.

The patronage seemed more diverse than Alan remembered it from the last time he had visited. Back in their heyday, the Reavers had attracted guests from all over the kingdom, wanting to commission them for jobs, trying to join them, or simply wanting to be seen in public in their company. In recent years that had dwindled, until the tavern mostly served adventurers that were on the rolls of the Reavers and a few stubborn elderly locals who had been hanging about since the previous owners. That night, aside from the crowd around where the Count was being treated, Alan counted numerous faces he didn't recognize even at that late hour. A good number didn't have that 'adventurer' look: short tempered, scarred, and armed to the teeth. Indeed, a number of them appeared to be merchants and travelers.

Alan's usual room was at the end of the hall, and so he advanced slowly along. His hand trailed over the railing as he watched the crowd below. It was so nostalgic it was almost heart rending. He wished he was twenty or thirty years younger, to be out and about with sword in hand once more, except without the ever present threat of Jaron Daar looming over his shoulder.

A soft moan drew Alan's attention to a room nearby. The door was ajar, and through it he could easily see the two forms upon the bed within. His breath caught as his gaze drifted over their forms. Smooth legs slid along smooth legs, as the woman on top pressed her toned thigh up between those of the woman below. Her ass was bare, those succulent curves tight as ever, and her back was arched to allow the flat of her belly to press against that of the servant girl. Full, plump breasts pressed to a softer set just as large, and their movements caused peaked nipples to drag lightly against the other woman's. A long nailed hand rubbed gently at the nape of the servant woman's neck, and although Daphne's dark locks cascaded down, they did little to conceal the way her lips near devoured the other woman's. 

The servant woman drew one of her own hands down the elf's spine, while her own smooth thighs parted. Another whimpered moan was offered up as the kiss broke, and she arched her back, pressing her body up against Daphne's lean, nude form. There was a quick dart of Daphne's tongue along the woman's lips, and then the elf's keen eyes drifted up to catch Alan's. Daphne fixed her gaze upon his, and a wicked smile crossed her intoxicating features. She raked her hand through the servant girl's brown hair, drawing it aside to bare the woman's neck.

Alan reached out a trembling hand to grasp the handle of the door, just as Daphne's lips descended to the other woman's neck. He pulled it shut, cutting off his view just as that soft, startled gasp rose from within the room. The old rogue lay his head against the door-frame, as he worked to steady the race of his pulse. It wasn't like the elf to leave herself so exposed unless she wanted to be seen, that much he knew. 

As he turned from the door, Alan was in for another start, for there, standing between himself and his room, was the white clad form of Charity. A disapproving frown lingered on her lips, though in truth, Alan had never known the priestess to wear any other expression for long. A few years older than his Elizabeth, the priestess was still at her peak, with long blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, and soft brown eyes that seemed to brim with compassion, even when her expression did not. She always clad herself in whites, and tonight was no different. A simple shawl hung about her slender shoulders, and beneath was that high collared, long sleeved dress of hers. A modest cut, it did nothing to hide the broad swell of her bust, or where her waist tucked in. She was fit, but she wasn't waspish as Daphne. Her hips flared out, outlined by the fall of those long white skirts, but the contours of her legs were only hinted at when she walked. Ankle length, only a hint of her soft white slippers could be seen from time to time as she stepped forth.

"I still don't understand why you keep her alive."

Alan sighed, "This again? Charity, you know the arrangement. She surrendered to Vick and agreed to be his servant until he released her."

The priestess walked right toward Alan, then delicately set one hand on his chest. Her hands were sheathed in white kidskin and felt so warm, so gentle against him. "She enjoys tormenting you, Sir Tinsley."

Alan looked to her eyes, then his hand lifted to take hers. "I can deal with the torment, Charity. We're just honoring our agreement not to kill her."

"I don't like to see you tormented," Charity's voice fell, as did her expression. It startled Alan to see that disapproval melt away into something almost vulnerable. "Sir Tinsley, if you do not mind me saying so, I think that you find her tempting. That is why you cannot destroy her."

Alan frowned at the priestess's words, and looked away. Charity lifted her free hand to cradle his cheek, and drew his gaze back to hers. He stared into those big brown eyes of hers for a moment, in silence.

"It is alright, Sir Tinsley, it is in man's nature to be tempted by things he desires. If that were not the case, evil would have few tools at its disposal. I just worry for you, Sir Tinsley, every time I see you, my heart aches for you."

The wording brought Alan's brow to raise, "What was that?"

The blush that crossed the priestess's features was instantaneous and deep, turning her normally fair complexion almost cherry. "It's just... just that, with your situation, I want the best for you, Sir Tinsley. You are a good man despite your past, you deserve it."

Alan gave her hand a light squeeze, before finally releasing it. "Charity, I've known you since you were just a small girl running around the temple, hoping one day to become an acolyte. I keep telling you that you can call me Alan."

Charity's blush only intensified, coursing down her slender neck to contrast with the white of her dress. "I... that wouldn't be proper. You are a titled noble now, Sir Tin-"

He cut her words off by the application of a single fingertip to her soft, moist lips, shushing her with the movement. "Alan," the old rogue spoke firmly.

The priestess left those warm lips in contact with his finger perhaps a bit too long, but finally she turned her gaze back up, watching him through thick lashes. "Alan," she breathed the word out, as if savoring the way it tasted as she spoke it. When she saw the kind smile light his features in response, a soft, nervous giggle rose, and her cheeks burned all the brighter.

Alan nodded to the priestess. "Well Charity, that's better. And... and I understand your concerns. To tell the truth, I do find Daphne tempting. Damned tempting."

The blush remained, though Charity's expression grew more solemn. Her hand returned to his cheek mere moments after having dropped away, and once more her other hand rested on his chest. "Why does she tempt you, Sir T... Alan? Is it her darkness, her naughtiness?"

The old rogue's brow furrowed as he regarded the priestess. He tilted his head to lean into the warm, gloved hand at his cheek, "A bit of both, I'm afraid."

The white clad woman swallowed nervously, then nodded. "So you like naughty women?" As if she were trying to understand. "Even though you are married?"

"Who said my wife isn't naughty in her own way?" He said it jokingly, trying to reason out the priestess's motives, but immediately regretted it when he saw her blush return, and her head duck. When he parted his lips to speak again, this time it was her finger that shushed him, resting delicately across his lips. The hand at his chest fell, just to clasp over his. With a light tug, she led Alan onward. At first he was confused, but then saw she was tugging him with the gentlest of movements toward his own room. Pushing the door open with the curve of her rear, she drew him in.

The interior was dark, save for the light of the moon shining through the window. The furnishings were simple, just the way he liked them. A large bed, a simple wardrobe, a tub in one corner, and a single all purpose table with a couple chairs. Better than the common chambers, not as regal as the noble guest rooms.

As the door shut with a click, Alan tried to speak again. Again that gloved finger reached to shush him, lingering upon his lips. The priestess gave a shy look up to him, then slowly, hesitantly stepped in toward him. She seemed uncertain at the proximity, but then her lean form pressed up against his, leaning into him. One of her hands came to rest at his waist, the other lifted to run through his graying locks. She was soft, oh so soft and warm. The warmth was a pleasant contrast to how chill Daphne had been earlier in the night.

"What are you doing, Charity?" His words came out gently, as if afraid to break her with just the wrong tone.

The priestess ducked her head, and rested her forehead against his chest. Then she spoke in a soft, almost squeak of a voice, "Being naughty."

This time, when Alan tried to speak, it wasn't a finger that caught him short, but the soft press of those full lips. Charity lifted her head and kissed him gently. It was the clumsiest kiss he'd ever been given, but it seemed she poured her whole heart and soul into it, standing on tiptoe to press her form against his, her breasts to his chest, the hand within his hair glided to the nape of his neck. Alan rested his hands lightly on her wide hips, then returned the kiss slowly. Gradually, she seemed to pick up on what to do, and soon her tongue darted out to lightly flick over his lips.

When the kiss broke, Alan looked to her eyes. Charity spoke in a soft tone, gazing into his own eyes, "It is not just men who may be tempted."

The old rogue took a deep breath to steady his nerves. It was full of her, she smelled of candle wax and incense, of dusty books and quiet halls, if such a thing had a scent. "Charity, you don't have to-"

"Don't have to what? Be naughty?" She breathed the words out, as her eyes closed. "Alan, tomorrow night you go into danger, with questionable allies. I want, just once, to touch you." Her hand laid on his chest, then slid down slowly, along his tight torso, she traced over his abdomen through that midnight leather.

"Your vows... and my wife. Charity, I don't want you to break anything just for this."

Her hand continued down, and she traced delicate fingers along his waistband. "I can't do a lot of things Alan, even at my... naughtiest. But there is one thing I can do, Alan. One thing I've wanted to do for you for a long, long time." Each time the priestess said his name, she positively moaned it out, and then she began to descend, sinking to her knees.

Alan rested his hands gingerly on her shoulders, just as she knelt before him. Her long skirts pooled about her legs, her hair remained tied back as tight as ever. He simply gazed down at her without comprehension, at least until her deft fingers began to undo the buttons of his fly. "Charity," he gasped out.

Her brown eyes gazed up along his body, "Hush, Alan. Let me do this. I want to do this. But please, I've never done this before," her tone was pleading, even as her gloved hand slipped into those leggings, soon finding his rigid member. He was hard, ever so hard. "I've only read about this." Her fingers stroked along his length, teasing him harder, while her breath washed over his hot flesh.

Alan gave her shoulders a squeeze, then a soft groan escaped him at the first touch of the priestess's tongue to his cock. Charity dragged her tongue from the head down along his length toward the base, then drew back, licking her lips. "It tastes different than I expected." Another lick followed, this time swirling about the pulsing head of his cock.

Alan's grasp on her shoulders tightened, he was sure he would leave bruising, and he leaned himself back against the door to his room. Again that delightful tongue teased over his manhood, tracing along the underside this time, from just below the tip to the base, then back up. Her gloved hand circled the base of his cock, and she began to lick it with faster, more intense strokes. He could feel the wet moisture of her tongue feverish against his hard flesh, the play of her breath over skin slicked with her saliva.

"Oh gods," Alan panted the words, which brought a frown to Charity's lips. 

"Don't take them in vain," the priestess chastised him, though the effects of her warning were perhaps not what she intended. Her lips brushed his cock with each syllable, her breath teased down its length.

Whatever amusement Alan would have found in the situation was dashed when her warm, wet lips began to engulf him. His eyes screwed shut as he stroked one hand to the back of her head. He cradled her head gently as she began to bob upon him. At first just the head of his member fit between those soft lips, then a bit more each time. Her tongue stroked up and down the underside of that shaft, just as she took more of him into her mouth with each move of her head.

The dashing old thief wondered just where she had read about what she was doing, for when the thick tip of his cock brushed the back of her throat, she swallowed him down. He went wide eyed, gazing down at that bobbing blonde head as she took his length deep into her throat. In fascination, he could do little but stare as she took more and more of him down, until her lips met about the base of his cock. One gloved hand slipped to gently cradle his sac, her fingers played lightly against his flesh.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 03



He couldn't help it, he gave a thrust of his hips, and she seemed to accept it. Soon she was moving her head masterfully, sliding almost completely off of his cock, before swallowing it back down. Faster and faster she went, the tease of her tongue played over his length, the warm constriction of her throat and lips. The hand not gently teasing him slipped back to grip his rear, giving a squeeze to one firm buttock. 

Alan's chest heaved as his breath grew rapid. His hips rolled against her lips, muscles tight as he braced himself against the door. Every so often, he gave a light push to the back of her head. She seemed to relish it. He couldn't believe it, there he was, being pleasured by a virgin priestess while his wife was suffering, and he enjoyed it. He felt so ashamed, and yet he didn't want Charity to stop for anything. "Yes," he finally panted out, "You're doing... mmph, good." He managed to pant the praise forth. It seemed to drive Charity to redouble her efforts.

The priestess swallowed his length down, and pressed her breasts against his legs. He began to spill at that moment, tensing as he came down her throat. She moaned, vibrating about his length, then swallowed around him, seeming to want to drink down his spend. For long moments she remained there, her nose pressed against him, his cock hilted between her lips. And then she pulled off. Her hand left his balls to stroke his now slick length, and she squeezed rhythmically, milking the last few jets of his seed onto her waiting tongue.

Charity drew back completely as the last few spurts came, letting them land across her innocent features. She swallowed visibly, then panted as her mouth was cleared. Still her hand moved, and Alan grasped at her hair with one hand, the other splayed out against the door to his room.

"Was... was that good?" Her voice sounded uncertain, as she gazed up at him from her position on her knees. Her face was still spattered with a few thick ropes of his cum, and it slowly oozed down along her features.

"Yes, oh yes Charity. You have no idea how good you are."

The words brought a beaming smile to her face, then the priestess leaned forward. Once more her full breasts pressed to his legs, but then her lips placed a soft, tender kiss to the tip of his softening cock.

"Thank you, Alan. I will always remember this." She breathed the words out, then gently tucked him back away within those trousers.

"I should be the one thanking you, Charity. You are incredible." He smiled softly down to her, then slowly traced his hands along her still mostly bound hair.

The priestess rose slowly, clambering to her feet. She took one glove off and raised her bared hand to wipe the sticky mess from her face. Carefully she licked her fingers clean, before she leaned to press a kiss to his chest. "Rest well, Alan. You have a big night coming up." She sounded almost sad, but he thought he could see why.

"Don't worry," His voice was reassuring, at least, "I promise I'll come back safe."

Charity beamed a smile up to him, "see that you do." And with that, she carefully moved to open the door, pausing only to lean up and brush a kiss to his cheek. As she walked out, Alan watched her go. It was surreal, after such an act, and she was back to her severe old self just like that.

Except perhaps not, for as she went, Charity looked back over her shoulder, only to blush and giggle to herself. The expression suited her. He hoped to see it more often. Alan smiled in return, then closed the door. As he turned and stretched out on the bed, he gazed up at the ceiling. He had no idea how he was going to sleep before the raid that next night.

And yet moments later, he was out like a light.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 04



As he crept through hallways that were familiar and strange all at once, Alan couldn't shake the sense of foreboding which had his heart racing. There was no explaining it, he hadn't felt like this since creeping into that dragon's lair so long ago. He couldn't remember what had transpired when they broke into the guild house, but he wasn't going to let that stop him. He knew she was in the room before him. He was certain of it.

Alan's footsteps were dead silent as he eased his lean form up toward the ornate oaken door. The pounding of his heart nearly drowned out the sounds he so dreaded to hear, but not quite. No, there was just enough getting through the muffled door and his racing pulse to torment him. The rhythmic creak of a bed shifting under the movements of those upon it, the slick slap of flesh against flesh, but perhaps worst of all was something he was all too familiar with. Soft and beautiful, there were those sounds Elizabeth made when she was truly enjoying herself. Whimpered moans, wanting little cries, gasps at a particularly solid thrust, but none sounded forced. None sounded frightened.

His hand darted forth to try the handle, but it was no use. An ominously solid lock kept the door tight. Sweat beaded on the old thief's brow as he gazed down at the yawning keyhole, but then he shook his head as if to clear it. Since when had a lock of any sort proved a barrier to him for very long at all? His toolkit was soon unrolled upon the ground, and he fell easily to one knee. Gathering a few picks from the loops of the leather wrapping, he turned to the lock. Alan froze at what he saw there.

The already overlarge keyhole yawned wider, as if inviting his gaze to linger on the scene framed within its darkness. Beyond the door, within the room, a glimpse of his wife was visible. She rode astride a form he couldn't see, save for a man's hands resting above the swells of her hips. Her flat belly undulated as she rolled her hips, rising and falling with a quick rhythm. Her long blonde hair lay in unkempt tangles down her slender back, bouncing and swaying with every rock of her hips. That pale, pristine flesh glistened with perspiration, lamplight within the room reflected off of her form from every angle. And yet he couldn't see her face no matter how he tried to angle his view through the keyhole.

It was surreal to watch. She definitely didn't seem forced. Then, as if she sensed his gaze, Elizabeth half turned, still straddling the man beneath her. Those firm, pert breasts of hers were thrust up by the arch of her back, and she lifted delicate hands to stroke over their swells, teasing long nails over the peaks of her nipples. Her wedding ring glittered in the light on one hand, the only decoration she wore. Those hands slipped down further, caressing over her own body, over the flat of her belly, and then further. One hand moved to grasp one wrist of the man she rode, and as her bucking rhythm gradually sped, she guided his hand up along her body, toward one breast. Her other slipped down between her slick thighs, disappearing from Alan's view.

"Oh! Mmh, Harder, oh yes!" Her clear, ecstatic voice snapped Alan out of his reverie. Her cries were punctuated by heaving breaths and soft gasps, and provided a distracting refrain as he set to work.

The lock yielded but slowly. It was torturous, having to hear her quite clearly willing cries, having to watch what glimpses were offered as he worked the lock. Such a device should have been done in seconds, but it seemed fiendishly resistant. At the same time the lock defied his attempts to pick it, it seemed to offer a clearer view around his tools at the scene within. The way her hair clung to her sweat slicked body, the way her breasts heaved and bounced with the increasing fervor with which the man beneath her thrust into every motion. The way her tiny hand covered the other man's larger one, and guided it up to grip one breast. Her nipples jutted forth, hard and peaked, her back arched further to offer herself to the man's grasp.

With a satisfying clunk, the lock came loose. The door swung open into the lush room beyond just in time for Alan to see his wife's head cast back. Her eyes were shut, her lush lips parted in a sharp cry. He rose to his feet as Elizabeth's body quaked with release. That sight previously reserved for him alone was now the shared experience of himself, the man on the bed, and another dark haired fellow who approached her from the opposite side of the bed. As she began to go limp, the new man wrapped his arms about her, keeping her lovely form upright.

"Lizzy!" Alan couldn't hide the despair in his voice. He stepped into the room, hands trembling with rage. "What have they done to you?"

"What do you mean, what have they done to me? What does it look like?" Her voice was teasing with laughter, and bore a cruel edge to it. "What, you think I didn't know? I saw you, Alan. I saw you playing with your little girl friends while I was here suffering. They showed me, and you know what?" Her arms lifted to circle the neck of the man behind her, while her hips continued to gently twitch against the one still buried in her body. "I decided I didn't have to suffer."

Alan grew pale at her words. "What? No, no Lizzy, it wasn't like that." But what was it like? His brow furrowed as tears threatened. When the old rogue saw the dark haired man kiss his wife's neck, he reached for his sword, only to find the scabbard empty. His eyes widened and he stared down at where the missing weapon should be, only to have his attention brought back up to his wife's laughter.

"Oh Alan, Alan. I know what I saw. But it's alright. Just keep playing with your toy girls and take your time rescuing me. I'll just be right here, having fun." 

The words were in her voice, true, but he could never remember the cruelty and malice he heard in her words. Even when she was at her angriest, it was never like this. And yet when Elizabeth leaned up to capture the lips of the man behind her with her own, Alan clenched his fists and tried to step forward. Tried, because a soft, velvet gloved hand gripped his shoulder with all of the force of an armorer's vice. It pulled him back, even as Elizabeth began to move again.

She deepened the kiss, arched to wandering hands, and once more her hips began to rock, purposefully, insatiably. A low, wanton moan rose from her chest, and then the door slammed shut before him again. Confused, Alan stared at the wood, and then a voice, grating but vaguely familiar sounded from behind him.

"Tell me, Alan, what does it feel like to watch the one you love with another?"

The old rogue was bereft of his usual calm exterior. Torn with heartbreak and rage, he whirled upon the one behind him, only to stare in shock. Those lush red curls and burning blue eyes he'd recognize anywhere, even after so many years gone to dust. She was pretty enough, but not the devastating beauty of Daphne, nor the sweet nobility of his wife. Black robes draped over smooth, freckled skin and a lean figure. That velvet gloved hand remained at his shoulder, but in her other hand she clutched the Nightmare Orb, a glistening black sphere of polished obsidian mounted on a twisted, silver claw shaped handle. It was thought destroyed years ago, but then again, so was the woman who held it now.

"Miena... but, how...?"

"Answer my question, Alan," There was no amusement in her tone, her voice demanded his answer as surely as those glistening, black painted lips did. They seemed to draw his attention from her face, from the rest of the scene about him, until he felt he could fall right into their wet, welcoming warmth. "How does it feel to watch the one you love with another?"

Alan's brows furrowed, his heart raced and pounded until it felt as if it would burst from his chest. "How... How do you think it feels? Why don't you help her? How do you even know her? You died before I even met her!"

"I don't know, Alan." There was laughter in his old companion's voice this time. "Why don't you tell me? It's your dream after all."

"Dream? But I--"

He started awake in a dark room, drenched in sweat. His heart still pounded, and he felt as if he'd fallen down a flight of stairs. Alan cast his gaze about the room, staring into the dark. There was the outline of the bed, the simple desk, a few thin cracks of light shone through the shuttered windows. It was his room at the Reaver's Rest.

For a long while the old rogue sat in the darkness, trying to make sense of his thoughts. It was only the gentle knock at his door that eventually roused him from his brooding.

"Sir Tinsley," Charity's voice sounded almost timid, "Master Steelwright has arrived."

The news brought a smile to Alan's face. He hadn't seen the dwarf in years. "Thank you, Charity. And I told you, you can just call me Alan."

"That wouldn't be proper, Sir," the strain in her voice was evident even through the barrier of the door.

Alan rose and moved across the room, tugging his pants on as he did. With his shirt still unlaced, he opened the door a crack, and peered out at Charity. As beautiful as ever, she simply stood there, clad in her no nonsense white robes, gazing up to him expectantly.

"Look, about last night," he finally ventured.

"Oh it is quite alright, Sir Tinsley. I understand you were the one being attacked. Violence couldn't be avoided. After seeing to the Count's wounds, a few of us went out to speak with the guard and tend to those who could be saved."

"That's not what I was talking about, Charity, I --" He stopped himself cold in mid sentence, and a sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. "That must have taken a while."

"Yes Sir Tinsley, we didn't finish up for hours," The priestess's brow worried as she gazed up to him, and a soft hand lifted to press to his forehead. "Are you well, Sir Tinsley? You look troubled."

"I am fine, Charity," Alan certainly didn't feel it, though. "And after the guard...?"

"Count Varonne talked to them and explained the situation, so after we stabilized a few of the ruffians who had been involved, I helped escort the dead to the temple for their preparations. Why?" 

The concern that edged into her voice tugged at Alan's heart, but more than that, he felt he was losing his mind. If it wasn't her he had been with the previous night, who was it? And it wasn't something he could just come out and ask anyone about. 'Oh I'm sorry, did anyone by chance see me cheating on my kidnapped wife last night with an innocent priestess?' It wouldn't go over well at all.

"It's not important, Charity. I'll be down in a few minutes." 

He forced a smile that he just didn't feel, and with a nod Charity turned and made her way away. Alan watched her go for a moment longer, then shut the door. That sense of fear from the dream was back in full force, but this time it was far from some night phantasm. This was a tangible event that posed a direct threat, and he had no idea what was going on.

It didn't take long for Alan to properly dress and head down into the commons. Still, by the time he got there, Count Varonne was already raising a mug in toast to old friends. It was already well past noon, but a few of the more regular younger members of the company were still about, marveling at being in the presence of two of the founders. It was three when Alan joined them, for sitting at the table a few seats down from Varonne was the dwarflord, Master Garthur Steelwright: priest of the earthen father, hero of his clan, and charter member of the Reavers of Aethwin.

He was almost exactly as Alan remembered him. Dwarves aged slower than humans, although not quite as timelessly as elves, so there were a few extra wrinkles here and there, a few extra streaks of gray in that dark hair and beard. With a broad nose and twinkling eyes, Steelwright had a sort of ready smile and quick wit that was far from the norm for his taciturn race. Short and squat, he was clad in a white tunic and dark trousers, though his trusty hammer Jhernyr was at his side as usual. Of course, hanging from a chain, the iron disc symbol of the earthen father rested just over his chest.

The dwarf was flanked by two barmaids, and he had one meaty arm wrapped about one of the girls' shoulders. In his other hand, he gripped a tankard. A tankard that was raised in salute when Garthur caught sight of Alan. A broad grin split his bearded face like a chasm opening in stone.

"Alan my boy! Ho there! I heard you were having woman problems."

Garthur's jovial tone brought a faint frown to Alan's features, and the dwarflord immediately sobered up, "Sorry boy, I just got in. I didn't even know you had a wife, but Vick here tells me you two hit it off good? So what's the situation?"

Alan sighed heavily and sat down across from Garthur and Vick. He proceeded to tell the whole tale to the dwarf, who just nodded grimly where appropriate. Perhaps not the whole tale, for the old rogue certainly didn't mention the previous night's happenings with the one he thought was Charity, but everything else was laid out plain as he could manage. The assault on his estate, the wounding of his footman, the visions he'd seen using the scroll, and so forth up to the attack outside of the Reaver's Rest just the previous night.

After taking it all in, the dwarflord cast his gaze off into the distance. "It seems like you're nothing but trouble boy, just as I remembered."

"Yeah, sorry for being such a draw for such things."

"Ach, no worries boy, we'll get you straightened out soon enough." 

It was all Alan could do to keep from smiling. Garthur could always be counted on, and the constant call to his 'youth' was excusable. The dwarflord was still more than four times his age after all. 

"There's more," Vick's words startled Alan, but the Count just nodded to both, "Charity and some of my guards were able to pull a few of the fellows from last night from the brink. I was able to question them with Daphne." 

The mention of the elven woman was enough to cause Garthur to release the barmaid he'd been holding. The dwarf leaned forward in his seat, and turned a dour gaze at both men. "You're still consorting with that damned parasite?"

Vick spread his hands helplessly, "I don't like it any more than you, old friend, but as Alan here pointed out, we do need every bit of help we can on this. And she is good at what she does."

This brought a snort from Garthur, and Alan offered an apologetic smile. "It's my fault, I thought she would be useful, and she proved herself well in the ambush last night."

When the dwarf just waved one stubby hand dismissively, Vick continued, "Yes well, after some, ahem, pointed questioning, we were able to determine that Devron did indeed order both the attack and the kidnapping."

Alan winced visibly at the revelation, but said nothing.

"Anyway, not only has he been behind a few other such incidents recently, he seems to have shaken up the ranks of the guild. Any who objected to what direction he was taking them in was either dismissed or made to disappear."

A rage grew in Alan's chest. He'd still had friends in the guild. Further, Devron had been his hand picked successor. "When did he fall so far?"

"It's hard to say, but one of the fellows did admit it all seemed to start after a certain client visited. Ever since then, Devron has been treating the Guild like the personal army of this person. We weren't able to get much out of anyone regarding the identity of this client, only that they kept themselves cloaked and hidden, and Devron referred to them as The Black Star."

As the Count mentioned that name, a soft squeak sounded from near the far corner of the commons. All eyes turned toward the diminutive figure of Faringalia. The gnome was clad in rather gaudily colored robes as usual, her hair tied up in a pair of pigtails, bound around to stand fully three inches higher than her head, before that shock of fiery hair just seemed to explode all over. The extravagant hairstyle did little to make her actually appear taller.

"I- well, it's just that I've heard that name before..." Immediately Faringalia began to babble on about her encounters. Over the last few years, some of the troubles the Reavers had been called upon to intervene in had pointed to a common mastermind, operating toward some unknown goal through bands of criminals, monstrous humanoids, and pockets of undead. The name of The Black Star had come up more than a few times.

As she went on, Count Varonne's face turned redder and redder. Finally he exploded, "Why has no one informed me?! Some growing threat against my own lands, and my former adventuring company can't even be bothered to let me know?"

The gnome woman nearly jumped out of her skin, cowering under the corpulent count's wrath, "B-but Lord Varonne, we did! We notified your men several times." 

Alan and Garthur both turned at once, ready to restrain Vick's legendary temper, only to find the man taking his seat again. The expression on his face was one of heartbreak rather than anger. "My own men," he mumbled, "Betrayers..."

"Lord Varonne," Faringalia seemed to recover hesitantly. "It's possible that their minds could have been influenced without their knowledge. It's said that The Black Star can enter a man's dreams from afar, and perhaps even change their waking mind through the use of the Nightmare Orb."

Alan felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. Recalling his own earlier dreams, he looked across to his old companions. The two other men just gave each other a knowing look. The Nightmare Orb. Miena's last great treasure before her death. It had been one of the few items that had survived the destruction of her tower. The three had been present, along with their elven friend Windhawk when the Orb had been entombed in Miena's place. A fitting tribute, they thought, when they couldn't find enough of her ashes to bury.

Count Varonne was the first to speak, "Whoever this Black Star is, they threaten my lands, they are responsible for kidnapping Alan's wife, they have despoiled our friend's memorial. When we have put down Devron, we will find this person, and we will kill them." There was no question as to whether the other two were in accord, but there was no objection either. 

"I'm in," Alan said simply enough, without hesitation.

The dwarflord stroked his beard, then clapped his hand on the table, "Aye, this Black Star crossed the wrong lot."

"Hey now, don't forget some of us new folk. If you're going after some sort of dark mastermind, you'll need my magic." The redheaded gnome scurried across the common room, only to clamber into one of the chairs there. It gave her enough height to allow her to clap both hands on the tabletop. She leaned forward with as much intensity as any of the older friends, committed to her new task.

"But first, " the Count began, only to be interrupted by a soft, sultry voice from above.

"But first we need to recover Alan's wife." Daphne stood there on the balcony above, by the very same railing outside of her room where Alan paused the night before. The elven woman looked even more well tanned than the prior day, though she remained wrapped in a long black cloak, with hood drawn. It clung to her figure like a cascade of black liquid. She squinted against the few beams of sunlight that penetrated the interior of the inn, although none came near to where she stood.

Her words were met with silence for a moment, then Vick and Garthur both turned to Alan.

"Sorry boy, of course we'll get your lady first. I look forward to meeting her." 

The Count nodded after the Dwarflord's words, "Indeed. Lizzy first, then we make sure that Devron suffers the long, slow death he deserves. There'll be plenty time enough to go after this Black Star."




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 04



Alan nodded and reached out to snag a mug from a passing barmaid. He raised it and stood, "Tonight then. Let's teach these bastards not to fuck with the Reavers."

"Hear hear!" Mugs were raised about the table, sloshing and clinking with their impact while the deadly elven woman looked on from above. A fond smile tugged at her lips as she watched Alan, then with a sigh she turned and slipped back into the safe darkness of her room. 

"Well if it's going to be tonight, I best get some rest in beforehand, refresh myself from my journey. Have some lads tend to my armor so it's ready for tonight, yeah?" The dwarflord left his instructions with one of the servers, then began to waddle off toward his own room, the two maids who had been hanging at his side followed along. Faringalia was quick to excuse herself as well, leaving Alan and Vick at the table alone.

"Alan," the Count's words were hesitant, spoken once they were alone. "Did you have any strange dreams last night?"

The question took the old rogue aback. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Was Miena in them?"

That made Alan's blood run cold. He nodded numbly.

A troubled, pained look crossed the Count's features, "You don't suppose she's this Black Star, do you?"

"Impossible, she was destroyed with her tower." But Alan didn't even believe his own words completely. "Besides, we had Garthur cast the bones after, and the Earth Father confirmed she wasn't alive anymore."

"It's a damn shame that 'not alive' still leaves so many options, isn't it?"

Alan frowned to his old friend, "Even if it were her, why would she hurt us? We were all old friends."

"I just hope you're right, Alan, I just hope you're right."

"So do I." With that said, the old rogue rose one more, "I'm going to catch some more sleep."

"Go ahead. I'll make sure we're all up after sundown."

With a last nod, Alan returned to his room. He had a lot to think about. 



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 05



"It's like a bad joke, a dwarf lord and a fat noble are tied to a gnome girl..."

"Har har, Garthur." Vick's rejoinder was punctuated by the impact of a steel gauntlet against a mailed shoulder.

"My Lords, just because they can't see us doesn't mean they can't hear us," Farangalia's voice piped up, high and shrill.

"Are you sure we have to be tied together?"

"For now, Lord Varonne. My spell only shields you from view out to a certain distance, and you two already almost wandered off six or seven times on the way down here."

"Hey, you three," Alan hissed from the mouth of the alleyway. "This is an infiltration, not a party. Be quiet, please!" 

"But isn't it a party too? I mean we're technically a party bent on infiltration."

Alan and Daphne both face palmed at the gnome woman's words. Casting aside imaginings of how far he could punt Farangalia, the rogue finally cleared his throat and spoke in a stern, but quiet tone, "Alright, here's the basic plan. There's an entrance through the sewers, but we need to minimize escapes while we clear the place out." He gestured out of the darkened alley they crouched in, toward the structure that housed the thieves' guild.

It was the largest of the guild's safe-houses, and served as de facto guildhall since the destruction of the old guildhall by the forces of Jaron Daar. A mansion that would be the envy of any of the merchant league, tucked into one of the most bustling parts of the city, the structure dominated the corner at the intersection of Winston Street and Old Vineyard Lane. It was a tall, brooding building of gray brick and tan plaster, with wood framing the upper two stories. The roof had recently been re-shingled with red tiles, and the windows on all floors were of darkened glass. An eight foot iron fence and a brief, truncated yard separated the building from the street and its nearest neighbors alike.

"So here's what I think the best plan of action is. Daphne, you get up top unseen, watch the rear of the building for anyone who comes out. Feel free to pick off stragglers."

When the stunning elf maid nodded to his words, Alan continued, "Vick, Garthur, uhm... Gnome, you three watch the front, get close as you wish while invisible, but keep in mind there may be folk outside or just inside that you can't necessarily spot. They'll be able to hear you. If folk start fleeing in force, engage them. Meanwhile, I'll head down to the sewers and come up through the secret entrance. That'll put me near the front of the building. I'll come open the door, then you three can come in and start clearing out the ground floor, while I head back to open the rear door for Daphne. Daphne and I will sweep from the back, we'll all meet near the grand foyer, and head up together."

Of course he couldn't see any nodding or other expressions, so he asked "Is that acceptable?"

"You told us to be quiet," Farangalia piped up. 

Visions of backhanding the gnome woman swam in Alan's head, before he just let out a heavy sigh, "Well?"

"Sounds good, boy," Garthur sounded almost jovial, "It feels good to be back in action again."

"Just like old times," Vick concurred.

Alan offered a smile, then looked back to Daphne. The elven woman slipped her long nailed hand up, and traced his cheek with her cool fingertips. "Good hunting." She purred the words out, and her tongue played over those pouty lips. And then, she was off. She seemed to fade back into the shadows, then vanished into mist.

With her on the way, Alan nodded to where the rest presumably were, before he took off himself. He had nothing so impressive as a misty form, just his own two feet. Those feet, however, were well practiced in the art of stealth, and he moved easily and silently down toward the nearest grate cover to the sewer. The things were usually heavy enough to require two men to lift, but as he hooked one hand through the metal cover's handle, Alan was pleasantly surprised to find it was still as accessible as ever. Long ago, the guild had modified these things for easy access, and no one had seen fit to make it more difficult to remove. With the lid popped, the old rogue descended into the sewers.

The tunnels below were as dark as ever. The darkness and rank smell was the least of Alan's worries, however. Brick walls seemed to close in on all sides, and the ceiling was low enough to require a constant ducking. A river of vile fluid coursed down the center of the circular passage, and it was all Alan could do to avoid treading in it. Distant squeaking and splashing echoed down the brick-lined passages, but thankfully no human sounds reached his ears.

The darkness ahead was impenetrable, and while Alan knew the route by heart even after all those years, he couldn't count on the traps having remained the same. A moment later, and a torch was produced from his pack and lit. The flame sputtered and flared occasionally in the poor quality air within those sewers. Still, the flickering glow was better than nothing, and he made his way carefully down that passage.

What was only a few dozen yards and a few intersections could easily turn deadly to a careless explorer, but Alan was expecting the place to be rigged. He proceeded slowly, keen eyes roaming the dark, stained brickwork. A loose stone to be avoided here, a hair thin tripwire there, Alan was thankful he'd chosen to go this route alone. With the others tagging along, he would have had to stop to disable each trigger in turn, rather than simply step past. Past experience had taught him that dwarves and men in armor seemed to stumble into every thing left in their path.

Then there were the rats. Most of them fled before Alan's footsteps and the sputtering, flickering flame of his torch as it struggled to burn against the foul air. As he neared that stretch of brickwork where he'd have to start looking for that telltale crack in the masonry that marked the entrance he sought, two large black rats refused to retreat before him. The sleek, well fed creatures simply watched as he approached. Cursing under his breath, Alan waved his torch toward them, but only managed to almost douse the flame. The rats seemed supremely unimpressed.

Conscious of the need for haste, and wary of making too much noise, the old rogue turned his back to the rats and studied the damp bricks before him. There was the crack in the mortar, as he remembered, but someone in those passing years had outlined it in chalk. As he muttered about the laziness of youth, Alan drew his fingers along the crevice, toward that single brick he remembered so well.

With a faint click, and a slight grinding, the wall began to pivot inward. Alan hoped the noise would scare the rats away. The beasts had unnerved him ever since the prior night. As the brick wall swung inward, revealing the brief, darkened passage beyond, the memory swam in his head, of the battle with the rat man and the thugs in the street. His eyes shot wide as the realization of what those rats could be finally hit him, and he half turned to illuminate the empty spot where the rats had been with his torch.

It was this sudden movement that saved him, for a crossbow bolt whistled out of the dark passage just revealed, and slammed into his shoulder. If he hadn't turned, it would have buried itself in his chest. Still, while the wound wasn't immediately fatal, it very nearly crippled Alan's sword arm. His torch tumbled to the ground, where it lay, fortunately not extinguished. As he ducked to the cover of the brick wall, within the secret passage a strange and unwholesome figure was illumined from below by the weird flicker and glow of the grounded torch. Like the previous evening, the sight before Alan was a twisted amalgamation of man and beast, a furry humanoid figure with claws, an over-broad chest, a long tail, and a ratlike snout.

Cursing, Alan dropped his good hand to draw the silver dagger strapped to his thigh. After last night's encounter, they'd all taken precautions, but it looked woefully inadequate based on what he now faced. The pain of the bolt penetrating flesh and bone was agonizing, and it was all he could do to keep from passing out at each accidental movement of his shoulder. If he lost it now, however, he'd be dead and his wife would be condemned to whatever her captors had planned.

He could hear the wererat approaching, but it was moving slowly, no doubt fully aware he wasn't dead from that shot. With his options limited, Alan began to back down that sewer tunnel. With the silver dagger clutched in a white knuckle grip in his off hand, he gritted his teeth against the pain blossoming from his wounded shoulder. Forcibly, he struggled to fish a glass vial from his belt with that arm, even as blood coursed down his wounded limb.

As soon as the black-furred rat man rounded the corner, Alan flung that vial weakly forward. It was a haphazard throw at best, and the forced movement of that wounded arm brought a pained roar from his own lips. He didn't hit the rat man, but he didn't need to. As soon as the glass impacted the rough brick near the wererat's head, it shattered. The fluid within splashed out in an arc from the point of impact, and where it landed, there was a smoldering sizzling. The wererat cried out in pain as the splash from the acid began to eat into its flesh.

Enraged, the rat man abandoned all pretense of using that crossbow for another shot. It tossed the mechanism to the ground with a noisy clatter, then charged Alan. The old thief ducked under the first swipe of its claw, and pushed past it, causing those jaws to snap on air just where his head had been. The second of the brute's claws impacted his side, sending him into the wall. By the gods' graces alone, its claws didn't manage to penetrate the tough leather that sheathed his form.

With his earlier acid attack still boiling away on the creature's flesh, Alan stabbed his silver dagger up toward the creature's throat. The beast raised its arm in time to avoid a deadly blow, but the blade still sunk deep into the rat's forearm. The silver sizzled and burned against the shapeshifter's flesh, and with a quick twist and yank, Alan pulled the blade free.

Grievously wounded by acid and blade alike, the werebeast began to back cautiously up, retreating toward the darkness beyond the edge of that torch's dim illumination. Unable to let the thing flee to potentially warn others, Alan followed it along, his steps careful on the slick brickwork. When the creature hesitated but a moment, he took another swipe at it with that silver blade. The dagger's point found its way through the creature's defenses, and the wererat sank to the ground, its lifeblood seeping across the brickwork to join the trickle of filth coursing down the center of the tunnel.

With his foe vanquished, Alan wiped the silver blade on the beast's fur, then slipped it back into its sheathe. He didn't have time to pause and catch his breath, he had to get out of the sewer and up into the house. Besides the others waiting on his infiltration, the filth of the sewer was perhaps the worst place to take a wound. No doubt he'd have to have Garthur tend not only to the damage the bolt inflicted, but any vileness that had settled into the blood from the nature of his surroundings. Stumbling back toward the secret passage, he swept up that torch and stepped within. The brick wall slid back into place behind him with a solid grinding, and an audible click.

The wererat had been a walk in the park compared to what followed. After some inspection, Alan ascertained that the bolt had been barbed, and thus opted to leave it in the wound until Garthur could tend properly to it. Thus he doused his torch, and was forced to climb the rickety ladder up into the safe house one armed, in absolute silence. The pain faded from a constant torment to a dull throb, exacerbated by the occasional lancing agony when he moved the arm in question. It made it difficult to do what needed to be done, but somehow the old thief made his way from the hidden passage and into the halls above.

He crept down well kept halls decked in finery, only to pause from time to time to listen for the movements of those within the structure. From what he could tell, there were only two watching the front door, but as he crept toward them, a familiar cry sounded from behind one of the doors he was set to pass. It wasn't his wife, no, but something about that voice caused him pause. With the help of his friends no doubt but a few paces and a short fight away, Alan hesitated, then carefully cracked open the door from which he heard that woman's cry. What he saw turned his stomach.

Somehow, the young priestess Charity had been captured. Within the ornate room, the young blonde was shackled to a wall, the cruel iron suspending her wrists above her head. Her clerical robes had been rent from her form, exposing her lush curves to any who might view her. Clad only in the remnants of opaque white stockings, her body was displayed enticingly, from smooth thighs to the curves of her hips. Her slick folds were bared, that mound dusted by light blonde curls. Her taut belly strained, and her pale flesh glistened with perspiration. Full, pert breasts heaved with each quick breath, and those lips of hers parted to offer another cry, only to still when her eyes caught sight of Alan. The delicate blush which rose upon her cheeks at the sight of him was as alluring as anything else displayed there.

She wasn't alone. Before her, a dark haired man stood, wielding a whip. As he caught Charity's gaze, he began to turn. In a split second's decision, Alan acted. He never paused to draw his sword, he just sprinted forward, and wrapped his good arm about the man's neck. The muted struggle lasted but a little over a minute, as he choked the fight from the man without a word, then lowered the stilled body to the floor. Only then did the old thief draw a dirk from one boot to finish the job.

After his grim work was done, he snatched the keys from the man's belt, then rose to his feet and approached Charity. His eyes met hers, and she offered a shy smile.

"Alan," her tone was breathless, and the lack of formality brought a gentle smile to his own features.

"Charity, how did you get here?" He spoke quietly, not wanting to be overheard. Without waiting for an answer, he reached up to begin to unlock her shackles, conscious of how her lush curves pressed warmly against his body.

"I... I had stepped out for a moment, then a man grabbed me, and put a bag over my head."

It had to have been almost immediately after they left, and it troubled him that he hadn't seen anyone moving her on the streets, or within the tunnels below. Still, perhaps it meant they hadn't had much time to abuse her.

As soon as her arms were freed, she slipped them about his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. "Oh Alan, I was so frightened." Her bare breasts pressed to his chest, and he gingerly patted the back of her head with one hand.

"It's alright Charity, are you able to walk?" He winced a bit as his wound shifted again, "And are you able to see to this wound?"

The priestess turned her gaze to the bolt projecting from his bloodied shoulder, then gasped "Oh Alan, you're wounded!" 

Her words were a bit too loud for his comfort, so he pressed one finger gently against her soft lips. After a moment's silence, he was reassured no one had heard. Or at least if they had, no one approached. "Yeah, it was my own stupidity. I fell into a rat's ambush. Can you help with the healing?" 

Her smoldering eyes caught his as he looked back to her, just gazing up through thick lashes. She shook her head, and caught the tip of his finger between her lips. Her cheeks hollowed as she suckled on the tip of his finger, and as he drew it back, she caught it momentarily between her teeth, only to let his finger go at last after a teasing little lick. "I used all my healing up this morning Alan, I'm sorry."

The pout that followed was as devastating as anything Daphne could muster, and it took the old rogue a moment to regain his composure. "Uhm, that's alright Charity. We need to get you out of here." This was no time to be thinking of what she was making him think. His friends were outside, his wife was possibly just a few rooms away, and Charity's hands were slipping into his pants.

"Please let me reward you for saving me, Alan," Her breathy words wrapped about his mind as her soft hand wrapped about his growing cock. "We may not get a chance after."

There was something fundamentally wrong about the priestess's actions, even putting aside the danger they were both in. But he had trouble putting his finger on exactly what. Probably because Charity was having no trouble putting her finger on exactly how to arouse him. Finally, with a supreme effort, Alan laid his good hand on her shoulder. "We can't, Charity. We have to get you safe." His voice wavered with each slow, warm stroke of her delicate digits over his engorged shaft. As if he didn't have enough trouble sneaking around the place already.

Her hand gave his manhood a firm squeeze, and she arched her back. Her pert breasts pressed to his chest, nipples drilled into the leather separating them. "Promise me, Alan. Promise me you'll let me reward you before this is all done." Her words tickled across his throat as she leaned so close, her lips fractions of an inch from his skin.

Perhaps they had drugged her, perhaps she was suffering some sort of breakdown. After all, she had seemed to forget the night before earlier that day. "I promise," he wasn't sure if he meant it, but he had to calm her down somehow.

The promise, however halfhearted, was met by the sudden press of her warm body against his own, the crook of one arm about his neck, the squeezing stroke of her other hand upon his erection, and then the press of her warm, wanting lips to his. He blinked in surprise, but returned the kiss after a moment. He wasn't sure just where a supposedly chaste priestess had learned such an act, but at that moment, his logical mind was slowed.

When Charity broke the kiss, she stepped back slowly, then deliberately drew that hand that had been wrapped about his cock up to her lips. Alan watched as she traced her tongue over each of her fingers. She made no effort to cover her nudity. She was so lewd in that moment, so detached from what he knew she should be.

Although her clothing was gone, it didn't take long for Alan to salvage a cloak that had been hung on a peg near the door, and wrap it about her shoulders. She finally tugged the material about her body, but the way the thin, dark fabric clung to her curves was hardly any improvement.

"Follow me, but as quiet as you can. Don't make a noise, alright?" His tone took on a deadly seriousness.

She simply nodded.

With the priestess in tow, Alan crept toward the door. The two men stationed in the front chamber were chatting about some bar wench or other, and seemed thoroughly distracted. Alan looked back to Charity, then gestured to the door beyond. When she nodded, Alan drew his sword in his good hand, then stepped out into the room.

It was over almost too quickly. Alan stepped around the corner, and thrust his sword with a practiced twist into the back of the man nearest. As the other man's eyes widened in surprise, Charity padded past swiftly, then flung the door open. She was almost immediately buffeted aside by some invisible force, probably vaguely dwarfish. The second guard's sudden cry was cut off in the most gruesome way possible. His body suddenly split and crumpled, as if cleaved from crown to sternum, and only then did Vick's black bladed sword appear, wielded in both hands by the warrior himself. Although his invisibility had faded with the blow, the gnome and the dwarf remained unseen.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 05



Charity clapped a hand over her mouth as she stared at the growing pool of blood, then Garthur's voice spoke in that rumbling, soothing tone of his, "It'll be alright lass, we'll get ya home right soon."

Cries from above snared Vick and Alan's attention. Both men cast their gaze across the ceiling as booted feet tramped across the floor above. Vick drew his sword out of the corpse at his feet, then strode over toward the opening of the main hallway.

"Well, so much for the element of surprise." Alan then gestured to the bolt in his shoulder. "Garthur, you think you can help with this?"

Garthur's footsteps approached Alan, and as he left her side, Charity backed toward the open doorway. As Garthur began to extract the bolt from Alan's shoulder, Farangalia's high pitched voice chimed up, "Guys? Is there any reason we're leaving the monster alive?"

Alan, Vick, and Charity all froze in place, and turned their gaze toward one another. The air was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the steady approach of tramping boots.

Charity was the first to break the silence, with a nervous laugh. "W-what does she mean, monster? Alan? Vick?"

No sooner had Vick's name escaped her lips than both the Count and Alan drew their blades across toward Charity. The corpulent Lord Varonne spoke in a low, warning tone, "That'd be Count Varonne to you, Charity... but then if you were Charity, you'd know that unlike Alan here, only my close friends are allowed to take such liberties."

Charity's eyes widened, but then a cruel sneer crossed her features. She clapped slowly, "Bravo, Count Meathead. I hadn't expected you to figure it out so easily." As they watched, the lush curves of the priestess bled away, shifting into a taller and bulkier figure. There, before them all, stood the dark haired, dark eyed figure of Guildmaster Devron. As the transformation was finished, four members of the guild crowded into the hallway, blades bared.

As Vick brought his great black blade upward, Alan raised a hand, "Hold," and then, with barely contained rage, he addressed his former protege, "Devron, where have you taken Elizabeth? Why did you take her? Was mastery of the guild not enough for you?" As he spoke, a faint glow finally came from Alan's wounded shoulder, as Garthur worked to heal the wound. The unflappable dwarf could always be counted on.

"Yeah, it's not actually Devron either guys," the invisible gnome chimed up helpfully, which brought a hearty laugh from the Guildmaster.

"What, Sir Tinsley," He began with an extravagant, taunting tone, "You expect me to just outline everything I've done here for you, like some twisted narcissist? You silly man."

The stalemate was broken by a soft thud and gurgling from down the main corridor. Alan gazed past Vick and the men beyond in time to see Daphne striding away from another fallen figure. Blood flowed freely from her lower lip. It cascaded in great quantities down to spatter upon her cleavage, and she lifted one hand to inelegantly wipe the crimson liquid from her tanned skin.

Her fangs glinted as she spoke, "What? I was bored..."

"Alan!" The gnome woman cried out, causing him to whip his gaze back. Devron was gone, and a panel slid back into place in the wall in his wake. Cursing, the old thief raced toward the secret wall panel, fingers slid over the surface ineffectually.

"This is new, give me a moment to figure it out." His voice was almost drowned out by the clash of steel, as Vick Varonne spun to catch the blades of the men in the hall with his own. 

The broad sweep of the old warrior's black bladed sword met steel and flesh alike as he batted aside the charge. One man staggered back, grievously injured, and then the Count strode forward a step, lifting his blade up in both hands. He brought it down in an overhead chop, rendering another of the guild members into a gurgling mess.

"Fara, c'mere lass!" The dwarf's deep voice sounded from a corner of the entry chamber, and soon the scuffling footsteps of the small woman brought her over toward the area the dwarf's call had come from. The two remaining invisible members of the group huddled out of the way as more footsteps could be heard rushing overhead.

Daphne drew two wicked looking daggers, and gazed intently at the two fellows remaining between herself and Vick. The two men began to falter, gazing from the hulking armored figure before them, then back to the blood drenched elf. The elven maid's tongue traced sensuously over her lower lip, gathering up the blood still there.

"Well boys? Ready to play?"

Her words caused them to bolt for a different side door each.

"Alan, take short stuff and Garthur with you when you get that opened. Monster bitch and I will go clear out the rest."

Alan offered a nod to Vick's words, but by then the Count and the elf were already gone. The sounds of clashing steel and sharp screams echoed through the complex halls of the safe house, and whatever plan the old rogue had to get his friends through the place was quickly going down the tubes. Still, the two knew how to handle themselves. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the panel popped open. A narrow, dark passage lay beyond. "Right, it's open." 

As he began to reach for a torch, Farangalia spoke syllables that made his eyes cross and head ache. A glowing sphere of shining light burst into view behind him at that moment, shining brighter than any torch. He squinted for a moment, then nodded to the area the light seemed to shine from. With a quick word of thanks, the old rogue begin to carefully creep into the passage, followed by the patter of small feet and the clank of armor.

The passage was new, but he recognized the make as similar to other passages that crisscrossed the safe house. Perhaps it wasn't so much new as one he hadn't discovered in his own time as guildmaster. Just a few feet across, they would have to go single file down the corridor. The walls were unfinished wood, the opposite side of the paneling that decorated the interior walls, and there were the occasional little holes where one could peek in on the contents of the rooms beyond. Alan pause here and there, gazing into rooms that they passed. Nothing immediately stood out, so he continued on.

It was like being a rat in a rich man's house, scurrying through the walls with the hope of not getting caught. Occasionally Alan knelt down to deal with the odd trap laid in their way, but nothing was of any serious complexity. The secret passage split at one point, and Alan could finally tell where he was. There used to be a brace that had blocked the passage they'd just traversed, but someone had helpfully cut it away. He only hoped it didn't unduly affect the structure of the house itself. Turning down a passage, he motioned for his invisible companions to follow close.

Flexing his recently wounded arm, Alan marveled at the efficiency of the dwarf lord's healing magic. He was still a little sore, but he could use his blade again, no doubt. With both hands free, he drew his sword in one hand, and dagger in the other. But a few paces before them, the hall opened into the downstairs secret chamber, and though their chance for surprise was nullified by the light necessary to see by, he still wanted to be ready. 

The old rogue hesitated a moment, tightening his grip upon his blades, then with a sudden rush he rounded the corner. There was no sign of Devron in the room, but the chamber was not unoccupied. It was a modest room, just ten feet on a side, with a floor of bare boards and walls of the same unfinished wood paneling. A few crystal balls lay on a crude wooden table, their dusty and chipped surfaces displayed scenes from within the safe-house. A crude ladder lead up through a hole in the ceiling. A chest lay discarded in one corner, no doubt with some emergency funds kept safe by obscurity rather than any serious security. A few other passages lead out toward other secret spy-holes throughout the ground floor.

In one corner, however, a woman lay chained to a cot. Exceptionally still, only the gentle rise and fall of her bared breasts revealed her continued vitality. Her hair had been shaved away, and her pale skin was riddled with tattoos and scars of a vile, unwholesome sort. Her nipples and lower lip had been pierced through with wicked looking rings, and her wrists and calves were chafed by whatever bindings had once held her. The lone chain remaining was secured to a thick metal collar about her neck. She wore no clothing, but there were the scraps of some once rich gown in a tattered wreck at the foot of the cot.

"Lady Fayne," Farangalia's voice was shocked and breathless, even with no visual cues to her reaction.

Alan nodded, wincing, then approached the cot. The woman upon it shook her head as he approached, and though her lips moved, no sound came out. When he reached out toward her chain, his hand was stopped by an invisible, gauntlet clad hand.

"Careful boy, lemme take a look at these marks. There be something unnatural about 'em."

"Of course," Alan stepped back, his gaze fixed on the woman there. Petite, but with fair curves and soft skin, she was still beautiful even after the torments inflicted upon her. Why would anyone do such a thing? A cold dread for his wife's fate knotted in his gut.

The images in the crystal balls flickered and changed, catching his eye. "Is that you, Farangalia?"

"Yeah, just seeing what I can see. It looks like Vick's gone on a killing spree."

The rogue snorted "Yeah, I think he misses being able to let loose, I just hope he remembers these are people, however misguided, and not just some greenskins in some cave some where."

"From the goblin's point of view, there ain't much difference, boy," Garthur's words bore a certain sense of tolerance absent among much of his people. Still, Alan knew the dwarflord had partaken in his share of slaughter in years past.

Mia Fayne groaned as, presumably, the dwarf urged her onto her side. "Look at this," At his words, Alan crept closer, only to narrow his eyes. Upon the woman's back, a message had been carved, and healed over. The handwriting was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't immediately place it.

'If you think this is bad, imagine what I'll do to your wife, Alan.' Below the writing, the imprint of a woman's hand was branded into Mia's fair flesh.

He felt sick, and turned away.

"I know that writing, lad, I just can't place it..."

This garnered his attention, and Alan forced himself to look back toward the words carved into Mia's flesh. He'd assumed it was someone in the guild, but if the dwarflord knew it too, that narrowed down the suspects considerably. Garthur never spent much time with members of the guild. "Who could it possibly be?"

"Someone from our past. Look, the girl's safe to let go, but there ain't no telling what'll happen with her if we just leave her here. I'll guide her outside, just undo the lock."

Alan settled near, then set his tools down with a sweep of one hand, "Alright." It was all he could say, really, and so he worked in silence for that moment, meaning to unlock the collar from the woman's neck. She remained terribly docile the entire time, Alan wasn't sure if she was drugged, or if she'd snapped during her captivity.

Eventually, the lock gave way, and the still invisible Garthur moved to help the woman from the cot. She was unsteady, but seemed to acquiesce to the situation without question, despite being unable to see her rescuer. Alan watched as Garthur lead her toward the passage they'd come from. His dwarven vision would enable him to traverse the passage without light, certainly.

"I found her!" Farangalia's squeal startled the thief out of his thoughts.

"Where?!" He rushed toward the crystal balls, only to catch sight of the image of his wife. She was clad in a loose white robe, barely secured about her form, and was sitting on the edge of a chair, surrounded by armed and armored men, of the rough sort the guild used to use as enforcers. She looked relatively unharmed. "I know that room. That's on the top floor."

"We'd best get the others then."

"No, wait," Alan eyed the ladder in the corner. "We can head up to the second floor passages, then come out near the foyer landing. Then we can catch any who are trying to escape the two below, and they'll eventually start heading up themselves."

"You mean to wipe them all out, don't you, Sir Tinsley?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"I'm not judging, just saying." A tiny hand patted his knee.

With a sigh, Alan sheathed his dagger, then began to ascend the rickety ladder. It lead into a minor juncture on the second floor, and seemed to continue up to the third. The hatch covering the entrance to the third floor's secret passages was closed and likely barred from the other side. At least Alan knew what way Devron had fled earlier. Just to be certain, the old thief poked it with his sword, but the hatch was unyielding. There was also a faint stench of old decay that he could have sworn he'd never caught in the guild house before. It all brought a sense of dread to him.

After a moment to ensure that Farangalia and her bobbing, mystical light caught up with him, Alan traversed the secret passages toward one of the panels he certainly knew about. Carefully opening it, the foyer landing was revealed. A broad, railed balcony overlooked the downstairs foyer, and a pair of archers stood, arrows nocked and aimed down at the room below. They had yet to notice the shifted panel.

With a sudden rush, Alan left the passage, and plunged his blade into the back of one of the archers. The man screamed as he was impaled, loosing his arrow at the wall of the room below. The other archer turned immediately, wide eyed. With his bow drawn, he fired his own arrow at Alan, at extremely close range. The old thief spun in that moment, still maintaining his grip on the man he'd just back-stabbed. The fellow was still conscious as the other archer's arrow slammed into his chest, but not for much longer thereafter.

Alan ripped his sword from the dead man, and fixed his gaze at the lone archer remaining. There was something familiar about the fellow, and this time it was no long mystery as to where the old thief had seen this one. The man was one of the ones he'd seen in the mirror, using Elizabeth. 

As the archer drew back another arrow, he stumbled backward a step. Alan followed, his eyes fixed upon the retreating man with murderous intent. A swing of his sword put that length of steel through the archer's bow, cutting it in half, and severing the hand holding it. The archer's screams were audible nectar to Alan's ears. He let the darkness which had been building in his soul free reign in that moment. Again and again his sword struck the man, never going for a vital blow.

"Alan!" Farangalia's cries were drowned out by the screams of agony. "Alan!" She tried again, but it was clear that blood-lust had taken the thief.

It took almost five minutes for the screams from the mangled, mutilated archer to subside. Alan stood above the man, bloodied blade still in hand. It wasn't the silence of the corpse that finally broke the old thief out of his frenzy, but rather the sudden wail of another. A rather plain half-orc woman had rushed up the stairs, wounded and still bearing an axe in one hand. She had on the black armor of the guild, and Vick was huffing up the stairs behind her, albeit at a much slower pace. She simply stood there, staring at the carnage before her in horror.

When Alan looked up from his grim work, she turned and limped back down the stairs. As Vick came to meet her, she threw down her axe, and sank to her knees on the stairs. Vick raised his blade, then turned his gaze toward Alan. 

"This is your show... I'll go with whatever you want."

Alan considered the surrendered rogue, then finally spit down on the body he'd set to work on. "No prisoners."

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Vick's blade descended.

When the aging Count finally reached the top of the stairs, he looked over the gore with an unflinching eye. "Damn Alan, was that necessary?"

"He fucked my wife."

Vick took a dirty cloth from his pocket, and wiped his black blade down. "Oh." It's all he could say on the matter. Then, "Daphne went on ahead."

"Good, we found Lizzy, she's up at the third floor."

Through it all, Farangalia had remained silent, but finally her voice rose, obviously shaken "I... what you did, and you two are just... so cavalier about it."

"What were you expecting, heroes?" Vick eyed the emptiness where the gnome's voice had come from.

"Well yes! The original Reavers, saviors of the kingdom."

"We were never heroes. We were just in the right place at the right time."

"Or our enemies were at the wrong place at the wrong time for them," Alan added, "Now let's go, we still have the second floor to clear.

"You're terrible," the gnome sniffled a bit as Alan passed.

"Short stuff," Vick paused to comment, "You haven't seen anything yet. Come along or go home, but don't get in our way." With that, the two older men moved for the main hall through the second floor.

After a moment, the invisible padding of little feet followed them.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 06



Daphne's trail was easy enough to follow. There was more blood on the walls than in the bodies. Stepping over the occasional exsanguinated corpse, Alan paused only to thrust open doors they passed, to ensure there were no survivors hiding within. There was naught to be seen, but for furnishings in disarray and the occasional still twitching body. It was a gruesome scene, but inwardly Alan hoped she saved some for him. The visions of his wife's torment still seethed just under the surface of his thoughts.

"Look at this shit, and you wonder why I don't trust the monstrous bitch."

"The fact that she can do this when we let her off her leash just goes to show how well she's keeping her terms of her surrender," Alan's voice was cold and calculating. He was in a deadly mood, and now they were so close to rescuing his wife, he couldn't allow any mistakes.

Vick merely grunted in response, and their sweep continued in silence until the next crossing. Two halls intersected in a fair sized room, though a trail of blood along the wall to the right hand corridor clearly showed where the elf woman had gone.

"We should wait for Master Steelwright," Farangalia finally spoke, uneasy with the situation. The dwarf, at least, had seemed a kind soul.

"He'll catch up. Daphne's this way, so let's clear other way," Vick pointed to the corridor opposite.

"No, we split up here. Farangalia, you go catch up to Daphne. Vick, take your pick of a passage, I'll sweep the one left over."

Farangalia wasted no time padding off to the passage to the right, while Vick turned and clanked his way to the left. His armor was dented and bloodstained, but so far seemed to have protected the fat Count from the worst of the blows. Alan steeled himself, then wandered down the middle corridor. Once again he drew his dagger with his free hand, and with Farangalia's light no longer present or necessary, there were plenty of shadows to stick to as he advanced.

He was almost disappointed that there weren't more traps, but then once they'd got past the initial defenses, it only made sense not to lay too many amidst the every day living quarters. Back in his day, they'd occasionally rig nonlethal snares just to fuck with the new recruits, but there was none of that in evidence. As Alan made his way down the corridor, he caught a faint scent of incense, and a soft, feminine humming drifted down the hallway.

The hall was relatively short, just three doors lined the wood paneled walls, one on either side and one directly ahead. The one on the left was unlocked, and opened into an opulent bedroom. It was beyond anything that Alan expected, even with the guild's usual resources. The scent of perfume within was almost intoxicating, and mingled with the drifting incense in a manner he found hard to describe. It stirred a certain sense of want within him.

Still, despite the obvious luxury of the bedroom, no one was within. He tried the one on the right next, and it gave readily. The incense seemed to come from within, thick and cloying. This chamber held four crude cots, and upon one of them was a haggard, gray haired man that Alan recognized with a sickening realization.

Tannon, a thief of the old guard. He'd been utterly loyal to Alan during his tenure, the two were of similar age. He'd had little ambition, however, and preferred to stay in the shadows. Over the years, he had provided updates to the guild's progress, but Alan hadn't heard from him in months. There were no chains in evidence, no sign of torture, but something about Tannon's state struck Alan as simply 'wrong'.

The man's leanly muscled frame was nude save for a single scrap of loincloth. His hair had grown out, while his trademark goatee had been lost. He sat on the edge of one cot, staring into the distance. It was those eyes which were the worst part. Those once keen, unfettered brown eyes were clouded and dim, and his half lidded expression seemed just shy of a total stupor.

Alan wasn't prepared for anything that obviously magical, so he shut the door carefully, quietly. He'd have to find out what happened to his old friend later. For the moment, he turned his attention to the last door on the corridor. Once more the perfume and incense seemed to mingle, a calming scent that lulled the senses and set the mind wandering on pleasant thoughts. From beyond the doorway, gentle splashing and running water could just be heard. Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind, Alan sheathed his dagger and tightened his grip on his sword, then warily opened the door.

The vision within was wholly beyond anything Alan could prepare himself for. She was barely visible at first, but as the steam from the grand bath dissipated with his opening of the door, more of her haunting visage came into view. Long locks of shimmering silver cascaded like liquid metal about her form, parted by the tapered points of her ears as ivory rocks splitting a river of mercury. Her hair was damp, and clung to her petite frame with a mind of its own. A high widow's peak gave the impression that her smooth forehead were more prominent than it was, but it hardly detracted from her unearthly beauty. Brows of silver rose above eyes the color of the forest. Those vivid greens fixed upon him, holding his gaze transfixed for a moment. Only when her lashes kissed her high cheekbones, breaking the caught gaze, did he feel he had the permission to let his eyes travel once more.

Alan wasn't sure whether it was the warmth of the blush dusting her pale, soft skin, the way the water cascaded down her body in a lover's caress, or the shift of her nude form to face his so invitingly that drew him in. There were others within the chamber, standing to either side of the preternatural elven woman, but his gaze couldn't tear itself from her long enough to acknowledge them. The tip of their buckets to allow more water to course over her form was only noted by the way the liquid flowed over her sleek curves, over breasts more modest than the human women he was used to, along taut belly and flared hips. Her nipples puckered and peaked, jutting forth toward his gaze, and though she raised one arm to drape across her bust, that delicate limb did nothing to hide her, resting just shy of where his gaze caught every luscious detail.

Perhaps it was the clang of his sword as it hit the fine wood floor, or perhaps it was the click of the door closing behind him, but for a moment, just a moment his mind snapped free of the shock of the beauty before him. Alan turned his gaze up, the men flanking her were dressed similarly to his old friend, simple loincloths and nothing more. He shifted his gaze to the door behind him, but just as he wondered when he had entered the room, the warm touch of an elegant hand on his shoulder and the soft, musical sound of the elven woman's voice conspired to drag him back into that entrancement.

"You look so tired, so weary. Let me help you forget your worries, your troubles," Her very voice was as a fine wine to the senses, and when he turned to look back to the woman that seemed much closer than he remembered, his eyes caught those angled, forest green eyes. And with that, he was gone.

The scent of her was enthralling, the taste more so. His lips trailed unbidden over her neck, that soft, damp skin trembled with her laughter. Her hands found his shoulders, his settled at the gentle flare of her bare hips. She was warm, too warm really, but it felt nice under his touch. Alan's tongue darted over that flesh just between his lips, tasting a mix of cinnamon, honey, and need.

"Just rest, relax," Her voice was soothing, like the gentle rustle of wind through tree branches, or the distant crash of ocean waves. "Let your Mistress wash the cares of the world away with her touch." He could listen to those musical tones forever.

Her long nails dragged over the leather covering his form, then began to deftly undo the lacing. His own hands trailed up her sides, resting to either side of her bust. That skin was so soft, so smooth under his hands, under his lips as he trailed his kisses to her shoulder. There was movement, just out of the corner of his eye. The other two servants of the Mistress ducked about to take up his weapons where they had landed, his sword, his dagger. Hadn't it been sheathed? It was so hard to think. Especially when those small, dainty hands began to caress over the bare skin of his chest.

Alan offered a moan of protest when she pushed him back, but it was cut off with a gasp when her hungry lips caught the dip of his throat, then teased expertly down toward his chest. The steam from the baths once more thickened in the air, obscuring the rest of the room. Nothing in the world existed but him and the elven Mistress.

Her long nails dragged down his firm chest, teasing as razors over every contour of his torso, just light enough to avoid cutting, but firm enough to leave welts in their path. Sharp little nips were interspersed with suckling little kisses, surprisingly sharp teeth scraped along his flesh, to the point of drawing a drop of blood near to one nipple. Alan gasped, then groaned as her soft red lips sealed over the bite. They weren't the fangs of a vampire, no, but rather the sharp teeth of some wild beast.

At any other time, that would have worried him, but his mind was occupied with other things. With how good she smelled, how soft and warm her curves were under his hands, how exquisite her touch was against his own skin. He stroked his fingers gently over the moderate swells of those breasts, then brushed his thumbs across the edge of each nipple. His arousal strained against his trousers, but then with quick work of her dextrous fingers, that thick length sprung free. The brush of his cock against her bare thighs brought a sharp intake of breath, on his part at least.

"Will you stay with me?" His Mistress sounded so needful, so longing, "Will you be with me here, forever? Sweet pet?" She asked so nicely, and those fingers slid along his powerful thighs, then along the growing shaft of his cock.

Alan's nod was rewarded by the brush of one of her fingers along the underside of his length, then the contact of her warm, wet flesh against the head. His eyes turned to hers, and he was lost in the deep forest of her eyes. His hands slide over the curve of her ass, but then her hands slid up to his broad shoulders. He couldn't look away even if he wanted to. Those nails traced like claws over his body, then with a gentle touch, she began to push him downward.

"Do you want me?" It was a stupid question, as if he could want anyone else.

"Oh yes, yes Mistress," He descended toward one knee.

One of her hands slipped up along his neck, caressing the nape, then drifting further. Her fingers laced in his hair, and she guided his lips toward one of her pert, jutting nipples. When he tried to close his wanting lips about that offered flesh, she pulled sharply on his hair, just enough to keep those lips from reaching her. He watched her eyes uncertainly, then his tongue darted out to circle her nipple. Her smile was terrifying. Ruby red lips, razor sharp teeth all gleaming white. 

"Good boy, pet," Her words sent a thrill down his spine.

Further she pushed him, holding his head so he could not touch her skin, but any time he lifted his tongue from her soft, sweet flesh she paused, and tightened her grip at his shoulder and within his hair. There was pain there, as those nails pierced the flesh of his shoulder, drawing little beads of his blood from the contact. His hands were left to roam freely, and roam they did. He stroked his hands from her ass down along the backs of those silken thighs, then caressed those sultry limbs on the return journey. His tongue danced about her navel, then along the flat of her belly. Her goal was unmistakeable, but he wouldn't stop her for all the world.

When the scent of his Mistress reached him, his arousal grew all the more. That thick cock jutted into the air, untended, but when he lowered one hand toward his own length, she gave another sharp tug to his hair. "No pet," Her command was the sweetest thing he'd ever experienced, at least for those few moments before his tongue was guided to her warm, wet slit. He delved in greedily, lapping hungrily over those folds, splitting her flesh with the tip of his tongue. The forest of her eyes released his at last, and he closed his own, just living for the scent of her, for the taste of her nectar upon his tongue.

He must have been doing well, for her nails tightened at his right shoulder, scoring his skin with shallow, bleeding scratches. Her lean, supple leg hooked over his left shoulder, and the warm, smooth skin against his caused his heart to leap. It muted the sound of battle, was someone fighting somewhere? All Alan cared about was the warm, moist cleft before him, and the soft moans his Mistress made. His head moved at her direction, lips upon her folds, his tongue stroked over her inner walls, and then, with a tug to his hair, he trailed both lips and tongue upward. That engorged little nub beckoned.

She was close, he could make that much out, and as her secretions filled his senses, his lips clasped about that sensitive button. His Mistress cried out, and it was all he could do to gather what he could with quick, lavish swipes of his tongue. If he brought her pleasure, perhaps she would see fit to give him the same. He would settle even for the barest of touches to his own rigid member. And then she reached her peak proper. She bathed his tongue and his lips, most of his face with her pleasure, her hips bucked forward, her hand pressed his face into her folds. It seemed an eternity that he was kept there between her thighs, but he'd have it no other way.

When he was finally allowed a breath, he immediately squandered it, "Please, please touch me," His voice was a whisper really, his voice washed over her sensitive flesh with each syllable.

"Please what, pet?" Her voice was stern and alluring all at once.

"Please, Mistress."

Her leg slipped from his shoulder, and her foot traced along his side. Those delicate toes teased along his waist, then slowly, agonizingly stroked along his throbbing length. Pet gazed up at Mistress longingly, and though her touch upon his cock was like lightning, he couldn't climax. He grunted in frustration, arching his hips, pressing that length against those dextrous toes, along her soft foot.

"Please!" Pet panted out, "Please Mistress!"

She smiled cruelly down to him, once more showing those red lips and those sharp teeth. It was different now though. Where once her flesh had been pale and smooth, it was now covered with fine, silvery fur. Her ears were sharp and pivoted forward, her face was stretched, resembling that of an elegant fox. "Please what?" She purred, and stroked that foot over his cock again.

"Alan!" Someone was calling for someone. Who was Alan?

"Please let me cum," Pet whined up to his Mistress, even as the mists began to clear.

The vixen tensed, her clawed nails dragged over his shoulder, cutting deeply. "Pet, your mistress needs your help! Intruders!"

In the throes of want, Pet turned his head toward the door. There were figures there. Armored, a tall, fat man he felt he should know. Beside him, a dwarf in sparkling mail. Pet's brows furrowed. "Did I know you?" He asked in a dreamlike tone.

"Let him be, ye fuckin' whore!" The dwarf's words were punctuated by the sharp whistling of something thrown through the air. A dull thud and crunch followed, and the Mistress wheezed for breath. The thrown war hammer glittered, the dwarven runes upon it glowed, and it whipped back through the air. The dwarf caught it nimbly.

They'd attacked his mistress! Pet scrambled for his weapon, but none were in sight. Nude and unarmed, he stood quickly, raising his fists. He was prepared to die for his Mistress.

"Sorry 'bout this, Alan." The larger man rumbled out, shortly before swinging his gauntleted fist forward.

Alan wasn't sure when the gauntlet connected. He remembered seeing stars, then the world went black. When he finally came to, he was on the floor in a growing pool of blood. Down the hall, through the opened door, he could see a silver furred fox fleeing quickly.

"Damnit! The bitch got away!" Vick's tone was full of fury.

Garthur stooped over Alan, his hands glowed with the after effects of whatever healing prayer he'd just performed. "That'll fix you up lad, now put some damned clothes on."

Alan sat up, groaning softly, "What hit me?"

Vick jutted a thumb in toward his own chest. "You needed it." He continued to watch the hall, just casting the words back over his shoulder.

Alan began to dress groggily, his clothing still laid strewn about the floor. Tannon stepped into view, clad in a ratty tunic and trousers. He dropped Alan's weapons near. 

"Think I found 'em all."

Alan looked confused for a moment, even as he pulled his leathers on. "Tannon?"

"Yeah." The other thief grinned, "I owe you guys. That bastard pretending to be Devron gave me to that fox bitch to keep me quiet. If you guys hadn't happened along, I'd have been a toy forever."

"You two are pathetic," Vick near grunted the words, "That bitch didn't have enough meat on her bones. No tits."

Alan managed a laugh, then stood with Garthur's help. "So what's the situation?"

"Still haven't heard from short stuff or Daph," Vick admitted, "But the rest of this floor is clear."

"Aye, looks like we'll be heading off after the abomination."

Alan eyed the Count and the dwarf in turn, before his eyes settled on Tannon. "And you?"

"Man, count me out of this. I've been locked up in these rooms playing personal servant so long I'm out of practice. I think I'll head down and try to get some things in order, then find a place to rest."

Alan nodded at that, "Understood. And after that?"

Tannon grinned, "Maybe find a few of the old boys and do a little fox hunting."

This brought a chuckle from both old thieves, then Alan clapped Tannon on the shoulder, "Good luck with that."

Stiffly, still sore and somewhat unsettled from the fox woman's effects, Alan followed Vick and Garthur down the hall, then toward where Daphne had been bound. The walls were in a shambles, and not a living soul could be seen. They passed four doors, each of which opened into a room that contained either nothing, or just corpses. Then, just at the end of the hall the room opened up into a sitting room, with another stairway leading up.

The scene the three men walked in on was a chaos. One black-clad guild member cowered in the corner, clearly terrified, while two more exchanged blows. They shouted out strange and illogical things, apparently thinking each one was some manner of monster. Two more lay dead on the floor. Farangalia was there, her shock of hair brilliant and loose, her robes fluttered. She had tears running down her eyes, and weaved her hands in the air as if directing puppets on strings.

Behind the gnome, pinned to the wall by a wooden shard through her chest, lay Daphne. The elven woman was wounded in several places besides the big spike protruding between her breasts, and simply hung limp against the wall.

"She's dead," Farangalia offered, just as one of the men she was manipulating finally struck a fatal blow to the other.

Alan casually walked to the remaining combatant, who didn't seem able to see him. He watched as the fellow whirled about in a panic, then casually thrust his own sword through the man's gut. With a grunt, the bewildered fellow dropped to the ground.

Vick walked past Farangalia, and patted her on the head as he moved. "You did good, short stuff."

"B-but Daphne's dead!" The gnome seemed hysterical, near tears. She turned her tearful gaze toward Vick, just in time to see the Count yank the wooden shard from Daphne's chest. The elf woman slid to the ground, and crumpled there.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 06



There was nothing but disdain in Vick's eyes as he kicked the fallen elf. "Get up, bitch. We don't have all night."

His actions brought a horrified gasp from the gnome. "She... how could you? She's-" but what happened next silenced her.

Vick's next kick brought a groan from the elf's bloodied lips, and she clambered to her feet unsteadily. As three unsurprised and one very bewildered sets of eyes followed her movements, the elf woman swept her hair back. She was pale, terribly pale at that point, and simply stared at Vick. She clearly wanted to say something, but instead just bit her tongue. After a moment casting her eyes about the room, she stumbled over toward the cowering man.

"What? How?!" Farangalia was nearly shrieking.

"What, you didn't know?"

The gnome turned her gaze to Alan, then toward Vick as the heavy man tossed the wooden shard aside. It was the dwarf, however, who answered.

"Stake alone won't kill her, you gotta cut her head off, or expose her to sunlight."

"So she's a-"

Farangalia was cut off once more, this time by the sudden gurgle of the man she'd hit with her fear spells. She looked over just in time to see Daphne's fangs penetrate the man's throat. As the elf drained the man dry, her tan began to return. There was nothing sensual or thrilling about her feeding. The man twitched and struggled as long as he could, then went limp gradually.

"Yeah," Vick turned his gaze back to the stairs up, then began tramping toward them. 

The gnome woman stared, agape, then turned her gaze from Daphne, to Alan, to Vick, then back. "You're all horrible people!"

Garthur sighed, then rested his hand on Farangalia's shoulder. "The Stone Lord just gives us the materials, we work with them as we can. Their hearts are in the right place. At least Vick and Alan's are. Even if their methods are questionable."

The shocked gnome turned her big eyes up toward the dwarf, "You're not going to turn into some monster too, are you?"

"Nah, and only one girlie here is a true monster," He nodded toward Daphne, just as she dropped the man's body to the floor. 

"I always thought you were heroes, you did good for the sake of good!" 

"Some of us did, Fara. Some of us did," The dwarf sounded weary, as if he'd had this conversation before. "Some of us did it for the good we could spread, some of us did it for the money," he nodded toward Alan, "And some did it because they were bored." He gestured to Vick, who just looked away, grunting.

"And the vampire?"

"She was never part of the Reavers!" Alan and Vick chimed up in unison.

"She was an operative in the service of Jaron Daar. We didn't know it at the time, we just thought we were dealing with a particularly troublesome assassin. When were about to kill her, she surrendered, and offered up enough information to make us consider her deal. In return for her life, she would serve one of us for the rest of their natural life, and give us information on the usurper of the throne."

At the dwarf's explanation, the gnome nodded, seeming to calm down. "And... so just like that, you accepted her surrender?"

"We had a vote for it. Three to two we accepted it."

Farangalia nodded, and seemed comforted by the dwarflord's words. "So you let her live, so another greater evil could be done in."

"Something like that. Now, you ready to continue with us?" Garthur offered a broad smile to the gnome woman.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then stood. "As ready as I can be. The modern Reavers, they don't talk about any of that."

"It's for the best. Sometimes it's better to be remembered as heroes, rather than just the batch of bastards that came out on top."

"Are you lot ready? We still have another floor to clear," one could cut Vick's impatience with a knife.

"I'll tell you more about it later," the kindly dwarf patted Farangalia on the shoulder, and she smiled in return. Both moved to follow Vick up the creaking stairs.

When Alan turned to follow, the slender hand of the elf woman came to rest on his shoulder. "Wait a moment," she whispered the words to his ear.

He looked down to his shoulder, at the bloody hand print left there, then turned his gaze back to Daphne's. Those eyes of hers were haunting in a different way than the fox woman's had been. They were less entrancing and luring and more invasive and dominating. Yet there was a certain sadness, a constant sense of loss within them. The two stood there in silence for a moment while the others ascended to the final floor.

"I smell another woman about you," her words were edged with jealousy despite herself. "Tell me you didn't go off with yet another girl while I was getting my ass handed to me."

Alan smiled weakly "I ran into a fox woman." As if that could explain everything. "Why do you care?"

"I just do," Daphne lowered her gaze, her lashes shaded her eyes from view. "You didn't... do anything with her, did you?"

"It's a long story. We need to get to the oth-"

Alan's words were cut off by a sudden, intense kiss. His eyes widened as he pushed back on Daphne's shoulders. He could taste her, true, but upon those lips was also the taste of blood she'd been consuming in copious amounts. It wasn't altogether pleasant, and he sought to push her gently but firmly away.

He was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes. "Daphne?"

"Why is it that everyone seems to want you?" She sobbed, then buried her head against his chest. "I could live with your wife, she's a sweetheart, but why does everyone else have to get their filthy paws on you too?"

Her words confused Alan to no end, as did the sudden grasp of his shoulders, as she kissed him again. His arms settled loosely about her waist, uncertain of what to do. She pressed her full breasts against him, staining his leathers with blood. It was going to be awkward to explain if anyone asked.

When she finally stepped back, she touched his cheek. "I love you, Alan Tinsley, and I would see you reunited with your wife. But know that if anyone else tries to take you away, I'll rip them apart with my own hands."

Alan frowned at the words. Oh he knew she was fond of him, but this was the first time she'd said so in so many words. "Why, Daphne? You know... I was one of the two that voted to just kill you."

She didn't even flinch, she simply nodded "I know. And... and that's why. You would end my suffering if you could." She looked away for a moment, then spoke in measured tones, "If I ever have to watch the sun rise again, I would do it with you at my side, Alan."

"You're not making any sense, why would you bargain for your life if you wanted to die?"

"Because I can't just lay down and take it, Alan. I can't just give up, but at the same time, do you know how hard it is to be one of my kind? An elf who will never dance under the sun again? Who cannot go into the wilds without being shunned by the beasts of the woods? Who can't truly enjoy the taste and effects of wine?"

"Yet you fight to continue on."

"I have to, Alan." She toyed with his hair as she spoke, "It's in my nature. But the day will come when the end catches up, and I want you to be with me then."

Alan sighed heavily. He didn't have any idea, but now her sadness made more sense. "I will be there Daphne, you've been... a friend these years."

She leaned up to kiss him once more, and it was a lingering, almost tender kiss. His arms slipped about her cool frame, and she leaned in against his chest. Her hands rested on his shoulders, gentler than the fox woman from earlier. "Thank you," she whispered against his lips. Then, she stepped back.

Alan offered a weak smile, then wiped at his mouth to clear the blood from his own lips. "Blech. It's like kissing everyone you've fed from tonight."

The elven woman giggled, then stepped toward the stairs. There was a spring in her step that hadn't been there before, and he moved to follow her. His gaze drifted along those long legs, then over the curve of her rear. He did have to admit, she was damn attractive.

"How about Vick, hmm?" He asked jokingly, "He voted to kill you too..."

"I know. Why do you think I keep his household so well?" There was laughter in her voice again. She sounded almost normal.

"Oh, do you love him as well?" He had to poke at it, if only to distract himself from the carnage that would no doubt come on the floor above.

"Phht, that lardass? Come on, give me some credit for taste." She cast a look over her shoulder, then those full lips broadened into a toothy grin.

Alan shook his head, then swatted the curve of her ass with an open palm. She took off up the stairs with a laugh, and he simply followed.

It had been a strange few days, but they were almost done. His Elizabeth was so close he could feel it. He swore to himself then that when they did recover her, he'd lock himself away with her for a long while, and forget any other woman in the world existed.

His gaze drifted back to the leather clad rear end of the elven woman above him on the stairs. Until then, he'd just have to enjoy the view.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 07



The relative silence of the upper level did little to calm the thoughts whirling through Alan's mind. A week previous, he'd been a changed man. Legitimate in business, kinder of heart than in his youth, loyal to his beautiful young wife. Had it really been only a day since she'd vanished? He was back to his old tricks, his old feelings, his old wants. It was as if a raging beast had been unleashed in his heart, and he would tear through anything in his way, gorging himself on anything in his way. A guilty, sidelong glance was given to the elven woman who walked beside him.

Daphne had grown calm as they ascended to that third floor landing. There was no sign of the recent confession on her features. Her features bore a certain peace about them, but it was no doubt the simple serenity of an animal concentrating on distant prey. He wondered if a monster like her could really have emotions at all, let alone those she'd expressed just moments before.

The lack of alarm when they reached the top floor made him uneasy. Those walls, those same wood paneled walls he remembered from his dreams stretched out before him. Two halls off of the landing, and he knew they were joined by a cross hallway further within, from his own memory of the safe house's layout. And yet something seemed off, he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

To make matters wore, Alan's shoulder was throbbing again. A dull, rough ache from where the dwarf's healing prayers had hastily mended his flesh earlier. It wasn't enough to stay his movements, but it certainly was something that kept creeping back into his attention. The old rogue glanced forward toward Garthur, rubbing his shoulder as he did.

"I think your healing magic is getting weaker over the year, old friend."

"Har! The Stone Father's blessings never get weak, it's you that's getting old, boy." 

Vick raised one gauntleted hand. "Quiet."

The group came to a halt, and sure enough the sound of rushing feet broke the silence. It seemed they were coming down from each hall. Alan frowned "This is a bad place, they'll have cover, we won't."

"Right, into the halls to meet them on equal ground. Daphne, with me, Garthur and Faringalia, go with Alan."

Alan frowned, but by then it was too late. Daphne hurried to catch up with Vick, and the two dashed around the corner into the far hall. Alan cast his gaze back to the other two, then motioned for Garthur to follow. "Faringalia, you take up the rear."

"Yes sir, already on it," as if following the rest took some initiative.

Alan shook his head, he had better things to worry about at that old point. The rogue hurried toward the remaining corridor, followed by Garthur. At the far end of the hall, already two of Devron's thugs rounded the corner. The old rogue was partially disturbed by how few faces were familiar amongst those they had fought, but also somewhat relieved. It meant that perhaps quite a bit of the old guild would have been loyal to him, but what had happened to them over the past few years? If Tannon's fate told anything, it did not bode well for the rest.

The former guild-master drew his blade as the two thugs came into view, yet already Garthur's hammer Jhernyr whipped by his shoulder, and flew end over end, striking one of the onrushing fellows in the face. The results were spectacular and gruesome, and caused his fellow to stumble and hesitate, horror painted across his face. That was no good, as it delayed his progress into Alan's own blade. With sword in one hand, Alan drew one of his daggers, and threw it as he ran.

The thrown blade lodged in the wood near to the remaining thug's neck, missing him by mere fractions of an inch. It was enough to startle him into action, and he continued his own charge. As blade met blade, Jhernyr whistled back into Garthur's hand, only to be caught with a jingling of that mailed gauntlet.

The two men in the lead made short work of the remaining thug, and when the fellow tried to turn and flee, Alan's sword found a resting place in his back. Their advance, however, had left a few side doors between themselves and the little gnome woman. As Faringalia hurried to catch up with her companions, a short, sinister looking man popped out of a door behind her, and raised a stocky wooden crossbow. The clack of the crossbow sending a bolt into the gnome's back was the only warning any of them had, and with a pained shriek, the gnome woman collapsed.

Alan and Garthur whirled about as one. The rogue whipped his hand out to yank his dagger from the wall, and he threw it in the same motion. Garthur's magic hammer once more whirled through the air, and the impact from both thrown weapons sent the crossbowman tumbling back in a bloody mess. 

"Faringalia!" Alan rushed to the gnome's side, followed by his dwarven friend.

"Nnhn," It was a pitiful sound, but it showed she wasn't dead yet. The fragile gnome's eyes fluttered open, and she gazed up at the two.

Garthur slid to his knees and began to work on extracting the bolt, only to hesitate "We need to get her out of the hall."

Alan nodded to a nearby door, and moved to yank it open. The two men dragged the fallen gnome into the dark chamber beyond, and as the dwarf-lord got back to work on her, Alan finally cast his glance out over the room they'd ducked into.

They were not alone.

Soft, needful pants and the sound of slick flesh sliding over slick flesh rose from a bed where two women writhed against one another. Tanned, toned bodies ground against one another, glistening with some manner of oil that covered them from head to toe. Both women were blonde, their hair falling in unkempt locks, dark with their perspiration.

The two undulating forms never stopped, though surely they must have been aware of the intrusion. Hands roamed each others' bodies, and long, smooth legs pressed between slick thighs. There was the hint of pointed ears peeking out from blonde hair on both accounts, though not as pronounced as Daphne's. It was only when the top woman drew her face away from the other that recognition finally dawned on Alan. Lips left the other woman's, dragging down along that oiled flesh to capture one peaked, dark nipple, leaving the lower woman's face in clear view.

An attractive half elven woman, her face was locked in an expression of rapture. Her full, moist lips parted to draw quick breaths. Her pale blue eyes were glassy, unfocused, and when the other woman caught her nipple and tugged with her teeth, the woman Alan gazed upon arched her neck with a wanton whimper. And although he had never seen her in quite such a state, he clearly recognized her.

"Amarinth," the name left his lips before he was fully aware of settling on it. Then that must mean the other was, "Merideth."

Each name caused its respective owner to flinch, but they didn't stop their movements. Amarinth raked her nails along Merideth's back, while Merideth suckled upon her pert nipple. A hand descended between Amarinth's thighs, before dextrous fingers pressed into the woman's slit.

The two had often been mistaken for sisters, though they weren't. They weren't even that close, but in the old days the two had served as the 'conscience' of the guild. It was a thieves' guild to be sure, but any time the guild's path strayed into darkness, the two would be the most vocal opponents. When Alan had left, he'd believed the two would keep Devron from at least the worst of temptations.

"Alan," Amarinth moaned his name out as Merideth's fingers plunged deeply and quickly between her thighs. Her legs lifted to wrap about the other woman's waist, ankles crossed behind Merideth's back. "Help us," the words were pleading, completely at odds with the act going on before him.

"Help you?" His curious words rose as he approached, on shaky feet.

"Can't stop," This time it was Merideth who spoke, as her lips left Amarinth's breast. Strands of saliva still connected her own lush lips to the tip of the other woman's pert nipple, then she suddenly moved up. Lips captured lips as the two half elves kissed fervently, as if seeking to devour each other.

Alan stared for a moment, then swallowed nervously. He looked back to Garthur and the unconscious Faringalia.

The dwarf sat back slowly, and shook his head, "It's the best I can do, she won't die, but she won't be much help from hear on out. We'll need to get her out." Only then did Garthur's gaze turn to the two women writhing upon the bed. His bushy brows rose. 

"They say they can't stop... they're asking for help, but I don't know what to do."

The clank of Garthur's armor as he gained his feet and approached did little to drown out the rising moans and squelch of fingers moving faster and faster. Amarinth arched upward, crushing her breasts against the other woman's, and her cry of climax was hardly muted by Merideth's lips. The dour dwarf frowned as he watched the scene, and he gripped the symbol hung about his neck. After a moment, he just shook his head sadly.

"It's a curse, and a strong one at that. I can't remove it with what I have prepared."

"We can't leave them here, they're old friends." And yet he was having increasing difficulty tearing his eyes away from the two half elves. Their half blooded lineage did much to keep them young looking after all these years.

The two on the bed rolled over, then Amarinth scooted up along Merideth's body. She turned around as she moved to straddle Merideth's head, then lowered her slick, swollen folds to press down upon questing lips and tongue. Her blue eyes drifted to Alan, and she pleaded out, "Please, Alan... help us." No sooner had the words escaped her, however, than her head descended toward Merideth's thighs. Hands spread over that slick, oiled flesh, parting them to reveal Merideth's tight slit, only to begin to trace lips and tongue over her flesh.

Garthur's armored elbow in his side broke Alan's staring gaze. The old rogue looked about to his dwarven friend, who seemed to have come to a decision.

"Go on ahead, boy. Vick and Daph have probably circled around the other side by now... you catch up as you can and finish this."

"What about you? And Faringalia? And Merideth and Amarinth for that matter?"

"Leave 'em to me. I've got an idea... I'll get the three of 'em out and to safety, but your wife needs you."

Alan nodded, then turned his gaze back to the two blondes. His eyes met Merideth's as she peered up from under Amarinth's shapely rear. Her sharp nails dug into the flesh of Amarinth's ass as her tongue lapped hungrily. Her eyes though, her eyes were terrified, pleading.

With that last sight, Alan moved back toward the door. He shot a glance to Faringalia as he passed, but the gnome was still out of it. Just as he reached to open the door, Garthur called after him.

"Alan boy, take care. Whoever it is that's pulling Devron's strings has access to strong magic."

The old rogue looked back to his once companions as they writhed on the bed, then he nodded. With that, he slipped out into the hallway once more.

It was quieter now, though the sound of combat still drifted from where Vick and Daphne probably were. The two were so destructive, it was not difficult to tell their positions. With his own blade drawn, Alan began to move down the hall. He didn't move as quietly as he must, but there was little need for it. He nudged open chambers as he passed, but room after room seemed empty. It didn't take much longer to reach the corner to the last corridor.

As Alan peeked about the corner, he came face to face with two powerfully built fellows just coming around the corner, weapons drawn. Beyond them, he could see a splatter of blood at the opposite corner down the hall, and the flash of Vick's sword as it cut through an unseen target. The other two were close, but not close enough to help in that moment.

The two men he was faced with were an immediate threat, but fortunately seemed more shocked than he at the sudden encounter. Perhaps they had been fleeing the two psychopaths with blades down the hall. Whatever the case, they were faces that he didn't recognize, and thus must be Devron's lackeys. Or false-Devron, as Alan was increasingly convinced of.

Immediately he drove his own blade forward into the midsection of the first of the fellows, piercing up through his abdomen. The man grunted and staggered back, sliding off the blade and clutching the wound. The next man brought his blade down in a slash that cut shallowly across Alan's chest. Searing pain bloomed up from the cut, but a combination of his enchanted leathers and a quick duck backward kept the blade from sinking too deeply.

For the second time that night, he'd been caught. He was clearly getting too old for this. But here, faced with two men who had likely been abusing his wife not hours before, a rage overtook Alan. As the man who had wounded Alan began to recover, the old thief rammed his own blade upward in the wake of that sword's back swing, slamming his shorter sword up through flesh. His other hand reached to catch the sword that fell from the man's suddenly limp hands, and immediately swing it toward the first who had tasted Alan's blade, catching him just as he began his own approach.

With a blade in each hand, Alan knew the result of both thrusts more from the expression on Vick's face as the larger man finally came into view. Without looking to the two he'd just dispatched, the old thief yanked both swords from their respective victims and strolled down the hall, the pitter-patter of dripping blood marking his progress.

"Where's Garthur?"

Alan's gaze drifted to a blood drenched Daphne as the elven woman rounded the corner, then back to Vick.

"Faringalia was severely wounded, and we found more friendlies. He's escorting them out."

Vick looked Alan over and frowned, "Damn, and you need your own wound tended to. These friendlies, were they old associates of yours?"

Alan nodded, even as his eyes drifted back to Daphne. The elven woman was staring at the blood which now seeped down his leathers with a disconcerting, hungry gaze. As she licked her tongue across her fangs, he forcibly averted his own gaze. "Yeah, and they were in rough shape."

"Damned Devron. He'll pay for this."

Suspicions over whether this was all really the fault of his former lieutenant were set aside, and Alan pointed toward the last door in the hall with his 'borrowed' sword. They had to move quickly before Daphne lost control. "Let's get moving then. You first, Vick."

The fat, armored Count turned without a word, and unceremoniously kicked the door off of its hinges. The door crashed open to reveal what was once the Guild-master's quarters. The room beyond was lavish, with a few black rat portraits, and fine furnishings. A desk sat nearby, largely empty, and across the room was a grand, four post bed.

Upon the bed sat Elizabeth Tinsley. She was radiant despite the horrors she had endured, serene despite the situation. Her blonde hair was an unkempt mess, but still glimmered about her features as if it were some shining halo. Her emerald eyes glistened with tears, and her lips were somewhat swollen, from acts Alan would rather not think of. She was nude, her full breasts rising and falling with quick breaths, her fair skin still showing signs of bruising where she had been held down. Immediately she rose and ran toward Alan, arms outstretched.

Vick stepped aside to allow her past. A smile broke across the fat man's features as Alan wrapped his arms about his love, lifting her and spinning her about. Elizabeth scattered kisses over Alan's features, pressing her body to his.

"Alan! Alan... I knew you'd come." She near sobbed the words, "I'm so sorry, I should have fought harder-"

"Shh my love, shh. You're safe now, safe with me." The old rogue gazed into his wife's eyes with adoration. His hands slipped down to circle her waist. The feel of her warm skin against his quenched the embers of his previous rage. All of it, all of the bloodshed and uncertainty washed away now he had her in his arms again. Even the sting of his latest wound was merely an afterthought to the rush of holding her once more.

"Alan," Daphne chimed up, "She's unguarded."

The words immediately put him and Vick on guard once more. She should have had at least one person watching her. Vick readied his blade, and Alan shifted Elizabeth to one arm, dropping his borrowed sword as he did. 

A quick sweep of the room found nothing out of place, though a memory jogged Alan's mind. He pointed to one panel with his sword. "Daphne, secret door."

The elven woman moved hurriedly toward where Alan had indicated, and after a few pushes, the panel popped free, revealing a darkened passage. The scent of old decay immediately filled the room, but the blood thirsty elf hardly seemed impacted. She thrust her head through the passage, and then withdrew it again.

"There's a dead man in there. Been dead for quite some time if I'm not mistaken."

Alan frowned at the news, but it wasn't unexpected. "No one knows about that passage but the guild master himself. That'll be Devron."

"There's all sorts of papers and records in there too."

Alan nodded as he hugged Elizabeth close to his side. "Gather them up, we can sort through them later. There might be a clue as to who was behind all of this."

The elven woman darted back into the passage, while Vick turned back to Alan, "There's something I don't like about this all. Where's the shape-shifter?"

The question weighed heavily on Alan's mind, but before he could form a proper response, Elizabeth's warm lips pressed to his neck.

"Love, I'm cold."

Almost as if waking from a daze, Alan swept his cloak off, and draped the bloodstained fabric about his wife's nude form. She met his gaze, and a doting smile touched her lips.

"Sorry, are you well enough to walk?" His doting eyes lingered on hers, and they may as well have been alone in the world.

"I am, come, let's get your wound tended to." Her fingers traced over the bloody cut that still stung at his chest.

The old rogue nodded, then looked back to Vick "Will you be able to help Daphne wrap things up here?"

"Certainly. And I'd wager my men are already setting up containment outside."

It hadn't been part of the original plan, but Alan had to admit that now things were settling out it would be helpful. He squeezed his wife's shoulders, then kissed her brow, "Come now Lizzy. Let's get you looked to as well."

"I'll be fine, I promise." Indeed, for all of the ordeal she must have been through, she looked well enough. Certainly better than the sorry shape the battles had left him in.

Any doubts he might have had to her well being were dismissed when her lips caught his. Warm lips against his, she kissed him with a rare intensity, beyond her normal gentle nature. When the kiss was broken, she tugged at his arm. Alan turned and walked with her, leaving Vick and Daphne to the cleanup.

The once safe-house was a terrible sight, and the old rogue felt somewhat ashamed of the carnage they had wrought. Even though it had been to rescue her, Alan fully expected her to say something, to chide him for his lack of control, but not a word was said. Instead, she simply leaned into his side, resting her head on his shoulder.

He would have preferred if she had said something. It would've let him know she was still her old self.

When they arrived outside, the guard had indeed moved in. Several uniformed men had blocked off the area, and just down near the street, Garthur was resting on the edge of a wagon. Within the wagon, Merideth and Amarinth were still within each others' arms, though someone had the decency to wrap them in a blanket for now. Faringalia still lay unconscious on a stretcher.

A few paces away, Tannon was settled against a building wall, another guard standing near. Both waved to Alan and Elizabeth, seeming content on remaining where they were. At least things were quiet out there. Aside from the presence of the guard, one might never know the bloodbath that had taken place within.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 07



Garthur dismounted the edge of the wagon with a jingle of his mail, then strode over to the two. "Boy, you're bleeding. Let me take a look at you."

At first, Alan tried to wave the dwarf-lord off, "See to Elizabeth first."

"No, no I'm fine... tend to Alan, please." 

Garthur scowled as he looked to both of them in turn, before he finally moved toward Alan. "You first, you've gone and got yourself gashed pretty bad."

Alan's protests were stifled by a wave of weakness. The rush of combat ant the subsequent recovery of his wife was wearing off. He just wearily nodded as Garthur lead him to the wagon. As Elizabeth looked on, Garthur tended to Alan's wound, cleaning, stitching, and then applying his healing magic. 

"Afraid I've already used most of my healing strength for the day, but that should do it."

At the dwarf's satisfactory nod, Alan looked down to inspect his friend's handiwork. "Looks like you haven't lost your touch."

"Yeah, but you have. Getting hit twice in one night, Alan? You're getting to be an old man."

Alan chuckled ruefully, then looked up to his wife. She stood near, a distant expression that he'd never seen on her features. When she noticed him, she smiled warmly, and he just wrote the previous expression off as the trauma she had just suffered. Alan reached to take her hand, and she squeezed his in return.

"Come now, love, let Garthur take-"

"No," she cut him off, almost too quickly, which brought a curious look from both Garthur and Alan. She hastily added, as if to reassure them, "Tomorrow, I'll see about having Charity take a look at me."

Alan was confused for a moment, although they certainly knew each other, he wasn't sure when Elizabeth had had an opportunity to really get close to the priestess, but Garthur simply nodded agreement.

"That might be best, being a woman and all." The dwarf shot an uncomfortable look back to Alan. It was his cue.

The old rogue stood and slipped one arm about Elizabeth "Yes, yes that will be best." He forced a smile and began to walk away, when one of the guards caught up to him and Elizabeth.

"Sir Tinsley, we have a carriage ready to take you back home."

Alan looked to his wife, and Elizabeth offered a smile that didn't quite match the radiance he remembered. Still, it was warm enough, "Oh, oh of course."

In short order, the two found themselves ensconced safely within one of the Count's carriages. Left alone with him, Elizabeth looked into his eyes, then reached to clasp his hand in both of hers. She giggled softly, which only brought one of Alan's brows to raise.

"Oh, oh it's nothing dear, I am just so happy to be out of that horrid place."

Alan smiled and rubbed her hands gently in his own. His fingers teased over where her wedding rings had once been, and a frown crossed his features as he realized their absence.

"Is something wrong, love?"

"Your rings," he began, but was quickly silenced when she leaned in to kiss him. He couldn't help but return the kiss. Gentle, at first, loving, but as those precious seconds passed she was the one to deepen it. She was the one whose movements grew more wanting.

When finally she broke the kiss, his Lizzy stared into his eyes. "Rings can be replaced. Just think of the here, the now." She drew his hands forward, to rest at her firm breasts. It was a forwardness so unlike her.

As his hands cupped and gently explored those curves, he admittedly found little reason to complain. Still, "We should wait, at least until we get home."

Her pout was as heart wrenching as ever, at least, but fortunately it was short lived. She threw her arms around his neck, and giggled. "Of course, my love, and when we do, I shall make up for every moment we were apart. I want you to make me yours again."

The embrace made him flinch just a bit, that slash across his chest still tender, and the earlier bolt wound to his shoulder still aching. But Alan could do little more than nod. "Of course, my love, of course."

Elizabeth could make him forget just about anything.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 08



The carriage wound its way toward Alan's estate, and it was well past midnight when the horses finally pulled it up before the quiet house. Footmen raced around to open the door, and a battered Alan Tinsley helped his wife Elizabeth down from the carriage. She was hardly clad in that voluminous cloak of his, her hair was still a mess, but she looked as beautiful as the day he'd first laid eyes upon her.

Alan stepped out beside her, then slipped his arm about her waist. She leaned against his shoulder as they approached the house. The heavy wooden door soon gave way to a quiet, shadowy interior lit only by the gentle glow of lamplight from the sitting room he'd vacated so hastily before. No doubt Marcy had kept the thing lit while waiting for his return. Elizabeth glanced up and about the foyer as if seeing it for the first time, and hesitated there.

"What's wrong, love?"

His concern was met only by a gentle smile. "I've been through so much... it's just a little overwhelming to be here again. Perhaps a bath would be in order?"

At her suggestion, Alan smiled gently, and rubbed at her waist. "Of course, my love," and soon he was leading his wife down the hall, her bare feet padding lightly along on the smooth wood flooring. 

As they passed the sitting room, Alan peeked around the corner, only to catch sight of Marcy, asleep in one of the couches. Henri lay stretched out there, also asleep. The big man's head rested upon the maid's lap. The two looked so very peaceful, and Alan was glad to see that Henri's color had returned. While the simple minded man hadn't had the benefit of the dwarf-lord's masterful healing spells, the effects of the potions, healer's attentions, and likely a lot of rest under the care of Marcy had done much to apparently restore the man's vitality. The worst was passed, or so it seemed.

Alan turned, expecting to reassure his wife's worries, but she wasn't even looking into the sitting room. Instead, her gaze wandered the hall studiously, as if re-familiarizing herself with its length. He had expected his kind-hearted Lizzy to show her usual concern over the help. His brow furrowed in thought.

She seemed to notice his worry as her gaze drifted back from the hall to meet his. She lifted a gentle hand to caress his cheek with a loving touch, "What's wrong, dear?"

His worries subsided, but only slightly. It took him a moment to figure out how to put it, before finally, "Henri seems to be doing better."

"That's nice, dear."

His blood ran cold for a moment, but perhaps she hadn't known what had happened to him. "He was heavily wounded when you were taken, dear."

Almost at once, realization dawned upon her features, and she leaned past him to look in on the sleeping man and maid. "Oh! Oh my, I'm so sorry. I hadn't realized," She certainly sounded contrite, but the interaction left a certain doubt in Alan's mind. Had she been traumatized that badly in that brief captivity? Or was this not his Lizzy?

Even the idea of doubting her was painful. Guilty that the thought had even crossed his mind, he gathered Elizabeth in against his chest. She sighed and laid her head against him again.

"I'm sorry dear, I just... That bath, please?"

Alan kissed the top of her head, inhaling her scent as he held her close. "Of course, love."

She didn't move from his arms, not until he finally moved to lead her onward toward their bathing room. She moved readily where lead. The bath had been a luxury installed at her slightest suggestion in days long past, situated near their bedroom. The room itself was bright with enchanted light, and contained a massive porcelain tub. Two crystal decanters mounted to a gilded rod could be unstopped to provide an endless source of hot and cold water, while a similarly gilded stopper kept the drain sealed.

Alan guided her in toward the tub, and she let his cloak slip from her shoulders as they moved. As they neared the baths, she offered a coy little smile over her shoulder, only to slide her hands along her own hips, teasing her nails over her own soft skin with just enough of a scraping to draw his attentions downward.

"Draw the bath for me?" An unusual request, but the flirtatious tone in her words easily drew him in.

Alan slipped past her, eyes drifting over her form as he moved, then he reached to begin to draw the crystal stops from each of the decanters, adjusting their flow by their command words. Water soon thundered down into the porcelain bath, and he reached his hand into the flow, to ensure the temperature was to her liking.

As he leaned over the edge of the tub, Elizabeth's hands came to his shoulders, then slipped down under his tunic. He winced when they found the edge of that tender flesh where the crossbow bolt had earlier pierced. His reaction just caused her to trace her nails lightly, teasingly along the edge of that spell-healed wound. 

"My poor, poor dear," She cooed the words out, and began to loosen that leather's ties. "Did you get hurt coming to my rescue?"

Alan chuckled ruefully and nodded, "I took my share of nicks and dings coming for you, but it was so worth it, love." As the bath filled, he straightened, and turned to face her. His hands went for her waist.

Nude before him, Elizabeth's nipples jutted forth stiffly. Her eyes gazed up through her lashes in a manner that nagged at his memories more than it should. Her hands moved over his chest though, peeling away the damaged leather tunic, then her nails traced over his smooth skin to toy over the freshly healed slash that he'd suffered on that top floor.

"I'm glad you think I'm worth such hardship." She spoke softly, then her head dipped forward. That long, blonde hair brushed against his skin long before the tease of her warm, moist lips played over his flesh. She drew a line of gentle little kisses over the line of pale skin that marked where the dwarf's miraculous prayers had knitted the wound.

Still tender from the injury and subsequent healing, even that gentle touch brought a light hiss from Alan's lips. His hands slid slowly up her sides, and she offered a wicked little smile up to him. Her tongue darted out to taste skin that still bore the stain of blood from the earlier injury next to fresh skin.

"Tease," he breathed out the word. He wanted her badly, though he had worried over how the brutality of her captivity would have affected her. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disturbed when her hands descended to unlace his trousers.

With his tunic removed, there was nothing to prevent the contact of her warm skin as she leaned in again. Hands still worked to remove his leggings, while her soft breasts crushed against his firm chest. Stiff nipples positively drilled into his flesh, and she tilted her head up, lips beckoning his. He slipped his own hands to tease the sides of those fleshy swells, before slipping back down to the base of her spine. His lips caught hers hungrily, and a low wanting sound escaped him.

The kiss was held long enough to leave even him breathless, before she was the one to break it. She smiled a devious little smile, then whispered to him, "The bath is ready, dear."

It took him a moment to process her words, then Alan nodded hastily "Oh! Oh yes." He turned then, hands reluctantly left her soft skin, and he placed the crystal stops back into place, shutting off that water in an instant, leaving the tub filled with faintly steaming, crystal clear water.

Elizabeth's hands stroked over his broad shoulders, then down along his back, dragging her nails along his flesh with a light pressure. She then rested her palms against his lower back, guiding him forward against the tub. When he stepped forward into it, she leaned forward and pressed a soft little kiss to his spine. Turning to face her with a smile, Alan gazed into her smoldering eyes. Her hands slipped back to his shoulders, and she guided him downward into the water.

As the old rogue settled back into the warm embrace of the cleansing waters, he was treated to the sight of his young wife's leg slipping across before him. She stepped daintily into the waters with him, straddling his legs with her own toned limbs. Slowly she lowered herself, gazing down into his eyes. His hands slid up along her soft, smooth flesh, while hers came to rest at his chest once more. He wanted to wince when her hands once more found that tender flesh, but his attentions were entirely occupied with the way her slender body settled in, the slight sway of her breasts as she leaned forward, the way her thighs parted and then glided over his own. 

Settled in his lap at last, he knew she couldn't help but notice his arousal as her soft, silken flesh brushed against his hard cock. Yet all she did was offer a grind of her hips to tease against his throbbing flesh, and gently scoop up a sponge, wetting it in the water. Her lithe form remained close, but not quite touching, and she lifted said sponge to carefully begin to wash the grime and blood from his skin. The crystalline water swept it away readily, the enchanted nature of it rinsing it all into nothingness. The tub remained pristine about their bodies.

The safety of home, the way the water eased his pains and the warmth of his wife's proximity were a slice of heaven for Alan's weary form. He gazed up at her eyes, as bright and beautiful as they ever were. His hands stroked from her hips up along her sides, cupped to keep that warm, cleansing water against her smooth skin. 

As his hands came up to Lizzy's breasts, she lifted the sponge and squeezed that cleansing water out over his hair. The act brought a laugh from the old rogue's lips, and he squeezed those firm breasts with a possessive kneading.

Lizzy arched into her husband's touch, a warm smile on her lush lips. She leaned into him and traced her tongue along his neck, then back down over one collarbone. When her tongue met the pale scar cut across his chest, she followed its progress from one side to the other. Delicate hands raked slowly over his chest, before she dug her nails into his sides.

Alan gasped at the sting of those nails, and his back arched. Those tight muscles grazed his wife's soft form, and the throbbing arousal she had stirred brushed along her nether lips. At the slight touch of body to body, however, she withdrew. A teasing little smirk played across her lush lips as she rose slowly, pushing herself out of the bath. The old rogue's hands slid back down along her smooth skin, caressing along each curve as she passed out of reach.

His protests died as those lush lips descended to his own. The kiss was intense, demanding, and he groaned into her hungry mouth. She leaned over him, one hand braced on the edge of the tub, while the other played down along his chest. Long nails teased down over his abdomen, then those slender fingers slipped into the warm water to wrap about his cock. Slowly they tightened about his length, just stroking along that rigid member.

When she broke the kiss, Lizzy gazed down into his eyes. Her own greens glittered like gems in the moonlight. "Come now, dear, the bed awaits." She gave a final gentle tug to that engorged member, as if to beckon him up, then turned away from the bath. The water still coursing in rivulets along her frame pooled in her wake, making the floor dangerously slick. She fetched up one of the towels from the nearby rack, and began to dry herself.

Alan let his gaze drift over her body, lingering on the track of those slender hands as they guided the towels over her curves. When she caught his gaze, Lizzy offered an impish, teasing smile. With a laugh, the old rogue hoisted himself readily from that bath. Only the slightest tinge of pain was betrayed when he put strain on that still recovering arm.

Once out of the tub, Alan stepped toward where Lizzy rubbed that warm towel over her still damp form. She turned as he neared, then lifted her hands to trace that same material over his own frame. He slipped his hands to her waist, but she smiled and pushed him back lightly. "There's plenty of time for all that." However, on noticing his look, she smiled and lazily draped her arms about his shoulders, letting that towel fall to the ground.

"Carry me to bed?"

Even with those freshly mended injuries, it was a task Alan was more than equal to. His hands slipped down along her form, scooping under her legs and her back. With ease, he lifted her frame, and held her close to his chest. She was, perhaps, a bit heavier than he recalled, but then he'd had to favor the one arm in supporting her.

Lizzy's lips brushed his chin, and she kept her arms wrapped about his shoulders. He could feel her nails digging into his back just below the nape of his neck. With a permanent smile upon his own lips, he carried her, making his way still nude out of that bathing room and just down the adjacent hallway. It was a short trek into their grand bedroom, through double doors that opened into a room that she'd had free reign in decorating.

A pair of windows opened out to overlook the gardens beyond, though the night cloaked that lovely view just then. There was a portrait of them both, created just after their wedding, fine fur carpets and ornate dressers. Then there were touches from his own past. Prizes and trinkets taken during his adventuring days, lovingly displayed at Lizzy's own request. A medallion from a lost temple, a mask from a savage goblin chieftain, quite a number of swords and knives. It was certainly a surprise when, as they passed one display, she swept one elegant hand out to take up a long, black bladed knife, to toy with between her hands.

When Alan raised his brows, Lizzy distracted him with a question, "Which one was this one from again? You had so many exploits, my dashing hero."

With a chuckle, Alan lowered her into the welcoming embrace of those soft, satin sheets. "That was the personal weapon of the assassin Renolyn, whom we stopped from claiming the life of then Duchess Salnatia."

He slipped a hand up to take it from her grasp, but she moved her own hand away with an impish smile. Holding the blade at arm's length above her head, amongst the pillows, she lifted her other hand to caress his cheek. Her tongue darted out to moisten her inviting lips, then she purred up to him, "Kiss me, silly."

Alan was happy to oblige. The old rogue dipped down to capture her lips with his own once more, and found her more than ready, returning his own advance with a rare hunger. She surprised him then, one smooth leg rose to hook about his waist, and that hand moved from his cheek to the nape of his neck. With a quick tug she had him tumbling into the bed, and rolled atop him.

Through his own laughter, he could hear the front door crash open in the distance, though he paid it no mind. The feel of his wife's body straddling his own, the warmth of her, the lingering taste of her lips upon his, then the sway of her breasts dancing over him as she straightened from that kiss were all he could care about.

There were raised voices, Alan thought he could hear Vick and Daphne's voices. At his puzzled expression, Lizzy kissed him again, and it was with such an urgency that he grew troubled. There was more desperation than true passion behind it, and though the way her breasts crushed into his chest was pleasing, something was definitely amiss.

Sir Tinsley wasn't sure if it was the sudden burst of his bedroom door as Vick Varonne flung it open, or the faint hiss of that black bladed dagger sliding across the pillowcases near his ear that saved him. He didn't remember consciously moving his hands, so it might have simply been the reflexes earned by a lifetime dealing with cutthroats that had his hands about Lizzy's wrist, just as the tip of that razor sharp knife nicked his throat. 

A thin droplet of his blood rose from where the very point of the dagger had pierced his flesh.

"That's not Lizzy!" Vick bellowed, as if it wasn't clear in that moment.

Still confused, Alan bit down on the lips of the mouth sealed against his, just as both of his hands struggled to keep that knife-bearing limb at bay. Her form was already changing above his, shifting, writhing as it adopted an inhuman, spindly figure. Neither male nor female, with no hair, little muscle mass, and a face like the blank mask of a doll's, with huge, empty eyes.

And then Daphne impacted the being, and knocked it off and away from him. The elven assassin and the strange shape shifter tumbled to the floor on the opposite side of the bed.

Count Varonne strode across the bedroom confidently, his great black bladed sword resting upon his still armored shoulder, the metal so similar to the knife which had come so close to ending Alan's life. 

Alan clapped one hand over the nick on his neck to stem the bleeding, before his eyes fell to the assassin's knife still laying amidst the sheets of his bed. The thing had dropped it when Daphne's tackle had connected. Thinking quickly, his free hand darted out lightning fast, and he spun the blade to a combat grip.

By now, upon the floor the creature had shifted again. Now, two leather clad, dark tressed elven women wrestled upon the ground. Two Daphnes, just what the world needed. Alan groaned as he looked down to the two.

As he stood above the two figures, Vick watched them roll back and forth, a grim expression on his features. It was almost impossible to tell which was which, so perfect was the masquerade.

"Kill her!" Both of the elven women cried out in unison, while hands gripped at hair and pushed at torsos. The tangle of limbs continued for a moment longer, before Vick raised that great sword in both hands.

With a sudden, downward thrust that startled even Alan, Vick impaled both women in a clean stroke, and buried the first five inches of that blade into the flooring beneath. The Daphne on the bottom stared upward, eyes wide in shock, then glanced down at the sword cleanly passing through both bodies.

"W-why?" The lower Daphne squeaked out, as those feminine features began to fade into a genderless, gray skinned being.

The real Daphne cursed, as blood poured from about her fangs. "Fuck you, Vick. That hurts."

With a casual press of a booted foot on Daphne's pert ass, Vick yanked his sword out of both of the bodies beneath him. "You'll get over it."

The vampiric elven woman rolled off of the now still doppelganger with a groan, and Alan peered over the edge of the bed, staring in horror at the growing pool of black ichor beneath the dead monstrosity.

"You're damn lucky Garthur and your friend Tannon insisted we go over what we could of the documents from that safe house. Figures you'd let your guard down for a woman's touch. Our work's not done, turns out they moved your wife already."

Alan turned his gaze up to Vick in shock. "What? When?" For the moment, the jab about a woman's touch went unanswered.

The old warrior snorted and wiped his blade off on the dead shape shifter. As Daphne began to stagger to her feet, Vick sheathed the Black Blade. "Don't know exactly when, but some bard came and collected her, took her out beyond the city limits."

"Bard?" Alan was puzzled for a moment, then gasped in shock. "What, you don't think-"

"That fellow we fought near the Reavers Rest?" Daphne gasped the words out as she steadied herself on her feet, looking pale, but even as the two men watched, the gaping wound that had so dominated her torso sealed itself up, leaving just a fading red line on otherwise pristine flesh. Her leathers, of course, were thoroughly tattered from the night's activities, revealing almost as much as they concealed.

Vick nodded at her words. "Yeah, that'll be him. Don't have a name for him, no idea where he hails from."

Alan drew the covers about his nude form, that knife still in his hand. "We need to go after her."




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 08



"We need to rest first. I know it's a rough task, but Garthur's going to need to sleep and pray, and even old men like us need to lick our wounds for a bit. Get some sleep and we'll meet at Reavers Rest in the morning." Vick turned after saying as much, and began to walk to the door. "Besides, that'll give us time to send for Windhawk. We'll need her skill at tracking out in the wilds."

Alan nodded his head, and a ghost of a smile played across his lips. "Hell of a time to get the old crew back together."

"Hell of a time. But no one fucks with the Reavers and gets away with it. Alan, we'll get her back, even if we have to level half the damn forest to get her."

Tinsley ran one hand through his short hair, then sighed. "And we just might." He glanced across to Daphne, who seemed to have recovered.

"I'll stay with Alan, keep watch over him. Whoever has arranged this, they seem to have a real hate for him." 

Daphne's words were logical, even if both men doubted her reasons. After a moment, however, Vick just nodded. "Fine, whatever. Just make sure he gets to Reavers Rest safely tomorrow." With those words said, the Count stepped out of the room.

Alan set that knife aside, then frowned down at the carcass of the shifter laying on the ground. Blood still seeped out from where his hand clasped to his neck. This, of course, caught the attention of Daphne.

The elven woman turned toward Alan, then moved forward with a sway of her hips. As Alan's brow knitted, she reached one hand up to gently take his wrist in her cool fingers. "Let me see," She near purred the words, before settling onto the edge of that bed beside him.

Reluctantly, Sir Tinsley removed his hand, and almost as soon as that light cut was revealed, Daphne's soft, cool lips darted forth. She closed her mouth over the wound and played her tongue across his skin. Her body pressed to his still nude form, where the beast that he thought was his wife had been just minutes before. Long nailed hands traced over his shoulders, and a soft moan escaped her throat.

She was as luscious as ever, and though he knew he should be disturbed by the whole thing, Alan couldn't bring himself to push her away. Instead his hands settled at her waist. She'd glutted herself that night on the blood of their foes, but still, she'd taken some serious wounds, even before Vick had run her through. She needed that blood, whatever he could give. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

In truth, the feel of her tight curves against his bare flesh was too enticing to resist. The night had left him confused, between falling prey to the fox woman, the shifters that seemed to tease him at every turn. The feel of this blood drinking elf was almost reassuring, especially since he was fairly sure she would defend him in his time of need.

There was guilt though, looming as some icy specter in his heart. Alan didn't know what to feel anymore. The last few days had been a hellish ride between happiness and loss, despair and euphoria. Just a few minutes ago he'd thought it was all over, that he'd avenged the attack on his happiness, saved his love from the terror she'd been undergoing, and come up the hero again. Now it seemed he was back to square one.

But a moment more passed before he began to push Daphne away. With a final, deliberate lick of her tongue, she closed the wound at his neck with the strange properties her kind's saliva had. It wasn't enough to actually heal wounds or mend flesh, but for such a small incision, it was more than enough to stop the bleeding. She eased back, still resting on the edge of his bed, and looked into his eyes.

Alan forced a weak smile, then drew his hands back from where they had rested upon the leather stretched taut over her hips. "I think I need to rest."

"Of course." Her expression was unreadable, save for the slightest of pouts that crossed lips now stained red with his blood. The elven woman slipped from the edge of his bed, then strode over toward the body of the monster that had so well disguised itself as his Lizzy. Alan watched as she bent down and grasped the thing by the neck, only to heave it over one shoulder.

"What are you doing?" He leaned back in that now so empty bed, and drew the cover light up about his own shoulders. The act caused that forgotten knife to slip from the bed and ring upon the floor, finally coming to a rest just a foot away.

Daphne shrugged, "Taking out the trash." She shifted the body on her shoulders, though its weight hardly seemed to trouble her at all. She walked to the door with a steady click of her heels. "I'll get it cleaned up, save your maid some trouble." The words were shot back over her shoulder, before she stepped out.

Alan waited until she was gone, then leaned to retrieve the blade. He looked it over thoughtfully, then gazed back up to the others still on display throughout his room. A lifetime of memories, most of which could be used to end a life in some manner. Almost all of which had been claimed by force or trickery. He couldn't blame the fates for the trouble they'd chosen to bestow upon him. Carefully, he slipped that knife to rest under the pillow beside him. Just in case.

Snuffing the enchanted lights that cast their glow through the room, he stretched out within that bed and stared at the ceiling. He didn't know what he should feel at that moment. Anguish at having victory snatched away at the last moment? Exhilaration for surviving an assassin's knife? He just felt numb. Or maybe numb wasn't the proper term, but cold instead. Cold and calculating. The kidnapping of his wife, the destruction of his old guild, the attempted assassination, whoever it was that had arranged it all was undoubtedly after him, and yet he couldn't figure out who it was.

The old rogue was so lost in thought that he never noticed the vampire entering the room again, not until she set to work cleaning the blood from the floor. Still he tossed names and faces back and forth in his mind. Most of his old foes were dead and defeated. Those that weren't certainly didn't hold such animosity to plan such a destructive confluence of events, or didn't have the resources to do so, to his knowledge. And this certainly had to be the result of planning. Long, thorough planning.

His eyes drifted over toward where Daphne worked, as he toyed with asking her advice on the matter. She'd been connected, before her surrender those years ago. An assassin of note and rank in her dark guild, so surely she had to know someone who might still be in the game.

All that gaze found in the dark, however, was the faint silhouette of leather stretched tight over the rounded curves of her ass. There was just a little shine where dim light from the hall reflected up off the floor near the doorway and played over those curves. Her hips swayed as she worked, back and forth, like some lush pendulum. With a snort of amusement, he watched for a while, his question abandoned. His eyes grew heavy.

Alan laid back upon those pillows and closed his eyes. His mind had been racing, but now he finally felt sleep coming over him. Maybe having Daphne around was a boon after all. He did feel safer. As dangerous and murderous as she was, she did seem so fond of him.

Finally, as the elven woman continues to scrub the floor, Sir Tinsley drifted off to sleep in his own room, uncertain of what the next day would bring.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 09



The sweltering heat clung about Alan, stifling breath and movement alike. The lighting could be better, sunlight filtered in through gaps in the natural stone cave he was crouched in, stained a glorious mix of green and gold by the foliage it passed through. The walls of the cave had been worn smooth over the passing eons, and further smoothed and polished by whoever built the shrine before him.

It was an ancient thing, with a vile, demonic statue looming overhead, carved from the very stone and polished by the care of centuries of shrine keepers. The figure squatted over a stone tablet, with glyphs that he couldn't understand. At its base was a stone box, built into the shrine but with a hinged lid that locked as surely as any mechanism could. It was this very lock that Alan's dextrous hands worked upon.

"Damn it Alan! Hurry it up in there!" Vick's voice boomed from outside of the cave. His words rose even over the distant thunder of rapids in the gorge below, and there was an after echo as his call resounded back along the length of that stone gorge and back into the cave.

"Working on it!" He called back over his shoulder, then turned his attention back to the box. Finally, with a sharp click, the box opened to reveal the object of their quest.

There it lay, placed upon soft cushions within the box, a silver handle, shaped like a wrapped, clawed talon, gripping a polished sphere of obsidian about the size of a man's fist. The orb was unnatural, how that black glass could have been so perfectly shaped was beyond him. Even as he stared into its glistening surface, it seemed to draw his attention inward.

"Alan!" Vick's voice bellowed again, and this time was followed by the telltale clang of steel on steel.

Quickly, the thief snatched up the orb and stuffed the item handle first into his doublet. As he rose, he snatched up the short bow he had set aside, and raced for the cave's entrance. The sound of battle intensified.

Outside, the light was near blinding for a moment, but when his vision adjusted, it was clear how bad their situation had turned. The cave opened onto a narrow ledge, and a rickety rope suspension bridge of indeterminate age spanned a broad, steep gorge. The jungle closed in on either side of the gorge, above the cave and on the opposite side. Far below, a raging river crashed over jagged rocks.

There, upon that bridge, Vick and Garthur stood close together on the precarious bridge, holding back a crush of crudely armed and armored cultist. Vick's helm had been lost earlier, allowing his long locks to blow freely in the wind, while Garthur augmented the powerfully built warrior with his divine prayers. Alan could hardly believe the bridge supported their weight at all.

Closer, Windhawk stood, an arrow notched in her own long bow. The elven woman braced herself delicately on the swaying bridge, her own long blonde hair tied back severely with a leather thong. Her own forest green leathers conformed to every curve of her body. Carefully she aimed, then loosed her arrow into the horde of cultists that made their way down that bridge toward them. One screamed as the arrow planted into his chest, then tumbled over.

Last was Miena, her robes blown against her own lean frame, her hair a brilliant red shock that caught the wind, and blew about without a care. She raised a wand in one hand, and chanted arcane words that the breeze snatched away as surely as they left her lips.

One of the brutish savages on the opposing cliff took aim at Miena, and Alan cursed. He rushed forth toward the young wizard, and tackled her down. A spear sailed over his own back as the two crashed onto the wooden slats of the bridge, and severed one of the support ropes cleanly. The entire bridge began to twist, and the two began to slide off one edge.

Desperately, Alan grabbed onto Miena, and hooked his own legs in the ropes of the side still supported by that ancient rope. Miena's spell, ruined, soared away in a dazzling sparkle of color. The wizard girl's own legs dangled over that chasm, while she clung to Alan's arm. Her terrified blue eyes stared up at him from her freckled features.

"Please don't drop me, Alan," She seemed on the verge of tears.

"I won't, Miena. I promise." He reassured her, but when he turned his gaze back up along the bridge, and at first all he could see was twisting rope and wood. Then, he followed a loose bit of rope downward with his gaze.

Vick dangled from one of the ropes, clutching it in one hand, while his sword hung uselessly from the other. Below him, the mail clad dwarven priest gripped Vick's ankles, and cursed loudly. There was no sign of the bulk of the cultists who had come out onto the bridge, only several stood staring at the edge of the cliff above. Nor was there any sign of Windhawk.

Miena's squeal brought Alan's attention snapping back to her, only to catch a glint of black and silver. The orb was tumbling, having slid out from where he'd tucked it into his leathers. With both his arms straining to keep Miena from tumbling into the deeps, there was little he could do but watch. But then, the young wizard woman kicked her feet and swung wildly from where she hung, catching the item between her soft boots.

"Vick! Alan!" An impossibility rose up from the crashing waters below. Windhawk's voice rang true over the waters, "Down here!"

Alan's attentions were momentarily seized by the swish of a spear missing him by scant inches. He swung his head up toward the cultists gathered at the edge of the cliff above, then back down past Miena. The redhead was working one hand down to grasp at that orb, apparently trusting Alan to keep her up. There, far below, standing on the back of a huge, green turtle, Windhawk's blonde hair and forest green garb was unmistakeable.

"Come on down! The water's fine!" The elven woman called up with a grin, though she hardly looked like she'd seen a drop of it herself. The turtle she perched upon barely kept up with the current, its massive limbs sweeping through the rushing white water crash.

"Are you crazy?!" Vick called back down, though his words were punctuated by a clang. One of the spears from above glanced off of his armor.

"You blasted elf!" Garthur called down, before wincing as the spear nearly tumbled into him. He closed his eyes and murmured, "Gonna regret this, aren't I?" Taking a deep, heaving breath, the dwarf let himself drop.

The glint of Garthur's armor shone all the way down until he impacted the water below, and though he went completely under with a great splash, he soon came up, sputtering and clinging to the side of the turtle's shell. Windhawk stooped to help him clamber onto the back of the great beast.

Vick shrugged at the display, and sheathed his sword. Only then did he release the rope he'd been clinging to. It caused the whole bridge to wobble and shake.

Another spear streaked by Alan, and he barely twisted out of its way. Miena finally spoke in that soft tone of hers. "I've got it Alan, let's go!" She squirmed free of his grasp, then tumbled downward. Alan watched in shock, then with a kick of his feet, he too was falling.

The shock of the water was icy compared to the stifling jungle heat about them, and he missed the rocks by less than a foot. In truth, any of them could have easily tagged those jagged rocks, but none did. Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was an intense breeze called up by the elven ranger, Alan couldn't tell. All he knew was that as soon as he and Miena had joined the others, the turtle ceased its attempts to keep up with the river, and they were all clinging to that great creature's shell, riding it like a boat down the rapids.

Miena's fiery hair was plastered to her head, her robes to her slender figure. She gazed into Alan's eyes, her own excited, grateful. "We got it Alan, we finally got it."

Alan could only smile to his friend, "Yeah, we did. But I never doubted you for an instant Miena. You lead us to it. Now we can put it to use against Jaron Daar, show the world what he really is."

The little redhead flung her arms about the dark haired thief, and nearly knocked them both from the back of the turtle. "Alan, when this is all over, promise me..." she whispered into his ear as she pressed her lean body against his, but her sentence trailed off.

"Promise you? Promise you what?" Alan slipped one of his arms about the wizard woman, and looked to her with genuine curiosity.

Miena didn't respond. She just buried her face against his chest, her cheeks burning brightly. Alan looked her over with concern, only to catch sight of that glistening obsidian orb. Once more it seemed to draw his gaze, tug upon his mind.

The world about him faded. The turtle, the rushing rapids, that gorge from so long ago. Soon it was just him and Miena, and the orb. No longer in the flush of youth, his body still strong but no where near where it was in those days, Alan just held the frail, icy form of Miena. His hair gone gray again, his face lined with years of such harrowing adventures, he just stared at the Nightmare Orb clutched within her frail, spindly hand. 

"I never could say what I wanted you to promise me." Her voice came out in a raspy tone, as if she had been crying. She didn't look up to him.

"What did you want me to promise, Miena?" His own tone was one of concern. His brows knitted.

"It doesn't matter anymore," She still spoke against his chest, and then, "I loved you, Alan. I wanted to be with you, but I didn't want you to give up what made you you."

Alan frowned at her words. "Miena, those were different times, we were different people."

"No. No Alan, I wanted you, but I was afraid to tell you. I wanted you always at my side." Her voice grew darker, strained and hollow.

Alan slipped one hand to grasp her chin, and tilted it upward to look into her eyes. He immediately wished he hadn't.

It wasn't the cute, freckled face he remembered. Those intense blue eyes were gone, replaced with glowing flames in empty sockets. Her skin was white and pulled tight over her skull, her nose shrunken and gone, leaving only a hollow. With a curled claw wrapped about the Nightmare Orb, Miena's other skeletal hand gripped his shirt firmly. 

"You should have been mine!" Her voice rasped out, filled with rage.

Alan started upward in his bed, his heart racing, pounding in his own ears. His room was still dark, someone had pulled the shades closed and shifted a wardrobe to stand before the windows. That someone was curled against his side.

Daphne had slipped into the bed sometime during the night. Freshly bathed and clad in one of his old shirts, she appeared peaceful, almost innocent there. Sadly, her utter stillness betrayed her nature, and made the view more like gazing upon some fresh corpse than some sleeping beauty. 

As unsettling as the sight of her was, at least it would allow him to slip out without worrying about her. If he and his friends were to begin tracking his wife, they'd have to set out during the daylight, which was anathema to the vampiric elf. Besides, if she had accompanied them, and they did meet up with Windhawk, the two elves would undoubtedly quarrel, and that was a headache that no one needed.

With his armor from the previous night still damaged, Alan settled for a battered old set of enchanted leathers that, although much patched over the years, still had a fair amount of protection left. For the rest, Alan packed several weapons and an enchanted bag of supplies. He had no idea how long the coming trek would take, and if they had to cross any amount of wilderness, he wanted to be ready without hesitation. 

It didn't take long at all to prepare, years of practice in setting out on adventurous expeditions came back Slipping an old travel cloak on about his shoulders, Alan slipped out into the morning light. It was still fairly early, although well after dawn. The stroll to the Reavers Rest was almost pleasant, with clear skies above, a steady breeze, and a steady stream of passersby going about their morning business, oblivious to the slaughter that had taken place in that very town the night before.

In his youth, the simple walk to the Reavers' Rest was invigorating, promising adventures to come. Now, a growing dread settled in the pit of Alan's stomach, though no doubt there would be adventure. Rather than years past, where his own glory or riches were the motivation, now it was the woman he loved on the line. As he passed through the cheerful, peaceful streets, he felt every year of his age settle onto his shoulders. 

With grim determination, the old rogue made his way toward the weathered inn where so many of his past adventures had started. It seemed more crowded than usual. The Count's guards joined the usual morning lot, but there were also a number of folk wearing the livery of some of the noble houses throughout Aethwin. As Alan shouldered his way in through the great wooden doors, the jovial atmosphere inside startled him.

The common room was packed. All of the new members of the Reavers seem to have gathered, and were in the midst of some manner of celebration. To add to the confusion, around the grand table where the older members of the adventuring company usually sat, a collection of nobles were gathered, as if the count were holding court. Alan spotted Tannon skulking amongst the shadows, but before he could question what he was doing there, a slender hand grasped his arm.

"Sir Tinsley! It's about time you showed up," Charity's chipper voice caught his attention, and the blonde pulled him along through the crowd. He had to watch himself to avoid tripping over her trailing white robes.

The grand table which dominated its portion of the common room was almost full. Count Varonne sat there with Madame Pryce clinging to his arm. The whore had dragged a stool up to be near without taking up one of the seats proper. To Vick's right, Dwarflord Garthur Steelwright sat, his armor repaired and clean, a mug of dwarven stout clutched in one fist. He was in the midst of some prayer to the earthen father when Alan came into view.

Also at the table sat a sight he hadn't seen in many years. Of course Windhawk hadn't aged a day, her elegant features near hawkish, her long hair bound back in a single tail down her spine. She was clad in supple leathers edged with wolf's fur, and her bow rested, unstrung, against the table. The elven woman turned her almond eyes toward Alan, and he thought her lips quirked into a hint of a smile, but it was too fleeting to be sure.

This left only two official spots unoccupied at the table. Alan drew out his own chair, as he had so many times in the past, and settled into it. His gaze drifted across to the lone spot remaining, left empty by common agreement. A part of him still expected that wild haired redheaded wizard to peek over the pages of whatever book she had been reading as she had so often in those years past, to steal those glances he was pretty sure she thought went unnoticed. But Miena was, of course, long dead.

"The Reavers of Aethwin, together again!" Vick's booming voice stole his attention, and was met with a resounding cheer from the crowd of younger adventurers. He let it continue for some time, before raising his hands to request silence. Only after they calmed down, did he continue.

"Together again, but it has been dire circumstances that have made it so." The rotund Count let the gravity of his voice settle throughout the room, before he continued, "Dark forces now threaten our city, my city. They have infiltrated the Guild, and shattered it. And I know that many of you would say good riddance, but in doing so they have sewn chaos and anarchy throughout the underworld, and indeed endangered many of your holdings." At the last, Vick jabbed one thick finger toward some of the nobles, whose protests died upon their lips.

"They have attacked our citizens, they have enlisted the aid of shape shifters, some of which could be masquerading among you right now!" With those words, the Count gestured to the room at large, and there were several gasps scattered throughout the crowd. 

Alan couldn't tell whether the seemingly shocked individuals been planted for effect beforehand. It was clear, however, what Vick was doing. They were about to head out on a journey from which they might well fail to return from. By uniting the people and the court before they headed out, it would give the city the strength to endure for a while at least.

At least, that was the logical reason. Alan was beginning to suspect Vick just liked the drama, especially when the old, rotund warrior swept his broad hands toward the group of aging adventurers.

"But there is naught to fear. We have overcome beings that threatened the very fabric of the kingdom before. Together, we, the Reavers of Aethwin have toppled usurpers, ended dark cults, and brought dragons to ruin. Today, we set out to bring our wrath down upon those who have attacked our city. But first, there is some business to settle here."

Alan raised his brows at this announcement, but as he looked to the others gathered, he realized they must have been told of this, as none of his old friends showed signs of surprise. Indeed, Garthur just kept with his mugs, while Windhawk looked suitably bored. Alan was about to lean over to the the elven woman and ask what was going on, when Vick continued.

"First, there is the matter of city business. I am certain that the council of nobles will be pleased to note that I have increased the watch patrols. I am certain that the younger Reavers will be equally pleased that I have authorized a bounty on any lingering wererats discovered in the city sewers."

While the reaction of the gathered nobles was muted, the other adventurers waiting in the wings let a small cheer erupt. Alan couldn't help but smirk. Official court bounties were little more than pocket change to the seasoned Reaver, but with the state of things lately, it would bring some needed coin into the ranks, as well as build prestige for those successful hunters who managed to return.

"Further, during my absence, I do appoint my betrothed, Margaret Pryce to be warden of the city in my stead."

Alan's jaw dropped, and Garthur did a full on spit-take, showering that dwarven stout over the table top. A murmur of disapproval spread through the gathered nobility, but it was quickly quieted by an angry glare from Vick himself. The Count hammered one fist into the tabletop.

"Unless there are any objections?" His tone was a violent snarl, and as if on cue, several of the city guard stepped into the tavern's common room. There was stone silence for a long moment, before Vick nodded, satisfied.

That hand lifted from the table, and waved dismissively to the gathered nobles, "And that is all the city business that needs to be addressed. The rest, well the rest involves the Reavers." At his dismissal, some of the nobles and their footmen began to disperse, though a few stayed on to listen. Vick turned his gaze to each of those at that great table. Beside him, Madame Pryce smiled like a cat that got the cream, and nestled her curvy form against his rounded side.

"Alan, your guild is no more. At least until it is rebuilt. In the meantime, Tannon, Amarinth, and Merideth have volunteered to try to scrape together the pieces, and work to gather any intelligence they can on the street, in case this turns out to be more than just a hunting trip. Is this agreeable?" Vick's tone was somber and muted. 

The question itself was just a courtesy, as a thieves' guild itself occupied a gray area. It was seen as a necessary evil, a way to control the otherwise uncontrollable, as well as a resource that the court and crown could use when underhanded dealings were necessary. Technically speaking, Alan had little real power to either found a new guild or deal with rebuilding the old. But as a former master of the guild, and a friend of the Count, he certainly had unofficial influence in both venues.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 09



The names stated, all survivors of the old guild, all known to be good people, were certainly not bad choices. He had some reservations over their long term administrative skills, but for the moment, they would do. The old rogue turned his gaze across the crowds. Sure enough, Tannon stood there in the shadows near one wooden pillar, and not far away, the two half elven women sat, their hoods raised but their figures unmistakeable. It did not escape Alan's attention that the two still held hands, despite the assumption that whatever spell had compelled them to seek pleasure in one another had been dispelled the night before. A faint smirk crossed his features, and he nodded to Vick.

"Yeah, those will do in a pinch."

"Good," Vick rumbled the word out, seeming pleased with not having to argue the point. "As you all know, Alan's wife is still missing. The shape shifter posing as Devron had shipped her out of the guild before we managed to arrive. Alan, I think Windhawk has some good news for you."

Alan raised a brow, and then turned his gaze to the elven ranger. He was met with a slow shrug of slender shoulders, and she folded her hands before herself, her elbows rested on the table. She remained silent for a moment, before her piercing eyes shifted at last to meet his.

"I was on my way to town because someone's been stirring up trouble in Pinroot Wood. On my way here just last evening, I spotted two people moving through the outskirts of the forests. One was a human woman, in a dress unsuited for woodland travel. The other was a man, a bard, student of the druids from the looks of things. If he was traveling alone, he'd be hard to pick out, but with the woman with him, his passage was slow, and obvious."

Alan couldn't help but break into a smile. "Windhawk, that's brilliant. We know what general direction they were going, right?" After a quick nod from the elven woman, Alan sat back and considered the information. "It has to be that bard we encountered."

"We already suspected as much," Vick chimed in.

"Yes, but now we know they aren't that far ahead of us, a night's travel at most. If we hurry we can catch up, and Windhawk can track Lizzy. We just need to leave immediately."

"I've already had a few horses prepared, as well as supplies for the journey," Vick nodded to Alan, then Windhawk in turn. "Were they on foot?"

"As far as I could see, yes."

"There is one other matter, before we go," This time it was Garthur that spoke, and the others at the table looked across to him. "We've no arcane support, not since," the old dwarf grew silent as he turned his eyes grimly to the lone empty chair at the table.

"Well what do you propose?" Alan regretted asking as soon as he spoke though, it could only end poorly. The Reavers had very few magic users of any stripe among them, and of those, most were hardly novices, all except for one.

"Well, that gnome girl from last night," The dwarf began.

"No."

Vick grinned faintly as he turned his gaze to Alan, "An illusionist of some considerable skill, who has already shed her own blood for this cause."

"No!"

The elven woman shifted in her seat, and looked curiously between Alan's protests and Vick's words. "Is she of good heart?"

"Aye, that she is, from what I can tell. She'll help us reign these two scoundrels in." The dwarf and the elf didn't agree on much, but of the group, they were more in accord on moral matters than the rest.

"You can't be serious," Alan was almost desperate at that point.

"Faringalia Phantasmagoria!" Vick's booming voice resounded through the room.

Alan could do little but bury his face in his hands as the diminutive woman made her way toward the table. It wasn't that she was bad at what she did, she was quite good. She had proven herself skilled, but between her voice, her attitude, and the way she had reacted to the bloodshed of the night before, the illusionist just got under Alan's skin.

As she neared the table, Vick stood, then gestured to the empty chair. "Faringalia, we have been too long without a permanent magic user among our group. I formally invite you to take the place of the late Miena of Startower, and make our party whole once more."

Her dazzling eyes grew wide as saucers, and her slender little form immediately scrambled up into a chair made for someone more than twice her height. She would have appeared childlike in her eager movements, if not for the curves she most definitely possessed.

"Do you really mean it? Oh my gods this is such an honor, I'll do the best I can possibly do to use my talents for you. I've dreamed of this for years, working at odd jobs here and there just to keep my skills up and ready for the day when the Reavers needed me for real. I mean you know how bad things have been and honestly there were times I wanted to just give up and join an adventuring company whose best days weren't behind them, but after seeing what you did last night I know that we can all rise to greatness once more..."

"Moving on," Vick cleared his throat after interrupting the gnome, "We need to move out. We'll ride right for the east gate and out into the woodlands. Windhawk, you take point, we'll go as quickly as we're able. Faringalia, you ride with me." And with that, he moved to disengage himself from the fawning affections of the former whore.

As Vick stood, he seemed noble, defiant, despite the way his ponderous bulk worked to undermine his image. Garthur and Windhawk gathered their gear, and moved to follow the Count toward the door. Around them, the few nobles who were left applauded lightly, while the young adventurers waiting in the wings broke out in cheers. Alan stood after Faringalia, and followed the gnome out toward the door, blinking against the sunlight that streamed through. Amidst the crowds they passed, he spotted Charity, and as her eyes met his, he was sure he saw a blush rise on her cheeks, before she quickly looked away.

The old rogue shook his head, such thoughts and worries were the last thing he needed at this point. Outside, the horses were already prepared, the stable hands had brought them out, and indeed supplies were packed upon them to last a week or more. Alan Tinsley was duly impressed.

As the crowd watched them go, the five mounted up, and began to ride out through the streets. Outside, local commoners and guardsmen lined the streets, as if their departure were some grand parade. He wasn't sure if Vick had arranged it or not, and he didn't really want to know. It necessitated a slower pace than he would have liked, at least until they reached the outskirts of town.

And there, just before they were all clear to pass the gates, a lone figure on a black horse rode out to block their way. Slender, that figure was definitely female, with a figure sheathed in skin tight black leathers, and then shrouded in a copious black cloak. Not an inch of her flesh was visible, with gloves and boots tucked into her leathers, her face hidden behind mask and smoke-tinted goggles.

"Who goes?" Vick demanded, and fixed his gaze upon the woman who blocked their way.

She remained silent for a long moment, her gaze as hidden as her features, before finally, a familiar voice drifted toward them, "Alan, it's not nice to slip out before a woman awakens."

"Daphne," Alan didn't know whether to feel relieved, or alarmed. "You shouldn't be out, the sun!"

"A single slip and the sun's rays will send you back where you belong, abomination!" Windhawk's words hissed forth in a snarl, as the ranger gazed at the other elven woman with absolute loathing. Already her bow was up and drawn, an arrow notched. Alan hadn't even seen her string it.

"Shut it, sniper. I'm here to help Alan." Daphne seemed supremely unconcerned, despite the very real danger she was in at that moment. "Accept my blade in service again, or see me destroyed, but you will not leave me here. I need to see this through, I need-"

"You need nothing, you are a travesty against the natural order."

"I need to see Alan happy," Daphne finished calmly.

Garthur raised one gauntlet clad hand, and he spoke authoritatively, "Windhawk, I know how you feel. I'm not the happiest to admit it either, but she could come in useful."

Alan and Vick turned surprised looks to the dwarflord, while Windhawk just stared, agape. "What?! You would have us travel with this blood sucking parasite?"

"Aye, that I would. She's taking a risk even being out and about at this hour, and for once, for once her heart's in the right place. Look at it this way, maybe you'll get to see her ended for good out here."

Slowly, Windhawk lowered her bow. As Daphne rode her horse over to near Alan, Vick shook his head, "What, don't I get a say in this?"

"Do you have any objections, your Lordship?" Daphne half bowed her head, but didn't stop her progress, until she was riding beside Alan's steed.

"No, I just wanted to make it known that I don't appreciate being left out of the decision making process."

"What, like the one involving signing up a new member?" Alan's quip earned a dirty look from Faringalia, but Vick just grinned.

"Nah, that's different. you had your say, we just ignored you."

Vick and Garthur both burst into laughter as Alan fumed. Thankfully, anything Faringalia might have said was lost by the distraction of Daphne reaching over to ruffle the gnome woman's hair.

"So you finally made it into the big leagues, a member of the main group. Congratulations." The vampire's tone was soothing, and though her features couldn't be seen, one could almost hear the smile in her voice.

Blushing, the gnome woman just dipped her head, "Yeah, I guess you're right. I suppose it's just natural to rib the new person, right?" Daphne nodded, and it seemed to satisfy Faringalia.

"Right, well this has all been charming, but we've a job to do. Onward!" Vick called out again, and spurred his horse on, into a fair clip. The others hastened to ride after him as he moved for the gates. They were soon moving faster than strictly necessary, perhaps to avoid more interruptions.

When they passed the city gates, Windhawk took the lead, visibly relaxing as the distance between herself and Daphne grew. They were on their way, and it was only a matter of time before they caught up with Alan's wife and her kidnapper, one way or another.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 10



Once past the gates of the Free City, the going was remarkably easy. The line of riders picked their way across the fields and farms surrounding Aethwin, and off toward the edge of the Royal Forests, just visible in the distance. Alan gazed out over the rolling hills and quaint farmlands, marveling over the transformation that had taken place over his lifetime. In his youth, more than a mile or so beyond the city walls was a dangerous place to be, with regular raids from local tribes of humanoid monsters, and even the more unsavory bandit group.

He remembered those first few forays into the wilds, after coin and comfort. Where once he and the others had challenged a goblin camp, now there stood a farm and pasture. Where Grunder Mace's bandits had waylaid them on the way home, laden with treasure, now there was just a field of wheat, swaying in the breeze. The actions of the Reavers and those adventuring companies like them, even if motivated by want of riches at first, had done genuine good over the years. Their progress had swept the worst of the forces of chaos away from the walls of Aethwin, and the patrols of the Count's men had kept the area clear and peaceful ever since.

It was little wonder that the newer crop of Reavers had such trouble making their name, they grew up in the shadow of his own generation. He shook his head to clear such thoughts, and looked back to the others. Garthur seemed lost in his own thoughts as well, his stout form riding awkwardly in a saddle made for someone with longer legs. Windhawk rode well ahead of the group, her sleek, leather-clad form upright in the saddle, her keen eyes and ears seeking out any sign of trouble. Not that they could be easily surprised out in these fields.

Vick, his helmet doffed, the sun glinting off of his bald head, was chatting merrily with the inquisitive splash of colorful robes and shock of fiery red hair that was Faringalia. What was it with their group and red headed magic users, anyway? From what Alan could overhear, Vick was telling her of their early adventures, the very same that the old rogue himself had been thinking on. To hear Vick tell the tales though, it had all been fun and games, and he had been the one pulling most of the party's weight. Perhaps not entirely untrue in those early years, though Alan remembered having to pull Vick out of his own self-inflicted trouble even in town more than once.

And then there was Daphne. Wrapped in her voluminous cloak to protect her from the sun as it soared high in the sky, she seemed to half doze in her saddle. She shared neither the early memories of the group, nor the true camaraderie of being a real part of the group. The Reavers had already been famous when she had been defeated and surrendered, and despite having been true to her word about the terms of her surrender ever since, she was still what she was, a vampire. And even putting that aside, she had been an assassin that killed for profit. True, that wasn't far off of what the early Reavers did, but at least they had some sense that the creatures and bandits they went after for bounty deserved it. The black blades didn't care if their targets were a heinous warlord or an innocent child, so long as the price was right.

It was a wonder that she'd even come. She was worse than useless in the day, just a sleepy, weakened target that could vanish into ash if her coverings were disturbed. There was no profit in it for her either, if they all perished on this trip, she would be free again. Even if she genuinely wanted him, if they succeeded, they would recover his wife and she'd be that much further from even the most slender chance of being with him. For a creature of darkness and shadow, nothing about her actions made sense.

As he considered Daphne, she began to slump over in her saddle. He hurriedly urged his own mount closer to her, and slipped one arm about her shoulders to steady her. She stirred from her sleep just enough to turn her head to him. Her expression was hidden under that mask and those goggles, and she didn't say a word. After a moment, however, she leaned in against his side, close as she could with the separation of their mounts. He held her like that awkwardly for a moment, before Windhawk's voice called out from before them, just at the eaves of that forest.

"Stay close so you don't get lost. From here on it should be a straight shot toward the Pinroot Wood area. Once we get to where I spotted them, then we'll have to dismount and slow down further so I can try to track them," As she spoke, however, she shot a glare at the dozing Daphne, who started upright, drawing away from Alan's side.

The old thief shook his head with a smirk as he looked between the two elven women. At least their quarrels were justified by their outlooks and their very beings, and not just some petty jealousy or power struggle. He could respect that, at least comparatively. His own gaze drifted back toward the gnome woman, and a frown crossed his features. Maybe he could do with giving her less of a hard time.

As they wound their way into the trees, the canopy overhead screened out much of the sunlight. Daphne seemed to perk up just a little, but the golden rays that still pierced the green tinted shadows about them were enough to keep her on her guard. Progress was slower than their trek across the fields, but still a bit faster than they would have traveled on foot, thanks to Windhawk's expert trailblazing.

The border of the Royal Forest that lay near to Aethwin lacked its own name, and for the most part was a lighter, more well scouted area than it had been in years past. Pinroot Wood, by contrast, was separated from the main forest only by a stony ridge some distance in, and designated as such simply because it surrounded the ruins of what was once Pinroot Keep. 

As the day wore on and the undergrowth thickened, travel slowed. Alan had been hoping to keep the horses, in case the trail lead into the plains beyond the first, but it was becoming increasingly unlikely that they would be able to maintain the same pace through the woods for long. At least the going was peaceful. A few birds flitted through the branches above, and every so often in the distance, he thought he sported movement as some deer or rabbit darted off into the brush.

At last, as the hours dragged on, and the shadows lengthened, Vick called for a halt.

"We'll break here for a meal and a rest."

"I'll continue scouting ahead, we shouldn't be far away." Windhawk's soft voice drifted back to the others, as her lean form slipped from her saddle. Without hesitation, her lithe, leather clad figure slipped into the trees and disappeared amongst them as easily as a fish sliding through a babbling stream.

It was with some degree of jealousy, not desire, that Alan watched the elven woman blend into the forest. The inexorable march of years certainly handled her ageless people with the lightest of touches, while bestowing upon him slowed reflexes, stiffer joints, and what his wife liked to call a 'distinguished look'.

While he wished he had the energy to continue onward without rest, a quick glance about told him that the others were grateful to take a few moments to stretch their legs and take a quick break. For his part, Alan settled on an old, fallen log. It wasn't long before Faringalia approached, and hoisted herself up on the log beside him. A swift sweep of one hand smoothed her multicolored robes down over her lap.

"Sir Tinsley, er, Alan?" She was unusually reticent, as if carefully monitoring her own words to avoid the running chatter he found so irritating. "Count Varonne said your group had a history with these woods, or at least Pinroot Wood, but he wouldn't say what it was." She worried at her plush lower lip, frightened she had overstepped her bounds with that question.

"Ah, no, no he wouldn't," Alan's soft chuckle visibly set her at ease, "It was long ago, thirty years ago. But first, you know the history of the area do you not? Of Pinroot Keep?"

"Only that it used to be the center of civilization out here, centuries ago."

Alan nodded thoughtfully, "Yes, at least you're well enough informed there. In times long past, Aethwin was just a subservient village to the kingdom of Pinthan, out of Pinroot Keep. Those were rougher times, darker times. The kingdom, such as it was, scraped by in a world wracked by chaos, where entire years went by without summer, where famine and war stalked the very countryside. 

One dark night, the king of Pinthan found himself besieged on all sides, by his neighbors, by the savage goblins from the hills, by some of his own people, risen in rebellion. He called upon the Abyss, and made a dark pact, taking one of their own for his wife, in return for the strength to save his kingdom."

Faringalia's little features twisted into a disapproving frown, "I have never heard of this."

"No, no one has, for that history was long lost. As far as the outside world knows, Pinthan stood for another sixteen years after that, before collapsing from within. The surrounding villages were freed to their eventual fates, eventually to be taken over by the current Crown. Pinroot Keep itself fell into ruin, and became a haven for all manner of dark and twisted creatures. It had an extensive series of subterranean stores and escape tunnels, and these were only expanded over the passing centuries."

The gnome fidgeted as she listened to the tale, then looked up to Alan, "But if all of this was lost to history, how did you know about this king?"

"There, in the ruins, we were going through to cleanse those tunnels when we came across a place of darkness. There were inscriptions that told the tale of the king's pact, then of the daughter he spawned with that demonic consort." His expression grew grim, "Her cruelty was said to be unmatched. Her people suffered as her influence on her father the king grew. On her sixteenth birthday, the old king perished, and she was to be crowned king. On the very next day, the priests and captain of the royal guard sealed her away in the catacombs beneath the castle, binding her inhuman side to prevent her ever emerging."

The small frame of the gnome woman shuddered, and she hugged her arms about herself tightly. "That's terrible, let's hope that she's long gone."

Alan nodded, in full accord. "Indeed. We can only pray that is the case."

Daphne had approached the two with such silence that Alan didn't notice her until those slender hands settled at his shoulders, "Story time?" She whispered in his ear, her own lips grazing along his earlobe, cool even through the dark fabric of her mask.

He cursed, nearly jumping out of his skin, but quickly calmed himself. He simply frowned to her, "I was just filling in Faringalia on the history of Pinroot Keep, since we're so close." His eyes sought hers in vain, only the darkened lenses she wore to ward off the sun's rays met him.

A gentle laugh rose from the darkness under the vampire's hood. "It's good to see you warming up to the girl, Alan. I was worried that you were going to let your personal dislikes interfere with the mission." She gave his shoulder a squeeze, then turned her attention to Faringalia.

The gnome offered both of them a weak smile, "I promise I'll do my best in this! We'll get your wife back soon."

It was a genuine sentiment, and one that was much appreciated, but it did little to ease Alan's growing anxiety. He was glad when Windhawk darted back out of the brush to rejoin the group. By then, they had long refreshed themselves and finished a light meal.

Alan rose to his feet as the blonde elf skulked closer, "You were gone longer than I expected. Did something keep you?"

The ranger turned her head to glance nervously over her shoulder at his question, but quickly seemed reassured that nothing had followed her. Her bow was in one hand, and an arrow was still clutched in her other. Finally, her tongue darted out to wet dry lips, before she responded, "Yes, I went forth to the border of Pinroot Wood, to try to determine where the two I'd seen before might have been headed. I didn't get to search, however, for on the way there I passed a pool just at the base of the cliffs below Pinroot. There was a woman there, blonde, with pale skin, washing a white dress."

"Elizabeth," Alan whispered the name. The news had his heart racing. It had to be her.

"I don't know, I've never seen your wife up close before Alan, only the woman I described to you from a distance. This one certainly looked similar, but I didn't get a good look at her the first time, it just didn't seem that important to me at the time. I'm sorry Alan."

The old rogue sighed and nodded. One hand clapped the elven ranger's shoulder. "That's quite alright my friend. You've given me hope, to think she could be so close."

"There is one other thing, she was alone. I watched her for a time, but there was no sign of any captor, or anything keeping her in the area."

Alan frowned deeply at that, but Vick roused from the light doze he'd settled into, his voice immediately rising as if he had been part of the conversation the entire time, "Then we need to get going. Whether she's your wife or not, Alan, she may know something about who came through recently."

The old rogue offered a nod to his long time brother in arms, then turned his gaze to the rest, "Alright, you heard the fat man, let's get going." He immediately instinctively ducked after that dig, and with good reason, Vick's meaty hand swung over his shoulders, barely missing him.

With a grin, Alan turned to gather the reigns of his mount, and hastened to follow Windhawk. They'd have to walk the horses from here on, at least until things cleared again. In single file, the party threaded their way through trees that were as dense as any Alan had encountered in his years of exploring.

It didn't take too long, perhaps a half an hour, before the steady babbling of a stream could be heard ahead. Windhawk slowed her pace as the forest began to thin. Not a few steps thereafter, she held her hand up. The short column stopped, with hardly a sound. The horses, however, seemed skittish, tugging at their reigns. Not a sound was made, which was disturbing in its own right.

Windhawk whispered back to them, "Leave the horses." She stroked her hand along the withers of her own mount, before advancing. Alan released the reigns of his own horse, which quickly backtracked the way they'd come. With some degree of confusion, the others followed suit.

Stealth was at a premium, so Vick and Garthur hung back, along with Faringalia. This left the two elves, on either side of Alan, to advance with him. They made their way to the edge of the treeline, where a grassy bank lay beside a broad pond. A stream trickled down a steep, rocky ridge on the other side of the pond, then another coursed its way out of the pool some dozen yards or so to their left. The sky, still lit by a late afternoon sun, opened overhead, and upon the top of the ridge across the pond, a darker forest loomed.

There, just a few feet beyond the edge of the pond, shin deep within the cool, clear water, stood a woman. Although she was rather tall, over six feet, she certainly appeared human. Long, blonde hair cascaded down her shapely figure, clinging along her spine and teasing the upper curves of her rear. Her skin was fair and smooth, a fine cream, while her figure was well curved, definitely fuller and stouter than those lithe elven women. 

That extra mass was in all the right places, however, and the simple white dress she wore was soaked through, clinging to every rounded contour. As the trio watched, she bent forward at the waist, causing that brief skirt to ride up the backs of thick, smooth thighs, just to tease along the lower curve of her ass. She had a wooden bucket within her hands, and once it was filled with water from that pond, she straightened, lifting it up over her head.

The water cascaded down over her hair, over her every curve. She half turned as she let that water rinse over her body, eyes closed and full lips turned in a delighted little smile. Rivulets wound down over her creamy skin, along the full swell of those plump breasts, down amidst the clinging fabric plastered to her taut belly and broad hips. Finally, the water cascaded in silvery streams along her toned, bare legs, to splash back into the shallow, clear pond.

As lovely as she was to gaze upon, one thing was clear. She wasn't Elizabeth. Alan's face fell, and he shifted his eyes to Windhawk.

"It's not her," His voice was a hushed whisper, but he had no doubt the ranger had heard it.

It was then that the blonde woman turned fully, gorgeous blue eyes snapping open. She seemed to stare right toward where the trio was hidden, and Alan immediately went still. Had she heard him? Had she spotted them? His entire form went tight as a spring, ready to dart away.

And then the steady crunch of a heavy man's footsteps approached from behind them, each step punctuated by the jingling of mail.

"Hallo there, Lady," Vick's voice boomed forth, "I wonder if I could ask a few questions of you."

Alan winced. Vick lusting after this random woman was the last thing they needed. He glanced up to the warrior as he strode past their hiding spot, shoving through the brush. The corpulent Count's eyes were indeed fixed upon that vision before him, openly leering at the woman as she washed. It was the last thing Alan wanted to see at this point.

Faringalia tagged along behind the warrior, and shot an apologetic look to Alan and Daphne, "I tried," she began, only to cut herself off at Alan's signal. It was too late, however, for the woman in the water turned her gaze to the gnome, then to the bushes where the colorful little woman had been speaking.

A smile crossed the blonde's lips, as she turned to regard Vick. She folded her arms under her bust, which forced those breasts upward. Thick nipples jutted against the damp fabric, clearly visible through the nearly sheer, white material. "Well, sir, I guess I can spare a bit of time, if you tell your friends to stop their hiding. I'm not sure I like being spied on, after all." Her eyes glittered with mirth.

Alan cursed under his breath, and slowly stood. The two elven woman on either side of him did as well, rising to their feet with varying amounts of grace. Garthur, who had been well hidden well behind them, stepped forward needlessly. Alan couldn't fault the dwarf too much. He was an honest, straightforward sort, so remaining in hiding probably never occurred to the fellow.

The blonde woman looked each man and woman over in turn, and that smile never wavered. The sun, now low in the sky, cast her own distorted shadow out over the waters and to the shore beyond them. She then nodded to herself, "Well we have a right band of warriors paying us a visit this evening. Ask your questions, then, sir." An inviting smile and an intense gaze was turned upon the bald Count.

Vick's countenance immediately shifted to a gracious smile, and though there was still desire in the old warrior's eyes, it was a far more polite look. Alan had to admit, the fat bastard always could turn on the charm when he was inclined to.

"You do me honor, fair woman. I am Count Varonne of Aethwin, and my companions and I have come out here in search of a woman. Blonde, like yourself, but of somewhat shorter, slighter stature. She is traveling, unwillingly we believe, with a scoundrel of the woods, a scruffy looking dark haired fellow with a goatee, if I remember correctly."

The old rogue was impressed with the Count's recall for once, and without a correction needing to be made, he turned his attentions to the woman who still stood in that pond.

She didn't stay there for long, for after a moment's pause for thought, she began to advance on Vick. Tucking the wooden bucket under one arm, her other was held out to one side, for balance. "Well, that is a strange sight to be certain. I don't recall anyone like that coming through, but perhaps you would like to meet my sisters? It's likely that they may have seen someone, if these people you seek ventured near."




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 10



Her voice was soft and inviting, her eyes studied Vick's every reaction. Alan groaned inwardly when he caught Vick's eyes widening at the mention of 'sisters'. Still, he would be stupid to cast aside a potential lead so readily. Daphne saved him from further debate by stepping forward to stand beside Vick.

"Where are your sisters? They are not far, I trust?" Her voice wasn't harsh, but there was a definite undertone of authority behind it.

For a long moment, the blonde regarded Daphne's shrouded form, visibly sizing up the woman. Her features no longer seemed so inviting in that moment, but soon enough, a ready smile returned to her lips. Her face softened with a disturbing swiftness, and she gestured along the shore, toward where the pond itself butted up against the nearly sheer face of the brief, stoney cliffs beyond. Alan thought he could see a cave opening, hidden in the rough contours of the rock.

"Right this way, of course. It isn't far." The woman held one hand out to Vick, who took it readily. "Come now, I think they'll love you, sir. Jia especially has a fondness for men of substance." At the last word, her eyes roamed Vick's form openly.

Alan could do little but raise a brow in surprise, and glance across to Daphne. The vampire was eyeballing him, and though her expression was hidden under mask and goggles, he was certain she had a similar look underneath. Vick followed the woman like a lovestruck puppy, while Garthur shrugged broadly and fell into step. Windhawk wasn't far behind the dwarf, though her own eyes fixed upon the blonde woman. It was the gaze of a predator, watching for any sign of weakness.

Before Alan could follow, there was a tug at his trouser leg. He looked down to the gnome woman standing so near. Her face was a mask of concern.

"Sir Tinsley, Miss Daphne?" Her voice was hushed, as if offering a dangerous secret, "Something's amiss with that woman."

"Yeah, I know," Daphne commented softly, "No one comes onto Vick that strong, unless there's money involved."

"No, no. I mean, there's something wrong with her. Illusion wrong. I just can't put my finger on it. Her shadow doesn't quite match up. I get the feeling she's dangerous."

Alan frowned. It didn't take spectacular insight to tell that this woman might be a threat. She had at no point volunteered her name, and no one seemed inclined to ask. Certainly, her fawning over Vick was definitely something out of place. An illusion, however, would definitely be a sign of something serious. "Thank you, Faringalia, I'll keep an eye on her." As he turned to head after the others, however, he spotted Daphne retreating into the woods out of the corner of his eye. 

Faringalia noticed as well, apparently, because she called out to the elven woman, "Where are you going?"

"I've something to do. Keep an eye on Alan."

The gnome looked up to Alan, confusion writ across her features. Alan had a sense for what Daphne was doing, so just set his hand on the top of the illusionist's shock of hair. "Come on, let's catch up to the others." He offered a faint smile down to her, then hustled to catch up with the others.

A quick jog along the bank of the pond was all it took to reach the cave entrance, and as they neared, the woman leading them along called forth in a clear, strong voice, "Sisters dear, we have visitors tonight!" Her pace slowed as they neared, and she leaned in against Vick's side, offering him a soft giggle. "It's not often we have visitors come to us."

Vick was oblivious to his surroundings. His gaze was fixed upon the generous swells of the blonde woman's bust. "That's a true shame. Even as far out in the wilds as you live, a woman of your beauty should have a line of suitors seeking her time."

This brought a peal of laughter from the woman on his arm, and a lingering stare from the old warrior at the effect that laughter had on his companion's bosom. "Oh you flatter sir, you flatter." A darling smile was flashed, but garnered little attention. Other, softer and rounder charms had already thoroughly enraptured the man.

The exterior of the cave was protected by a rocky outcropping before it, leaving just a sheltered alcove outside of the cave proper, where grass gave way to a sandy soil. A stone fire pit had been constructed there, with a cauldron supported by iron rods. No fire currently glowed within that pit, however, and the cauldron stood long cooled.

Rough wooden timbers had been gathered and used to form a crude wooden wall across the front of the cave, complete with a loosely hung wooden door. A gap along the top of the wall allowed fresh air and a bit of light into the cave beyond, while the wall itself was stout enough to keep most animals, and even the casual trespass of humans at bay.

As the blonde woman moved to open the wooden door there, Windhawk poked around the cauldron, sniffing lightly at it. Her features betrayed a certain degree of disgust and worry, but there was hardly time to ask about it, before two more women appeared in the now open doorway.

Each one was a beauty in her own way, though for sisters, they bore no familial resemblance to either the blonde or each other. There was also the disconcertingly predatory way they looked Vick over, with a mix of hunger and abject desire. In years past, Alan could understand such a thing. The old warrior had always been one to indulge in whatever women came his way, and in those days, he certainly had a certain look about him that drew them in. Now though, the rotund Count had truly let himself go, all those years of hard drinking and indulgence showed. It boggled Alan's mind that not just the one, but all three seemed to dote over his old friend.

Of the two new women, one was a luscious brunette, with long, dark hair framing a wide face. Her eyes were an alluring shade of brown, and although she stood a little shorter than the blonde, she was still able to almost meet Vick's gaze eye to eye. She was clad in a loose gray shawl over a white blouse. While not soaked and sheer as her sister's was, it dipped almost obscenely low over her own generous bust, before being drawn in about her waist with a simple gray belt. Below, a skirt the same shade as her shawl flared out over her hips, and cascaded down below her knees. This offered a glimpse of smooth, toned flesh and her own bare feet.

The last of the three sisters was taller than even the blonde, and lean, without the overly ample curves of the prior two. Her dark auburn hair curled about features that were slightly flawed. Her nose just a little long, her chin just a little too pointed. It gave her almost a stretched look. Her eyes were almost inky black, tending to draw one's gaze, while her skin was a rich, golden tan. Her long arms and upper back were bared by a simple black halter that tied behind the throat, and hugged her comparatively modest breasts. It tied just across the top of her ribs, leaving her midriff exposed. An intricate little knot-work tattoo surrounded her navel. From the hips downward, her legs were clad in tight leather pants, clearly homemade, but well fitted. They laced up along each side, leaving a gap of toned, tanned flesh visible from ankle to hip. Like her sisters, she too was barefoot.

"These are my sisters," The blonde began, "Jia and Tam," She gestured to the brunette and the tall, slender one in turn. "And I am Xin." With the latter, she beamed a smile to Vick. Her gaze turned back to the others only after a moment, as if they were but an afterthought.

"Mmm, you certainly have brought us a treat today, Xin," Jia purred the words, and stepped close. Her hand came up to rest against Vick's armored chest, then slid down slowly. "Let's get him inside, and relaxed before dinner."

Seeing Vick was little more than putty in these women's hands, and that they clearly had more than a simple meal on their mind, Alan stepped up. "Um, we thank you for your hospitality, but we're kind of in a hurry. About that woman we're looking for?"

Tam pushed away from the door, while Jia and Xin moved to usher Vick inside. The auburn haired woman stepped past Windhawk, who was still inspecting the cauldron, and advanced on Alan directly. Her eyes met his, and she slowly teased her tongue across her lower lip. "Well well, so you're looking for a woman? Tell me about her."

Garthur stood his ground beside Alan, while Faringalia stepped to hide behind the two men. Alan tensed as the woman approached, and fixed his gaze upon hers sternly. He didn't like her tone, nor the way she and her sisters had been acting. With Daphne gone into hiding, likely in case this was a trap, and Vick all too susceptible to their attentions, it fell to him and Garthur to put up a show of strength. At least until Windhawk deigned to finish obsessing over their cooking.

"She's my wife Elizabeth, a Lady of Aethwin. A human in her twenties, with hair of spun gold, eyes of emerald-"

"Yes yes, I'm sure you can go on all day telling me just how lovely your wife is. Was she traveling with a scruffy looking fellow in a dark cloak?" While her tone remained unimpressed, that last bit of information had Alan as focused on the willowy auburn haired beauty like some hawk.

"That's her! Have you seen her?"

A smile curled Tam's lips, and she nodded slowly, "Oh yes, yes I have, my dear man. Indeed, I even overheard where they were bound. Come now, let's go inside, and I can tell you where they went while you relax a bit. Worry not, they have taken a long and roundabout path. My sisters and I know a shortcut." She offered one slender, sharp nailed hand to him.

Alan stared at that offered hand for a long while, then finally reached for it. As he extended his own hand, the silent dwarf beside him finally chimed up, "Watch it boy, they're not to be trusted."

It was enough to make the old rogue hesitate, but soon his dextrous hand was clasped with the warm one before him. "I know that, but it's a lead."

"It's up to you then," Garthur wouldn't stop him from risking himself, unless it looked like nothing could be gained.

With a sly smile, the woman turned on bare feet, and padded toward the door. As they passed Windhawk, the elf finally turned her gaze up toward Alan. 

"There's something off about this." She gestured absently to the cauldron.

"Later, Windhawk." His response was soft, just a sidelong whisper, but he was certain her sharp ears would pick it up. Indeed, she simply bowed her head and fell into step a few paces behind the rest.

The crudely made wooden door creaked on its hinges as Tam swung it open, shifting that heavy wood as if it were nothing. Alan would have been more impressed with her sheer strength if he wasn't already on edge. As it was, the act simply had him dropping one hand to the hilt of his sword.

The tall beauty made no threatening moves, however, and soon they followed her into the chamber beyond. The front of the cave was laid out with a wooden table and several chairs. There were cushions of mixed fabric tossed about, and a shelf contained several ancient looking books, as well as jars and bowls of strange materials, bones, feathers, powders and various liquids. It resembled some mad amalgamation of library and apothecary.

Aside from the light drifting in from over the wooden wall, a fire burned in a stone fire pit at the far end of the cave. The smoke drifted up into a natural chimney above the stone pit, little more than a crack in the rock. The way the smoke flowed so freely through it, however, it undoubtedly opened up to the sky beyond.

Between that distant fire pit and where the group stood, a section half of the width of the cave was curtained off, separated by a gauzy layer of yellow fabric, just thick enough to conceal the exact details of what lay beyond, while still allowing the full silhouettes of those beyond to shine through. Clearly outlined upon that material were the two shapely figures of the two women who had lead Vick away, as well as the mountainous bulk of the old warrior himself. Each woman was carefully unbuckling and removing bits of his armor, while soft giggling and cooing murmurs rose from behind the curtain.

With a smirk, Tam shrugged one bared shoulder, "Well it seems as though my sisters are quite fond of your friend." She gestured elegantly to the chairs beside the table, "Please, have a seat." She continued onward, however, circling the table to draw out one of the chairs across from where she'd indicated. She poured her form languidly into the seat, and watched the four with a catlike gaze. Lifting those legs with a faint creak of her tight leathers, she propped her bare feet on the table. Said feet were remarkably free of dirt or grime, despite having trod around outside the cave, and she soon crossed one ankle over the other. When Tam's dark, inky eyes caught Alan's gaze, she smirked and wriggled her delicate toes, as if inviting a further stare.

Alan shook his head and took a seat across from the woman, within one of those sturdy, well worn wooden chairs. Garthur moved his broad chested frame with a jingle of his mail, and took a seat to Alan's right. Windhawk quickly drifted to a seat to his left, settling her own tight, leather clad rear just on the edge of said chair, as if coiled and ready to strike. It seemed that Tam's hawkish gaze had caught their attentions at least. If she tried anything, she'd have to pass through a clash of their weapons to get to him.

Faringalia, meanwhile, just stood near the door, and scrutinized the tall, dark eyed woman before them with a knitted brow. She was definitely more troubled than the rest, and Alan could almost hear the hamster wheel turning in her head. Or whatever small, burrowing rodent powered the thoughts of gnomes.

And all the while, an oblivious Vick enjoyed the company of the other two sisters. Alan tried not to watch, but the way the room was closed in, it was quite evident. The curvier of the two sisters kissed his old friend, their shadows entwined, then she pushed him down onto the bed. Soon, mercifully, all he could see were the shadows of the two women, bent to play lips and hands over the now unseen form of Vick Varonne. Soon, one moved to straddle him. 

The sounds were less forgiving, and soon a low, wanting groan drifted forth amongst the soft, feminine noises, and that voice so used to bellowing commands over the din of battle was clear enough even in the lowest of murmurs.

"Mmm, just like that. You like what you see?"

"Oh yes, my lord, you're so big," It sounded vaguely like Jia was the one to respond.

Alan just covered his eyes with one hand, and shook his head. His reaction brought a soft, throaty laugh from the woman across from him, and he could hear her shifting. When he peered at her through the gap between his fingers, she was sitting up straight, elbows propped on the edge of the table and her chin rested on her hands. A sadistic grin was plastered across her features.

"Jealous?" The lone word was accompanied by the brush of a bare foot against the supple material of his boot, then up along his calf. Those long legs of hers could readily cross the width of that table.

The old thief's hand clapped onto the tabletop as he straightened. His frown deepened as he fixed his gaze on Tam's. "You said," he attempted to keep a civil tone, even as those nimble toes played up along to his knee, then the sole of her foot began to rub just at his thigh, "that you had seen my wife and her captor pass through."

A bit of movement caught his eye, but a quick glance told him it was just a lone bat, creeping up along the roof of the cave. Evening was definitely approaching, so no doubt the thing had stirred from wherever it had been sleeping. In the background, the silhouettes of Jia and Xin moved to straddle the unseen form beneath them, facing one another. This had the welcome effect of stifling Vick's words into little more than wanting moans, although the outline of those two curvy forms grinding downward, the sway and bounce of their breasts, and the soft, breathy gasps that they uttered was a distraction of a different sort.

"Mmm yes, I did, didn't I?" Tam scooted forward as she spoke, and the soft sole of her foot slid up along Alan's thigh. He darted one hand down to catch hold of her ankle, but it was too late. Her foot nestled between his thighs, and her toes found his growing arousal. He couldn't help it, the three sisters were each enticing in their own way, and he was but a living man. Those toes wriggled against the growing bulge under his own leathers, coaxing and teasing with a well practiced touch, while her ankle was smooth skinned and pleasantly warm under his hand.

He cleared his throat, averting his gaze from the bouncing, swaying shadows, and fixed his gaze instead on the temptress before him. She definitely had information worth hearing, but he grew tired of her teasing games. His own gaze grew hard, though it only seemed to encourage the movements of those devilish toes against his cock, separated only by his own clothing. "Tell me," he hissed the words out. This had to be predator against predator, too much was at stake for him to be taken in by her wiles.

She deliberately looked back to the curtained nook where her sisters' movements and cries rose in intensity. The act caused that auburn hair of hers to play over her well tanned skin, and she lifted one hand to rub at her slender neck, her nails just dragging along her own flesh. There was that pout, the bite at her own lower lip as if she were toying with some idea, and then she turned to fix him with that predatory gaze once more. "Oh it looks like we have some time yet, my sisters are just getting started." Under that table, her foot shifted to trap Alan's arousal against his own thigh under his leathers, pressing the ball of her foot down. Her toes spread, big toe to one side, the rest on the other, and she stroked the sole of her foot back and forth along his thickness. Each time, her toes curled against him, a soft tugging motion even through the soft leathers that separated them.

"Unless, of course," she added with a mischievous tone, "your friend just can't keep up."

With his own breath catching, Alan tightened his grip on her ankle. It did little to halt her subtle movements, and he was only saved by the almost comically timed sound of Vick's release. The low, rumbling groan of the fat Count as he arched up into one of the girls riding him was followed by a rather disappointed, pouting tone from the other, "Hey... don't stop."

As good as that foot's teasing against him felt, Alan forced that ankle further away, and by now his own shifting certainly made it quite clear to the dwarf and the elf beside him that they had missed something going on. The rogue cleared his throat, and straightened in his seat once that damnable teasing was cast aside. "No, apparently he won't be long at all. Now tell me." His tone bore an edge to it, and he moved to rise to his feet.

Tam's eyes narrowed, and finally she waved dismissively, "Fine. They were headed toward the Startower, on the other side of Pinwood. I heard the man say as much. But they went the long way around, you could catch up by going through Pinroot Keep's old tunnels." She then grinned malevolently, "So she's your wife? You should probably know that the fellow she's with has her well under his thrall. He's got a bard's voice, beautiful and charming. I would've fallen for it as well, if it had been directed against me. He and your woman were going at it like rabbits while they were taking a break around here."

Alan scowled and slammed one fist down onto the tabletop, which immediately brought the tall beauty before him to her own feet with a snarl. "That's enough out of you." The information had been helpful, certainly, but the taunt about his wife had pushed him over the edge.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 10



"Something wrong out there?" Vick's voice drifted from behind the curtains, and he half sat up, still in the embrace of the two women. They seemed intent on rousing him for a second go, pressing their own bodies into his sides, stroking their hands along his frame.

Tam leaned forward, both her own hands on the table. Her dark eyes settled on Alan's, and her long nails dragged along the surface of the table, cutting deep, knife like furrows into the wood. The surface was crisscrossed with many, many other such marks, which Alan had never noticed. "Just having a little bit of a discussion," the woman hissed out in response to Vick's call.

As Alan and Tam faced off over the table, Garthur and Windhawk rose to their feet. Their weapons were already in hand, Windhawk's blade still sang from where she'd slipped it from its scabbard, while the dwarf's hammer Jhernyr was clutched in one powerful, thick hand.

Faringalia finally strode forth from the door. There was nothing fearful, nothing hesitant in her approach, and she lifted her hand, pointed accusingly at Tam. "I don't know what you are, but I tire of this. You're clearly cloaked in illusions of some sort. Peel back the veil, and show us your true form." Although it sounded a command, there was a resonance of magic in the gnome girl's tone, and immediately, a rippling wave of energy spread out from her hand. With a strange distortion in the air, the tall, auburn haired beauty before Alan melted away, revealing the true visage of the creature they had been speaking with, that had been teasing and touching Alan.

There was little Alan could do. Immediately, his stomach rebelled, and he barely turned in time to avoid coating his friends as he retched onto the cave floor. Windhawk took a step back, eyes wide in shock, and even Garthur hesitated, nearly fumbling as he raised his hammer high. Only the rapid descent of a shape from above saved the three, as the bat that had been clinging to the rough cave ceiling shifted, exploding outward into the form of a black clad elven woman. Daphne's sleek hands drew her daggers as she descended.

And while events seemed to play out in slow motion through the sudden shock to the mind, and the surge of adrenalin through Alan's form, in the curtained area where Vick was cuddled up alone between what had been two buxom beauties the fat count's screams rose to a near hysterical pitch. The animal wail of primal terror that escaped him was something Alan hadn't ever heard from the man before, and hoped never to hear again.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 11



Alan was still mentally numb as they crashed through through the trees of Pinwood. He didn't even remember how they had ascended the steep slope to the ridge above, save by the sheer force of panic-driven flight. Garthur and Daphne carried the limp, bloodied form of Vick between them. He was so much dead weight, but Garthur had enhanced his own strength with a prayer, to match Daphne's unnatural power.

Ahead of them, Windhawk hissed back in a whisper, "Here! Quickly now!" 

Faringalia turned upon hearing that, and waved her hands at the woods. Nothing seemed to happen, but Alan figured whatever illusion she had cast was not meant for them. He crashed through a tangle of thorny, twisted vines and into a clearing. Broken flagstones lay long overgrown with weeds and roots, while the shattered remains of ancient stone walls rose like broken teeth against an evening sky from which stars just barely started to peer forth.

He knew this place, at least. Pinroot Keep. On more than one occasion, the original Reavers had descended into its corridors to chase their fortune. Now, they sought that same, yawning entrance to shelter from the horrors that chased them. It was a little more ruined than it had been in decades past, but the structures had been so crumbled by the passing of centuries before that a few more loose stones here and there was hardly enough to make him lose his way. Soon he found it, the arched passage and worn stone steps that descended into the darkness.

Alan paused long enough to motion the others in. Windhawk plunged down into the depths, relying on her elven sight to find their way, and soon Daphne and Garthur followed, with their burden held between them. Faringalia was the last to pass, and Alan reached to take her hand, letting the gnome girl lead him into depths where the inky black couldn't sustain human sight. He didn't want to light a torch until he was certain that their pursuers were not going to follow.

"He's bleeding bad," Garthur's voice rumbled from the darkness once they finally reached the ancient floor so far below.

"Do what you can," Alan whispered back, his own gaze fixed on the entrance above, just a dim outline of a slightly less dark patch to mark where the sky was. He certainly couldn't hear the two sisters around, but only time would tell. With a sigh, he leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

As the dwarven priest began to tend to the wounded Count, Alan tried to piece together everything in his mind. It wasn't so much any degree of complexity in the events of their flight, but simply the shock of what had been exposed when Faringalia stripped away the illusions.

Slowly, fragments of what he had seen crept in from his scattered thoughts. The eyes had caught him first. The sclera were coal black, the iris a hideous yellow. Despite how those eyes stared, her lids were thick and puffy, giving an almost sleepy look, while her skin was a sickly, slick looking green, and riddled with bumps and pustules. Her hair was the color of rotted wood, and hung about her head in loose, limp, and wet strands. Patches of her bare scalp were visible here and there. To complete the visage, under a hooked and pointed nose that was substantially longer than in her human guise, her mouth was a broad gash that opened almost from ear to ear, showing rows upon rows of black, crooked teeth. It was like gazing down a pipe lined with bent and rusted iron nails.

The creature that was Tam was as tall as ever, but gaunt and hungry looking, almost waifishly thin. Her arms were long and ended in sharp, black talons. The black fabric of her top was still there, but it covered just as little as it did before the revolting reveal. Her breasts hung with little support within the fabric, misshapen and distended.

She was a hag. Not merely an old crone, but a vicious magical beast that preyed on human men. He'd never encountered one himself, but had heard tales of men being taken in by their facades, only to be slaughtered and eaten once they were unable to sate the creatures' unnatural lusts. She was in the process of lunging forward when Daphne's twin blades penetrated her to either side of her spine. Those black and yellow eyes widened as blood began to pour forth from her mouth. In a single blow, the assassin had done her work, leaving the monstrosity gurgling and thrashing against the edge of the table.

Relief at the quick dispatch of the beast before them was short lived, however, for Vick's wails were suddenly punctuated by the sounds of claws tearing through flesh, and a wet, choking gurgle. The shadows cast on the curtains from the fire pit that back-lit the scene were unforgiving. The other two sisters were clearly monsters as well. Where the first had been almost terribly gaunt, the two silhouettes looming over Vick's were bloated and swollen, one with a crooked spine. Vick was laying within their grasp, twitching and spasming. Blood splattered the fabric of the curtain, beginning to soak through.

Windhawk sheathed her blade and quickly whipped her own bow up, but by then, Alan was already leaping onto the table. His soft soled boots carried him up and over the obstacle in just a few paces. The wood surface creaked under his shifting weight, then the dead hag wheezed a useless breath out when he planted one foot firmly between the corpse's shoulder blades, and leaped over Daphne, toward the curtain.

With a woosh, the whirling weight of Jhernyr ripped through the air, right past Alan's head. It impacted the curtains and tore them from their moorings, before continuing on and striking one of the beasts beyond solidly. There was a solid sounding crunch, but the figure revealed did little more than recoil. An inhuman shriek once more rose, though this one was higher pitched, and filled with rage rather than terror.

The scene revealed by the tumbling fabric was almost enough to kill Alan's forward momentum. There, Vick lay basically nude, only his unfastened leather breeches still on. His eyes were beginning to glaze, and though he still moved, it was weak. His great chest and ponderous belly were torn open, blood poured forth to soak over his attackers and the sheets of the bed below. His armor was scattered about in pieces, having been hastily removed earlier, and one thick fingered hand was grasping weakly toward where his great black blade lay sheathed, not more than a foot out of his grasp.

He was flanked by the sisters of the thing that they had killed, and their hideousness was easily an equal to her. Stringy black hair hung from patchy scalps, and their skin was green, coated with a thick, slimy perspiration that made them glisten in the firelight. Where one had a grossly bulbous nose that resembled little more than a fist stapled to her features, the other had almost no nose at all, just a recessed, skull-like cavity. Their eyes were as yellow and black as the previous hag's. Both were nude, and ponderously fat. Their bulk made even Vick seem positively svelte. Massive, low hanging breasts were bared, and might have been a saving grace in some men's eyes, save for their nature. Covered with weeping sores and angry red pustules, one of the hags had a nipple missing, and instead a yawning, puckered hole offered a dark entrance into her frame. Both of them were covered with his friend's blood.

One of the hags, it was impossible to tell which sister was which at this point, still straddled Vick. She was near crushing him with her renewed weight. Her thighs enveloped his hips, and he was likely still inside her. This was the one that had been struck by Garthur's hammer, and she was cradling one thick arm, rubbing the claws of her other up and down her own flesh. The second beast, free to turn to the onrushing rogue, swept one long arm out. While the claws failed to penetrate the old rogue's enchanted leathers, the impact was incredible. Her unnatural strength shocked through his chest where that mere glancing blow had landed, and sent white hot lances of pain through his only recently healed wounds. It was enough to stop his advance in its tracks.

Jhernyr tried to return to the dwarf on its usual trajectory, but the hag who had been struck hastily gripped at the curtains that still wrapped about it. She struggled to keep hold with one arm, but when her sister let out a shriek of absolute rage, she turned her own sickly yellow eyes over. Those eyes followed the other hag's gaze along toward where Daphne was drawing her blades from the corpse of the hag that had been Tam.

"Sister!" The two shrill voices rose in unison, "They killed our sister!"

Rage contorted features that were already difficult to look at, and both of the nude hags hoisted themselves upward, standing unsteadily on the bed. Their heads barely cleared the low ceiling, but their claws could easily reach half the room. Their actions left Vick lolling back on the bed with a groan, one arm crossed over his torso to try to keep his innards in, the other kept scrambling blindly for his sword.

"Alan!" Garthur's voice rang out from behind, "You gotta get Vick away from them!"

The old rogue eyed his friend dubiously. Even with the adrenaline coursing through his system, he wasn't sure he could move the mountain of a man, but he could definitely try. In that moment, however, the two hags seized the initiative, and cackled madly.

"So you want to save the fat man's life?" As one, both of the hags bent, their claws descended to rake at Vick. The weakened Count rolled away from one, but the other three hands caught him, at his arm, at his face, and at his already gored belly. Their talons shredded through his flesh and he screamed in agony.

The release of the curtain, however, allowed that hammer to whip free. It swung back around to be caught by Garthur, who immediately flung it at the other, nearer hag this time. At that same moment, Windhawk released her first arrow, which sailed over Alan's shoulder. Hammer and arrow impacted the same hag, simultaneously. Her flesh rippled from the dual impacts, and she stumbled back, the shaft of the arrow jutting out of one breast.

Alan reached down to grab Vick by one arm, only to find Daphne at his side, grabbing at the Count's other arm. He nodded to her, and both began to haul upon him. Vick cried out in agony again as those vicious nails dragged along his form with the movement. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he went limp. Another arrow from Windhawk's bow whistled over Daphne's shoulders, striking the hag that had been straddling Vick. The force of the impact sent her back a step, but the monster merely looked more enraged.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alan caught sight of the gnome running in to grab Vick's sword, then retreat to the door. Garthur strode forward, and snatched his hammer out of the air. His other hand lifted in supplication, and the dwarf's body glowed for a moment.

"We gotta get out of here boy, we can't take these two with Vick down. Here, lemme have him." The dwarf-lord came up under Alan's side, and shouldered the wounded man's weight with an unnatural strength.

"Cover us," Daphne shot back to Alan, and she and Garthur began to drag the bleeding man to the door.

Alan and Windhawk closed ranks, but it was clear that they couldn't stay long. With arrows still jutting out of their bodies, the two monstrous women lurched forth from the bed, their coarse, weighty forms jiggling and swaying. Rage clouded their eyes as they rushed forward. Those talons were outstretched, there was no pretense of using any form of magical abilities. Conscious of the sheer strength of the hags, Alan deftly danced backwards, as did Windhawk. The two concentrated on avoiding those blows until they heard their friends shove that heavy wooden door open.

Out before the cave, the fire beneath the cauldron was in full blaze, and a pair of skeletal claws peeked over the top. An undead mockery began to rise from the iron pot, a human skeleton with signs of having had its flesh removed by knives or claws. Each bone was scraped and scratched in many places. The abomination didn't last long, for in mid stride, with one arm still around the wounded fighter, Garthur lifted the symbol of the earthen father upward. A blaze of white light engulfed the skeleton, which clattered back into the pot, lifeless once more. Whatever delay the undead thing was supposed to provide was gone in a moment. Daphne cursed and shifted to drag Vick along, and it was all the dwarf could do to keep up with his end.

Within, Windhawk loosed one more arrow, which skipped off of the slimy skin of one of the hags as if it were hardened leather. She then turned to retreat, leaving Alan to cover her. Alan focused on parrying their claw swipes madly with his own blade as he backed into the door frame. Just as he turned to disengage, however, each of the hideous women dragged a sharp talon along his back, shredding his leathers and gouging into his flesh. Biting back a scream, he just broke into a sprint, to catch up to the rest of the group.

He was still impressed they had escaped, even if it was into the pitch darkness of unknown tunnels. A low groan finally broke the master thief from his reverie, and he turned his head toward where Vick was being treated. Not that it was any use. All that met his human eyes was pitch darkness. His own wounds still bled, and he was afraid to look at the damage, but now that the numbness of the ghastly hags' revelation and the subsequent terrified flight wore off, pain began to flare along his own back.

"D...did we win?" Vick's voice was weak, but it was there, a welcome sign of his recovery.

"We got away, lad, that's the best we could hope for. Afraid we had to leave most of your stuff behind. Your belt, your armor-"

"And the Black Blade?" The Count seemed to be taking Garthur's news fairly well, though there was an edge in his tone when he asked about his trademark sword.

"I got it for you, sir!" Faringalia chimed up, "But I'm afraid I couldn't get anything else.

There was shifting in the darkness, as the gnome handed over a blade that was more than twice her height and almost half her weight. Vick chuckled dryly, "At least I won't be totally useless then."

There was a spark and a flare as Windhawk lit a torch at last. "They're gone," The elven ranger spoke with a certainty that none dared question. They were all there, and all safe, it seemed.

Garthur's blessings had done wonders on Vick's wounds. He no longer gaped open, though his chest and abdomen were now a mass of scars. A few deep cuts remained, but Garthur was in the process of wrapping those with bandages. The light, however, also revealed the glimmer of blood on the wall behind Alan, and the dwarven priest shot him a look.

"I'll get to you in a minute, boy. And I won't be taking no for an answer."

Considering Garthur's statement for a moment, Alan finally nodded weakly. He was in no shape to refuse. The dwarf motioned for Windhawk to take over bandaging Vick, and she handed the torch to little Faringalia in turn. As the cleric moved toward him with a resounding jingling, Alan turned his gaze back over the tunnel they were in.

The ruins of Pinroot Keep were as drab and dingy as ever. It was old masonry for the most part, with broad granite flagstones paving the floor, and a vaulted ceiling some ten feet upward, supported every dozen feet or so by carved stone archways. Other tunnels intersected here and there, and ancient portals opened into side rooms, where once wooden doors barred the way. A few such doors remained intact, though were swollen and stuck on their hinges. Here and there, stones were cracked or missing, exposing packed dirt and clay behind the walls, or allowing the occasional root to dangle down from above. 

The floor was covered with a fine layer of dust, and was littered here and there with debris. Fallen chunks of masonry from where age had claimed the walls. Bones of animals and men lay amongst broken remnants of furniture and decorations from a bygone age. Here and there, the signs of confrontations long passed remained, although most of the valuable goods had been scavenged. There was still a faded chalk mark on the wall where, decades ago, Alan had marked which way they were going within, so they could find their way out. Other such marks were scattered here and there, in various states of preservation.

As the healing warmth of Garthur's spell began to knit his flesh together, Alan winced at the sting. His gaze drifted toward the two elven women, who were staring at one another with an almost identically strange expression, then scowled at Vick when he caught the Count smirking at him.

"Oh come on, man," Vick rumbled out, "It's not like you got your belly torn open." The big man laughed, but caught himself midway, cringing at the still present pain.

Alan sighed and shook his head, otherwise holding still for the dwarf's treatment. "We wouldn't have been in such a precarious situation if you hadn't been such a skirt chaser. You're engaged to be married for all decency's sake."

Vick guffawed despite the pain, "Yeah, to a whore! And you're one to talk, old man. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you were stripping them with your eyes, and many more before! And you've actually gone through and tied the knot thoroughly."

Alan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, "I never claimed to be a saint. I spent my entire life with the idea that if I see something I want, I take it."

"As long as you don't get caught."

"As long as I don't get caught, right. At least with Lizzy, with Lizzy I try. I try so hard."

Vick rolled his eyes, but Garthur just paused his work to pat Alan's shoulder, "We all gotta start somewhere, boy. When I first met you, you were a right lying, thieving bastard. Who knows, in another thirty years you might be halfway respectable."

Sir Tinsley scowled at the dwarf's chiding, but could do little but murmur, "In another thirty years I'll likely be dead."

Daphne finally turned her lovely eyes from the other elven woman's, and approached Alan with a sway of leather clad hips. Now they were in the darkness, she had removed her mask and her goggles, as well as her gloves. One slender hand descended to caress Alan's cheek, and tilted his head up so she could gaze into his eyes. "I like your inconstancy, I find unpredictability exhilarating."

Windhawk frowned deeply, "Take your hands off him, abomination."

The vampire just stroked her cool thumb along Alan's cheek, and turned to fix her gaze on the other elven woman. "Now now, cousin. If I hadn't taken out that green hag when I did, you'd probably still be picking bits of yourself out of their cooking pot. And speaking of pots, why didn't you notice the skeleton in their cauldron?" Both of her brows raised in question.

The ranger turned her gaze away and down the hall. She tugged one of the bandages she was fixing a little too tight, causing Vick to yelp. There was no move made to correct it. "Maybe your own undead stench was too overwhelming." Windhawk's insult actually brought a frown to the vampire's features, which caused her own expression to brighten.

"Enough." Garthur growled, then moved to stand, having finished tending to Alan's wounds. "We've got a long way to go yet, two men still wounded, one of which almost died, and I've got limited reserves to patch people up, so we need get our act together. No more mistakes." The dwarf's stoney tone was commanding, and caught all of their attention.

"Vick, can you move?"

After a moment of shifting and testing his limbs, Vick nodded and struggled to his feet, bracing himself on his sword. Once up, he took the blade in both hands and swung it experimentally, an act which sent Windhawk ducking out of his way. Without the benefit of his enchanted belt, the toll of years of generous living was evident in his swing. Still, it seemed he could wield it well enough. 




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 11



"Yeah, I'm good."

Garthur nodded, then looked across to Alan, and helped him to his feet. Only then did he address the others, "Alright, here's the plan. I'll take point, Windhawk, you're with me. Daphne, you watch our rear. The rest between will be Vick, Faringalia, then Alan."

Daphne and Faringalia both raised their brows, but Vick quickly caught their expressions. "We're underground, the dwarf's got better sense down here, by old tradition he takes point beneath the earth, Windhawk above. Alan when we sneak around, and me when it's time to smash some heads."

"When do I get to lead?" Faringalia chimed up.

"When you've been with us for a few decades," Alan's response was swift, which brought a pout from the gnome woman.

"Hey, Alan boy, do you think some of our old caches are still around down here?" Garthur stroked a hand over his beard as he gazed down a few of the nearest corridors, scouting out a bit with a heavy tread while the rest assembled.

"I don't know, maybe? I hid them pretty well, but it's been a long time."

"We'll swing by a few, see if we can't pick up any healing potions that might be good, and some armor for the fat man."

"HEY!"

"You're useless without it, Vick. At least useless for anything better than getting carved up by the first blade you run into. I seem to remember a few enchanted suits that we stowed down here 'just in case'."

After some brief discussion, it was decided that the detours wouldn't take them that long, and so they got underway. There was no attempt at stealth, between the mail clad dwarf's steady steps and the torches the two humans required to see through the pitch dark tunnels. Progress was, fortunately, a little faster than hacking through the underbrush above would have been. They'd been down those tunnels so many times in the past, and while it had been decades since they had been down those ways, Garthur, at least, still remembered the basic layout.

The tunnels themselves were largely quiet as the party proceeded, but there were signs that this was but a fluke, a recent occurrence. Dried blood smeared along the old stone walls in places, and in others, discarded torches rested. More than one hall they passed resounded with the buzzing of flies, and the stench of decay. It was likely a lesser group of adventurers had been through those tunnels in recent days, something confirmed when the group passed a room in which a few dead goblins could be seen through the open door, their little bodies ravaged by sword wounds, and the marks of scavengers' feeding.

Monsters and humanoids of various sorts were constantly seeking shelter within the labyrinthine tunnels under Pinroot, making their lairs in the forgotten rooms, and preying upon each other in some weird and twisted reflection of the wildlife above. Some chambers and passages had been re-purposed so many times that their original purpose was lost to time, and some precious few still stood pristine, forever suspended from the decay of time by the magics that suffused them. In some corridors, traps both old and new silently awaited their next victim, and down others, the occasional shuffling footsteps of something still motive drifted toward the group.

The original members of the Reavers knew, for the most part, where the most dangerous chambers were. There were places where the original magics kept their eternal vigil over treasures that still remained, making progress too costly, too risky to claim them. Other areas were simply twisted ruins, where the very layout of the remaining structures themselves posed a hazard, either by instability or by lending themselves to monstrous fortifications. Garthur skirted such hot spots. They were passing through, not seeking to clear the dungeon out as they had in years passed.

The first few caches had long been raided, with stones or hangings removed and whatever the Reavers had stashed within long taken. Hours wore on as they wound through the passages, and signs of recent activity fell away. Far from either of the main exits to the surface that lay along the path they were following, the tunnels the Reavers trod through now were still inhabited by creatures in the darkness. None threatened them directly, but past the edge of the faintest shadows of their torchlight, eyes glimmered from pitch black surroundings, the occasional sight of some great bulk shifting out of the way could be discerned, and the odd and distant crying of some great beast echoed off of the cold stone walls. 

It was the subtler sounds that put the experienced members of the group on edge, however. The shifting of fabric that was not theirs, the pad of bare feet on the floor, or the sound of soft breathing, struggling to be silent. These were all indications that something in the dark was much, much closer. The scents were just as bad. The foulness of the earlier unknown, unseen carrion was better than that of wet dog, just barely at the edge of sensation, or the stench of brimstone, there one moment and then gone.

More than once, Garthur lead them in a detour to avoid some danger his dwarven senses had perceived, or some creature that Windhawk had alerted them to in that soft, whispered tone of hers. The next cache Alan recalled appeared intact at first glance, but upon removing the ancient, loose stone from the wall which hid the cavity they had hidden things in, it was clear someone else had been there. Still, whoever had preceded them had left a few items they might find use for. A few potions which Garthur quickly confirmed were capable of mending wounds, and a well balanced, obviously enchanted dagger, which Alan tucked into his belt.

The group had been going for most of the day, between the trek through the forest prior to the Hags, and then the flight and subsequent hike through the tunnels of Pinroot. They had left much of their supplies with their horses, which they'd never had a chance to recover while running for their lives. Still, at some point, Garthur called for an hour's rest. They'd gone through three torches at that point, three hours of slogging through the tunnels. It was just fortunate that they'd not come across anything that dared challenge such a well armed group.

Since most of the party could see in the dark, they agreed to let the torch burn out and rest without light. If it became an issue, Garthur assured them that he could brighten the place long enough to deal with any hostiles that approached while they rested. Entering a side room off the main corridor which still had a working door in its frame, they each settled into chosen spots, getting comfortable. Garthur fetched up just to one side of the door and put his heavy pack against it, while Windhawk knelt down across from it, her bow across her knees. Alan chose a corner nearer to the door than naught, so he might slip behind anything that made it through. The others merely seemed content to stay out of the way.

He certainly didn't intend to fall asleep, but no sooner did Alan Tinsley's frame settle down against that cold stone than his eyes grew heavy. It certainly wasn't the most comfortable place to doze off, but the day, the last few days, had been wearying. He was still fairly fit, but the days of spending days or weeks in the field chasing after enemies were long since passed. Even if 'in the field' happened to be city streets or dungeon corridors.

For once, Alan was aware he was dreaming. Night time fog, lit to a wispy white glow by scattered moonlight above restricted vision in all directions. About his feet, tall grass crisped with frost swished and crackled under each step. Through the mists, the soft tones of a lute drifted, and then a sound that made his heart leap. A woman's giggling laughter rung out, high and free. It was a laugh he knew well.

"Lizzy!" He called forth, but his only response was another peal of laughter. He began to charge forward, through the all consuming fog.

"Mmm, my lord," her words were almost a moan as they drifted through the night, "Stop teasing me, please."

The music faded with a lone, sustained note. The man's voice was definitely familiar. The Stranger who had ambushed them on the way to the Reavers' Rest. "If you insist, Lady Tinsley. Whatever do you want me to do?" Although his tone grew softer, Alan's swift pace kept that ghostly tone within hearing.

"Fill me again, my lord," Elizabeth purred out words that he'd heard her say to him so many times, "I want to feel your body against mine, I want you inside of me."

The fog gave way ahead, beneath the shade of a broad branched tree. A campfire was there, burned so low that it was as a candle's flame dancing lazily back and forth over embers. It had apparently done much to draw the chill obscurement of the mists away. It was but a small area cleared by tree and flame before the fog grew thick again, and silhouetted in that far bank of mist was a strange rock, crudely resembling a massive bird perched on a pillar, with wings outstretched.

It was the events beneath the tree, however, which caught Alan's attention. About one low branch, a cord of white lace torn from some greater fabric was tied, the sort that Elizabeth loved to wear. It descended, taut, to coil around and around about her slender wrists, although long nailed hands grasped the lace cord for support. He was under the impression that she might tear it easily if she so desired.

Her arms were bared, as were her shoulders. His wife's beautiful, long blonde hair was mussed, falling in a tangled halo decorated with small twigs and leaves throughout. Her smooth, normally pale skin was ruddy with exertion, soft lips now bereft of that berried stain were parted, swollen as if from many kisses, and the tip of her pink tongue traced teasingly over that flesh. Her jewel-green were eyes fixed upon the man before her, and there was something so filthy, so dirty about her gaze.

Her full breasts were bared, heaving with heavy pants, and were covered with little marks where lips and teeth had tormented that full, firm flesh. Her nipples were peaked, jutting forth, and a little flash of gold stud glinted where a new piercing graced the right one. A white corset hung loose about her torso, the laces undone, but it was still enough to conceal her midriff, supporting those breasts only slightly from beneath, while resting low on full hips.

Her hips were bare, she did not appear to be wearing anything else but stockings, but Alan couldn't immediately see. One supple, shapely leg was lifted, her delicate foot resting on the shoulder of the man before her. Those stockings were the same ivory silk that she had been wearing before, but now were riddled with holes, exposing pale flesh beneath. Her entire weight was supported by the lone leg that descended, planted firmly upon the soft earth amidst the roots of the trees. From what he could see, those thighs glistened with moisture.

The man before her was definitely the one who'd ambushed them. Alan recognized the instrument in his hands, though the cloak and tunic were gone. A half elf, with dark hair and piercing eyes that were currently fixed upon Alan's wife, he stood tall and strong. His skin was well tanned, his chest broad. Several unreadable runes were tattooed into his flesh, in a dark ink. Druid glyphs, Alan had seen them before, but didn't know how to read them. The man wore only a pair of leather breeches, and even those were undone, hanging loose about his hips.

The Stranger tossed his lute aside, and lifted one hand to caress along Lizzy's leg, from where that foot rested at his shoulder, down along that silken contour. When he spoke, there was something about his voice, a command that was wholly unnatural, "You are an insatiable slut, aren't you, Lady Tinsley?" He turned his head to brush his lips about her ankle, before that hand drifted along her thigh. He grasped the top of her stocking in an easy movement, and began to peel it down that extended limb.

"Lizzy!" Alan shouted again, although neither seemed to acknowledge him.

Indeed, the only thing Elizabeth did was nod, and moan out a soft, "Yes. A slut. Your slut. Fuck me again my lord, I beg you." Her tone was needful, longing, and she arched her back to further present her full breasts.

Alan cursed, then charged the man. The tattooed bard ignored Alan as he tossed that stocking aside, then began to stroke his strong hand over bared skin. Alan braced his shoulder, intending to impact the Stranger as hard as he could.

The two men passed right through each other. Alan stumbled as he found himself still charging, as if nothing were there. With a grunt, he landed in the grass on the opposite side of the tree, then cast his gaze back over his shoulder.

The Stranger just stepped in toward Elizabeth, and slid his hand up to grip her ass. His other hand came to her hip, and he lifted her, supporting her weight easily, as that thin lace bond clearly couldn't. As Lizzy lifted her legs to wrap about him, the bard's thick, erect cock pressed easily into her slick, wanton body. He continued forward, until her back met the tree trunk, and he glided up into her with a solid, hilting thrust.

Alan stared in shock as his wife not only accepted the man, but cried out a soft, hissing, "Yesss." She then dipped her head to catch the Stranger's lips with her own. It was a deep, wanting kiss. A kiss she initiated. She arched her back, crushing her full breasts to the Stranger's broad chest.

The vision had Alan rocketing to his feet again, but there was a sudden grip at his shoulder. It felt as if a skeletal, icy claw were gripping at his flesh, but when he looked, all he saw was the slender, long nailed digits of a woman's hand. The grasp at his shoulder eased as Miena's voice drifted in soft notes against his ear.

"Watch, Alan. Watch, and see what a whore your lovely wife can be."

He turned his gaze slowly back to the scene before him. A shudder of revulsion coursed along his spine as the bard's lips left his wife's, only to capture one pert nipple. The other, with its gleaming gold piercing, just bobbed back and forth with the rhythm of his thrusts within her. Those slender legs crossed ankles behind the man's back, and her thighs tensed as she pulled him into each movement. Her rear flexed under his hands as she cast her head back, exposing that slender neck.

"Oh yes, yes! Fuck me my lord, fill me as no one ever has!" Her sharp, loud cries stung Alan's soul as much as his ears.

He could feel soft breasts press against his own back, then more, as the red headed wizard arched against him. Her hand left his shoulder, and wrapped about his waist instead. Her lips brushed gently against his earlobe, as she whispered, "See, Alan? See what a slut she can be? She wants him so."

The thief refused to believe it, even as the scene unfolded before him. His beautiful young bride, writhing against another, bouncing herself willingly upon another man's member. Her expression was one of rapture, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open. Her toes wriggled as she forced herself hard against him.

"She has to be under some sort of enchantment."

"Oh she is, but not the sort you think." The magic user dragged her nails along Alan's abdomen, then nipped at his earlobe. "Mmm, Alan, I miss you so much." She breathed against his neck.

"Miena! What have you done to her?" It was clear, glaringly clear who was behind his troubles now. But he still didn't know how. She was dead, after all, her tower destroyed, her ashes scattered.

"Me? Well," the redhead toyed her nails down to the waist of his leggings, only to find her wrists arrested by his grasp. A soft laugh escaped as her wrists were gripped within his hands. Her breath was icy against his neck. "I gave the bard a little something to help her forget."

"Forget? Forget what?" His tone was terse.

Lizzy screamed as she came, her body tensing upon the Stranger's. "Oh yes! My lord! Claim me!" Her words were scattered between gasping breaths, and from the look of it, the man tensed up as well, likely emptying himself into Alan's wife. Still he moved though, grinding against her, holding her body against his. The two then met in a kiss that seemed as loving as any she and Alan had ever shared.

"You? Her past? Everything. Without you in her memories, without worry over her family name, or what other nobles think, she is free to be as she really is. It didn't take long for him to get to her after that."

A chill ran down Alan's spine, and he tore his eyes away from the lewd scene before him. His eyes fixed upon the red headed woman's. "Why? Miena... why have you done this to her?"

The mage's full lips turned into a cruel smile. "Because, Alan. You should be mine. You remember what you taught me, all those years ago? When you see something you want..."

"You take it," Alan finished lamely. "But you're dead, Miena."

"Since when have I ever let anything like that stop me?" Her words were teasing, and she leaned up against him again. She used his own grasp on her wrists as leverage, to move to her tiptoes in an attempt to kiss him. 

He recoiled from that kiss, backing up a step, then another. There was a hint of rage in her eyes at being denied, and she began to whisper arcane words. Things he couldn't comprehend, only that they were the start of a spell.

"Alan!"

He startled awake, and as his eyes snapped open, he recognized the concerned look in Daphne's gaze. She stood over him, hands on his shoulders, her form outlined in the dim light of a freshly lit torch.

"You must have been having a nightmare," Her voice softened, and she leaned to kiss his forehead gently. "Come on old man, it's time to go." Those words were punctuated by a smile.

Alan nodded, "Oh. Right. And yes, I think it's high time to be on our way." He stood with her assistance, and stretched. The others had already gathered up their things. It was time to continue through the ruined tunnels.

He just hoped his dreams had been a false product of the darkness of Pinroot.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 12



Progress through the dark tunnels of Pinroot was slower after their break, largely because of an increased danger. More than once, Garthur called a halt to progress, only to send Alan forth to evaluate the corridor before them. In this section, far from any of the known exits to the surface, danger was a constant companion. There was no completely safe route through these dark halls.

The walls themselves hardly looked different, save that where masonry was missing, there was now just packed clay or raw hewn stone. No longer did blackened roots descend like tendrils of shadow from above, they were deeper than any tree in the overhead forests would reach. 

While the earlier tunnels and chambers had been constructed for storage during the keep's heyday, these deeper passages were constructed during its decline, as the need to house local populations away from the ravages of marauding bands had grown. Once, this had been almost a small city under the ground, built along the old escape tunnel that lead past the bounds of Pinwood and to the grassy plains beyond. That tunnel still existed, and was what they were aiming for.

Amidst those ancient halls was also the dark influence of the Lost Queen, the demon spawn who had been bricked away alive. In their youth, the original Reavers had stumbled upon old murals along some of the corridors which depicted the tale, as well as statuary and symbols that betrayed the presence of a subterranean church that was no longer accessible. Only an archway remained, long covered over by sturdy masonry, denying any attempt to break into the sealed chambers beyond. 

That very corridor was where they were headed, however, for one of the most valuable caches they had ever hidden in their explorations was placed there in decades past. It had been after a particularly brutal battle, at least by their skill at that time, and although Vick and the others had emerged victorious, their wounds were many, and they had to leave behind much of the heaviest loot. This included an enchanted set of plate armor. Although useful for little more than quick cash at the time, it would be invaluable for an unarmored Vick.

A few times, as Alan checked those crumbling stone corridors, he uncovered deadly traps. Pit traps were amongst the easiest to bypass, as they usually had a narrow ledge around either side to scoot over. A dead fall they came across required some debris wedged into the gaps of the stone block above. A crude spring loaded spike trap some long ago inhabitant had erected behind an arch passage was simply triggered by a thrown rock from afar. It was all very routine for Alan, who had been working around such things for most of his life.

They weren't alone in those tunnels either. That much became clear after around an hour more of progress. Footsteps echoed over the cold stone walls, always behind them but never in sight. Windhawk opted not to track down whatever it was that was shadowing them, if only for time concerns. Getting bogged down in an unnecessary fight was something which none of them wanted.

Daphne stayed by Alan's side, and when he did glance across to the elven vampire, her feral features were softened with concern. When he perked a brow in askance, she just leaned in against his side, and whispered to him.

"I was hoping you'd get more rest than you did. You looked like you'd seen a ghost when you woke up, and it hasn't improved much since."

Alan sighed, "I'm fine, I just had a nightmare." Although, recalling his dreams, he wasn't so sure anymore. The idea that Miena, who had been with them all through those youthful escapades, might still be alive was shocking to say the least. The fact it looked increasingly likely she was behind all of this was terrifying. He didn't want to believe it.

As focused as Alan was on his own thoughts, he didn't notice Daphne leaning in, until her cool, soft lips grazed his temple. He blinked in surprise, then turned to regard the elven woman, hesitating in his tracks. A gentle smile met his eyes.

"I worry about you, Alan Tinsley. With Elizabeth gone you've turned from that confident, dashing rogue we all love to an uncertain, hesitant wreck. As much as I wish you'd think of me like you think of her, seeing you like this is... distressing."

Alan frowned at her words, "I'm not that bad, am I?" His mind cast back over the events of the past few days. He knew he was off his game, certainly, but had it really been that noticeable?

"Almost as bad as Vick, and gods know we don't need two of him," Although her words were serious, a teasing smirk tugged at her lips.

Garthur had taken the lead, and glanced back over his shoulder to where Alan and Daphne spoke in those hushed tones. His bearded lips parted, the dwarf was clearly about to comment, when a figure swept out from around the corner not a pace before him.

"Garthur!" Windhawk's cry alerted them all, just in time for the stout cleric to duck without turning to see what was swinging at him.

It was fortuitous, for the mass of a spiked morning star whistled through the space Garthur's head had occupied mere moments before. It struck sparks as the sharp steel spikes impacted the wall. More dark furred creatures skidded into place behind the first.

Five of the brutes stood in staggered ranks, blocking the group's progress, while three more slipped out from a side tunnel thirty feet to their rear, amidst the furthest edge of their torchlight. Big creatures, they stood fully seven feet even with their stooped posture, with long, loping arms and a muscular build. Low brows and jagged, toothy maws gave them a primitive look, while tapered and pointed ears, large and light sensitive eyes, and the whole cast of their features were reminiscent of goblins. 

Their skin ranged from a deep yellow to a yellow brown, and a light coating of dark brown hair ran along their scalps and backs, down their arms and along their legs. They wore mismatched sets of leather, riddled with metal studs, and carried a motley collection of crude weaponry. Blades that looked more like large cleavers than swords, rough wooden clubs with spikes hammered through to make crude morning stars, long spears topped with serrated metal heads, and jagged axes.

As dangerous as they looked, and as many of them as there were, the creatures were nothing strange to anyone in the group. Bugbears had been a scourge on the land for generations. They worked with smaller goblin tribes, with bandits, with less scrupulous mercenary bands, generally anyone who could promise them coin or booty. Opportunists, they were common no matter where one turned.

With no more hesitation, the savage brutes rushed upon the group. The ones before them broke upon Garthur as an ocean wave smashing into unyielding rock. Sparks flew as sword blades glanced off of his mail, and the dwarf braced one foot behind himself to prevent them from pushing him backward. Beside Garthur, Windhawk deftly dodged a spear thrust toward her midsection.

The three that had come in behind the group dashed forward, with axes and swords raised. Alan cursed and focused upon the two who rushed him. His own blade was swept out of its scabbard and upward, deflecting one of the swords, while he neatly sidestepped an axe's descent. Up close, the things smelled vaguely of wet, filthy dogs.

Beside Alan, Daphne grunted as one of the swords impacted her chest. It pierced her leathers and then her flesh beneath. The blade clearly bore no enchantment, however, for no sooner did it withdraw than the smooth flesh beneath knitted back together. As the bugbear stared in shock, Daphne reached forth without bothering to draw her own weapon. She raked her sharp nails across its chest with an inhuman force, leaving jagged gashes within its hide. A visible withering spread out from where she'd touched, and a look of abject terror was the last thing to cross the bugbear's face, before his eyes grew dim.

Alan, faced with two of the beasts, pressed his own attacks. He fenced with each of them, sweeping his blade back and forth, trying to create an opening. Finally, after a quick parry, he thrust his own blade forth to stab one of the creatures. The bugbear howled in pain, but it simply seemed to grow more angry at the wound. Moments after Alan's blade found flesh, however, a larger blade of blackened metal streaked over Alan's shoulder. Vick's Black Blade stabbed the second bugbear threatening Alan right through the throat. The great sword twisted as it came back, removing that beast's head with a quick flick, and the lifeless form dropped to the ground. He swept it toward the wall, and Alan ducked to allow it to pass over his shoulders. The quick swipe ended the last of the bugbears threatening them from behind, leaving three bodies in a growing pool of blood.

At the fore of the group, things weren't going so well. Garthur drew his hammer back to try to strike one of the beasts, but a quick cuff of the haft of an axe sent it dropping from the dwarf's grasp. With a curse, he stooped to retrieve it, and raised one mailed arm to deflect further attacks. With the monsters in as close as they were, Windhawk's bow was little help. She shifted it to her left hand, and smacked that spear that had nearly got her to one side. The lithe elven woman drew her own sword, and in the same movement as she drew it, slashed it heavily across the chest of the bugbear before her. Even such a quick strike proved fatal to the humanoid, and it toppled back into its fellows. She was a ranger after all, trained to deal with such creatures, and knew exactly where and how to strike them to count. 

In the midst of it all, Faringalia darted her head back and forth. She was surrounded by tall people on all sides, and it offered little chance for her to contribute. The gnome quickly scrambled to pick up a sharp stone from amongst the debris of the hallway, and chucked it in an attempt to throw it over Garthur's head. It just skittered off the wall and into the darkness beyond the bugbears.

Shaken by the loss of half of their number in the space of a minute, the remaining bugbears looked uncertainly to one another. For one tense moment, it looked like they would break and run. But then, with a growl from one of the larger beasts, they pressed forward against Garthur and Windhawk, with blade and axe. Immediately Garthur and Windhawk shoved them back, intercepting arms and weapons to limit their effectiveness.

Windhawk's blade slashed forward, but the beast she struggled with parried her blade aside. Garthur's hammer, however, shattered a skull under its forward swing, and the creature dropped with a gurgling growl. Daphne erupted into a cloud of bats, which fluttered overhead, along the ceiling of the corridor. The bats flowed back down into her usual slender frame, forming behind the three remaining bugbears. Although her weapons were not drawn, her long nails and bared fangs were as threatening as any blade.

Alan and Vick dashed to close the distance, but Alan stumbled over Faringalia. He caught himself before hitting the ground, and the gnome woman squeaked out an apology, rolling aside as she did. This left only Vick charging forth again, moving with a speed that seemed mismatched with his bulky frame. Once more he thrust that long blade of his forward, gripped in two hands. The black metal point plunged violently between Windhawk and Garthur, and impaled one of the sickly skinned goblinoids. With a shower of blood, the fat warrior yanked the blade out again, letting the bulk of the brute slump to the ground.

Panicked now, the two remaining hairy figures turned to try to lope away. As soon as they exposed their backs, however, Windhawk, Garthur, and Vick all set their weapons into motion. Gathur's hammer and Windhawk's sword struck the same bugbear, which crumpled under the force of their blows with a gurgle. Vick stepped up against the side of the corridor, and thrust his own blade forth again, this time between the dwarf lord and the cold stone wall. It caught furry flesh readily, and with a howl of agony, the lone remaining bugbear yanked itself off of the blade. The beast stumbled forward a few steps, then collapsed.

The flurry of activity had taken barely two minutes, and as the echoes of the last bugbear's howl faded, the group was left to catch their breath. Only the faint gurgling of the dying beasts broke the silence, at least until Alan asked in a breathless tone, "Is everyone alright?"

Garthur and Vick nodded, while Daphne smiled and pushed forward, advancing through the lines toward Alan. She lifted two sharp nailed fingers to play over the slit leather where the one blade had passed, exposing the smooth skin and subtle curve of one breast beneath.

"I think one got me, kiss it better, Alan?"

Her teasing tone earned a scowl and a swat from Windhawk, who was still within arm's reach. The two elven woman glared at one another for a long moment, but then the ranger just shook her head. 

"Let's get on our way, before more of the beasts show up."

Alan cast a quick glance about the others. They were already moving to get into place, all except for Faringalia, who was looking over the bodies of the brutes. She had a few pouches in one hand, likely little more than pocket change taken from their bodies. Still, she didn't exactly have her own estate to live off of, so the old rogue saw no harm in allowing her to take what prizes she could. He just focused on calming himself down to concentrate on the task before them.

The violence of the event, however brief it had been, however readily they had dealt with it, was a reminder of the danger which surrounded them. From that point forth, the party proceeded with the utmost caution, regularly stopping to listen for movement, intentionally detouring whenever there was the slightest suspicion that something was following them. Fortunately, it was not much further until the last cache they wanted to check. They were all aware, however, that they still needed to get out.

At one cross hall, chunks of a long destroyed statue lay scattered across the stone floor, and the sight of it brought a chuckle from Alan. Garthur visibly relaxed upon spotting the ruined statue, which earned a questioning look from Daphne and Faringalia both.

"We're here," Vick pronounced. When he caught the two women's expressions, however, he laughed softly. "That statue was once animate. It was one of the toughest battles we ever had down here back in the day. Chased us all in a big loop around these corridors while we kept engaging and breaking off. When we finally destroyed it, we left the pieces here. Every time we came by, the major chunks of it were still left here, so it became a sort of landmark."

"So in all the decades it's been since you broke it, no one's picked it up?" Faringalia's eyes widened, before she looked down to the scattered chunks of carved stone.

"Yeah, Miena figured that the enchantments that once animated it would scare off the more beastly denizens down here, and keep the elements from messing with it too much." The large warrior stepped forth into the cross corridor with confidence. He turned his gaze down all of the intersecting halls, but then beckoned Faringalia and the torch forward.

As the gnome scurried toward him, Vick's expression grew serious. It was making Alan antsy.

"What's wrong? Has the cache been disturbed?" Vick should be able to see the marker from where he was at, and if it was all for naught, Alan was afraid they'd wasted their time.

"No, no. it looks like it's still there. But," At this, the warrior trailed off a moment.

"Where does that archway lead?" Faringalia's innocent question made Alan's blood run cold.

Immediately, Alan, Garthur, and Windhawk rushed forward as one, and stared down the hall before them. The regular masonry gave way to murals painted with scenes of processions and rituals, of abject cruelty and a winged woman being bound about in chains. There, toward the edge of the torchlight, was the empty niche where once the guardian statue had stood. To either side were the inert statues that were its match, including the one behind which they'd created that cache so long ago. 

Across the hall, however, was a lone archway set between two pillars decorated with the holy seal of the church of the Ascendant. The stones that had sealed it for untold aeons lay scattered upon the ground, and in the dim light, the polished marble of a hall beyond could be made out. It was still in almost pristine condition.

Immediately, the four old timers drew their weapons, though nothing but silence greeted their stares. Behind them, Daphne fidgeted a bit, then finally drew her own daggers uncertainly. She glanced to Faringalia, as if the diminutive illusionist could offer some insight.

"She can't still be in there, right? I mean ... it would have been centuries," Alan's voice quieted as his heart pounded.

"You know as well as any that we've faced dark things that lay much longer in the ground, boy." Garthur's words were gruff. "Still, if the seal's been broken for some time, even if she still lives, she may have got out by now."

"Who would be fool enough to try to get into there?" Vick's words were met by skeptical looks from the dwarf and the elf beside him. Alan himself seemed to recall a young Vick Varonne trying to pry the masonry loose long ago.

They remained in silence for a long moment, before Daphne spoke. "Look, we're here, let's inspect the cache, get what we can, and get out," tension strained her voice, but it was a logical plan.

"Afraid it's not that simple. If this demon-blooded queen yet exists, we have to make sure she hasn't got out."

While Garthur's sentiments were certainly noble, only Faringalia and Windhawk nodded in agreement.

"Even if she does, it's not our fight," Vick hissed.

"Indeed. Our main goal is to get through here and go get my wife."

Garthur scoffed at Vick and Alan's concerns. "If this bitch is half as bad as those murals make her out to be," The dwarf nodded at the walls, "Then we owe it to ourselves to check, if no one else. You don't wanna go fetch your wife, return to your city, only to find the whole place taken over by some ancient terror with an axe to grind."

Such exchanges were not an unusual thing for the Reavers. Since the earliest days, such difference of opinion had long defined their individual actions, and might have contributed to how they split up after their best days were behind them. But, as ever, the priest's steely words had a certain degree of merit.

Daphne's voice cut the silence, "So what's the plan then?" 

"Simple. We go open the cache, find what we can that's of use, then one or two of us goes into the temple area there for a look around."

Windhawk nodded at Garthur's suggestion, before asking, "So which of us goes in?"

"All of us." This time it was Vick who stepped up to the task, even as he began to stride down that hall, his Black Blade in hand.

"All of us isn't just one or two," Alan was still uncertain, but crept along after the big man. The rest followed, eyes all locked on that dark archway.

"Better than getting picked off one by one. We all stand together. If it's nothing, it's no harm. If there's something in there, we've got a better shot as a team than singly."

"And if we all die?" Alan stared at the back of Count Varonne's head.

"Then we all die together."

Never had Alan been so tempted to shove his blade into his old friend's back. Well, almost never. There had been a few times over the years when only the grace of timing had prevented him from doing just that. "And Lizzy? Who'll save her when we're all gone?"

"If she was taken just to get to you, then whoever did it won't have a reason to keep her when you're gone. Besides, you'll be too dead to care. If that bothers you," Vick turned a look over his broad shoulder, "then you best not let us all die."




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 12



Garthur clapped Alan on the back. "Don't worry boy, we're the Reavers. We won't get wiped out so easily."

Completely outvoted, Alan could do little but trudge onward with care. There, under a particular grotesque mural of a bat winged woman tearing a lady in noble clothing in half with her bare hands, he turned instead to study the wall. It was just beside the statue which marked the presence of their cache. He ran his fingertips along the seams, then drew a dagger out. Running the blade between the joints of the masonry, he carefully loosened one massive stone block. Only then did he urge Vick and Garthur to begin to shift it.

While Windhawk and Daphne watched that yawning archway so nearby, the three men shifted the massive stone block. The sound of grinding stone upon stone resonated down the corridor, and decades of foul smelling dust took to the air as it was disturbed. The shifting stone was impossible to remove, but moving it outward widened a heretofore unseen gap in the niche behind the statue which stood before them.

The statue itself, of an armored warrior, was heavy as well, but this time it only took Vick shifting his weight against it to give it the half turn necessary. Alan wriggled in through the gap between statue and stone, and crouched behind it. He warily slipped his hand into the darkness, and groped along the old stone hidden beyond. After a moment, his fingers caught onto the edge of an old burlap sack. A sigh of relief escaped him, and he nodded to the rest.

When the clank of metal on metal sounded while Alan wrestled the bulky sack out of the crevice, visible relief washed over Vick's features. Extracting the old sack from its hiding place took a while, but when the rogue finally escaped the niche's closed confines, he couldn't help his excitement. From the old bag, stashed so long ago in hopes that they'd be able to sell its contents for a good penny at a later date, spilled forth pieces of armor, a few fair quality swords, and two metal shields. The clanging of metal against stone filled the hall, and immediately the group fell silent, straining to hear if the noise had roused anything near or far.

As the last ringing echoes died down, nothing stirred around them. With a shared sigh of relief, Vick and Garthur began to pick through the objects. Their enchantments had preserved them against the passage of time, and it didn't take long to assemble a suit of plate armor from the pieces. It certainly didn't appear able to fit Vick, but as Alan and Garthur began to help him into the steel, it seemed to stretch and shift under their hands. The magical metal sized itself to handle the Count's bulk, and by the time they had him clad in the armor, it appeared to all outward examination to have been crafted for him.

After Vick was fitted with that new armor, and the full range of his movement was verified, Garthur stooped back to the debris and picked up one of the stout looking kite shields. For her part, Daphne scooped up one of the swords, and gave the blade a few practice swings. It was all fair quality stuff, all enchanted, but of less relative use than what they had owned so many years ago. Still, when compared to having nothing at all, it was an improvement. And an enchanted suit of plate of any caliber was a prize worthy of a prince.

With arms and armament bolstered by their find, the six travelers cast their gaze as one toward that yawning archway before them. Vick let out a heavy sigh, then rested his great sword upon his shoulder. He advanced toward that archway with a light scrape and clank of that as yet unoiled armor. Garthur hastened to join him, shield in one hand, his hammer in the other.

"So we're still doing this, hmm?" Alan asked in a defeated tone.

The lone response was a weary grunt from the dwarf, as the two armored figures moved toward the passage. Daphne rested a slender hand on Alan's shoulder, then moved to join them. Soon enough, the rest of the group fell in, with Windhawk and Faringalia taking up the rear behind Alan. This wasn't entirely helpful positioning, for the torchlight cast through the figures before the gnome caused mad shadows to dance up over the ancient marble walls.

Stepping beyond the archway was stepping into another world, another age. The walls were a mix of fine marble and decorative tiles, with more ornate columns carved into the sides of the passage. Ten feet of hall split to either side around a facing wall with the ancient symbol of the church of the Ascendant carved in relief, and coated with a fine layer of golden paint. To either side the corridor proceeded only another ten feet before turning once more, likely to meet in whatever chamber lay beyond. Fine, if ancient urns settled in each corner, filled with dust that may once have been earth and plants long ago. A fine layer of dust settled over everything, in fact, and the air held a scent that was a strange combination of mildew and rare spice.

The way the torchlight danced over polished marble walls, it was clear that if anything remained within, surprise would definitely not be on their side. Vick pointed to Alan and Faringalia, then to the left passage, while Garthur beckoned the two elven women to follow him to the right. Ideally, this would allow them to have one team who could see in the dark make for any threats that the torch failed to revealed, while using those who needed that flickering light as bait.

Alan just prayed that Daphne and Windhawk could put their quarrels aside long enough to cooperate at this critical juncture.

The pale yellow torchlight licked along the marbled walls, and into a grander chamber beyond. As they crept along that brief turn in the corridor, Alan ducked to conceal himself behind Vick's sheer bulk. Peering around his friend's side, he squinted against the shadows, and gradually more of the room beyond came into view.

The walls opened out into a room at least fifty feet wide. Between a short set of broad steps and a suddenly vaulted ceiling, the volume of the chamber was a welcome void compared to the sometimes claustrophobic corridors the group had been traveling through. The marble walls and high pillars were well decorated with art and symbols of faith from an earlier age. The faces of ancient saints shone from stained glass decorations in various niches, catching and reflecting the torchlight in a faint ghost of their former glory.

All was not pristine within the subterranean church, however. Great wooden pews that had once stood in neat rows now lay stacked haphazardly into two piles, one on each side of the great room. Three withered corpses mouldered away on the steps, two in armor, one in robes. It was difficult to tell how long they had been there. The armor and clothing still looked relatively new, while the bodies themselves were twisted and desiccated, as if all vitality had been drained from them.

Most terrible of all, however, was the scene in the center of the room. An ancient wooden throne stood incongruously in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by a ring of sparkling silver dust on the floor. Faint chalk writing from ages past inscribed a circle of words of power around that silver ring. Seated upon the throne, a vision of crimson and alabaster regarded the three visible in the torchlight with a cold expression.

Where the murals in the hall outside depicted some monstrous, violent winged woman, the truth of her appearance was stunning. Clad in a long, red silk gown, the skirt cascaded down from the seat of the throne, to pool near her feet. A split up to above the knee revealed much of her crossed legs, from those bare feet and their delicate toes, nails painted a glossy red, upward. Shapely calves and glistening white skin, as smooth as the polished marble which surrounded them. Above the knee, just a glimpse of her upper thigh was revealed by the split of the silk.

The fabric caressed her form, the flare of her hips below narrow waist. Her breasts were modest, but well formed, while the gown itself left her arms and upper back bared. Those lean limbs rested on each armrest of the throne, while sharp, red nails drummed a slow, methodical rhythm against wood that was well worn under the impact of untold strikes of those fingertips. Her features were noble, her hair a glossy black. It descended in waves past the slender column of her neck, disappearing down her back. Her eyes, even through thick lashes, were distinctly red. Those blood red eyes fixed upon Vick intently, while behind her, black leathery bat wings shifted against the throne, rustling restlessly. This had to be her. The Lost Queen of Pinroot.

Vick's steps faltered as she gazed upon him, and Alan very nearly collided with his back. The thief rested one hand on the old warrior's armored back, while he held his sword at the ready. For a long, tense moment, no one acted.

And then, she rose elegantly from her throne.

Whatever barrier the silver circle about that aged seat might have posed at one time, it was clear that it no longer held the strength it once did. Her bare feet crossed the threshold effortlessly, and she strode toward Vick with a purposeful stride. Her great wings unfurled behind her back, then folded neatly, and a smile curled her crimson lips. Whatever charm the expression might have had was ruined, however, when her speech revealed rows of sharp, triangular teeth, gleaming like metal in the light.

"Well, well, well. Do we have new toys come to visit? Two groups in just a week's time. Just the thing to alleviate my loneliness."

There was something off about her words, and it took Alan a moment to put his finger on it. Finally, it hit him. She was speaking, yes, but the movement of her lips didn't match up to the syllables crossing them. Instead, her voice snaked its insidious way directly into his mind, a mental broadcast of allure and meaning rather than any mortal tongue. There was something primal about her presence. Their entire journey through the tunnels, a certain oppressive atmosphere had born down upon Alan's will. But here, in this chamber, the darkness of this woman's presence was palpable. Her very being was unnatural despite her unearthly beauty, a manifestation of wrongness that demanded rejection.

Although he couldn't see the rest of their party, he could hear the faint jingling of Garthur's mail, moving further into the room. Certainly they were going to try to flank the woman. She had yet to do anything directly threatening, but with something born of a demon's blood every word was an assault. Before him, Vick shifted his sword in both hands, readying the Black Blade into a combat stance. Alan had to back up a pace or two to give him room.

The Lost Queen closed her eyes, sparing them the unease of those crimson orbs for but a moment. Her laughter, however, more than compensated for that slight respite. "Mmm, Varonne. Count Varonne," she let his name roll off of a tongue that appeared slightly forked. "I can see it, in your memories. A beautiful city, where once only a few savage barbarians dwelt. The world has changed much since I last beheld it."

The taunting tone of her voice, the knowledge that this horrible woman could peer into their thoughts, it was too much for Alan. Yet he wasn't going to charge her alone. His gaze drifted off to the shadows beyond the woman.

It didn't take long, however, for Vick to make up his own mind. With a shout, the armored man charged forward, his infamous magical blade in hand. Vick in full charge was a fearsome sight. Alan darted to the side as soon as the way was clear, and ducked into a roll. He had to get behind her.

Vick's arcing blade was arrested in mid slash, however, as before him stood not the demon blooded queen, but Margaret Pryce. Or at least, Margaret as she had appeared in her twenties. Still with exaggerated, whorish curves, her face bore a mix of innocence and mischief.

"Vick?" The voice was a certain match as well, "What are you doing?" Her words caused the fat man to stumble, staring in confusion.

"Damn it all!" Garthur's gruff voice called out from near the throne, and the dwarf just stepped into the edge of the torchlight. "These wards are dead. Magic went out of 'em ages ago. If you get her back in the circle, I can seal 'em up again right as rain."

It was easier said than done, truly. As Vick stepped back, trying to recover himself, Alan darted forward. Blade in hand, he dropped to his knees, letting his momentum carry him forward as he slid across the smooth floor. He aimed that deadly point just above Maggie's hip, but something changed. 

Just as that point dug into flesh, Elizabeth's scream sounded through the room. Alan's eyes snapped upward. His gaze met not the Lost Queen's cold red eyes, not Madame Pryce's smoldering gaze, but rather the shock, betrayal, and pain of his wife's emerald hues.

"Why? Why did you do this, Alan? Is ... is it because I have been with others?"

He knew, logically, that no matter what her form, it was still the demon woman. The vision she presented, however, struck him as if a physical forth. So perfect was her face, the way his wife's voice sounded. The very choice of her words felt like a fist to his gut.

The moment's hesitation was all that was necessary. A pale foot, with red painted nails slammed with inhuman force under Alan's chin. The kick sent him skidding backward, and the Lost Queen laughed coldly. The image of Elizabeth was gone, leaving just the crimson clad woman standing there, wings unfurled and spread, hair writhing in some unseen wind. Her long nailed hand reached down to gather up her own blood from the shallow gash where Alan's blade had bit. She looked right at him as she took her own bloody fingers between lush lips, licking them clean with a forked tongue.

Daphne's shadowy form streaked in toward the Lost Queen's back, but a great, leathery wing slammed into her form without so much as a turn of the demon blooded monstrosity's head. The vampire was swept up from the force of the blow and sent flying toward a stack of broken pews.

She didn't bother changing forms this time, not yet at least. Rather, she shot over her shoulder, in Alan's voice, "Stupid, worthless abomination. I don't see why we haven't staked you and left you for dead yet." The tone in those words was more hateful than anything the old rogue thought he could ever muster, yet sounded so real.

Vick had recovered by then, but before he could charge, two arrows zipped from the darkness. Both sank into the Lost Queen's torso. They bit deeply into Daphne's flesh, or at least, what appeared to be Daphne. Gone was the feral look of the vampire, as the tanned elven woman turned her gaze toward Windhawk.

"Cousin, I'm free. You don't have to hate me any more." Her words were soft, somewhat pained. There was no sign of fangs between those lips, though tears welled within her eyes.

"Gods damn you!" Vick roared out, and began his charge again, leveling his blade at the shifting demon spawn's midriff. This time, the Black Blade sank home.

Into the very pregnant belly of a now properly aged Margaret Pryce. Her wail was heart rending, and Vick Varonne stared for a long moment at how his sword bit into that soft flesh. He lifted his gaze as tears began to well forth.

Once again, it was all the hesitation the Lost Queen needed. She gripped Vick by the throat, and bodily lifted the massive man upward. Her form shifted fluidly back to that dark haired, dark winged beauty, with eyes filled with rage.

"Weak fools. I am power and promise. I am love and lust. I am want and regret. To gaze upon me is to know your heart's true desire. To assail me is to witness harm to those you hold dear."

Faringalia cleared her throat. It was easy to hear in the relative quiet of the room, interrupted only by Garthur's faint chanting and Vick's gurgled choking. The tall, alabaster skinned monster turned her fearsome eyes down toward the gnome. Her crimson lips twisted into a toothy snarl.

And then she froze. She dropped Vick, who clanged and clattered to the ground heavily. The sword wounds still visible on the Lost Queen's body were closing, healing before their very eyes, but she did nothing but stare down at Faringalia, slack jawed. Alan dusted himself off as he began to stagger back toward the battle.

He couldn't see anything going on, at first. The Lost Queen stood stock still, Faringalia as well. The gnome girl was surrounded, however, by a strange kaleidoscope of barely-visible color, just drifting in a circle about her form. She dropped the torch, letting the burning embers fall to the ground. It cast eerie shadows up against the ceiling from its new position.

"No." The Lost Queen took a step back. Panic began to edge into her voice, "What- who are you?"

Faringalia, a look of concentration on her features, took a single small step forward. This sent the Lost Queen stumbling backward. Pale flesh and red silk tumbled backward as she fell onto the floor hard. Her eyes, however, never left the gnome woman's.

"Wait, no. Don't come closer! I'm warning you!" 

Her voice was a hectic, shrill cry this time, a mixture of terror and rage. But as the illusionist stepped closer, pace by pace, the demon blooded woman simply scrambled backward. Whatever she was seeing, there was no outward indication. It was all in her own mind.

Sweat beaded on Faringalia's brow as she continued forward, hands outstretched. Her fingers wriggled as if moving a puppet, and occasionally her movements provoked shrieks and screams from the Lost Queen. By that point, the wounds inflicted by the party's weapons had all but healed.

Alan closed ranks with Windhawk and Daphne, while Vick struggled to his feet, his face still red. They watched in awe as the diminutive magic user backed the woman who had given them such trouble toward the throne, all by herself.

There was a sudden blaze of light as Garthur raised his hands. A shimmering field sprang up, surrounding the terrified Queen of Pinroot and her throne. A moment more, Faringalia kept up what she was doing, and then suddenly, the little gnome fainted.

Alan dashed forward, and caught her just as Daphne skidded in beside him. The rogue looked down to the little woman in his arms with a new sense of respect, then slowly gazed back up to the trapped demon spawn.

Fear began to fade from her eyes, only to be replaced with rage. "No!" She shouted out. "Not again! You can't do this to me!" She raised her hands and pounded against the barrier of light. Visible burns spread over her hands, as the impact produced a shower of sparks.

Garthur struggled to hold the barrier, then shook his head. He looked back to Alan. "Sorry boy, but I'm going to have to stay here."

"What? Why?"

As the raging demon within the barrier began to intensify her assault on the blessings that so kept her pinned, her face twisted into a mask of rage. That beauty was still there, but its impact was lost amidst the emotion. She genuinely resembled the monstrous facades in the murals from the hall outside.

The dwarven priest shook his head grimly. "It'll take me the better part of a day to get this barrier sealed properly, and set so it won't just collapse in the near future."

"We can wait," Alan began, but he really knew they couldn't.

"Bah, I'll be fine boy. You need to get your wife though. You go fetch her, by the time you come around to the tunnel entrance, I'll have sealed this wench up, then bricked her in again for another few centuries."

Alan frowned deeply. He didn't want to leave the dwarf there. Aside from the danger he might face alone, the group needed the only one who could patch up their wounds. Still, time was of the essence, and they had already fallen so far behind.

"Look, promise you'll be careful. We should catch up to this bastard and Lizzy some time in the next day. When we come back, we'll wait at the exit to the escape tunnel for you."




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 12



Garthur grunted as the Lost Queen made another effort to break free. His concentration focused on sustaining that ring. Light poured from his hands into the silver below, only to shimmer upward and reinforce that barrier. Finally, he spoke gruffly, "Won't be any waiting to be done. I'll be the one waiting for you. Now go, get! You're distracting me."

Alan stood, bearing the unconscious Faringalia in his arms. He looked back to the others. No one looked happy at this plan, but it was the best they had. Turning on one heel, Alan began to carry the gnome out of the underground temple, pausing only to retrieve his sword from where it had landed.

With weapons in hand, and haunted looks from the imagery the Lost Queen had invoked during their battle, the others shuffled after him in silence, leaving the Garthur Steelwright behind to deal with the menace alone.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 13



It was with silent, solemn efficiency that the remainder of the group made their way through the twisting halls and stone-paved tunnels. Faringalia remained out and limp in Alan's arms for a long time, while Windhawk took her place as torch bearer. Without Garthur's expertise, they had to move slow and careful, though at least Windhawk's keen senses still alerted them to potential ambush.

Alan was just utterly exhausted. Every muscle in his body was screaming for rest, yet still he continued onward. The oppressive feeling of the dark ruins lessened over time, as they made their way along, leaving that cursed church further in their wake. The dangers gradually diminished as well, the traps became less frequent, and although they stumbled across some true goblins on two occasions, the green skinned little beasts fled without challenge in both instances.

He had no idea how long he'd slept earlier, but it clearly wasn't enough. About the same time that the diminutive illusionist in his arms began to stir, he glanced over to Vick. Catching the big man in mid yawn made Alan feel a little better. He wasn't the only one feeling the effort of it all.

Alan slowed his pace, as did the others. He carefully set Faringalia down, just as she began to open her eyes. He offered a smile to the gnome woman, which was answered by a look of confusion.

"You saved us back there. What did you do, exactly?"

The little woman stretched, and ran a hand through her unkempt shock of red hair. "Mmm? Oh. I showed her what fear was. I mean if she could show you lot exactly what you desired, I figured that I could show her exactly what would terrify her most."

Alan frowned thoughtfully. His curiosity was definitely roused, "And dare I ask what that was?"

"I don't know," she said with a shrug, "I'm not privy to what they see, only to their reactions. I'm just glad it worked."

Vick laughed merrily, though his eyes still reflected the shock of the earlier battle. Cutting down a twisted monster or menacing bandit was one thing. Swinging at a creature wearing the face of the a loved one was a different matter, which Alan had the misfortune of finding out on two separate occasions the last few days.

"Alright," Alan finally turned to address them all. "We're near the exit, we're undoubtedly going to catch up with them shortly. I think we should stop and rest here, just for an hour or so. It'll be no use barging out upon them only to find ourselves too exhausted to fight." It was a tough decision, but he felt it was for the best.

There was no argument from the rest. It was likely they were all equally tired, except perhaps the unliving Daphne. It didn't take long to force open a nearby door, and slip into a room they could fortify just off the main hall. Daphne volunteered to keep watch and time, and for once, not even Windhawk objected. The air was still and stale, but after a few moments to let it circulate with the hall, it was almost tolerable. Stout stone walls and an almost equally sturdy door of ancient oak made the place seem secure. The room itself housed only a few dusty wooden crates, but upon examination, all were long empty.

Once settled down for their rest, Alan idly watched Daphne and Windhawk for a moment. The two women were watching each other suspiciously, but did not seem outwardly hostile. At least not for now. It did bring to mind the visage which the Lost Queen had taken when Windhawk attacked. There was a connection between the two elven women that he was clearly not privy to. At the very minimum, it had shown that Windhawk's 'greatest desire' had to do with a revived Daphne. He had never really had any insight to the reclusive ranger's desires through all those years. His eyes lingered on the lean archer as she peeked outside the room for one last quick check. Imaginings of her and the vampire entwined in passion brought a smirk to his lips.

She caught his gaze in the dying light of the flickering torch, then frowned at him, "What?"

He just shook his head and lay back, using his arms as a cushion. Windhawk tilted her head and scowled, then struck the torch she still bore to the ground. In an instant the room was plunged into darkness, as the flames died with a sputtering hiss. The creak of the heavy door closing followed soon after.

It did not take long for the exhausted rogue to drift off once more, nor for the dreams to return. He knew them for what they were now, though this time it was another glimpse of the past, rather than the present. Alan's old room in the Reavers' Rest was lit only by a single lamp upon his desk. While merry music and laughter in the commons could be heard even through the walls, Lightning Alan examined his latest take as it laid upon his desk, appraising a fascinating sapphire he had found by the light of that lamp. A velvet pouch lay open to one side, its burden of gold, silver, and jewels spread out on the smooth wooden surface.

A very soft knock sounded from the door, which he almost missed. Probably one of the tavern girls who'd been eying him over in the room below. They had, after all, just returned from a perilous task, and while Vick, Garthur, and even Windhawk were undoubtedly wasting no time in spending their coin on drink and merriment, he preferred to know exactly what he had beforehand. Still, some company would do him good, and a man had to enjoy his youth while he had it.

"Come on in," He called to the door, then placed that sapphire carefully aside. 

As the door creaked open, he took the next gemstone up, and began to examine it. The soft patter of delicate feet and the rustling of long fabric confirmed a woman's entry, and no sooner did the door's closing mute the raucous sounds of celebration before he spoke in a tone that was a little more commanding than he intended, "Come along girl, I think I need a shoulder rub more than anything at the moment." He was still wound up from earlier in the day. Vick's recklessness had almost got them all killed, and he was pretty sure he was the only one who noticed. It was making him short tempered, and he didn't enjoy that.

He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, as if she was about to protest his words. "Sorry, I just, I'm tense as a spring. It's not your fault." He took his eyes away from the gem he'd been carefully examining, then glanced down to the table. Sliding a few gold coins to one side, he tapped the table beside where they lay. "Show me how good your hands are, girl, and we can go from there." He sighed as he tossed the gem he'd been looking at into another pile, then reached to gather up a fine gold necklace.

There was more hesitation, but just before he was about to turn to see what was keeping her, those soft steps crept up behind him. It must have been one of the more modest wenches, as he could hear her skirt dragging the floor from time to time. Most tended to show a lot more leg than that allowed. He felt bad for snapping at her so, especially when those fine hands came to his shoulders. He lifted one hand to pat one of them reassuringly, and they began to rub at the tense muscles there through the loose fabric of his tunic.

She was no expert, but the way her hands worked against the tight knots along his shoulders seemed born of a genuine desire to see him relaxed. It felt marvelous, despite how chill her hands were. He closed his eyes and laid his head back, only to find himself resting against her bust. Not as generously endowed as some he preferred, but he could hardly complain.

"That's good. Thank you, girl," he sighed the words out, and let that necklace rest within one palm. Her hands worked up the side of his neck, cool and soft against his skin. They then slipped back down, this time under the fabric of his loosened shirt, kneading firmly, working the tension out. 

"You've no idea what it's like," he murmured to the wench, "Working with them. Sure, we get things done, but damned if it's not harder than it should be. Vick's so damned quick to rush in. Garthur's always getting us into more trouble than we need with his insistence on fixing all the world's wrongs. Windhawk's just as bad." With a groan at how her hands worked upon him, He waved his hand absently, "The only other one with any sense in the group is Miena, and she's always too lost in her damned books to help."

Alan winced as the girl chose that moment to drill her thumbs in against a particularly tight group along his spine. He couldn't help a bit of a hiss, but just as he was about to complain, she drew him back against her breasts, and slid her hands back up to work at the nape of his neck. As the pain eased, he just set that necklace down amidst the rest of the gems on the table.

"Alright, that's enough," He tilted his head this way and that, grateful to be able to do so without the twinge of taut muscles. Her cool hands drew back from his skin reluctantly, and he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his own neck. She hadn't done a bad job, for one so unskilled. He heard her step away, back toward that door.

"Wait," Alan's voice brought her up short, and he waved his hand absently over one shoulder. She seemed so shy, having tended to him without saying a word, padding along in those long skirts. He slid another gold coin over to join the others he'd set aside for her. "Get that silly dress off and make yourself comfortable in the bed." A faint smile crossed his lips as he made the decision. She likely didn't get too many offers with that attitude. There was another long hesitation at his words, but finally he heard her footsteps move toward the bed, along with the rustling of fabric.

He gathered the rest of the coins and gems back into that bag. He could always start again later. For now, he just didn't want to leave them all scattered about, no matter how much he might trust the staff of the Reavers' Rest. He drew the drawstring tight as he heard the bed creak, then hung the bag from a peg. Sweeping the coins he'd set aside for the wench into one palm, the young man turned and stood.

The sight before him stopped him dead in his tracks. The few gold he'd gathered slipped from his hand, to cascade down onto the wooden floor. He stared in silence for a moment, eyes bugged out, jaw slack.

She reclined on the bed, her shoes off. Lean legs were clad in simple, opaque scarlet stockings, which hugged those limbs to mid thigh. Each was tied off with a black velvet ribbon. Her thighs were a little on the thin side, but utterly smooth, while a ruffled set of white drawers hugged her slender hips, stark contrast to the dark fabric of the loosened robe which lay spread underneath her. Her belly was flat and smooth, and about the dip of her navel was an intricate tattoo in glittering silvery ink. 

It depicted a seven pointed star, each point radiating an arcane word outward. Her bared breasts were indeed modest, barely a handful each, with rosy nipples peaked. Between them dangled a talisman of protection, a simple strip of wood with glyphs burned into its surface, bound in a golden border. The gold necklace from which it dangled from circled her slender neck, while the robe itself was still cast haphazardly over her shoulders.

A smirk lingered on black painted lips, and the faintest of blushes lingered on her freckled cheeks. Her mad red locks cascaded down to frame those pale features, while her intense blue eyes stared at him through a somewhat oversized pair of spectacles. He didn't notice her holding the Nightmare Orb until she stretched languidly, then deliberately reached across to set it on his nightstand, beside his own dagger.

"Miena! I... I'm sorry, I thought you were-"

"One of your tavern whores?" She raised one brow, but didn't seem cross, "Or too lost in my damned books to be in here?" The last was deliberately taunting.

Alan approached the bed, and his eyes roamed over the mage's exposed form. "I- why are you here like this?" He decided the best defense was a good offense.

Apparently, Miena had figured the same way, for she lifted one hand to stroke over the slight curve of one breast. "What, isn't it obvious, Alan? You told me to." She then shifted to her hands and knees, and crawled across his bed toward him. She turned those blue eyes to his, peering over the tops of her own glasses. "What, don't like what you see?" Her voice had an edge of challenge to it.

"No- Er, I mean it's not that, it's just, you're one of us. One of my friends." He had never seen the quiet wizard woman so determined, so demanding before.

A slender hand slipped forth to curl long fingers about the waistband of his trousers. With a tug, the redhead drew him those few steps toward the bed, while her other hand lifted to play along one firm thigh. Her tongue darted across glistening black lips, drawing his attention as might the deepest pit, or a pitch, starless night sky. One by one, she unfastened the buttons of his fly.

"I may not be as buxom as one of your wenches, but I'm here, and I'm ready, and I want you. What are you, Alan? An old man?"

The question struck through his mind like a gong. An old man? Was he? He was only twenty, wasn't he? Lightning Alan's eyes drifted from intoxicating black lips to radiant blue eyes and back. Something was wrong. His gaze drifted to the Nightmare Orb, where it shone with a dark energy upon his night stand.

Any train of thought he might have had was shattered when one cool, almost chill hand slipped down to ease soft, dextrous fingers about his manhood. Although strange, her touch was not unpleasant. He gazed back down into those blue eyes, as she rose upon her knees. As her hand stroked his shaft to full arousal, her lips grew ever closer to his. She wasn't his first choice from a matter of preference, but it wasn't like she was some hideous monster. Miena was pretty, in her own bookish way. If anything, it was this new predatory manner that was making him hesitate. And he remembered she had been warmer to the touch.

Still, Alan Tinsley was a man, and not exactly the strongest willed one. His hands descended to her shoulders, stroking over her smooth, soft skin experimentally.

"You're mine, Alan Tinsley." She whispered the words, just before those slick, cool black lips met his own. She gave his length a squeeze, then pressed her body against his. Her nipples scraped against his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, her free hand slipped to his hip, drawing him ever closer.

His eyes drifted back to the Nightmare Orb as it shone menacingly beside the bed. Its black surface seemed to take on a life of its own, as it had when he first laid eyes upon it in that jungle shrine.

When he first laid eyes upon that cursed orb, two years after that night at the inn. When Miena had torn into him for commanding her like some barmaid, blushing all the while, and then fled before he could ask why she had taken such a mistake quite so harshly.

It came crashing back to him. The Orb, the adventures thereafter, the destruction of the Startower, retirement, his wife. He began to pull away from Miena, and when his lips left hers, she hissed an inhuman hiss. Her grip upon his cock tightened painfully, and her other hand clawed at his hip.

"No! Damn it Alan, I was so close. You're mine!" Her voice raised into a sharp cry as he struggled to try to escape her grasp.

Another pair of arms he could not see slipped about him. He could feel another woman's form against his as he pushed the mage further away. This one was cool as well, but not nearly as icy as Miena's. Softer, yet stronger. Rounder, but with more muscle as well. Lips brushed his forehead, and the world began to slip from around his form.

"Alan. Alan, wake up." A soft voice whispered in his ear.

Alan's eyes shot open, but he could see nothing in the pitch darkness of the tunnels. His chest heaved as his heart raced. The only thing that kept him from darting upright was the lean weight of a leather clad figure above him. She was straddling his thighs, her body taut over him. Her breasts were soft against his chest as she leaned over him, even through the stiff leather that made up his armor, and hers alike. In the darkness, there was a soft sigh of relief, and gentle lips pressed a kiss near the corner of his mouth.

"I was so worried, Alan." Daphne's voice was quiet enough not to wake others, but still tinged with concern. "You were having a nightmare, weren't you? I could hear your heart pounding."

It was a strange world, where the feel of a vampire upon him in a pitch black room was reassuring. He nodded, his breath still quick, but gradually he relaxed beneath her. His hands sought blindly at her sides, and came to rest just above the curves of her hips.

"Yeah. Yeah I was," He didn't know how to explain it without sounding the fool.

Her lips caught his in the darkness, and though he at first stiffened, slowly he returned the kiss. It was gentle and lingering, not the demanding intensity he half expected from her. Her hands slipped up to tangle in his short hair, and slowly she broke the kiss. He felt her fangs drag teasingly at his lower lip, but without anything near the force to break skin.

For a moment, they lay there in silence, her form covering his own. He couldn't see a thing in the dark, so he just closed his eyes. He thought back on his dreams, then of an old tactic he had told Miena to use against a Baron they'd sought to overthrow, so long ago.

"She's going to torment me each night, keep me from getting rest."

"Who?" Daphne's voice was the barest of whispers, and the way her breath played over his lips, he could tell she was still close, even in the dark.

"Miena of Startower."

"Isn't she dead?"

"So are you."

The vampire scoffed. "Point taken." She then leaned to brush her lips against his one more time. "Alan Tinsley, I will not let her hurt you more, so long as there is movement left in my limbs."

He smiled despite himself. "You may not have a choice, Daphne. She's the one causing all this. There can be no other. She has great magic." He wasn't sure what he was going to tell the others. One of their own had turned against them, and one they had all mourned already.

"Then we'll just have to kill her again, before she can use it to do worse." With those words Daphne sat up upon his lap, only to pause.

He was certain he knew what caused it. Between the dream and the feel of the elven vampire atop him, his arousal strained against his snug trousers. With her shift in position, he had bumped right against her mound through her own tight leathers. Slowly, she rolled her hips. Her thighs parted further, as she ground down against his trapped member.

"Daph-"

His words were cut off by the press of one long nailed finger against his lips. She leaned down once more, and whispered into his ear, "Consider this my price for protecting you."

Her lips, and the tip of one fang, caught his earlobe. Slowly they dragged away, and she sat up again. Her weight left his form for a moment, but only a moment. He could hear the rustling of buckles and leather whispering against smooth skin. When he tried to sit up, however, her hand found his chest in the darkness, and pressed him back down.

"This isn't fair," Alan protested gently, "I can't see a thing."

"Good." Her voice came from much closer to his ear than he thought she'd be, and he nearly jumped. The hand at his chest dragged downward, scraping along his belly through his leather jerkin, then down toward his trousers. Buttons came undone one by one under her deft fingers, and for the second time in that brief period, a cool, slender hand slipped in to fish out his erection. This hand, however, was most definitely real, and she began to stroke his length from base to head.

The old rogue parted his lips to protest, but found only the soft press of the vampire woman's against his own. She kissed him soundly, tongue seeking his, and in the darkness she shifted over him again. He could feel her cool, slick folds teasing back and forth against the tip of his raging arousal, and a soft groan rose from his throat.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 13



"Alan," she finally breathed his name out as she broke the kiss. "Give me this. This could be the last chance I have to be with you. Tomorrow we rescue your wife, or we die trying." She teased him again, with that soft, cool flesh brushing against his own hard, heated length. "Please," she finally cooed the word out.

Alan lifted his hands to her waist, only to find she was still wearing her own leather tunic. In the darkness, he considered her pleas, and then nodded. Just once was all it took, that hesitant affirmation, before she impaled herself upon his length. Without sight, all he could go by was hearing and touch, and she was doing her damnedest to remain silent enough that the others might not be disturbed. She was supposed to be on watch, true, but they both knew little could sneak up on one such as her, even when she was otherwise occupied.

With rest of his senses straining in vain, the sensation of her tight body enveloping him was heightened. The feel of her sinking down, inch by inch was exquisite, until she finally hilted herself upon his length. She leaned forward, and once more her breasts press to his chest, her lips sought his own. She moved above him with a slow, almost loving pace, her every touch tender, her every kiss lingering and longing. For such a feral, seductive creature, in that moment she seemed to want to relish every moment.

His own hands teased up along her back, then he returned her kisses. He couldn't help it. Whether it was the danger of the situation, the lack of sight, or just the sheer emotion she seemed to show in that moment, she stirred something within him. He did not love her, no, but she clearly seemed to love him, and he felt she deserved at least a little happiness.

And this particular task was not exactly a chore.

Alan slid one hand back down to grip at her bare rear, and draw her into faster movements above him. The feel of her was unusual. So vital and soft, yet not. The coolness of her body, the fact she didn't breathe save to speak, it left only his own panting, and the subtle sound of their flesh meeting in the darkness.

Her sharp nails dragged along his chest, though he noted she was careful not to stress where the past few days' wounds had been newly healed. She moved faster over his form, rubbing those soft breasts against his chest, her thighs tensed as she supported her own weight to minimize every other sound. He kneaded at her rear with one hand, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin. His other lifted to grip at her hair. 

The feel of her was amazing, the way her lithe body moved above his, the way she seemed to clutch at him, coaxing his climax forth. It was not a coupling that could last, for various reasons. He was so close, she seemed so needful, and there was the ever present threat that one of their companions could notice. Even the dark was no protection, for every one of them except himself and Vick could see easily through the blackness. 

As quickly as he approached his own peak, Daphne reached hers first. With a barely muted cry, she arched against him, her arousal bathing his own member. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, and her hands shifted to fist against his leathers, clutching tightly to that tough material. His own breath caught, and he began to release within her as well. He arched his body up to hers, every contour meeting the elven woman's in that moment.

At last, she lay still above him, and with a soft panting, he relaxed himself beneath her. He may not have got the true rest he needed, but the release she granted, the feel of her above him was invigorating. Finally, she drew her hands from that leather tunic, and reached to caress his cheeks in the darkness. A soft, tender little kiss was brushed across his lips with a feather light sweep of her own.

"Thank you, Alan." She murmured gently, then continued, "Promise me one thing."

His brows raised as he stared up to where he thought her own face would be. "What do you wish?" He couldn't promise her anything, without knowing what it was.

"I miss the old you. The confident you. The one that they talk about in tavern tales, the one that tamed a thieves' guild, the one that hunted me down when we were at odds. This new, confused, insecure you doesn't do you justice. If you're going to get your wife back, you'll need that decisiveness you used to have."

"I was wrong, so many times though..."

She kissed him again, then began to rise. "Sometimes, Alan, even acting on a wrong impulse is better than doing nothing at all, or letting someone like Vick take the lead. Remember that."

He nodded slowly, and a smile slowly touched his lips. She was right, really. Losing Elizabeth from his very manor had been a huge blow against his confidence, and for someone like him, that was sometimes all he had to rely on. He felt her withdraw from his body, then her hands carefully fastened him back up. In the darkness he sat up, then bobbed his head in the direction he last heard her movements.

"I will, Daphne. I promise."

Alan did manage to rest a few minutes as Daphne dressed herself. He was unconcerned when he heard the door open, and another minute later, the vampire struck a torch, and illuminated the room. The flare of light did much to begin to awaken the others, and shortly thereafter, they were assembled, and ready to proceed.

If any of the party knew what had transpired there in the dark, their visages did not betray it. The short rest had revitalized them all, as did the knowledge that the surface was near. Their boot-steps and the clank and faint jingle of Vick's armor were now joined by the faint whistling of wind across a stony entrance, echoing down those silent corridors. Where before, staring beyond the yellowed reach of the limit of their torchlight had garnered naught but darkness, now the pitch shadows ahead held the faintest outline of corridor walls, and distant steps reflecting starlight from above.

There was no telling, truthfully, how long they'd been down in those tunnels, but by any estimate, the hour should be close to dawn. As much as they all wanted to be out under the open sky again, they lingered near the stairs for a moment, to allow Daphne to rearrange those voluminous clothes of hers, donning goggles, mask, and gloves. Just in case.

Alan took the stairs carefully as they ascended. The worn stone had been exposed to the elements much longer than the main entrance, which had its overhanging stonework still relatively intact. He felt the stones shift unsteadily under his weight, and neither that, nor the loose masonry of the wall under his hand instilled confidence in the passage.

Once they broke the surface, they were some half a mile past the edge of Pinwood, out amidst an open, rolling field. Tall grass and the occasional shrub was scattered here and there. Fading mists still clung low to the ground, but the air was crisp and the wind picked up, offering a clear view of their surroundings. A few old scattered stones lay on the ground around them, along with a low, broken masonry wall about waist high, remnants of whatever had once housed the escape tunnel.

What caught Alan's eye first, however, was a large, broad branched tree in the distance. Rising upon a low hill a mile away, scattered bushes clung to the rise in the earth about it, while near to it, a large gray stone jutted up toward the sky, resembling nothing more than a crude pillar, with a massive spread winged bird perched atop it.

Alan's gaze fixed upon that scene, and immediately he began to run across the fields. Windhawk did a double take, then began to run beside him. The others fell in as best they could, though Vick in his armor and the short gnome Faringalia could hardly hope to match their stride. Only Daphne managed to catch up.

"What is it, Alan?" Daphne spoke without a hint of breathlessness, her gaze, or so Alan assumed, followed his toward the tree. Those damned goggles made it impossible to truly tell.

"I saw that tree and that stone in my dreams." Alan panted the words out, but kept running.

They ran and ran, and made good time. He noted the elven women watching him as if he might drop at any moment, but he wasn't that old, or that out of shape. The same couldn't be said of Vick, however, and eventually the fat man just stopped trying. Instead, the armored warrior trod along in the distance behind them all, keeping company with Faringalia.

As he neared that tree, Alan caught sight of a thin strip of lace, still dangling from one of the tree branches. It was tied far up, but looked to have been cut off. His eyes drifted across to the bushes where he'd seen the Stranger discard his wife's stocking in that dream, and caught a flash of white.

Windhawk grabbed Alan's shoulder, and drew him back suddenly. Alan glanced across to her with irritation, but her own eyes were fixed on something in the distance. Something which had escaped his attentions. Slowly, his own eyes panned about, and when his own gaze caught what she had been staring at, his heart sank.

The sky grew brighter with each passing breath, and the first rays of dawn lit the sky. As they leaped out over the canopy of a distant forest, across the fields they now stood in, those rays danced across the almost glossy obsidian sides of a tower, which rose up five stories from its base amidst the trees. Coated with that black glass, here and there glimpses of white stone might be seen amidst the seams between obsidian panels, giving the impression of a starry night sky. The rooftop, a cone of slate gray tiles, was broken here and there with hatches from which one might gaze through telescopes, or launch things airborne. The windows were of polished glass, blending in with the volcanic glaze of the tower's outer coating.

The Startower, which should lay scattered in long shattered ruins, stood as pristine as the day it was first built, looming over the landscape like a lone sentinel. Above its storm gray rooftop, a few vultures slowly wheeled about in the air, dark shadows against a sky that gradually brightened.

"Alan," Windhawk's voice was a broken murmur, thick with loss and betrayal.

"I know. I think, since the first dreams, I have known all along. I just didn't want to accept it."

The two stood in silence atop that hill, eyes fixed upon the distant structure. The home of their friend, who had been with them through so many adventures, stood restored. Its presence was no comfort. She knew their tactics, she knew their fears and their abilities. She knew how to hurt them worst, who would come up with what plans, who would respond in what way to a certain event. She'd been playing them all along. The only reason they were there, no doubt, was because she wanted them there.

Or rather, because she wanted Alan there.

Daphne turned her goggled gaze back past them at Vick's lumbering form, then shrugged. As the sun brightened, the vampire strode forth under that great tree, to take shelter in the shade of its branches. She reached up to tug at the strip of lace, then turned her gaze back to Alan meaningfully.

Alan frowned, then bowed his head. He rubbed at his face with both hands, then lifted his gaze again.

"Alright. So we know who we have to kill now." His statement was more for Windhawk than himself or Daphne. He knew Daphne would hardly hesitate to kill on his order, and he'd made his own mind up after that last dream.

The ranger woman nodded once. "Yes. I wonder, however, how she's not dead already. Unless she wreathed herself in the dark arts to sustain herself beyond."

"It's not something I would put past her." For all of the memories of the blushing, bumbling magic user, Alan knew that when she put her mind to something, she would do anything to achieve it.

Windhawk tightened her hand upon her bow, then suddenly froze. "Shh... do you hear that?"

Both Alan and Daphne went deathly silent, Alan beside Windhawk, Daphne near to that tree trunk. Wrapped up like that, and suffering from the lethargy that the growing sunlight inflicted upon her, it was no wonder that Daphne had failed to notice whatever caught the other elven woman's attentions. Long moments passed, and just when Alan was about to give up, he finally heard it.

Above them, the subtle creak of wooden branches that didn't quite match the rhythm of the breezing wind as it whispered through leaves and grass alike.

Slowly, Alan and Windhawk turned their eyes up into the tree above them. Daphne tilted her own eyes upward to gaze where they looked. Alan and Windhawk gasped as one. Above, two large creatures clung to branches clumsily, their silhouetted forms against the brightening sky were hard to distinguish. It was clear, however, that they weren't up there willingly. Someone had enticed them to climb up for the sole purpose of an ambush. From higher up, a soft laugh preceded the strum of fingers on lute strings.

"Oh dear gods," Windhawk whispered softly, just before the first of the creatures above leaped down toward her and Alan. The second one dropped down toward Daphne.

As Alan dove to one side, the Stranger above them began to sing, his voice rose high, carried on the stiff breeze that swayed those branches with each gust. Before the old rogue even hit the ground, he knew they were in trouble, as Vick's armor glinted off in the fields behind them, far away.

Furry paws impacted the ground between Alan and Windhawk, and black claws scored the earth. The creature reared back, standing upright, and opened its terrible beak to emit a strange, piercing, bird-like cry.

As he rolled to his feet beside the beast, Alan just hoped that he lived long enough to wring the bard's neck.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 14



Alan had been airborne at the time the keening beast landed, thus he hadn't been aware of the sheer weight of the beasts, save for how even the swift footed Windhawk stumbled back just from the thing's impact upon the ground. This gap in his experience was swiftly remedied, when the beast before him stomped upon the earth once more. It sent gravel and dust flying upward as it pawed the ground, even as Alan righted himself. Shielding his eyes with one hand, Alan swiftly drew his sword.

He couldn't immediately see either of the elven woman from his new position, just the imposing hybrids that had jumped down at them. Hulking creatures, they were obviously the creation of some demented mage. Although he was unsure that Miena had the skills to create such monstrosities, he couldn't rule that out either. At the very least, they were under the Stranger's control. Each one had the vague bulk and shape of a bear, with thick, brown fur. However, at their shoulders, arms, and heads, the fur gave way to a coat of brown and black banded feathers. Their upper paws ended in sharp, black, talon-like claws, while their heads resembled those of owls, with sharp, gleaming beaks. His movements apparently attracted the attention of the nearest of the owl-bear hybrid creatures, for it swiftly rotated its head nearly all the way around, to stare at him with murderously huge, red-rimmed eyes.

Immediately, chaos broke out. Near the tree, the one which had landed near to Daphne wrapped its paws about her, and hauled her in close. Its sharp talons and sharper beak rent into her undead frame, and she screamed. Not that the thing was able to do lasting damage to her flesh, but rather the dim sunlight, filtering across the horizon and through the trees, now threatened to contact flesh where the fabric she had donned was rent. For now, the tree behind her and the creature before her were enough to stave off any actual damage from the ever brightening sky.

The one nearer to Alan swiped one paw at Windhawk, who smashed it aside with her still held bow. Its other paw raked itself along her frame, but she danced back a step before it could render more than the most shallow of gashes across her shoulder. By the time its head snapped about toward her, its beak merely closed on empty air.

Alan thrust his sword forth into the back of the one between himself and Windhawk, and he slid the sharp point of his blade up into its thick hide. The thing let forth a piercing screech. Windhawk's own blade sprung forth from its sheathe, and she swiped at the thing once, continuing to step back and open some space as she did. The halfhearted blow merely swept along its thick furred hide.

With her mask on, Daphne couldn't bite at the thing holding her, with her skin so covered she couldn't even draw upon its life force through mere contact. Instead, she struggled to draw one of her daggers, and inserted it up into the bear-like torso of the one holding her. It let forth something between a bellowing roar and an enraged screech. All the while, above them, the half elf with the lute played a strange, haunting tune. The grass began to twist and writhe under their feet, as if stirred by some otherworldly force.

Across the field, Vick reached down to grab Faringalia, and lift her in an even, smooth motion. With gnome upon his shoulder, he began to charge anew. Alan could only hope that the fat Count didn't have a heart attack on the way toward them.

With a roar and a sudden lurch, the furred and feather creature Alan had just stabbed lunged forth off of his blade, and rushed to catch up with Windhawk. This afforded the old rogue another opportunity, which he took without hesitation. With a flash of steel, he stepped forward and plunged his blade through the beast's back. Its momentum yanked it out of his hand, and it swiped wildly at Windhawk, before teetering forward.

The ranger leaped upward as the chimeric monstrosity began to topple. One foot braced on its shoulder as it fell, and she stood upon its back. She dropped her own sword, which landed face down in the dirt, and notched an arrow. Quick as she could, she let the shaft fly. It zipped forward and planted itself in the second beast's back. Daphne twisted her own dagger, and dragged it up along the belly of the creature mauling her. Though talons and beak scored deeply into her flesh, the worst damage was to her clothing, which hung in tatters about her arms and shoulders. The dying monster staggered back from her, and fell crashing to the ground.

There was little time to celebrate, however, for the shrubs and grass in the area began to twist and grow. It bound about Alan and Windhawk, writhing upward along their limbs. Ankles and legs were the first to be caught, then longer vines began to rise and wrap about their arms, stilling their weapons. Laughter drifted down from above, and the scatter of falling back and tumbling twigs accompanied the bard's descent. He jumped from branch to branch, letting each catch his fall for only a moment, before continuing downward.

Daphne cursed and hastily begin to wrap her cloak more firmly about her arms, drawing the rent strips of black fabric about her own frame, to hide that pale, exposed flesh. By the time she finished, however, the half elven man was already jumping down from the last branch. With lute in one hand, he drew a broadsword in midair, his cloak fluttering in the wake of his movement. Landing in a crouch, the Stranger twisted on the ball of one foot, and charged Alan where the twisting tangle of plants held him.

As his eyes locked on that oncoming blade, Alan's struggles redoubled. It did no good. All his futile effort earned was the inexorable tightening of vines about his limbs. That sword sang as it streaked through the air toward his neck. Beside him, Windhawk shrieked and lunged forth against her own bonds, as helpless as he. Alan closed his eyes, prepared for the end.

It never came.

There was the sound of a fleshy impact, as two leather clad bodies connected. A low grunt followed, the crash of a wooden lute upon the ground along with a few stray notes as strings were inadvertently struck, then the clang of steel on steel. Alan dared to crack one eye open, and was rewarded with renewed hope. There, before his very eyes, Daphne had knocked the bard aside, and had one of her daggers hooked about his broadsword's blade. Her other dagger, dripping with poison, was mere inches from the Stranger's throat, though he'd managed to get a hold on her wrist. The man was strong, but visibly wavered under the relentless pressure of her unnatural power.

The bard's muscles strained under his dark leathers. He braced one foot against Daphne's to try to get more leverage, but it was of no use. Finally, he twisted away, disengaging. That venomous blade scratched along his cheek, but for the most part he ducked aside. His own sword fell to the ground as he rolled, and Daphne wasted no time stepping between him and his weapon.

"Vampire," he spat the word out, and glared up at her.

Daphne shifted her stance and stood ready to receive the fellow's next action, with her daggers still in hand. For a moment, Alan wondered just what was keeping her. But then, as the pale rays of the morning sun played patterns of gold across her tattered cloak and hood, he realized what she was doing. She was keeping her back to the sun, and her foe in her own shadow. If she turned into the light, she would be blinded, and much more vulnerable to an errant attack destroying her hastily repaired cover.

"Daphne! Let us handle this! Get into the shade!" Windhawk's cries were unexpected. The vehemence she had been heaping on the other elf was replaced with genuine concern.

Alan glanced back across the field. Vick and Faringalia were closing in, but it would still be some time before they fully caught up. But it seemed the dark bard noticed them as well.

"Damn it all. We'll have to end this quickly." He cursed, and shifted his hands before himself. A spark began to play along his outstretched palms, and then with a flashing flare, the spark grew into a stream of fire, which continued to burn even as it shaped roughly into the dimensions of a blade.

Daphne visibly flinched back at the appearance of the flame blade, but quickly steeled herself. "I've withstood flames hotter than that," she hissed out her challenge.

"Indeed, but I don't have to burn you, just your shroud." The Stranger grinned wickedly, then sprung forward, charging at Daphne.

"No!" Alan and Windhawk's cries rung out in unison, but the exchange was over in that moment.

The Stranger stood wide eyed a few paces behind Daphne, facing Alan and Windhawk. It was hard to see just where he was wounded, the strike had been so quick, so precise. Blood trickled down from his neck, and from under one armpit. It wasn't the depth and severity of the strikes that had stopped him, but rather the poison with which Daphne coated her blades. With a flickering sputter, his flame blade extinguished itself, and shrunk back into his palm. He toppled forward without another word.

Behind him, Daphne stood, facing away from the sun. Flames licked along her clothes and body, yet she did not move. As Alan studied her, it became clear why. Whatever she was wearing had already scorched through along the front from the enchanted flames. Cloth and leather had burned alike under the intense heat of that blade. She couldn't even drop and roll to extinguish herself, without revealing large portions of her bare form.

"Alan," her voice was pained, even as she tugged her goggles off. The flames continued to spread rapidly about her, scorching her undead flesh as readily as it consumed her clothing. Even the leathers were charred through in a large swath across her torso. The diffuse sunlight caused her flesh to smolder where it was exposed, even facing away from the light. "Take care of my cousin, please."

"Daphne!" Windhawk's tearful cry ended Alan's confusion. He looked back toward the ranger, only to see the anguish wrought across her features.

Helplessly, Alan tugged at those still writhing plants, but that spell, at least, still held. As those flames continued to consume Daphne's shrouds, he marveled that she was still standing. Tears rolled down his own cheeks as he watched her. "Daphne, I-"

Daphne slowly turned around, to gaze into the sunrise. Her skin immediately began to blacken and ignite. The sun turned what parts of her the fire didn't consume into a chalky ash, which immediately began to blow away in the stiff breeze. She didn't scream, although her last words were strained with the agony of her situation.

"It's as beautiful as I remembered."

And then she was gone. Just lingering black fabric and scraps of once enchanted leather fluttered down, still aflame. Her daggers fell to the ground, as well as a few vials of poison, and a few scraps of bone that turned to ash as they tumbled forth from what had protected them from the sun's rays up until that point.

Alan stared at where she had been, as a fire started amidst the grass where the embers had fallen. Next to him, still entangled, Windhawk just sobbed. It felt unreal, really. So long ago, Daphne had been his enemy. He would have slain her without a second thought. When she had surrendered, he had thought it a ploy, and her too troublesome to deal with.

Now, she had sacrificed her life to save his.

And Windhawk was bawling beside him. The stoic, practical ranger, who only ever really showed irritation or anger in the past, was in tears. He didn't know how to react. There was nothing he could do though, bound in those overgrown plants as he was.

It was just fortunate that the fire started by those embers of clothing quickly burned itself out. Some minutes later, Vick and Faringalia arrived, shortly before the entangling spell wore off. Vick lowered the gnome girl to the ground, then stared at the ash that had once been Daphne.

"Sweet gods, what happened?"

"The bard killed her," Alan's voice was hollow as he stated the short, simplified answer that he knew Vick would be able to grasp. He finally began to tug his way out of the receding vines and brush. "She saved my life."

Vick bobbed his head grimly, then turned his gaze to Windhawk uncertainly. Like Alan, he had never seen her cry. When she was able, the elven woman ran forth, and knelt by the spot where Daphne fell. None of the three remaining stopped her, and for a long moment, there was simply an uncomfortable silence broken only by the sniffling sobs of the ranger. 

Alan didn't know what to say. Garthur had always been the one to commemorate fallen comrades, but he wasn't there. Windhawk obviously knew Daphne more than she had ever hinted at, Faringalia had only just met her, and Vick had little but contempt for their old enemy. Though, the old rogue noted, the fat count was conspicuously silent himself. Perhaps the vampire's last act had redeemed her somewhat in his eyes. It certainly had in Alan's.

He wiped at his eyes, rubbing the tears away on the backs of his hands, then strode forward, away from the group, and toward that tree. His gaze turned up to that sunrise, as the morning sun lifted ever higher in the sky, then back toward the distant spire of the Startower. A frown settled on his worn features, and a pit of hatred settled in his stomach.

Vick's heavy steps carried him up behind Alan, and he too gazed off toward that tower. One great hand clapped on the thief's shoulder, and Count Varonne just nodded slowly.

"So that's who we have to put down," He didn't need to say her name.

Alan let a heavy sigh escape, before he nodded in agreement. "Yeah, looks like." She had been their friend, once. A valued member of their team. Now, in whatever form she existed, the wizard woman had to be put down like a rabid dog. Good men and women had suffered and died, an organization that had been painstakingly retooled away from violence and mayhem had been reduced to base thuggery, then gutted and destroyed. And it was all because of her. They had to get to her before she caused any more damage.

Vick turned a serious look to Alan, but he didn't say anything. The Count looked haggard, the hardships of travel and rush of combat, not to mention the sprint across the field had all taken their tolls on a man who had grown use to soft living. Especially after a lifetime of gluttony and hard drinking. Alan just hoped the old warrior didn't keel over on them.

"Take a breather, Vick. From here on out we have to go slow and steady. We can't afford to rush anymore."

"Says the one who ran across the fields by his fool self."

Alan rubbed at his temples, and a pained look crossed his features. Vick was right. If he hadn't run up, he wouldn't have split the party. They would have been able to better face the Stranger and his creatures. Daphne might still be with them. As doubt began to creep into his mind, however, he remembered her words. Certainly, he had made a mistake. And it had cost them dearly, but now was not the time to wallow in self recrimination and second guesses. He simply had to take what had happened as a lesson, and proceed from there.

"That won't happen again," Alan's voice grew resolute. "When we're ready, we go slow and steady. We go into that tower, we march up to the top, we get my wife back and we kill Miena."

Vick laughed and clapped his hand at Alan's shoulder again, "Good to have you back." With a grin, the warrior then stepped past, and leaned back against the trunk of that great tree.

Content to his friend rest a moment, Alan turned away, and approached the kneeling form of Windhawk. By then, she had settled into quiet tears, as her hands worked to scrape together a pile of the chalky white ash that was all that remained of Daphne. Nearby, Faringalia crouched and stared at the elven woman. The little gnome lifted her gaze to Alan at his approach. Her own features were unreadable.

He lowered one hand toward the nape of her neck, but just before what he hoped would be a reassuring touch could actually connect, she spoke. Her voice arrested the movement of his hand, and he awkwardly held it out, mere inches from touching her as she began her tale. Only slowly did he let his arm fall to his side once more.

"Daphne and I knew each other long before we faced her in battle," The elven woman let that sink in for a moment, and took a deep breath. She did not look up to either Alan or Vick. "I never laid it out simply because it was a long, long time ago, and it was largely irrelevant. When she didn't bring it up either, I felt it was best to let such things remain secret. I am sorry that I deceived you both."

"Daphne was my cousin. The eldest daughter of my uncle, her name then was Daephraen. She was already such a beautiful lady when I was still young. I grew up in her shadow. Her mother was nobility, so she spent her time in court, dealing with those close to the Elven King, mingling with the movers and shakers, deftly maneuvering the intrigues that surrounded her. She was radiant, she was beautiful. I loved her from afar.

"When I was old enough to become a warrior, she was amongst the first to encourage me in my practice. She presented me with my first bow and sword. I think it was because of her that I was allowed to participate in the wild hunts at my young age. She must have pulled some strings, for certainly no one else of influence took any interest in me. I adored her so, but I knew that she simply saw me as her kid cousin. Where she was stately and elegant, I was clumsy, inexperienced, and base. But with each challenge, I overcame and persevered. I hoped, beyond any reason that I could genuinely muster, that she might see me as worthy by my actions.

"I don't know what I would have done without her encouragement. I joined the scout corps, which had me out in the field for sometimes months at a time. As my visits home became more infrequent, I saw less and less of her. Still, I strove to be the best I could be, so some day, some day I might greet her with my head held high."

Windhawk sniffled a bit, and her story faltered. Alan crouched beside her, and finally his warm hand found her back. He rubbed just gently between her shoulders, and waited for her to continue. It was certainly not something he'd ever had any idea about. After collecting herself, the elven woman picked up where she left off, though her tone was softer, her voice threatened to crack with tears at every moment.

"It was on one of those rare visits home that Lady Daephraen came to me in secrecy. She was always skilled at getting into places undetected. When she appeared in my chambers, long after sundown, I was confused. I was elated that she had sought me out specifically, but I was concerned as to the reasons why. There, away from the prying eyes and ears of court, she told me that she had uncovered hints of a plot against the Elven King. There was someone who was going to do great harm to the court, and that, although she would try to protect me, I should be careful.

"I told her that I would be the one watching over her, to repay her for all of her kindness, and that I would let no potential foe pass my patrols by. She smiled at me, and her smile was so radiant. She told me then, that she appreciated my willingness to take action, that she always enjoyed those that did, rather than simply talked about doing. It was the first time I genuinely felt worthy of her kindness, and I told her as much.

"She slipped her arms around me, and held me close. She was so soft, so warm. She smelled like the flowers from the royal gardens. It was probably because that was likely the route she took to get to my quarters, but I didn't care. In that moment, it was the best thing ever. My heart soared, and I fell in love all over again. I didn't simply wish to impress her to repay her for her kindness, I wanted her to feel the same about me, to want to hold me forever.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 14



"She felt so nice, the way her dress just hugged her curves, the way her arms settled about mine. I wanted to feel her hands all over me, not just resting at my back, and I couldn't help myself. I let my own touch graze along the curve of her hip daringly. I let my lips press to the crook of her neck, just a soft kiss that I knew she would notice. Yet she didn't say a word.

"Her lips were so gentle when she kissed my forehead, I wanted to feel them against my own, but she was a Lady of the court, and I... I was just a lowly scout. So I simply clung to her as long as she let me. When finally she slipped away, I swore again that I'd protect her, no matter what. She just smiled her beautiful smile, and then she was gone.

"It was the last I saw of her. A few days later, a runner intercepted our patrol, and told us that one of the elf lords, Lord Alsaeth, had murdered the king. Lady Daephraen had been among those who had pursued him. It took us the better part of the day to return to the Elf King's castle, and the place was in chaos. Already the nobles were beginning to break into factions, because there was no clear heir. A small team of us gathered, and we went to pursue Lord Alsaeth."

At this, Windhawk's features twisted into anger, and Alan drew back, alarmed. The action seemed to draw the elven woman back into the present, and she forced an apologetic smile. Slowly, she stood from where she had been kneeling, and turned her gaze in the direction of the morning sun. 

Nearby, Faringalia fidgeted nervously, before finally, tentatively she ventured, "W- what happened then?"

"We had been on his trail for two days before we came across Lady Daephraen's body. She had been slain by beasts, or so we thought. It was crushing, knowing that the woman I had adored, the one who had supported me, who had watched over me since I was a mere child, was gone. She had been like an older sister, a kind matron, and a beautiful idol all at once. We buried her there, a quick burial meant to be a temporary measure, so we could retrieve her for a proper funeral on the way back.

"Then, then I suppose the real hunt began. My companions were as driven by the outrage as I, and we became as bloodthirsty hounds on the trail. It is said that the tradition of the wild hunt amongst the elves harkened back to days when our raiding parties would hound our enemies with the ferocity of the beasts of the forest, and never cease until they were torn to shreds. The stilted, ritualized pageant of today no longer resembles such a thing. No, only on that night did I understand where the wild hunt came from.

"I don't even remember much of that night. Something primal took over. My senses heightened, my focus was like a hawk, but at the same time, my mind became as a wild beast. We caught up to him shortly before dawn, and without hesitation, we tore him to pieces. Quite literally, with enchanted blades in hand we fell upon him, and cut Alsaeth to pieces.

"Soaked in his blood, with pieces of his once fine clothing still clutched in hand, we could only watch in horror then, as his body began to dissolve into mist. It reformed some feet away, clearly exhausted, but whole. It was then that we understood what he was. A vampire. The undead. An abomination in the eyes of all that is natural."

Windhawk's hands curled into fists as she watched the distant horizon, while Faringalia stared up at her, a shocked and yet curious expression on her feature. It was clear the little illusionist was seeing the story as just a story, rather than a personal history. Alan turned his gaze across to Vick, only to find the old Count watching their elven friend as well. His own eyes, however, were uncharacteristically thoughtful.

"It was clear, then, what we had to do," Windhawk took a deep breath then, and tried to relax enough to continue her tale.

"We had to destroy him, but we did not know where his grave was. Nor did we have the proper tools to keep him pinned. So one of our members, Saraela, began to whisper to the wind, and soon a stiff breeze started. It would disperse him if he tried to travel far as a mist. As he turned to run, we set upon him again. And again. Each time he reformed, we tore him apart, piece by piece. It slowed his progress.

"He was growing more angry each time, but in his weakened state, he could do nothing but endure. Some of us almost fell to his wounds, but when one of us was hit, they retreated to Saraela, who called upon the forest's blessings to mend their wounds. We worked like the wolves, approaching him from each side, retreating when threatened, only to run upward again. He managed to get further and further from where we had caught up to him, but it was in vain.

"We weren't trying to end him ourselves, but to keep him from taking shelter. As the first rays of sun tipped over the horizon, he had such a look of terror on his features. He screamed in agony as it seared him. It was not a peaceful death. He thrashed and wailed as he burned, and we all loved every moment of it."

She grew silent once more, and gazed back to the pile of ash where Daphne had been. Alan frowned. It had not been like that with Daphne. She was in pain, certainly, but she seemed to accept her fate, even embrace it. He wondered, if it had been such a welcome thing for her, why she had persisted in her state for so long. Then, as his gaze drifted back to Windhawk, the little cousin in the tale, he had some idea of why. 

"Without the drive of the hunt's instincts, we had to rest. It was slower going back as well, we were still weary, we were still distraught over the loss of our kind, our friend. It was night time again when we came upon the place we had buried her, and we found only an empty grave there. It was then I knew that Daephraen was no more. That she had become an abomination, just like Alsaeth. I hated him all the more for that, but he was dead. There was nothing more I could do to him.

"So I let my hatred fester, and turn toward Daephraen. If she hadn't gone off after him, if she had only told me the threat would be from within the court itself, if she had let me stay by her side, she might still be with me. I hated her as much as I had loved her before, and it warped my view of things.

"From that day forth, I set out to hunt the woods, to destroy those unclean things I found there. The elven court was already beginning to tear itself apart, they did not miss a lone scout deserting amidst the chaos. It was only many, many years later that I met you, Alan. And Vick, and the others. It was like finding a second family. But I still remembered what had happened with Daephraen, so I never opened up. I never told you of my past, but you still accepted me."

Windhawk wiped at her eyes as she turned toward Alan, and gave him a quick hug. She then stepped away and did the same to Vick, leaning up to hug the ponderous, armored warrior. With a soft smile, she stepped back form them.

"Next, you're going to tell us Windhawk isn't your real name," the Count chuckled as he looked to her.

"Oh it's not, but I'd rather hear you call me by that, than deal with you butchering the pronunciation of my real name." She offered a grin, though her eyes were still red from crying.

Alan sighed and ran his hand through his hair, before turning away. He gazed across toward the Startower for a long moment. One thing still bothered him. "Windhawk," he was careful to keep his tone even, so as not to alarm her, "When we first ended up fighting Daphne, why didn't you tell us then that you knew her?"

There was a long silence, before the elven woman drew a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, she finally answered, "Because I didn't know if... Daphne was Daephraen. I mean it was definitely her body, her face, but I was unsure how much of Lady Daephraen lingered there within her mind. We have met undead that were in full accord with the person they'd been before they were created. We have met those who possessed their previous memories and thoughts, but were of a completely different personality. And of course we have met many, many who were simply ravening beasts. 

"When we first encountered Daphne, she gave no indication of ever knowing me. So I assumed it was the latter, though she was no ravening beast. But then, as we tracked her and those she was working for, I kept coming across little clues and obvious mistakes she had made, that made tracking them so much easier. At first I thought that whatever monstrosity was in her body was simply less skilled than she, but it quickly became clear that she was leaving those clues on purpose. She wanted us to catch her.

"Then she surrendered, and when it was decided to accept her surrender and keep her alive, I was of a mixed mind. I still hated her for what she had become, but part of me was overjoyed. The years passed, and I couldn't stand to think of her as Lady Daephraen. She was so different, and yet there was that core, that undeniable core that was still the same.

"This, this act here finally proved to me that it was still Daephraen in there all along. Alan, you're exactly the sort of person she would have adored most of all. A man of action without being reckless, someone who can get things done, who follows their heart. I was confused when she volunteered to come with us, but when she saved us, knowing that it would cost her her existence, when she told you to watch over me. I knew without a doubt, that was the Lady, not some monster."

Windhawk turned to Alan again, and once more, tears brimmed in her eyes. "She's free, now, isn't she? Not cursed anymore."

Alan nodded to her, "Yes, I believe she is." He wished Garthur was there, the dwarf always knew what to say.

Faringalia rushed over to Windhawk, and threw her arms around the elven woman's legs. She gazed up to the ranger, then offered a beam of a smile. "She is. And I know that she'd be happy that you've accepted her again."

The elf sniffled and nodded at Faringalia's words, then seemed about to break into tears. Vick, however, pushed away from his place near the tree, and strode toward them with heavy steps. His stride was slow, but once more had the strength he was known for.

"Windhawk, when we return, I will have a memorial built for Dai- Dea- er, Daphne. She wasn't the scum I always thought she was, and did right in the end, whatever her reasons." He then turned to point at the Startower with that black blade of his. "Now, however, we have to make someone pay. The one who started this all in motion. The one who hired the bastard who killed your cousin." At the last, he shifted to kick the fallen bard's body roughly.

Windhawk's sharp eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Alan thought she was going to go off on Vick. They shifted toward the tower in the distance, however, and she nodded. Her face contorted with the same rage he had seen when she cut down goblins, or ended undead.

"Yes, yes I think it's high time we send our old friend back to her grave."

In the rays of morning light, the three stepped up toward the hill, only to pause there. As one, they realized that someone was missing. Alan looked back over his shoulder, only to raise his brows.

The little gnome woman was stooped over the fallen bard, rummaging through his pockets.

Not that he could blame her. After all, it was something he should have done. If not for coin, then for any clues he might be carrying. "Ho there, Faringalia. Find anything of note?"

The redheaded little woman raised her head with a shocked expression, then blushed at having been caught. "Yeah, I think a few things." She gathered up her take, and walked back over to the group.

The bard's sword was magical, clearly. It had faintly glowing glyphs upon it. Everyone had enough in terms of arms, but an extra blade might come in useful in a pinch. Windhawk decided to carry it. There was a purse of coins and gems, which they allowed Faringalia to keep, along with a strange bag that had small, fuzzy objects within it that seemed to steadily pulsate and breathe. This, too, was allotted to Faringalia, for none of the others knew what to make of it. The lute had been destroyed during the confrontation, and none wished to salvage it.

Finally, there was the matter of a strange, small ivory key. Alan, at least, recognized it. "It's the sort Miena used to use at the Startower. It should allow us access within, if we come to a lock I can't bypass." That, it seemed, was enough, and they let Alan keep it on hand.

As they turned to depart, Faringalia once more paused, and gazed back to the fallen half elf. "Uhm, shouldn't we bury him, or something?" Even she sounded unsure.

Alan stared back at the Stranger's body, then shook his head slowly. "No, no. Let the scavengers of the wild have the bastard."

His pronouncement brought a grunt of approval from his two old comrades in arms, and as one, the party turned toward that distant tower. Their pace was unhurried, their destination clear. As a cool breeze whipped across the fields, as the morning sun crept higher and higher, they traveled with a terrible purpose.

It would soon be a time of reckoning for the Mistress of the Startower.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 15



It took almost an hour to cross the softly swaying grass and into the eaves of the forest once more. These trees lacked the corruption rampant around Pinwood, and instead bore an almost equally oppressive weight of years. Twisted and gnarled branches stretched high overhead, and the thick canopy, untouched by the hand of man for many a year, cast a perpetual twilight on the soft, spongy ground beneath. Thick, corded roots wound their way here and there, snaking from trunks so thick it would take two or three grown men to circle them with their arms, only to plunge into the earth. The brisk wind which had picked up earlier showed no signs of slowing, and whispered amongst the foliage with a cooling caress and a soft rustling.

The walk was rather pleasant, and would have been enjoyable if not for the circumstances. The forest was deceptively peaceful, and even as they approached the sinister spire which they knew lay before them, birds still fluttered overhead, and Alan could see the occasional flash of a deer darting away through the trees.

In time, they finally did arrive at the tower, where its obsidian facade rose abruptly from amongst ancient trees that hardly looked to have been disturbed in decades. Alan remembered the entire place laying in ruins, with blackened stumps and stripped logs strewn about like many toothpicks. None of that remained, and the trees appeared to have never been touched. It was undoubtedly some manner of sorcery which repaired both forest and structure.

The ground immediately about the base of the Startower was more gravel than earth, though this occurred only in a narrow band, a few feet across at most. There was no break in the trees, they came right up to the outer reach of that narrow band, and above, the branches came right up to press against the tower's obsidian shod walls, maintaining that shield from the morning's brightness all the way to the tower proper.

Great double doors of polished bronze stood fast before the four adventurers, surrounded by a frame of carved white stone that stood out starkly from the surrounding obsidian. The frame was carved to resemble great tentacles reaching up from the earth, only to wrap about an odd black orb where the keystone should be. However, rather than individual blocks of masonry, the whole of the door frame seemed carved of a single continuous stone. The doors themselves were forged with a bas-relief depicting many men and women writhing together, beneath an elevated, empty throne.

Alan didn't recognize any of the imagery, it was all new to him. He had only been to the tower a few times when it originally stood, and he was fairly certain that he would remember anything that distinct. The glittering black orb atop the door especially resembled the Nightmare Orb. It certainly did not bode well for Miena's mental state.

As they stood there, the orb above the door began to shine, and Miena's voice drifted down from above, projected by some unseen magic, "Well it seems as though my visitors have arrived. Alan, bringing Windhawk and Vick to visit me? You shouldn't have." There was a pause, before she spoke in a sterner tone, "I mean that. You shouldn't have. I suppose I'll have to eliminate them as well. And what's that, a gnome? I thought you found them annoying."

The last statement caused Alan to wince. It was completely correct, and he realized that this entire expedition, Faringalia had been making a painfully conscious effort to tone back the very chatterbox nature that made her kind grate on his nerves so. She'd done a more than admirable job of it, and he'd found her company almost pleasant as a result. Still, he couldn't miss the hurt look which lingered on her little face after hearing that announcement.

"Faringalia is different. She's one of us now," He quickly addressed the door, "She's your replacement, and has been true to our cause. I wish I could say the same of you, Miena."

While his quick defense seemed to cheer the illusionist, it was met merely by a scoffing exhalation from that projected voice. "Please, don't make me laugh. She's an illusionist. She can no more replace me than a crippled beggar could replace Vick. And what cause do you speak of, Alan? Since when did the Reavers of Aethwin have a cause other than their own profit?"

Alan scowled at that. His retort was immediate, "You know damn well they have another cause. Each other. The Reavers stick together. If you injure one of us, you shall feel the wrath of all of us. And you, you've crossed a line. Miena, we are going to come in there and take Lizzy back. And then we're going to end you, once and for all!" He sounded more eager than he felt.

"Oh dear, how valiant. You almost sounded like a real hero there, Alan. Have you been taking notes from the dwarf? Please. The Reavers of Aethwin, charging into battle with a dark wizard yet again. You and I both know how this story usually ends, and this time you don't have me to counter the spells that inevitably claim you. You don't have Garthur to patch you back together."

The mocking tone of that disembodied voice grated on Alan's nerves, and he pointed up to the orb shimmering over the doorway. "Break that."

"With pleasure," Vick and Windhawk spoke together, then stepped forward. Windhawk selected a particular, blunted arrow from her quiver, while Vick lifted the Black Blade in both hands. Windhawk's bow sang, and her arrow zipped forth. The tip impacted the orb with a sharp sound, and a narrow little crack began to spread over the orb's surface. Vick's blade then swung up. It was an awkward, overhanded swing, but there was quite a bit of power in it. The edge of his sword found that new crack, and with an echoing crash, cleaved deep into it.

The orb shattered and exploded outward, scattering broken shards of smoldering stone over the group. Slowly, the doors beneath it began to sag in their frames. Whatever magic had kept them bound had fled with the destruction of the orb. Alan stepped forth and dug his fingers into the edge of one of the doors, and slowly, he pried it outward. He only opened the door wide enough to allow Vick to squeeze through. One by one, they slipped through and into the wizard's lair.

The chamber beyond, the grand foyer of the Startower, was well lit by a white glow that seemed to emit from the very stones of the ceiling above. The floor was polished granite, the walls were white marble. Hanging about the hall were five tapestries, depicting each of the original Reavers of Aethwin in some feat of daring from their past. A set of stairs spiraled up from the right, and up along the inner wall of the circular tower. In the middle, a grand statue of a woman stood some eight feet high, arms outstretched. It took a moment for Alan to realize the statue was supposed to be Miena, so idealized was that representation.

The tower itself was roughly circular, and fairly modest from the outside, despite the grandeur of its obsidian facade. On the inside, however, it was immediately clear that considerations of basic geometry were thrown out the window. That interior room had three archways leading off to wings that were not actually present from the outside, and interspersed amongst the tapestries hanging from the high, arching ceiling were windows that should rightly have been well below the only ones visible from the outside. Even if they were merely unseen, they should have been below the canopy of the woods, in the shade of the forest. Instead, they allowed sunlight to flow in unhindered, to join the luminous shine of the enchanted masonry. 

Vick whistled as he turned his eyes around the interior. "Damn, I kind of feel like the palace back in Aethwin is inadequate now. Maybe I should have some workers remodel it."

"Madame Pryce is probably already doing so," Alan's comment brought a scowl from the Count, then a chuckle.

"Probably," he ruefully agreed.

Windhawk readied another arrow as she skulked forward, while Faringalia gazed up in awe at each of the tapestries. The gnome woman was staying a little far from them, when Alan hustled to herd her back near to Vick.

"Can't risk being split up this early in the game. Stick near Vick, he'll protect you."

The illusionist smiled up to Alan, "Yeah, thanks. Sorry, it's just so... different than what I was expecting. Are those tapestries true? Are they showing stuff that actually happened?"

The old thief turned his own eyes up to study each one in turn. He finally nodded. "Yeah, for the most part." Although he was uncertain, now. Why would she have kept such images about, if she simply intended to betray them.

Windhawk circled the room with bow drawn, and squinted down each of the corridors. Her soft soled boots made little sound as she completed her circuit, which only served to highlight how quiet the place really was. Alan wasn't certain what he expected, some sort of ambush, a chamber of horrors, rows of slaves being readied for some dark mine. He strained to hear anything, any hint of noise within the still, silent air. It was all for naught, all he heard was the faint patter of the elf's footsteps and the group's breathing.

With a final step, the ranger leaned in toward the rest of the group. "It seems clear. Quiet as a tomb."

"That's what's getting to me. At the very least, we know one person should be here." Either Lizzy or Miena, Alan would settle for getting his hands on either, for various reasons. He glanced toward the stairs, musing to himself. "Let's get to the top of this place. I have a hunch that Miena will be up top."

"A hunch, huh?" Vick's voice rumbled forth with some amusement. "So we're not doing a room by room search for your precious beloved, just following your random guess?"

Alan scowled at the warrior, though he did have a point. Another glance was given to those stairs, before he nodded. "Yeah. Miena wants me, for whatever reason. Whether to keep me or kill me, it doesn't matter. She'll be in the most obvious place imaginable. Which in the case of a tower would be the very top."

Vick shrugged, "Alright Tinsley. This is your mission." Shouldering his massive blade, the warrior strode over toward Alan, with Faringalia tagging behind, almost like some frightened child.

Alan took the lead this time, and moved slowly. He kept his eyes sweeping over his surroundings, seeking any signs of traps or other surprises. There was nothing to be caught, however, and soon he began leading them up that winding stairway.

They hadn't got more than a few feet, however, before a piercing scream sounded from one of the corridors below. It was quickly followed by another, and then a feminine voice pleading for help. Although it was no one Alan recognized, she sounded as if she were in a great deal of pain.

Vick was already starting back down the stairs when Alan called down to him, "It's not her."

The warrior, and the gnome who now followed on his heels at every movement, both looked up to the rogue incredulously. "So we're just supposed to abandon some woman because we don't know who she is?" Vick's voice boomed upward, as if it were some great offense.

Alan was fairly certain that if it had been a man's screams, Vick wouldn't have cared less.

There was a moment's more hesitation, then Alan cursed. He began to head back down the stairs, with Windhawk at his side. As Vick and Faringalia reached the bottom, however, another cry sounded. This one drifted down from above, and Alan certainly knew this voice.

"Lizzy!" He spun about, then managed to ascend a few steps, before he realized Vick wasn't following him. He looked over his shoulder, then sighed. Alan waved one hand to the warrior, "Go after the other woman, then come back up after you've ended whatever is hurting her."

Vick chuckled softly, "Sure thing. Good luck, Tinsley."

The old rogue nodded, even as he cursed himself for what he was doing. Splitting the party had already resulted in one death, but there was little he could do in this instance. He was just grateful when Windhawk fell into step beside him. Faringalia was with Vick, and if everyone was careful, they should be able to handle whatever they came across.

As he ascended to the second floor landing, however, Alan wasn't so certain of that. Before him, another round room stretched out, another staircase gracefully curved upward to the next floor, opposite of where his own head peeked up past the safety railing along the edge of the landing. This room was more dimly lit than the last. No grand windows offered lighting, only a single, central orb similar to the one they had shattered above the front door offered any sort of illumination. A flickering, purple radiance shone down from where thick ropes supported the large, dark sphere overhead.

Beside the odd lighting arrangement, the chamber appeared to be some sort of mad laboratory. Rows of sturdy wooden shelves and cabinets circled the room, with the shelves containing a mix of books, jars, and vials of strange materials. Across the center of the room were spread several tables, each one a sturdy, polished stone slab over thick, squat wooden legs. Leather restraints were bolted into the sides of each of the slabs, allowing whoever might be upon the table to be easily secured.

Amongst those tables stalked a pair of monstrosities. Unsettling to behold, each one was vaguely humanoid, with bone white skin and no hair. They stood close to nine feet tall, but were gaunt, looking stretched out, with long legs, spindly arms, and an elongated torso. Empty black eyes were fixed upon the work each of the two creatures was performing, with a look of great concentration. Loose black fabric hung in wispy sheets from about their torsos, leaving their pale arms free. Those arms ended in long fingered hands, which moved quickly in their horrendous work.

Lizzy was there, or rather, it appeared there were several Elizabeths. Upon each table was secured a copy of Alan's wife. Each of them was nude, bound spread eagle. But not all of them were whole. The horrid creatures moving between the tables performed unspeakable surgeries upon the carious copies of Elizabeth, as her various forms shrieked or sobbed.

Scalpels cut and needles stitched. Tubes snaked from various containers and plunged into bodies, while other forms were twisted by magic or past modifications into oddly artistic abominations. Alan knew that not all of them could be his real wife. He hoped none of them were, but the thought that any one of those cruelly tormented lookalikes might be the real thing was a knife to his heart. He could do little but stumble forward over the last step, and let forth a gurgled, terrified cry.

An arrow whistled past his shoulder, and struck one of the tall, gaunt figures in the chest. The impact forced it to stagger back from the blow. For a moment, the second one did nothing, and then another arrow joined the first, planting itself deeply within that injured being's flesh. Only then did the second creature turn, and swivel its deep, inky eyes toward the two.

"Alan! What are you doing?! Get going!" Windhawk near shouted, and Alan tore his eyes from the horror show before him. 

He looked back to the elf, and managed to stammer out, "Don't you see what's in there?!"

"Yeah, and I have no idea what they are, but there's only two of them." She near growled the words as she strung another arrow, and let it loose. It zipped across the room toward that one creature she had been hammering.

Alan reluctantly turned back toward the room, only to find the scene changed. No more did images of his wife writhe and wail from every table. They were all empty. Only the two gaunt, tall, long limbed monstrosities remained. One was much nearer than he recalled, while the other was still trying to recover from taking those shots from Windhawk's bow. Another arrow streaked forth, but this one missed, skittering back and shattering against the far wall of the chamber.

With a curse, the thief drew his own blade, and ran forth. He had no idea what these creatures were, he'd never seen anything of their sort before, but if Windhawk's arrows could injure them, so could his blade. He dashed forward toward the first, but as its long, gangly arms raised to reach toward him, he ducked and skidded across the polished floor of the chamber. His progress took him under a nearby table, then out the other side. He rose to his feet and charged toward the creature Windhawk had been systematically turning into a pincushion. The sweep of the long arms of the figure he'd bypassed could be felt across the nape of his neck, but it didn't manage to grab onto him. His blood ran cold at the close call, and he inwardly damned their reach.

Sweeping his blade upward, Alan held the leather wrapped grip in both hands. He put his whole weight into the slash, drawing the relatively short, sharp blade through the horror's abdomen. The tall creature began to teeter over, but those long arms, tipped with wriggling, twig-like fingers, began to descend on Alan.

Another arrow saved the thief's life, as it plugged into the thing's chest with the others. Alan yanked his blade out sideways, tearing the strange, inhuman being's flesh asunder. Thick, black-red blood hissed out of the wound, and it toppled over without so much as a cry.

Indeed, neither of the beings had made a sound during the entire confrontation. It was eerie, unnatural, like fighting mute marionettes. The remaining creature swiveled at the waist to face him, then advanced upon him with a disjointed, uneven gait. At least, if it was pursuing him, Windhawk would have free reign with her bow. In that short time, it had closed a huge amount of distance. With long limbs and terrifying speed, the thing would be hard to avoid. As it closed in, however, Alan could see more of it. Those long fingers ended in scalpel like talons, while the thing's face was utterly inhuman. Large, empty black eyes were the sole feature that stood out. There was nothing in the way of ears, nor a nose, just little holes where nostrils should be. Its mouth was a lipless slit, its features undefined.

As the remaining creature snapped one arm out, Alan recoiled. He raised his blade, but it was too late. Those fingers wrapped about his throat, and drew him bodily up from the ground. His air was cut off by its grip, and it showed no sign of strain as it raised him as easily as if he were a pillow. Its flesh felt clammy, moist and cool against his own skin, and he grabbed at its wrist with one hand.

An arrow impacted the being's side, and though it stumbled a half step, it was unrelenting in its grip on Alan's neck. The next arrow to strike was equally futile, though thick blood seeped from the wounds. With no leverage at his height, Alan could think to do only one thing. He brought his blade upward in an awkward slash, toward the arm that held him.

The first blow hacked deeply into its strange flesh, and the subsequent jostling put more pressure on his bruised throat. He gritted his teeth as he raised that sword for another blow. The second severed the arm just below the elbow, and he went tumbling down from the silent creature, landing hard upon one of the stone topped tables. For a moment after it was severed, that hand retained its strength and its grip on Alan's neck, before it finally fell away.

Two more arrows sprouted from the thing's torso, and the thing lurched forward, as if it were about to fall on Alan. The rogue had little time to get out of its way, so after taking a quick, gasping breath, he rolled to one side immediately, and off the edge of the table. The creature's knees buckled, and it finally toppled down onto that tabletop.

The wooden legs creaked under the combined weight of the stone slab and the unnatural creature upon it. Alan sprung to his feet, and though he didn't have the best footing, he brought his blade down as quickly as he could, aiming for the thing's neck. A single blow was all it took, and the battle was over. Both of the otherworldly creatures lay still.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 15



Alan lowered the point of his blade, and rubbed at his bruised neck with his free hand. It hurt to swallow, but at least he could breathe. Windhawk approached with ginger steps, weaving her way amidst the tables toward him. Her own gaze studied the dead beings with a nervous look.

"What do you think those were? I don't think I've seen anything even close to them."

He shook his head in response. When he spoke, he cringed at how hoarse he sounded, but it didn't hurt at all as much as he expected, "I have no idea. With Miena's skills, they're probably from some other realm, like elementals, or demons."

"Or worse," Windhawk's voice fell, and her eyes narrowed. She nudged at one of the things with her booted foot, but there was thankfully no response.

A peal of laughter rang out from above the two, and when their gazes rose, they caught sight of Miena. She was just standing there on the stairs leading upward, gazing down at them from on high. She looked younger than she had been in life, more in line with the dreams that had been plaguing Alan than the memories of her last years. Her once unruly red hair was secured back in a tight tail, and a robe of gleaming red silk hung loose about her form, exposing her shoulders and much of one leg, her creamy skin standing out in sharp contrast to it. Little red slippers were pulled over her feet, while within one hand she held the Nightmare Orb, letting it dangle almost casually from one hand.

"Are you going to waste all day wrecking all of my servants?" She raised one brow, "Or are their little shows disturbing you?" A cruel smile then slowly spread across the redhead's features. "And where's Vick and the little gnome brat? Did you send them to deal with something all alone? Oh my, I hope nothing terrible happens to them."

Her mocking tone sent Alan's blood boiling. He lifted his blade to point up at where Miena stood on the stairs, and he growled out, "Kill her."

Windhawk took direction well, although neither expected it to be that easy. An arrow was notched and loosed, but as it leaped through the air toward the wizard, it suddenly stopped, deflected as if it had struck a wall. Whatever spell had arrested the arrow's flight within arm's reach of its target simply let it drop. The arrow clattered to the ground far below, still whole.

Miena stifled a yawn, then pushed away from the railing. "Well, if you're going to be like that, I'll be waiting up at the top." She stretched languidly, displaying her slender figure against the thin fabric of that silken robe. As she turned to ascend the rest of the stairs, Alan was already racing toward the base of that flight. She was so close to the top, however, that she was long gone before Alan could make it halfway up.

He wanted beyond anything to dash up those stairs and snap her neck, but he forced himself to slow, so that Windhawk could catch up. Alan had a feeling that if they were separated by too much, Miena would find some way to keep them from assisting one another. This was, after all, her home. Only when the elven woman was by his side with bow drawn did he hasten up the last few steps.

Their ascent to the next level of the tower was rewarded with a vision of opulence. Tall windows let sunlight stream through the room from all sides, while in the middle of the chamber, a fountain resembling four playful nymphs carved of white stone sprayed water down into a grand basin below. Numerous velvet pillows in a mad array of colors lay scattered here and there, and interspersed with them were trays and goblets of gold, containing various snacks and drinks. Rather than another grand staircase on the opposite side of the room, there was only a winding, tightly spiraling staircase of metal, hung from a pole attached to the high ceiling.

Amidst the cushions upon the floor, as if she were some playful nymph herself, lay Elizabeth. Just one of her this time, and from all appearances, the real one. Still, Alan was cautious. As he eyed her over, her own glittering green eyes showed no sign of recognition, only surprise. Her long, blonde hair was freshly washed, and cascaded in damp tendrils down her back. Her heavenly figure was draped about with soft, nearly sheer white silks. They clung to her form, failing to conceal anything beneath. She seemed wholly unharmed, well rested. It was as if she were still in her own home, waiting for her husband to return from his day's errands.

If only he caught any sign that she recalled who he was.

She sat up suddenly, her breasts swaying with the movement, bobbing with her quickened breath. That look of surprise grew to one of alarm as her eyes drifted down to his drawn sword, and then to Windhawk as the elf stepped up behind him. The fear and uncertainty in her voice tore at Alan's heart.

"Who are you?"

Before Alan could respond, Miena seemed to materialize out of mid air behind Elizabeth. It was as if unseen wisps of smoke flowed up into the shape of the redheaded wizard woman in the space of a single second. Those delicate hands came to rest on his wife's shoulders, and she spoke in a gentle, insidious tone, "They're the ones who are responsible for the death of your beautiful bard."

Elizabeth's features twisted from shock and fear, to anger. Alan knew well how fiercely she would set herself to defending something she cared for, even if she didn't have the actual combat skills to back up her anger. He watched his wife as she rose to her bare feet, her fingers curled into fists.

"Elizabeth! It's me, Alan. Your husband!"

Lizzy looked confused for a moment, then frowned, "I don't know you! Miena says you killed my love, and she's been nothing but kind to me."

The magic user behind Lizzy lifted a hand to take the blonde woman's. There was a faint shimmering, as a blade of gleaming steel seemed to telescope out of Miena's hand. It formed a razor sharp, single edged sword, the handle of which she gently pressed into Lizzy's palm. 

Elizabeth gazed down to the weapon, and grasped it awkwardly. She had no idea how to use it, but Alan doubted that would keep her from trying.

"Miena! Enough," He tried to reason with her, recalling the message within his dream, of Miena having taken Lizzy's memories of him away. "If it's me you want, don't do this to her."

Behind him, Windhawk leveled her bow at Miena, though she clearly didn't have an open shot. Elizabeth began to stalk toward Alan, murderous rage in her eyes. Her fair hair and sheer silks floated behind her as she moved, gaining confidence with every step.

"What have I done to her, Alan? You're the one who shattered her happiness. You're the one who came in here, after your friend killed the only love dear Lizzy can remember..."

Alan tightened his grip on his own blade, but he began to back up as Elizabeth advanced. He couldn't go far, however, not without going down into the room below. He backed up to the wall, then began to circle around it, away from the stairs. He did not want to fight his wife, even at his most careful something terrible might happen.

Elizabeth's gaze tracked his every move, and she raised her sword. With a snarl, she began to charge Alan, her blade raised. As her bare feet pattered across the cushion strewn floor, she left Miena wide open, and Windhawk took her shot.

This arrow, different from the ones previous, bore a minor enchantment on it. That much was clear, as it left a trail of silvery glitter in the air. The arrow struck through whatever magics had protected Miena from the prior arrow, and plunged into her chest.

The arrow then continued on, as if it had struck nothing at all, and shattered against the stonework opposite Windhawk.

Miena laughed. Her image flickered once, then again as she outright cackled, until finally it faded away. Only the gradually echoing remnants of her laughter remained to tell that any projection of the wizard had ever been present.

During this, Alan raised his own blade, keeping the flat toward his wife. He received her inexpert hacking, parrying each blow she rained upon him. For all of her lack of skill, there was power behind her slashes. She genuinely wanted to kill him. Alan wasn't sure if he could hold off her attacks indefinitely. She'd get lucky eventually.

Windhawk was little use. For a moment, she trained her bow on Lizzy, but upon seeing Alan's expression when that arrow pointed at his wife, she quickly lowered it. The length of that blade the woman was wielding meant that even approaching from behind was risky. As Alan circled one way, Windhawk drifted in the other, looking for an opening.

"Elizabeth! Please, remember me!" He called out between the crashes of blade against blade. His own flexed and bent under the impact of some of those crude slashes, only to spring back each time. 

There was no pause in her attacks, no hesitation. "You and your friends killed him! The only one who's shown me kindness since I woke up! I hate you!" Her own screams were nearly hysterical, her chest heaved with each panting breath. And yet she never seemed to flag.

There was another sound then, barely audible between the clash of steel and his wife's ranting. The rapid ascent of little boots coming up the stairs grew closer and closer. Windhawk spun and raised her own bow once more, only to lower it when the tiny figure of Faringalia the gnome popped into view.

"Alan! Vick fell down a pit! He seems to be alright, but I can't lift-" Her chattering stilled as she realized what was going on. "Alan? Is that the real Lizzy?"

"Yes!" Alan's response was irritable. But then, hope sprang forth. "Can you do something?" The illusionist seemed well capable of disabling her opponents with magic, and safely for the most part.

Faringalia grinned. "Of course." She rolled up her sleeves as she approached the two humans. She thrust both of her hands into different pockets of those multicolored robes.

Her approach, and Alan's nervous glimpses toward the gnome, caught Elizabeth's attentions. As Faringalia drew near, the blonde disengaged, and took a few steps back. She drew her sword up in an instinctive defensive posture.

A blinding wash of brilliant light and scintillating colors filled Alan's vision. Cursing, he dropped his own sword and clawed at his eyes. It felt like a rainbow had opened up his skull and thrown up directly on his brain. The wash of colors didn't last long, however, though it did leave afterimages seared into his retinas for a moment. He rubbed his eyes as his vision cleared, only to be greeted with the sight of Elizabeth sprawled on the ground like a discarded doll, stunned. Her eyes were rolled back, and drool crept from the corner of her mouth. She occasionally twitched a bit.

"What the hell did you do?" He groaned the words out. Even his own voice made his head pound after that. It was worse than the worst hangover he'd ever had.

"I stopped her. She'll recover in a couple minutes."

By then, Windhawk was already in motion. She grabbed the unconscious Elizabeth, and dragged her away from Alan and the fallen weapons. As Alan recovered, the elf tugged a length of silken rope from her pack, and began to bind his wife up.

Faringalia approached Elizabeth, and looked her over with confusion. "She's the real thing," the gnome finally stated, "I don't sense any illusions from her."

"Of course not, you silly little shit. I use real magic." Miena's voice snapped from high above. Alan turned his gaze upward, and his hand drifted to where his sword should have been sheathed.

Except it was still laying on the ground by the wall.

Alan dove to grab up his blade, but as he did, a roaring wall of flame sprung up, jetting up from the very ground and neatly bisecting the room. Alan was on one side, with Miena atop those spiral stairs, while the other three women were separated from him by the intense heat.

Alan shielded his gaze against the thick flames, but still tried to peer through any gaps that might form. Above him, Miena began to speak dark and eldritch words once more. As the arcane energies began to gather again, Alan braced himself, but nothing happened. At least, nothing happened to him.

Faringalia shrieked, and he could hear her tumble backward, while Windhawk screamed herself. It was impossible to see what was going on for a moment, but then, just above the flames he caught sight of them. Thick, black tentacles writhed upward, and in their grasp were his unconscious wife and Windhawk.

A few tentacles coiled firmly about each woman, and though he could barely see through the glare of the flames, what he could make out was grotesque. Thin, slippery tentacles of some unknown black substance secured each woman within the air, coiling about lithe legs, about their arms. Windhawk struggled, but his wife lay unconscious still. At least, until the first of the blunt tipped, enchanted tentacles slipped up under that gauzy white silk. It disappeared between Elizabeth's smooth thighs, and then a sharp gasp escaped her as she was penetrated.

Windhawk thrashed and screamed, but it was to no avail. He could hear the popping of buckles and buttons, the shifting of leather. The elven woman's pert breasts came into view above the barrier of flames for just a moment, before one dark tentacle wrapped firmly about each, squeezing and coiling about their bases.

Faringalia's panic stricken voice sounded from behind the flames, "Alan! The tentacles have got them, I can't do anything! I don't have any sort of counter for this."

He thought he'd seen a similar spell once, long ago, but the black tentacles it had conjured forth certainly hadn't taken such liberties. "Go find Vick! Find some way, any way to get him out of whatever pit he's fallen into." It was his best hope. A blade could sever those things and free the two women held in their oily embrace.

"Faringalia! My pack!" Windhawk gasped sharply, her breath coming in short pants. "Take it with you, it'll have something in it that can-" Her voice was cut off by a sharp cry, then a low moan. 

The elf's tight, slender body arched upward. Limbs still bound in thick black coils could do nothing to prevent what was happening, and the ones curled about her breasts simply squeezed all the harder. One massive tentacle delved under her once tight leathers, past the shredded laces that had kept them secure. It was clear that the tip of the slick, dark thing disappeared into one of the elven woman's orifices, and it began to pump rhythmically within her. Any hope of her continuing her instructions to the gnome was cut off by the introduction of another tentacle to the elven woman's lips. Her eyes bugged out for a moment as it thrust between them, and her throat bulged out for a moment, as she was forced to deep throat that foreign intrusion.

Faringalia called out "I got it! I... I'll be back!" He could hear her scampering footsteps as she dashed for the stairs.

Alan began to clamber up that spiral staircase, sword now in hand. "Let them go, Miena! This is between you and I."

"Of course it is, but that doesn't mean I have to do anything at all, Alan dear. Besides, it looks like they're getting into it."

Elizabeth's moans begin to rise, and Alan turned his gaze toward her. He cringed as he watched his young wife's body, just writhing as the tentacles coursed over her skin, caressing and squeezing, thrusting rhythmically within an increasingly slick body. Even Windhawk began to buck her hips toward the squirming length that disappeared down her leggings. She blushed fiercely, and her cheeks hollowed as she began to suck upon the one sliding back and forth between her lips. As a third of the damnable things rose to begin to squirm down the back of her leather pants, he turned his gaze back upward.

There was one way to end such a spell, and that involved driving his sword through the chest of whoever had cast it. The staircase echoed with the force of each step as he ran up that rickety spiral, causing it to sway under his shifting weight. Through the wrought metal, he caught a sight of Miena's pale legs and slipper clad feet as she dashed up before him, through a dark portal leading upward.

Alan left the roar of flames, soft moans, and the steady sound of slick flesh meeting slick flesh behind him, and followed the wizard alone, into the dark unknown.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 16



Plunging into the darkness of the chamber which topped the tower was not the brightest move Alan had ever made, but it was realistically his best option. Though he was familiar with what magic could do, and could unleash the basic magic within items he found, he was no mage himself. Against what assailed his wife and his friend, he could offer little help, and at high risk to himself. No, the best way to free them from the grip of those violating shadows was not to plunge head long through flames and into danger, but find the caster who controlled them, and end whatever passed for her life.

What he did not expect, as he pursued the fleeing magic user, was to find himself alone in a void black as pitch. He could see nothing, no matter how he strained his eyes, and could hear nothing, not even the pad of his soft soled boots across a floor that, while it seemed to have some substance, offered nothing but slightly spongy resistance under each footstep. It was like being cut off from the rest of reality. His senses offered nothing, and his mind began to imagine things to fill the vacancy.

It was a place between worlds, a place well suited for dark imaginings and waking dreams. The harder that Alan sought any form of sensory stimulation, the more difficult it was to tell the difference between his imagination and anything that might pierce the void about him. His breath quickened as genuine fear began to set in. He wasn't certain he could find his way back where he had been, and he certainly couldn't hear nor see Miena anymore.

In the darkness, he thought he heard a distant laugh. Instantly, his attentions focused in the direction he believed it came from. For a long while there was nothing, but just as he was about to give up, he heard it again. Hastily, he stumbled sightlessly toward the source of that laughter, moving through that unnatural darkness without a clue what may lay before him. It was just fortunate that the void, empty of most sight and sound, also seemed to be lacking any obstacles to trip him up.

Blindly, Alan rushed through the darkness, until he was moving at a near run. More noises were evident: the clinking of plates and glasses, more laughter, music. It sounded much like any night at the Reavers' Rest or any similar tavern. Without warning, Alan burst from the darkness into the merry glow of firelight and scattered lamps. Chairs and sturdy wooden tables lay scattered about a common room that was familiar to his eyes. It was the Reavers' Rest, or at least as it had been years and years ago, before it had taken on that name.

Faces from long ago mingled and chatted within that place. There were old contacts he hadn't seen in decades, and some who were long dead. The minstrel playing in the corner he knew had been put to death during the usurpation crisis, and there amidst the tables was a young Mother Marseline, waiting tables as a common barmaid, long before she took the temple vows.

His eyes lingered on one table in particular, for another version of himself sat at it. Fresh faced and young, maybe just out of his teens, he was chatting with a much more heavily built, long haired warrior that could only be Vick Varonne. Both young men were in good spirits, and occasionally oogled those barmaids that passed.

"Do you remember this, Alan?" Miena's voice resonated through the commons, and he whirled about, trying to place her. As he did, a passing fellow seemed to just pass right through him, as if he weren't even there.

Of course. It was a vision. Something plucked from his memories, or from the past itself, and fed into his very mind. After that moment's disorientation and reflection, Alan finally caught sight of Miena. Except it wasn't the Miena he was looking for.

Instead, framed within the doorway of the inn, silhouetted by the steady stream of sunlight from outside, stood Miena as she had been. A few years older than Alan at that point, she still managed to look younger and more awkward. Her mad shock of red hair fell in an unkempt mass of curls, while a particularly thick lensed set of spectacles perched upon a nose that, at best, might be described as cute. She was past lean and into downright skinny territory, with a loose, worn set of robes that had the look of hand me downs, with patches and repairing stitches all over. A few pouches hung from a rope belt that failed to define her hips much, and she held in her arms a massive tome, clutched against her modest bust protectively.

Alan remembered this, if only from the contrast of the gawky mage girl and the rest of the tavern goers. "You were so out of place, back then."

"I was, but then you smiled at me."

That part Alan didn't remember, but it slowly came back to him as he watched his younger self and Vick. The warrior pointed Miena out, and had said something to him, likely something crude and disparaging. Whatever it was, the younger Alan had found it greatly amusing, and was in the process of laughing outright when Miena noticed the two.

She offered a shy smile, then began to weave her way through the room. The two young men immediately grew more serious, straightening up in their seats as she approached. Alan's younger self offered a sidelong glance to Vick, before he half stood and gestured to the seat across from them. Grateful, Miena settled herself down.

"That was the first time we met." Miena's voice drifted from the room around them.

Alan did recall it. It was before the Reavers had properly formed. It was just him and Vick, and after getting their asses kicked thoroughly by a barely capable goblin shaman, they had decided they needed some sort of caster of their own. They were not well known back then, not by a long shot, and Miena had been the only one to respond.

"Yeah," he admitted, "You stuck out like a sore thumb. You looked like you'd be more at home at a desk in a library rather than in a tavern, much less out in the field of battle."

"But you let me join up anyway." 

It sounded like she was trying to be endearing, and as Alan watched the conversation between the younger version of him and Miena, it didn't sit quite right. He didn't remember her blushing quite that much, nor watching him so intently, nor leaning so close. The mousy redhead was subtly flirting, and he was fairly sure that, even if she wasn't the most well endowed woman in the room, he would have noticed it in his youth. 

"I think you thought I was cute," Miena's voice took on an almost dreamy aspect.

"I don't think that's exactly how things happened, Miena." Alan frowned as he watched the young wizard woman trace the sole of one sandal along his younger self's own booted feet. He definitely would have remembered that. "In fact, if I remember right, you spent most of your time stammering and stuttering, and it was fortunate that you were the only one who wanted to try her luck with a few rookie treasure hunters like us."

"That's not true!" Anger edged into her disembodied voice, and the visions around Alan clouded, beginning to bleed off into nothing. "You smiled at me! You enjoyed my company."

"I did, but not in the way you seem to remember. You were our friend, Miena, you were my friend. But these aren't real memories."

"They could be! They could be new memories, made between us. Alan, what about that time in Baron Kaden's castle?"

The void crashed in around Alan, but the blackness only engulfed him for a moment. At first it was only broken by a small square of night sky, lit only by the radiance of the stars. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he took in the rest of the scene. The moist, dark stones of the Baron's dungeon, the figure bound against the wall in that small cell, it was a scene that, while not completely matched by his memories, was at least recognizable. 

Castle Levostrin, on the northern borderlands, it was a dour and foreboding structure which had kept grim sentinel over the barbarous tribes beyond for untold centuries. It was also the first time the Reavers had genuinely crossed one of those loyal to the usurper Jaron Daar. Things had not gone well for their little band, and Miena had spent a solid month under the care of Kaden of Levostrin.

The starlight provided only the barest illumination, scattered across a floor of uneven bricks. A thin layer of sand and filthy hay was spread here and there, and a lone rat snuffled along the ground, searching in vain for remaining scraps and crumbs of meals that were a scarce luxury for the prisoners. 

In the night sky above, the moon finally peeked over the edge of the narrow window, and its weakly reflected beams shone along smooth, pale legs that were far more shapely than Alan recalled. Indeed, he distinctly remembered she had been wearing more than the mere scraps of burlap that the vision seemed intent on portraying. A simple top and skirt were little more than rough, scratchy rags, leaving her flat midriff exposed, as well as much of her arms. Shackles held her wrists above her head, while that unkempt mass of red hair hung in dirty tangles to obscure her features. The only sign she was alive was the gentle rise and fall of breasts that, while modest, were still more pronounced than Alan's memories allowed.

"You have no idea what they did to me there, Alan. During that month they held me. Do you know what Jaron's men did to wizards who didn't join his cause?"

Alan winced slightly as she seemed to speak from all around the cell. "No, Miena. I don't." It was true, he had paid little attention at the time to the exact details of Jaron's procedures. Instead, he had focused on what was necessary to overthrow the man himself. "Did they ... use you?" There was a bit of concern in the question. Despite all that Miena had done to him and his friends and loved ones, the memories he had of those times weren't pleasant, and at the time she had been one of the Reavers.

"No, but they wanted to. I could see it in the guards' eyes when they looked at me. No, what they did was worse, Alan. They cut me off from my magic. You can't even imagine what that's like. It would be akin to shutting down three of your five senses, then keeping you in a dark, padded box to mute the others. I almost went insane in there."

Now that was a sensation he could commiserate with, as of a few minutes past. And he was fairly certain that her insanity stemmed from a different cause. "But you didn't, Miena. You kept it together. You faced the horrors and came out fighting."

"Yes, because you saved me, Alan. You swept in from the shadows like my own personal noble knight."

Indeed, he thought he could see another figure approaching that cell through the bars. Well concealed in shadows, the old thief could only imagine that it was him in his youth. Damn but he had been good at his job. That vague outline lingered near the cell door for a moment, and then there was the click and scrape of a metal lock giving way, and the slow, careful slide of the cell door as it opened. Only the squeak and flight of the rat from the approaching figure broke the silence.

Like some deathly shade, the figure stepped into view. Lean and proud, clad in muted black leathers, Alan appeared a bit more robust, a bit stronger than he had in the previous vision. It was, after all, a few years later. He swept back his hood, and strode quietly but confidently toward the largely bared form of the wizard woman. One gloved hand rose to touch her cheek, and he spoke a soft, "My love, what have they done to you?"

"That is not what I said," Alan pointed out. He was certain of it, whatever had unhinged her had completely skewed her memories of the past.

"It should have been!" That omnipresent voice seemed on the verge of shrieking. 

For a moment, that all consuming void began to close in again, but it quickly fled, leaving the vision much as it was before. The younger Alan made short work of the shackles binding Miena to the wall, and her lithe, pale form slumped down and into his arms. She wrapped her slender arms about his neck.

"Please, don't drop me Alan," her voice was a mere whisper, she seemed on the verge of tears.

"I won't, Miena. I promise." His younger form reassured her in a way that the old rogue wasn't sure he ever had. Except the one time, at the bridge. 

When he had recovered the Nightmare Orb.

The mere thought of it brought memory of that foul artifact to the forefront. Its shining silver handle, its polished obsidian sphere. Black as an inky void, it had drawn the eye and attention inward. He remembered having such a hard time sensing the world around him in that short time that he had held it, gazing into its depths. And Miena had held it ever since, as they had never delivered it to...

Try as he might, Alan couldn't remember who had sent them out after the damnable thing. Had there even been anyone? The group had nearly been done in collecting it from that cursed jungle shrine. It had been a hellish ride over rapids and along that hidden river to a village where they could obtain passage back to Aethwin. When they were home they celebrated their victorious return in usual fashion.

No one ever delivered the Orb. No one ever came to pick it up from them. And none of them ever questioned why. For years, it had been a constant presence in Miena's hand or on her belt, never straying far.

His troubled thoughts had him in a near panic. He glanced back to where the younger, dashing Alan Tinsley was holding Miena. His lips were upon hers, an act which never happened. The two seemed to ignore the world around them, wholly enraptured with each other. It was all a lie, whether it be a false memory or wishful thinking.

"Miena! This isn't what happened. Tell me, please, Do you have the Nightmare Orb with you, right now?"

"Of course I do, Alan. I've always kept it and treasured it, ever since you gave it to me."

Had he given it to her? He had been the one to retrieve it from the box. On that bridge, it had slipped from where he had stowed it, and fallen into her grasp. He had cursed himself at the time for being so careless, but he was never careless with valuables. 

"Miena. Listen to me, you have to throw it away." It was unlikely he could sway her. She had owned it for decades, after all.

"Why are you so interested in the Orb, Alan? Do you want to take it back? Do you want to take away the only thing I have to remember you by?"

Blackness came crashing down about him once more. It stole away his sight, the sounds of the vision faded away as surely as the visuals did. With his latest realization, the void around him went from simply unsettling to downright sinister.

"Miena, you have to throw it away. It's evil. It has twisted your mind." He knew that he sounded lame, but he was grasping at straws.

"No, Alan Tinsley. What twisted my mind was watching you walk down the aisle with a strumpet half your age!" Her words grew shrill with barely contained rage.

"You were d-" He cut himself off before finishing the word. He wasn't sure now that she had perished in the tower's blast. "We thought you were gone. The Startower had blown up years before. We couldn't find you through any of the normal means."

"And that makes it alright to forsake the woman you love?!" Miena's voice was clearly unhinged, but even hearing it resonate as if from within his very head was better than the utter silence of the void.

"I never once loved you, Miena." It was harsh, but he knew she had once been a creature of logic. Perhaps the faster he brought down her delusions, the faster he could break the trap of false memories. "You were a dear friend, but nothing more."

"Oh but that's where you're wrong, Alan. You did love me, and you even said so once."

He was astounded at that claim, and fell silent for a moment. As he tried to dredge through his memories for what she might be referring to, the inky void once more began to recede. The vision that greeted him was that of a lavish inn room, with red curtains and drapes, a grand bed, lush carpets. It wasn't the Reavers' Rest. It was some place in the capital. Though why did he know that?

"Oh gods no, the love potion. Miena!" It all came back to him, or at least as much of it as his then addled mind had been able to record. "That wasn't me! I wasn't myself."

Alan's protests died on his lips as the door to the room slammed open. The sounds of laughter and music drifted through its open frame for a moment, past the two figures stumbling in. The younger Alan and Miena, now in their middle to late twenties, staggered in and let the door swing shut behind them. Alan himself looked almost drunk, while Miena supported him, keeping his arm about her shoulders.

The lean, dark haired rogue was clad in a loose white shirt, and his typical snug, dark trousers. He had a casually unkempt look about him. Miena had her usually unruly mass of red curls bound back in a single mass, and wore a neatly tailored black robe. It flattered her modest figure, and showed a certain degree of care in its arrangements. Low about her hips a belt with innumerable small pouches and loops for her tools of the trade hung, and amongst the items it supported was that baleful black orb, hanging from its silver handle. The robes parted at each step, revealing dark stockings and soft suede ankle boots with each step. There was nothing idealized about her image in that vision, Alan felt she was actually much prettier that way.

"Mmm, Miena, have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" His younger self was only slightly slurring, and gazed to the woman helping him with adoring eyes.

Miena blushed scarlet, but concentrated on helping him across the room toward the bed. "No, you never have," her voice was soft, embarrassed.

Alan remembered this. Or at least, he remembered what he had been told afterward, combined with scant flashes of the night itself. It was shortly after they had defeated Jaron Daar, and the true prince was awaiting confirmation of his lineage and his coronation. The prince had put the party up in luxury in the capital for a few months, and they had taken full advantage of his hospitality. The people treated them as the heroes they had inadvertently turned out to be, and many a night was spent drinking and partying into the wee hours.

It was during one of these nights that an enchantress had taken an interest in Vick. While normally one to readily fall for even the slightest smile from one of the fairer sex, on this particular evening Vick had already been occupied by a pair of buxom twins who fawned over his every word. In a fit, she had enchanted one of the drinks on the table into some manner of love potion, but during the chaos of the evening, Alan had taken it while speaking with Miena. The enchantress had fessed up after the rest of the party noticed him acting like a lovesick puppy, but Miena had insisted on working to break the enchantment herself, rather than trust someone who was obviously so lacking in judgment.

The two stumbled toward the bed, before Alan paused. He slipped his arms about the slender redhead, then drew her close against his body. Her delicate hands slipped up in surprise, and rested at his shoulders, while her eyes went wide. The rogue stared into those eyes for a moment, then leaned forward. His chest pressed to her bust as his lips captured hers. For a moment, Miena stiffened in his arms, then gradually gave in with a soft moan. She returned his kiss, then raised her hands from his shoulders, stroking them through his hair.

"Miena, I'm sorry, I was not myself." Alan could do nothing to stop the scene as it played out before him, so he adopted a conciliatory tone. He paced around the room, and found that he couldn't even touch the furnishings. He felt helpless, ghostlike. There had to be some way to break the chain of visions he was being shown.

"No, you weren't. But I was. It was the first time I could show you how I felt, without worrying about you rejecting me." Her voice was near frigid.




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 16



Near the bed, the enchanted Alan broke the kiss and gazed into Miena's eyes. The elder winced as he saw the genuine affection she returned. If he had only known then, he wasn't certain what he would have done, but whatever he had decided must certainly have been better than letting Miena dwell on her feelings to the point of insanity. And she was certainly, surely insane after everything she had done.

Alan watched Miena push his younger self back onto that bed, and draw the hem of that tailored robe upward, exposing her slender legs. The dark stockings that sheathed them were opaque, utilitarian things that came up to mid thigh, and only a glimpse of pale skin was visible as she shifted to straddle him. She leaned over the quite willing form beneath her, and spoke in a tone so soft as to be near inaudible, "Alan, I have wanted you to look at me like that since the day we first met."

Her blush burned brightly along her cheeks, and whatever response he might have made was silenced with a long, lingering kiss. The younger man's hands raised to begin to tug needfully at her robes, then gently caressed the ephemeral contours of her lean frame with the tenderest of touches. When their kiss broke once more, he gazed up into her wide eyes for a long while. She trembled, though even Alan's clearer headed older self couldn't be certain if it was from desire or panic.

"I love you, Miena."

The words rang true enough for the wizard, for she was soon fumbling at his shirt. Her lips were upon his, devouring and wanton, while her fingers scrambled for laces that were already undone, then buttons that simply weren't there. It was almost comical when, in her need and haste, she grasped the fabric and tried to tear it, only to fail miserably. Eventually, however, she slipped her hands down and under that white material, to caress over his bare torso beneath.

"Miena!" Alan was growing tired of the visions. He understood, at least in part, what might have fueled the wizard's obsession now, but the thoughts of his wife and his friend being violated by her spell, of the chaos she had wrought, of Daphne dying at the hands of her henchman, all caused his blood to boil. "Show yourself Miena. The real you. Enough with these dreams and memories."

"This is my favorite memory, Alan. You and I, no pretenses, nothing to get between us." Her response sounded from all around, even as the sounds of passion began to escalate. 

Upon the bed, their younger selves worked to free each other from their clothing. The redheaded wizard was not a bad sight, those ropes drew upward over a body that had once been painfully thin, but now at least looked healthy. What few underthings the young thief found beneath were quickly slid from her pale flesh. For her part, Miena had already removed his shirt, and fumbled at the clasp to his trousers. Her own head ducked to trace her lips along his chest, teasing her tongue along that tight, fit frame. She flicked her tongue out to tease over his nipple, then dragged her lower lip over his skin, teasing back up along his pectoral toward his shoulder.

"But your memories were false, Miena. Even this one, if it is as true as you recall, was fueled by someone else's misfired charms. You never approached me when I could remember, Miena. You never told me how you felt when I was in my right mind. Perhaps things would have been different if you had, but now we will never know. We were friends, Miena, and good ones. But now you've hurt me. You've hurt the ones I care for. You've stolen real and precious memories from a woman that made me happy." As he spoke, Alan stalked about that vision, looking for some way out. 

He moved toward one wall, and put his hand out to see if he could push right through. It was the only solid thing he felt within the chamber. He was almost about to give up when he felt it. The wall's texture didn't match up to the vision. Carefully, he began to feel around the edge.

"But she doesn't deserve you, Alan. She's just some frivolous, silly noble. She hasn't been through the things we have. She's no hero of the realm."

A soft cry from the bed momentarily drew his gaze. His younger self stretched out across those lavish sheets, his strong, agile form gazed up at the woman atop him. Miena now wore naught but her stockings and those cute little ankle boots. Her robes had been cast aside, though from their folds glittered that ever present Orb. It had found its way to the top of the pile, when surely its weight should have put it on the bottom.

Miena rocked her hips, and traced her wet slit back and forth across Alan's arousal. Her back arched just so, just enough to thrust those small breasts forth. This was the true, unaltered vision of what she had looked like. It lent credence to the idea that this was a real memory. It was surreal, watching himself with a woman from outside of his own body. Those hands grasped at Miena's hips, and slowly tugged her downward. The penetration was slow, gradual, and met a barrier. There was a moment's hesitation, and then he pushed through. She bit her lower lip to stifle the pained whimper, but it was still audible.

Alan closed his eyes upon the scene, and began to search in earnest along that slightly mismatched wall. "She is the woman I love." His heart was heavy after all he had witnessed, but it was still the truth. "And we aren't heroes ourselves, Miena. You let that go to your head, but we were just in the right place, at the right time. And we were paid handsomely for it."

She might have noticed what he was doing, for as the redhead upon the bed began to move with a slow, careful rocking against the thief's body, that all-pervasive voice took on a tone of concern, "Alan, what are you doing? Please, can't you just enjoy the memory? See how we were meant for each other?"

"No, Miena!" His response was sharper than he meant, loud enough to be heard over the raised voices from the bed. "I will give you one chance. Give my wife her memories back, let us go, and never show your face around this land again." It was an offer that he did not want to make, and felt ill prepared to enforce, should she accept. Yet he supposed it had to be extended.

"I cannot accept that, Alan. It would put me apart from you, and it would leave her, the undeserving wretch, in the place I should occupy! Is it her body, Alan? I can take her form if it would please you. Is it her connections? I can charm any nobles who aren't already friendly to whatever your purpose may be."

Alan felt a change in the wall, and then it wasn't a wall. He had been feeling masterfully worked and polished masonry rather than smooth plaster, a subtle difference, mostly in tone and texture. But at that moment his fingers felt the ridge of a door frame, and then the fitted boards of a door itself, bound tightly together and offering the contours of wood grain under his fingers. He opened his eyes to verify that he was still looking at a wall within the vision.

Behind him, the bed squeaked with those intense movements. He could hear bodies sliding and slapping against one another, the rustle of fine fabrics. Every detail of the vision was perfectly represented, as if it had been played over and over again. It seemed almost too real. Muffled moans gave way to soft cries, and then breathless words.

"See, Alan? You don't need those floozies, I can please you just the same as any," Her voice was louder than the shy whisper he had heard before, fueled by the act she was engaged in. Every thrust caused her words to pause and stutter.

"Miena. You are perfect," His own voice scalded his ears with its intensity. "Why have we never..."

The rising cry of the wizard bouncing atop the thief drowned out his words. The young Miena's voice rang out, barely comprehensible, "I'm, I'm- Oh!"

He couldn't let the vision linger in his senses any longer. He had to ignore it. Whatever was behind the door he had found must offer some escape from whatever powers Miena had used to ensnare him in her web of deluded memory. Alan's hand found an iron pull ring handle, and his fingers curled against the metal, ready to pull.

The vision collapsed around him, leaving in the pitch darkness once more. This time, however, the handle of the door was in his grasp. A delicate hand reached past his shoulder to press upon the door's surface, and though it couldn't hope to stop him if he put his full strength behind it, the voice that whispered into his ear gave him pause.

"Please, Alan. Don't open that door. I beg of you. I don't want you to see what is in there." 

It was Miena. The real Miena, not some product of a vision or memory. A pale white light began to flicker into being above them, exposing a round room, with the top of the spiral staircase he had ascended earlier just peeking up from the middle. The walls were that close fitted stonework he had felt, and it bore no other decorations. A single wooden door stood before him, and no other exits were visible.

Behind him, Miena stood. Her idealized form, with all of its curves, was close enough that he should have felt her warmth. Instead, all he felt was a deep chill. Her hand splayed over the wooden surface of the wood near the edge of the door. Tears fell like icy rain drops upon his shoulder.

"It is done, Alan. I have restored your wife's memories. The spells that were holding them back are gone. Vick and the gnome are with them at any rate. You are free to go. I will never bother you again."

Her voice was thick with fear and sadness, and threatened to spill over into sobs at any moment. Alan looked over his shoulder, just enough to catch one glowing, burning blue eye. She bit her lower lip, then turned her head away.

"I could have been your everything, Alan. With my magic, we could have been King and Queen. All that you ever might have wanted. Riches, power, fame, I could have been your Elizabeth, your Charity, your Daphne. Everyone and everything. And if that wasn't enough, as long as I was the first in your heart, I would not have objected to others having their secondary place."

Alan's brow knitted, and he stared down at the handle under his fingers. On the one hand, she had given up, he should just take his wife and leave. On the other, she had caused such misery so far, and there was no guarantee that she would hold to her word. Her offer, too, was certainly one that would have tempted him in years past. Her magic was impressive, he knew, and it seemed to have grown by leaps and bounds since her supposed death. But something still troubled him.

"Miena," He picked his words with care, "When did you gain the power to show such visions, or to manipulate memories as you have?" She had always been a fair hand at impressive spells, but these insidious things were beyond what he knew of her repertoire. "When did you get the power to pull a whole tower back together?"

"It's not important, Alan. You know I've always had talent at the Art."

"It's important to me, Miena. Tell me."

Both held their breath, hoping the other would give in first. By all rights, such a thing shouldn't matter to him. But it did. For some reason he couldn't place, he felt he needed to know if his hunch was correct. When she finally answered, it simply confirmed his worst fears.

"The Nightmare Orb."

He knew what he had to do. With a sudden yank, Alan pulled that door open. Miena shrieked and clawed at his back with icy hands. The leathers he still wore did much to blunt the force of those dagger-like nails, but little to ward off the absolute cold that enveloped her very touch. It was numbing, chilling muscle and blood and nerves and making it oh so difficult to move. But move he did.

"No! Alan! Please!" Her cries were shrill, desperate. "I don't want you to see me like ... that."

The room beyond was dark. The only light that shone in cast from the chamber of memories. It stabbed into the darkness over his shoulders, and dimly illuminated a small, cluttered room. The walls were lined with shelves of dusty tomes, mingled with jars of odd reagents and stacks of scrolls. A lone desk was settled under a set of shuttered windows that resembled nothing in the current tower, but certainly recalled the original design he remembered so well.

In one wall, a fireplace lay long cold, while overhead, a chandelier of iron and crystal tinkled and creaked, disturbed by the breeze from his opening the door. The floor was bare stone, like the rest of that uppermost floor, and upon it, toppled candles and bent candlesticks of wrought iron lay scattered, as if they had been tossed about by some explosion.

The most heart wrenching thing in the chamber, however, were the pitiful, huddled remains that lay crumpled against one wall. Nearly skeletal, what flesh still clung to those bones was charred. The tatters of tailored robes which still clung to the body showed signs of severe burning. The body itself was twisted, as if it had been trapped under something heavy as whatever burned it progressed. And within one tightly clasped, skeletal claw, a silvery handle was held. The ominous black orb which topped it was turned toward the body's skull, where empty sockets might stare into its inky darkness for all eternity.

Alan's shoulders slumped, and behind him, Miena's form wavered. It became semitransparent, as if eyes upon her true remains weakened her ability to hold a solid form. She hid her face and sobbed, before turning away.

"You've been dead all this time. Miena, why? Why would you put me through all of this if you were already gone?" Alan wasn't angry. The rage that had stirred within him had been laid low at that sight. All he felt was a profound sadness.

"When I was dying, Alan, I didn't want you to be the one to find me. I didn't want you to remember me like that. I wanted you to remember how I used to be. Then the Orb, it said that I could make you remember me however I wanted you to. So I thought about us, about all the fun we had, about the times we shared and the adventures we went on. Then I remembered how I wanted you, how I always loved you."

Alan nodded numbly, "The Nightmare Orb, it has the power over memories and dreams, doesn't it?"

"It does. And it feeds off of those memories, those dreams. Those memories of you, that's what was going through my mind when- when I died."

"I thought we'd found the orb, and buried it in an empty tomb. How can it be here with a body we never found?"

"That was just a copy. I kept a few about, to mislead would be thieves." She sounded proud of such a simple plan, but it disturbed him that, of all the things she owned, all the tokens she possessed, this was the one she took such steps to safeguard. "The real Orb's been with me all this time."

He frowned at her words, and just stared down at her body. "Is this the truth, Miena? Or another misdirection? How do I know you're even Miena, and not just a projection of the Orb?"

"Does it matter, Alan? I don't even know myself. I don't want to know for sure. All I know is that I remember being me, and I remember you." Her tone changed then, "Alan, you could keep the Orb in a safe place. I could be with you again, except this time, it would be like in the old days. I could go back to wanting you from afar, I could help you rebuild everything I destroyed!"

Alan stepped forward into that dusty chamber, and crossed toward the body. As that ghostly form rambled on behind him, he knelt, and carefully pried the Nightmare Orb from where those dry, skeletal fingers curled about it. A few broke off, and crumbled into ash where they fell.

"Alan! Yes! Take me with you? We can be together again! I'll be your right hand girl, I could make you and your wife royalty! Just please, please, don't drop me Alan!"

Those last few words caused his blood to run cold. The old rogue stared down into the glittering, inky depths of the black orb within his hands.

"Alan?" Her voice grew thin, uncertain, "What are you going to do?"

Slowly, he rose to his feet, and turned to the ghostly image of his old friend. He looked into her eyes as he moved away from her skeleton, clutching the Orb in one hand. There was only one thing he could do.



Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 17



The City of Aethwin, jewel of the Free Cities, spread out before the weary group as they crested the last ridge before the outlying farms. It was nearly noon, and the city's glorious spires and luxurious terrain were bustling with activity. The sky was clear and the winds kept the temperature manageable. Horses would have been nice, but it was pretty certain that the ones they had ridden out one had been lost near the hags, if not eaten by them. There was still a way to go for the foot weary travelers, but the road before them was clear and the last few miles would pass faster than any they had trod. Home, after all, awaited them.

To his right, a soft giggling drifted from the woman hanging off of Vick's arm. She was a sweet thing, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, with tanned skin and dark hair. Lithe of build and clad in soft, supple green suede, she had been the one screaming back in the Startower. Lilian, he thought her name was. Vick had ended up rescuing her from whatever pit trap he'd got himself stuck in, and she had spent the entire trip back clinging to her "handsome knight".

"Fat bastard" was the first term to come to Alan's mind. He recognized her kind, though. Padded soles to silence footsteps, a pouch of tools at her waist. A thief of skill could sniff out another thief any day. She had likely broken into the place seeking quick riches. He couldn't blame her, it sounded like something he would have done in his youth. The old rogue just wasn't sure how long it would take Vick to catch on, or whether he should call her out or just let Madame Pryce settle things with the girl.

Windhawk had been quiet for the whole trip. Garthur had tended to what strain and injuries the dark tentacles had inflicted on her body, but the embarrassment of her own reactions to those invasive lengths was something that would linger on in her own mind. Not a single member of the group that had been there mentioned it, but she constantly shot glares to Alan and Faringalia, and even Vick, the one who eventually cut her down from their writhing grasp.

Still, when they had stopped to allow Garthur to give his blessings over the place Daphne fell, she had seemed almost happy for a moment. Tears had returned to the stoic ranger's features, but they seemed ones of happiness. It was apparent to the rest that a great weight that none of them shared had finally been lifted from the elven woman.

Garthur had complained incessantly about the distance during their walk, but Alan knew that it was his way of showing he was pleased with how things had turned out. It seemed he always drank most and laughed loudest when things were at their most dour, but when events turned out right, he was the first to gripe over the little things. Their mission had been accomplished, and he'd managed to seal another great evil away for however long his blessings would bolstered the Lost Queen's prison. He had been disappointed when the rest had overruled another trek through Pinroot Ruins. The dwarf had so wanted to show off how he had sealed off the entry to the Lost Queen's chambers.

Faringalia had reverted to the chatterbox that so annoyed Alan, but he had learned to tune her out. She was bubbling with excitement over having completed her first adventure as a True Reaver of Aethwin, and had waxed loquacious about how she had saved Vick multiple times, as well as how far the scant items she had collected would go to pay off her debts. He had to admire her eagerness, if not her overactive voice.

The most important of the group, however, had never left Alan's side during the entire trip. Elizabeth Tinsley clung to his side as if frightened he might slip away at any moment. Aside from that, however, she seemed in good spirits. Clad in Alan's cloak, and a simple black shift they had borrowed from the fallen Daphne's supply pack, she still managed to radiate a rare beauty. Nothing supernatural or otherworldly, but the simple attraction of a ready smile and a warm heart.

She recalled every bit of her capture, from the abuses heaped upon her at by the infiltrated guild to the way the bard had charmed her while her memories were subdued. With all that she had been through, however, Lizzy had been more concerned over Alan's state, and had doted on him every moment she could. For a noble who had rarely been subject to such hardship, she had proved quite strong.

Of course, when they had passed the Stranger's body, she had taken a knife to it. It wasn't the savage, raging fit of one driven by anger, but there was a certain rage in her eyes as she systematically cut the flesh. It was done, Windhawk had told Alan later, in a manner that would attract predators and scavengers to the freshly opened wounds, to speed the scattering of the bard's remains. Alan wasn't certain where Lizzy had learned such a thing, and frankly didn't want to know.

She had begged forgiveness for her actions while her memory had been gone, and it took some time for her to accept that Alan would not have faulted her even if there had been no spell.

"I love you, Elizabeth. No matter what you may do or what may happen. I adore you for being you."

Alan didn't think he'd ever seen someone so happy after hearing such a simple truth. He didn't, in all fairness, tell her about his own indiscretions. He wanted her to be happy, and such knowledge might certainly spoil her mood, though he was fairly certain she would forgive him in the end. After all, she had married a scoundrel with full knowledge of his personal failings. With her around to keep him on the straight and narrow, there would be no further lapses.

As they gazed out over the fields before them, Windhawk stopped, then cleared her throat. She waited for the others to turn their attention to her before she spoke, "This is as far as I go, friends. It was grand, adventuring with you once more, but the forest beckons, and I cannot deny its call."

Vick grunted a bit as he looked Windhawk over, but the woman at his side bowed her head. 

"It was an honor to meet you, Lady Elf," Lilian's voice sounded as sweet as the rest of her looked. During the entire trip back, Faringalia had been pushing her to consider joining the Reavers, while Vick had been regaling her with tales of their past exploits. It seemed that the young woman was trying to put her best foot forward, in case she did end up joining the newer ranks.

The thief girl's courtesy stirred the fat Count to action, and he nodded, adopting a sober tone, "Windhawk, sorry about your cousin, but it was indeed good to see you in action again. May your travels ever keep you safe."

She offered a gentle smile in return. "Thank you Vick, and there is nothing to be sorry about with Daephraen. She is free now, free of the icy clutch of undeath which kept her from the forests for so long." Her smile grew sad, but she then turned her eyes to Garthur. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes, yes it is, elf." The dwarf stroked his beard as he regarded the ranger. "Keep fighting the dark ones out there. You've gotta pick up the slack so the rest of these old farts can retire." He jutted one thumb to Alan and Vick each.

Windhawk giggled, then turned her eyes to Alan, and Elizabeth in turn. She stepped forward, and hugged Alan's wife gently. "It is good that we have you safe and sound, back where you belong, Mrs. Tinsley. Keep the old man out of trouble, will you?"

Elizabeth laughed gently at the exchange, "Of course, I can only try. Alan is always one to do his own thing."

Alan smiled when Elizabeth stepped back into his side. He slipped his arm about her and dipped his head to the elf. "I do expect you to come visit us, at least when Vick's wedding comes along."

At the mention of the wedding, Lilian stared at Vick, who shifted uncomfortably, and tried to offer her a disarming grin. "Yeah, I may be engaged. Did I forget to mention that?"

The sound of the slap was impressive even for those used to Vick's antics.

As the two set to quarreling, Windhawk waved at Faringalia. "And you, I'll be looking forward to working with you again some time. You're a plucky little thing, and you'll have a long career ahead of you."

The gnome grinned in response. "Oh yes! I don't doubt we'll join together to face the forces of evil again. You take care of yourself, Miss Windhawk!"

With her fare wells said, Windhawk slipped back toward the forest. As she did, Lilian stormed off along the road toward town, with Vick moving after her, calling for her to wait. Faringalia watched Windhawk until she disappeared, then turned her eyes back after Vick.

"So um, should one of us go after him? In case something happens? I mean we hardly know the girl..."

"Be my guest," Alan and Garthur at the same time, then laughed. Each man gestured after Vick's retreating back. She eyed them both for a moment, then ran double time to try to catch up with the bulky fighter.

With the group dispersing, Alan sighed. He let his hand fall to rub at the small of his wife's back, and she pressed in against his side. Finally, he leaned to capture her lips. The kiss was exquisite, a sweet reminder of everything he had given up his life on the edge for. As the blonde broke away from the kiss, she looked from Alan to Garthur and back. It seemed the dwarf was lingering around for something specific.

"I'll let you two speak. Catch up quickly, won't you?" She spoke in a teasing tone, and let her nails play over Alan's chest.

He simply nodded, and she pulled away. His gaze followed her form as she trod away far enough to give them time for a private exchange, but not far enough to be in real danger. The way she had been swept away once already was still at the forefront of everyone's minds. Alan admired the view, however, the way the wind stirred her shining hair, the way it flattened that simple cloak and shift about her form, outlining every curve, exposing those pale limbs.

"Alan," Garthur began, but he didn't have to continue for Alan to know what he spoke of.

The old thief's hand traveled down to the pouch at his belt, and with a click, he opened the buttons which clasped that worn leather shut. From the pouch, he drew forth the item that he had kept hidden from the others. It shined in the sunlight as he held it out.

The silver handle shone as it caught the light, its clawed talons curved inward over the shattered remnants of black crystal it once held. He passed it over to the dwarf, then shook out his pouch, for the rest of the Orb's shards. He'd painstakingly collected every piece, after all.

Garthur took the remnants in one broad, stubby fingered hand. He drew a ceremonial piece of silk from his own pack, twice blessed and embroidered with protective glyphs. It was something usually used to wrap holy relics, or in rituals of purification. Carefully, the cleric of the earthen father wrapped the broken remains of the Nightmare Orb, and spoke a soft prayer. The silk tied itself up, in such a way that the embroidered glyphs aligned perfectly along the edges.

It had been a few days since that terrible moment. Days of walking the long way around the most dangerous parts of the forest. It had been time well spent, allowing members of their group to recover, allowing his own thoughts to settle down. But it was still not enough time to forget that haunting scream, the betrayed sound of Miena's voice.

Alan had delayed at the end, long enough to study her ghostly expression, to look into her glowing blue eyes. He was looking for signs that she was truly Miena, and not just some figment of the Orb. She certainly seemed to have Miena's memories, and her spells. Even her erratic actions could be excused as the after effects of becoming a tormented ghost. In the end, he genuinely wanted to see proof that she was Miena, to hold out some hope that she was still who she was. He thought he knew how Windhawk felt about Daphne, in that moment.

He wasn't sure why, however. It would not have changed anything after everything was said and done. Alan would still have shattered that Orb, he had to end the chaos the obsessive magic user had wrought. Whether she be ghost or figment, he had to know that his Elizabeth was safe from her, not subject to the whims of a changing mind or the false protection of promises made under duress. Most damning, Alan still wasn't sure whether he had seen any spark, any proof that Miena was not simply some nightmare spawned from the Orb itself.

And so he had thrown it to the cold stone ground. Right there, in front of her spectral eyes.

He had been shocked, at the time, that such a simple act had worked as well as it had. He'd heard that some artifacts required great lengths to destroy. Even his limited experience with magic items told him that most were much more durable than their physical forms would suggest.

As soon as that Orb struck the stone floor, however, it had shattered. No, it had done more than shatter, it had exploded. Arcs of arcane energy danced across the floor as the black sphere burst into pieces. Shards were cast out at high speed, some ricocheted across the room. A few pieces grazed off his leather armor, one cut his cheek as it passed. The handle still maintained a few pieces affixed to its clawed talons, but for the most part, the Orb was unrepairable.

Miena wailed. Her cry was heart breaking, it sounded so like her. Her forlorn ghost flew toward the broken Orb, but by then it was too late. Whatever powers it once possessed had fled in the instant of its destruction. He didn't know what to expect. The wave of energy it had released felt sickening, dark. Malice, regret, fear, hate, self loathing, it all washed over him, washed throughout the room. The walls stained a diseased black, and glistened as if coated with some foul thing's ichor.

The transparent woman before him shook with a few last sobs, then began to fade away. The blue glow of her eyes faltered and died, and her form darkened, growing more and more see through. She had enough time to turn to look at him, to stare into his eyes with a mix of sorrow and relief. She looked so frail, so lost. If she had still been living, his conscience would not have let him simply stand there and watch her perish, but she clearly was no longer among the quick. One of her delicate hands reached for him, and the thought that he had made a mistake flickered through his mind. It was but a moment's idea, however. Whatever the result, in the end he had taken what action he thought necessary. He would live with what consequences it produced.

Finally, the last of her faded away, and he was left within that chamber, alone. It had taken him some time to recover his thoughts, and more to realize that he couldn't just leave the fragments of the Orb laying there, to be discovered later. So he set himself to gathering them up. Piece by piece he collected those fragments into his belt pouch, and only then did he return to the others. By then, Vick and Faringalia had already started tending to Elizabeth and Windhawk, while the new girl Lilian looked on with concern.

Although he hadn't told any of the others what had happened, he knew that some of them had their likely wild and improbable guesses. None of them asked him about it, even when he made Garthur head back to the tower with them to lay Miena's real remains to rest. It became obvious, however, that at least Garthur knew something was up beyond simply an old, dead friend.

Alan wasn't sure whether the remnants of the Orb held any power in them, but he was definitely relieved when the dwarf stowed the silk wrapped shards away. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"I'll see to it that these get disposed of properly."

The old rogue nodded, then turned his eyes back to where his wife stood. Elizabeth gazed out across to the city, and the wind blew her hair into her eyes. A smile touched his features as he watched her tuck that stray strand behind one ear.

She must have caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, because she turned to meet his gaze. Her own smile followed, as well as an almost shy blush. It was enough to make all of the trouble they had been through worthwhile.

"Go to her, boy. Enjoy your time." Garthur chuckled.

"I fully intend to." Alan offered a grin back to the cleric, who just waved him onward.

Alan moved up toward Elizabeth, and she turned to wrap her arms about his shoulders. Her soft body pressed in against his own, and he slipped his arms about her, pulling her in close. He looked into her eyes, and she just smiled and gazed into his. The thief slipped his hands up and down along her back, loving the feel of her within his arms again, the sensation of her under his hands. It was the look in her eyes, however, that convinced him she was really his Lizzy, not some shape shifting imposter or figment of magic.

Her full lips curled into a smile, and she murmured in gentle tones, "Let's go home, my love."

He brushed his lips across hers for another gentle kiss. "Of course."

The trip home should have been uneventful, but news had spread of the Count's arrival, of the victorious return of the party. The streets were lined with well wishers, and though the crowds were noisy and perhaps a bit too thick for his tastes, considering Elizabeth's state and lack of substantial dress, it turned out for the best in the end. They were loaned a carriage to ride to their estate by another landed family, and escorted by some city guards who had taken it upon themselves to greet each hero's return.

The details as to what had sent the old Reavers of Aethwin out into the wilds had been intentionally hidden when they left, and lack of hard facts left rumors to run rampant during their absence. Just on the way home, Alan heard they had gone to slay some giants, or had ended the threat of a dragon before it even showed its head. Some were even ascribing feats of magic and mayhem to Alan's wife, and tales of her being some manner of fire throwing wizard amused Elizabeth greatly.

As much as the city still thrived, however, Miena's actions had left their mark. The Count's announcement of his engagement to his long time lover had many people looking forward to a grand wedding, despite Margaret Pryce's low birth and questionable profession. Apparently, she had made herself quite visible as protector of the city during Vick's few days absence. Whatever she had done, she had achieved some popularity with the people, if not with the nobles.

With their names back on the tongues of those suited to spreading such news, and their victory, the Reavers would likely thrive again. Faringalia's induction into the original circle and the fact that she was still the sort to go out adventuring would no doubt bring fresh blood flocking to the name once more. Alan looked forward to a revitalized Reavers' Rest, however it may turn out.

Then there was the guild. It had taken him years to build up the Aethwin thieves into something that, while not legal or particularly respectable, at least wasn't a force for destruction and chaos. He had reigned in their worst activities, organized them and built up their reputation. And this, in such a short span, had shattered it all. Even if that night of butchery had never taken place, the good work and progress he had made for the guild would take a long time to return.

The worry must have shown on his face, for even as they passed what used to be the guild house, Elizabeth shuddered and leaned into his side. She gazed up to his features for a long moment, then asked tentatively, "You aren't thinking of leaving retirement, are you?"

The look on her face made his mind up instantly. "Of course not, my love." But that did leave the question of what would be done about the situation.

But the solution dawned on him readily, and he smiled to himself. This earned a poke in the chest from Elizabeth, as the carriage swayed and rocked along those winding streets. "What's that look for?"




Scoundrel's Answer Ch. 17



Alan's smile remained as he looked deeply into her eyes. "Just that I will never have to leave retirement, my love." He quickly kissed her, to silence any more questions.

He would leave the guild to Tannon, and Amarinth and Merideth. The two half elves were already known as the conscience of the guild, and Tannon wasn't particularly bad at things, just reluctant. Between the three, it would keep things on an even keel for the foreseeable future.

Finally, all things were settled. Finally, Alan could look forward to a peaceful life, with time to enjoy all his fame and daring had earned. And through it all, the love of his life, the woman who had turned him from a wandering scoundrel to a respectable member of society would be by his side. Finally, he looked forward to getting home.

Their arrival at the estate was almost anticlimactic. Henri had largely recovered, and he and Marcy had put the place right once more. It was as if things had never gone awry. Alan returned his weapons, his armor, and his tools of the trade respectfully to their place in his vaults, while Elizabeth retreated to the bath. He did not have to show her the way, another reassurance for any nagging doubt he might have had.

He still worried, though. Worried over how Elizabeth would handle what had happened in the long run. Neither of them could have realistically prevented things from progressing as they had, but it would forever be a memory to deal with. He was concerned over what might happen if his past came to haunt him again. He had pissed off a great many beings during his time, and if anything, the sore muscles and aching scars earned on the journey proved to him that he was too old to participate in such escapades anymore. 

Not that he was truly ancient by any stretch, he knew wizards who would hit the road in their sixties and seventies, older than he by some amount. But for someone in his line of work, slow reflexes and stiff joints were a death sentence.

Alan wandered back up the halls of his own home, shirtless, just in a snug set of trousers what had served him well through that trip. While still en route to his room, he began to work them loose, while his other hand rubbed and kneaded at one shoulder. He was so exhausted, he could sleep for days. As he opened the doors to the master bedroom, however, all thoughts of sleep vanished.

The last time he had been in that room, Daphne was still around, and there were still signs of his struggle with the doppelganger that had been wearing his wife's face. Marcy had really outdone herself in cleaning up the place, it appeared as pristine as it had on his wedding night, when he first carried Lizzy over that threshold.

This time, however, rather than carrying his bride, she already lay in the bed. Freshly bathed and reclining casually back amidst the sheets, she was a goddess in Alan's eyes. There was not a sign of the hardships she had been through over the past few days, Garthur's healing prayers on the way to town had mended even the slight scratches and scrapes of the trek back through the forest.

Elizabeth's hair was still damp from her bath, and lay draped about her head on the pillows, a golden halo for an earthly angel. Her emerald eyes were half lidded, watching his every movement through thick lashes. A deft, pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, before she languidly stretched her arms up over her head.

Her body was bare, firm breasts in full view, with nipples jutting as hard peaks from each tip. Her smooth, creamy skin had gained a bit of color in those passing days, but was still a far cry from the tans of the elven women. One long leg was crooked at the knee, with her foot resting upon the bed, while the other was straightened, leaving her thighs slightly parted. Only the lightest dusting of blonde curls lay above slick, inviting folds.

The last time he had seen her on such display, it had been in that dream-vision of her and the bard. There was desire in her posture, in her gaze, but rather than that of the heated moment, it was a more comfortable, smoldering want. Her eyes held something he hadn't seen then, as well. Alan could only guess and hope that it was love.

She laughed softly, an act which caused those breasts to bounce and sway. One hand lifted, and she crooked one finger, beckoning his approach. He did so, and as he crossed the room with quiet steps, her eyes roamed his body as his gaze had taken in hers.

"My savior. Surely you are going to enjoy the spoils of your adventure?"

It was the only invitation he needed. One knee sank into the mattress as he eased into the bed with her, and he grasped that outstretched wrist. His lips descended to her fingers, and each was grazed with a tender kiss. Throughout it all, his eyes never left hers. His kisses ascended her arm, toward her shoulder, and her other hand slipped to his side, drawing his body in against hers.

Alan had been with many a woman before meeting her, it was to be expected in his profession. But those past few days had been the first time since their marriage he had been with any other. It had also marked the longest time he had been without her in that same span. As he leisurely reacquainted himself with her body, every curve, every nook, it served to remind him what he had missed.

Elizabeth captured his heart and his mind in a way no other woman ever truly had, and likely ever truly would.

Despite the weariness, the exhaustion, the memories of what had been and the hardships they had both suffered, neither of them slept much that evening. Instead, Alan luxuriated in the taste of her upon his lips, the warmth of her curves against his hard flesh. He lost himself in the scent of her, the shape of her body moving against his, the feel of legs wrapped about him, of nipples between his lips, of nails raked along hit back.

There was no rush between them. Each knew what the other enjoyed, and seemed intent on using every trick they knew to please the other. It was like a second honeymoon. Even when he rested between bouts, Alan was content to simply hold her close. She made him feel young again, she made him feel whole. She made him feel like a good man, not just a thief and scoundrel.

It was early the next morning when a knock at the door awoke Alan. He wasn't certain when he had dozed off, but Lizzy was thankfully still at peace beside him. Groggily, he called out, "Who is it?"

"Marcy, my lord. There is someone from the guard at the front door for you."

Alan was at a loss as to who it might be, so he threw on a new pair of pants, and drew a clean shirt on. Elizabeth stirred in the bed, and woke up as he moved to the door. He offered her a gentle smile.

"I'll be back in a moment, my love."

She just nodded and put her head down, but he knew it wouldn't be long before she was fully awake. He stole out of the room on bare feet, and moved down the hall toward the manor's entrance. Marcy was standing nearby, and as he approached, she opened the door.

Out on the front step stood a youth that couldn't be past eighteen. He was wearing the city colors, and looked out of breath. When he saw Alan approach, he bowed his head.

"Sir Tinsley. Thank goodness you're in. I just received word that a dragon was threatening the southern villages. The boys at the guardhouse thought that you might be interested."

A dragon. The scaly beasts meant danger, excitement, and coin aplenty. Adventure and thrills awaited, for any brave enough to take them on. His adrenaline peaked at the very thought, as that old call to arms reared its head. But then, a slender set of arms slipped about him from behind. Elizabeth, clad only in the sheet from their bed pressed her body against his back, and her soft lips kissed at his neck.

"What are you up to, my love?" Her voice was still sleepy, and she offered a smile to the guard from over Alan's shoulder.

The old rogue just laughed. "Nothing, my dear." And then, he turned his steely gaze to the nervous young guard. His smile, however, assuaged any fear his eyes might have instilled.

"Do you know where the Reavers' Rest is?"

"Of course, Sir!" The guard perked up at the question.

"You'll be wanting to tell them. I'm sure they'll provide a few brave souls to face the beast. I'm retired."

For a moment, the boy looked nervous, then straightened up and saluted him. "Yes sir! Sorry for disturbing you, Sir Tinsley!" And with that, he began to hustle off.

The retired scoundrel gently closed the door, and walked his young wife back to their room, confident that the new generation of Reavers could handle anything the world threw at them. 

He had his own new generation to begin working on, after all.