[color=8585AD][h3]Marcel[/h3][/color]
[color=8585AD]"What about you two?"[/color]

The all too pleased look on Gaivus's face strains for just a moment. "Not I," he replies, shaking his head, eyes appearing distant for just a moment when the cloud passes. He nods towards Gisele, his smile returning to his face. "Not yet anyhow. And neither has miss Margot here."

Gisele's blue eyes blaze at Gaivus as her grip tightens around her writing quill, and, for a moment, it looks as if she might just lunge forward and stab him with it. "If it's quite alright, [i]gentlemen[/i]," she says heatedly, "I would much rather prefer to continue my work without being forced to listen to you idly dither on." Fuming, she returns to her papers, roughly sorting the parchments as Gaivus offers his best attempt at appearing cowed---though he looks far closer to bursting into laughter. 

The palpable conflicting energies within the wagon---the thick, protracted silence from Gisele and the infuriatingly jocular emanations from Gaivus---threaten to ignite in an explosive cataclysm like the clash of cold and warm fronts before a storm. But the moment passes and the threat dissipates. Gisele's tight face softens and her breathing returns to normal. Without lifting her eyes from her work, barely audible above the sounds of the creaking wagon, Gisele quietly replies: "But to answer your question, Marcel, no. I am not married."

[color=FF3333][h3]Rook[/h3][/color]
You gently slide the envelope out from behind the tea jar with a deft hand... When the carriage rocks hard as a wheel slams into a deep pot hole. Though you manage to hold your balance, you hear a thud reverberate through the ceiling and see the contents of the cabinet pitch forward. You reflexively extend your hand and catch the jar of tea just before it crashes to the floor. Above you, a string muffled epithets furiously stream through the ceiling in what sounds like one of Adele's now familiar diatribes. 

At least this time it's not at directed at you.

Turning your eyes back inside the cabinet, you find everything in disarray. The envelopes have hopelessly scattered. Several of the bottles have fallen over, and to your recollection the labels for those that remain standing are facing in different directions. You recognize that, at this point, virtually any amount of tampering could be blamed on the rough road without fear of suspicion. You replace the jar and collect the envelopes.

The first letter is written in a lovely script with scented ink on paper blue as a robin's egg.

[i][indent][indent]My Dear Gaivus,
I find myself in an uncomfortable position as I come to write this letter in response to your previous correspondence. However, as you have requested, I will answer in accordance with the desires of my heart and the demands of my conscience in this matter. 

Over the months, I must admit I have enjoyed great pleasure from our dalliances, public and otherwise, and while I assure you my intimations towards you were nothing but genuine, I must nevertheless dutifully decline your proposal. Certainly you are not without your qualities, but the mere allure of your particular charms must not and will not determine my course. I must consider foremost the responsibilities and affairs of my station. As it happens, I have been made aware of the nature of your estate, your ventures, your debts. Simply I cannot entertain the notion of joining our houses. To do so would be foolish and irresponsible. 

I regret if the bluntness of my tongue wounds you, but as you know I have never been one to prevaricate when the circumstances are so plain before my eyes. 

With all respect,
- Rosalie Chastaine[/indent][/indent][/i]

The second letter is quite plain in comparison, with neat and unembellished handwriting.

[i][indent][indent]Hemming,
Just received your letter. Lovely to hear some good news for a change. Keep me informed of your progress. Would be grateful to hear from you as soon as you arrive in Paolou so my fraying nerves may be at ease. This contract has the potential to change both of our fortunes, my friend. In either, mind you.

As for the other matter, use your best judgment, but be careful not to underestimate her.

I trust you'll keep everything in order. 
- Victor Greaves[/indent][/indent][/i]

The final letter is written on paper much like the second, with careful, precise script.

[i][indent][indent]Mr. Hemming,
Your refusal to offer any help to me thus far in this affair is regrettable. I hope you find reason and change your mind, and quickly. 

This will be the last letter you receive from me. 
- S.D.[/indent][/indent][/i]

[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/qkt14TA.png[/img][/center]
[center][h3]Chapter 2 - Part II[/h3][/center]

The sun dips below the horizon, forfeiting its celestial throne to the gods of the night. Out here, away from the city lights of Belencrest, the clear night sky is brilliant in resplendent luminance. Stars prick through the darkness by the thousand-thousands in an eternal, glittering swirl; the twin moons, Eselle and Raan, like two silver pools, cast a soft gauze of pearly light upon the earth below. The most dazzling sight of all is perhaps the yellow planet Caprisa, a golden orb with glittering emerald rings that looms in the sky every few decades before retreating back into the ink black infinite.

Some of the Cossleton townsfolk are milling about as you pass through, regarding you mostly with looks of concern or apprehension. With the Western Way only a few miles to the north, these people are clearly unaccustomed to [i]their[/i] town being used as a thoroughfare. Along the way, a man in simple, ivory robes looks at the horseless carriage with disdain marking his face. From his garments you recognize he must belong to the Alnocce, a philosophical order who decry the study and use of totems, seeing it as an affront to the gods and the natural order. However, despite the occasional sour look, you pass through Cossleton without any incident.

The main road leads out of town, veering into the countryside. Pockets of tree thickets sparsely populate the sprawling fields of short grass that seem to shimmer with dappled silver. Before long, you arrive at an open, iron-wrought gate. You pass through, traveling along the winding, moonlit path, when you notice in the distance a great mansion silhouetted against the night sky. It seems quite odd amidst this pastoral setting: this impressive structure stands five stories tall, with its decorative exterior pilasters, corbeled windows, ornate parapets and thin chimneys set atop the gabled roof and stretching into the sky like the spines of a black crown.

The caravan slowly settles as the pathway loops in front of the mansion into a gravel roundabout. Though some sconced torches offer some illumination to the estate grounds, most of the windows appear to be absent of any light at all. The caravan comes to a full stop, and for the moment you wait in the night and the silence. "There was a footman here earlier," offers Silhaine, his voice sounding a bit uneasy. "He said to take the caravan here in the front, but I don't see him anywhere." 

At that moment, a loud clack rings out from the estate as the front door swings open. A figure emerges from the darkness within, out into the silver twilight intermixed with the dull flickering orange of flames, glinting dimly on a blackened, inhuman faceplate. A voice like grinding slabs of granite booms out across the courtyard. "Welcome to the Cossler estate." 

Through the dark windows you notice the curtains begin to sway with movement as shadows shift from within. The window panes shatter in showers of tinkling glass, revealing the tips of crossbows glinting in the black. [color=00FFFF][i]"Djonn... The quarrels... They're totems,"[/i] Zacharias whispers to you amidst the chorus of crashing glass.[/color] "Stay where you are, all of you. If you are armed," the stone voice continues, "we ask that you remove your weapons at once." Around either corner of the mansion emerge several more dark figures, dim light playing upon cruel blades. "We have several hostages within. Including the nobles. Cosslers. A Baelin." The guards and workers around you begin to fidget uneasily.

"I will make this very simple for you. There will be no negotiation. All we want is Hemming." From behind the speaker, a creature appears wearing a grotesque helm of orange tinted glass, bulbous and protruding, twisting and warping its wearer's face into something monstrous and inhuman. It clutches at the speakers arms, pointing a crooked claw towards the caravan, singling out a few individuals... And you.

The speaker nods but otherwise pays it no mind. "Hand him over to us, and there shall be no violence. We will depart at once. Deny us this one, simple request, and all will die." 

[color=CC99FF][h3]Rhona Mór[/h3][/color]
You've been making good time. The cool breeze has remained fortuitously gentle. You have not once been forced to struggle against any headwinds. Just a few minutes ago, you had passed by a sign indicating that the Oáfel lake was nearby. At this rate, you should arrive at the Cossler place in just under half an hour. You continue to flit along the road when a uneasy feeling overtakes you.

Instinctually, you dart sharply to the right just as a screeching blur swoops past you, missing you by mere inches.

The air flutters with the heavy rustle of feathers as you discover two slate-gray owls circling above you. Bulbous, golden eyes rolling madly in their sockets; large brow feathers, arched like devil's horns; beaks and talons curved and vicious. Adrenaline floods your system as the oddness of owls hunting together only briefly crossing your mind when the owls swoop again for another attack.