Ceara examined an ornate candlestick, drawing her finger across the gilded  surface before tossing it to her armoured companion.  “Thats the last of  it.  Here, hand me that bag.”  Nima nodded, closing the burlap sack and  dropping it on the floor. The redheaded thief rolled her eyes,  sauntering to the bag of stolen goods and grasping it with both hands. “Oh, that’s quite heavy…”  Ceara pulled upwards again, to little avail. “Alright. You’ll carry that, then.”

Nima  nodded again, slinging the spoils of their victory in Mirador over his  shoulder as the thieves began to draw their heist to a close.  The  bowels of Mirador were rich with gold this and silver that, and Ceara  had been sure to clear every last room of their valuables.  Now, the bag  they had brought was full, and the feast upstairs sounded to be in full  swing.  The time to slip away was now.  

The  thieves rattled their way through the empty cellars, the valuables they  had stolen clanking with every step.  Fortunately, as they drew nearer  and nearer to the feast, the sounds of song and drink began to overpower  every other noise.  Clambering up the stairs that lead into the  kitchen, Ceara pushed open the thin wooden door that separated the  Order’s depository from the feasting Great Hall.  The thief scanned the  kitchen, looking out for knights, soldiers, and most of all, the  [i]bard[/i].  

Ceara  looked for a few moments, sighed, and closed the door so she could  comfortably addressing her friend.  “There’s only one exit not covered  by gaggles of drinking knights - we’ll have to go right out through the  Great Hall.”

“We will be caught. You will have your hands cut off, and I will lose my  head.  These knights do not like me.”  Nima said matter of factly.  

Ceara  snorted.  “The vast majority of these knights are too drunk to cut off  anything, never mind notice a bard leaving their little party.”  Ceara  composed herself, putting a confident smile on her face.  “If you walk  with purpose, people won’t question you.  Come on, lets get this over  with.”

The thieves walked through the kitchen and into the Great Hall, making their way towards the exit.

They  arrived to the sound of drunken laughter and raucous singing in the  lower tables, whilst the guests at the Great Table and its immediate  surrounding area remained relatively sober, a few priests reading from  the Holy Codex in Foverosi Tone. The Grandmaster sat in the center of  the Great Table, merrily conversing with his Apostles and his honoured guests.

Seneschal Hristov, somewhat further down the path of intoxication than the  others, was still functional enough to spot and recognize Ceara as she  was creeping past the more hammered soldiers and peasants. "Aye! She  with the hair of saffron and the voice of silk!" he called out,  gesturing to the "bard." The Apostles ceased whatever they were speaking  about and turned towards Ceara and Nima. Physical responses raged from  general apathy to outright antipathy from the more zealous Apostles upon  sighting the Easterner, but other than scathing glares, nothing was  said or done. "You were the one toasting tables earlier. Right, put the  other minstrels to shame," he explained, chuckling aloud.

The actual bard, Mostafa Idrissi, recognized the false bard for who she was  almost instantly, glaring daggers at her. However, his expression softened the moment more eyes began falling on her and her companion,  knowing she was caught.

Caught in the middle of dipping a chunk of bread into his goblet of wine,  Grandmaster Aquila quickly consumed it, sizing up the bard. Her hair,  complexion, and travel partner fit the description Mostafa had given  him, yet he regarded her with complete neutrality. "Indeed?" he asked in Hristov's general direction, his gaze not yet leaving the thief's.  "It's a shame you haven't yet graced our guests for the feast proper.  Like the loveliest member of a choir leaving after Morning Vespers,  never to sing the Liturgy." He smiled kindly, leaning forwards and  resting his elbows on the table. "I'd love to hear what you have to  offer." There was a drunken holler from the other guests, who clearly  desired a performance for all the wrong reasons.

Ceara could only smile as she approached the Great Table, giving the Apostles  a small curtsy as she surveyed their faces.  Mostafa was staring at  her, with the hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his lips.  If the  bard was sitting with these men and women, then her game was up.  The  thief sighed, and waved to her companion.  He dropped the bag of stolen  goods with a metallic clank.  

Apostle Alessio froze, narrowing his eyes, looking over to Nima. "Wait. What?"

"Pastries."  replied the redheaded thief, gesturing to the sack with a wry grin.   "My armoured friend has quite a sweet tooth, and your kitchen was too  happy to oblige."  She took her lute in both hands plucking a few of the  strings to practice.  "Now, shall I sing?"  She turned to the lower  tables, raising her voice to address the whole of the feast.  "Does  anyone have any recommendations?"

A response of mixed requests filled the air. "Ballad of Port Allilona!" some cried, "Wulfhard the White!" said others.

Grandmaster Aquila lifted a hand, and his followers gradually but obediently fell  quiet. "Surprise us with your best or most favorite, my friend. Whatever  you play the best."

Ceara  turned to the Grandmaster, her eyes flashing ruefully. "I think I know  just the song, your holiness."  She motioned for Nima to stand beside  her, and began to play.

[i]“There once was a crow named Lucy,
who set out to find his flock.
They laughed and jeered, 
and told him to rightly fuck off.

But Lucy, he did not falter.
He knew deep down they were wrong.
So he found some friends and made his band,
a bunch of birds lead by a mong.

There once was a crow named Lucy, 
Who lead his flock to the east.
He spent his days chasing camels,
Who didn’t care in the least.

But Lucy, he never faltered.
The crow would have his day.
So he took his band to the field,
Yet even to camels, 
Lucy was naught but prey.”[/i]

As  the "bard" sung in quick, overly merry time and played in a talented  albeit exaggerated manner, the smiles and optimism of the guests slowly  disappeared, starting most visibly with the Apostles, spreading  throughout the Great Hall. By the song's end, only Lucian himself was  smiling, appearing to have enjoyed the song. There was a morbidly  painful silence as even the priests and minstrels stopped reading or  singing. A few grown squires preemptively escorted any children and  pages from the room.

The  void of sound was broken by the slow, steady clapping of Seneschal  Hristov, who had his eyes firmly locked onto the thief, having  apparently spontaneously sobered up, no longer laughing and celebrating.  A few guests looked over to Nima's burlap sack, noticing the tell-tale  glimmer of gold against the firelight.

"I  daresay that was a stunning performance, lady bard," Hristov said,  letting his arms drop to his lap. "You've rendered us all speechless  with your lyricism and skill. Though, tell me, bard; do you prefer your fingers or your tongue?"

Ceara’s smile faltered for a moment, and before she could reply, Nima’s sword was out of his scabbard.

The Apostles were the first to respond, followed by the knights who  happened to be armed. Swords, axes, maces, polearms, daggers, and all  assortments of arms were drawn. "You know, if there's one thing I admire  about your kind, it's that even when faced by far better armed, more  numerous forces, you are still willing to battle to the grave. More like  the Nords than even some Nords," Apostle Sorano sneered, electrical  magic sparking between his fingertips as he readied a spell should  things go awry.

Lucian  stood up, raising his arms high and beckoning his men to settle down.  "At ease! At ease, come now, there is no reason for such pointless bloodshed."

Seneschal Hristov was first to protest. "Grandmaster, with the deepest sincerity:  they come into my castle, disrespect our Order, and attempt to steal  what we have earned through great tribulation, as we pray to the Gods  and celebrate in their names."

"What  is a ruler if he cannot find it in him to laugh at himself from time to  time? We are not the Kings and Generals, and we are most certainly not  the Sultans and Emirs. Her song is forgivable; we know it in our hearts  that she and her sort are led astray, that their scorn and mockery is  derived from ignorance of mind and impurity of soul. We will be  vindicated in the end when it is demonstrated before them by the Gods  themselves."

"To forgive them is up to the Gods, Lucian," said Apostle Yusuf, gesturing towards the two offenders with his sword, "to send them to their judgement is our duty, is it not?"

"They [i]did[/i] attempt to rob us. In fact they [i]did[/i] rob young Mostafa," said Apostle Aranirya. "Surely we cannot let a thief roam?"

Lucian  gave an apologetic glance towards Herbert and his party. "That is true, and we shalt not suffer a thief to continue stealing. Though I ask, for  the sake of our guests, we do not carry out retribution in the Great Hall."

"Very well, then I ask of her again," Hristov replied, turning back to the  thief and slave-soldier, "Do you prefer your fingers or your tongue?"

Nima  growled like a wild animal, but Ceara pulled him backwards and said  something quietly.  He seemed to calm, and she addressed the Seneschal.   "Exactly how many fingers are we talking? I've only got one tongue. And  it's [i]quite[/i] the tongue, believe me."

"Fingers? Or your tongue?" Hristov repeated again, more sternly. "I'd like to know."

"You never answered my question. It's a fairly big decision, so [i]I'd[/i]  like to know all the details." Ceara took a step towards the Great  Table, narrowing her eyes. "I've heard some of your knights decided to choose the pyre over slavery. I wonder how long they got to make that  choice?"

Immediately as she finished her sentence, the room was fully illuminated in a flash  of golden light as a roaring thunderclap ripped through the air. Ceara  was blasted off of her feet, thrown from the dais and onto the stone  floor, her vision whitened and blurred, and her hearing naught but an  incessant ringing for a few moments before clarity returned. A strong,  blunt pain developed, as though she had been beaten across the face.

Lucian  was standing with his arm outstretched towards where her face had once  been, his palm open and flat, the last wisps of golden mist dissipating  from around his hand. "You will not dare,"  he said as his hand closed into a fist and authoritative finger, which he jabbed in her direction, "desecrate the blessèd names of my brothers  and sisters whose souls were stolen from the gods, families, friends,  and people whom they loved so dearly that they were prepared to die in  their names, to ensure that countless millions in Iurusolym and beyond  would not be forced to the pyre as they were! For in death as in life,  they were more righteous and far more brave than you will ever be, you craven, loathsome maggot."

He was clearly livid, but he did not speak in a manner that openly flaunted his wrath. Rather he maintained a generally calm, collected attitude, if not firm and aggressive.

Nima,  enraged at the sight of his friend knocked across the room, began to  stalk towards the Grandmaster. Knights on all sides of him began to  ready themselves for combat, but he paid them no mind. His raspy voice  was lined with venom. “You will answer for striking her, crusader.”

The  sound of rapid, shallow breathing became audible as Apostle Kinara  sprung from her seat, clutching one of her dinner knives. Her eyes  locked onto the slave-soldier, and she was nearly overcome with terror,  shivering and stammering about how she "refused to go back." Lucian eyed  the Samothauress empathetically, then looking back to Nima.

"Honoured  guests, you have my absolute sincerest apologies for the terrible turn  this has taken," he said to Herbert and his party. "I was not anticipating such familiar and unwelcome company."

"Oh,  shit, it looks like I missed one," said Apostle Katla, eyeing the  slave-soldier up and down as the Grandmaster walked around the Great  Table, towards Nima.

"And  you will answer for your treatment of my Apostle and her loved ones,  slave-soldier, just as your companion will answer for her theft and her  appalling lack of tact and decency towards those who died so that she  could live. But I respectfully ask that we not do this in the Great  Hall, before so many who have nothing to do with this conflict. Put down  your saber and go with the guards, and there will be clemency for you  both. I am a man of my word. Strike, and you will instead force my hand."

This  sparked a mixture of applause and protest, with the guests and Apostles  roughly divided on how to proceed. Some, to include Mostafa, Hristov,  and Kinara, bayed for their blood, others such as Apostles Rhodric,  Alessio, and Serena, lauded the negotiation.

"That  will be enough!" Lucian cried, lifting his hand to gesture for silence.  "The Order is not some band of vengeful barbarians and zealots. We are warriors of the Gods, and Solanius chief among the Ten would have true justice, not passionate revenge. Have I not taught you better than  this?"

Immediately, the protestors fell silent.  Every eye in the room turned to the slave soldier, but the man himself  seemed strangely detached from the unfolding situation. His eyes were  locked to the Samothauress, watching her sputter and squirm with fear.  “You…”  he whispered. “I know you.”  He lowered his sword, cocking his head while the apostle cried in terror.

Kinara  lifted her knife up defensively, practically on the verge of  hyperventilating. Before Nima could make any further moves, Lucian stepped between him and the panicking Apostle. "If you so much as consider finishing the last task your masters gave you, I will personally finish the task I gave to my men.  You will not hurt her any longer," he growled lowly, just for Nima to  hear. "Now, I will offer one final time," he said more audibly, as a  pair of knights grabbed Ceara by the arms and lifted her up, taking her  away to the dungeons below. "Drop. Your. Sword."

Nima  looked confused more than anything else.  He tore his eyes from Kinara  when he saw his redheaded friend meekly struggling against her captors  as she was dragged away from the Great Hall, and he set his gaze on  Lucian.  There was a moment of hesitation, and then the slave soldier  sheathed his blade and removed the belt from his waist.  Neatly wrapping  it around the scabbard, he carefully presented the sword on the ground,  and started to follow Ceara towards her imprisonment without another word.

Two  knights stood up and followed behind the slave-soldier, hands on the  grips of their weapons, as they escorted him down to the dungeon.  Lucian, inwardly pleased with the nonviolent outcome, carefully picked  up Nima's sabre and handed it to an attendant. "Have this polished and  brought to my quarters," he said. When the attendant left to follow his  command, Lucian turned to Kinara, who was being looked after by her  fellow Apostles. She was slowly calming down, now having dropped the  knife back onto the table. He approached her carefully, reaching over to  gently tilt her head in his direction, bringing her to look at him.

"I a-apologize, Grandmaster, I don't know what..." she tried to say, the pace of her breathing decreasing.

"I  understand, Kina. Are you going to be okay with staying with us for the  remainder of our time in the Great Hall, or would you prefer someone to  take you to the guest quarters?" Lucian asked, speaking softly. She  pondered her options for a moment, then shook her head. "He can't hurt  you any longer. I wouldn't let him. None of these men and women would."

As  the thieves left and an awkward silence settled over the feast, Herbert  remarked drily "Well, that certainly wouldn't be my choice of dinner  entertainment, but to each their own." With that, he turned his attention back to the meal and conversation with the other guests.

Following  Herbert's example, the Apostles began to act more naturally, resuming  their meals. The rest of the guests followed, laughing boisterously at  the incident that had just unfolded. Lucian sat back down, nodding  gratefully to Herbert. "I truly am beyond sorry for what just  transpired, Ser Leintke," he said, picking up his knives and resuming  his own meal, stabbing a slice of heron and putting it in his mouth.

Herbert  nodded absentmindedly, paying the Grandmaster's unnecessary apology  little mind. Despite his sarcastic remark, he hadn't really minded the  drama and interruption.