With the vampire slayers went the uncharacteristically pleasant weather that the Great Weald had been enjoying for the past several days. Dusk came early that night as dark stormclouds rolled overhead from north of the Felmurg Mountains. Cold, heavy rains fell upon the moor in oppressive sheets. The rains fell upon Felboge Keep's chiseled facades, coating the edifice in a dribbling curtain of water that coursed off the cornices of colonnades and the chins of monstrous gargoyles. Bright blue peals from within the tempest above illuminated the dismal fortress for brief moments, followed immediately by chest-vibrating cracks of nearby thunder. Deep within Felboge Keep, even underneath many layers of thick stone, the storm outside could still be heard if only as distant and muted rumbling.

Baron Ulrek sat upon his throne in the great hall, holding within his slender fingers a wooden box containing a potato-sized lump of silvery metal packed in wads of hay. Argstone, the Felmurg Dwarves called it. It was an ore rich in silver, shining with veins and bubbles of silver metal within a matrix of gray stone and other minerals. Sturin's Folk had already begun delivering prodigious quantities of Argstone and other ores to Felboge Keep, carting off equal amounts of mithril and gold back to their hoards in their mountain homes in accordance with their agreement with the vampire lord. The dwarves surely thought Baron Ulrek an utter fool for trading precious gold and mithril for comparatively mundane silver. But Ulrek knew that greed compelled dwarfkind far more than any sense of honor or loyalty. When the time came to fight, Ulrek knew he could count on his dwarven allies to support him and, by extension, their lucrative mining agreement. Let the dwarves have their mithril, Ulrek thought. With enough silver, the Xelwyth Imperium would be his alone.

Thunder rumbled outside as Ulrek stared into the box, hesitating. His finger slowly lowered around the silver ore, his bony digits still burned and blistered from previous attempts at holding silver. His hands hovered above the sparkling rock, fingers already trembling in anticipation of the tremendous pain to which they would soon be subjected. Ulrek inhaled through gritted fangs and finally laid his hands upon the silver ore. He lifted the stone up out of the box, supporting its weight completely. Sharp, burning pain radiated through the Baron's fingers as smoke trailed upward from his hands once again. The feeling of silver on his flesh was excruciating, but already not as traumatic as his first attempts at handling silver, nor was there yellow fire during this attempt either. Ulrek's plan seemed to be working: already he was building a tolerance to silver.

Tolerance was one thing, but Ulrek wanted [i]immunity[/i]. Thunder rumbled once again as Ulrek gritted his teeth, denying himself from letting go of the rock and relieving himself of the pain. His hands were giving off a considerable amount of smoke and shaking vigorously under the pain. Ulrek believed that if he held this silver for long enough, he might gain complete immunity. Focusing completely on keeping his hands on the silver ore, Ulrek resolved to push himself to the very limits of his newfound tolerance.

[hr]

Driving rain and lightning had made the ramparts of Felboge Keep an unpleasant place to be. The keep's guards, while technically required to conduct routine rounds along the battlements of the keep regardless of inclement weather, were now taking shelter under any roof or structure they could stand under to find some shelter from the storm. With the ramparts unguarded, and the Baron preoccupied with his strange rituals, the head chamberlain of Felboge Keep was afforded perhaps the best opportunity he would ever have of escaping this place.

The chamberlain, his courtly robe matted to his body from the pouring rain, thoroughly surveyed his surroundings to ensure he was alone. Save for the occasional peal of lightning, it was completely dark. So heavy was the rain that the torches had been extinguished in their sconces. And there was not a single guard to be seen on this lonely stretch of the rampart. This was it.

The chamberlain produced from under his robe a thick, solid beam of wood one cubit long with a length of rope tied snugly around the middle. He uncoiled the rope from around the wooden beam and placed it between two battlements of the rampart and allowed the unfurled rope to fall down the keep's wall to the moat some twenty feet below. Each flash of lightning illuminated the daunting descent the chamberlain would have to make in order to make his escape, revealing a muddy moat full of sharpened pikes that would certainly skewer him should he make a single false move during his descent. The dizzying descent repulsed the chamberlain, and he backed away into the wall of the keep. The escape would prove a frightful ordeal, but the chamberlain knew he could not expect to survive in Felboge Keep much longer. He sometimes felt the disconcerting sensation that he was not alone in his own mind, and suspected the Baron was probing it. It would only be a matter of time before Ulrek discovered the chamberlain's disdain for his own master. But more importantly than his own fate, King Zachaeus had to be notified of Ulrek's treasonous deeds.

The chamberlain returned to the battlements and took the rope in his hands. He prayed that the mortar holding the stone battlements in place did not fail under his weight, and stepped over the edge. His breaths were furious and fast, rainwater spraying off his lips with every terrified exhalation. He dared not look down below him and only took short, deliberate steps down the face of the wall. Step by terrifying step, the chamberlain watched the keep above get smaller and smaller. As he neared the bottom, the chamberlain was startled to feel something tugging at his shoulder. Surprised by the tugging sensation, he lost his grip on the rain-soaked rope, and fell. The sleeve of his robe tore away from him, and he fell only a short distance into the muddy water of the moat. He emerged from the filthy moat with much of his robe torn off of his body, and discovered much of it snagged on the point of a pike he was fortunate to not have landed upon. Save for ropeburn on his palms and a scrape on his shoulder, the chamberlain had survived the descent unscathed. He gave a swift, whipping jerk on the rope, freeing the wooden block from the battlements and sending it plunging down into the moat with a splash that was barely audible over the pouring rain and thunder. He waded through the moat and pikes and flopped onto the muddy bank of the moat, panting with exhaustion. The chamberlain looked back up to see the dread keep behind him after spending so much of his life within its walls. He had only a moment to savor his newfound freedom, for the storm would soon pass and Baron Ulrek would discover his head chamberlain missing.

The chamberlain staggered down the hillside into the moor, slippered feet squishing into the mud with every step as he proceeded toward a village he knew to be located nearly a stone's-throw from Felboge Keep. It would be the first place Ulrek's men would check once they began their search for the missing chamberlain, but he would be able to acquire there some basic necessities for his journey to the Capital.

After an hour stumbling through the storm, the chamberlain encountered the hamlet known as Felboge Shadow: a collection of wattle-and-daub huts gathered along a muddy road that went east and west across the Weald. No sign of the town's denizens, unsurprising given the weather and late hour. The chamberlain came up to a crude, thatched-roof inn in the middle of the village and slammed his fist upon the door to be let in. Three knockings and still no sign of stirring from within. The proprietor of this inn either was either fast asleep, or had no intention of seeing visitors at this odd hour.

"Spare a coin, suh?" Said a raspy, croaking voice that startled the chamberlain. Sitting in the mud under the eave of the inn was a wretched soul, dressed in a filthy hooded robe and cloak who appeared to own nothing beside a pair of holey shoes and a walking stick.

"I ain't eat in two days, suh," the vagabond pleaded again, his palms outstretched. "Two pence an' I kin get some soup 'ere in the mornin'."

The chamberlain produced a coin and threw it into the vagabond's palm. The beggar's jaw dropped open when he discovered it was a golden vesper - more money than this depauperate man had ever seen in his entire life.

"Give me your robe, your staff, and your word that you will never speak of having seen me here tonight."