Cascading rain piddled upon the wet road, filling the hoof prints left behind by the galloping steed. A caterwaul of wind rose higher and higher in the forlorn sky, as if the Gods themselves wished woe upon the Knight that made all haste. The trees of the Vatherlund Forest stood dark among the cacophony of the storm, save when lightning flashed in the distance and drew shadows across the leaves, giving the impression of leering, baleful faces staring at the cavalier, awaiting to rip him off of Lycurgus with their claw-like branches. No doubt a bard or a poet would have quite enjoyed that turn of phrase, but Torm was a bit too stubborn and single minded to pause on scenery. He knew there was little time to dally, and he drove his large Destrier faster along the rode, his steed's head rearing up like a serpent about to strike. 

Another flash. The castle came into sight among the foothills to the east, terrible in its baroque and alien design. Whatever it was, it was kept by man nor orc, or fey witch. Looming almost into the cloudline, or so it looked from the ground, he couldn't imagine anyone resided in the thin spire. The stories told to him by the serfs had explained they would be in the great hall among the court of the Three Counts of Crimson. 

Lycurgus's hoof beats suddenly became audible as they went from mud to cobblestone, passing the broken gateway and entered through the arch left in the wall. Even in the dark, Torm saw it looked much like any abandoned castle yard. A smithy to the right and a stables that fed into an undercropping was on the left, with a broken wagon and tossed about pails and tools, showing signs of a hasty retreat. Were the stories to be believed, he knew the retreat was not likely successful. He took no more than a moment to see before he kicked Lycurgus into a hard gallop, leaping over the wagon and barreling forward toward the great hall's doors, praying to the Evergod and bracing for impact. 

With a screeching crash and a powerful whinny from Lycurgus, the doors were sundered and thrown open in the midst of what Torm could only describe as a masquerade from hell. It felt alien and utterly [i]wrong[/i] in its atmosphere. The knight could see the dancers and musicians were continuing to play without so much as skipping a beat, rhythmically moving as if on a madman's strings. Had anyone deigned to look, they would see ne'er but a cloaked figure upon a horse, soaked from the tip of his nose, the only part visible on his face, to his traveling boots just below the cloaks trim. As it were, no humans looked his way. Only those three monsters atop the thrones, and their servants standing at attention. He could see none of their faces, but he felt their eyes on him, boring into his brain to search for any sign of weakness. 

One of the servants, something robed in indigo with its face masked by a jester mask made of iron, welded onto whatever had once been its face. It approached him, sword at the ready as it tilted its head. The mask leered at him, smiling with an eerie calm. Five strides away...three strides... 

Its sword, a thin arming sword made for dueling, whipped out to cut Lycurgus' throat. But the warhorse was too well trained, dancing back and putting Torm in line. It would look almost like magic when the Knight brought his flanged mace to bear from within his cloak, bringing it down into the head of the servant with a hard crunch that even dented the top of its iron mask. The others would watch as the servant's body dropped noiselessly to the ground, none moving. All stared from within their masks as the Knight dismounted calmly, placing the reins back upon Lycurgus's powerful neck. He bent down and removed the hood from the corpse, unsurprised when he saw the servant had simply been a body that had long rotted, with blackened and bloated skin where there was any, and bone where there wasn't. 

It was then the music had stopped with a wave of the one of the Count's hands, and all was dead still when the interloper raised himself once again. He unhooded himself, his hair thick and brown, and his wolfish face well formed and unmarred by his hard life of travel. 

"Make your prayers to your dark Gods, fiends. Tonight, your court ends." 
[@Penny]