As manor houses went it was about as underwhelming as the rest of the town. It might have been the twin of the Crimson Wyrven if that establishment had gotten a shade less neglect over the long years. The most interesting thing about it was the armed men who stood behind the walls, invariable looking tired and ill at ease. There weren’t very many of them either, not compared to their fellows out patrolling the town and certainly not compared to the Leo Mortis. Jocasta didn’t know much about fighting in the abstract, but she had a sense that this probably wasn’t the side one would want to pick if it came to blows.

 

The were escorted into the main building without fanfare, through a surprisingly neat reception area to a receiving room, where a grim faced man with a gold pin of office sat behind a desk. It was covered with neatly stacked papers, laid down with whatever heavy items were to hand, inkpots, knives, a broken plate and the like. Jocasta couldn’t imagine a place like this bred too much paperwork, but apparently she was wrong in that assumption.

“We didn’t kill anyone!” she blurted nervously at the same time that Beren began, “They started it they tried to…” The both fell silent as the man looked up from his paperwork and arched a bushy eyebrow. He wiped his hands on a handkerchief and set his quill aside folding his hands together and steepling his fingers together.

“Good to know I suppose,” he said in a half amused voice, “but that isn’t why I had you escorted here…”