Penny

WoT: The Dark One's Own Luck.

Mave - Run away Accepted on a mission

WoT: The Dark One's Own Luck.

The wind howled for her bones. It thirsted for her marrow. Such black pain it would bring her that she would sing for a thousand years before she died. Mave tore furiously at the leaf patterned mosaic, fingers closing uselessly over empty air. The great black wind rolled towards her like a fog bank, bloating out the Ogier wrought stonework like a sheet of sentient darkness. The storm lantern flickered and gutted before the on rushing wind regardless of the fact that thick Ayamar glass made such a thing impossible. Not for the first time she wished she had used more reliable illumination, but she supposed if she were getting wishes that wouldn’t be where she would start.

The insidious song of the wind pounded in her temples and it was all she could do to keep plucking at leaves that didn’t exist. Black tendrils reached hungrily for her, coiling and twirling through the archaic air like streamers from an illuminators firework. Her fingers closed on something and a leaf, at one heartbeat merely a rendering on ancient stone, came away in her hand as fresh and life like as any she had seen on the spring ivy. The air in front of her shimmered a curious blue gray but she didn’t wait to investigate. Releasing the leaf she hurled herself through the oddly translucent disc a heart beat before it closed behind her, sealing away the horrible song of the wind. Machin Shin would be denied a meal today.

The cold hit her first. It hadn’t been this cold when she left Caemlyn this morning but that might be thousands of miles from here. She wasn’t certain where here was. When she left Caemlyn she had tried to keep the old map of the Ways clear in her mind but the crumbling arches and collapsed islands had made it impossible to follow any plan. Once she had heard the wind she had simply ran, unconcerned with where she might end up, as even Caemlyn was preferable to being devoured by the ancient evil that haunted the crumbling wonder of the Age of Legend.

Desperation had driven her to attempt the journey. Each time she had attempted to leave Caemlyn she had found men waiting for her. Rumors were being spread that she was a bandit who used her looks to ensnare men and kill them in their sleep for the copper they carried. Wanted posters with crude drawings of her had began to appear and she knew that if she loitered even another day in that city she would be taken. What would happen to her she didn’t know, but death was probably the kindest fate she could look forward to.

Mave pulled her wollen riding dress around her slender frame. She had pawned the silver candlestick she had stolen when she fled Tar Valon and used the hand full of copper she had been given, at a no doubt ruinous discount, the pawn broker had suggested that he might be willing to give her a better deal in exchange for her favors, but she wasn’t that desperate. Not yet. The dress was a vast improvement over the plain white novice dress she had been wearing when she stowed away on the river queen. Merely putting the thing on had taken an effort of will that nearly undid her. The banded dress of an Accepted, that which she was entitled to wear, was just too obvious but it had still taken all her will to put herself back in the hated white dress. Mave didn’t want to think about what would happen if she were dragged back to the Tower, there as well the best she could hope for was death.

Mave was a tall girl in her early twenties, with the willow grace and coppery skin of her native Arad Doman. Her eyes were a dark and almond shaped and, despite her present predicament, glittered with intelligence. Untill a few weeks ago she had ben an Accepted of the White Tower, her future as stayed and sure as anyone in this age could wish. Now she was a vagabond, on the run from not only her teachers, who were terrifying enough, but also, she was certain from agents of the Shadow itself.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that Velma Sedai had asked Mave to assist her in her research. Aspiring to the Brown herself Mave had leaped at the chance, Velma valued her fluency in the Old Tongue but Mave sensed that she was sounding her out, making the final decision as to whether she was ready to begin preparation for the Shawl. It had been fun at first, tracking down lost manuscripts and sifting through pieces of dusty lore which centered around the days before the Trolloc wars. Velma had never quite told her what she was looking for, but asked for references Londharon Cor, the capital of the ancient kingdom of Eharon. As time went on though Velma began to grow more and more paranoid, she would talk to no one, even the other Browns until she trusted Mave alone. One night Velma had appeared as Mave was making her way to her room and hurriedly thrust a roll of parchment into her hands.

Confused, Mave had returned to her room intending to return it to Velma Sedai in the morning but, when morning had come Velma was dead. The Yellows said that she had died in her sleep but Mave knew differently. When Cora, an Aes Sedai of the Grey Ajah, with whom Mave had never spoken, showed up and demanded to know what Velma had been working on, she had grown concerned. Back in her room she unrolled the parchment and discovered a map, carefully drawn in charcoal, which showed a location somewhere near Londharon Cor. The words ‘buried for all these years’ were printed in Velma’s neat handwriting. When a summons had come from Cora requesting Mave join her in an isolated courtyard Mave had made her decision. It was clear to her that her mentor had been murdered to prevent whatever she has been researching from coming to light. Sneaking up to Velma’s chambers she had witnessed a pair of cloaked Sisters tearing through the dead Aes Sedais possessions.

All her years in the Tower Mave had been told that the Black Ajah didn’t exist. But peering through the keyhole that night she had seen Velma’s ancient warder laying face down in a pool of blood and she had known better. Not knowing whom to trust and fearing that Cora planned a similar fate for her, she had fled without so much as returning to her own rooms. The parchment was tucked into her traveling bag now, as mysterious and ominous as ever.

Looking around Mave found herself in an ancient ruin, the wall beside her was marked with the familiar leaf pattern, though she had no desire to attempt to open the Waygate given what lurked on the other side. Coming slowly to her feet she found she was atop a small rise on a much larger mountain. The land sloped gradually downwards to the west, where a broad silver ribbon marked the passage of a river. Heavy forest blanketed the hillside, though currently she was above the canopy. To the east it rose into an impressive peak, thrusting into the sky like a dagger. Other peaks stretched off to the north and south, though low cloud obscured them after a time. Snow lay all around, though that was a function of altitude as much as the season. On the plains the snow would be melted or almost melted. Though she wracked her mind, no geographical fact emerged to help her place herself. The walking staff she had stolen in Caemlyn had been lost in her mad scramble through the ways. Sighig she picked herself off and began the long trudge down the side of the mountain, looking for some sign of human life.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla drumed her long fingers on the arm of her chair as Cydric told her what he had learned of the curse and the quest. Although it had been many hours since she slept, the wreck of the Bonaventure had woken her, by this point in her career she had adapted to sleeping when she could and didn’t feel the lack the way she once had. Idly her other hand stroked the hilt of her elven blade, remembering the lessons that she had been given by the elf Indendre in Kislev, he had shown her some of his fighting style, though it seemed to mostly be forms for stretching and exercising. Since they had left Kislev, she had dutifully performed the series of stretches everyday, though it had been obvious there was something the elf hadn’t been telling her.

Complicated situations seemed to be more common these days. There was obviously bad blood between Beaumont and his uncle, it obviously involved Melisende in some way, the woman certainly had eyes for the knight but there was no way of knowing whether the attention was returned. Brettonians were such inveterate dramatics that Melisende might be choosing to favor the younger man simply because her husband obviously disliked him. It was equally possible that Beaumont was merely following the chivalric tradition of worshiping an idealized love from afar without any real intentions towards the lady. That was before one even began to consider whatever quest or cursed had everyone worked up. Camilla pressed her fingertips to her temples.

“I don’t suppose there is any chance we can just hire on guarding a caravan and get out of this place,” she asked disconsolately. In the Empire she would have suggested just such a course, but Brettonia didn’t have anything like the flow of trade that the Empire enjoyed.

“Reynard says that that the Baron is willing to pay anyone who can remove the curse,” Cydric supplied. There was a piece of cured ham on the table which Cydric sliced into generous slabs with the edge of a silver knife that had been provided for the purpose before slicing the cheese up into similar pieces and setting some on her plate. Almost everything that they owned, mostly Kislivite silver and a few gold Imperials had gone down with the ship and they only had a few coins between them. If they were going to continue their search for Keffman they needed money.

“Well I highly doubt they are going to let me come along…” The door flew open and both Camilla and Cydric were on their feet in a heartbeat, weapons drawn. Camilla gripped the edge of the table in one hand, ready to cast it into the path of onrushing attackers. Melisende stood in the door a shocked expression on her face. Whatever reaction she had inspected, meeting two armed opponents with drawn steel hadn’t been among them. Her cheeks were flushed with anger but she wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed. There were two men at arms behind her, though they stood slack jawed, unsure whether they should push past the noblewoman in order to protect her.

“A pleasure to welcome you my lady,” Camilla said carefully, releasing her grip of the table and returning her sword to its sheath, feeling a little ridiculous to be wearing or wielding steel in such an elaborate gown. Cydric too returned his sword to his scabbard looking a little shame faced.

“Did my husband put you up to this?!” she demanded, a little braver once the swords were away. Camilla looked the Brettonian vixen up and down.

“To eating in our own chambers?” she asked diffidently.

“Don’t play the peasant with me you foreign chit!” Melisende blazed, “he did didn’t he! Hired you both so that you could trick young Beaumont into throwing his life away on this foolish quest!” Unless Camilla very much missed her guess, ‘young’ Beaumont was older than Melisende herself was. Cydric obviously wasn’t following the rapid and impassioned Brettonian but the women's intent was clear in her tone and volume.

“M’lady...” Cydric began in Riekspiel but Melisende didn’t let him continue.

“Do not speak to me in that barbaric tongue! I am a daughter of…” the words died away as Beaumont’s voice sounded down the corridor.

“M’lady Melisende?” The woman stiffened like a board, cast a hateful glance at Camilla and then spun and strode away, her hands lifting the train of her elegant gown.

“Is everything well Contessa?” Beaumont said appearing at the door. He was dressed in doublet and hose slashed in his colors of green and white rather than the armor he had been wearing when they had met.

“I suppose it is too late to bar the door, we have enough ham for a three day siege,” Camilla muttered in Kislivite.

Spinwards to the Marches

Kyra looked up at her new found ally, the hard edge his aura was obvious even without the look of a man who had been in tight places and lived to tell about it. She turned the carbine she had looted over in her hands checking the load automatically. Rifles were not her weapon of choice, though she was familiar with them as part of her training. If she were ever in a situation that she needed that kind of range things had gone badly wrong.

“I was hired to… perform an audit, I guess you might say,” she responded. The Syndicate, one of the larger criminal organizations in this part of space, expected a certain amount of graft in any operation they ran. Afterall, who would trust a man who didn’t skim a few credits here and there, but this relaxed attitude ended once it started to cut into their profit margin. Kyra had started her career as an intelligence officer the Union had been willing to use jaysers to gain an edge in wartime but with the war over all she had to look forward to was a dead end job, or just a dead end. Getting out had not been easy and it had used up every credit she had been able to beg borrow or steal. Contracting for the Syndicate was better than starving, or had seemed so. She should have figured that the fact they were trusting this to an outsider meant they didn’t trust their own people, a fact that her situation illustrated perfectly.

“Unfortunately it seems someone tipped these bastards off,” she went on, nudging one of the unconscious men with her boot. The man didn’t move and Kyra wondered if she shouldn’t drag them into the forest and cut their throats. It would certainly have been the safer course, but murdering an unconscious man wasn’t something she wanted to do unless she had no other choice.

“I came in on a bulk freighter, stowing away, and they just marched right on and snatched me up,” her face twisted in irritation. Her first job blown before she could even get started, though the very fact that it had happened proved that the Syndicate had bigger problems than it had figured on. Someone had tipped the locals off.

“And I don’t think they are really miners, no scuff marks or dirt on their fatigues, the look like they came right out of central supply,” she glanced down at the yawning pit of the open cut mine. The freighter had set down on the landing pad and a vast cloud of dust kicked up by its plasma thrusters was billowing out from where it had touched.

“Which I suppose raises the question of just what the hell is going on down there,” she mused, looking around for but not finding a set of binoculars or some other visual enhancer.

“As for why they were so spooked… I heard some radio chatter while they were interrogating me about someone shooting up the town. I think they thought you were my back up,” she said, lies, as always, coming easy to her. With an impish smile she tapped her temple with her index finger.

“That makes me the mastermind. So your turn, just decided the constabulary here was overstaffed?"

"Gaming" laptop on a college budget?

There are dosent to windows emulators freely available. I need to get a new laptop mine eats power supply like crazy :(

Damned to the Depths

The Witch heeled to the wind as it rushed past the shattered corsair. Broken bodies lay in piles on the deck as the ship fell off the wind and wallowed. Screams and moan rose from the ship as they drew passed and Calliope could see men quilled with splinters as long as her arm as they thrashed in their death struggles. Another bolt of lighting leaped from the pursing ship and Calliope snapped a counter spell, detonating the blast well short of its mark. The galleries behind them were gaining despite the greater spread of canvas the Weather Witch could boast. Their lateen yards were not the best choice, but the rowers more than made up the difference. While the crewmen would eventually tire that would be well after they had closed with their prey. Puffs of smoke erupted from the bows of the fleeing vessels and a monet later great jets of spray rose up just behind the fleeing pirate vessel as heavy shot splashed down about them.

Calliope hurled bolts of black fire back at their pursuers, but the mage following them was more experience than she and manage to blot out her efforts in a fizzle of arcane power. She lashed out again fueling the spell with her hate and frustration but they merely evaporated as her opponent countered her with her own arts. The medallion at her breast pulsed and throbbed filling her with the desire to rend and tear and burn but offering her now practical method to achieve such viceral satisfaction. Instead she began to recite a spell from the codex, the alien words spilling from her lips in a liquid flow that was unnerving to see. Above them clouds began to thicken and darken like congealing blood. Calliope’s vision dimmed and again she found herself in the strange grey interstices she always glimpsed when she used the strange and alien magics in the books cursed pages. This time though something was different. The menacing presence was still there, just out of sight behind the walls of fog, but there was something else, dark and serpentine that wove its way through the darkness.

Bold, little wyrm, a voice sounded in her head.

The magic of the black heavens is a dangerous toy…

Calliope tried to keep her concentration on the spell she was incanting in the real world but her mind seemed to be composed of thick panes of glass and the arcane formula slipped and slid. Somehow she knew she was second from disaster and she worked desperately to keep her concentration.

Back in the real world streams of blood were rising from the shattered galley, flying up into the gathering maelstrom in a perverse negation of natural rain. Where Calliope stood on the deck a circle of black shadow flowed, encircling the mage like a ward circle. Another thunderbolt struck the tafrail, showering splinters that burst into smoke as they touched the edge of the circle and pepering Markus with flaming debris.

Let me show you, before the monarch of this place takes you

Something dark and winged flashed out of the clouds like a inverse lightning. Calliope saw the deck and the enemy mage rushing up at her, a feeling of wild exultation in her heart. A half mile away she could see herself standing on the poop of the Weather Witch, chanting while her eyes stared sightlessly. She could see each of the crew members with far greater clarity than she could have with her own eyes. She could feel the heat of their bodies, smell the stink of their sweat, but all was meaningless compared to the mad thrill of the dive. Her wings spread at the last moment and her talons tore at the screaming mage. The man held up his hands as though to ward her off, his white robes flapping in the tumult of her decent. Claws of shadow tore into him and he screamed in agony before staggering back, dead without a mark on his body. Calliope rushed back up into the clouds and suddenly she was standing on the deck of the Witch again, the last syllables of the spell rolling off her tongue.

“What in the seven hells!” Markus demanded. In her memory Calliope could see the black winged shadow fall like a lance from the sky striking the enemy mage dead. To others it had appeared that way, but she had been the thing which swept down upon the luckless mage. The clouds roiled and swirled above her and the last syllable of the spell tumbled from her lips. The clouds fell. In an instant the sea was carpeted with fog so thick that she couldn’t see Markus five feet away. The crew yelled in panic.

“Quiet!” Markus roared and the ship fell silent save for the snap of the rigging and the slap of waves against the hull. Behind them came hollow booms of cannon. A geyser of water shot up behind them, close enough that it showered Calliope and Markus with its plume. Another spout rose ahead of the ship and with a shriek of splintering timbers one of the balls crashed down on the deck, tossing one of the unmanned cannons back into the waist. Markus put the wheel over several points, veering the Witch off the last course the enemy had been able to see. Behind them Calliope could hear the hammer of the drums urging the rowers forward. They were still badly outnumbered, but perhaps they could lose the enemy in the magical fog.

Calliope’s lungs burned and she felt her knees wobble from the effort of the spell, catching onto the railing so that she didn’t fall. The amulet at her breast burned like fire against her skin, but it wasn’t the unpleasant sensation it should have been. No one in the crew could see her through the fog, but she forced herself to remain standing, striving to appear calm and in control

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla offered a slight curtsey to the aged Baron and Cydric sketched a stiff bow that probably wasn’t sufficiently deep. Imperial customs were far more egalitarian than the Brettonian’s the lowliest peasant could theoretically stand on his rights against the Emperor himself though in practice such a thing would never occur.

“We thank you for your hospitality my lord,” Camilla said using Reikspiel even though her Brettonian was more than up to the challenge. The internal politics of the Brettonian nobility didn’t interest her and she was slightly irritated that Beaumont had used her presence as an excuse to forward his own agenda. Still the knight had been brave and in all likelihood his intervention at the clifftop had saved her life.

“I would also like to thank your nephew for his gallantry tonight,” she said, turning a sunny smile upon Beaumont who all but preened. The old Baron grunted in reluctant acknowledgement, too much of a product of chivalry to completely ignore the service.

“Yes well, have quarters prepared for my nephew and his men as well.”

Liveried servants came forward as though to lead the two foreigners from the room but before they could do so a side door flew open and a woman burst into the room. She was young, perhaps no more than twenty, and heart stoppingly beautiful. Blonde hair hung in curls bound up with a silver circlet. She wore a dress of green satin with slashes of white silk that ran diagonally across the voluminous skirt. Though she was slim enough in all truth she must have been corseted to the point she could hardly breathe so narrow did her waist appear and so high and firm were her breasts. The plunging neckline of the dress revealed a generous flash of pale white bosom.

“Ah, Melisende,” the Baron said, his face hardening as he spoke, “how kind of you to join us.”

“My apologies husband,” the woman replied with a venom in her voice which could not be missed, “I was not informed we had guests.” Beaumont cast a look at the woman which was far from filial and she could almost hear the Baron’s teeth grinding. Camilla realised that the woman's choice of garb, the same green and white which was Beaumont’s livery, was a calculated provocation. Though whether it was designed to annoy her husband or inflame the young knight she couldn’t be sure.

The woman’s eyes flicked from Beaumont to Camilla and Cydric who still stood hand in hand. It wasn’t a particularly friendly look, though neither was it overly hostile. Melisende’s blue eyes flicked from Camilla to Beaumont and narrowed slightly. The Baron, clearly accustomed to giving as good as he got, cleared his throat.

“I had not though to wake you so early my dear May I present Cydric Sieur D’Estabrook and Contessa Camilla De La Trantio, whom my nephew so gallantly rescued from peril,” the Baron all but simpered. Melisende’s eyes narrowed further as she looked Camilla up and down and gave Cydric a more speculative glance.

“My Lord you cannot let her stand there in such rags,” Melisende gasped in outrage which was no less dramatic for clearly being manufactured. Camilla was dressed in her customary hunting shirt and pants of soft buckskin, to make matters worse she was still wearing the cloak Beaumont had given her. The garments were blood stained and crusted with the salt of dried sea water, a far cry from the courtly garb Melisende herself wore. She clapped her hands in a premportory fashion and two handmaidens, peasant girls but pretty enough not to offend the sensibilities of their noble masters appeared at her side as if by sorcery.

“Please, take the Contessa to the bath house and find her something appropriate to wear!” The two girls curtsied and all dragged Camilla from the hall before she could speak another word.

It was mind morning by the time Camilla finally escaped the clutches of the servants. A liveried man at arms lead her to a large room somewhere in the castle, though she wouldn’t have wanted to try to find it on her own. True to their mistresses command the handmaidens had bathed her in a large wooden tub of scalding water, scrubbing her body with soap of scented lye and washing her hair. Once dried by a fire they had dressed her in a gown of blood red velvet which Camilla didn’t feel matched her darker complexion particularly well. The scalloped sleeve and flowing train of the thing mad the garment almost ridiculously impractical. Only threats of physical violence had compelled them to abandon the idea of putting her in a corset. They had brushed her hair until it shone a lustrous black, buffing away the damage of weeks of sea travel by sheer effort. Finally they had fitted her for velvet slippers and fastened a band of gold around her neck before declaring her marginally presentable.

Her own clothes had been spirited away with a vague promise that they would be delivered to her room once they had been cleaned. Camilla was exhausted and ravenous and not best pleased to be made the object of a child’s game of dress up but she bore it all with grim determination. The whole process had been worth it for the servants look of horror when she had belted her sword and pistols on over the flaring waist of the courtly dress. Of Melisende herself there had been no sign, for which Camilla was eternally grateful.

The room she was led to was surprisingly spacious for being located in a fortress. Narrow arched windows let in some sunlight, but the chamber would have seemed cold if not for a fire burning in the hearth on the far wall. The floor, cobbled stone, was covered with furs to give it an illusion of comfort. Several smaller chambers opened off the main room set off by ornate arches of carven stone. The Brettonians did everything in their power to convince themselves that they weren't living in what was first and foremost a fortress. Of Cydic there was no sign.

“Is there anything else we can do fo you m’lady?” One of the handmaidens asked.

“Perhaps take you ...umm.. accessories to the armory?” Camilla wheeled on the pair, managed a faint smile and then slammed the heavy wooden door in their faces, unable to take any more of their obsequious demands. By the window there was a small table on which rested a platter of fruit an a pitcher of what looked to be wine. Wearily she walked over to it, flopped onto a chair in what was probably a very unlady like fashion and started stuffing grapes into her mouth before taking a criminally large swig of what was a very good wine. By Ranald the sooner they got clear of this mad house the better.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Sayeeda peered around at the preparations that were underway. It was a small force but larger than any organized unit she had yet seen on Hahn. Certainly it had more firepower. Her interest was drawn naturally to the fighting vehicles and she ached to give them a once over. Instead she folded her arms across her chest. The proximity to military hardware made her miss her armor at a subconscious level.

“So you are just offering jobs to random people who stumble into alleys?” she asked skeptically. Canek shook his head and tapped her shoulder.

“Well I can still kill you or sell you into slavery if you prefer, but no I recognise the tatoo.” Junebug glanced unconsciously to her right shoulder where three owls were depicted taking flight. The central bird was darker with the others and its eyes were slightly almond shaped like Junebug’s own. The other owls were white and snowy grey.

“I met a woman who had one just like it, well hers had the white owl centrally located,” Canek went on, smiling slightly at Junebug’s evident shock.

“Kyra Ren she called herself, she was running a cavalry squadron on Payson’s world, pulled me out of a few tight spots.” Sayeeda stared into nothingness for a moment assailed by sudden images of the past. Kyra with her mouth open in a scream as she hosed a Shemite position with her plasma cannon. Kyra her blond locks trailing smoke as she stumbled out of her burning vehicle to catch Junebug’s hand. The sound of her laugh as she tossed her last florin into the pot in some card game.

“She told me the story one night when she had too much to drink,” Canek’s voice drew her back to the present.

“Said there were three of you who had the same tat, the Owls of Minerva she said it was, whatever the fuck that means,” Canek paused looking a little concerned.

“Hey you still with me?” he asked. Junebug nodded her head, shaking of the reverie with obvious effort.

“So I figure that even if your hauling freight now you know how to handle yourself. How about it?” he reached out his hand as if to shake hers.

Above on the ridgeline Neil heard a soft clink of metal on stone. Glancing across the opening he could see the dark shapes of men wrapped in the cloth of desert nomads as the crept along the slight depressions worn in the rock by centuries of wind and blown grit. All of the men carried rifles and some had heavier weapons, shoulder mounted rockets or single discharge plasma lances, slong over their backs. They were focused on the opening in the rock and hadn’t spotted the pilot. There were a score or more of them, each moving with the stealth and care of a man born to it.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla gazed up at the castle with guarded awe. She had been in the great fortress of Middenheim perched atop the Ulricrag but with that sole exception this was the greatest structure she had ever beheld from close at hand. Even the alien pyramid cities of the Chaos Dwarves seemed to pale in comparison to what ordinary mortal hand had done.

The entered upon a great courtyard that gave access the keeps interior. Two massive towers rose up in front of them. Men at arms were visible on the battlements above and though they bore bows and wary expressions they did not seem alarmed. Beaumont led them to the left down a winding lane she realised that the exterior wall had no staircases. The Brettonian, following her gaze, slowed his mount to fall in beside her.

“The walls can only be accessed via walkways from the inner wall contessa,” he told her, gesturing with a gauntleted fist to where one such walkway, a construction of timber bridge the gap between the two walls.

“If the outerwall falls, we can draw back to the keep none the worse for it, while the enemy will find no shelter. Indeed the back of the outer turrets were open save for pillars of mortared stone so that men on the inner wall could shoot into them without difficulty, even if the walls were taken the enemy would find themselves on a thin stone ledge with no cover and no easy way to the ground.

“I don’t like sieges,” Camilla commented. Weeks of being cooped up in Praag gave her a revulsion for stone work, though hear at least she could at least be certain that the gargoyles weren’t going to come alive and try to eat her. Beaumont looked up at the battlements and the unfriendly looks.

“In these days we must all do things we don't like,” he muttered. It seemed to Camilla that he was speaking from personal experience.

“Ah have you been in many sieges m’lady?” he asked, in a clearer voice, obviously determined to continue the conversation.

“Too many,” she replied shortly, terminating the discussion. The paved street curved around to the back of the castle where an impressive barbican guarded the inner keep. An attacker, having breached the main gate, would have to traverse the length of the castle to reach the second portal. Camilla was not a military expert as such but the perfection of the design would have been apparent to anyone. The street was lined with shops and workshops. Few people were awake at this hour, though a hunch baked baker appeared briefly from his bakery to watch the odd procession. Each of the shops was a simple affair by Imperial standards, timber and roofed with thatch, so they could be fired if the need arose to abandon the outer walls.

At the barbican two knights sat mounted on matching black steeds. The had their visors down and carried lances, which would have been useless as weapons in these close quarters, both wore enameled armor of blue and gold and both wore a sash of blue silk over their surcoats. Beaumont drew ahead without any sign of directing his horse to do so. Both of the knights came forward at a sedate pace and stopped either side of Beaumont a horse length from him.

“You are not welcome here Sir Knight,” the one on the right declared in a tone which Camilla guessed would have lacked friendliness even if he hadn’t been roused in the middle of the night to perform a ceremonial greeting. Beaumont gave him a cold look and his horse champed at the air, sensing the tension and imagining it to be the preface to a fight.

“Why don’t you run along Guy and tell my uncle that I have come to see him,” Beaumont said stiffly, Camilla could see that his right hand was gripping the horn of his saddle, hard, clearly to keep himself from reaching for his sword. The knight, Guy evidently, smirked maliciously.

“I am afraid my Lord is a bed at this early hour Sir Knight,” Guy simpered, “Perhaps…”

Beaumont drew himself up in his saddle and the knights behind him tensed.

“I have with me the Contessa De La Trantino,” he boomed, not angry but loud enough that his voice echoed off the stone walls. He gestured back at Camilla who swore silently under her breath.

“A noble lady who has twice faced deadly peril in my uncle’s domain. Are we to stand here while she remain unprotected a third time?” The second knight involuntarily edged back from Beaumont’s evident fury leaving Guy standing alone.

“By the Lady, if you say it is so Sir Knight,” the title was clearly meant as an insult, “Then I shall cut you down for shaming my Leige Lord and Kinsman.” Sir Guy hesitated, clearly taken by surprise looked back over his shoulder. Although she couldn’t see Guy’s face, Camilla could tell he was staring daggers at the young knight. After a moment Guy turned and made an angry gesture, the portcullis began to rise with the rattling clack of a windlass.

“Enter then and let your uncle decide what to do with you.” Beaumont nodded and the party began to trot through the second portcullis.

“It looks like someone isn’t very popular at home,” Camilla whispered to Cydric who found the rapid fire Brettonian hard to follow.

Is anyone interested in Vampire: the Masquerade 5th Edition?

Roll a whole bunch of d10s and call it good