By Rook, Wrath, and Ruin (Solo)

[Leopold]

One Year Ago
Scara Brae, House of Master Bigstar

“Thank you for that enlightening snippet of the Winchester Rose, Leopold,” Lady Montague raised her glass to her colleagues continued success. “I think that sentiment is one we all quite gladly support. Am I right, gentlemen?” she raised an inquisitive eyebrow in question. To augment her dominating presence she looked down her nose at the others at the table then drained the glass in one. She set the vessel onto the mahogany table before she started to put away her wool. It disappeared quickly into her flannelled satchel.

The men all nodded. They dared not contest Lady Montague’s opinion, especially in their weakened states.

“What about you, Lady Montague? How have you fared of late?” Leopold turned to a waiting tankard of honey mead which he had let breath since he had first arrived. As a consumer of fine wine and good, strong ale, it was the only way to drink it in his view.

She curled her lip as she righted herself.

“Oh, do not look so coy Lady Montague. We all have to take our turn to declare our intentions. It is, after all, part of the Van Degalion's long standing tradition.” Leopold gave her a stern glare and smacked his lips free of the foam that he had attracted after a series of thirsty glugs. The tankard clinked on the chipped worktop as he set it down again and leant forwards. He cupped the steel possessively with both of his chubby and well worked hands.

“A tradition I sometimes loathe,” she bit, and Leopold could only smile. “Very well,” she sighed. She made a ritual of preparation and poured herself another drink from a second flask. Reluctantly she settled back into the satin backed chair to recount her own business exploits.

Lady Clarissa Montague fell in love with Lord Leopold Winchester all over again at that precise moment. The stitches of the seamstress’s cold, cold heart were coming very much undone.

“My name is Lady Clarissa Montague, head of the Seamstress Guild and matriarch of the Montague Brigade. This season, we have expanded into the shattered lands of Salvar and the snow wastes of Berevar.” There was a certain element of concern, hesitation and secrecy in her words. Leopold, who was not quite drunk enough to be ignorant of her subtleties picked up on it like a hawk spotting potential prey. He watched her body language closely.

“Berevar? What the fuck is in Berevar?”

“Magnus…please…” Leopold scolded. His earlier fondness he had allowed to develop for the man died.

With a look that could poison a man’s heart, Lady Montague disarmed Magnus before she continued. “We have begun importing building materials, namely wood from the Brokenthorn and rocks from the Windlacers. It is to aid the regeneration of the country in the wake of its civil war.”

The one flaw in the ethics of the Guilds-man Circle was its desire to achieve profitability at any cost. Though the guild did not tolerate illegal activity, it did not exclude making profit from war, suffering or natural disaster.

Leopold might have come to accept this eventually over the years, but that did not mean he liked it. He certainly did not admire those who took full advantage of the Law of Gold Errantry; Scara Brae’s archaic piracy and mercantile charters.

“The Montague Brigade has doubled its turnover since my last report to four thousand or so. As you can appreciate, for net profit that is a lot of gold in our coffers.” Her ego shone through her eyes, puffed up her chest and brought her a chorus of whistles and delicate claps. Leopold, astute to her perspiration remained unmoved and silent.

“Very good…,” he said softly, his words heard clearly by no one except the rim of his tankard. He sipped at it with relish, drawing on the deep, spicy draft of the hops to damp the sweet after kick.

“Leopold you sour dog, you seem unimpressed?” Magnus, who was boisterous but calming at such good news half made to slap Leopold on the shoulder. When Leopold leant back out of the way he stopped.

“It is…not that I am unimpressed.” He looked between Magnus and Clarissa, then back into his foam. He ran a finger over it and traced a clover into the froth. He sighed and set the tankard back onto the table.

There was an awkward silence.

“Then cheer up! This deserves a celebration and one more so than usual!” there was a chorus of applause that shook the pots and pans hanging idly on the long oak rail overhead. They continued to tinkle together for a good few minutes.

Leopold started to realise something, a faint, nagging doubt that he knew something he should have realised a long time ago.

“Let us hear her declaration, first…” Leopold set his gaze on the seamstress, hoping she would realise he was not going to be fooled for long. If she was branching out into Berevar, then something was afoot.

Only the Old Gods dwelt there, and the Old Gods did not take kindly to the interferences of mortal men.

Leopold Winchester, the Raven, knew about their curses and damnations all too well.