Although always prepared for martyrdom, I preferred that it should be postponed.

[Relt PeltFelter]

(closed)

It had been three weeks since Relt PeltFelter had secured her lodgings in this quaint little town. It reminded her of some of the lonely, quiet little villages of the Carpathian Mountains; villages of dour, serious folk working to survive and surviving simply to have more work dumped on them by some poncey noble speeding by in a six-horse carriage. The wonderful thing about such villages, both on her own native sphere and on this one, was the workmanlike closed-lippedness they possessed. It was, in fact, the perfect village in which one may keep a low profile.

She had changed into her khaki jodhpurs and jacket, as the military uniform (unconventional for this land as it was) seemed to draw too much unwanted attention. Her lodgings were nothing fancy, simply a cramped and creaking room in village’s lone coaching inn. Each morning she would rise to find a newspaper and a cheap, earthen tray containing three biscuits, a mug of strong tea, and half a grapefruit.

When she was finished, she gladly carried the dirtied dishes down to the kitchen herself, and gave the newspaper to the elderly woman who sat smoking tobacco by the fire. After this, she went for an hour’s stroll through the village, chatted with the blacksmith and the charcoal burner, picked up any consignments she had ordered from the various little shops, and returned to her room for some quiet contemplation. It was a simple routine; the past months in this world had been somewhat humbling for Group Captain PeltFelter, but not nearly so much as it may have appeared.

The village was part of a small duchy in the countryside, and the land it was built on belonged to a particularly poncey noble who styled himself Duke d’Argblington IV, despite the absence of any previous Duke d’Argblingtons not only here, but quite possibly anywhere ever. The story is one which had been repeated ad nauseum in similar little out-of-the-way fiefdoms like this; there was once a good and just king (or in this case, duke), and he was beloved by the people.

On the eve of his daughter’s birth, he was found dead; stabbed through the chest by an unknown hand; his wife, strangled by the cords of her nightgown. The daughter was nowhere to be found. And as sure as blood stains hands, the duchy was now ruled by the good ruler’s mean little puke of a cousin, an ambulatory streak of piss who would charge for the time of day and scowl the sun out of the sky if it meant he could sell candles.

Armed with this knowledge, Relt’s humdrum routine became a bit clearer. The daily chats made sense when one knew that blacksmiths and charcoal burners gossiped like nuns in a bathhouse, and there was surely a lot of gossip when a despot is on the rise. The leisurely reading of the local newspaper was no longer an inane chore when the front page involved stories of the new Duke’s coronation festivities. And even the rather ratty, moist little room became a stroke of genius when it was obvious that the great four-paned glass window overlooked the entirety of the road to the castle, down which the ducal procession would come, with the smug weasel of a man seated outside his coach and waving.

Kings say that it is dangerous to leave a soldier without orders for too long, because when the feet stop marching the brains start working, and more specifically, working out the problem of the fact that the king wears silk so fine it could be used to desalinize ocean water while they have to file a requisition to get boots that aren’t made mostly out of holes; that is to say, problems of social mobility and equality in a seemingly despotic society.

Relt PeltFelter had been without orders for a very long time, and she was as fine a soldier as there had ever been. The tea in her cup rippled with the energy of her cogitations. Once the cup was finished, Relt set it down on the ghastly, chipped earthenware tray, and checked the aim from her window again.

After this she stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. Funny how morally uncomplicated these things seemed when you planned to perpetrate them in fresh air and rusticated environs of a tiny rural village, and not, for example, the balcony of a dark theatre, or the sixth floor of a book depository.

Relt PeltFelter was going to assassinate a man. Even the word made her feel all warm inside. And not just because it had two asses.

[Yari Rafanas]

There was a time in his previous life that Yari Rafanas would have considered himself an influential figure in Corone politics. While not necessarily a paper pusher or a number cruncher (those tasks seemed more suited for his draconian business partner Ithermoss), Yari still had a great impact on the Empire. His spear was used to carve his law into the countryside. Trademasters buckled under the weight of his army of thieves and brigands, merchants lobbied for strong military presences on the roads into Concordia, and all the while the people united under Rafanas where given the freedom to live life as they saw fit.

That was all crude influence, a joke in the eyes of Corone's government—little more than a disruption in the grander scheme of things. With Yari's absence, the lands Corone grew into a dark place, torn by a civil war that was running on years now. The oppressive empire had no clear enemy like they did with the “Bandits” and instead fought true rebels, their kin. Towns swore their swords to one side or another, prepared to defend their lands for what they believed in, die for their families, make their stand. It was rare these days to find a town that had yet to develop such strong allegiances. Yet, here one stood, castle and all, once ruled by a benevolent king.

Yari was curious. What would the new Duke do? More importantly... What could be in it for me?

He had spent the last few days in the nearby woods, making trips into the edges of town to observe the happenings, restricted to rooftops and trees as to not agitate the dull lives of the townsfolk. It had only been a few days of crawling in the shadows of the town for it all to become clear to the brigand king. A ceremony was to be held, of sorts, and the whole town was getting ready. If ever news of the decision to aid of fight the Empire were to come, this would be it. Yari struggled with his curiosity, and his limbs seemed to ache with anticipation. This town was days from a revelation. Would there be a riot? Mass looting? Their whole world could turn in on itself and Yari would be right in the thick of it. His greed-fueled excitement could hardly be contained.

[Relt PeltFelter]

It was approaching noon when Relt’s wanderings brought her to the bend in the dirt road leading up to the imposing black bulk of the castle. It wasn’t really much of a curve; the road merely dog-legged around a thick copse of ancient trees before straightening again on approach to the sooty stone fortress. It was the perfect place to set up Plan B.

Relt was no fool; while Plan A: “Shoot the blighter through his bleeding face from my window” was an excellent stratagem, there were a thousand ways it could go wrong. So like any decent would-be assassin, a number of reserve plans were put in place. And so, right past the curve in the road and just out of view of the town, Relt had been hard at work.

According to the blacksmith, the Ducal Coach had been in his shop this past week so that the horses might be re-shod. Several times. The damned stupid duke insisted on using gold horseshoes, and of course those lasted all of five damn minutes before being ground down to nothing. As a result, the coach had left wheel ruts all over the smithy’s back lot, and while the smith was a bit confused as to why the pleasant traveler was measuring the coach ruts with a bit of old wood, he couldn’t think of any reason to ask her to stop.

Armed with these measurements, and the loan of a shovel, Relt had set to work just out of sight. It was an old trick, older than steel; a soldier’s trick from time immemorial. Starting on either side, Relt had dug hollow spaces a ways under the road reaching to the approximate spacing of the coach’s wheels. The crust of dirt overlying these hollows was thick enough to withstand the weight of all but the fattest of men walking over them, but would never last under the heavy weight of the duke’s ostentatious coach. The stricken vehicle would be kept there long enough that, if her first shot were to miss, Relt would be able to leg it down there in time to give the man her personal regards.

The actual digging had happened days ago, of course; Relt had simply walked down there to check that the road hadn’t fallen in yet due to an errant bear or particularly fat man. She held up her fingers to form a square, in the style of self-absorbed film directors everywhere, and backed away from the spot slowly. Being totally alone, the last thing she expected was to bump into a man standing around in the forest. She slid on the wet bracken of the underbrush and landed harshly on her backside, but managed to get to her feet with a minimum of undignified slithering around in the mud.

“Terribly sorry, guv,” she apologized, “Don’t know what I was thinking, strutting about backwards like that. How can I make it up to-”

The light of recognition dawned in the soldier’s eyes; this was not a good light. This was the light that people see at the end of the tunnel, albeit speeding towards them very fast and accompanied by a shrill whistling and persistent chug-a-chug-a. Her face hardened into an expression so stony that a moai would think she was overdoing it.

“YOU.”

[Yari Rafanas]

Yari's fantasies about living out the birth of a revolution were getting he best of him. At one moment, he was contently watching over the quiet townsfolk from afar, scratching his scruffy chin in contemplation. In the next instant, his knees were covered in mud and grime, his hands sunk into dried leaves and fungus, caught (surprisingly) off-guard by what could only be a bumbling berry forager, too dense to watch where he was going.

The bandit was a warrior at heart, and though it was likely a misunderstanding, his body reacted as if it were not. While not appearing particularly graceful, there was a crude sense of fluidity in his movements as the momentum of his fall was transformed into an acrobatic roll into an upright position. He was already turning to face his “attacker” as he pulled from his belt a fur-decorated iron blade, curved forward for chopping and looking otherworldly when held by the Bandit King. He pointed the knife firmly in the direction of the apologizing buffoon, and then it hit him just as it hit her—painful recognition.

Yari relaxed slightly and sighed. “You know, I can understand wanting to hunt down a man who took your weapon from you, but this is hardly Eleric's Coldfusion Rail Gun we're talking about here.” Yari dangled the kukri teasingly in front of PeltFelter. “And if it's the naughty book you're after... well I think its better if I keep these both.”

[Relt PeltFelter]

As a soldier, Relt was used to unpleasant surprises. The cup of disappointment runneth over when one is wading through a knee-deep slurry of blood, shit and piss in a trench carved through some god-forsaken chunk of rural France. Jaded though she was by the horrors of war, the expression on Relt’s face was a perfect representation of a woman who had gone to take a sip of coffee and found instead that her cup was runnething over with the aforementioned slurry. “Typical civilian conceit,” Relt huffed, dusting her jodhpurs off and stepping back to a disrespectful distance, “Think every damn thing is about you.”

The heat of the sun had, by this point, fully chased away the mists and shivers of the morning. Despite this, there was a chill here by the side of the road. This man had been among the first Relt had met upon her arrival in this backwater fold of reality, the result of a complicated and confusing accident which the soldier was embarrassed to even recall. At the time, the thief (his name escaped her at the moment, though she was sure it started with one of those ill-regarded letters near the arse-end of the alphabet) had utterly outclassed her with some manner of mesmerist hokum. Much as she hated to admit it, Relt was fairly sure this state of affairs had not changed.

“If you’re quite through contesting that Copernicus was wrong, and that the world in fact orbits your fine self, and indeed is lit by the rosy glow emanating from your capacious backside, then I think I shall take my leave of you. Some of us have real business to attend to. And by some of us, I of course mean myself. Adieu.” Relt turned and strutted away from the thief. It was clear that there were two possibilities; either he would take the snubbing like a champion and return to his own dastardly spheres of activity, or he would persist in making her life more difficult merely by standing near it.

To her credit, Relt was very nearly certain which one of those outcomes she would prefer.

[Yari Rafanas]

As far as Rafanas was concerned, everything was about him. And while he greatly enjoyed Relt's windy way with words, he had to admit he was quite disappointed when she shrugged him off and turned to continue on with her berry foraging. Such disregard for the legendary King of Thieves, the very same that had humbled and mugged her some time ago, felt rather insulting. He would not stand for it.

There was barely a blur to be seen as Yari repositioned himself directly in front Relt, his powerful magics propelling him nearly instantaneously to intercept her. He had his arm held firmly against a nearby tree, blocking the short woman's path, with his free arm hiding the kukri behind his back. The bandit's infamous smirk cut into his scruff as he looked her up and down, his sharp blue eyes tracing her form.

“Business, eh Beltfeller?” he continued to tease as his smirk widened into a grin, “Wouldn't happen to do with this new duke I have been hearing about, would it?”

[Relt PeltFelter]

The only word which would adequately describe Relt’s facial expression at this juncture would be “sneer”. It was a classic sneer, a sneer for the ages. When the history of contempt was set down in great lead slabs and sealed away underground, the definition of the English word “sneer” would be an acid-etched image of Relt’s face at this exact moment. “An astute deduction,” she replied, “But I am afraid you are far more Watson than Holmes. Would you perhaps care to conjecture about the defecatory habits of bears, or the nature of the Pope’s clerical adherence?”

Relt sidestepped the arrogant rogue, hands in pockets, but stopped, and turned back around to face him. A thought had occurred to her, as they so often do. It was not a thought which she liked very much, as it involved this man who she did not like very much, but it was in its way useful, like a bit of dog doings on the end of a stick. A powerful weapon, if kept at arm’s length. “As it happens, Mr. Zarni Raftingson,” the name was a guess, but a fair one, “My business is…tangentially related to the unconventional succession of the local nobility.”

Relt lit a cigarette and placed it in her mouth. She wasn’t particularly in the mood for one, but it gave her some stage business to do with her hands, and made her feel confident that despite the man’s show of super-fast-going-places mystical mummery, she was in control of the situation. She gathered her thoughts a moment, trying to decide on a suitably melodramatic method of relating this concept. “What has happened here is not merely an event, sir. What is happening here is a Story, a repeating pattern in the fabric of history. What luck, then, that I am here: the one who knows how the Story has to go.”

“I am the author now, Mr. Raftingson, both creator and destroyer. And if you want a choice part in this chapter, I suggest you do your damnedest to get in my good graces.”

[Yari Rafanas]

Yari did consider himself quite the wilderness expert, but he admittedly knew very little of bear droppings, or whether his “pope” had anything to do with animal waste, or who in Thayne's name Watson was. Relt's rambling reminded him that she was an offworlder, and that offworlders seemed to always carry a sense of superiority, constantly testing his intelligence. It took him back to his earlier years, prior to his days as King of Thieves, and how he so hated to have his intelligence berated by the deamon Ter-Thok. How he tolerated that imp still confused him to this day.

“Grizzly shit aside,” Yari started, putting the kukri to rest in its sheeth on his lower back. “I'd love to get in on this little revolution. And judging from your tone, this duke has a rotten soul just itching to be corrupted by power. If that's true, I have no problem carving it out of him.”

Rafanas fanned the air in front of him as Relt's smoke intruded on his personal space. He took a relaxed step back, pulling his dark cloak's hood down as he leaned against the nearest oak, still smirking. She may have had a rather convincing facade, but Yari's form dripped confidence and control in the truest sense of the words. Knowing he had the upper hand in combat he felt plenty of room to bargain further.

“But let's not forget—there's a lot of risk in gutting dictators in front of an audience. If I'm going to take part in your little poem or whatever, I have to know its worth it. What's in it for me? And for that matter, what does a little soldier girl get out of this? Have you thought about that, Felt?”

[Relt PeltFelter]

(minor lagomorphic commandeering of character action permitted)

Relt maneuvered her cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other. This gesture would have been more effectively intimidating, perhaps, if it were a cigar being thusly moved. Also if the one doing the oral gymnastics wasn’t a woman who stood knee-high to a duck and was dressed for safari season. Still, Relt liked to think that at least a measure of the pure, self-confident attitude such a gesture traditionally conveys was inherent in her mannerisms. “What’s in it for me, you ask?” Relt responded with a painfully feigned air of incredulity, “Could it be that the scurrilous straggler who spoke in such grandiose terms about an army of the oppressed and unwanted rising up to conquer this world turned out to be an unreliable poof who disappeared into the woods soon as I blinked my peepers, ne’er to be seen again?”

“I was bored, you intolerable wanker. Bored and in possession of ridiculously optimistic ideas regarding the rights of man.” Relt exhaled a long stream of smoke towards the ground, knowing full well that the wind would splash it up into the thief’s face. Soldiers tended to develop instincts about things like smoke direction and the luminance of matches, in the trenches. Soldiers who didn’t could be bronzed and sold as novelty colanders. “And lo, providence did lead me to this grim little hamlet and their dead noble whose rat-faced cousin didn’t even wait for the body to cool before measuring the castle for new rugs.”

“As to why I have chosen to involve myself so intimately with this situation, well…if you would be so good as to follow me?”

- - -

It took about thirty minutes to stroll to Relt’s destination. The coaching inn she lodged at was the only real place to spend the night in town, but as far as strong drink went, it was a damned kindergarten. No, the alcoholic in the know spent his hazy evenings in the dank environs of Thee Cockl’d Sailor. By big city standards, it was the sort of pub where your grandmother went for a nightcap and a singsong with her knitting club, but by small town standards, the place was practically a brothel. This of course raises a number of questions about the nature of one’s grandmother and her friends, but that is an issue for another time.

The planks of the floor creaked from decades of sloshed ale, and the tobacco smoke of centuries had papered the plaster walls with a sort of soot chic. It was the type of pub where there are always enough empty tables for the patrons to seat themselves, and this is what Relt did, waving in a manner slightly less than cordial for her not-friend to join her. “D’you see the waitress there, the pretty one with a bosom like two size-six pumpkins stuffed into a size-three wheelbarrow? There are two things you need to understand about that young lady. Firstly, she and I have made violently passionate love to one another.

“Secondly, she’s the old duke’s daughter.”

[Yari Rafanas]

Regarding the rights of man.

It was the first phrase Relt had uttered that really stuck with Rafanas. He chewed on the words their entire journey towards the tavern, and kept tossing the idea back and forth while they found a seat. She was right about his abrupt unavailability and disappointing departure. When he first met the woman he was on his foolish journey to raise an army of freedom fighters consisting of pickpockets, rebels, and cutthroats to battle for the rights of man.. He had riled up a sizable throng of supporters (even convinced them to start digging in the caves of Concordia for a new hideout) before his ambitions took him elsewhere. Yari had grown more impulsive with age, still yearned to be free to explore his desires, alone or with others. Poor Relt must have still been bitter about her abandonment.

Her heart seemed in the right place, though. She was already speaking with disdain and implying murder brought the new Duke into power. The act of betrayal was enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth, but there seemed to be more than just a desire to right somebody's wrong brooding within Relt. Yari was not terribly good at taking the hint though.

“So let me get this straight, and don't get me wrong about this, Felt... ” Yari rested an elbow on their table and leaned a bit closer to Relt, sounding just a tad perplexed. “But are you offering this girl as a prize for helping you with the Duke? Because... um, as endowed as she is, I'm not terribly interested in a barmaid.”

[Relt PeltFelter]

With a sigh, Relt tilted her chair onto the hindmost two legs and pinched the bridge of her nose. Clearly the cascades of genetics had, in the case of this individual, favored the aesthetic over the cogitatious. “No, that’s not what I meant. How did you get that from this?” The soldier drummed her fingers on the table anxiously, and grabbed a couple of cocktail napkins. It was the work of a moment to find a stub of pencil in her pockets. “Alright, I’ll illustrate it for you, in hopes that you’ll follow it more readily.”

The pencil described a quick series of movements on the first napkin, and Relt held it up to the thief’s face. It was a sort of stick-figure with a beard and a smile, wearing a crown. “This is the old duke, understand?” Relt set the duke back down on the table and set to scribbling once more. She produced a drawing of a stick figure with what appeared to be a handle bar moustache composed of two penises, also wearing a crown. “This is the new duke, the bad duke. The bad duke stabbed the new duke-” here Relt pushed the two napkins together violently, crumpling the old duke. “-and strangled his wife and did god knows what with the old duke’s infant daughter.”

Relt doodled a bit more, producing a blotching shape resembling a sword. “Apparently, the old duke and his daughter both had this birthmark on their rumps. It’s a genetic indicator of royalty, standard destiny business, really no big surprise. Now, the infant daughter is missing, probably tossed into the lake, knowing this blighter. That way she can’t grow up and contest the new duke’s rule.” The soldier flagged down a server (though not the one currently under discussion) and managed to acquire a passable lager.

Relt drew some more, producing a stick figure with two large circles around the chest area. “However, we have this barmaid whom I bedded. Admittedly, I simply did this on principle, but I was quite intrigued to find, during the throes of passion, that on her exquisite rump she bears a birthmark exactly the shape as the one reputed to belong to the old duke’s missing infant daughter. Now, I’m not saying that this girl IS that daughter, that would be impossible without some kind of, of…time machine. Rather, the much simpler solution is that the old duke, kind and just as he was, was randier than a three-legged badger.”

Relt took a breath, and a drink. And another drink, and finally another breath, before continuing. “The point I suppose I’m making is that I have an intimate connection with the rightful illegitimate heir to this fiefdom, and that can get us a fair bit. But if I’m being perfectly honest…I’d probably be doing this regardless. It may be a bit sentimental for a soldier, but the old Hamlet bit grates sidelong ‘gainst my nerves and I would give anything to make a better ending for this place and the people who live here.

“Which is funny, really,” Relt continued, half to herself, “Because they aren’t important. This country isn’t especially rich, or influential, its people aren’t noted for any particular knowledge or crafts. It’s just a place where people are born, live, work, and die; a place where people be people, for good or ill, and they should be able to do that without some thrice-damned guttersnipe strutting in and insisting that they all now answer to him because he has the longest dagger.”

[Yari Rafanas]

Relt hardly struggled to describe the countryside's woes, but it there was something about her accent and her descriptiveness that was lost on the King of Thieves. He was a man of action and imagery, telling his stories and motives with presence and will, not through silver-laced verse or lengthy dialogue. Still, he was not a dull man, and with the right pacing he was able to sort out the finer details of their predicament. Admittedly, the drawings helped.

“Okay, okay,” Yari held up a hand to the soldier, “Say no more, please. I don't care how long the duke's dagger is, I've got something of a reputation to uphold. We'll set the town free, restore the babe to the throne, and make the duke's pockets a bit lighter in the process. Then things will be level in this little corner of Corone.”

The thief raised a mug to his new partner, taking a swig of the bitter beverage in some sort of display of agreement. He set it down, wiping the leftover lager from his chin-scruff with the corner of his cloak. While doing so his eyes caught one of the waitresses giving a farewell hug to the Unaware Heir, before grabbing a satchel and exiting the tavern. At first Yari's gaze followed the girl merely for the pleasing site of her rear swaying through the room, but his interest soon changed when he saw her pick up a follower. A burly man, the type Yari was most irritated by, strutting behind her with that unwarranted confidence most brutes carried, complete with a broadsword strapped to his back.

“Starting now!' Yari exclaimed, grinning. “You get the tab, and I'll go make us some friends.”

The brigand scooted from his chair, not leaving any coin for the drinks, and followed the man and barmaid outside. Yari had been through the motions before. He could tell a creeper from a genuine knight, and this man was most certainly the former. Outside, he had a closer look at the brute. For being a warrior of some sort, he was well dressed, an elaborate crest woven into his sleeve, and his sword seemed expensive. It was the attire and weaponry of somebody close to those with money, but his unkempt beard and slurred speech was more befitting of a mercenary.

Yari's suspicions were confirmed as the man forcibly grabbed the barmaid, a less than genuine smile on his face. “Now hold on, little lady. Castle's that way,” the brute pointed in a general manner towards the new royalty's home. “Duke's havin' a party tonight, remember? Needs some company before his big day.”

The young thing glared back at the man, her eyes burning. She seemed scared, but determined, and almost as if she had expected the harassment. They stood in the middle of the street, those passing giving way to the conflict erupting, and she began to struggle.

“Hey!” the darkly-armored King of Thieves took a few steps into the street, still grinning. “Can I come?”

The large man tossed the girl aside and snarled at Rafanas. She hit the dirt with cough, scrambling to her knees and crawling away desperately. Two more trouble-makers emerged from a crowd on the other side of the street, one of them placing his mud covered boot right on the girl's hand. She whimpered, and the two laughed. The initial (and largest) of the men still didn't seem amused. He drew his weapon and began advancing towards the thief.

[Relt PeltFelter]

Relt gulped down her lukewarm lager like a pelican swallowing a trout and scattered a few coins on the table, scrambling to follow her tentative compatriot on his foolhardy endeavor. The girthy gentleman who had aroused the thief’s attention was one of the higher ranked of the hired goons the new duke surrounded himself with. His trespasses on the lawn of common decency were many. Boots slapping the cobblestones, Relt stumbled directly between the bandit and the broadsword. She skidded to a halt, and reached into her back pocket.

“Gentlemen,” she began, having extracted from her pocket a small bronze shield, “Officer Relt PeltFelter, Ducal Ministry of Internal Affairs. Sheath your weapon and walk away or I’ll escort you to the gallows myself. Honestly, is this any way for soldiers of the crown to behave? Harassing innocent men and women in the street when there are perfectly good prostitutes not a stone’s throw away.” Relt turned on a dime and stared at her rakish comrade. “And you, sir!” she shouted, winking conspiratorially, “You should know better than to stay the good soldiers of the Duke about their duty! I’m afraid I shall have to detain you at the Duke’s leisure until such time as you have learned your lesson.”

“If you would be so kind,” Relt said, swiveling once again to face the head soldier, “As to return to your duty of locating suitable entertainment for the Duke’s celebration. Recall that, as women go, I believe his preferences run far more towards the heavyset than this young lady here. He prefers them to not only have meat on their bones, but potatoes and gravy as well.”

“I ain’t never hear’d of no Internal Affairs fing before,” sneered the ancillary soldier whose hobnailed boot was currently pressuring the wrist of the unfortunate waitress.

“Of course not,” Relt replied without skipping a beat, “Because if you had, surely you would have been aware that your actions reflected badly on the Duke. And you would be aware of what the Duke does to people whose actions reflect badly on him.”

“I fink she’s a fake,” the same guard needled; he stepped forward off of the barmaid’s arm, and to her credit the young woman had the presence of mind to make herself scarce. The guard who had derelicted his duty spat on the ground, rubbing his rodent fingers together. “I fink we should take ‘er too, boss! She’s got quite a-”

“Shut up!” the primary mercenary shouted, “I’m not riskin’ runnin’ afoul of the duke tonight. He’s a right bleedin’ terror when he’s pissed.” The guard leaned forward, the whiskey in his breath nearly strong enough to get Relt drunk by inhalation. “You’d best keep yer nose out of our business in future, precious, lest you find my sword more concerned with your own internal affairs.” With that, the three men trudged off into the afternoon. When their footfalls faded entirely, she breathed out a sigh of relief.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she said, fiddling with her emblem of authority, “This is a damned novelty bar coaster.” The soldier turned around again, and stalked towards the bandit. “Are you almost totally stupid?” she inquired, poking him in the chest accusingly, “I sympathize with your antipathy towards meatheaded stomparound mercenaries going about their sundry duties, but I need you to pay attention to me right now.

“Did Gavrilo Princip go waving his arms about and howling in the hours before he fatally attached a magnet to the head of Archduke Mecha-Ferdinand? No! Did John Wilkes Booth take out an ad in the newspaper the day before he fired a torpedo into the Ford Submarine Theatre and killed the American President Lincoln? No! So if we’re going to assassinate this usurping duke and get away with it we need to proceed with stealth and caution here.”

Relt sighed heavily and placed her hands on her hips. “I understand that some of these weighty political concepts may be confusing to a tree-hugging highwayman, but it is vitally important that we follow the plan. Which I just realized I haven’t told you yet, so we should retire to somewhere private for now.”

[Yari Rafanas]

Yari was truly an arrogant, dramatic, and violent soul, and it was evident in his actions. He was nearly salivating at the site of the drawn weapon inching towards him, absorbing every subtle movement from the brute and his two companions in what seemed like an eternity for the thief as he waited for the most opportune moment. Time slowed, and Yari's hands tensed at his side. In a heartbeat, he knew these men would be torn from their pedestals, grasping at large gashes in their bodies as their life leaked into the streets. It was something in the way they carried themselves—Yari just knew they were wastes of air and lackluster in combat. This was going to be fun. He felt bad Relt was going to miss it...

Or blunder right into his path and begin her rambling once more.

“Damn you, Fff--” Yari was cut short of revealing what wasn't really Relt's name by his soldier ally's falsified claims. He made a pathetic pouting and upset snarl at her annoying wink and took a few steps back. He paced in a circle as she continued, his eyes darting between the three men looking for an excuse to explode into combat and tear their ugly faces from their skulls. Who were they to take from the weak and then be allowed to walk away from it? For that matter, why was it that Yari always let the wordy short ones get the upper hand on him?

The thief's anger was subdued when he saw the girl from the bar flee, allowing him to take a breath and find himself at ease. Just in time to get scolded by Relt, where he once again felt completely uneducated and ill-informed. Who were these people and since when did they hold a candle to the great Yari Rafanas? He was a stone's throw away from starting an argument he knew he would lose when he finally just held his arms up in defeat.

“Yes, yes, fine. Give me a little slack, I used to have people for this shadowy stuff,” the bandit sighed and waved his companion on. “Alright, after you, Beltfeller.”

[Relt PeltFelter]

It couldn’t be said that Relt failed to stifle a chuckle, because she clearly did not even attempt to. “People? Oh la-dee-da, looks loik we ‘ad people fer ‘at, dinnwe? Mater and Pater ‘ired some ‘elp to wipe yer ickle bum, did they? Oo, we aren’t ‘alf posh, are we? Well let me tell you, my lad, I’ve had people to shine my boots and chew my bleedin’ food for me since I was knee-high to a duck, but that doesn’t mean I let them. A soldier shines her own boots, and an assassin plans her own debauchery! Now come on, and don’t say anything else. I fear my sides would split from laughter.”

- - -

It was surprisingly lively in the coaching inn as Relt and her conspirator made their way up the creaky wooden stairs to her room. Clearly, some of the visiting dignitaries felt it necessary to pre-game for the Duke’s big to-do. Relt paid them no mind as they cavorted in the second-hand light of the inn’s grimy window panes. “Hurry along,” Relt hissed to her follower. They were nearly to her room when the proprietress of the establishment turned a corner, arms burdened with towels.

“Oh, Miss PeltFelter!” the older woman called out genially, “Always a pleasure to see you. D’you need anything for lunch, dear?”

Relt tried, and entirely failed by virtue of smallness, to occlude Rafanas from the woman’s view. “Ah, no thank you, ma’am. I’ve made arrangements of my own, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Ah, that’s alright, then,” the rotund innkeeper said absently, “Who’s your handsome friend, then, Miss PeltFelter, if it’s not too familiar to ask?”

For quite possibly the first time in her entire life, Relt PeltFelter was speechless. For one thing, she never would have described the bandit as handsome. Unkempt was probably the more apt phrase. But she couldn’t very well explain that he was some sort of king of thieves, that would draw far too much attention, courtesy of a gossipy proprietress and her equally gabby staff. Her mind scrambled to find an explanation which would be plausible and, lamentably, managed to find purchase on a recent topic of conversation.

“He’s a prostitute,” Relt blurted out, “A rent boy. Top quality rump, affordable rates,” and with this the cover story officially got away from her, “You can hire him when his duties are finished, if you like,”

The innkeeper stopped like an unwound clock, eyes glazing slightly. Every conventional, lady-like bone in her body was telling her to sweep by imperiously, muttering about the quality of young folks today. But a far more pragmatic component of her hindbrain was whispering insistently that it had been a very long time since her husband, bless his soul, had passed away, and that this man was really very rakishly handsome. The paradoxical interaction of these two forces seemed to short something out in her, and she settled for blushing fiercely and bustling off to do some quiet, asexual laundry in a very cold room.

Relt grinned at the thief like a cat which had not only eaten the canary, but all of the canary’s friends, relatives, and an unfortunate magpie which had gotten turned around on the motorway and wandered into the canary family reunion by mistake. She managed to contain her laughter right up until the moment that the door to her quarters was shut behind the two of them.

[Yari Rafanas]

“A prostitute!?” Yari exclaimed in some sort of hushed excitement, already resuming his frustrated pacing. “A distant cousin? Kin you're ashamed of, even... but a prostitute?! If this wasn't the most backwards, isolated, boring town this side of Salvar that poor old woman would have been shaking in her slippers at the thought of me sleeping in her inn! I am Yari Rafanas... the goddamn King of Thieves! Not some manwhore!”

Once again outdone by the offworlder, Rafanas stomped towards the bed in the room. He unwrapped his tattered cloak from around his neck and tossed it over the nearest chair, ruffling his hair as he took a seat on the bed. The sheets were thin and strangely comfortable, but the thief chalked that up to the fact that he had been sleeping in trees for the last week. He turned to his insulter, who was still laughing at her twisted story, and dreaded his next words.

“Alright then, out with it. How are we doing this, and when am I sinking my knife into this guy?”

[Relt PeltFelter]

“If you’re going to sink your knife into anyone, you should charge them a couple quid and ask for a ride home.” Relt burst into laughter once again, bracing herself against her room’s shabby chest of drawers. “Haha, fine, I’m sorry, but you can’t just put a line like that out there, I have to go with my instincts here.”

“Speaking of which!” the soldier continued, by way of transition, “The plan. Or rather, the plans. As a consummate professional, I have devised several. Plan A!” Relt dashed to the window and picked up her service revolver from the nightstand. “Wait for the duke’s carriage to come through here on his fatuous little coronation procession and shoot him in the fecking face. Simple, straightforward, and with the only drawback being that, what with one thing and another, I only have a single bullet left.”

“Plan B!” Relt swept away and picked up the borrowed shovel leaning against the closet door. “I’ve dug a small pit trap for the aforementioned carriage some ways up the road. It should slow things down long enough for me to nip ‘round and kill the duke. The drawback there is that the carriage is bound to be loaded with heavily armed guards who lack my sophisticated sense of right and wrong; which is to say, if I do it, it is right, and if they disagree then they are wrong.” Relt laid the shovel down again and picked up a sheaf of paper.

“Plan C! This next plan, my favorite plan, was one I had actually considered shelved,” the sheaf of paper was dramatically unrolled on the small tea table; it was a map of the castle, apparently snatched from some records office. “With just me doing it, there simply wouldn’t be enough time to get everything squared away. However, I now have a comrade in arms, it would seem, and so this plan can come out of the mothballs. Plus, it has the advantage of us not needing to wait three days for the ducal procession.

“The plan itself is simple; the Duke is having his little pre-coronation celebration tonight. The castle will be full of minor foreign dignitaries, local burghers and magistrates, and anyone who can bribe their way past the guards. I go into the castle before the party starts, and busy myself until things get lively. That’s where you come in. I need you to take this.”

Relt reached into the small, cramped closet of her rented room, and withdrew the most exquisite gown ever to grace the surface of Althanas. It was a rich, forest green, with long, ruffled sleeves and décolletage like a narrow mountain pass. “As amusing as it would be for you to wear this, it’s simply not in the cards. I need you to play fairy godmother for our little heiress Cinderella. Take her this gown, escort her to the party, and make sure she gets in. You’re to be her date, so scrub yourself up a bit. Once we’re both inside, we kill the duke in the most excruciatingly painful and public way we can. Then destiny, the trifling whore, can take over.”

"Well?" Relt concluded, "What do you think?"

[Yari Rafanas]

“I think you're kind of a bitch,” answered the bandit king, “But your plan is solid. Go in the guise of some snotty noble, woo the unsuspecting princess, and then mingle with a bunch of politicians until the time comes to strike. I'd ask how I would know when we're going for the kill, but I somehow have a feeling you'll present it quite openly.”

Yari stood from the bed and walked to the edge of the room where a mostly-empty oak chest lay open. “If I'm going to play the part, I'm leaving my gear here, but I swear to whatever Thayne you worship... if it's not here when we're done I'll tear a cosmic hole in you so wide that your innards will be spread across three dimensions.” Though he knew his threat would fall flat, Yari also knew very well that it was a promise he could deliver on, and he took comfort in that.

The King of Thieves began to undress. His armor was not outlandish by any means, but it was certainly not simple. Sections of studded leather were clipped and buckled in various places across his form to protect his most vital regions, crafted of very high quality leather from the far reaches of Salvar. The bandit began reaching under some of the larger prevalida studs and unlatched the armor in a few large chunks, placing each piece nicely into the open chest. He did so rather quickly, not really looking to put on a show for Relt, until the armor was mostly removed and resting comfortably next to his belt and weapons. Where there was once armor was now just expensive cloth, vlince to be exact, a bit dirty, but of high quality, designed to act as padding and also a stylish outfit for when he felt the need to go about unarmored. His shorts were the most ragged of his clothes, admittedly being the same pair he had worn since he was about sixteen years old, marked with an almost-tribal pattern and tattered at the edges. It was a ruffian and child's outfit, for sure.

His custom tailored protection was not heavy, but he certainly felt lighter without it. Yari gave himself the once over, wiggling his toes openly in his vlince socks and chuckling a bit. “Well, I guess I can at least go find a decent shirt and a pair of boots before the party starts. I'll look the part, don't worry.”

He once again repositioned himself in the room, snatching the elegant dress from his partner and tucking it under one arm. He was now standing next to the sniper's perch, using his free hand to fiddle with the lock on the window. He opened it wide, already resting his foot on the ledge as if on his way out, before turning back to Relt with a concern.

“We should tell her our plan beforehand, you know. Having leadership thrust on you moments after another's death is not very ideal...”

Yari looked away for a moment, recalling when he first became king.

“Could end badly. Should definitely tell her.”

[Relt PeltFelter]

“So tell her, then,” Relt muttered distractedly. “Make it fancy, use some of that preposterous magic of yours, fairy godmother it up. Really sell it to her, because I simply can’t be arsed.” The soldier picked up a thick parcel from her small end-table and began to unwrap it, filling the dingy room with the scent of wildflowers in spring-time. Relt grinned, pulling her freshly laundered uniform from the remains of the wrappings, pushing the paper scraps off the table distractedly. Unconcerned with the persisting presence of her co-conspirator, she slipped out of her khakis and undergarments, anxious to be back in the drab olives that marked her as an officer in Her Majesty’s military.

Relt hopped around in a circle (which had an interesting effect on her unclad anatomy, as many totally chaste and sober scholars would be bound to notice) to face the bandit as she struggled to pull her jodhpurs up. The innkeeper had even made sure that the various cuts and tears had been darned and sewn up; bless the woman. Relt actually felt a bit bad about embarrassing her over the ersatz prostitute. She pulled on her dress shirt, buttoning it up and double-windsoring her tie. Next came the jacket, cleaner than it had been in months.

“And I’ve simply not the time nor inclination to pawn your various trifles, by the way. However, if it’s all the same to you, Mr. Rafanas,” Relt said as she did up her boots, deigning to remember his presence for the first time in several minutes, “I think I shall keep the kukri which you divested me of on our last meeting. I’ll probably need it.” Relt picked the weapon up and slid it from its sheath. “Damnation! Did you even look at the thing once? It’s simply filthy! I shall have to spend at least fifteen minutes cleaning this before I head out. Now bugger off, this is the sort of thing a lady needs to do in private.”

[Yari Rafanas]

Demands privacy with my knife, yet bounces about naked right in front of me? Ugh, soldiers.

“It's not the same to me,” Yari stated, being characteristically selfish over something he had stolen from Relt some time ago, “But you'll probably need it more in the coming hours than I would. Until then.”

Armed with only the dress to gift to their fair an unsuspecting noble, Yari fell from the window and darted off into evening to appropriate the essentials.


~*~

The barmaid of destiny had finished her shift at the shady tavern and was returning home, casually opening the door to her quaint abode in the quietest of neighborhoods this village had to offer. She was carrying herself with a sense of relief, surprised that none of the Duke's men had followed her home, what with the scuffle that happened outside the tavern just hours prior. She had yet to see anybody stand up to the mercenaries like that, and was surprised the heroics came from the darkly-garbed stranger and the women who she had bed just a few sleepless nights ago. Something was stirring, she just knew it and could feel it in her bosom, and those thoughts continued to put her at ease. A smile danced onto her lightly-freckled cheeks as she entered her bedroom, humming a tune from her childhood.

She habitually began stripping down to her unmentionables, her awkward undressing becoming another display of a woman comfortable with her curves bouncing all about, no fear of those observing. It was not until she felt the cold draft from an open window that she paused, clutching her arms over her exposed chest and turning to look about the room. Her brilliant blue eyes widened at the sight of the most gorgeous gown she had ever seen spread neatly across her bed, but her gaze did not stop there. It trailed along the gown's lines and towards the open window. There stood a man.

She jumped at first, backing into her dresser, but she did not scream. She gave the man a once over, squinting, before finally coming to the realization that--

“You were at the Cockl'd Sailor!”

She had hardly recognized the man, for he was no longer garbed in his dirty cloak and brigand's armor. He now dawned rather impressive attire—A forest green shirt, unbuttoned partway down his chest, with long loose sleeves covering his arms, its expensive cloth tucked into an a wide leather belt, buckled with gold and holding up tight-fitting black slacks. Dangling from his neck and trailing down his bare chest was a silver medallion (this was owned naturally by the thief, not stolen like the rest of the outfit.) His hair was no longer unruly and wild, instead it seemed straightened and swooped around his features, with a majority of the length tied into a loose ponytail in the back. Of course, there was little time for a precision shave, but behind the scruff was a handsome smile, not at all leering and malicious.

“Yep, call me Taydrius,” answered the King of Thieves.

Not quite frightened, but still shaken, the barmaid resumed her questions“What are you doing in my house!?”

“It's kinda complicated for my tastes, but let's just say that our friend—whom I am sure you remember quite well,” the girl blushed a deeper red at the thought, “She asked me to accompany you tonight to a little gathering at the castle.”

Her faced turned sour, “Why would I want to go there?”

Yari (or Taydrius, as he had introduced himself) chuckled. “Come on now, the party will be fun! We've all got a little something special planned for entertainment. Plus, you'll be crashing it with the most handsome man this side of Underwood—maybe even all of Corone.”

The playful nature of the tavern's hero was intriguing her. She raised an eyebrow, tongue against her teeth in thought. She remained silent for a moment, eying the bedroom intruder just a bit to really take in his features, which he was arguably wrong about. “I hardly know you or her.”

The bandit took a cocky step forward, “Don't you want to?”

She smiled, taking her own approach towards the man, a soft hand leading her fingertips across the dress at her side. If it weren't for her promiscuous nature and the enthralling night of passion she had shared with this man's friend earlier, she might have been inclined to say no, but she knew she could not resist playing princess to this suave man's prince...

[Relt PeltFelter]

It was some time before Relt made her way to the castle; the kukri really was rather sorely neglected, and neither soldier nor assassin nor Relt PeltFelter went to battle with an improperly clean weapon. After all, as everyone’s mothers have told them since the beginning of mothers, if you were run down in the street by a motorcar and they found you with dirty underwear, you’d die of shame; for a soldier, it was much the same, if you were gunned down in the trench by a motorized soldier.

Martial cleanliness notwithstanding, Relt had also needed to acquire that most important of camouflage components; the clipboard, complete with a sheaf of utterly overcomplicated and official-looking papers (or in this case, parchments, but the idea holds true). Wielding the bureaucratic icon like the head of Medusa, the soldier strutted up to the castle’s main gate, boots clattering against the cobbled bridge. There was only one guard on duty, and fortuitously, he was not one Relt had encountered before. She stifled a crafty grin, and flipped a switch in her head as she moved to go through the castle door, not sparing the guard a look.

A halberd slammed down and barred her progress.

“Sorry,” the man said utterly without sincerity, “Party doesn’t start for another couple of hours. Come back then, if you’re on the guest list.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you horrible little man?”

It was the sort of voice which demanded compliance simply by denying the possibility of any alternative. Relt called it her Sergeant Voice. All across the universe, non-commissioned officers had developed this ability totally independent of each other, rather like dorsal fins on sharks and dolphins. It was simply an adaptation so utterly necessary for that rank that to be without it would mean automatic extinction. Relt’s own was far from the best she had heard; her old sergeant, back in the early days, could have shouted a curtsy from a caryatid. Nevertheless, the halberd was withdrawn.

“I-I’m sorry,” the guard managed to stammer, uncertainty rearing its hoary head, “But the duke was very clear-”

“Clear? Clear?! There won’t be a party without my say-so, you little streak of shit! Now muscle your brainless bulk aside before I have you pitched into the Thames like the bleeding channel marker you are!” The actual words Relt said didn’t seem to matter; the effect of the Sergeant Voice seemed to bypass the frontal lobe and grab a man straight in his spine. The guard gave up; clearly this woman was In Charge; she had a clipboard and everything. He stepped aside as she stalked through.

Relt waltzed through the castle with ease, bustling through crowds of people like a wasp among bees. It really was that easy, espionage. If you look like you know exactly where you’re going and what you’re doing, and especially if you were holding a clipboard, people didn’t notice you. You were an infrared blip against the visible spectrum of their own lives.

Despite her knowledge of the castle’s layout, Relt actually didn’t know where she was going or what she was doing (though she didn’t let it show). It was not until she heard the words

“And is that all for the guest list, my liege?”

that she stopped. A door was open, and her careful peering revealed that within stood a tailor, a butler, and…the Duke d’Argblington, standing before a trio of mirrors as his finery was adjusted for fit.

“You expect me to know?” the usurper complained, his voice like dog’s water hitting glass, “I don’t know half of these stuffed-shirts, and rest I simply can’t stand. Check my cousin’s documents, he was always better at this sort of thing than I was.”

“Regrettably, not anymore,” the butler intoned solemnly.

The duke whirled, with an expression like a Mayan bas relief. His eyes were small and piggish, his face drawn and thin, with a body like a couple of pipe cleaners twisted together. “What is that supposed to mean?” he hissed, his voice poison filtered through his clenched teeth.

“I only meant, your eminence, that the untimely-”

“Are you implying that perhaps my cousin’s death was anything more than natural and unfortunate?”

“Why no, sire, I was merely-”

“And that the related deaths of his family may have been arranged in some way not merely by the happenstance of disease!?”

“Of course not, my liege-”

“Then keep the wagging of your tongue to yourself!” the duke shrieked, “Lest I have it cut out for you to stifle your treasonous chatter!”

“O-of course, your eminence, my humblest apologies-”

“Get out of my sight, you disgusting old thing!”

The butler scuttled out the room, the great mahogany door slamming behind him. He took a moment to mop his bald pate free of sweat, then sagged against the wall in defeat.

“You look absolutely scuppered, mate,” Relt offered. The poor butler nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Ah! Oh, yes, ah…it has been a trying few hours. I feel I could use a bit of a lie-down, but of course, duty calls. I must get this guest list to the front gate immediately, and-”

“Settle down, settle down. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you let me take care of that; you just go have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit and relax a bit, hey?” Relt took the guest list from the butler’s unresisting, and slightly shaky, hands. The snap of her clipboard as the item was added to the stack seemed to dispel any doubts the butler may have had about this arrangement, and he thanked her vaguely as he wandered off into the castle.

Relt permitted herself the crafty grin she had squelched before entering. She withdrew a pen, and she scribbled something on the guest list. It took her but a moment to deliver it, and then she returned to searching the castle for anything else to busy herself with.

On the last available line of the official Ducal Coronation Celebration guest list, there was a hastily inked but clearly legible name.

“Yari Rafanas and Guest”

[Yari Rafanas]

Whether it be luck, a taste for the fanciful, or a small combination of both, Yari had managed to appropriate suitable attire for the evening. It not only made him look like some overconfident noble playboy, but it actually matched his partner's gown quite nicely. The two of them, garbed in gorgeous greens, looked absolutely stunning in their stroll up to the castle gates. Had the bandit royalty not already pined for another (very far away) heart and soul, he may have considered enjoying the evening while trying to get close to the barmaid of destiny. But, there were more pressing items to attend to, like getting past the guard.

It felt odd approaching the gates so nonchalantly. Rafanas was used to scaling walls and infiltrating in the shadows or during the thick of combat. Now, he was in plain site, a mere foot away from a man that he would much sooner kill than converse with. His tongue was tied, his palms began to sweat, and all confidence in Relt's capabilities began to drain. Decades worth of instinct screamed to him, Ditch the girl, kill the guard, race to find the duke. Be quick about it.

“Your name again, sir?”

He steadied those urges.

“Zarni Rafingston?” he sounded like a child lying to his parents. His guest raised an eyebrow at him, as did the guard, who was checking his list twice.

“It's not here.”

Rafanas cleared his throat, “Sorry, something caught back there.” Of all the times she gets it right. “The name is Yari Rafanas.”

“Oh yeah, yeah,” the guard bit down on his pencil. “Right here in the bottom. And guest. Enjoy the night.”

A sigh of relief escaped his lips. Yari tried to catch it before his breath hit the air, but being outside his normal and comfortable behavior was a trip he was surprisingly unprepared for. His date's look of concern returned, and she put a reassuring arm onto his, questioning him with his eyes. He smiled, motioning to move forward, and the pair slipped into the castle halls.

[Relt PeltFelter]

Relt stretched her back until a couple of vertebrae popped. She had found little else to do in the intervening time before the party, and so had simply found a closet to sit in and wait, safely out of sight. Now, however, her field issue watch told her that the big event was just beginning, and so the actual meat of the plan could be served up to the unsuspecting castle staff. Relt opened the closet door and stepped out.

Nearly bumping into a young maid laden with linens. There was a long silence as the two women stared at each other.

“Why were you sitting in the closet?” the girl asked, innocently.

“Closet inspections,” Relt said automatically, “Checking to make sure no-one sneaks in for the party, with nefarious intent,”

“I been down this corridor three times in the last hour and I didn’t see you go in,” the maid continued, needling at the subject like a sore tooth.

“Do you have any idea how long a proper closet inspection takes, young lady?”

“No.”

“That’s right, no. Now get back to your business.” Relt swept imperiously past the girl and headed for the party. There was serious business to attend to, and she couldn’t waste time arguing with a serving girl. The soldier kept walking forward; if she continued down this corridor, she should come out on the second floor of the grand ballroom. Relt could already hear the band warming up, and smell the canapés as they were being spit on by contemptuous waiters while no guests were there to see.

She pushed open the next door and nearly stumbled headlong into the Duke d’Argblington. She clenched down on a breath and stepped back as he continued along the corridor. It would be so very easy to kill him now, Relt thought, but it would be meaningless; she might as well have gone with Plan A or B. No, so far everything had gone far better than she expected, no reason to muck it all up with an incautious assassination.

The soldier heard the duke stop at the railing looking down into the ballroom. “Why are there so many fat women here?” he asked, watching the guests filter in. The guard next to him, one of those who had been in charge of securing entertainment, paled visibly. Relt bit her hand to suppress her laughter as she slinked past them and down into the ballroom, happy to lose herself in the crowd.

“Is the spotlight prepared for my big speech?” the duke whined, “Everything has to be perfect for my big speech.” Relt caught this as she crept unnoticed down the stairs. She scanned the ballroom; just next to an enormous cake was a sort of lens designed to focus the light of a massive oil lamp on a single area. The soldier filed that under “of potential utility” and kept going.

Not being terribly tall, Relt found it difficult to search the crowd from within it. Rafanas would likely be here by now, and if he wasn’t, then there would be hell to pay. Figurative hell, because the man could probably kill her in an instant if she tried the other kind. Which was frustrating, to say the least. She headed towards the edge of the press of humanity, finding a most welcome sight: an open bar.

By a series of elaborate gestures, she managed to order a drink which didn’t taste entirely like horse piss. Which, it must be said, was a criterion which Relt was in a position to judge. When you’ve been in a trench for six weeks, and Germans keep shooting down supply drops of martini olives, you’ll mix damn near anything with gin. Putting the equine excretion debate out of her mind again (surely to revisit it at an appropriate juncture), Relt turned back and scanned the crowd from without.

After a few false starts, Relt finally spotted the inimitably delectable bulk of the secret heiress’ chest, clad in the shimmering beauty of the gown. After a moment, Relt realized that the surprisingly well-kempt gentleman next to her was, in fact, her thieving co-conspirator. She waved at the pair of them personably, wishing to rendezvouz without arousing suspicion.

[Yari Rafanas]

There was an enormous amount of chatter in the great ballroom, weaved by wicked silver tongues and caught by stuffed ears, but it was mostly drowned out by the horrible band playing on a nearby stage. Yari's disgust with the politicians and ignorant behavior was evident on his face, but that only dawned on him when the Barmaid once again grabbed his arm and questioned the thief.

“Are you alright?”

The bandit realized he was staring directly above now, eyes set on the honored host of the event. The duke's disposition was obvious, and though Yari could not hear him, the way he carried himself suggested that the man was displeased with the evening, despite the outlandish (possibly overly expensive) event that was being held in his name. All the nearby talk about borders, policies, contracts, and gold was grating on the thief, building within him, and the mere sight of the man they intended to kill almost put the King of Thieves into action.

“Yari?” His unaware companion squeezed his wrist. “You promised me a party, but this isn't fun. I don't feel right.”

The bandit royalty shook himself free of his rage and set his eyes upon the Barmaid. His gaze admittedly drifted down her neckline momentarily, refocusing the thief on what truly mattered. In a very short amount of time this would cease to be an evening about the Duke and everything would soon be hers. Would she be ready for it?

“Sorry, sorry,” Yari rambled, licking his lips. “We're here to have fun, but there's really something you should know—about the duke I mean. And about you...”

The Barmaid's full lips spread wide into a grin, large enough to stop Yari's explanation dead in its tracks. He gave her a perplexed look, then followed her eyes over his shoulder and towards the edges of the gathering.

“You didn't tell me Relt would be here!” she giggled and blushed, grabbing Yari's arm and dragging him towards the bar.

Ugh, Concordia, spare me.

The two weaved through the crowd of gluttons, drawing annoyed glances from those they shoved from their path, and arrived next to the female soldier rather quickly. The Barmaid bounced happily over to Relt, ignoring the drink in her hands and stealing a much-longer-than-normal hug from her bed partner.

Yari, happily ignored for his fellow assassin, leaned against the bar to order his own glass of poison, to which the bartender obliged him with a shot of whiskey (or something of that sort). The King of Thieves slammed the finished glass down, lip curled at the taste. He could find better drink at the Peaceful Promenade, but was really just happy to get the taste of the air off his tongue.

[Relt PeltFelter]

Hugs had not hitherto been a big fixture of Relt’s life. Her parents had been affably distant at best, hopelessly bewildered at worst; her many trysts had been more carnal than romantic, often of the “cab fare is on the dresser” variety. This may go some way to explaining why the soldier would handily brag about deflowering the busty heiress without blinking an eye, but upon being so embraced, blushed as red as a mandrill’s backside.

Relt’s posture was that of a great primeval reptile endeavoring to extricate itself from a tar pit. She carefully took the young lady’s hands away and spun delicately free of the hug. “Um. Yes. Good to see you, um,” the white-hot lance of panic which always accompanied forgetting a person’s name flashed through Relt’s mind, “Um. Good to see you.”

“Arronette, silly,” the barmaid said, “I understand if you’ve forgotten, it isn’t a very common name. Was this whole thing your idea?”

“Ye-es…” There was an entire paragraph hanging off of that ledge, waiting to be said. The forces of both tact and narrative nearly demanded that it be said. This was the proper time, this was THE moment to reveal the Secret Past of the Hidden Heir. The voices of wise old mentors long since dead shouted in Relt’s metaphysical ear. Now. Now! Now!

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen!” a loud, butlery voice echoed throughout the room. A prim man with a prim moustache stood at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a black tunic and smoked glass spectacles hiding his eyes. “I understand that the good Duke is preparing for his big moment, so now we should all enjoy the traditional pre-speech waltz. Maestro, if you will?” The terrible band struck up to the general tune of a slow dance, and the couples, slightly bewildered, partnered up.

Relt slunk back into the periphery. That was odd. This didn’t fit. Since this morning, she had known the way this Story was going to work. Even the involvement of Rafanas fit into the pattern; and while a Story couldn’t make itself happen, the general flow of things remained consistent. Relt had gotten into the castle on guile; check. She had cleared the way for the heiress’ entry to the party, very Cinderella. And just when the big reveal arrived, something like this interrupted, out of nowhere!

Who was the man in the black tunic? Relt hadn’t seen him before, and he clearly wasn’t a staff member or a guest. There was something about him that set the soldier’s teeth on edge. She gestured wildly to Rafanas from her post in the shadows, emphatically urging him to pick up her slack and break the news to the girl because she had to get things back on track, and as she said before, she simply couldn’t be arsed. Tthey were exceptionally communicative gestures.

The soldier slunk away from the dance and hung around the big cake and the spotlight. There was something this spotlight could be used for to help things, but she just couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She glanced briefly at the cake, then took a long sip of her most recently acquired drink. Then the block clicked into place in her brain, and she shot her gaze back at the cake. In big pressed-sugar letters, the north face of the pastry juggernaut read:


CONGRTULATIONS
DUKE DARGBLINGTON
MAY YOUR RAIN BEE
RIGHTIOUS AND PYUR

Relt made sure no-one was watching (the caterer was busy trying to wrestle a fat man away from the étouffée) and tentatively plucked an excess “e”. In addition to going a small way to repairing the grammatical disaster, it revealed to the curious soldier that the letters were slightly sticky to the touch. She glanced at the spotlight again, and the bullet of inspiration punched through the torso of the putti of frustration.

The Story was back on track, and the cake now read:


CONGRTULATIONS
D K DA GBLINGTON
AY YOUR AIN B
IGHTIOUS AN PYUR

[Yari Rafanas]

Yari's head tilted slightly, brow furrowed and mouth agape. His expression towards his assassin cohort's fumbling about cried, “You can't be serious.”

The Barmaid tugged at the bandit king's collar, asking with a voice that was only slightly needy and pouty—some veiled attempt at being cute. “Dance with me, Yari? Relt's run off.” She didn't quite wait for an answer and pulled grumbling man the bar counter and back into the throng of politicians. The terrible tunes had already begun.

Give Rafanas two blades and a good reason and Yari would dance circles around anyone, a flurry of finesse and power unrivaled in all of Concordia. Give him two dress shoes and a crowded room, however, and the Bandit King developed a severe lack of rhythm. He struggled to put his two left feet to good use, holding Arronette a safe distance away (which was quite the distance, considering her bust size) and praying his awkward bouncing and shuffling to the slow beat was not painfully obvious to those observing.

The Barmaid seemed oblivious to her dance partner's uncomfortable pace, her eyes were closed and her grin permanently affixed to her freckled cheeks. She was having fun again, lost in the party, despite it being hosted by a man most were apprehensive about, and was enjoying every minute of it. Yari knew that this joy would not last, for she was soon to be enlightened with the true reason she was invited to this extravagant gathering. He knew it was better he break the news softly, as whatever the crass soldier had in mind was sure to send her into shock if she was not prepared.

“Hey, what I was saying earlier...”

The Barmaid opened her eyes slowly, fixating them against her dance partner rather flirtatiously. She pulled him close enough to taste the whiskey on his breath. “About something I should know?”

“Arronette,” Yari moved his eyes away from hers, looking past the crowd and into nothing. “What if I told you that we weren't here for the party?”

“Come on,” she teased, tilting her head to catch his eyes once more. “You think I'm that dense? I've known my fair share of men and women. I know when somebody wants something more. I serve liquid courage for a living...”

Yari forced a smile at her, “But what if that 'something more' was for you? Rightfully, I mean.”

“You're not making any sense, Yari,” she laughed low as the music began to quiet. Their dance had brought them to the middle of the crowd, where they were concealed by other more practiced couples. The song was coming to an end, and the people were thinning.

“Alright, let me try this again,” Yari scratched the scruff on his face and went for it. “What if I said that the real reason we were here was to remove d’Argblington from power before he even has it? Then, put the rightful Duchess in his place?”

The awkward pair stopped their dance as the music played out. There were a few quiet claps to thank the unworthy musicians, followed by rumbling of posh voices. The Barmaid's grin had finally been ripped from her pretty face to be replaced by confusion and worry.

“You,” Rafanas whispered. “You're the former duke's daughter.”

[Relt PeltFelter]

As the long, slow dance ground awkwardly to a halt, Relt felt her muscles tensing. The keenly honed soldier’s sense for action was punching her in the kidney and calling her a bleedin’ pantywaist know-nothing twerp. The old butler, the real butler, swept up to the podium at the top of the hall’s grand staircase. “Madames and messieurs, if you will please direct your attention this way? His Grace the future-Duke d’Argblington III will now address you, his people.”

The Duke shuffled up to the podium. He was drenched in sweat, and his pale, wormy hands were shaking like a small dog in a loud train station. He reached into the pocket of his finery and withdrew that hallmark of bad public speakers everywhere: the flash cards. He shuffled them awkwardly, and set them on the podium. His eyes were fixed on them, as if he was terrified to make eye contact with anyone. “Where’s the spotlight, I have to have the spotlight!” he whined just slightly too loud. Relt had, wisely, inched her way through the crowd to the stairwell. She glanced back as a pimply page ran and lit the massive candle. The light, focused by the enormous lens, bathed the duke as he began his speech.

Whatever meaningless platitudes he was about to offer were halted by the collective gasp of the crowd. He stopped, confused, and turned to look behind him.

On the great wall of the ballroom, in man-high letters of shadow, was the word


MURDERER

It was really a rather powerful effect. Relt permitted herself an internal self-back-pat for the cleverness with the pastry lettering.

The duke did not take this well. If he was nervous before his speech was to begin, now he was frantic. The crowd was in a bit of a frenzy, as weeks of whispered rumor and hushed gossip were syncretized into truth by the powerful alchemical force of mob mentality, sparked by showmanship. The would-be noble appeared to have trouble breathing; he looked back and forth among the crowd, to his own stunned attendants, to his perspiration-drenched flash cards. He needed to do something to dispel this, to solidify his rule before the truth, the real truth, the truth that he killed his cousin became so thoroughly entrenched in the psyche of his people. He needed to take strong, decisive action.

The duke ran.

Like a shot, Relt was after him, boots slapping against the marble of the staircase. The sound of the panicking crowd dropped away like a bottle from a drunkard’s hand, and the shouts and footfalls of the quicker guards were unimportant. There was no thought now; it didn’t matter who this man was, what he had done, or why he had done it. There was only the chase, the purest feeling a hunter experiences. The chase gripped Relt when she turned her twin Vickers on an enemy plane, the chase gripped Relt when she was tromping through the rain-soaked jungle on the tail of a man-eating gigantiger, and the chase gripped Relt now.

She saw the man hesitate a moment, just a moment, before turning a corner. The plan view of the castle overlaid itself on Relt’s vision, unbidden, revealing the fleeing duke’s purpose. He was headed for the treasury.

The soldier, the hunter saw the tail end of purple ermine robes disappear down the staircase to the vault. Heedless of her protesting legs, she pushed them harder, flying down the staircase in a sort of half-controlled tumble. She slid on the cold, slightly moist floor of the castle’s sublevel, and turned sharply to follow the terrified footsteps.

The duke was panicked. If his mind had been ordered enough to permit him thought, it would be focused on the fact that shadowy letters were not terribly convincing evidence. It would be assuring him that no-one knew of his dark deeds on a dark night, that he had personally seen all the guards who had helped him walk to the gallows for false charges. His brain would tell him that the whispers of townspeople could be quieted with fire. But his brain was in no state to tell him this; instead, whatever organ controlled dimwitted greed was urging him to see how much gold he could fit in his trousers and still run away fast enough.

The door slammed somewhere behind him, and he turned. There was a woman there. He didn’t know her. But she did not look happy. The duke skittered backwards up across a coin-strewn floor, feeling his back press against the stone of the vault. The woman had a very unsettling expression on her face. She slammed the bolts on the vault door, and turned to face d’Argblington. In her right hand, she held a very large knife.

“What do you want?” the duke gibbered, “I-I can give you all this gold, all of it if you help me! I’m the duke, I’ll be crowned tomorrow no matter what they say, I’m the only heir they have! I ki-…I know that for a fact!”

“You murdered the old duke.” It was not a question that left Relt’s lips. The duke seemed to puzzle over this for a while.

“So what if I did?!” he sneered, “He was an old fool, he was going to find himself dead of the drink or the pox soon enough-”

“And his wife. And infant daughter,” Relt stated dispassionately.

“They don’t matter! It’s not important!”

Relt laughed softly. She had not made eye contact with the man up until this point, and when her emerald irises fixed themselves on him it hit the man like an electric shock.

“W-who are you?” he stammered, “Why does it matter to you?”

“I suppose it doesn’t, really,” Relt said absently as she advanced on the man, “Which is what makes it important. It’s not revenge. I’m making things right. I’m clearing a path for the Story to flow. But believe you me, even knowing you this short time has shown me how much I’m going to enjoy it.”

In one smooth, perfect motion, Relt swung her kukri at the man’s neck. The flesh parted like smooth pudding at the steel’s touch, and the sweat-stained head of the would-be Duke tumbled to the ground. Relt balked for a moment. She had never actually believed that that really worked. Even so, she rallied magnificently.

The spray of the blood had stained her uniform jacket, and while a soldier should be proud to wear the badge of their enemy’s sacrifice, the assassin must cut a dashing figure when revealing her work. She threw the jacket off; it could be gathered later. Steeling herself for the grisly work, she grasped the Duke’s severed head by the hair and waltzed back towards the ballroom. Then she realized that this was rather the wrong tone to start a new kingdom on, and tossed the head back towards the body. That could come after the rightful duchess was coronated.

Relt stepped back into the chaos of the ballroom. The guards were still out searching for the Duke and his pursuer (her good self, of course) and as she hadn’t passed them on the way back, she assumed that they must have taken a wrong turning. She kicked over the podium, and the shriek of tortured wood as it tumbled down the staircase drew the room’s eyes to her.

“The murderer and usurper, would-be Duke d’Argblington III is dead,” she stated, loud as a foghorn and clear as a bell. The room erupted into panic again, as nobles and servants alike panicked to figure out just what the hell had happened in the last ten or so minutes. “However!” Relt shouted, “There is another heir to the throne of this kingdom, one more deserving, more kind, and more beautiful than that wretched man could ever be.”

Relt searched the seething mass and spotted Rafanas. She waved towards him, gesturing for him to bring Arronette up to the site of the toppled podium. She smiled, her body beginning to demand repayment for the massive adrenalin dose it had supplied. The soldier took a step down.

A crossbow bolt shot through Relt’s chest. Blood blossomed on her uniform shirt. Her vision swam from the pain. Her senses sharpened as the pathways of her brain were overloaded with warnings. She saw, just for a moment, the mysterious man in the black tunic and smoked glass spectacles. He was standing opposite her, on the vacant balcony of the ballroom. He lowered his pistol crossbow, and stepped backwards, swallowed by shadow. Relt gasped, blood coating her lips. She gripped the handle of the staircase as she sank slowly to the ground.

[Yari Rafanas]

Moments earlier, with the crowd still bewildered at the accusations painted in shadow, Yari Rafanas pulled the Barmaid close in an attempt to shield her from the shock and confusion. He knew what was happening a short dash away, and the barbaric bandit in him wanted nothing more than to hunt alongside Relt and see this through to the bloody end. However, he accepted his place in her little story was here with Arronette. In a strange turn of events, he would be the one doing the talking.

“Calm down, Arronette,” Yari whispered into her ear, a low and soothing tone. “In a moment, our friend Relt will return and announce the new heir to the throne. Do not be afraid. This is how things are and how things should be. One man dies, another rises up to lead...”


~*~

Gurgles and coughs were all the bandit leader, Rayneer Clearan, could manage to spit out, besides the obvious blood. And for a moment, it seemed as though he was going to stand, uncomfortably fighting off Death’s hand. Yari (only 18 at the time) could do nothing more but sit, shocked, holding the father figure in his arms, tears freely flushing out of his eyes. Horrible memories flashed before those salted blues, and Yari could feel nothing but a horrible, heavy, guilt. It tore into his heart, squeezing and pulling at every emotion the boy knew. Love, hate, fear, bravery, the black truth would not let any of them matter. Only one would claw at the boy’s mind now, and only one phrase would escape his quivering lips.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

The dying man twitched, moving his bruised arms down to his thighs. Stubbornly, the leader unbuckled his weapons and pressed them against his pupil’s chest. For a second, his eyes rolled back into his skull, and his head fell backward. However, the battle-hardened thief wasn’t going to let Death take him without any final words, and forced himself to sit up straight and place a cold hand on Yari’s shoulder. “They’re yours,” he spit out, pressing his sheathed weapons harder into the boy’s form.

Yari gazed confusingly back at Rayneer, grabbing the knives and the dying hand of his master. “These…?”

“And,” the leader paused for a moment, swallowing a mouthful of blood, “And… your brothers. They… they’re yours…” he paused again, almost giving into the horrible pain right then and there, “… until… until next time, Yari…”

One last breath was taken by Rayneer before he let his body fall limply into the soft grass. With this, Yari let his tears do the same. To think, even with all his gained skill and strength he had snatched over the years, the bandit had managed to commit the same horrible mistake he had made two years back when he was but a foolish amateur. Staj died then. Rayneer died now.

And Yari couldn’t help but blame himself for both their losses, crying like a baby at his dead father’s corpse.


~*~

Rafanas' eyes were blurred with memories. It had been eight years since those events, and it pained him to recall the moment so vividly. He did his best to hide the sadness in his face by burying it in Arronette's hair. She took it as a sign of affection, and in the brief moment of comfort let her own tears fall into his shoulders. They stood in silence for a minute, each afraid for what was to come, until finally the bickering and panic of the party-goers was silenced by the commanding voice of the brave avenger, Relt.

The Bandit King pulled away, holding the Barmaid at arms reach. He lifted her chin up until their teary eyes met, and he gave her the most reassuring smile he could muster. “You heard her. Your people need you.”

The unlikely heirs approached the stairway, taking mind to step over the broken pieces of podium and to not ruin their expensive dress. It was precisely at the time that Yari was assisting with the tail of Arronette's gown that the second cumulative gasp from the onlookers hit him. It was more shock and awe from Relt, but not in the manner that Yari had hoped.

His head swiveled just in time to catch site of the soldier assassin falling to the floor. A lifetime of paranoia and instinct surged into Yari and he resumed his defenses. His body moved naturally in front of Arronette's, shielding her from the unknown assailants, but he was unaware of just where they were firing from. Knowing this, the bandit rushed the Barmaid to a nearby table and ordered her under it. She looked at him, torn. Paralyzed with fear. This was all too much for her. He wished he could tell her what he said was true, about everything being alright, but in a blink he was gone, already at Relt's side.

He knelt into the pooling blood, his hands hovering over the soldier's wound, afraid to touch. Despite control over space and time, Yari knew he could do nothing to slow or heal the damage done by the bolt, and instead hoped his voice could bring her around. “Relt! Relt!,” he cried, gently slipping his hand under her neck for support. “Where are they? What happened?!”

[Relt PeltFelter]

It probably says something about Relt’s personality that among her first coherent thoughts following her perforation was that it was simply such a cliché to cough up blood when you’ve been shot. She’d seen men who were nicked in the arm start coughing up blood, as though it were expected of them. Of course, in her case, the expectoration was warranted; sizable portions of her interior had been pulverized.

Time became momentarily meaningless as the lights of the chandelier swam in and out of focus for her. She slid backwards and hit the ground with a kind of muffled crash. Suddenly, something was cradling her neck. She looked up, seeing the worried face of her erstwhile co-conspirator, Yari Rafanas. The stricken soldier assayed a weak grin. “Guess…you get…the kukri back after all.”

He asked her, his voice coming through damp gauze: who did this to her? “A…man,” she managed, “Dressed…all black. Black glasses. Little…crossbow. Ran off.”

There was an hour which may have been a second. Relt’s extremities were beginning to go numb. “Make sure…make sure she gets crowned. Duke’s…in vault. Get rid of it…before it starts to smell…”

“Don’t…don’t look so sad,” Relt chided good-naturedly, her vision fading as the world turned chiaroscuro, “A soldier dies with…with her boots on.” Her eyes closed. Her heart stopped its futile staccato, and her chest stilled.

Relt PeltFelter died.

[Yari Rafanas]

Though the words were forced and dripping with blood, Rafanas paid close attention to the brief description of Relt's assailant. It was vague, but the important details were there, and it was enough to burn into his mind. Yari made a silent promise that should he cross this man, he would answer with blood. It was a promise the bandit conveyed to Relt with a simple nod, his eyes teary from moments earlier, before he whispered a familiar phrase—the only words he felt were appropriate when letting another die in his arms.

“I'm sorry,” He laid her head to rest as her body went still. “I'm sorry, Relt.”

The whole ballroom was frozen in a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. Most of the nobles and their guests had daily routines that were far removed from combat and the bloody conflicts of Yari and Relt's kind, so it was no surprise that they stood frozen and quivering in their expensive dance shoes for most of the spectacle. Thankfully, the initial shock of the display had worn off and those that remained tucked into the corners of the room were now sharing hushed conversations regarding just what Relt truly meant. It was now that they were at full attention, and it was time for Yari to capitalize on this.

The King of Thieves stood, no longer carrying himself as a nonchalant noble. No, now he stood with purpose over his ally's corpse, her blood-caked kukri gripped tightly at his side. His posture was rigid, his arms flexed and tense from an overload of emotion, his head hung low and his eyes set on the stunned crowd. When he spoke, he spoke with the voice of a leader—the same tone he once used to rally all of Concordia to his cause, and he made sure it was loud enough to echo through the nearby castle halls.

“Believe her, for your own sake. The undeserving d’Argblington is dead, and your homes are the better for it. For now, you have a Princess, as lovely as any could hope for, ready to care for your homes. Give her your attention, your support, and your loyalty, and this place will prosper. ”

Arronette approached from her hiding grounds, slowly making her way up the stairs next to Yari. She seemed shaken still, doing her best to avoid looking at her dead lover a few feet away, but she felt an odd sense of comfort knowing that Yari was ushering her in. There was something about the man that seemed to say he knew something of the position she was in, and he believed him when he said their town would live on.

He smiled at her, and waved over the butler. He approached hurriedly, having no remaining loyalties to his former employer, and began to escort the girl out of the ballroom.

“The Duchess Arronette! Heir of this region!” Yari continued, bowing towards the Barmaid. The room did not exactly cheer, but those with enough capacity to recognize that a tyrant had been killed in the making welcomed the new duchess with claps and hushed excitement. The butler was most excited, and quickly began to lead the new royalty to her quarters for rest and preparation for the days to come. She gave Yari a thoughtful and appreciative nod, before exiting down a nearby hall.

“You two,” Yari continued, waving the kukri about towards two guards who had rejoined the hall after their unsuccessful hunt for Relt. “You have a dead coward in your vault. Get rid of him, or you will soon join him.” The pair understood entirely their latest order, and lacking any true ties to the sickly tyrant, went about fulfilling that duty.

With care, Yari knelt next to the the fallen soldier and lifted her body into his arms. He did not know her purpose, her family, or where she called home, but he knew that the nearby woods of Concordia were where many heroes and martyrs were put to rest. And so the Bandit King decided to bury his friend in soils he called his own, hoping that whatever god, thayne, or spirit that she claimed to worship would help her find peace. May her soul live on.

[Yari Rafanas]

The King of Thieves had remained on the fringes of the city, observing the coming days to ensure Relt's work had not gone to waste. Admittedly, he was mostly disappointed that there was not some small-scale uprising accompanied by putting a curvy barmaid in charge. He would have put his blades to use. However, the townspeople seemed overly accepting of their new ruler. Arronette was a kind girl, loved by many, and the support of the common folk was enough to get the town back on track.

“Long live Arronette!” the town would cry. “Duchess of Butterbread Hallow!”

Butterbread's Liberator. It was not a title the bandit king was in a hurry to use.

He returned to Underwood with the intent of meeting up with one of his most trusted contacts in his Brotherhood. The pair of thieves met at an outside table to one of the less-popular taverns in the marketplace, during a busier time of the day. Yari was still rather notorious in the forest lumbertown, so he sat with his back to the crowd, hood over his head, and shared a cool drink with his friend.

There was the initial small talk between the two brothers, followed quickly by the obligatory boasts one would expect from arrogant cutthroats and pickpockets, but they were hushed tones. Even bandits could be polite when it mattered.

“Listen, yeah, no, I get it. You guys are big into the whole Ren Fest thing.”

A notable voice pinged Yari's ear, causing a pause in his conversation. He shook it from his mind and began discussing the happenings of Butterbread and Yari's desire to have a bandit brother or two watching the town for the next few months.

“But I was just in a car accident and I need to call somebody and let them know I'm okay and I don't have any cell service here, okay?”

There it was again. Now Yari knew why it was grating on him. It was a girl's voice, louder than normal, but it spoke in a very deliberate pacing with just enough sarcasm to mirror the tone of his former assassin ally.

“So could you drop character and just tell me where the damn cell tower is or whatever, because I'm totally sick of th-okay, yeah! No, walk away, that's rad. That works. God damnit. Leather mug dude wouldn't even drop character long enough to take my fucking credit card, so you can just walk away from me when I'm asking for help, that's fine.”

Rafanas had finally had enough, turning from his chair to peer into the crowd of shoppers at just who was making the fuss. He knew it could not be her but he had to put that itch to rest. Unfortunately for the bandit, he only caught a short glimpse of a spiky-head girl throwing up her arms in disgust and vanishing behind a vendor stall. Althanas was full of offworlders with attitude, and Underwood was a popular ground for the abnormal to gather. Knowing this, Yari laid his paranoia to rest and returned to his conversation.

“Someone you knew?”

“Hardly. Now, where were we?”

[Breaker]

Music: Questamation by USS
Mood: Content

Story ~ 6/10
Interesting to put a "story" score onto such a self aware thread. While there was an abundantly present storyline, it could have served much better to draw the reader in. Due to the comic nature of the writing it was easy to keep reading this thread, but some stronger rising action might have compelled me to do so. As it was I read this in three separate sittings, and there was little (in the plot, at least) that kept me glued to the screen.

Continuity ~ 8/10
The characters were well introduced, and although this didn't completely play into the Corone storyline it certainly paid its respects. Some parts seemed a little awkward.. Yari's flashback, while interesting, could have been better placed or set up by previous flashbacks. It struck me as odd to be in the middle of the climax of an otherwise interrupted story, and suddenly find myself reading about Yari's past.

Setting ~ 6/10
The way both of you interacted with and utilised the setting pushed your score above average, but a little bit more attention to setting would have gone a long way. I think you may both be getting a little too comfortable with the generic Althanas setting, and in the future could benefit from exploring its uniqueness a little more.

Creativity ~ 8/10
Relt's dialogue, both internal and external, is nothing short of hilarious and the best I've seen on Althanas 3.0. Both of you did an excellent job of blending imagery with your prose. All I can really think to say here is that you can do more by pushing your stories (further) outside the box, and I'm sure you will.

Character ~ 8/10
The protagonists, antagonists, and even most of the less important NPCs, were all well and consistently represented. Because of this the occasional lapse (such as Yari's bandit brother in the last post) in strong characterisation really stood out. That's the kind of thing that you should really catch and fix in editing, as it would have given the story a much stronger ending.

Interaction ~ 9/10
Really really good stuff. I already mentioned Relt's dialogue, but Yari's was also excellent. Both of you write your characters not only with constant, believable body language, you actually use it to drive their interactions and build the story. Kudos, and keep it up.

Strategy ~ 6/10
The death of the duke and subsequent demise of the lady soldier both felt anticlimactic. While you both did a good job of getting the story where it needed to go, but the stakes were never really raised - the level of tension stayed basically the same from post 1 to 31. Although not building the suspense too much is obviously in favour of the comedic element, I would have preferred to be on the edge of my seat, or at least not so completely relaxed in it, when the main antagonist and protagonist died. As it was, I kinda just when "Oh... okay, I guess the story is almost over then".

Clarity ~ 7.5/10

Mechanics ~ 8.5/10
Evidence of editing, but not quite careful enough. I occasionally got a little lost in some of the backstory, but it wasn't a big clarity issue as the characters' anecdotes kept me entertained.

Wildcard ~ 7/10

Total ~ 74/100

Yari Rafanas gains 2000 EXP and 200 GP
Relt FeltPelter gains 1000 EXP and 200 GP

[Breaker]

EXP / GP Added.

Relt KneltBelter Leltfeltels up!