“Carpe Diem, Baby!”

[Letho]

((Closed to Magdalena/La Fantasque.))

For some reason beyond her grasp, Radasanth wasn’t as fun as it used to be for Myrhianna Bastillien.

There was nothing blatantly amiss with the Corone capital, though. The hallmarks were all still very much there; the streets packed with a spectrum of diverse folk from every corner of Althanas; the salty scent of the harbor, brought on the wings of the mild western zephyr; the stuffy heat of the stone cobbles that made the air dense and heavy; the shabby shacks of the Slums, and the unremarkable mansions of the Center, and the magnificent one-of-a-kind edifices of the Government District; the hawkers with itchy palms and questionable wares, sweating under the awnings of their stands. There was even a festival in preparation, with huge pavilions and wooden bleachers clotting the main square. Last time Myrhia visited this human anthill of a city these sights overwhelmed her, appealed to her seemingly endless curiosity. But the last time she walked these streets Letho was at her side. The Red Marshal was a grouch most of the time, but he was never a killjoy for her.

The red-haired lass tried to convince herself that it was just his absence that made this shopping run somewhat tedious. But even her lighthearted disposition was unable to isolate her from other disquieting telltale signs of a war that descended upon Corone. Even though Radasanth was well beyond the reach of the rebellious arm of the Rangers, people were just a bit more wary, just a bit more sullen, the prices of the wares just a bit higher then usual, grim strangers ahorse just a bit more suspicious then other folk. On the stony streets of the capitol it was a silent battle of glances and whispers that added an invisible grayish veil on everything that transpired. That was probably why the city tried to liven everything with this seven-day festival, but there was little festiveness in that air. Beyond the Comb Mountains Coronians were dying. Jousting and mummers and feasts could scarcely erase that little fact.

Myrhia mostly ignored these dour details as she ambled through the Bazaar with a basket in her hand and her escort at her tail. The escort she insisted she didn’t need. Letho would hear none of her squawking. After the senseless carnage that the criminal group called Audeamus did in the Bazaar a while ago, even the heavily guarded central marketplace wasn’t safe, the stringent Marshal said. So she was stuck with a pair of his ravencloaks that followed wherever her lithe feet took her, their eyes always watching, their hands always near their weapons. At first she tried to palaver with them, but broad-shouldered Thoren was a mute and his lanky companion, Hillas, always seemed to undress her with his small black eyes when she addressed him. Such a combination made for very dull sightseeing and browsing.

Luckily, Myrhia was only out for some groceries. Having a pair of brooding figures following her while she chose radishes and carrots and beets and cauliflowers wasn’t so bad. Having them following her in a ceramics shop or, gods forbid, a clothes shop was just a scary thought. For all she knew, Thoren would insist to follow her into the dressing cabin, stomping the butt of his battleaxe in his way of saying that Letho insisted for them to follow her everywhere. Hillas would probably offer to take Thoren’s place in such a situation with a sly grin on his face. Fortunately, amidst the greens and the fruits, the two faded into the background. A very big, black, armed background.

“Dates, grapes and olives!” a dry voice proclaimed. Its owner was a bent old lady in faded brown robes, sitting on a pile of empty crates and still seeking support in her cane. It was about an hour past noon and her voice had grown hoarse from calling out her wares, but the crone still persisted. “Fresh off the boat from Tylmerande! Plums, oranges and lemons!”

It wasn’t the call that attracted Myrhia and neither were the wares. Everybody claimed that their goods are fresh off the last boat and near every stand had an wide array of exotic fruits not endemic to the North. It was rather pity that drew the young lass closer. The old woman looked so hapless and weak that Myrhia expected her hands to slip on the cane and send the woman toppling forwards and second. They didn’t, though, not even when she approached with the two dark towers following her like shadows.

“Raisins, nuts and... oh, didn’t see you there, lassie,” the gray woman said, lifting her face to meet the vibrant emerald eyes of her customer. Her face was as wrinkled as old leather, Myrhia noticed, but not at all unpleasant. Not even when the aged hawker smiled and showed toothless gums. “What can old Danna do for you and your suitors?”

Myrhia’s gentle brow furrowed in confusion beneath her mahogany red bangs. “Suitors? Oh.... no, they’re not... They’re just here to protect me,” she stumbled for a reply, clumsy with words as she was clumsy with swords. She would’ve blushed as well, but the day was hot and she walked for over an hour now, so her cheeks were already rosy.

“Aye, and they seem to do a good job as well. That one has a look to kill a wild boar,” Danna said, lifting her cane with a shaky hand and pointing it at Thoren. The bulky guard didn’t reply, his grey eyes motionless below his thick, graying eyebrows. Hillas plucked a grape from the stand and bit on it, uninterested. “So, then, what can old Danna do for you... and don’t you dare pluck another grape before I see some coin!” she finished, moving her cane to Hillas. The black-attired bodyguard, caught just as he reached for a ripe, black grape, pulled his hand back and Myrhia had to giggle.

“Well, I guess I’ll take that cluster of grapes. Wouldn’t want for my guards to go hungry,” Myrhianna said, but when Hillas met her smile with one of the cryptic ones of her own, she turned away and towards other goods. It was only then that she saw some pineapples stacked neatly behind some huge, green melons. “You have pineapples?” She’s been scouring the stands for nearly an hour and she failed to find any that looked half-decent as these. Her small hands picked one up and the crone nodded and leant back on her cane.

“Aye. Not from Tylmerande, either. Got those from a Cervas merchant, hailing from the Dawn Islands. Down there it’s always summer, people say,” the elderly hawker said. “Small good it does me. I barely sold two of those damn things today.”

“I’ll buy them,” Myrhia said, smiling. She loved pineapples, but there is another reason she wanted them.

“Aye?” Danna looked up. “How many?”

“All of them!”

[Magdalena]

Once drawn across the crimson strings, the bow produced a sinister trill, deeper than the driest of wells, darker than the wails of a cavernous maw. The balmy warmth that seeped into the store from the sweltering streets sank beneath gelid waves that sounded from the stringed instrument, glacial currents that chilled the heart to its very core. The cadence quickened as the violinist plucked a series of pizzicatos, each demented shift of the fingers, each frenzied sweep of the bow distorting the ambient air until the pace spiraled into a breathtaking madness, its sonant beauty paralyzing the audience, as if it were staring into the mesmeric eyes of the Devil himself.

The impromptu sonata had come to an end, the risen tension severed by a single discordant strum. Feeling himself falter, the luthier unseemly propped his forearms over the store counter, trembling from the goose bumps that jolted up and down his back. “Remarkable,” he said in all simplicity, readjusting the brass ridge of his thick spectacles over his protuberant nose. Lifting his chin, he gave Sati a long hard stare of contemplative admiration; but in the ashen glint of his eyes, there was also a growing shroud, the fear of the unknown and inhumane.

“You did not resort to undue embellishments when you said this was your finest work,” she finally said, carefully handing the instrument back to its maker. “I praise your expert hand, master Metzler.”

“I must return the compliment, kind lady. Your playing was delightfully masterful, at the very least,” he said with a smidge of wonderment, taking a hold of the violin with his hoary yet sturdy fingers, inspecting it front to back as though unsure that it truly was of his making. “The liviol wood from which the violin was crafted had a substantial part in enhancing the beauty of your piece, but no one before had ever drawn such a soulful sound from it – not even me!” For a moment he stood in silence, arms raised as though hefting an unseen boulder, but soon an enlightened smiled bristled beneath his grizzled mustache.

“Miss, would you like to purchase it? I imagined I would sell it for eight thousand gold coins, but I’m willing to let it go for half the price, on the condition that you use it to become a concertmaster of great renown! You cannot allow such talent to go to waste!” At the sound of the price, Sati could not hide her disappointment, and the sweetness of her face had fallen into shame. She wasn’t a pauper yet, but her pouch of gold had remained remarkably light in the past few weeks. The young woman was already hard-pressed to rent a room in the shoddiest of inns, thus making the purchase of a mystical violin all the more preposterous.

“Thank you, but I am nothing more than an amateur. In fact, I wanted to buy a decent violin as a gift for a much better player. Regrettably, as much as I want to take this one, it is still far outside of my price range.” The luthier gave her two short nods and a sigh, saddened but understanding. With much deliberation, he hung the instrument to a ceiling hook by the scroll and, turning back, waved to Sati as she made her egress.

“But,” she said over her shoulder as an afterthought, while stepping over the doorsill. “Could you perhaps hold onto it for me? I might just come back in a week’s time, with the necessary funds.” Disclosing nothing more, she gave a slight bow and vanished behind the closing door. From the large window of the store, a tall man of russet hair and boasting a rough beard, all clad in rich garbs of gilded vlince, had witnessed her performance with much interest. His lips curled into a sly smile, and he left without a word.


***

Now what? she asked herself, padding over the rutted cobbles of the city’s thoroughfare. As the shadows of people flitted past her, she stared ahead with listless eyes of beryl, tinted with an upset hue because she had not found her sister a fine violin with which to play. Ever since they had returned to Radasanth, after their assignment at the Bazaar under the command of the infamous Dan Lagh’ratham, the redheaded lass had been pouting, feeling the weight of boredom smother her more with each passing day. In an effort to entertain the girl, Sati had set on a musical chase, preferably in search for an instrument of the viola family, for which her sister had such an unnatural affinity. With the heaviest of suspirations, she shrugged. I’ll just get her the next best thing.

After several minutes of futile wandering, she angled her neck up, squinting her eyes under the blistering glare of the sun. It hung straight overhead at its zenith, and she presumed it had only been a short amount of time since the passing of noon. Sapna must have already left the inn, to do the usual. Figuring she still had an hour or two before her sister’s return, she decided to head for the agora, where she could run a few errands and get her hands on a few bags of well-deserved sustenance. I’ll manage with the few coins I have left, and scrounge up something decent for her when I get back to the ‘Seven Skewers’.

The marketplace was bustling with activity, most probably in preparation for the coming festival. As she ambled through the throng of bobbing heads, some more malodorous than the others, she saw lines of stands unfurl at her sides, tended by a diversity of mongers, all perspiring under the heat haze. On her walk, she noticed a vintner call out to her, uttering some derisive plug about how women would age as well as fine wine, were they to drink more of his brand. Sati scoffed, glaring viciously at the man, who seemed to cower under the needles of her stare. Farther down the boulevard, more peddlers came to her ambush, inured to the waylaying of those who boast a wealthy demeanor. Shooing them away, she went on, telling them they were wasting their time, and were better off swindling some other unwitting fool. When she was clear of the nuisances, she looked down at the delicate lacework of her priestess’ garb. Sooner or later, I’ll need to find less conspicuous clothes.

Roving past a discreet stand, Sati’s vision fleeted over the ill figure of an old woman, whose gentle face seemed deplorably stained by the ravages of time like an oily rag. She looked so frail, perched upon those crates, and her wrinkly hands trembled over the grip of her cane. The sackcloth canopy that hung limp over her head did little good, for it barely slowed the onslaught of the sun. Pity wrung at her chest, and the priestess decided to peruse what wares the small beldam had to offer. Pleasantly surprised, her browsing eyes stopped flat upon an untouched shipment of pineapples she knew to be fresh and ripe on sight alone.

Alas, as she was about to ask for a couple of the exotic fruits, the young woman on her left had claimed the entire batch, leaving Sati to gape in dismay. For an instant she considered the brazen customer, realizing with interest how familiar her features were. Her pink head was crested by a down of vibrant red and her kind eyes bore the coruscant emerald of Sapna’s own. With a short glance to the back, she had noted the presence of two rather burly men, heavily armed and dressed in pounds of black. Wearing black under such a canicular heatwave? Are they bloody barmy?

Dismissing the detail she could only think of as otiose, Sati stepped forward, addressing the stranger as politely as she could. Of course, she was not oblivious to the sudden jerk of the black guards, who she now knew to be this woman’s protectors. “Miss, I am well aware that it is not my place to make such demands; I have very little money, and cannot even hope to win against a noblewoman such as you in a bartering match.” Her voice had the qualities of a plea, and her subtle gestures were made to elicit the sympathy of her redheaded attender, as well as that of the gentle crone. “I only ask for a single piece. Please, I could not bear return to my sister empty-handed – I have already failed my promise of bringing her back a special gift for her birthday.”

[Letho]

Noblewoman. When the bonny stranger addressed her as such, Myrhia’s first reflex was to turn around and take heed of some eminent member of royalty that stood behind her. The mahogany-haired lass considered herself no more noble then she considered herself a full-bloomed woman. Her figure was weedy, unremarkable, a flat-chested, narrow-hipped figure of a tomboy washmaiden that accidentally wandered into a closet of some regal debutante and decided to try out some attires. The dress she donned today was made of multi-layered emerald silk, the light textile airy enough to keep her relatively refreshed, but still conservative enough to envelop most of her diminutive body. It fitted rather loosely around her, obviously made for a more voluptuous figure, but it did grant a rather elegant look to Myrhianna. Perhaps that was the reason why she was mistaken for a lady today. Clothes maybe didn’t make a person, but they certainly added a couple of points when it came to their presentation.

Compared to Myrhia the Noblewoman, the amiable stranger looked staggering, much more worthy of a royal title. She was everything the younger girl wasn’t; tall, dignifying, all sinful curves and vibrant colors that turned heads and elicited envious sighs. Even her posture was decorous, a bearing of a confident woman that kept her chin up, her back straight and an invisible book on the top of her head. Why in the name of Radasanth would such a beauty ever call a former slave girl such as Myrhia nobility was beyond the smaller female.

“Is she bothering you?” The voice snapped Myrhianna out of the temporary fit of confusion. Hillas was already at her flank, one hand on his ornate falchion, eating the buxom lady with his eyes. When Myrhia didn’t respond instantaneously, he repeated. “Miss? Do you want me to get rid of her?”

“No!” she finally said, realization clicking in her head like a snap of the fingers. A smallest of frowns creased the girl’s brow, but even such an expression hardly made her look threatening. Even the words she spoke in her high voice seemed almost benign, her anger genteel enough to be faux. “Get rid of her?! What are you, a knave of some sort? No, I don’t want you to get rid of her. Here, eat some more grapes.”

Myrhia pushed the violet cluster into his hand almost hard enough to squash some of the ripe fruit, then turned to the woman in the lacy robes. Her wide, contagious smile was back on, harbinger of the apology. “Sorry about that. Sometimes their sense of duty gets ahead of their manners.” A curtsey of some sort was probably in order, a proper introduction practiced by courtesans and ladies all throughout Radasanth. But Myrhia had only recently exited the world of wandering and adventuring and swords and wearing pants to enter a radically different environment of majestic palaces and stuck-up people and fluffy dresses that all looked like wedding gowns. So instead a pertinent greeting, she offered her hand to the stranger.

“I’m Myrhia,” she said. She felt her coyness creeping up at her, the inferiority complex that made her shy away whenever in the presence of somebody better, stronger, prettier. Her green eyes turned to the fruit in question, her free hand touching the thick braid that fell over her shoulder and over her unimpressive bosom. “Of course you can have some of these. I don’t even need that many. My Letho hates these things and if I ate them all, I’d probably get tummy ache and then I wouldn’t want any for months. Here...”

Myrhia lowered the wicker basket to the stone-paved ground, took a pineapple with each of her hands and handed them to the polite woman. “One for your sister and one for you. My treat.” She dumped the rest in her basket, the large, ungainly things filling it to the point where the leafy crowns of the peculiar fruit stuck out like garnish. And to Danna the Fruit-peddling Crone, the redhead said, “How much for all of that?”

The old woman squinted one eye more then the other, as if trying to aim a bow while her old mind did the calculating and summing. It seemed that the only scale that the oldster needed were her glassy eyes, because it took mere seconds for her to pronounce the result. “For a pair of pretties such as you two, old Danna will round it up to fifty gold pieces.” Myrhia wasn’t certain whether the woman rounded it up at a higher or a lower sum due to the mentioned prettiness, but she didn’t fret much about the price. Before she left for the Bazaar, she made Letho so guilty for not accompanying her that the Red Marshal gave her a rather hefty pouch. It was a lousy compensation, but it was better then nothing. She dropped five thick golden doubloons in Danna’s palm, each worth ten regular gold pieces.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” Myrhia said to her acquaintance. She already picked her basket up with an intention to leave, when a thought occurred to her. “Say, you don’t happen to need a ride to anywhere? I have a carriage just around the corner and it’s so dull to ride alone.”

The explanation was far from complete. The fact of the matter was that Myrhianna Bastillien seldom had friends nowadays save Myrhianna Bastillien. Letho was always busy nowadays, bent over that large oak table in his office, shuffling through papers and lists and reports and memorandums, inspecting his troops, riding out on missions with his Wolves. There were days when he rose before she awakened and went to bed after she had already fallen asleep. And Myrhia didn’t know anybody in Radasanth save her paramour. So right now she was so desperate for some social activity that she was ready to invite a complete stranger to share a caroche.

[Magdalena]

Sati held only an eye of spite over the brashness of men, and had been no more than inches away from showing the brunt of her hatred when the blackguard, the foolhardy varlet that he was, stepped into charge. Her fingers fell crisp, floating about the red dudgeon of her sickles while she watched the flesh of his throat, spreading wide in its approach like the legs of a whore in heat. Only one quick flick of the wrist was needed to fell this man, though there was no denying that he would manage a killing cleave in the nick of time, rending her in bloody twine with a single swing of his ornate brand.

It took her all of her heart to suppress her murderous urges, a contra-nature act that left her whole soul alight with venomous fires. She couldn’t, not now. She couldn’t allow herself a single moment of selfishness, an instant in which she would indulge in her most feminine caprices. She wouldn’t kill a man in a midday crowd, especially not if it would bring about her own untimely demise. I still have much to prepare, and only one week to do so. Death is a setback I cannot afford.

Almost as a reward for siding with her twisted kind of morals, the woman of russet hair had interceded to scold the black titan, a feat made all the while more impressive when comparing her petite frame to the powerhouse whom she treated like a devious boy, shoving clusters of grapes into his hands to shut him up. Witness to this amusing spectacle, Sati felt the wire around her chest loosen and her spirits liven in tandem with the subtle cheers of the surrounding bystanders, all equally entertained by this most unlikely chain of command.

“Oh, there is no need to apologize,” she said in a hurried tone, trying her best to reply with her habitual courtesy, hoping to escape the climb of laughter that was swelling inside her bosom and jerking her breaths out of rhythm. “I must say I even enjoyed his dutiful display, albeit a bit guiltily.”

For the first time in years, she felt a genuine shyness prickle at her flushing cheeks, as though completely disarmed by the young woman’s jocund demeanour. Perhaps it was admiration, perhaps it was envy; to be extraverted even in the eyes of a stranger, to speak her mind with a biting verve and, most of all, to be so truthful with everyone and anyone. After all these years hiding behind her flawless façade, she had forgotten what it was to be like any other woman. But, given the chance, I would not have it any other way.

Seeing the kind stranger offer her hand as one would an olive branch startled Sati, who had quite honestly expected some sort of pompous salutation, tinged with a haughty greeting, as inculcated by those bombastic nobles who waste away their lives on long-obsolete protocols and codes of conduct, of which she herself had been an unfortunate student. Every day, she suffered the bitterness of hypocrisy, tasting the foul thing teem in her mouth whenever she spoke; but she had to endure, to be a polished ruby, treasured product of a baronial lineage, and parade herself as some pure breed on the catwalk, squandering away her dignity while ironically walking with its insipid semblance weighing on her shoulders. It was a welcome change, to find one she had thought a pretentious noblewoman, what with her guardian lapdogs and her elegant dress of layered tourmaline, to be in truth just as much of a country girl as she was. A woman after my own heart.

“It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you, Myrhia. My name is Sati.” Though she maintained her distinguished speech, Sati had allowed herself a certain amount of laxity, first by omitting her last name and title, second by responding in earnest with a strong yet tender handshake. Sati was shamed to find herself inspecting the young lass up close, studying the smallest details of her facial features, the clues of her smaller figure that peeked through the silken tiers of her vestments. Some would call the girl unremarkable, something that was not a fallacy from afar; but unlike Sati’s superficial beauty, that appeared perfect only in surface and which attracted only the vile and viler, this Myrhia held a affectionate quality that thawed the ice of heart and made it melt into a warm puddle. The priestess felt herself sway under the balmy heat of those emerald windows, falter at the endearing simplicity of her countenance, feeling so much like a sweet summer day. In so many ways, she reminded her of the sister she had known in bygone days, before their lives had fallen apart during a storm of blood and snow.

When she felt the coarse skin of the exotic fruits, weighing down on her hands, Sati was never more convinced that she had met Sapna’s kindred spirit, or perhaps even the one bearing a fragment of her soul, one the priestess had though long since lost to the vices of men. Her gratitude was even greater when Myrhia took it upon herself to pay the two pieces she had given her, handing in a handful of glimmering doubloons to old Danna. “A-are you certain? This is very generous of you, thank you!” Twice this day her defenses had fallen, and she felt no alarm at exposing her giddiness in front of a gentle soul such as she. “This is sure to turn her little frown into a smile! Oh Myrhia, I will tell her of your kindness.” The beryl-eyed redhead had wanted to show the extent of her joviality, but the sizeable pineapples in the crib of her arms had made hugs and handshakes more than just difficult. Thus, she settled for a curtsey, plainer and more honest than the needlessly dignified kind.

Sati felt sorely saddened that this gentle spirit was leaving so soon, but quickly rebuked herself for her childish attitude: she knew better than to get attached to a complete stranger. Granted, this particular one had given her a name, as well as two gravid handfuls of her sister’s favorite fruits. All in all, it had been a most auspicious encounter, and she couldn’t be so selfish as to ask any more of such a good Samaritan. Sati was about to nod her farewell, when the girl invited her for a ride in her carriage, completely out of the blue. It had come to the point that Sati was doubting the compassionate nature of Myrhia, quite certain that no person could act on good will alone, without wishing for a boon in return. But then again, I do detest the tedium of walking. I should not slap away such windfall on unfounded suspicions.

“Well, I do need to return to the Seven Skewers, and I am running late,” she began sheepishly, and the fact that her eyes wandered the cleaves of the cobbles did nothing to allay how much she was beating around the bush, building up reasons to conceal her willfulness for dependence. “And it does get awfully dull, traveling about town without someone with whom I can talk.” Taking in a bowlful of air, she expelled her worries and gave the girl the straight answer she deserved. “What I am saying is that I would be delighted to ride with you, and that I am now thrice thankful for your kindness. You truly are an angel, Myrhia!”


Right around the corner, the horse-drawn coach lay in the shade of a lofty structure of alabaster. It was simple enough to blend into the picture of a bustling street, but one among many other such carriages; from up close, however, she could appreciate the sheer amount of work that was put in its craft. The spokes of the wheels boasted impressive designs that were often lost to inattentive eyes, and the whole exterior was an earthy blend of woodland hues, glazed with the fine finish of a darker varnish. Sati had loved traveling in these as a child, hence her particular fondness to the vehicle. When she was helped up into the carriage by the quiet and detached guard she had come to know as Thoren, joining after her personable acquaintance, she was stricken by the debonair interior, not exactly regal in decoration but visually pleasant nonetheless, with the wine shades of the leather seats and the warm palette of mahogany and gild.

The coacher riled the horses into a lenient trot, the whirs and clicks of the wheels only half-muted behind the wood and drapes. Sati was seated directly opposite of Myrhia, with Thoren at her left and Hillas at the younger girl’s right. Sati’s arms, flushed by the heat of the noon, were still hanging on to the fruits as if they were her final lifelines in whatever was to transgress. She was certain her qualms were groundless, and that the young woman had only wished for company by this mutual arrangement, but something she had said nagged in the back of her head. I’m sure I’m missing something. What did she say? What did she–

Letho. My Letho.

Sati was caught in a moving carriage, with the Red Marshal’s very beloved. She cursed herself for her lack of attention, for having overlooked the clearly stated and downright evident. With the most charming of expressions, she had spoken of the Ranger with a love-laced voice, so laden with the emotion that it was almost tangible in the air that she breathed in and out. Only at this point did the haze of summer truly strike her, her forehead beading little by little, though she was quite certain this was cold sweat. Her hatred of men was something to fear, but her fear of the very Arm of Coronian Law was enough to sort out her priorities. Please, make it so that no one who survived the Bazaar carnage has seen my face. Please, make it so that he doesn’t know my face.

“Forgive me for asking, but did Ranger Ravenheart assign these men to guard you?” Sati was trying her all to unknot the tension in her muscles, and perhaps to learn more about the precariousness of her situation; she would rather walk into lion’s den, fully conscious of the dangers. “Does that mean he believes Radasanth is at a risk, after the recent events in the Bazaar?” The trills of her vice were a perfect emulation of fear, and the worry in her eyes showed that it was fear for another. “If it is so, I will have no choice but to leave; I cannot endanger my little sister.”

[Letho]

There was a smile on Myrhia’s face as the carriage rolled and rattled down the Radasanth alleys and avenues, but that wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. There always seemed to be a curve on her rosy lips nowadays; sometimes so timorous it barely formed dimples on her cheeks, sometimes so wide and vibrant that it chased the unyielding gloom even from the stringent face of her lover, sometimes intentionally mysterious as she tried to wheedle Letho away from his work at the table in order to make him do some work on the bedspread.

Today, however, it was the affable kind of smile that decorated her visage, the tiny smirk of content that was the facet of warmth that made her feel all queasy inside her own skin. The fact of the matter was that Myrhianna Bastillien never felt more felicitous then when she succeeded in making other people happy. Perhaps it was because she had seen the other side of the medal, the dirt-stained, bitter part that hung around the necks of those at the rock bottom of life, dragging them even farther down. Better yet, the redhead was one of those unfortunates not so long ago, a slave whose life consisted of washing soiled clothes and enduring the nightly visits of her master and his ruffians. But she got out, she broke through, she was lucky enough to encounter her own personal savior that put the demons that haunted her to the blade. And it made her so happy that it was more joy then she could hold back. So she aimed to spread it whenever possible.

Needless to say, when Sati called her an angel and thanked her for being benevolent, Myrhia felt more exuberant then she had in months. Ever since Letho and she first arrived to Radasanth, most of her days were spent in that overlarge manor at the foot of Nerevar Hill. The servants assigned to them were trained professionals, bowing dutifully when excused or given an order and staring with mistrust when something didn’t fit the little world they were a part of for so long. Whenever Myrhia ventured into the kitchen to cook a meal or picked up a rag to dust some of ceramic vases and lacquered commodes, their eyes were on her, throwing questions at her like needles. Their ‘thank yous’ were as bland as their apologies, just words spoken out of propriety in an emotionless tone that made them no more appreciative then they made them excusatory. But Myrhia didn’t cast any blame on them; it was the Radasanth society that dictated such conduct. Save Sati and a couple of Letho’s soldiers, the majority of people seemed to live their lives on their high horses, speaking deceptive words and offering stone-cold smiles from above.

Luckily, her acquaintance wasn’t of that breed. There was some snootiness to her, an air of ascendant pride characteristic to so many royal women, but that was only a tidbit of her personality it seemed, perhaps a remnant of a variant life in times past. But for every part of her that was a bit stuck-up there were at least five that were more colloquial, more down-to-earth. It gave Myrhia some reprieve; she felt that she could talk to Sati without a threat of saying something that would be misinterpreted and improper.

“Oh, no, no, no. You shouldn’t worry,” the scrawny teenager reassured her red-haired friend. “Letho... He’s a cautious man. Cautious and leery. He’s the kind of a man that always thinks of the worst thing that could happen. ‘There’s all kind of folk on the streets,’ he said to me. ‘and most of them would seek to take advantage of someone like you.’” The unimpressive redhead did her best Letho impersonation when she cited his words, deepening her voice, pushing her flat chest out, wrinkling her brow and tightening her lips in what was supposed to look like a brooding look. The façade broke almost immediately after she was done, crumbling in front of the giggle that crept past her renewed smile.

“I think he always looks for the worst in people,” Myrhia continued after a sigh. “but he’s so stubborn I couldn’t argue with him. So I’m stuck with these two grumps.” The duo she referred to didn’t seem interested in the small-talk between the two females; Thoren and his hawk eyes were fixed on the assortment of faces that passed by the window and Hillas sat leisurely, plucking grapes and eyeing Sati every once in a while. Setting her laden basket on the floor of the caroche, Myrhianna leant towards the white-clad vixen and continued in a conspirative tone. “Between you and me, I took a peek into his reports the other day. From what I could gather, there’s nothing too threatening on the streets.”

She pulled back with an almost embarrassed smile, certain that both of her guards heard her words. Thoren probably wouldn’t tattle – his lack of tongue being the primary reason for his silence – but for Hillas she wasn’t so certain. Letho probably wouldn’t be too cross with her about this little transgression, though, but it still made the lass feel just a tad more impish then usual.

“We should all have dinner sometimes,” Myrhia couldn’t help saying. It wasn’t something she said with much or, in fact, any deliberation; rather it was just a spurt of her wide-eyed mind, making her just babble out the first thought that came to pass. When she couldn’t quite gauge the reaction on Sati’s face – she reckoned it was either surprise or confusion – she realized that she was being too forward. Her eyes shied away from the piercing cerulean glow. “I mean, if you’re not too busy or anything. It need not be today or anything. I just...”

Myrhia’s shoulders slumped a little and suddenly her hands seemed more interesting then either Sati or the streets of Radasanth. She continued reluctantly, feeling more like a child with her hand in the cookie jar with every second, her jolly tone losing a considerable amount of its vibrancy. “I just don’t know many people here in Radasanth. Letho is often busy and most of our neighbors are lords and ladies that don’t like to fraternize with us much. You could bring your sister with you if she wants to come.” Her emerald eyes looked up towards Sati as he finished, both hopeful and abashed at the same time. Myrhia didn’t intend for her words to sound like a desperate plea for some company, but this amicable stranger was the first nice person she met in a while and their ride was fast coming to an end. If she didn’t act now, chances were she would never see Sati again.

[Magdalena]

While the carriage whirred and wobbled on the ruts of the streets, Sati was kept on the edge, awaiting Myrhia’s response in fearful palpitation. The fact that she was troubled at all was fortunately hidden behind the impassible facade she had consolidated for as long as she could remember, now a skintight mask she had no desire of removing. By wearing this perfect guise of inherited nobility and natural fragility, she never had any trouble fitting in a crowd of gentle births, taking almost guilty pleasure that the meekest of her smiles could hold sway over these said noblemen. In fact, after years rubbing elbows with the gentries of many nations, she had come to notice that most of them were vastly unfit to employ whatever powers were invested in them, having no more insight than a randomly picked bum from the rabble they held in such condescension. They were all the same, the slothful twits that hung onto the prestige of a dying lineage like the late High Priest of Zarinsk, or the current Baron of Salair, her winter-cursed homeland. The old lecher had gotten what any other sanctimonious swine deserved, and the usurper of her father’s name would soon find the same fate. At least, that had been her plan, until the priestess took a brush with the sheriff’s sweetheart. Now, all that was left for her to do was waiting for the verdict, the herald of either her freedom, or her execution.

Naturally, Sati walked on air when the amiable girl told her that the matters of the Bazaar had not thrown the Coronian constables into what could have been a much troublesome effervescence. If official reports said so, she had no need to worry. Hells, if official reports found in the office of Letho Ravenheart had said that a flock of flying pigs in monocles and formal wear had flown over the Radasanthian skies, she wouldn’t be so hot to dismiss it as pure folly. Sati could hear the return of ambient sounds as her anxiety receded back into distant pastures, and it became sorely apparent that they were strolling away from the agora, what with the shouts of town criers and the stentorian announcements of auction keepers fading out of earshot. They were definitely closer to the residential districts of the capital, and she knew the Seven Skewers to sit on the frontier between homes and businesses. In all likeliness, this was time for a good, long breather, because she was out the woods. Her only regret was that she could not fully enjoy her leisure time with her newfound acquaintance, and that the stroll was nearly at its end. Such a pity, for this Myrhia girl seemed like such lovely company.

As such, the announcement of a prospective dinner together roiled up a tangled ball of emotions. Oh, Sati was delighted to be offered another chance at a potential friendship, devoid of all fallacies that plagued those made in the stuffy retinue of some faceless Count or Marquis, but the reality at hand had not been twisted nor turned: were she to simply walk into Myrhia’s dwelling, she would, without a doubt, cross paths with one whose keen eyes could detect an ill-thought in the making, expose herself to the scrutinous edge of a man who wields justice with the same ease he does a sword. Did she truly care to test her mettle and see how potent was her disguise, how fast he would pull the veil off of a true criminal? But if I trust what she says, then there would be no reason for him to suspect me. If my face were known to the authorities, if they were actively searching for the perpetrators of the Bazaar incident, I would have already encountered trouble by now.

She also had one less reason to worry about the Red Marshal; if she played her cards well, she would merely pass as a traveling priestess, cordial and docile, who had befriended his paramour by simple happenstance. She had the means, the resources to do it; as long as she kept her emotions in check, the Ranger would see nothing but a very pleasant fire. Had the offer been an invitation to take lounge in their homes indefinitely would have been problematic to say the least, but what troubles could possibly befall her during a single, sociable dinner? To the forefront of her thoughts had come the picture of a bulky man in a rutilating armor of gold, doilies and platters shimmying as he slammed down his titan’s fists, howling her arrest for improper table manners. The moment she had imagined such a cockamamie scenario, her shoulders began shaking with the repression of a laughter, and not one that could be surreptitiously hidden behind a lady’s raised hand. Oh, how she had wanted to burst out then and there, and seeing Thoren’s inexpressive lineaments staring out to the fleeting images beyond the carriage window had somehow riled her amusement even more. Oh, what is wrong with me today? Here I am, almost tearing up in laughter at the prospect of my own arrest!

“I’d love to!” Sati was smack dab in the middle of her internal dilemma when she heard herself blurt out the giddy response, feeling herself inch forward on the seat with a curt scrape of leather. In this moment, her mind hung in total limbo, her eyes lost and listless as they stared beyond what could be seen. Hearing herself talk, she was sickened by the eagerness of her words, and how she had lapsed from formal to casual in the blink of an eye. In her embarrassment, she set the rugged fruits aside, knitting her hands together as she attempted an explanation. “W-What I meant was that I would like to, but I truly must attend to my sister today, and she… sometimes reacts rather intensely to strangers.” This was but half the truth, but Sati knew better than to go in depth when it came to Sapna’s peculiar behavior; the girl was troubled, to say the least, and might be too much for the Coronian couple to handle. Still Sapna wasn’t so much a fleet-footed firecracker as she was a time bomb without a clock; bringing her to meet Myrhia might very well make for a sweet and uneventful afternoon, but there was no way to know for certain. Even so, Sati was loathe to leave her friend in such a manner, especially after she had shown herself so vulnerable; and because of that, in the lapse of a second, Sati had untangled the knots of her qualms. “But perhaps I could come tomorrow at noon, if that does not incommode you?”

When she felt Myrhia’s arms laced around her, the priestess’ lineaments sank into a bashful expression of queasiness and contentment, one that tried to express a newer mindset of ‘let come what will’ - and she even caught herself drinking in the bare aroma of her hair for the fleetest of instants, reveling in the floral spritz in that moment of weakness. Their joyful embrace had come to an end, but not without the gratified words of the younger redhead, and Sati saw herself nod away in an embarrassed game of who had more thanks to offer to the other. A while after, seeing the futility of their efforts, the girls were shaken down into the giggles of schoolgirls, though the pristine sound still rang like chimes in a cool, summer draft. The low thunder of hooves had quelled just then, in simultaneity with the halt of the vehicle, which was now stationed just beneath a signboard depicting the seven-colored spits, fanning out like the variegated rays of a rainbow. The two women regarded each other with urgency, and Myrhia quickly proceeded to give out the directions to her and the Marshal’s Manor. “Maybe I should write it down for you, Sati; it would be awful if you lost yourself on the way because of me.”

It was ever refreshing to see Myrhia being true to her kind and altruistic nature, but Sati reassured the younger lass that she had committed it all to memory and that she would have no trouble finding her bearings. The carriage door opened from the outside, revealing part of the sullen-clad coacher, his gloved hand extended towards the entrance of the inn. With no words left to speak, Sati scooted forward on the seating and eased into another embrace, less spontaneous yet just as agreeable as the first. Then, she accepted Thoren’s hand who, as the mute gentleman that he was, helped her down the tall caroche as gently as he had previously helped her up, handing her back the plump twin pineapples with great care. Before Myrhia shrank behind the veneer of the closing door, the whited priestess held up a snowy hand, slowly waving her farewell as the horses were spurred again, driving the vehicle down the hazy boulevard.

[La Fantasque]

“Happy birthday, little sister! I brought back gifts I know you’ll like!” Her sister sounded chipper and natural as she bumbled to open the door, but a thimble of annoyance had made its way into her tone, for she was finding the lock particularly stubborn today. When the struggle with the doorknob had ended, she made her ingress without a hurry, padding lightly onto the rickety floors with a few creaks, peeking into the dimly lit room for the signs of her sibling. Only a few stray beams of sunlight had pervaded the blinds, drawing rows and columns of blurry white lines upon the blanket of dust. Sati sounded her gladness with a long sigh, after discovering the crumpled mass that was Sapna over the chamber’s only cot, appearing to slumber beneath the wrinkles of her purple cloak only to the unaccustomed eye. Alas, Sapna was well aware that her sibling was in possession of a remarkable set of keen ones.

“Sati…” the girl sounded so meek, as though only recently roused from a short and shallow sleep. She seemed to struggle on the old bed, for the coils squeaked faintly, but the sound soon faded into nothing, Sapna seemingly slumped in early capitulation. Not far off, she could hear two heavy thuds in quick succession. It was from the gueridon that had come with the thinly furnished room, for she could hear the cut-price wood of its leg screech as her sister industriously sliced through whatever food she had purchased at the market. Sapna remained idle upon the bedspread, her breath softly ruffling the patchwork quilt, listening to the lovely humming that filled their little home.

“Oh, I know what you’re going to say, but I told you a million times already. It doesn’t matter how much older you get, I’ll still get you something I know you like, every year.” The knife kept on slicing against the cutting board, until she heard a long culinary silence. Was she peeling something? Perking an ear, she listened for any enlightening sound, but Sati was quick and had already begun dicing. Still, Sapna made no movement, not even the slightest twist of the neck to watch her sister work.

“Thank you, sis. And I’m still older than you, you know.” Her voice was dulled by some burden that weighed on her mind, sounding so lackluster compared to the childish verve it conveyed almost daily, before they had come to Radasanth. Sati must have noticed, but the pace of her knife had neither hastened nor slowed; all she did was chuckle at her statement, agreeing with the fact. “But I didn’t manage to find you a gift while I was out… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about that, silly.” The blunt chops had ceased, and she presumed that Sati had lifted her chin to give her that amused grin, as though she had done yet another of those childish blunders that brought laughs rather than frowns. Sati had given her so many of those in these past few years, without even realizing that it was only one amongst the many traits she had taken on from their mother. “The greatest gift you could give me today, or any other day, for that matter, is that sweet little smile of yours. So come on!” Just then, the sweetness had spread far enough to tickle her nostrils, and she knew it to be her favorite aroma. In a moment of exhilaration, she rolled on the coverlet to face the round table, where a pineapple dish was being prepared. When she realized her blunder, it was too late to hide the deep gashes that marred her lips, a blotchy mess of red from the clotting blood.

“Gods, Sapna!” A steely clatter rang over the floorboards, the knife having slid out of the priestess’ hand, made limp by horrification and a pent-up anger that began anew its revolt, pummeling at the walls of her heart to escape and run amok. Very slowly, very carefully, she picked up the knife, resting the cold of its flat against her palm. “Who did this to you? Sapna, tell me. I need you to tell me…” Those words, again. Always. Every time something happened to her, her little sister would take on that strangely calm tone of voice, one she knew beyond laden with emotions beyond irk and ire. But it never lasted. No woman could stand the pain wrought by the storm that thundered so vehement in her chest, and Sati’s whole body was straining to its limits, the edge of the knife breaching her skin and drawing out filaments of blood. The knife dug deep into the cutting board, chinks of wood swirling out from the stab wound. “Tell me!” It was a sound known by neither beast nor man, the demented shriek of a Fury who saw the corpses of her young, lined up and skewered upon the spears of her hunters. Words of rage fought to cut through her lips and taint them with an even bloodier hue, words Sapna knew all too well. Tell me, so that I may punish him.

“He’s… I…” With her eyes slanted downward into a plea, she stuttered, not able to put words to her thoughts, not able to exorcise the ghosts that had haunted her thoughts throughout the day. Alas, there was an evil she needed to purge, and the only person who could bring her absolution was seething to perpetrate the very crime for which she longed to repent. Alas, who better than a priestess to ask for forgiveness? In an apprehensive effort, she hopped from the small cot, slowly making her way to the round table, not a creak, not a yielding noise sounding as she strode. “Oh Sati, I made a really big mistake today.”

The frost in her sister’s eye had become stiller even, with only the blue-white mist of her hackles seeping out and far away. Now, she knew. Now she knew why Sapna had remained so tacit, so idle and lethargic in her bed this day, sulking because she had killed again. The act was not new to her, repeated over and over again as a duty; but sometimes, she gave in to a vindictive urge, and she would revel in the murder of a man for the sake of murdering a man. The relief it procured her was ecstatic, but when the shroud was lifted from her eyes, only a deep sadness was left to gnaw at the last slivers of her heart. Alas, this was not the least of her worries, for something worse had come to pass: she had not found retribution in the safety from prying eyes. “I’ll find a way to get us out of this, don’t worry. You never need to worry, sister. No one will ever touch us again.”

“In the meantime, why don’t you enjoy your gift.” In an effort to lighten the mood, Sati bent to the side, picking up a handful of sticky yellow cubes, glistening as she waved them under her sister’s nose, lit as gold by the straying light. “Aaaah,” she mouthed the letter, rolling her florid lips into a circle, popping the little slices one by one after Sapna had imitated her. As the girl chewed with a giddy grin that split her face from ear to ear, Sati walked her fingers along the wet board, picking up the acidic peels, then brushing it along the curve of Sapna’s face. She giggled, having always been intrigued by the stuff’s strange texture. Little did she know that her sister would shove it across her bleeding lip, sending jolts of hurt that lit her head up like myriad candle lamps in the heat of midsummer carnival.

“Hey, that really hurt! Why are you so mean?” she pouted in frustration, stomping the ground and making a ruckus while a bead of pain welled in the corner of her eye. Sati was a frivolous and unpredictable person, but this had struck her as simply ludicrous.

“Me, mean? I’m insulted.” A curve of mischief traced itself in the cleft of her mouth, the girl taking her sister’s chin between thumb and index, lightly brushing the red from her lip. “If I were mean, would I do this?” Closing her eyes, she leaned in, slowly falling forward. With a passionate intensity, they shared a single breath, locking lips into an almost amorous kiss. Sati ignored the salty taste that blended with her saliva, while Sapna fought to dismiss the pain that flared within her wounds, letting the priestess do what she was best at. It had been only a few seconds when Sati drew back, a satisfactory exhale released into a toe-curling sigh, her eyelids low and heavy. She peered through half-closed eyes, a proud grin splayed across her comely face as she saw no trace of either blood or breached skin, only the pink lines of scarring tissue. “I had to clean out the clots before, or it’d have taken twice as long. Then again, I wouldn’t have minded,” she crooned affectionately, sliding the side of her index down the jutting curves of her lips and the soft lines of her throat, a place that made Sapna gasp from pleasant surprise. It was no secret to either of them, for Sati knew Sapna’s body as well as she did her own – after all, they were twins. “You’ve had a hard day. Maybe it’d be best if we call it a night. I’ll tell you all about mine, first thing tomorrow morning.”

Giving her sister a nod of agreement, they made their way to the bed, Sapna clinging onto her sister’s arm, as she had so often done in the early days of their childhood. Things, many things had changed since then; but she was eternally grateful that their bond was just as strong today, if not stronger. They dug beneath the small quilt, wrestling for who would take the better piece, until they fell into a snug embrace, exhausted by the events of the day, eager for the refreshing air of a new morning. As their thoughts wavered into the darker realm, Sapna whispered into her sister’s ear. “Happy birthday to you too, Sati.”

[Letho]

Regardless of the number of times Myrhia gazed at Nerevar Hill, the magnificence of Radasanth’s most famous residential borough never failed to amaze her anew. Unlike the jam-packed Bazaar where houses seemed to be built atop of each other or the Slums where urbanization was a foreign term, the most luxurious district of Corone capitol was an architectural heaven. The main avenue coiled around the hill like a serpent, a cobbled helix surrounded with slanted parcels of grassy land and stone and brick constructions that seemed to compete with each other. For every full circle that the main street made around the hill, the manors grew in both girth and loftiness and diminished in number. Atop of this jewel of the Government District was a spacious plateau where five palaces were nestled, each hosting one member of the Assembly, Corone’s governing body.

Mansions and their owners strived to uniqueness here, whether it was in architectural style or the decoration of their courtyards. Sometimes this nisus gave birth to constructions of delicate brilliance, where Raiaeran refined curvature of arches and roofs mixed with more mundane domestic styles. Sometimes this produced immaculate gardens with flora and fauna not endemic to north Corone, affording passersby a glimpse of a different land entirely. But there were also failures in this striving for singularity, odd combinations of conflicting styles that folk always secretly pointed fingers at. They were rather seldom, though; even though style didn’t necessarily go hand in hand with a large bankroll, most of the priggish royalty that dwelled here had enough brains to hire a half-decent consultant in matters they knew nothing about.

The brick manor that Myrhia called home for over a month now was at the very foot of the renowned hill, where the tracts were just large enough for a two-storey mansion and a small garden that doubled as an orchard. The house itself was a rather homely structure, its dark red walls turning to cinnabar when stricken by the vibrant sun. The parcel was leveled and surrounded with an ornate iron fence, but the fence itself was less of a protection from interlopers and more of a decoration what with its odd motifs wrought between the eight-foot bars. Letho had a thing or two to say about such lax security. Despite the fact that Nerevar Hill was probably the only place in Corone where the number of guards patrolling the streets was larger then the number of denizens, he set a number of sentries along the perimeter.

Two of his blackcloaks were at the front gate when her carriage rolled into the gravel driveway, breaking their stoic stance and swinging the metal doors open. The ride from the gates to the front entrance was too short to even be considered a ride; they drove past three pairs of large maples whose crowns intertwined above before the gravel ceased crunching beneath the wheels and they came to a halt. Myrhia was out before either man got a chance to offer her a hand out. Her auspicious rendezvous with Sati and the subsequent arrangement were something she eagerly wanted to convey to Letho.

“Hiya, Doran,” the bubbly redhead said once she was past the heavy oaken doors and into the foyer. Compared to the vigor-sapping heat of the outsides, the shadowed interior wrapped coolness around her like a wet blanket, nearly making her shiver. Awaiting her beyond the door was a lanky butler, dignified in his tailcoat even while doing something as simple as watering the ferns. He greeted the Lady of the House (a title that still made Myrhia feel weird) with a minute inclination of his head, his eyes closing only for a moment beyond his thin-rimmed spectacles.

“My lady,” the aged man said with trained smoothness, his voice not unkind but not terribly kind either. “Your visit to the Bazaar was quite productive, I see. Here, allow me to take your purchases to the pantry.”

“No need. I’m going to the kitchen myself anyways,” Myrhia dismissed the offer. “Is Letho in his study? I need to talk to him.”

“I’m afraid lord Ravenheart rode out several hours ago,” the gray-haired man said, proceeding with his initial work and flooding the potted plants. “Apparently there was some trouble upriver that demanded his attention. He said that my lady shouldn’t expect him to be back in time for dinner.”

It was quite a blow for her mirthful disposition, making her sigh in exasperation and march towards the pantry. Back when Letho was a Marshal in quaint place on the edge of Concordia Forest called Willowtown, his job consisted of remedying sporadic barroom brawls and leading searches for a wayward teen or two that got fed up with wielding pitchforks. And even on busiest of days they had plenty of time for themselves. But that was before the dastardly war that shook the very foundations of Corone and he turned over to the side of the Empire. Nowadays it seemed as if the Red Marshal fought the entire rebellion on his own despite the fact that Radasanth was quite remote from the gist of the upheaval. She didn’t blame her lover for this, couldn’t for she knew that he fought for a peaceful sustenance for the both of them. But even her docility had limits.

She dined alone that afternoon, pushing the food on her porcelain plate this way and that, biding her time, but there was no sign of Letho. Afterwards, she took her time soaking in a bathtub, her head lolled back, her thoughts calling forth the occurrences of the day, but still everything was silent around her. And when she sunk into the fluffy pillows of the large bed and the candles burned low, all the joy that Sati brought her was gone and she wanted just to feel someone’s warmth next to her.

***

Even though he sat behind a large desk covered with an assortment of parchments, scrolls and envelopes, Letho Ravenheart somehow managed to look less like a pen-pusher and more like a warrior that somehow wandered into the world of bureaucracy. He sat in his lofty chair almost in an attention stance, his back as straight as a spear shaft, his imposing constitution unmoving. Only his eyes moved beneath those frowning eyebrows of his, ascertaining what was written on the papers before him. Occasionally his hands moved as well, either to set aside a report or sign at the bottom of some inspection list. Very rarely, when something either very dire or very amusing was jotted down, his fingers stroked his neatly-trimmed beard. There was no discontent to be read from the lineaments of his strict face, but there was neither gratification to be read either.

The reason for this dutiful indifference was simply that Letho didn’t see the point in the line of work that the Coalition allotted him. He switched sides and joined the Empire so he could bring down this newly established tyranny from the inside, but so far the only tasks they assigned him to were training shoddy recruits and apprehension of some local criminals. The secretive Coalition – the force that wanted to mitigate the repercussions of the Civil War by making neither side win – reassured him that he was attaining some reputation in the eyes of the Empire this way, but the only this Letho felt attaining was a blatant desire to stuff some bureaucratic faces with some of their paper by-products.

But even though it was morning and the Marshal was usually cranky in the early hours of the forenoon, once the doors of his study opened and a familiar face peeked in, he couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Well, good morning, my lady,” he said, teasing her by using the highfalutin title she was still far from comfortable with. Still in her white, semi-translucent nightgown, Myrhia was almost floating as her bare feet took her across the carpet and around the table. Both of her hands were concealed behind her back, but she disallowed any prying as her lips reached out towards him, landing a smiling kiss on his bearded face.

“It is now,” she murmured, granting him but a whiff of the floral oils she used during her bath yesterday before she backed away and sat on the heavyset slab of his desk. The neatly arranged formations of paperwork were slightly disturbed by her little behind, but Letho didn’t seem to mind. “It’s definitely better then yesterday night. Or the entire afternoon for that matter. Well, most of it anyways.”

“Yes, about that,” the bearded Marshal moved to intercept the usual rant she was bound to give him about being away in the ungodly hours of the night. “I would’ve came earlier...”

“...but you had some business to take care of,” Myrhia cut him off, not curt or terribly agitated. The redhead was a fickle creature, easy to anger, but easy to forgive and forget as well. Yesterday night she would’ve probably talked his ear off, but as fiery as she could be, slumber was quite successful in dousing some of her fire. Especially if tomorrow was as prospective as today. She continued in an almost melancholic tone, directing her eyes towards the sunlit orchard that still glittered with dew. “I know. It’s alright. I mean, it’s not – this house is so big and I get so bored without you around – but I understand.”

“Did you at least have some fun at the Bazaar?” Letho asked, picking up her feet and setting them down in his lap. Her toes wriggled under the warm touch of his callous hand, her soles responsive to his touch, making her almost giggle.

“I sure did. I even bought you a little present,” the redhead chirped with a mischievous smile. Her hands finally made an appearance, bringing forth one of the pineapples from the batch she shared with Sati the day before. She placed the fruit on top of his paperwork.

“A pineapple. You know I hate pineapples.” Hate wasn’t strong enough of a word to describe how the Marshal felt towards this hell fruit. The taste of it made him gag and the very smell usurped his stomach. There was scarcely something edible that Letho hated more the pineapples.

“Oh, yes, I know. That’s why I bought them. If you want some bananas or some grapes, then maybe next time you’ll go with me.” She poked at him with her foot and stuck her tongue out playfully, and before such innocent sweetness Letho’s ironclad façade crumbled like walls made of sand. He shook his head and allowed a chuckle before his large hands took her by her narrow hips and repositioned her in his lap. Myrhia squirmed a little, feeble attempts to free herself of a touch she didn’t really want to be free of, but a nibble on the side of her neck defeated her, sending a warm flush through her body. But when his fingers slipped beneath the straps of her nightgown and started to hoist it ever so slightly, she put her proverbial foot down.

“Hey, hey, none of that now,” she reprimanded her lover, one of her tiny hands pushing against his chest, her other bringing a finger to his lips. “If you had come home on time yesterday, you’d have had plenty of time for that.”

“Fair enough. Fortunately, I have no outstanding duties today.”

“Who said anything about today?” Her finger poked at his ribs as she untangled her lithe form from his muscular arms. It was all a charade, one that both were aware of and one that both participated in anyways. It was the spice that never made their relationship bland. “Speaking of today, I have somebody coming over. I met her in the Bazaar yesterday. Her name is Sati and she’s this really nice lady, not at all like the tight-laced people that live around here. We bought some pineapples together and I gave her a ride to her inn. She has such red hair, Letho, redder then mine.”

“She didn’t wear purple robes perchance?” the Marshal asked distantly, his hands rearranging the mess that Myrhia’s butt made on his desk. He recollected reading a report of a murder that occurred in the streets, committed by a woman with fiery hair and violet garb. Chances that it was the same woman that his lover met were slim to none – there were thousands of redheads in Radasanth – but it was a tidbit that kept the conversation going.

“No, she wore this beautiful white dress. Come to think of it, it looked a bit like something priestesses usually wear.” Her brow furrowed a bit as she recalled the image of the beautiful woman. “At any rate, she’s coming here noonish and you better don’t go anywhere. I want you to meet her too.”

[Magdalena]

Sati shooed the unwelcome warmth over her face with a tired hand, weary eyes wincing under the bright veils that shone through the open blinds. Tossing to the right, her arm met only a muddle of tepid cloth, rather than the soft lump of her sister’s shoulder. It had taken the woman a few dozen blinks before lifting herself partly from the comfort of the cot, scanning each and every bland detail of the stale-scented room, from the dappled stains on its walls to the scarce furniture that sat upon the dust of the floorboards, realizing with dismay that Sapna was nowhere to be found. A look at the round table had brought a cheery curve to her lips, for only a little pond of drying juice was left on the chopping board. At the very least, the girl wouldn’t go hungry doing what she always did.

The smile was sadly short-lived. Sati crumpled up into a ball of white, arms laced around her legs and her scrunched chin against her knees, a mask of hurt folding over her face, shadowed even though an immaculate brightness still shone from the outside, spreading warmth over her shrunken form. Still, she felt a deep cold sweep inside her chest, in yearning for the one warmth that still mattered, the remnants of which lingered on the old coverlet. A cloud of depression was hanging over her head, making her unsure if leaving for the Red Manor was so wise while being under such a dismal weather. Nevertheless, Sati could not help but wonder if seeing Myrhia today would keep the dreary clouds at bay, and perhaps shed a heartwarming light on such a sullen day.

Letting herself fall on the side, she snuck deeper under the bedspread, resting her temple on the crude but plump pillow, sliding her palm over the spot where Sapna had spent her time in strange dreams. From what she could feel of the sun, it was still a few hours till noon. Sati let her mind fade one last time before going to her rendezvous, as scheduled.



“Oh, I just had to oversleep.” Cobwebs had infested the crude frame of the mirror, washing out its shades of painted gold, but the true point of interest in this picture was what the scuffed glass reflected. Staring out were orbs of nervous blue, their owner in a huff as she brushed her hair over and over, frustrated by their suddenly untamable nature. They were by habit soft and glossy, but today they had found a new body, as though frizzled by a tropical humidity that was foreign to Corone. A truer reason might have been how she skipped her morning ablution, though the angle at which she slept had a hand in making her polished mane a bloody mess.

Sati muttered an oath through clenched teeth, words of unthinkable blasphemy for a priestess of the Sway, but the temperamental fury found no discomfort or qualm in speaking so; she was, after all, an excommunicate, and such things had never been a novelty. Irritation cut through her shrill groan as she carelessly threw the wooden brush aside, the earthen colors of the floorboards darker in its sweeping wake. So many stray strands of hair kept bristling up after each combing motion! After pulling open the top drawer of the chestnut vanity, she took out an elastic white ring, much like a rubber band, shrugging her shoulders in resignation. Her straying hair was bound near the nape of her neck into a sweeping tail, the priestess convincing herself that it was better to seem a childish girl than a filthy vagrant.

“Now, what about perfume?” With a quick whiff of her elbow, Sati found herself disappointed. There was no odor, foul or faint, as the proud woman was, after all, always fresh, but her natural musk was so bland and unremarkable that no man would find her as pleasant in fragrance as she was to appreciative eyes, a disheartening fact she knew well to remedy. There were no dried petals or aromatic flasks at her disposal, the open drawer as vacant as the top of her dressing table, but Sati was adamant on not leaving the inn smelling like a mere handmaiden. With much deliberation, she raised her left hand, palm face up as though shaping into a sensual beckon. Sati chewed down on her lower lip, her jaw pulled in a quizzical slant. “Bouquet of lavender and mimosa, or go gourmand with a dash of vanilla?” An oil-like substance glittered on the tip of her fingers, slumping like small drops of dew on a white rose, surprisingly smelling much like the redolent blend. With a gleeful hum, she dabbed the stuff along her neckline, letting her index glide down her throat to hover about the cleft of her chest.

The floral hint had wafted under her nose, softening her features into a sinful smile of satisfaction. “The subtler, the better. This should be enough to…” She made a sharp intake of air, cursing herself for this bad habit. Without a thought, she had entered the realm of routine, doing as she did every time a sniveling nobleman asked for her pleasurable company back at his mansion, hoping that an enjoyable night and one too many a glass of wine would extend the invitation to his bedroom. What in the hells was she trying to do now, seduce the Marshal? As unlikely as the event would be, she scorned herself for considering it, even subconsciously, as that was an insult to her newest friend. The thought alone made her conscience crawl, and she felt as lowly as a swarm of maggots. “I’ll just skip the makeup, then – far too late for that, anyway.”



When Myrhia had told her the Red Manor sat at the foot of Nerevar Hill, Sati had imagined a great jag of green earth, jutting out from the ground with needles of alabaster and vermillion darting up along a winding walkway, swirling and tapering as a candle the more it neared the heavens. Upon arriving at the aforementioned foot, however, Sati realized that she had been grossly underestimating the sheer beauty of the golden district.

The pavement stretched before her into a bossed strip of flax, disappearing behind a bend as the hill began to rise. Pompous voices sounded in the storm of cartwheels and horseshoes, regal colors flowing out of equally regal carriages, twisting into a rainbow of colors for the dames, with quieter shades for the gents. The priestess felt lost in this dignified crowd, something no disguise, as perfect as it could be, would keep her from resenting this pretentious entourage. Her morning’s scowl had slumped farther down, now tinged with a twitch as she walked, wishing dourly she could keep them all at arms length.

“This… this should be it,” Sati said with a trill of bemusement, stepping back and lifting her chin to better behold the mansion that stood with impressive girth and even greater stature. Beyond the black lacework of the iron fence, this metallic synthesis of vine and trellis, grew walls of high tamarind, the burnt bricks softening with dabs of light, as though white pigments had been smudged across the grainy stone. She couldn’t see anything through the rows of windows in redwood frames, neatly lined under the tawny shingles, save for the dark green foliage of twisting maples, fragmented reflections in the red-crossed panes.

Bringing her gaze back to plain and simple earth, she saw a pair of black spots, blending into the black of the steel bars behind them, staring at her impassively under the lowered hoods. “My name is Sati Sarasvati, and I believe the Lady of this mansion is expecting me.” As she presented herself, the blackcloaks had not as much as flinched, the lukewarm glow in their shadowed eyes frozen in an unsettling professionalism. Without a notice, they turned back, pushing the iron gate open with a simultaneous push of their gauntleted hands, and lead the path into the driveway, their heavy boots grinding harsh against the gravel with every step. A distance behind, Sati sighed, glad that this was no dream, that she had not met Myrhia the previous night within some unknowable dream. Their silence had made her doubt, but if she were to doubt at every moment where no words were spoken, this might just become quite a stressful evening.

[Letho]

There seemed to be nothing that Doran the Solemn Butler couldn’t take in stride. Even when he swung the heavyset front door inwards only to stand face to face with the dazzling beauty of the redheaded Sati, there wasn’t as much as a tinge of some sentiment invading his neutral lineaments. He served a wide assortment of lords and ladies during his tenure as a manservant; from gentlemen who were too uncouth to be considered ‘gentle’ and too perfidious to be considered ‘men’ to vixens that seemed to have passion and sex ooze through their very pores. Nowadays, there was seldom a sight that could stun the cultivated butler. So when his eyes fell on Sati, they immediately went to her feet as he bowed his head in courteous respect.

“Madam Sati, I presume?” the man in an ironed tailcoat said. His bald spot surrounded by oily black hair looked at Sati for a second before he reestablished eye contact. “Lady Myrhianna is waiting for you...”

“Sati! You came!” an energetic voice interrupted him, heralding the spirited Myrhia who swung around the corner of the hallway to greet her visitor. Doran murmured ‘right here’ in a hushed drawl as he made room for the two redheads. Today Myrhia wore a rather simple dress made of crimson cotton that reached down to her ankles and went up almost to the base of her neck. With no distinctive cleavage she could flaunt like Sati, the petite girl often opted for more conservative attires that left more questions about the curvature of her body then they gave answers. Oftentimes the heat made her pay dividends for being so buttoned-down, but the temperature at the ground floor of the manor was quite enjoyable.

Standing before the impressive woman, Myrhia couldn’t stifle the urge to hug Sati again. She pulled back soon enough, though, lest she’d make the woman feel uncomfortable with this intimacy after but a single meeting. “I feared that you got lost. I was just about to send Doran out to look for you.” This was truth and the indifferent butler could testify to it. It wasn’t even near high noon when the Lady of the House started acting less like a lady and more like a tyke before her birthday feast, queasy as she sat on the windowsill awaiting her visitors. Thrice she bothered the servants, asking if everything was in order, inspecting the progress the cook made in the kitchen, rearranging the satin cushions on the lounge sofas. For one who enjoyed conversing and fraternizing with other people, Myrhia displayed uncanny anxiety today. Perhaps it was because Sati was the first person in Radasanth that she could consider a friend.

“Come, come. Let’s sit in the lounge. Lunch isn’t quite ready yet and it will give us some time to chat.” Taking Sati by the hand, the willowy girl led the way down the claret carpet of the hallway and through the first door on the left. The room beyond the widely open redwood doors wasn’t necessarily just a parlor. The shelves set against the far wall that stretched from the floor to the ceiling were crammed with books of all shapes, girths and sizes, branding the room as somewhat of a study. Myrhia had tried to read some of the books from the multitude that looked back from those shelves, but most had such complicated words and terms that reading more then a page at a time made her brain wrap around itself, ready to implode. Luckily, there was more then just dusty tomes and leathery armchairs in the room. A pair of couches was set below a large window that let in the day’s light that got filtered through the translucent, xanthous curtains that almost painted the entire room in a sepia hue.

“Did you have trouble finding this place?” Myrhia started after they were both seated. On a small table between them was a dish filled with a wide assortment of fruits and an elaborate flower arrangement made of white roses and water lilies, both spreading a fragrance far more redolent then the smell of aged paper and leather. “I know I lost my way more then once when I tried to get here on my own. The streets can be like a maze here in Radasanth, especially around the Bazaar. There, every street looks the same to me.”

Doran made his way into the room wordlessly, his lacquered, black shoes barely making a noise as he brought forth a silver plate with a teapot and all the appropriate cups and silver spoons. He poured each lady a cup and excused himself in the professional manner that he did all things.

“It must seem rather silly to you,” the diminutive red-haired hostess continued, picking up a cup with her restless hands. She could barely hide her restiveness as she felt Sati’s sapphire eyes; she feared that the woman would grow bored of her in a hurry and that she would soon remember that she had something important to take care of. So Myrhia did her earnest to keep the ball of conversation rolling. “I mean, you are from around here, right? You and your sister are Radasanthians? You just have the look of a real lady about you, if you don’t mind me saying.”

[Magdalena]

Hearing mention of these curious words, Sati pondered in a trice if it were more suitable to let loose a goodhearted chuckle or to furrow her eyebrows into a nonplussed bow. A real lady? Sati had only the respondent urge to let her eyes wander the sienna room for anyone, anything that would match this description. Not to her surprise, the only souls present in the spacious lounge were Myrhia and Sati, and considering how the jocund lass seated opposite to her was in fact the Lady of the House, she beseemed the dignified title much more adequately. Perhaps Sati would appear… truer to the superficial eye, but the keyword here was ‘real’, one that in no country, realm or remote cosmos could ever be used to describe her in earnest. The woman was an imposter, fake through and through, and would much rather unwind lazily on a plump settee for hours on end, her sister at her side and her head deep in the clouds, rather than jump through fiery hoops at court to make pleasant company to a boorish gaggle of blasé individuals, always afraid to commit a faux pas and hear the drop of her mask.

Sati gave the lavender infusion a nervous swirl, lightly tapping the teaspoon on the rim before bringing the cup to her lips. While quietly sipping the steaming fluid, she considered the younger woman across the table, noting in her best impression of a stolid look the fidgeting of Myrhia’s hands. Ever so slightly, she let her shoulders slump, making sense now of her question and the motive behind its raising. At first, the priestess had suspected a test, perhaps even a surreptitious interrogation, mostly due to the permanent paranoia she had defended herself with day to day; yet, after seeing her new friend fuss so vulnerably over twice nothing, Sati lowered her guard, slipping into a smile of genuine sympathy. The truth was that the success of this conversation was as crucial to her as it was to Myrhia, making it just as unnerving. If thoughts could be seen, she was ready to wager, theirs would most certainly be mirror images. “Actually, Myrhia, my sister and I are foreign to Corone. We were born in Salair, a small fief in the central regions of Salvar.”

“We have only traveled so far to take care of a few affairs in the capital, and thus our plan was to return home, as soon as they would be seen to a close.” Eyes lowered, she took another silent nip of the fragrant tea. This one, however, was interrupted by an abrupt shake of her hand. It had crossed her mind quite belatedly, like a surrey cutting through a rainstorm, soaking her through and through with a cold draft of understanding: although their sojourn in Corone was not over just yet, she and Sapna would have no choice but to leave Radasanth at the finale of the festival. It struck her glumly that in the span of a week, she would have to wave her farewell to the sweet and somewhat flighty Myrhia, this auspicious acquaintance she had barely even come to know as a friend. Raising downcast eyes, she snuck a glance to her bubbly hostess, perhaps noticing reciprocation on the shade of her forehead.

“H-However,” she blurted in unbidden haste, realizing too late that she was speaking off the cuff, “we… have no choice but to prolong our stay, due to some... financial problems.” It was the truth, or at least half of it. Sati was in fact lacking much in the monetary department, her money pouch so light that, were it not tautly tied to her belt, a mischievous breeze would find little to no trouble in carrying it away with a well-aimed waft. Conversely, it was also no lie that, if no unforeseen snags reared their bothersome faces in the next few days, their departure from the temperate mainland would need no postponement. Guilt was gnawing at the frays of her composure, and Sati brooded over the future consequences of speaking this half-truth that quickly took on the airs of a white lie. In capitulation, she let her frame droop down the couch, and nervously gulped half the contents of her teacup in the most ladylike of swigs, suppressing a grimace as she achingly recalled its scalding heat.

“After a few days visiting Radasanth, roaming the streets and all, we became more or less inured to its layout and were thus able to get by without too much difficulty – it behooved us to know our way about, if we were to find work.” With much promptitude she had, adroitly enough, slated the disheartening subject for another, hopefully fresher one, which she prayed would drive their conversation away from a potential standstill, just as she wished her remorseful thoughts would be driven to recess. Unfortunately for her, the Sway did not look so kindly upon hypocrites of the faith, and much to her dismay, Sati found herself surprisingly dull this day. As much as she was goading herself to strike up an interesting subject, she could only grasp at straws, managing only to dredge up from the abyss of her memory worthless facts and factoids, not even close to valuable for midday gossips.

Had she not been in obligation to lie, Sati would not have kept quiet on the nature of her work in Corone, so desperate that she was to keep their talk high and pleasantly topical, but the priestess had the smallest of inklings that the ruthless massacre of whores and whoremongers in the Bazaar was not exactly the type of discussion that would piqué her interest, or at least, not in the good way. Moreover, there were mighty wiser choices than to confide ones capital sins to the woman who shares her bed with the Red Marsal. Restlessly, she racked her brain for something, anything of interest that would save this tryst from draining into the gutters. “Speaking of which, the city appears to be in quite a commotion, what with all those merchants hanging bright festoons and colorful tulle on the signboards and inside the window displays of their shops. I think I even saw a man carving an equestrian sculpture, right in the middle of the square! The general hubbub says that there is a grand festival in preparation; I must say that I am curious to see how the people celebrate here in Radasanth – such revelries have always seemed so dull and dreary back home.”

[Letho]

Myrhia didn’t know what a fief was – the word sounded mighty funny to her – and probably couldn’t pinpoint Salair on a map, but Salvar struck a cord that resonated through her body in a form of a carking shiver. Her memories of the northern land were the very antithesis of gleeful; they recollected the blinding white and frigid chill and searing pain induced by a knife stuck in her belly. Once again she had been a damsel in distress and once again Letho had saved her, but the image of a never-ending wintry expanse and a blizzard as cold as if it was incarnated death was forever etched into her mind. The sedate redhead was rather certain that there was more to Salvar then just the forbidding snow and ice – after all, how could someone so dainty and genteel like Sati come from a land that knew naught but coldness? – but she was just as certain that she wouldn’t be braving those alabastrine plains any time soon in order to find out.

Luckily, just as abruptly as this invasion of daunting nostalgia overtook her, it was shooed away when Sati mentioned the very thing that tickled Myrhia’s fancy for days now. For days she had been taking ganders from atop of Nerevar Hill at the tents and marquees made of dyed canvas and multi-colored silks that started to rise on the grasslands like mushrooms after heavy rain. The Festival was right around the corner, bringing the much needed repose to the war-burdened folk of the Corone capitol. She hadn’t been able to ascertain what the festivities were dedicated to, but she hadn’t been prying into that matter overly much either. The important thing was that something other then the everyday monotony was occurring, a joyful upheaval that steered the thoughts away from the troubling issues. Corone needed that. Myrhia needed that.

“Me too!” the Lady of the Red Manor exclaimed in a very unladylike manner. The fair itself was enough to slap a beaming smile on her pale visage, but Sati’s interest in the same thing made the redhead scuttle from her sofa and around the little tea table until she sat next to the much more composed woman. “I’ve never been to one of these festivals myself. Letho doesn’t like them much. He says that they are waste of time. Especially the jousting. He always says that only cravens fight with blunt weapons and find it necessary to swank their fighting skills before a crowd. But he’s grumpy like that.”

Myrhia chuckled coyly at her own words, as if she expected that Letho would pop out from some corner of the room and reprimand her for calling him names. When no bearded face or rumbling voice occurred in the lounge, she continued, forgetting all about the cooling tea in her cup. “And he doesn’t realize that there’s more then just fighting. So he refuses to go, and going alone to these things can be pretty boring.”

She fingered the porcelain in her hand absentmindedly, dropping her eyes to the amethyst liquid in her cup. As wide-eyed as she looked, there were sometimes cogs spinning behind Myrhia’s eyes, making her usually heedless, lighthearted train of thought take a detour to the more complex track. And right now it was chuffing as it waited for the right moment to ask Sati the question she wanted to ask her from the moment the festival was mentioned. Ultimately, she decided to just come out and say it. She was never good at sweet-talking. Letho always said that she was good at being sweet and good at talking to people, but that she was too honest and kind-hearted for the combination of the two.

“Hey, maybe we can go to the festival together,” she finally blurted out, lifting her eyes to meet Sati’s. The smile of her rosy lips was a bit uncertain, just as it was back in the caroche when she invited the Salvarian woman to her home. It became even more uncertain when Sati seemed to be contemplating in silence for several seconds, keeping her eyes on Myrhia’s methodically, as if she searched something in the emerald irises. It made Myrhia even more fidgety, like a schoolgirl waiting for a grade. But soon enough a quizzical expression of the sonsy beauty transformed and offered an answer before the words were spoken.

“Absolutely! I would love to accompany you, Myrhia,” Sati said, the reddish velvet of those perfect lips of hers curving into an even more perfect smile. Myrhia felt compelled to hug the woman again, but they were both still holding to their teas, so she sated herself with running her mouth in a hardly controllable manner that sporadically overtook her.

“Oh, that’s great! I wanted to go to one of these things for so long. Did you see the tents and the banners outside the walls? There must be hundreds of them, with blazons I’ve never seen before. Letho says some of them are even from Fallien and Dheathain and some other lands I never heard of.” The anxiousness seemed to vacate the tiny redhead for the time being, Sati’s compliance breaking the dam that kept her somewhat reserved. In such a state, it was a small wonder that Myrhia wound up saying something that she probably shouldn’t have. “Some of them are even coming here, to our house, on the last day of the festival for a masquerade ball. Letho will be in charge of keeping their possessions safe in the vault...”

A distinct sound of a throat being cleared cut the gabby redhead short. Doran waited until he was noticed until he made his announcement.

“My ladies, lunch is served.”

[Magdalena]

The thickset doors of the dining room sounded a yawn, inviting first into their embrace the magisterial manservant, then the stunning twosome, amicably joint in locked arms, that he had lead through the redwood halls of the mansion with his imperturbable air of distance and demureness. On the way, the wainscot walls appeared uncharacteristically bare to Sati, lacking the gild and pretentious flourish that always deadened her senses whenever she was dragged into the tour of another noble's dwelling. It was a queer detail that shed the faintest light on the mystery man that was the Red Marshal; in her imagination, he had always been the enforcer of order, ruthless on the lawless streets, yet no better than those to which he gave the collar, beyond the threshold of his home, behind the shroud of his curtains. Instead, she was confronted with a parcel of the truth, was beginning to see the the shaow behind the man like a clue left in his footsteps. Letho was as much of a surprise as Myrhia had been upon their first meeting; there was much more to the couple of the Red Manor than had met her keenest eye. Even so, her focus had drifted elsewhere, as though the machinery of her thoughts was still processing older, more unsettling tidings.

As such, upon the first step into the vastitude of the room, the glamorous décor was like rushing whitecaps against a serrate coastline, washing over the group, but breaking on the reefs of her troubled mind. In continuation with the hallway, panels of buffed scarlet beset the chamber, and the floorboards were stretched across the space in a twilled design, the wheat colors of midday glinting on the lustrous finish. There was a rakish touch to the walls that gave the dining hall its modest glamour, notably the few but quaint impressionist paintings that hung as decoration and the tied curtains of diaphanous flaxen that framed the great window overlooking the table. Even the arrangements upon it were simple, one end light with beautiful doilies and place settings for three while the other bore plain yet pleasant-smelling bouquets, for honored guests to take upon their leave. In the heart was the only ornament that outshone the rest, a silverplated epergne, but it did so in a warm and unassuming manner. The centerpiece resembled a candelabra, with the only difference being that it shone with the iridescence, not of fire, but of flowers, such as white lilies, pink cattleyas, and bright red bouvardias.

The sight was undeniably refreshing, a welcome difference from the overabundance of the rich and the bareness of the poor; unfortunately for her, this beauty au naturel would never be enjoyed to the fullest, as not only her mind, but now her sight was afflicted with the dark and the grave. As would a perfect gentleman, Letho pushed away his ladderback chair, rising in a courteous stand at the head of the table while the women carried themselves across the foreign designs of the carpet underfoot. Sati tightened her hold over her friend’s arm in an instant of vulnerability, regretting at once the involuntary movement she knew could no longer be taken back. Expecting him had been hard enough, but to be in his presence was an ordeal she feared would end her on the spot.

An unwitting onlooker would see a tall specimen, of good-natured countenance and gifted with the handsome build of a king. Not only did he fit the paragon of the fabled knight in shining armor, but in every respect, he was also the paramount of masculinity, his assets so many that he could even sweat apeal, from the charm of his natural gravity to the ripples that twisted beneath the viridity of his shirt, a teasing motion of trained and toned muscles that would make almost any woman bite her lip in yearning. In no way was she oblivious to him, to his qualities, and all personal feelings set aside, the priestess could understand at least a few reasons for Myrhia's attachment to the Marshal. Nevertheless, Sati did not chew on her lower lip, nor did she undress him with an approving look of sinful hunger - things she could always mimic to perfection when need arose - for the rise of emotions had not churned between her thighs, but rather a few inches above. To see the thick, black awns of his beard and the stern brown of his stare, the inflexible color that betrayed his well-meaning exterior, was worse than she had ever dreaded.

Here was the lion’s den, there was the lion. Now began the riskiest game the priestess had ever played, one that she opened with a steadfast curtsey.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, lord Ravenheart. You may have heard my name through Myrhia, but I wish to introduce myself nonetheless. I am Sati Sarasvati.” Rising from her formal greeting, Sati let a finger slide beneath the sleek bundle of her tied hair, sweeping it over her shoulder in a long, torrid stream so that it would rest beside her chest. For some unknown reason, she felt exposed in her priestly vestments, and had the pressing urge to hide as much of herself as she could, hoping that, by some blessing or curse, her misleading appearance and deceptive assets would be dulled, would seem bland in this room that felt so authentic, genuine. It was childish, and all in vain. Very little could remain concealed under the watch of the Marshal’s keen eyes. Everything she was, everything that she had to show or wished to hide, he would notice, observe, take in, perhaps even enjoy, despite the bonny presence of his love. It was an effect she learned to take as habit, just as she learned to take the threats of married women in stride. She tried to have faith in the man's decency, for the thought that he would hurt Myrhia because of her, even as unlikely and conceited as it was, was something she could never, ever dismiss.

It was then that her mind once again reeled back to a few minutes prior, recalled the shudder that overtook her when Myrhia had spieled on about the lavish masquerade that was to take place in this very manor, about her beloved Marshal and the vault of wealth to which he would become the stalwart guardian. Spoken so lightly, innocently, yet striking her heart with such a horrible twist. To Myrhia, those words may have meant very little, but to Sati, they were harbingers of unpleasantness, the announcement that the end was soon to come. In only a few instants, the bliss of their short friendship, once so detached from her unsavoury goals, had become hopelessly intertwined. All that was left now, was for her to make her tortured choice, knowing that whichever route she took, someone she cared for dearly would be hurt. If only you were here, Sapna, maybe making this decision wouldn’t be so hard.

How she could so casually sit at his left, and let her calm and composed visage betray none of her inner turmoil was an impressive feat. The ruddy upholstery felt divinely soft, but even that could not act as a red herring to her moral qualms. In fact, the only thing that had managed to detract even a thimble of her thoughts was the view of still-smoking dishes, which she had noticed quite belatedly. The plates before each of them were decorated with heads of parsley and a colorful side of steamed vegetables, laden at the center with a sizzling strip of lean sirloin, cooked to perfection and releasing a most alluring fumet that, had the woman not learned of propriety and dining etiquette, would have made her mouth water. It had been so long since she had had such a copious meal, and considering how the morning had stripped her of both bath and breakfast, Sati was positively famished. Every moment spent watching beads of the delectable sauce drip made insides cringe and cry, an the agony was so strong that it had nearly silenced her mouth as it had the torment in her mind.

“In the short time that I have known her, Myrhia has told me much about you,” she began sweetly, finally beginning to sink into her role. The beryl stones in her eyes shone soft, and the ring of her voice was like silver. As of this moment, she had become the docile girl, the woman of faith, the sister to all. Her dread for the man, as strong as it was, would not shake her resolve, knowing that beasts, like most men, often became ruthless in the presence of fear, sometimes even finding gratification when presented in any of its forms. Sati was always wary of men, when she wa not harbouring a deep hatred for them. Her trust in Letho was no greater than in any other of his kinsmen, though the fact that Myrhia seemed to love him did play a small hand in increasing the value of her respect for the ranger.

“But there is no need to worry,” she continued smoothly, seeing the Marshal grab his knife and fork. “She has not said anything that you should be embarrassed about! At least, not yet.” With a sly smirk, she finally picked up her own utensils and began the arduous labour of wearing down the sirloin, the glow on her cheeks almost sensual as she took in a taste, unhurriedly slipping four humid prongs out of her full, carmine lips. Delicious.

[Letho]

As religiously devoted as Letho was towards the modest redhead that took a seat on his right, there was no way of stopping his eyes from scrutinizing the undisputed resplendence of the lulu that waltzed in and descended on his left. Sati Sarasvati was everything that a man could desire and everything that a man could only dream of actually wrapping his arms around, the kind of a woman that made one man happy and left every onlooker miserable. Her hair was the fiery velvet threatening to scorch your fingers should you touch it, her skin the exquisite alabaster made for caressing, her lips an enigmatic curve made for kissing. She was a perfect copy of Myrhia, perfect in a way that wherever the nature went wrong with the former slavegirl, it went absolutely right with Sati. The way her embroidered gown was filled with sinful curves and concealed innuendoes was more then enough to bring many a man to the brink of passion-induced lunacy. She was a temptress; intentionally or not was yet to be seen. Right now, despite her tantalizing exterior, Letho didn’t cut any slack to Sati; she got the same tag of distrust as every stranger in his presence.

However, this initial collision of inspecting eyes and curbed thoughts that left them both in a state of mild, temporary bedazzlement came and went like a whiff of wind, it seemed. Because once Letho peeled his eyes off of the peach on his left and set them on the curvaceously inferior counterpart on his right, he ascertained the only beauty that really mattered to him. Myrhianna Bastillien perhaps was far from being the very epitome of physical beauty, perhaps she didn’t have squishy curves where Sati did or the velvety hair or the spotless, porcelain skin. But the scrawny lass had heart and modesty and honesty, and she flaunted it the way others flaunted their physical predispositions. And for a beholder that bothered to take heed of these qualities that radiated from every smile just as sex seemed to radiate from every move Sati made, that innocent warmth was far more enchanting.

“I guess then we’re both lucky, Miss Sarasvati,” Letho responded, maintaining eye contact with the smiling emeralds of his lover before they made him smirk benevolently as well. Pulling back the cuffs of his sage-green cotton shirt, he picked up the pair of silver utensils. “For Myrhianna told me much of the short encounter with you and so far she failed to reveal any embarrassing details. I reckon that would change if we give her enough time, though.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Myrhia insisted when she realized the jest was directed at her. It was a lighthearted interjection, though; there was hardly anything about the coy little redhead that wasn’t said and done in a buoyant manner. “I don’t gossip around. But if you’d like, we could talk about the weather.” She would’ve stuck her tongue at Letho, but Sati was too important of an audience to witness her childish outbreaks. Instead she just made a grimace as if she just bit into a lemon and picked up a crystal glass filled with red wine.

“A topic as dreadful as the weather itself,” the Red Marshal commented, cutting the meat in his plate with diligence while subtly evading the various greens and vegetables. When it came to table manners, Letho’s were surprisingly more refined then Myrhia’s, but that was hardly surprising to anyone who knew the history of the pair. The Marshal wasn’t always a ranger and a vagrant. Some years ago, the tables he sat behind were fit for kings because they were arranged for a king; his father. But the kingdom of Savion had fallen before the scourge of barbarians, his royal bloodline was dead, leaving him as the exiled remnant of a centuries-long lineage. Myrhia’s history as a slave to a malicious molester of a master could hardly compare to such a resume. That was why sometimes her utensils made too much noise when they did their job and why she still felt tempted to wipe the grease off her lips against the sleeve of her attire.

“Exactly. That’s why Sati and me were talking about the festival instead,” the scintillating Lady of the Manor continued, her cheeks flushing after a sip of spiced wine detonated an explosion of warmth in her belly. The porcelain plate and the palatable, decorated meal spread upon it were unappetizing to Myrhia right now; she seemed much better sated with words and thoughts of jubilance then meat. “Unlike you, she isn’t grumpy and agreed to come to the festival with me. Oh, we’ll have so much fun, Sati. We should go tomorrow. I heard that the main tournament starts tomorrow. I bet there’s going to be so much people there. All the lords and their ladies dressed in their finest.” Only then, when a mental image of a sparkly mass of vibrant color leapt before her mind’s eye, did a typical, girlish realization struck her. “Gods, I have nothing to wear.”

“Perhaps you two could go shopping later today,” Letho amicably offered the solution to the predicament. Myrhia didn’t jump and squeal at the proposition, though. Many a girl probably would, but the petite redhead was as modest in spending money as she was in her constitution. She came from a life of poverty and empty pockets; she simply didn’t have the skill necessary for spending money recklessly. But this was an old hat occurrence to Letho. He knew that she simply needed a nudge in the right direction. “We can’t let the Lady of the Red Manor and her lovely friend to go out in attires inappropriate for their stature, now can we?”

Myrhia’s stifled chuckle came out as a coy smile. “No, I guess we can’t.” She looked across the table to Sati without who today would’ve been just another dull day in the largely vacant Red Manor. “So, Sati, you up for another trip to the Bazaar?”

[Magdalena]

Sati couldn’t stifle a laugh when the Marshal teased his dearest, quite amused that this guilty pleasure she had just discovered was a procurer more of pleasure than guilt. It was almost idyllic, to sit in a room so grand, so warm, and to enjoy an exchange of pleasantries with good company over a fine meal. She was wrapped in an illusion of youth, called back to olden times, before her fall from grace, her loss of innocence; a time where she indulged in such moments with curious Sapna, with parents whose faces were not yet lost beneath the snows of time. Simpler times, she thought, when even the hoar and frost did not make her bitter ad hateful. But that was then, this was now. Bringing another strip of meat to her lips, she hid her thoughts behind lowered eyelids. Such memories were only delusions, wrought by the minds of those who wish things had been different, but never move on. It was best to keep them at bay, out of sight and out of mind.

“Shopping for evening gowns in the market? Well that sounds like a grand idea!” Hearing of the Bazaar was no longer troubling to the priestess, but she did rather not speak of it herself. It was a dark and dreary business, what she had done there, and though there was no regret – she couldn’t afford such feelings, not anymore – it still left a sour aftertaste that just wouldn’t wash from her palate. Instead, she shifted her thoughts to the matter at hand, and was rather taken by the idea. The previous day, she had indeed made a note to buy new vestments, though her motive was to pass unnoticed with a set of blander clothing, not bringing even more longing stares to prickle at her skin. Still, her current garbs fit neither the bustling crowds of the agora for the decorous collection of nobles in a masquerade.

Either way, a purchase was in order. She would have to make do with the coins in her pouch, and those alone. Though she wanted to deny it, the woman was prouder than most, and would not take charity from the kind – only payback from the vile. “Though I must say, the clothes I am wearing fit my position best. My stature, as you say, is nothing truly impressive.”

“Might I ask what it is that you do, my lady?” Her fingers twitched around the silver knife, the cutting motion halted for the briefest of instants. The question was posed by the Marshal with distant interest, prompted perhaps by the mention of her work. It was nothing unexpected, considering the path that had taken their confabulation, and it certainly was a query she knew to answer almost mechanically. Yet it was odd, very odd, that its effect could change so drastically when spoken from the Ranger’s mouth. “Myrhianna believes you to be a religious woman, but it’s rare to find a Cleric in these parts. Moreover, your dress seems not to match their colors.”

“Ah, yes. Your eyes are keen, Myrhia!” It was all she could do, to hide her discomfort behind a blithe compliment and a smile, for they had torn her look away from the man to the merry lass, where her inner tumult was safe from being exposed. The engines of her mind burned at full throttle, desperately trying to grasp at that one string of words, that one answer she had thought forever committed to memory. Alas, in her current state of discomposure, such words might as well have been straws. “I am in fact a priestess, but you are right in saying that I do not follow the word of Draconus. As I was born in Salvar, it was that of the Sway that blessed me.”

This was new, but she wouldn’t complain. The blatant lies set aside, the response sounded fresh and genuine, and she had even managed to lace it with a ceremonious voice. Her head had gone slightly askance, tilted to give the innocence of her heart-shaped smile that much more appeal. It wasn’t long before she resumed cutting the tender piece, but it wasn’t that much longer when Letho intervened with a follow-up question, quite eager it seemed to keep the conversation on its wheels. “Salvar? Then your trip to Corone must have been awfully long and arduous; I hope you’re finding the country more hospitable than the seas you were required to cross.” With another tilt of the head, she spoke her approval of land, and gave the city a handful of praises: how she was amazed by the beauty, sturdiness and convenience of the architecture, what she had learned to be the brainchild of three races that have strived in harmony upon the same land; even the ethnic diversity she had witnessed in the busiest streets of the agora, and though it had swept her away, it had come to her as a pleasant surprise.

“I guess such things might be overwhelming at first, but they are quick to become a part of the everyday life.” Letho spoke noncommittally, still slicing his sirloin with a raw elegance. She had imagined a quick and sloppy meat-eater, but his mannerism was refined to fit a king, though his habit of forking away peas and carrots at the favor of his sauced beef tip had not been lost on her. “But you must have come all this way for more than simple tourism, did you not? Do you have any business to take care of in Radasanth?”

This time, her knife cut on as smoothly as it should. Sati had anticipated this question, and had formed her answer ever since she began laboring over the silver platter once more. She was still nervous, but years of the nettlesome feeling had made her swat it away as one would a buzzing gnat. “It is not as much a business as it is an endeavor my sister and I have undertaken.” Her voice fell to a slow pace, as though she was struggling to dredge up words that only brought her grief. “Our parents have been missing for over a decade. We had thought them to be dead, but an informer has told us that they might have taken roots here, in the capital.”

“Unfortunately, we have yet to find a clue as to their whereabouts. My sister is still searching for them, but I fear our information was erroneous to begin with.” She had stopped the industrious cutting, instead pushing around the still-steaming legumes with the silvery prongs of her fork. The ruddy wood of her chair creaked like an awkward yawn, one that reflected the silence her revelation had wrought. Sati might have felt guilty for saying this, for putting them in this position. However, there had been one reason, and one only, that explained how she had come up with this answer so quickly, so naturally. It was no excuse to cover up the events of the Bazaar, the carnage of the Audeamus. Those had been the real pretexts.

She felt no guilt, in this moment of hush, because it had been the first truth she had ever let slip, in all this day.

((To move this along, you can bunny Sati telling them that there's no need to dwell on this, and that she's sorry for bringing it up. Then they can go on a shopping spree ;) ))

[Letho]

The remark regarding Sati’s long lost parents was a wet blanket on the crackling fire of their conversation, more so because of the futility of the search she and her sister have undertaken. The sorrow in her voice – though diligently concealed behind a curtain of ladylike composure – spread throughout the room like a silencing curse, outlawing every sound with its gloom, making it and unwelcome guest. This struck Myrhia the hardest, who had always been quite the catalyst for emotions, always taking everything to her little heart and trying to remedy the situation somehow. However, even her benevolence struggled with the invading silence, for she knew that the best she could offer in this instance was a comforting platitude.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Sati,” the redhead said, seemingly robbed of all her chirpiness by the dreadful topic. Her eyes reached across the table and sought that of her curvaceous friend, but found them gazing distantly at the platter before her. “I hope you find them soon.”

“Thank you,” Sati responded, lifting her head a bit and presenting a consolidated expression. The pious woman clearly made peace with the improbability of success in her search long before she started it, and her following words reflected such a notion. “But please, do not dwell on this matter. After all, the search was far from being completely fruitless. If we had not followed that information, I would have never met you and we would not be here today.”

Those words seemed to successfully assuage Myrhia’s mind and retrieve her smile from wherever it cowered to before the dire issue. If Sati could find some comfort in their company despite the failure of her quest, then Myrhia could find comfort in providing that company. When you’re down and out, the worst thing you could do is brood on the issue, toss it from one side of your mind to the other and back again until it wears you down. Letho wouldn’t necessarily agree with this – he, after all, was a brooding champion of sorts – but his lover was certain that Sati’s proposition was exactly what was necessary. What was done couldn’t be undone.

“And we would never go to the festival together!” The transition from one theme to the next wasn’t seamless, but nobody seemed to object because a round of smiles seemed to be delivered at their table. “Speaking of that, I saw this amazing shop at the marketplace. The merchant claims to have things from every corner of the world. I saw some beautiful Raiaeran silks there and...”

At this point Letho Ravenheart sort of zoned out and dedicated his time and efforts to finishing the chunk of meat before him while the ladies exchanged words that meant little or nothing to him. The only difference between Corone silk and Raiaeran silk that he knew of was the price, the latter robbing your pockets twice as fast as the former, but then again, before he met Myrhia, he had no more than two pair of pants and shirts at any given time, they all looked the same and were bought at the same place. But that was the way things were, the way they always were. Discussing fashion with Sati for Myrhia was same as discussing the properties of a damascus broadsword with a sergeant of the guard for Letho. Well, almost the same thing. Captain Goris and his shiny bald head (coming with a full set of bulging veins) weren’t nearly as good of a company as Sati. A lot heavier on the eyes too. A lot.

They palavered their way through desert. Well, Sati and Myrhia did. Letho interjected with a comment here, an observation there, throwing in a compliment or two for good measure when it was appropriate, but mostly he worked his way through some lemon cakes and the gooey white stuffing that was still warm from the baking. The ladies ate like birds, nipping little pieces of crust while they shared their thoughts on everything from creases on the lacy hems of the dresses they plotted to purchase to the grandeur of the festivities held in Radasanth. He wasn’t necessarily bored – and even if he was, he wouldn’t outwardly show it – but instead somewhat diverted by his lovely company and keeping on the outer rim of the ongoing conversation. Besides, it wasn’t like a man got a whole lot of chances to jump into a dialogue between two females with common interests.

By the time dinner came to a close, their behinds were starting to grow a little dead and the redheads were starting to grow a little anxious to get out and do all the things they had planned. And as much as Letho hated parting with such enchanting company, there was little wisdom in standing between women and the inevitable shopping sprees.

“Well, ladies, if you would excuse me, I have some business to attend to and it seems that so do you,” he said once the conversation wound down a tad, preparing the stage for his exit. He got up, made a polite bow to the luscious dame at his right and planted a kiss on her hand. Her wrist was soft and smooth, as if he was kissing a sheet of satin, soaked with scent that brought sinful thoughts to one’s mind. “Miss Sarasvati, it’s been a pleasure.”

He tore away from her alluring form easily enough, though, turning to the redhead on the other side of the table. Unlike Sati, Myrhia got a kiss on the cheek and words that sounded almost like an instruction. “You two have fun now.”

And with that he left the room to the two beauties; the real and the surreal one.

[Magdalena]

Following the Red Marshal’s stately departure from the table was the redheads’ less-than-decorous exit from the mansion. Doran had seen them off at the entryway with his customary stoicism, lips like a thin slash as he presented them his bald spot in a dignified bow. Not playing into his game, Myrhia answered by waving him goodbye, though there was some sort of teasing dismissal in the movement that the butler caught all too well. Though no hackles betrayed the unsmiling wrinkles on his face, he had closed heavy slab of redwood behind the pair like a gaoler does a cell door – with a quiet air of good riddance.

There was a rattle of iron and a final, terse click; true to his metaphorical nature, he had turned the key and locked them away. That kind of spoilsport attitude put a damper on the younger woman’s mood, but Sati wouldn’t let that little pout turn into an ugly frown. “Detained outside rather than in? I call that mercy,” she said while drawing in a fresh breath of afternoon, grinning. “And with you as a cellmate? I call that a blessing.” The pout became a splay of giddy joy, and in that moment the priestess realized how alike they were, Myrhia and her sister Sapna. Cut from the same cloth, aren’t they? The thought light her mind like a sunny smile, but that momentous radiance was fast gone in a wind of wistfulness. Only, one is in mint condition, whereas the other is frayed beyond repair.

They walked a short distance over the gravel path that crunched under their padded steps. In silence, Sati admired the enlacing maples, admired the shimmers of gold and vermillion on the copses like a bed of fallen leaves across a sunlit lake. Even when they reached the caroche, when they embarked and closed the panel door to the sounds of a clicking tongue and a whip’s snap, the priestess did not shy away from her waking dream. With all the risk, with all the dangers that her presence would have involved, she had still wanted to share this moment with her dearest sister, to share the whimsical warmth of a painting not cursed in everlasting snow.

***

The Bazaar was in a bustling effervescence, at least twice as much as it had been the day before. More eye-catching colors and designs had been hefted high as banners, more historic statues and festive stalls standing stiff under the scorching hammers of sunlight. There was a thick mist of sweat and oil lingering over the merchant plaza, mixed in with the exotic aromas of foreign produces and dubious smell of some uncharted country’s ancestral medicines. The strong odors thinned slightly as they made their way to the heart of the agora, where stores of excellence superceded in numbers the moth-eaten tarps and bauble-fraught carpets of the flea markets that skirted its edge. There, the women would find the wares they sought, though their purpose here had fallen as less than an afterthought. After all, the mute silence of Thoren and social ineptitude of Hillas were not so deadening this time around – not when the redheads had each other to thank.

“If I recall well, there was this one shop nearby with a rather fashionable display of halternecks and evening gowns that would look ideal for your soiree at the Manor,” Sati began, beryl eyes rolled up in remembrance while the tip of her index elegantly poised on lush rim of her lower lip. “It’s right next to that bawdy one with the unsavory quip on its signboard, have you seen it?”

“Oh! With that lewd pun about cocktail dresses?” The memory had struck Myrhia like a gust of feathers at her feet and sides, drawing out the sweet ring of her laughter that spilled out like water from a broken spigot. When she remembered that her companion was a woman of the cloth, she suddenly stifled her chuckles, her eyes like wide green emeralds that trembled from some fear of divine reprisal. She also didn’t want her friend to think her as one of those women of lesser morals that sometimes prowled these very streets come night time, easy to laugh any anything sexual as they were to let themselves be loved by anyone and everyone. Her secret desire was to ask forgiveness, but the shame had robbed her of a voice.

“Oh Myrhia, do you really think I’ve been a priestess all my life?” At that, she joined into the fading laughter with her own. Goodness gracious, girl, I’m everything but a prude. In all honesty, she had seen too much, experienced too much to hold any pretense to virtue. Sati was not a libertarian, but she had her own share of salacious ordeals – only none that involved the theft of her innocence in the most technical sense of the term. Wearing the cloth has never been tantamount to chastity, not when they’re all so quick to doff it. Her thoughts drifted to Zarinsk, to the fief’s High Priest and to all the women whose virtue he’d carefully cultivated for his own consumption. He’d almost take hers, right before falling ten stories to kiss the ground. “I’ve read my share of dirty limericks in my youth. Written mine, too.”

That put her friend at ease, and even brought a round of blushing giggles. Apparently, it had also brought rather evocative burst of imagination in the ravencloaks’ minds, though that was much more obvious in the transparency of Hillas’ face than it was on Thoren’s, who almost seemed to nod in interested approval. “Ah, here it is: The Blue Ravel,” the priestess said, pointing to the cursive, glimmering name printed in directly onto the glass pane, which seemed rather innovative compared to the old, painted signboards that surrounded them. Thoren sped up the short stone stairway, tugging at the stained knob and pulling the door open for the ladies, then let Hillas close it behind him with a jingle of crystal that somehow managed to sound haughty.

The floorboards creaked like century-old wood, but they were swept clean and polished to the point they were almost slippery, and with a cursory glimpse downward did the priestess notice she could nearly see her own reflection in them as well as she did in the countless mirrors that lined the store’s ochre walls. There were shelves taken straight out of a history book, overly decorated with swirls and etchings and various other ancient Coronian designs, and they all bore a diversity of silks and satins, of gossamer and vlince, their rich colors spanning from jade greens to heliotrope purples to midnight indigos. Near the farthest end of the store, however, were neatly organized displays for the finest gowns either women had ever seen to the more casual styles that were brought up to class by refined tailoring. Sheath dresses hung lightly from silver hooks, simple in form yet resplendent in the smaller details in the weave of the waist and hemlines. Even a set of shirtwaists seemed to exude more style than the priestess could draw from her own garbs.

Needless to say, Sati had no qualms in trying them all. She smoothed her chosen dresses onto her silhouette, appraising herself in the mirrors, asking advice from Myrhia and their escorts all the while. They convened that for their similar hair color and complexions, they would need to favor vibrant greens or golds, perhaps darker colors such as violet or indigo, while Thoren nodded along with an iron smile and Hillas grunted every now and then to cover his complete lack of color-matching insight. Both of the blackguards felt a wave of horrible helplessness crash over them when the Lady of the Manor took her turn and did the exact same, pelting them with questions upon questions that neither waited nor cared for their answers.

“I think something sober would be better for me,” Sati said from one of the stylized cabins, the suggestive sound of smooth cloth sliding off her skin making Hillas gruffly wander off in daytime reveries. “I wouldn’t want your guests to get the wrong idea.”

“To think that you only came to impress and find a bunch of prospective suitors?” Myrhia laughed, then grunted meekly as she encountered some trouble, perhaps her head slipping into a sleeve rather than out the dress’ collar. “I’m sorry to say, but you could be wearing a robe stitched with oily rags and you’d still walk away with the male half of the guest list following in tow.” There was a chuckle from her side, though Sati could read in its half-hearted timber that the girl somewhat believed that to be a fact rather than a sore exaggeration.

“Beyond a gross overstatement, but I thank you. Alas, I doubt that any of the invitees even holds a candle to their host,” Sati said in a lowered whisper, teasingly. So surprised was Myrhia that the priestess could even feel the smaller woman tense up at the implied interest, oblivious to the fact that it had only been in jest. “Oh Myrhia, I only tease. Moreover, the Marshal only has eyes for you. I must say though, I’m not surprised – Letho Ravenheart has a remarkably good taste.”

Sati unhooked the crude lock that held the door closed from the inside, pushing it open and stepping out like a breath from the seas, a breeze from the skies. She had settled on a strapless dress of teal that had the smooth and crisp sheen of taffeta, snaking up the natural crimps and folds to rest beneath her buxom chest. The hemline was slanted, starting a few inches below the left side of her waist and disappearing as it wrapped around her right knee, then ending in a watery pool behind her like a broad, mermaid’ tail. It was only sober in the sense that there was no superficial flash, no excessive glimmer, and was simplistic in design without taking away from her natural assets. “How do I look?” she asked the men in all seriousness, somewhat uncertain of her choice. She wasn’t used to baring her shoulders and arms like this, nor did she much enjoy the breezy feeling around her exposed forelegs. This was, however, much more conservative than the ones she’d left piled up on the cabin’s bench.

The hook clasp unlatched behind Myrhia’s door, and she gingerly pushed the stall open for them all to see, though hesitating a bit for some unknown reason. Sati moved closer, peeping a head into the small room, at her friend’s excessively voiced discontentment. “Hells have mercy, Myrhia, get out of there! You look absolutely stunning.”

((Sorry for the wait, I hope this is decent. I think your post should cover the end of the dress- shopping and move them all on to the next day. We can fly over the traveling and the parts where they meet at the Red Manor, if they even do, and go straight to the festival?))