Private Follow me into folly

*

Wasn't too often that anyone disturbed him in his study after supper.
Garrick painted in the doorway, the softest grey wool vest and green embroidered neck scarf. Leaning back from his desk, Walter cast a sideway glance and noticed a sword belt. That wasn't part of the daily, either.
"You may come in. What news?"
"My lord, four riders in the night. Not merchants, nor any expected guests. They did not stop in any settlement on the way, but have lit the lanterns on the border. It seems they are bound for the estate."

The lord straightened his back, stretched upward. Gloved hand clasped the pale one, squeezed the fingers together, the loose sleeves of pearl gray silk shirt fell halfway down the forearms until the cuffs were too narrow to move any further. The horrid torn scars on the right, and a couple slash marks on the left that were too old to have faded naturally.
"Mh..." hands unclasped, and he sagged back into the armchair. "They don't know the land too well to move in a hurry. Six to eight hours by shortest route to the estate, by carriage. Galloping horses... will maybe take four or five, I've ample time to nap at leisure."

Walter's head lolled back against the chair's support, then turned sideways to look the majordomo in the face. Garrick smiled back, lines running deep on the clay-red cheeks. The old servant knew the heir from infancy, and some things barely changed. The man who took up family reigns was everything his father and ...grandfather made him, it seemed that little has changed.
"Looks like we have some mice trying to get into the sanctum, my lord. Our hounds will serve well."

The baron's mouth curved, smile parting to something reminiscent of his former Captain, far more gleeful than agitated, far more hungry than happy. Edges of paired fangs teased the side of the lip. The heavy eyelids fell closed in thought. The smile lingered, bladed crescent.
Ah yes, lord Thornley wasn't quite the youth who'd left home due to a sentiment. Someone older returned. Someone who entertained darker delights on occasion. Some things changed quite a bit.

The Thornley lands had a network of outlooks sprawled out like a spiderweb, hid among the trees in groves and proudly crowning meadowy hilltops. The Thornley estate, the seat of their secrets, was warded, and guarded, for generations of unslacking discipline among those who'd hold that reign. The Thornley estate, cut off almost entirely by the tall white cliffs and the ocean, and a wall of grey stone, and the many traps in the garden, was the blood-drawing bramble, amidst which silver foxes could hunt with impunity.

"In my own domain. Truly, they are either ignorant or brazen beyond belief..." Walter bemoaned pleasantly, not in any hurry to stand and get about business. He sat up straight, toyed with adjusting the folds of the thin fabric glove on his right hand. Blew out the candle at the desk, more symbolic, to alert the servants of his presence, than practical. A shroud of darkness wrapped the room, interrupted only by the squares of moonlight quilting the floor. A sigh drew out.
"They travel across the land with light, my lord," Garrick mused. "Would that not rouse questions as to where they've gone?"
"Should the flame ever go out - kill them. Leader is mine. They will have traveled well past the witching hour, if they knew to carry a lantern - they knew the risk."
"And none of the lookouts has seen riders to speak of," the majordomo bowed his head, the baron's wolfish smile echoing restrained on his face.
A low chuckling hum followed in agreement.

Abiding by a gesture of dismissal, the majordomo, former Head of the Hunt, left the study. Necessary preparations for the reception had to be made.

*


The grey exterior wall would flash dully as the cats would have to climb past it. Snip. Snip. One by one, any threads to influences from outside cut with triggering wards inlaid into the stones at the base. The last one seemed to make it, by gods' blessing or pure luck.

It was a mystery as to how it had found its way into the fortified manor of the family known for occult pursuit and collection of secrets - with the magic on it intact. And yet, it was allowed to stalk along in the dark, empty hallways full of closed doors and closed windows, in search for people. Moonlight fell through the clear glass in stripes and ornamental patches.

There was a glimpse of light down the hall, as if from a distant candle in an adjacent room, but no shuffle of cloth, no steps weighing heavy on the floorboa-
creak.

A cat's weight landing just wrong made the corner of the floorboard sing very softly. For how greedy the manor seemed to swallow any noise within its walls, this one sound in particular seemed to travel.

The half-ajar door the cat had slinked into the hallway through - closed gently shut. The light quenched itself by no servant's hand. There was no escape, now.

*

No one chased the riders in the night, indeed, nor questioned them, nor tried to stop them. On the streets, there were no people at this late an hour. Beyond the trees, beyond the wall, the manor on the hill seemed to have no signs of life save for a candle burning in one of the windows.

In the shadows of the trees, three large silhouettes made their way over the wall - outward, the sight of them lost in just a few moments. This time, they had no lanterns burning at their belts, but an ashen strip over the shoulder, woven spells sparking their eyes in ghostly blue, giving vision in the pitch black of the night.

The drakes were comfortable in the bramble and on the cliffs, claws digging soft dirt, teeth sharp, almost reptilian bodies slithering quickly between the old oaks and balancing between thick branches, reptilian tails trailing their movement with wrapping coils.

Suddenly, the woods were silent, no pre-dawn birds singing, no small critters stirring. Low, guttural clicks and chitters sounded out, instead, calls of unknown beasts rolling under the canopies. And yet, the woods seemed ever so empty, and the horses the night riders arrived on - ever farther with each step towards the grey-stone wall of the manor.

*

A single figure sat in the garden, heavy wool cloak draped around its broad shoulders hunched and hands folded on the pommel of a longsword. The wall was in view across the garden. The crossbows in the dark were waiting.

He watched the wards on the walls shine dimly, and some small critters scatter untethered. Nothing in the whole manor seemed to move. A ghost candle quenched, somewhere far, far away where only Walter and some dogs could hear, most likely - a door shut.

Walter cast eyes upward, and took a moment to admire the Rings scattering so many stars across the night. The nights were still too cold for his liking, but he was not bringing the vermin inside to disturb Dolores.

For a few more heartbeats, silence reigned.

*

The rider-less horse would be intercepted, sooner or later, by one not-quite forester or another not-quite night watch guard. The three on drakehorses hunted in darkness with an order to kill. There was no trouble in the Bremen barony.

Save for an insistent attempt to breach defenses.
The lanterns on the outside of the heavy, evergreen oak wood gates have lit a pale yellow hue. The gates themselves, massive steel-reinforced things, were pushed open. A silent invitation. An old man waited on the side of the trodden carriage road, arms folded politely behind his back, clad in brown leather and grey wool of the Thornley household servants, a sword idle on his belt. He waited with the diligence of many years and the stillness of a statue.

The silent woods seemed to mock with the rare noises of something stalking through the trees, off in the distance. Those men who came with the leader would not die screaming - the manhunt had a mandate of silence.
No horse, no helpers beside, and a road that now led through the open gates.

A quiet, bemused taunt, if there ever was one.
'Come and see'.

*

Evelyn tucked a copper curl behind her slightly pointed ear. Father was an elf, or so they said.
Life was good, these days. She wore fine leathers, and doeskin gloves, and tin-thread cotton blouses. Never thought that she'd pick up embroidery when she'd been afraid of spiders half her life, but her works were so good that the lord requested his tailor in Bremen find her a teacher, and she even held a silk thread once. It was as wispy as one of spidermake, soft and shimmering in sunlight. Too early for her to be embroidering with it, of course, far too early - she was still learning to contour leaves, and special stitches that only needed one or two repeats along the contour, thread prodded to sit well with the other stitches. One, two. One, two. There's a leaf. Mom was surprised, given she'd never been much for womanly things. Pleased, too. They got along better, since.

Work was good, too. The drakes were intelligent, much like horses, but lacked the overturning flashes of fear at a fallen leaf, and Evelyn loved it in the beasts. Instead of fleeful - eyes turned, three-pointed ears alert, mouths slightly gaping. A treat, perhaps? She'd give them treats for being good, sweet garden apples and hunted marmots. One of the three she was rearing, Tenrus, would prance whenever she'd see her, as if dancing, paws landing one in front of the other. Neul would bring small birds he'd snatch in the early mornings, and present the prey proudly at her feet, maybe wanting to share, or maybe simply quite pleased with his skill. Pavus still needed to get accustomed to the responsibility of wearing a saddle.

And the hunts... the hunts were the best. Breath-capturing lift to the spirits. Night air slicing at her cloak, tugging the strands of hair that weren't tucked under the tricorn. No lantern, this time. The almost silent glide of Tenrus' gallop. Knowing the entire Bremen, every footpath and creek and hillock so well that she could navigate them even if she had no Night Sight.

A human was prey this time. It didn't matter. While all the high politics was decidedly beyond her, Evelyn understood the importance of keeping the house clean. They came in the night, they did not seek passage by civilized means, and chose to light the lantern that they thought would save them, grant safety regardless of what they did or how many times they oscillated between being prowlers and unsociable visitors.

Master of the Hunt gave the permission to kill. Lower risks. No holds barred.
She finally got to wield Eugene! Runes flared, and a heavy, armor-piercing bolt took Shroud-accelerated flight. A hundred feet, in an instant that it took a finger snap. The head popped like an over-baked apple, and the body staggered uncontrollably, falling and leaking right onto the oil flame.

She'd take care of this before the fire grew, and then... was it about to be the third day of the week? The baker had sweetbreads in the morning on third days, she'd just have to make it to Hartside after the was done. Sweetbreads and sourwisp-roasted rabbit... her mouth was already watering.

Another drake passed her in the canopy, black shade against the starlit sky. Was going after the horse. Good animal, someone in the hamlets or in Bremen might have use of it.

*

Hans knew where the road had a curve before it dove into the trees. Went for a werewolf alongside his wife, once, back when Garrick was still Head. Hans was a master with a blade, so when the dumbass rogue was unseated, he let the horse go. Hopefully the rangers or their third would get to the horses before the wolves - or any number of other things which populated Bremen, especially bold during the witching hour.

It took an ambush, a deep slice on the back of the sword arm, and the catspaw's arm could no longer lift a sword against him. He wasn't about trying to swing it by whipping his body around like an unhinged scarecrow, so he'd taken running.

Hans remembered the curve in the road. He wouldn't waste poison, and instead, simply wove between the trees, corralling the fleeing man, running him ragged, and then beyond ragged. There was only so much a heart could take before the legs gave out, especially on someone bleeding so profusely. Away, away from the curve, and deeper into the grove. To another road. Closer to the shoreline, too, easier to transport the body.

*

The lord commanded death, and Illyn heeded. With that spike of Blight four years ago, he didn't have a future. Then, the baron came. Killed the fiends. Helped him and his daughter through the roaming nightmare of familiar dead. And headed right back in, until the Blight was burned all clean out from the land. Victor Thornley's son was an even harder man. It only made sense that debts were paid, and since his Hunts began, he was a part of something that would never shine in glory. Part of the reason people slept peacefully at night, knowing that, in this land, things that stalked the night were dead afraid of those that hunted them relentlessly.

He was afraid when he'd first shifted. Never thought much of his hidden talents as a weaver, never expected those to suddenly burst after forty. And burst they did, the scent of fur, the rending claws. They had to run him down all the way into the next week.
And then, that blue-eyed lordling asked him to make a choice. He could die, right there at the curve of the road, a clean and honorable death, by his lord's silvered blade, right then. His daughter would mourn him, his burial would be decorated as befitting a loyal man who served until the end.
Or, he could learn. Accept that no one came out of the thick of the Shroud unaltered, and live on regardless.
So, he chose.

Chose wisely, since his little Una, the daylight of his life, started fluffing around the ears, too, just this spring.
They'd live well now. Tend the hunting grounds.

The silvered edge almost sang as it sliced the air - and swung with an inhuman power. Took the head clean off the neck before the guy could help the other anywhere close to the horse, the drake's paws digging into the ground and trampling a root as it turned and stopped.

Illyn looked out to the darkness, eyes reflecting yellow, not blue. Hans was there, already emerging astride Efeu.
Oh, good. He'd get the bodies. Hans would catch the horses. They'd be done by morn.
No need to waste words.

*

"We greet you here at the Thornley manor," Garrick spoke, his voice carrying a slight accent retained from times immemorial. He must have been from elsewhere, once. But now, he was the closest anyone at the manor had as anchor. And, following his master's edict, he was not issuing a welcome. "My name is Garrick, majordomo and groundskeeper." No 'at your service', head held high and proudly so.

A few steps forward, cutting off the way to the front doors, hand still idle against the sword grip. The old man gestured with the other arm, to the side path that led through the thick grapevine arch, not quite back to its glory mid spring season, deeper into the garden.
"My lord is expecting you in the garden, on the other side of the pond. We would prefer that you did not stray from the path, and made your way promptly, so that you make your way to the destination in one piece. The weather is quite chilly in the mornings," the majordomo advised politely.

*

The pond was probably quite deep, its edges outlined in cut stone and the waters barely sporting a ripple. On the other end, a man sat on the stone bench. Beside him, a book, and slightly at a distance - a lantern lit. And when the lord raised his head from pondering, his eyes glinted violet in the darkness, as if reflecting lanternlight in their own hue.

He waited some more, enough for Laric to make his rounds and emerge on the same side of the pond, before he stood. Both hands still atop the longsword's pommel.
"You will name yourself, before we begin." The dark tone rung like a large bell, powerful and languid. "Whatever did you think you would accomplish with your antics?"

Immovable like a statue, save for the cloak caressed slightly by a passing breeze. It was a cold morning, getting colder. Breath rose in fading clouds. Still far too long before the dawn would come.

*

"Yes," the word elevated and prolonged, with what sounded like a chuckle at the tail end of it.
In that humorless glee, the man's lips parted, curving, and bared the edges of fangs - human canines slightly enlarged, and pointed enough to pierce. Behind the canines, a second pair. The baron's tongue wandered to the points on one side, an absent-minded motion.

"You rode through my domain in the witching hour. You brought three men to an early grave alongside you." The tone was neutral, stating the events with the dryness of a chronicle. "One could hope that it was all means to some end."

The lord's head tilted slowly sideways, as a wolf would appraise his prey from a slightly different angle. His gaze dropped to the man's boots, tracked up the thigh to the empty sword sheath and folds of the cloak, went across the chest and up the covered throat to the face.

It wasn't the lantern light. The haloes of his irises filled with tiny lights that traveled down the indigo's intricate patterning, and sunk into the pupil - and every flicker fed into the flame in the very middle.

"Laric," he pronounced slowly. No family name, though he was fairly certain there should have been one. He did not move an inch, hands still folded on top of the unsheathed sword, its tip digging into the earth. His eyes, distant galaxies, pinned to the man's face. "I recall you. We used to toy with training swords on the clearing closer to the cliffs. You wished to be my better. One day, we fought with steel, to first blood. I took your victory, you took a nick under the shoulderblade." A shadow passed over his face, a concentrated disappointment finding release in a single phrase like arrow set loose from a string. "What has become of you?"

*

"Consider yourself the messenger, and not your..." eyes like pools of starlight turned to the window, before the light faded almost entirely. Just the ghost flames at the bottoms of the pupils remained. "...proxy."

There was nothing soft about the man. He wore no armor but his bearing alone felt like the tall castle walls. One hand rose to the chest, shifted to the shoulder, and undid the simple clasp that held the wool cloak together. Anthea did a fine work of trimming it with foxfur, it would be a disrespect to tarnish her stitching with blood. So, he let the fabric fold and crease under its own weight, and tossed it over the edge of the stone bench.

He touched to his chest again, ghost of a habit. There was no oak medallion under the shirt. There was no man who carved it. There might not have even been those who took the man. Not anymore.

A breeze blew in, carrying a distant, faintest scent of the ocean that ever ebbed and flowed around the proud white cliffs.
"I have traveled enough to have met with plenty thugs and Shroud-warped lunatics alike, Laric, there are few ways to surprise me that remain. The night is not growing younger. You may start explaining yourself, and you have thirty heartbeats to do so."

*

Earl Tristan von Lyss has asked for his son's... insults ... to be avenged,

Walter's lips parted, slightly, a small, short breath escaping without a sound. Ah.

He asked me to bring mercenaries to... teach you a lesson with fist and sword.

Black eyelashes dropped to view the empty scabbard, again.
An eyebrow perked up at an angle, a short line on the forehead accentuated the peak.

But I'm not so sure that all the mercenaries in the world could accomplish the task. And besides, rumor has it the whelp deserved what you dished out.

No smile, but a huff, a tilt of the head, there and back as opposed to the shrug.
Black mane shifted around the pale face like an ink-smoke halo.
Laric, of course, had no way of knowing that he wasn't far from being right.

I am not here to fight you. My barren scabbard should be testament to that. I am only here to shine light on the earl's request....

The time was out, but he made no move yet, listening.

...and to make it appear as if his request has been carried out.

Dark eyes trailed attention from the empty scabbard back up to Laric's face.
Bore into his eyes for a long, silent moment, the lord as dark a presence as night's shadows between the oak trees.
"No one in Bremen will mention seeing where the riders went once they'd disappeared between the hills," the baron mused. "Such is the nature of the witching hour, you see. None will speak of seeing you at the estate, either."

The tip of his sword sent a small spurt of dirt in an arc as it moved away from the ground, a lightning-quick swipe.
The silvered blade caught moonlight. The grey came early to the lords of the land.
Lord Thornley's face was as inscrutable as the depths of the pond that caught the blade's glint and mirrored it.

Tears of regret and sands of time wasted between decisions could nurture no achievement.

"Now, once you've elected to be a lowly messenger, a catspaw that skulks in the night - to let you go without carrying my answer would be folly. I do not think you will fight for your life." Five heartbeats. "But you will fight for your right to leave."

A steely voice, commanding with a firm weight to it, "Garrick, sword!"

And, out of the darkness, across the pond, grip first, came the sword dropped earlier, landing in the small gravel-sand between them, skidding to a stop.

"Pick it up, Catspaw," the lord said quietly, "Show me your will for freedom."

*