A Trail Gone Cold

Interdistrict Carriage Hub - Northreach - The Interdistrict Carriage Hub of the township of Northreach is a somewhat large station of polished redwood and flax-hued riveroak that serves the needs of both a hub of transportation and a general carriage-makers for Fastheld-wide distribution. Unlike many other carriage stops in Fastheld, the Carriage Hub is not only roofed, but also mostly indoors, with carriages stored in coach-house styled bays until needed to ensure that wealthy Nobles and pragmatic Freelanders alike need not be subjected to the elements while waiting for a carriage to take them to where they need to be.

The scent of leather and timber hangs in the air without ever really being unpleasant, reminding those who wait here of the dual-role that the Carriage Hub serves, while one might occasionally get a glimpse of carpenters delivering various parts for construction, blacksmiths delivering metal rims and bolts for wheels and carriage axes, and - if one is lucky enough - brand new carriages, freshly painted, being rolled out for distribution.

The Northreach Carriage Hub is the second such location in Fastheld, and a child establishment of the parent location that can be found in Light's Reach. Though not as big as the Light's Reach location, the Northreach Carriage Hub has quickly begun to cater to the transportation and maintenance needs of northern Fastheld - much to House Seamel's joy. - It is the Twelfth hour by the Light on Cointaking, the 30th day of Lightfading in the year 627. It is a cool late morning. The air is stagnant, not stirring with the slightest breeze. Puffy white clouds fill most of the sky.

As if the Northreach hub isn't busy enough already on this dreary day, another pair of horses come clip-clopping in with a carriage in tow. So accustomed to their routine are they that the hardy beasts head into the line of new arrivals with little to no outside assistance, heavy hooves coming to a halt alongside the cobblestone curb. One lifts its tail to defecate, and the portly driver ignores it, climbing down from his seat to help the rider from the compartment: a youngish woman, clad in scale, and looking quite uncomfortable with the special treatment and the carriage itself and the entire situation in general. She withdraws her hand and mumbles a curt word of thanks, taking a moment to resituate her armor before angling her confident stride toward the town proper.

Caprice
 * Fair-skinned, with a medium-long mop of wavy blonde hair and sparkling blue
 * eyes, this young woman might be called quite lovely -- though perhaps not
 * the ideal beauty bards sing of. She stands tall and square-shouldered,
 * testament to time served among the ranks of the watchmen, with lean ropes of
 * muscle elegantly defining her naturally slender figure. There's a certain
 * grace about the way she moves, effortless and unthinking, light as a feather
 * on limbs long like an antelope's. High cheekbones and slim eyebrows offset
 * the softness of her full, rosy lips, lending an almost aristocratic severity
 * to her heart-shaped face, a harshness combatted by the Mikin orchid and
 * Nepos flower tucked behind one ear.


 * Pragmatism and simplicity combine to form her protective attire, an
 * unpretentious suit of armor in black and silver whose matte finish aims to
 * minimize the light reflected without sacrificing quality. From the neck
 * down, she is armored in bronzed scale and dusky leather, the former of which
 * gives way to the latter at the joints and neck for mobility's sake. Deep
 * foresty hues in her calf-length cloak have long faded away into a grayish-
 * green which belies its frequent use, as does the odd unmended tatter along
 * the garment's tail where it brushes along her knee-high boots. Quiver and
 * longbow, both black, are slung securely across her back, but otherwise she
 * appears to be unarmed.

A gleaming oak carriage emblazoned with the Lomasa crest pulls away from the station; some minutes prior, a small, blonde woman in a white silk dress alighted. Now she moves at a steady pace towards the Medial District, her chin held level and her expression calm and demure. Despite this supposed picture of feminine nobility, however, she does not make the usual 'swishing' sound that noblewomen make; a close look at her feet will reveal that she wears leather boots.

Milora
 * Bronze skin, darker than usual by nature and tanned by apparently almost
 * constant sun-worship, makes up the complexion of this very young woman. She
 * is probably no more than eighteen or nineteen, just barely over five feet
 * tall, small-waisted and wide-hipped, and moving with a lightness and grace
 * that comes from being small and quick. Small, strong bones make up the
 * foundation for a wiry little frame and her heart-shaped face, which is full
 * of a wide, grave mouth, a pert nose that crinkles when she smiles, and
 * deeply dimpled pink cheeks. She is rather muscular for her size, especially
 * compared to some of her waifish counterparts.


 * Her eyes are very large and too round, very wideset and framed with long
 * black lashes, and of a common green colour; however, the shade of green is
 * dark and exotic, well away from the 'emeralds' and 'forests' that are often
 * seen. Both skin and eyes are well-matched by carefully shaped brows and
 * round, coarse curls of long dark blonde hair, well groomed and cared for,
 * glossy, but thick and easily escaping the large, becoming chignon that
 * frames her face. This otherwise unornamented mass of hair is accented by a
 * scarlet ribbon that ties in a bow at the nape of the back of her neck.


 * Her left hand is decorated by two rings: one a heavy, masculine gold signet
 * that sits on her thumb and the other a slim, delicate and understated band
 * of gold that holds a very large and exceptionally clear and bright Light's
 * Eye. The other is covered by a black lace glove. Both hands, when visible,
 * are very long; her fingers spidery and delicate, with neat nails and rather
 * calloused palms. A simple white silk dress with a square neck and a pointed
 * waist is worn; the sleeves puff fashionably to her elbows, where they
 * tighten and are accented by the same band of thick gold embroidery that
 * decorates the neckline and waist; from there they drape dramatically,
 * showing the grey silk lining of the article. Black leather boots are fitted
 * to lace-covered feet and calves.


 * A treated biinwood recurve bow, etched with some intricate black markings,
 * and a black quiver of arrows are slung across her back.

An urchin sidles up to the Duchess, soot-faced and odorous, with a mop of tangled dirty blonde hair. He attempts to engage her in something of a sales pitch, offering up a string of dead rodents -- some roasted, some simply festering -- and details with a stuttering tongue a hard life catching rats in the alleys for coin. "Dey's good rats, milady," he assures her, "fit fer a king."

The woman stops and regards the boy with a rather sharp eye - hardly scrutinizing, because the superficial scrutiny of such a filthy child would probably not prove fruitful - but meaningful. She crosses her arms and purses her lips slightly, leaning forward to examine the boy's wares a little more closely. "How old are you, ragamuffin?" she inquires quietly.

"Twelve winners, if't pleeze milady," the lad squawks back, voice raspy. "Me littlest brudder is sick wit' de chills. He gets dem chills, milady, e'ry winner, an' e'ry winner, dey's chillier. So's I gots ta buy him de meddy-sins." He hefts the rat-string a little higher, points out a bloodied and damp specimen. "Dis one's fresh. Plenny strong, too, lotsa good mussle fer eatin'. He ran an' ran an' bit Micah th' Bastard when we's catchin' him. He's ten Imper'yals."

And so he prattles, telling the story of each rat and noting, with some regret, how he cooked a few but couldn't season them properly, and how Milora might be better served having her "fancy cooks" work their culinary expertise on raw meat instead. As he's chattering, however, a second boy comes creeping, creeping, creeping up from behind, something silver glinting in his hand.

"Oh, my, that's a terribly heartbreaking story," Milora sighs, shaking her head. "Come on, now, don't play on the simpering heart of a young noblewoman. Twelve is old enough; were I you I would find a river, give myself a good scrubbing and go about looking for any little decent work I could possibly do, rather than risk poisoning the rich and foolish with these rodents of yours." She does not react to the sneak behind her; she does not even bat an eye - yet.

The scale-sporting archer spies the little ruffian, and appears to interpret Milora's lack of reaction as ignorance. She isn't rash, however; rather, hard eyes monitor the boy's every move, and nothing changes about her gait save for a renewed sense of purpose and a slight quickening of her steps.

Our little hawker just barrels right along. "None o' dem's real old, milady, I swears it," he promises, despite the greenish rot prevalent on a few of his "wares". "If dey's starts lookin' bad, we's tossin' 'em, or eatin' dems ourself."

Meanwhile, eyes on the Lomasa's glittering rings, the knife-wielder pads closer, free hand stretching out, out, out...

Perhaps that knife-wielder doesn't expect the hand he reaches for to strike against him; within a space of a few seconds it curls and Milora gives a sharp turn, aiming a knuckly fist at the boy: the idea is to knock him over. "Not my wedding ring, you little brat."

With all the grace of a piano tumbling from a third-story window, the cutpurse twists aside, feet tripping up under him and arms flailing. He yelps, crashing to the ground in an unceremonious heap, his cheap little blade skittering noisily from his fingers and out of his reach. Those nearby gasp or shout or simply stare, some backing away to give the noblewoman and her assailant a wide berth.

With Milora's back turned, the rat-seller seizes his chance to flee, declaring the con a lost cause and saving his own hide. Some distance away, the blonde-haired archer's attention diverts, blue-eyed gaze snapping onto this new target, and she breaks into a dead run, giving chase.

Milora bends at the waist, picking up the little blade and giving the boy a kick in the side before moving to take him hard by the ear. "On your feet." The bystanders are ignored. "Yours wouldn't be the first hand I've chopped off, urchin. Give me a good reason to leave you intact." The fleeing pair are noticed, but, for now, not given too much attention.

"Leggo!" the kid shrieks, cocking his head away from the ear-tugging and trying -- trying! -- to clamber fearfully to his feet. He makes it to his knees before he's slapping at Milora's wrists and struggling to wriggle away. Tears are conjured up: if he can't win, he's determined to make a spectacle of his ordeal. "YER 'URTIN' ME! MERCY! MERCY!"

But for how fast the archer pushes herself, she can't compete with the wiry legs of a youngster built for and keen to flight. Cloak flapping behind her, she charges recklessly through the crowd, clearing a wooden crate with a leap and paying no heed to those she shoulders past. Her reward is an eyeful of the boy disappearing into an alleyway, and when she skids to an awkward stop before its entry, defeat is evident in her hunching over to swallow a few hungry breaths.

"So I'm the Big Bad Duchess now, am I?" Milora frowns, ignoring the agitation of her wrists as she carefully prods the boy with the knife. "It's to the guards with you, and what you get is what you deserve. I've no doubt that they'll go easy on you if you leak on your little rat-peddling accomplice." She furrows her eyebrows, giving the kid a good shake. "FORWARD MARCH, YOUNG MAN. GUARD!"

Sure enough, a few of the guards are on the scene and at least one is immediately handy -- the robbery of a noble resident is, after all, no small matter.

The archer turns, searching the hustle and bustle for the Lomasa, her posture gradually straightening out. When she picks the face out among the crowds some seconds later, a puffy-cheeked sigh is blown out -- relief, it would seem, at the apprehending of the second thief. As the guards descend upon the Duchess and her frogmarching of the young thief, the armored woman joins them, squaring her shoulders and adopting a more dignified air. She makes no move to intervene, even as the boy flails and kicks and bites.

So the boy is effectively apprehended; one guard to either side and a quick review of his person ensure that he will not escape and is unarmed; Milora receives a polite word before the two men carry off their struggling charge. Milora snorts, lifting a hand to run her fingers irritatedly through her hair. "/What animals/ these women are bringing up these days. I remember when poor boys were generally respectable." She gives the armoured woman a suspicious glance. "You went after the other one, didn't you?"

"Aye, Y' Grace, but were too quick," comes the reply, delivered with a sketched bow and a polite incline of the head. "Tis but a few whit name th' many sinners, alas." She draws to her full height again, the mongoose plain as sunshine on her breastplate. "Y' unharmed, Y' Grace? T'were only p'lite t' mak certain."

"Yes, I'm alright," the woman replies, nodding her head and giving a small bow. "Thank you for your assistance; it was very honourable of you to do as you did." Her eyes rest on the mongoose and narrow slightly, although she makes no direct comment upon it: "Do you serve beneath the Mikins, Mistress?"

Milora's words are acknowledged with another gracious dip of the head, but no smile comes to the blonde's lips. "Y' Grace 's kin' t' say sa," she demures, clasping hands behind her back. "An' aye, t'woul' be correc', Y'Grace, I 'ave th' pleasure o' servin' milord th' Count, Lord o' Ligh's Watch an' Wedgecres'."

On the other hand, this makes Milora smile. "Count Varal Mikin," she says, her voice reflecting consent and satisfaction. "Good man. Care to join me for a drink, girl? We can celebrate the punishment of a dishonest streetrat." Gesturing toward the district beyond, Milora cocks her head din inquiry.

Far be it for the lowly retainer to turn down a duchess. "As't please Y' Grace," she returns, falling with an odd familiarity into an escort position, three paces behind and to the right of Milora. It's automatic, unmeditated; not so much out of concern for the Lomasa's welfare, but rather a manifestation of habit.

Milora raises an eyebrow, glancing over her shoulder at the woman. "Yes, or you might also walk up here alongside me. I don't believe you are in my service, so there's no need for all o that. But let's hurry; I am working up a thirst."

The request is met with another courteous nod and unquestioning compliance, and the scout comes up alongside Milora, hands behind her back, silent unless spoken to. It would appear that this is as informal as she gets.

The Wailing Wench Tavern: Tavern Hall - The Wailing Wench Tavern stands as one of the largest publican services in the Empire, acting as both a Tavern and Inn for those who wish to partake of that which it offers. A four-level structure if one counts the basement, the Wailing Wench features the main tavern hall on the ground floor, private lodging and rooms on the second floor, an as-yet unconverted loft for storage and the occasional private deal (or proverbial roll in the hay), and the previously mentioned basement, which is sealed via an exceptionally complicated lock that can only be opened by the owner, though very rarely is.

The tavern hall itself is a mostly "L" shaped affair, split between the large and equally spacious rectangular tavern itself, and the segregated kitchen area hidden in a room at to the right of the bar. That bar rests at the southern end of the "L", features a rich and polished redwood surface and counter, complete with barstools and an elegant display of hanging mugs and tankards. An uncountable number of bottles rest in wineracks that span the length of the wall behind the bar, while barrels of ale and mead stand off to the sides.

Wooden beams the shade of ecru yellow comprise the well-trodden floor, while khaki-shaded granite forms the walls, with the upper halves being paneled in wood that exists as the same colour as the floor. Redwood support beams and highlights finalize the colour scheme, giving the Wailing Wench a very rustic and inviting feel to it. Redwood tables and chairs span the length of the hall, while benches and booths line the walls to provide extra seating to those that want it.

A redwood staircase ascends in a "T" shape to the second floor via the eastern wall just next to the bar, while a performance stage ingresses from the middle of the western wall to the left of the main door that rests in the northeast of the "L".

Paintings of various busty maidens and wenches on the walls contrast against the real things that serve ale and various other pleasures - some of the flesh - to those that desire them, regardless of gender or class. Cleavage is on tap here as much as the ale, as are periods of high spirits and entertainment, and quieter times of subtle conversation and talespinning. Stained glass windows prevent the troubles of the world from getting into the establishment. -

"Oh, for a big mug of tea," Milora says, entering the tavern at a calm saunter. She selects a table that is close to the staircase and away from the usual hustle and bustle, glancing behind herself now and then to ensure that Caprice is keeping up. Once arrived, she seats herself and reclines slightly. "Well, then, what brings you to this fine city, girl?"

A foresty wraith of green and black ghosts silently after, lingering to hold the door for a gaggle of midday patrons looking to ease impatient, rumbling bellies before dinner. It would appear, too, the way she halts with arms held dumbly before her and indecision screwing up her features, that her original intent was to pull the Duchess's chair out for her -- but, when such gallantry proves unnecessary, she abandons that thread of politesse in favor of coming around to set her bow aside and sit opposite Milora. Her eyebrows lace at the question, blue eyes meet green, and she permits a phantom's wispy smile. "Milord's work, Y'Grace," is the answer. "Bandits alon' th' traderoad, near Mikin Wood, 't troubles me tae confess. T'were a rumor whit says they hae a den off th' Aegis Road."

"You are a very peculiar sort," she says frankly, lifting a hand to snag a passing barmaid: "Some strong tea and whatever the girl wants, if you please." She would allow Caprice to order before continuing: "Nevertheless, you seem like a fairly good sort. What is your name?"

"Reese Firelight, as't please Y'Grace," Reese answers from where she sits at a table far removed from the din of the busy tavern, Milora occupying a seat across from her. She folds her hands neatly atop the polished redwood and cocks her head, glancing askance to the server. "Aye, tea, wi' honey."

Milora raises her eyebrows at that, then furrows them and tilts her head. "A pleasure to meet you, Reese. I am Duchess Milora Lomasa, so you may as well keep calling me 'Your Grace'. Firelight ... that is not too common a name, is it?" She pauses, drawing her bottom lip thoughtfully in between her two rows of straight teeth. "Do you know of a Kael Firelight?"

To say Reese has gone the color of curdled milk would be understating things. "I--" she falters, brain visibly working behind eyes filled to the brim with something between panic and dread. She swallows, clears her throat, collects herself. "Aye, Y'Grace," comes her second, far more composed take on the question. "M' brother, hi' name 's Kael. He were tak'n by th' wood lang ago."

"No..." The blonde's lips part, and she gives a shake of her head. She appears very confused, frowning through a crease in her forehead and examining Caprice carefully. When she speaks, her words are gentle and carefully shaped before they leave her mouth. "I spoke with Kael Firelight last night."

Varal moves towards the bar, setting his baldric down on the counter before him. "Some stew. Bread. Water," he orders gruffly, taking a moment to look at his surroundings.

Varal
 * Standing 5'10", around 178 centimeters, this man could be called vaguely
 * attractive. Darker skinned than the average citizen of Fastheld, he looks as
 * though he might have some foreign blood in his veins. Tranquil brown eyes sit
 * upon a proud, Roman nose. Dark brown hair, black in color unless in the sun,
 * covers his head, uniformly cut quite short. He has thin lips, usually pressed
 * together, giving him a pensive look. Upon his face are signs that he hasn't
 * shaved in at least day. His body is somewhat slim, but well muscled - the
 * veins on his forearms bulge obviously. When moving, he never rushes.


 * He currently wears a set of black leather armor, minus a helmet. The
 * craftsmanship is of good quality, but nothing particularly impressive. A pair
 * of sturdy boots are on his feet. A belt is wrapped around his waist, and a
 * sheath hanging from it contains a well-made steel katar. Hanging off of his
 * back is a leather baldric, the pommel of an oversized longsword sticks over
 * the man's shoulder. The weapon seems to be of impressive craftsmanship and,
 * more than anything else about this man, lovingly maintained. Wrapped around
 * him is a oiled, black leather cloak. A superbly-crafted silver mongoose forms
 * the clasp of the cloak, firmly identifying him as a Mikin.

Reese's countenance darkens a fraction, slender eyebrows knitting a soft line, while she drinks the words in and absorbs their meaning. One second, two, three, ten. "If I may be sae bol', Y'Grace," the scout eventually requests, tone quiet, measured, articulate even in her brogue, "let me hea' o' th' Kael Fireligh' ye ken."

"That I /ken/?" Milora repeats, looking rather bewildered. Her eyes wide, she leans forward, furrowing her eyebrows as she indicates a height of about six feet with her hands. "So tall, thin and shaggy - a good full beard, long hair ... but that isn't the sort of description you are looking for, is it?" She leans forward, toward Caprice, and drops her voice.

Milora whispers: The Firelight that I know is a young man who has not seen his family in many years. He is a good man - a pious man - a Shadow Touched man. Despite all of that, Mistress, or rather because of it, there are some who know him as ... a real /wolf/.

Water, bread, and stew it is for the Mikin. With a healthy appetite, the noble digs into the stew, using the crust of the bread to help scoop of the liquid. After a moment, he takes a large sip of the water to wash the food down.

It's the last word Milora utters that hardens Reese's gaze, and in the way she eases her armored frame back, rigid against the chair, there can be no question. She says nothing more.

Milora leans back in her chair again, nodding slowly as she takes in Caprice's expression. There's a bit of a wince there, as well. "That's what I thought."

If Reese has taken a sudden interest in her reflection in the polished wood, it isn't due to offense given by the Duchess, and it is brief. She looks up. There's no sadness to her, no pain in her face, no tears in her eyes, just emotion masked behind military discipline and social grace, features held under the tight reign of self-control. "Where 's he?" she asks simply, voice barely above a whisper.

"Here," Milora replies quietly. "But not for long. He has business outside of Fastheld to attend to immediately; however ... I know that he has a room here, in this tavern. He shares it with his wife."

"Married," Reese deadpans, two syllables punctuated with the *clink* of teacups set on saucers before them. Then the rest hits her, sucking her heart up from chest cavity to throat, and gloved fingers tighten into hard fists atop the table. She glances around, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "Ere. Kael 's ere."

"Well, actually," Milora corrects gently, indicating the staircase, "he is up there. In all probability." She takes a sip of her tea - appearing calm - but the cup clinks suspiciously against he saucer as she seizes it and her fingers twitch slightly as she raises it to her lips.

Again, Reese's eyes meet Milora's -- or try to. They're cold, probing, with a glint of suspicion. "Y'Grace," she asks carefully, the honorific tacked on to smooth over the sudden icy mistrust frosting over her words. "Why a' ye tellin' me thi'?"

There's a sudden, small smile, and Milora /does/ meet Caprice's eyes. "Believe me, Mistress Firelight, if I were lying, you wouldn't know," is the low response. There's a pause, and a sigh. "Kael is my friend. I think that it would make him happy to reunite with you. ... I'm sure of it, and to see Kael happy is important to me. But it is ... very strange. I am concerned for the both of you, and find myself attempting to restrain myself from meddling too far in case I break something that can't be mended."

"Strange. Broken," Reese echoes with a mirthless chuff of laughter, turning her blonde head slightly to study something in the space between herself and the far wall. "Tis gude werds." Even as disconcerted as she is, she does not forget her manners when she rises, fingertips resting lightly on the table as she looks expectantly down at Milora. "Beggin' y' pardons, Y'Grace."

"Of course," Milora replies, again averting her eyes and picking up her teacup.

- ''Return to Season 6 (2007)