Chamberlain Roleplays: Rape of the Queen

January 7th 1016

Morning -- Commonyr -- Catherine Chamberlain

The Sirion war banners had not been unexpected but were an unwelcome sight in the field at Commonyr. She wondered in part why she had left the city. Her new roles saw her at the head of nine men at best and compared to the units she was used to fielding, these men were green recruits with much to prove. After the first battle she had been left with but four, they had stood as a bodyguard for the most part, and as the armies of Sirion darkened the field she was once more flanked by the four men.

Ecthelions horse moved with purpose along the lines of the nobility her people were to face. As the horns blew signalling the attack he moved with the same purpose directly for her position with the small posse of men. The horses thundered toward them and Catherine was warmed to see that the small troupe held their nerve standing between her and the Death Riders. Their bravery though was to be short lived, in the carnage that marks near one-hundred and twenty riders against four men, all of them fell. Catherine remained defiant, her dirk drawn she raised her arm in challenge to Ecthelion. The horses had formed a brief circle about her, Ecthelion himself ensconced at their rear.

Four dismounted, walking with purpose toward her. She had nowhere to go, the dirk seemed little threat to the group of men about her.

"Garas whore," one of the men snarled as he grabbed at her outstretched arm. She pulled her free hand across her abdomen, a deep fear gripping her that they might hurt the child that had been sending spasms of pain through her body himself over the past few hours. The man took her chin roughly in his hand turning her head to his colleagues. The wound under her right arm pulsed with pain, turning the fabric of her tunic a spreading black. "Shes still fair, even without the crown of Nivemus," he leered licking her cheek. She was frozen in the gulf between fear and defiance, in disbelief that Ecthelion would allow her to be abused in this fashion.

Her eyes betrayed her and tears ran freely down her cheeks as the men pushed her to the ground, pulling at her skirts. Some of the horsemen turned away as the four held her down. Her arms pinned back she let forth with savage screams in fear for the child she carried. Rage blinded her and she struggled against the men with all that she could. She was only dimly aware that the circle of horses was moving from her, and felt almost triumphal as she felt the pressure of the four being lifted. Then she saw the arrows in the hides of some of the horses, some of the men slumped in their saddles. With the cry of: "The Prime Minister has fallen!" she was released, pulling herself back from the dismounted men.

Three turned from her quickly resuming their mounts, but the fourth turned back, fearing a kick she pulled her knees to her abdomen shielding herself, head down, but the pain was instead in her side again, he forced the short knife back into the black wound, twisting as he thrust, she opened her mouth to scream but no sound came forth. Pulling back her hair, he spat in her face: "Hurts, doesn't it..." He sneered turning from her to return to his horse.

She looked in anger and anguish at the growing stain on her tunic and the retreating figure of the man. She had no weapon in reach but for the knife now in her side. Gritting her teeth she pulled it out, a fresh wave of pain went through her body from head to toes, and the world turned black.

Garas Gabanus

Garas had been preparing for the latest battle and as he walked out the tent his kissed his wife goodbye and told her that he looked forward to ending this battle and returning to her. Little did he know that his wife intended to join the battle also with her small group of inexperienced soldiers, while being highly pregnant. Garas too had a new captain as he had promoted his former captain Hartmann to become the head of his servants. He knew well there were none as skilled as Hartmann to keep them peasants in line and good service. This new captain, Rein, was a man of around 30, who had served Garas before as well under Hartmann. But it was clear however that Rein sometimes still had to get used to the fact of leading archers, rather than infantry, and so it occured that in the middle of the battle Garas was occupied with correcting his captain and ensuring that the 120 archers remained in order.

While Garas shouted some commands, he heard some of his men repeat, "The First Lady, fire, the First Lady" and at that moment Garas looked up and fell a chill go through his spine. This couldn't be, he thought: "Fire on them cavalry! Fire, fire dammit!" he shouted with desparation within his voice, "You follow me!" he continued as he himself ran towards the horsemen of Ecthelion and the place where they had seen his wife. Rein had not seen the affair and tried to correct his master, "Milord, shouldn't we fire on the infantry there in stead as was pl..." but before Rein had been able to finish he had felt the back of Garas' iron covered fist in his face and fell down "Get her! At all costs" he yelled as his captain fell and where there was some confusion among his men, 30 still witnessed well what happened and followed their Prime Minister. The others started to fire on enemy forces, where some had missed the event entirely and were still shooting their original targets.

As Garas approached others had done so also, only in time to see a lone rider of Ecthelion strike a dagger into Catherine before trying to walk away. The rider did not get far however as he was knocked down by one of the soldiers who approached the field chasing the cavalry away. "Keep him alive, take him away now!" Garas yelled towards the soldiers and two men took the unconcious rider and caried him away from the battlefield, back to the camp. "Catherine, Catherine!" he said, once more with desperation forcing a trembling in his voice. "She is unconcious, where are the damn medics," he continued while he but for a moment turned around. Quickly some field medics had arrived and attempted to stablize the First Lady. "I will go with them!" Garas said, "you, you serve in my unit do you not?" he said to one of his man and before the man had well replied to him, he continued: "Keep grounds here untill we are safe and then move back to captain Rein." The soldier had only dared to nod and promise this to his master. He was too afraid to mention the fact that Garas had knocked Rein unconcious in his fury, it would be unwise to mention this now. "Yes sir," was all that the soldier could say.

Then Garas attention was drawn back to his wife quickly again when one of the medics had addressed Garas: "Prime Minister, my Lord, this wound in her side, I'm afraid for the baby. We must force its coming...it's coming my lord." Garas looked but baffled at the men, "here, on this battlefield?" he thought to himself, but merely uttered: "Yes, yes, do what you must"

Catherine Chamberlain

At some point night had come.

She awoke to pain and noise, still lying on the field of ever dampening grasses. Hands pushed at her and she could feel the breeze on bare legs and the most excruciating pain from her groins. A fire crackled nearby but she felt no warmth from it, a steady cold numbness made her limbs heavy while the skin prickled with sweat and moisture. She cried in anguish as the men pushed at her trying in vain to extricate herself from their grasp. One of the men gripped her by the back of the neck and tried to pour fluid in her mouth. She spat it back tossing her head and eventually managing to sit upright as the men shied from her. Looking in confusion she noted the banners of Oligarch staked around her shielding her from sight of all but the old men who now stood huddled together at her left.

She stammered trying to make words come from her mouth but only grunted, feeling her head swim with the effort of sitting upright. A flash of white caught her eye moving between the banners and the Mother of Oligarch came into her vision, her mere presence was a salve to Catherine and she reached out to her to come forward. The young woman seemed to glide in her white robes across the bloodstained earth. Wrapping Catherine in a blanket she called to one of the medics. He approached warily a small bundle in his arms. Kneeling before her he offered the child to her, for a moment she struggled to comprehend, then reached out for her son.

He lay in her arms, warm pink silence, his eyes a little perplexed and unfocused as he surveyed her own confused face. The Mother of Oligarch comforted her, stroking her hair from her face. Catherine's head swam and she saw sparks of light and black pots when she moved too quickly.

"He is...he is well?" she struggled with her words looking desperately to the maunt for solace.

"He is well." She nodded smiling warmly. "But he must go with his father, and you must take the draught. The healers are not done with you yet dearheart, your side..."

Catherine shrank at the womans words pulling herself from the maunts smiling grip. She pulled on the damp grass with her right hand... it felt so weak, inching from the healers and the maunt. They all seemed once more to be coming at her.

"No..." she muttered lying on the black slick right side of her body, dragging her useless legs with her: "...no" the child stirred beginning to mewl at his mothers distress. She hauled herself upright, tears once more running freely from her eyes. She was dizzy with the effort. Finally slumping back she called once: "Garas!" and the world again went black

January 17th, 1016

Morning -- Oligarch -- Catherine Chamberlain

The physical wounds had healed and she found herself stronger by he day, though her movements were stiff and not as fluid as she would hope.

She had barely seen Garas since the birth. Their child remained a mewling un-named thing that she foisted on the wet nurse as soon as she was able. Never had she wished for home as strongly as she did now. Each night and most days she was haunted by the leering faces of elvish hunters chasing her down by tracking the screams of her child, but she would awake only to her own screams and could barely look at the child who had meant so much and been so precious before his arrival. She thought idly of Wulfric, weeks had turned to months and her firstborn was lost to her divided by the lines of war and diplomacy. Looking at the small wooden Orc Garas had gifted him she found herself indifferent to his absence, in moments of clarity the feelings scared her a little. But Catherine had decided not to be afraid again.

She pulled back the military journals, noting her notes on the treatises of minds far greater than her own on the arts of combat and war. She had won the peninsula wars for Vessol Mithridates, for Nivemus she had won strongholds and some of the finest regions of the Continent. Why she now closeted herself with letters should be beyond anyone. She would rely on no man again, and no elf would lay a hand upon her again. She set aside her writing desk and had the Mother of Oligarch summon her a scribe once more. The smiths re-crafted her cuirass and she shrugged into the leather and iron garments wearing them night and day until they felt once more like a second skin, taking each blister and rubbing alcohol into the chafed areas, she would perhaps have benefited from new armor completely but she craved and needed to be what she was, not something new.

The new scribe found her trading blows with her latest captain, in the glade that was one of the few green areas in the city walls, half her age and twice her skill, but deferent and without her rage made them a match for a time. The boy beamed: "Lady Gabanus," he began, bobbing his head: "it's from the Prime Minister." She smiled a brittle smile, the captain looking to the frigid glare behind the smile brought up his guard moving between her and the boy. The scribe quailed in the captains shadow.

The captain inclined his head to the boy, never taking his eyes from her as she prowled closer to him. "Perhaps if you take it to the Mother and she'll see it to her Ladyships rooms. Thats a good lad"

The boy moved backwards, at speed the turned and ran from the glade as the clash of metal renewed with unexpected vigor.

No she would rely on any man again.

The Letter from Garas Gabanus

My love,

I am most pleased to see you have healed well and equally so that our son has the kind gestures on his face as his mother. You nurse him well my love, I can only be a blessed man.

I hope you will both be healthy enough to move back to our room again tonight. It is also my hope that you approve of the nursery room which was constructed?

With love,

Garas Gabanus Prime Minister of Duchies of Southern Sirion Royal of Duchies of Southern Sirion Duke of Primus Governor of Oligarch

Garas Gabanus

Garas walked through the city proudly. It had taken him some work after the initial problems due to the Elven church, but Oligarch seemed to be mostly restoring again. Well in time for the festival in honor of his son. He had not yet received a reply from his wife and decided to visit her in stead. It had been several days since he last seen her and his son, the prince who they had not yet named.

As Garas came in, he came across a young men who was quickly walking away and before any had the time to announce him, he had already opened the door himself. "My love, how are you both?" he said as he saw Catherine and he moved towards her to place a kiss on her lips. His son however was not in the room, and Garas wondered where he was. "I had waited with this to ensure you were healthy again, but we must consider to name the boy, our prince, twice royally blessed. As is tradition in the Gabanus household, I would insist that his name starts with a G, as his father, uncles and decades of Gabanus before us. However I would like him to be blessed by the Ora as well and your spirits would well guide his name."

"A festival is prepared for today to honor the new Prince, heir of Oligarch and I would like us to present him together. It would mean a great deal to me, my wife and son, my two most precious beings in this world." Garas had no idea of his wife's feelings and thought he always acted a proper husband and in the benefit of his family. Where he often away, it was to protect country and family, or so he always maintained. He was not yet able to notice a change in his wife, other than what he would describe as ill health due to the injury.

Catherine Chamberlain

"My love, how are you both?"

She deftly shrugged out of his grip, he was not the first man to handle her and he would not be the last she doubted. She was torn between a deep longing and abject revulsion as his lips touched hers, she pulled to the side offering him her cheek. Her panic at his physical presence, armoured while she was gowned, had her hearing and feeling the breath of cavalry horses sending snakes crawling beneath her skin. His words cut dimly through her fog of senses. She eyed him sidelong from the window.

"I had waited with this to ensure you were healthy again, but we must consider to name the boy, our prince, twice royally blessed. As is tradition in the Gabanus household, I would insist that his name starts with a G, as his father, uncles and decades of Gabanus before us. However I would like him to be blessed by the Ora as well and your spirits would well guide his name." His words became less certain with the telling. She tried to speak but hadn't any words, though she knew unless she spoke he was likely to stay, and she couldn't bear that, not now... perhaps not ever. Her hands played at the edges of her bodice, pulling at the stiletto blade, but no, this was Garas... she returned to her mirror, sitting before it and beginning to pin her hair, already she felt calmer with the tiny blades in her hands. The silence was uncomfortable and long. He looked at her expectation evident in his eyes.

"A festival is prepared for today to honor the new Prince, heir of Oligarch and I would like us to present him together. It would mean a great deal to me, my wife and son, my two most precious beings in this world." she felt hysteria rising and almost laughed at his proclamation. She had fallen and been seconds from rape and who knows what else at the hands of Ecthelions unit. She had given birth and then suffered days of stupor being fed potions by the old healers whom she would see as if in a dream pawing at her breasts , their long fingers touching her and the click of their instruments that they used on her. The Mother of Oligarch had sworn it was necessary work, but she new the lust of men, there was necessary and excessive. She pulled furiously at her hair curling and pinning. Why was he still there? She needed to distract him. Clapping she called out: "Bring it in!"

The Mother of Oligarch entered from the adjoining room, she nodded to Garas in acknowledgement. She was followed by the wet nurse, a young woman, fair of face and buxom, but clearly feeble-minded. "Your son," Catherine indicated icily not even looking toward the women. Garas hesitated in moving forward, his distaste for the wet nurse evident. Catherine glared: "My milk was poisoned, so the old letchers you sent to tend me said anyway, so it was her or a goat and frankly I didn't care either way..." Garas looked mortified, she feared briefly he might strike her so she moved darting to the women, her fingers once more caressing the hilt of the stiletto concealed in her bodice. She took the girls chin between forefinger and thumb, directing her face to Garas.

"She is fair, no? and comely, well endowed indeed for her role." She smiled as a thought struck her: "She could warm your bed Garas, I wouldn't object. " She demurred, "look at how soft she is, her curves." Unbidden tears began to stream from her eyes. She ran to the chamber where her son and the nurse had been staying.

Garas was dumbstruck, the Mother of Oligarch took his son from the smiling nurse, cradling him as she carried him to his father. Dumbly he received the boy into his arms. "She is not well my Lord, physically she is strong, but the Prime Ministers horses... well, she is not herself." She folded his arms tighter around his son. "But the Prince does well, he thrives despite her nightmares." She moved to usher the nurse toward Garas. Turning as she reached her she smiled briefly: "Goran, a G and Ora both..." She was not even sure he heard her, his eyes remained riveted on the door to the ante chamber.

January 18th, 1016

Morning -- Oligarch -- Garas Gabanus

Garas looked at the Mother of Oligarch and thanked her for her assistance: "Ecthelion will pay for this, let us hope the nightmares fade away" he said. Although Garas had grown somewhat softer since his marriage with Catherine and he did love her, in his way, he still had a peculiar way of reasoning. He mind did not automatically jump to care for his wife over the nightmares, but first to revenge and might against the culprits. It was how he had dealt with his problems and what had become a natural to him. All problems in life could be solved by the sword, or so he often thought.

"He is most beautiful is he not, the prince" he remarked when a smile suddenly filled his facial expression. "He most certainly is my Lord, let us hope the nightmares of our First Lady will not impact him," she remarked. Only this remark scared Garas more than the old lady could have known. 'Surely she would not...' thought Garas. "Please see him dressed in the royal gowns I had prepared for him and I beg you to prepare my wife for the corronation and presentation of our son. Bring them to me when finished in the throne hall, through the side entrance please," he concluded to the old women.

Many nobles, of higher and lower origin, had gathered in the palace for the hight of the festival held in Oligarch, the corronation of the new Prince of Oligarch. They were waiting in front of the large throne room, which was still closed to all but Garas himself. Then the mother of Oligarch entered with his son, followed by his wife who still had an icy look on her face. Due to the remark of the Mother of Oligarch he now first noticed the look, but pitied his wife because of it. When he was presented his son however, he forgot everything and just smiled. He looked shortly at his wife "look at our son, is he not as splendid as his mother and as strong as his father, oh yes he shall be".

Then he turned to the guards: "Let everyone in, we shall begin!"

Arthur Darkhallen

Arthur walked to and fro, examining the neat rows of recruits at the recruitment centre. He took his time; picking the ones he deemed the strongest. Having just joined the Duchies, or Oligarch, he was still rather disorientated and awestruck by the sheer size and magnificence of the city. Arthur had never seen anything like it, not Sirion nor Ser'quea, the city under his care in Atamara. No, this was a city that held its own standards, above that of anywhere else. Arthur already felt a sense of pride to be able to serve under this realm, even though he hadn't fought a single battle along with its army yet.

Just then he saw hundreds of nobles and common people alike, gathering at the gates of the massive palace. They seemed to be chanting something that Arthur could not make out.

"Sire, sire! A letter addressed to you!" a voice yelled. Arthur turned and took a letter from his red-faced, panting scribe. "An invitation to the coronation of the Prince of Oligarch, son of Prime Minister Garas and First Lady Catherine? Why, I must attend it immediately!" Arthur exclaimed.

Striding with purpose towards his tents, Arthur ordered his armourers to suit him up with his Thrice-Blessed Breastplate of Mercy. Being an ancient and magical suit of armour, it had many unique attributes, amongst which was the ability to change its form. It could act as armour for battle or could morph into a more ceremonial suit of armour, which was perfect for this event.

Along with two of his elite guards, Arthur made his way to the palace. Waving his invitation at the clerks, he walked through the huge palace gates...

Garas Gabanus

As the guards opened the door, they announced to the waiting nobility that the ceremony would begin. All of the minor nobility in Oligarch which were welcome had actually gathered, it was clear that none wished to miss this event. Another explanation would be that none wished to have it known they were absent, as such could potentially make an enemy out of the Prime Minister, or his personal assistant Hartmann, who was his former captain who was known to keep track of such things through the use of spies. Of course nobody would admit such a thing and all would claim to be there for love of the Prime Minister and his son, and such was true for most present. Apart from the minor nobility, several of the higher nobility were present as well and were granted the best seats in the front. Garas first welcomed all of these nobles personally and shook their hand for a moment.

"Senator Arthur I presume, a pleasure to meet you in person. I am pleased you have come to Oligarch for this event" he said as he passed the only higher nobility he did not recognize.

Garas welcomed the other guests collectively "Welcome nobles of Oligarch, I am pleased to see my son receives the honor he deserves." Garas walked back towards the small bed in which the baby was placed and took him in his arms. As he stepped down the stairs, he stopped after 2 steps or so and lifted his son in the air "Behold, Goran Gabanus Chamberlain, Prince of Oligarch, twice royally blessed and the future!" he said loudly. After a short while he drew back his son in his arms and placed a kiss on Goran's head. "You will rule the world one day," he whispered softly to his son.

Garas asked Catherine to step forward and hold the boy, but it was clear to all that her mind was not at the ceremony and it was unlike they had seen the First Lady before, but none dared to speak of it. "My son, Prince of Oligarch," Garas started, "in the presence of all of Oligarch's nobility we grant you your titles, Prince of Oligarch, heir to my throne. We bless you by the grace of Ora," he continued as he placed a crown of leaves taken from the holy tree in Oroya on the baby's head, "we offer you strength," he said as Hartmann entered and presented a golden laced dagger, beautifully curved with the emblems of the Gabanus and Chamberlain families on them, each on one side. He took the dagger and cut the palm of his head and let the blood drop on his son's head through the tip of the dagger, "you are my blood!" and he placed the dagger on his son, "you have my sword".

With these 2 actions the ceremony ended and all of the higher nobility would be allowed to witness the boy up close, where the lower nobility was asked to gather in the adjourning rooms for a feast.

Catherine Chamberlain

Some time earlier...

"He can't make me come. I don't want too..." a small part of her mind regarded the petulance she was displaying with distaste.

"He is more than your husband milady." The captain pointed out for the fifth time. "I think you will find he can compel you, as he could any of his household."

The Mother of Oligarch stood off to the side the remains of the dress she had tried vainly to assist Catherine into an unholy mess of rags at her feet. The wound in her hand bled freely but she was pleased that she had finally managed to relieve Catherine of the stiletto she had taken to concealing in her bodice.

The man continued: "You will dishonor him if you don't attend..." His tone was ever calm and patient, he had become her rock, the man who shielded her until she learned once more to shield herself, she swore daily she relied on no man but nightly she was glad of his presence outside her rooms. He was in full dress uniform, the oiled leather fitting over his frame in a way to accentuate his brawn rather than to protect him.

"Your mother has come," the Mother of Oligarch interjected, "she brought your great aunt Isabel."

"My mother..." Catherine's head felt clouded again, it had been years since she had seen her mother. "That is good?" She looked to the Mother of Oligarch.

"Yes it is good," the woman was pained to see Catherine so broken. She had watched her from near and afar as Marshal and then Queen. As a mother of many then of her two boys. The Tezokians had forced her hand and she had lost her crown, and now they had sought her ultimate degradation and she had lost more still. Nightly she had prayed both with and for Catherine. She had thought perhaps Garas might be able to make her feel safe again, but his presence seemed only to have driven her further from herself. Some wounds could only be healed by blood.

Catherine had sat in silence looking at nothing her companions could see for many minutes. The Mother called forth two of the maunts, they took both of Catherine's arms and she looked to them in vague surprise. The Mother pressed the cup to her lips. forcing bitter liquid into her mouth and down her throat before she had the wherewithal to protest.

Then she felt little more, the maunts were pulling at her clothes... cleaning her... combing and arranging her, she saw herself suddenly in a green gown, her hair piled and the diadem back on her forehead, its cold presence heavy despite the lightness of the crown. The sounds of their voices were blurred and distant, talking incoherently at her as she was propelled through a network of corridors. Then there was a man in front of her, his back to her... he was holding a baby. She thought but couldn't be sure he was talking to her. Her eyes wandered seeing many faces she found herself moving in directions only to be stiffly returned to her position behind the man with the dark hair by the women in white.

Eventually they sat her down and silent tears for some malady she couldn't really imagine came from her eyes.

January 20th, 1016

Evening -- Oligarch -- Catherine Chamberlain

She sat at her window looking across the grey walls to the fields that marked the beginnings of Nivemus. She felt Garas would be in a lot of trouble if he allowed Atanamir to come through Oligarch. The King of Perdan had always wanted he or his allies to hold the city and she could not help but think there was a terrible wrongness in offering him guest status now. She picked at the threads at the edge of her gown that nobody else could see but her... Atanamir was dead of course, worse still then to offer him congress through the lands.

The baby was crying again, she frowned at the doorway where its mother lumbered around trying to coddle and quiet the mewling thing. The fleeting thought came to her again that a silken pillow would muffle its cries, but as quickly as the thought came she was horrified with herself and prodded at her own pink flesh with her hair pins for thinking such a thing.

She viewed the boy to her left with faint surprise, he wavered anxiously while trying to stand proud, it didn't work well.

"What do you want?" she demanded, folding her hands in her lap, blood dripping from the underside of her left arm. The boy scuffed his feet.

"Might I call for the Mother, Lady Gabanus?" he asked uncertainly. Already her attention was drifting back to the window.

"My mother is back in Dale... far to the north Wulfric... one day I will take you there and you can run like your father and uncle did, shadows in the woodlands... you will like it there my darling."

"I'm not... I'm not Wulfric, mi'lady" he stammered.

"But of course your not, Wulfric is not here... it was the horses you see... their hot breath." Her head felt fuzzy and addled, the taste of the bitter medicine was still sharp like bile on her lips. She regarded the boy anew: "What do you want?"

"It is this letter, Lady Gabanus" he began, "about Perdan seeking passage."

Perdan, her heart fluttered and she felt a brief jolt of fear, she gathered the scribe to her: "Don't worry my little Wolf, I will keep you safe... you have a pen and paper... you are a good boy I shall make a letter and you can give it to my dear heart."

She tried to focus but the page swam, this was for Wulfric, she had to be strong.

January 21st, 1016

Morning -- Dulbin -- Garas Gabanus

Garas had ordered his men to provide him with an update on his son every 6 hours. He was not sure why, but he had grown worried for his son and his wife. He had just arrived in Dulbin, had given his captain the order to find Senator Elmira, when a messenger arrived. It was one of Hartmann's most trusted men, and Garas knew the news had to be important. "My lord, I have come with news," the man said as he bowed. "What is it, I have not much time" Garas replied firmly. "My lord, Sir Hartmann is worried for your wife and son. Your wife is not doing well, her situation grew worse and he fears it may soon affect your son. That is all I was send to inform you off milord," the man said, clearly afraid of how his master would react. "Order Hartmann to keep a close eye on my son himself, when I return to Oligarch I shall see to it myself. If something happens to my son, there will be hell to pay, you hear me, hell to pay!" he said as he started to grow angry and the man quickly left again before his master's well known wrath would come to full being.

"Aaargh!" Garas shouted as the man had left, "Is my sword done yet? I will finish this whore first before I return to my palace!" Fortunately for him, only his servants heard him and fetched him his sword as he prepared his men to ride out to Elmira once his captain had found her.

January 30th, 1016

Evening -- Oligarch -- Brigdha Dubhaine

Brigdha crossed the plains largely unremarked, a craggy old woman wrapped in a ragged shawl, leaning heavily on a crooked staff, grey hair hanging limply about her shoulders, a tattered satchel of cheap trinkets clutched tightly in claw-like fingers.

The sun was westering by the time she joined the last stragglers seeking admission at Oligarch's great southern gate, barely remarked by the watch and instantly forgotten. The kind of frail figure beneath the notice or contempt of noble and warrior alike.

The mission which brought Brigdha to Oligarch, the heavily-fortified armed camp at the heart of Duke Garas's rebellion, was largely one of compassion. There'd been much in his letter which stunk of a trap but still she felt a connection to Lady Catherine which demanded she seek the truth for herself, though it was yet far from obvious how to act upon her instincts.

She made her way swiftly through well-chosen backstreets to the Temple of the Flow, avoiding Darton Plaza and slipping unremarked through one of the side entrances used by acolytes on temple business. Shutting the door behind her Brigdha slipped its bolt into place and dropped the glamour which had brought her this far.

Tonight she'd sleep soundly and on the morrow seek out Lady Catherine.

January 31st, 1016

Morning -- Oligarch -- Catherine Chamberlain

Her breathing was heavy and ragged.

Looking down at herself she noted with dismay the blood soaked into her gown. The image of it... red on white... blood on sheets. The image made her shake and taught fingers curled and uncurled the small blade clattering to the ground. She had to silence the screams, they were distracting her from everything and nothing.

The ewer had tumbled across the floor and now lay empty and useless in the corner. Rubbing her hands on her skirts she returned to the looking glass and set her trembling soiled fingers to braiding her hair.

Brigdha Dubhaine

Brigdha awoke with a start to a darkened bedchamber, her nostrils filled with the heavy, metallic scent of freshly shed blood. For a brief moment she tensed, lungs pausing, preternatural senses reaching out in expectation of treachery. Had Garas drawn her here to end her life? But as her mind's eye studied the threads linking life to life she heard a familiar song, reverberating across the city in melancholy, atonal phrasing.

Washing and dressing with minimal fuss, Brigdha took a moment to check her appearance in the mirror. The ancient crone who'd crossed the plains was gone, discarded as easily as the ragged shawl she'd worn to be replaced by an imposing woman in conservative court attire, a hint of grey in the raven tresses framing her well proportioned, if somewhat pallid, features.

The letter from Garas was the guarantor of her safety, so she slipped this into her purse. She doubted anyone in the city administration would recognise her from her last visit or be aware of her role as Lord Speaker of Sirion, and if they did she had shadows watching her every move, but still if the letter could forestall any unpleasantness it was worth a hundred bows concealed in the darkness.

However these precautions proved unnecessary, the grand dame strolling unchallenged towards the palace, arm-in-arm with her young beau, dainty parasol guarding her delicate complexion, giggling like a giddy schoolgirl.

At the palace gates weak-willed guards barely questioned her business, swiftly handing her into the care of a succession of footmen, valets and minor officials as she navigated her way to Lady Catherine's personal staff.

Catherine Chamberlain

She noticed through the dull fog in her head that the Mother of Oligarch did not walk so briskly as she had, indeed she looked positively grey against the white of her robes. They had stopped her training with her captain and now she seemed confined to the most banal of responsibilities. She held council each day in her private apartments, at least she thought it was each day... one day was so similar to the next they often passed without note. It was so quiet. Nobody came any more. The mewling of the baby was battering at her head again. Sitting up she noticed the crib in the corner of the room. The Mother of Oligarch regarded both her and the crib apprehensively then returned to grinding her tinctures.

The sound and the crying of the babe filled her with a haunted dread. She attempted to move from the bed and looking down found her hands tied to the sides of the frames. In panic she pulled at the cords opening old wounds and burns on her forearms. She managed to scramble backward bumping against the unrelenting headboard. She was so weak, even her hair felt heavy on her head. The Mother sighed, moving stiffly across the room she positioned herself behind Catherine holding her in an embrace that involved both arms and legs. Catherine cried freely: "Why?" she wailed into the Mothers shoulder.

"I'm sorry Lady, you must be yourself for this, or it will poison the prince." She pressed the goblet to Catherine's mouth, forcing the liquid between her lips. She began to convulse throwing her head trying to dislodge the older womans grip. The Mother called two more Maunts to hold her and disentangled herself from Catherine. Her fumbling old fingers, once so deft now pinching with exhaustion pulled at the lacings of her shift exposing her breasts. They were hard and painful, Catherine bucked weakly against the restraints and the Maunts, and screamed in horror as she began to express at the increased mewling of the child as he was brought toward her.

She could feel the fetid breath of horses and the grasping hands of elves on her body and wished that she could be claimed by an oblivion that would not come. Then the grasping leech was upon her, pulling at her and swallowing her screams to a choking wail.

Catherine lay motionless, eyes wide looking at nothing, her hair pasted to the side of her face with sweat. The maunts fed thin soups and water into her mouth and watched tentatively for the small movements of her throat as she swallowed. The child grew fat as his mother faded further from the World, each day she fought less, but still never accepted what her body was telling her was right. The Mother had supplemented his feed with goats milk after the unfortunate incident with the wet nurse, but when a fever had threatened, her experience told her that the mothers milk was what was necessary, she had been a Queen, but in these circumstances a prince far outweighed the needs of his mother.

As the Catherine she had known had become more distant in her memory, she had found herself increasingly indifferent to her violence and screams. It troubled her at times that she felt so, and her prayers to Ora did little to salve her feelings. Watching the Maunts now tend to the Lady, she unstrapped the wounds on her own legs, cleansing and binding them afresh. Sighing she collected her sickle. The black roots of the sweet sleep bush were difficult to source and pare from the hard earth in Oligarch. If she were back in Nivemus she knew of many a plentiful grove, but here the few plants were becoming more sparse at her repeated harvesting, but the feeding had become a pattern and she knew Catherine's stunned catatonia would be short lived without the medicine.

She took her leave, the upper levels of the tower were largely unattended and guarded from without in Catherine's current state and she traveled the staircases unmolested but for the brief nod of the young Captain her mistress had been cultivating. Leaving for the main courtyard she filled her lungs with the fresh air and her ears with sounds of normal life and already felt a little more at ease. Yet something tugged at her senses, a presence grey and undiscerned to the eyes but there none-the-less. It was almost an echo familiar yet distant among the hubbub. She was no priestess, but she had spent enough time around the Oracle to know when she should seek out what attempted to be unseen. Dropping her basket she surveyed the grounds, breathing a tremulous breath as she extended her senses seeking what would remain hidden.

She was a talented amateur but she felt without seeing the eyes of another drawn to her as she sought the whispers of the presence.

Brigdha Dubhaine

Crossing the inner courtyard towards the Queen's Tower, Brigdha's senses reeled at the discordant flock of facies circling it, cawing and sparring like crows arguing over the charnel ruins of a great battle. Somewhere deep within that stone edifice a woman lay dying and these were the carrion spirits come to feast on her anguish, vengeful creatures of the high-firmament drawn to the black dreams of the cult of Ora.

Brigdha had heard tell of such magics in her journeys to the north, half-remembered and barely understood snippets of pharmacopeia preserved from lost Rancagua and the world's youth. Old Naevan the physician had written two entire volumes on the subject when Fontan's writ ran north of Ashforth, which Brigdha had studied several times over the years, most recently after reading Garas's letter.

For two whole days she'd sat in her private study, quill in hand, scratching copious notes in her distinctive cursive script on the pages of a small leather-bound codex, letters precisely placed and interspersed with carefully drafted diagrams and illustrations capturing the forms of particular plants and the shapes of utensils used in the leechcraft of the Maunts. A codex memorised on the long walk west.

Much of what she learned made for grim reading, the blood rituals and superstitions of a feral people obscuring their genuinely efficacious concoctions and practices. It was unclear whether this was the deliberate design of the Maunts, to maintain their grip on the minds of the northern tribes, or their own genuinely and deeply held belief. Such deceit was not without precedent even amongst the priesthood of The Flow. Long ago the Cult of Darton had followed such a path, and more recently there'd been a heresy drawn to the Turbulence, to the dark gifts of blood sacrifice and unrepressed emotion. Under such influence the Kinseys had raised entire regions in a bloody insurrection during the final days of the Great War and even now Brigdha's stomach turned at the memory of that carnage, the thousands lying dead in the streets of Karbala and Negev, of Al Amarah and Krimml.

"Not now Brigdha. This isn't the time to dwell on the past. There's work to be done," her inner voice anchored her senses in the Lilith Within, activating the particular patterns of perception which allowed a Balancewalker to withstand the full sensorium of the Flow. All about pale shadows of a multitude hues walked, and co-mingling with each shadow a fleshly form, a servant of the palace about their business, inner thoughts babbling yet melodic and of one purpose like small streams descending from the highlands to form a smooth-running river.

And there in their midst a withered tree, her roots deep in the soil of the northern groves, thoughts dark with the sorrows of many years, an alien transplanted to this land of neat-cut stone and neatly cropped grass. If Brigdha's sense didn't deceive her this was one of the Maunts, deep in shadow, beyond sorrow and despair in that unremarked country where death deceptively promises sweet oblivion.

"We'd better hurry Hrolf, there are forces at work here your blade is no match for," she tightened her arm about his, a gay smile upon her face, and without seeming to do so steered him towards the haggard old woman.

Meanwhile in the High Firmament she cast aside her cloak of shadow, revealing a bright amber flame to those with eyes to see. Above her the facies sensed her naked power and took fright, swooping across the courtyard and scattering with a hideous screeching.

For now they were dispelled, and with them the night terrors by which they fed. They were no threat to her but this was no time for complacency, they'd soon screw their courage to the sticking place and if Catherine yet slept on their return there was little even a Balancewalker could do to keep them from their feast.