(Dovakiin)

It was a beautiful day to be spying.

Dovakiin looked out across the carefully tended gardens before him. Little white gravel paths leisurely meandered through green hedgeways, punctuated by the odd sculpture. Here and there were flower beds, being prepared for the next Summer by careful gardeners. Ahead, the stately manor - target of his surveillance - watched over the grounds like a proud father admiring their children.

The sun was shining, the air was crisp and fresh, and the morning sun was catching off the dew. Idyllic.

Dovakiin pulled out his dagger. Well, time for some murder.

The target of his ire was lurking in a gap in the hedgerows that surrounded the Vance Manor grounds. The woman was lying in the dirt, nestled under the bushes. It was an excellent spot if you wanted a good view of the grounds, or the driveway leading up to it, which was why Dovakiin was miffed that she’d stolen it. It was the one he’d been planning on using.

Unluckily for the woman, her excellent view of the manor meant that she had a terrible line of sight on anyone creeping up behind her from outside the grounds. Like Dovakiin.

He stalked forward on silken feet, every bit as good as he’d been in his youth. He was silent, not even the morning birds heard him over their song. His clothing, dark robes, helped him blend with the shadows cast by the hedgerows and the morning sun, while this woman was wearing… Was that a dress? Did she really think a feather in her hair was a smart move for a spy? Honestly, some people seemed to design their outfits with no thought for the kinds of covert spying they might be doing in them. The woman didn’t sense him, didn’t move, until his blade was at her throat.

Dovakiin grinned. It was a toothy grin, the kind that dragonborn are best at producing. “And just what do you think you’re doing here?” he asked menacingly.

The woman still didn’t move. Not a single muscle. Behind him, Dovakiin heard a crossbow nock with a click.

His smile faltered.

Dovakiin’s old instincts kicked in. Grabbing the woman, still holding the knife to her neck, he spun to face the sound. Hidden further back in the forests surrounding the manor was a second figure, one he hadn’t seen. This newcomer had been wearing a stealthy outfit – dark travelling gear, still of a decent quality but much better at blending into the forest’s shadows.

“So, how come you’re not doing the spying?” he asked the newcomer. “You seem much better at it.” The newcomer said nothing, simply kept aiming his crossbow. It was at this moment that Dovakiin noticed the man’s face and hands were entirely made of porcelain.

“This is my servant,” a voice right next to his ear explained. Dovakiin started. She’d been so still, he’d forgotten he was holding the woman. She continued to speak. “He’s an automaton, and he will shoot you if you don’t let me go.”

“Hmm, that makes this a little tricky,” Dovakiin said, his eyes on the automaton. It looked back at him with eyes painted on glass. Expressionless, unblinking, it’s face framed with silver hair. There was something off about this woman, too. She was human, but…

“Why doesn’t your friend lower his crossbow, and then I’ll lower my knife?” Dovakiin suggested. “I’d hate to accidentally slip because I’d got shot.” If he had a hand free, now that he knew it was coming, he was reasonably sure he could stop the crossbow bolt. That would mean letting go of the woman, though.

The woman considered. She was keeping her cool surprisingly well. “Yes, perhaps that might work.”

Keeping a very careful eye on each other, Dovakiin and the automaton both slowly lowered their weapons. The woman pushed aside Dovakiin’s hand, and skipped over to her servant. Again, that strangeness…

“You know that there is magic in this world,” the woman said. “That’s why I felt strange to you. Mage armour.”

“Uh huh,” he replied. He’d seen Mage Armour before. It didn’t feel like this.

“Are you working for the Vance family?” The woman asked. For a human she was probably pretty, though a delicate, gold, filigree mask covered the top half of her face, so it was hard to tell. Ringlets of thick, auburn hair had been tied up at the back of her head. It would probably be quite long if she let it down. The automaton stood slightly behind her, its hand still on the crossbow.

“Not… exactly,” Dovakiin answered. He reached a clawed hand – carefully, no need to set off the automaton – into his robes, and pulled out an envelope embossed with a crow-and-wolf seal. “I’m a guest. The master of the house invited me, I thought I’d maybe scope the place out a little first, though.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Do you always spy on potential hosts?”

“It was a very, uh, convincing invitation.”

“Makes sense.” Her servant holstered the crossbow, reached into its bag, and pulled out an identical envelope. “So was mine. You may call me Marion.”