The raven’s ebony plumes ruffled, then settled smoothly into place, each feather shimmering under the candlelight. A heavy silence descended upon the five men present, the air thick with the weight of the message the bird had just relayed. They had a daunting mission: to breach the sanctity of the Church’s newly consecrated temple.
Belmont's piercing gaze settled upon Henry, who seemed to have retreated into his thoughts. The young Captain paced the length of the grand chamber, its high-vaulted ceilings and flickering torches casting long, shifting shadows as he walked back and forth. Each stride was measured, echoing the rhythm of his racing mind, formulating a strategy. Jansen and Eliot, their features painted with anticipation, turned to Belmont, seeking direction on what to do next.
Ras's voice pierced the silence, its gravelly undertone resonating in the vast room. "Two days is barely a blink," voicing the dread that gnawed at everyone.
Leaning back in his high-backed wooden chair, Jansen remarked, “The forest’s edge alone is half a day’s journey.” His eyes followed Henry’s relentless pacing, searching for clues in the Captain's restless movement.
“With the right incantations, I could weave a traveling circle,” Aldric proposed, his voice frayed with exhaustion but firm in resolve.
Eliot's retorts were immediate, his youthful impatience evident, “Your magic, potent as it is, demands a toll. And you, old man, have drawn deeply from your reserves.” A brief flash of anger ignited in the old mage’s eyes, the raw power of his magic palpable.
Belmont intervened, attempting to soothe the tension, “A traveling circle would indeed require a lot of magic.”
Henry halted abruptly, his gaze fixing on Aldric. “We’d only employ it for our exit,” he stated decisively.
"You've devised a plan already?" Belmont asked, impressed.
"We will set forth at dawn on the day of the visit, hiding in wait for the temple’s procession to pass.”
Jansen interjected, a hint of doubt tinging his words, “The expanse leading to Elysarra forest is an open moor. How do you propose we remain unseen?”
“Aldric will cast a cloaking spell on us," Henry declared, "similar to the one he casts upon the raven.”
Eliot, ever meticulous, pointed out, “And what of our steeds? Cloaking them will require a lot more magic.”
Henry’s strategic mind was steps ahead. “Our route will take us towards Verdantvale. A prominent hillock en route will shield us as we disembark. Ras will safeguard our mounts while the rest of us proceed on foot into the forest.”
With this, Henry turned to Aldric again, eyebrows raised slightly in query. “Aldric, once inside, can you ensure our safe passage out of the Church?”
A smirk played on Aldric’s lips, a mix of pride and aged wisdom, “There exists no fortress or realm that my magic cannot infiltrate or escape from."
Eliot, his youth often steering his tongue before his mind could grasp the reins, muttered more to himself than to the group, “Yet the source of the energy pulse eludes you.” The whisper was barely audible, but it might have been a shout for Aldric's sharpened ears.
Faster than the blink of an eye, Aldric's face contorted, his eyes narrowing into slits—a radiant surge of blue energy shot forth from his outstretched palm, engulfing Eliot. The sheer force propelled the young knight backward, causing him to crash heavily onto the cold, unyielding stone floor.
The wind knocked out of him, and Eliot managed to croak, “I had that coming.”
A tense stillness hung in the air, with none daring to aid Eliot to his feet. All present were acutely aware of Aldric's volatile temperament, having witnessed or been receiving his wrath. Intervening might be perceived as choosing a side, a mistake that could elicit Aldric’s notorious ire on them.
Sensing the escalating tension, Ras intervened with calculated flattery, "An astute strategy, Sir Henry." He paused for effect before adding, "Your leadership as captain of the Ducal Knights is unmatched."
Henry nodded in gratitude to Ras for defusing the situation, "We must all find rest tonight. Tomorrow, our preparations begin in earnest."
“Let's head up. Rooms are ready for all of you,” Ras stated, leading them up the tight stairwell that opened into the pub. Jansen was at Aldric’s side, supporting the older man’s steps.
As they emerged into the pub area, Belmot noted that many tables were still crowded with patrons. Many continued their raucous conversations, nursing their drinks, while a few were slumped over their tables, succumbing to the lull of inebriation. The familiar culprit from earlier holds court at his table, his voice rising above the din, embellishing his tales.
“He’s still here,” Belmont observed with a hint of disdain.
Following Belmont’s gaze, Ras commented, “Ah, Tom. He's a daily fixture here. He stays until the last call every time.”
“And then these brutes, they pinned me against the wall! I thought they could intimidate me! Had they not caught me off guard, their faces would be tasting the floor by now! But I did get the wench.” Tom’s embellished account reached their ears, causing Belmont's fists to clench involuntarily.
“What does Tom do around here?” Belmont asked, his eyes narrowing at the man, who remains blissfully unaware of the scrutiny he's under.
Ras shrugs. “Unclear. Word has it he's never held a job for long.”
“Then how's he affording all that mead?”
Ras smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “This is a pub in Dampshaw; it's best not to ask. We aren't picky about their origin as long as the coins find their way to our till.”
A nod from Belmont acknowledged the sentiment. They had chosen this corner of Aeloria precisely for its ambiguous morals. While not utterly lawless, few here would report misdeeds, maintaining a shroud of plausible deniability over their associations.
Shaking off his irritation, Belmont followed Ras to the second floor, where their accommodations awaited. Behind them, Tom’s voice persists, his story weaving in fantastical elements that never happened. Yet, in his inebriated state, he swears by every word.
“Oh, give it a rest, mate. We were all witnesses. Without the intervention of that Red Devil, those Zoltecayans would've flattened you,” declared a man to Tom’s right. With sunken cheeks and eyes, the man dulled from the excessive mead and slumped forward onto the worn table, snoring almost immediately.
Tom sneered in response, “I could've handled it without that meddling noble." He thought back to Belmont's interference, and resentment boiled in his chest. "Damned aristocrats, always meddling in other's business!” Rage, combined with a considerable intake of mead, fueled him to violently slam his mug onto the table, leaving a noticeable crack in the timeworn wood.
“Enough, Tom! Out with you!” The bartender, a stout woman with arms that had separated one too many tavern brawls, shouted across the room.
“Was on my way,” Tom snarled, pushing through the entrance into the night's embrace.
Emerging into the balmy darkness, he quickly scanned his surroundings. He was slightly disoriented as the shadows played tricks on his blurred vision. Opting left, he proceeded, casting wary glances as he walked. Every little sound he heard only amplified his paranoia. He then heard footsteps that seemed to be following him. Rather than glance back and confirm his fears, Tom quickened his strides. The footsteps grew more urgent, and soon Tom was running. He ducked into a shadowy alleyway where he found a darkened nook to hide in.
The pursuing footfalls rushed past, only to double back, now at a deliberate, haunting pace. Tom remained frozen in place; he closed his eyes, fearing even the slightest shimmer from them might betray his location. Once the sound of steps disappeared, he emerged, releasing a sigh of pent-up tension. But as he walked forward in the dark alleyway, he collided with what felt like a giant, immovable object.
As he stumbled back and regained his palace, his vision adjusted to reveal a hulking figure with bulging muscles and a sneer that could curdle milk. "Fancy seeing you here, Francis," Tom spoke, his voice quivering despite his best efforts to sound casual.
Francis' only reply was a grunt as he maintained his unsettling gaze on Tom.
“Trying to elude us, were you, Tom?” A sneering, nasally voice questioned from the shadows behind him.
Startled, Tom whirled around, “Count Houndly?” Tom gasped, swallowing the knot of fear in his throat. Stepping out of the shadows, Count Houndly revealed himself.
The Count was an imposing figure, not for his height but for his girth. His velvet suit, too small, gleamed subtly in the dim light. The remnants of his thinning hair were tied into a low ponytail held by an ornate ribbon. The Count toyed with those straggly strands, circling Tom like a vulture eyeing a carcass.
"Here to personally inspect how your task is progressing," Count Houndly announced, digging into his coat pocket. He produced a sleek cigar and, with the swift strike of a match, momentarily bathed his pockmarked face and deep-set wrinkles in an amber hue.
Tom's brow glistened with fresh beads of sweat, and he stammered, "I... um, just need a few more days."
"You guaranteed it would be done today. That's why we hired you," Count Houndly retorted, letting out a plume of smoke directly into Tom's face. The acrid scent was overpowering, causing Tom's eyes to tear up. “Instead, you squandered your advance on booze?” In a quick, cruel gesture, Houndly pressed the glowing tip of his cigar onto Tom’s hand. Tom's scream pierced the stillness of the alley.
“I wasn’t just drinking! I trailed them into the pub. Would've had them, but Lord Aster intervened,” Tom manages, trying to stifle the sting emanating from his burned flesh.
The mere mention of Lord Aster made Houndly freeze, the amber glow of the cigar revealing a storm of emotions on his face. Deep furrows lined his forehead, and his eyes showed an unmistakable gleam of malice. “Why wasn't I informed that he was in Aeloria?” he snapped at Francis.
Francis, caught off guard, gapeed for a second, then shrugged, at a loss for words.
“You’re clueless!” Houndly's agitation was palpable. He ran a hand over his shiny bald head and started pacing the cobbled ground of the alley. Abruptly, he whirled around to seize Tom by the collar. “Did you say anything to him?”
Fear gleamed in Tom's eyes. “No, I swear! He doesn’t know you’re after the woman—” His words were smothered as Houndly's palm clamped over his mouth, eyes darting around as if expecting eavesdroppers.
“Loose lips can be our downfall,” Houndly hisses, releasing Tom only to shove him against the cold, damp wall of the alley. The count took a moment to smooth out his velvet coat. “Finish your task swiftly, or I’ll find someone competent.”
“Wait,” Tom's voice quivered, but he pushed on. Both Houndly and Francis turned slowly. “I need an advance on the rest of the payment.”
“An advance?” Houndly sneered
Tom squirmed uncomfortably, feeling the weight of Count Houndly's piercing gaze. “For the task to be completed, I require more funds. I exhausted the first payment today and had Lord Aster not intervened; success would have surely been mine.”
Count Houndly’s laugh was cold and mocking. With a casual flick of his wrist, he motioned to Francis. “Hand over some coins to our friend. And perhaps give him a little something extra, given my current charitable mood.”
From within the depths of his coat, Francis produced a leather pouch. The faint chime of coins echoed in the night as he handed it over to Tom's eager, trembling hands. Tom's eyes lit up as he glimpsed the gleaming gold coins inside.
“This feels the same as the initial payment. I thought you said I would receive extra?” Tom started to say, only to be silenced by a sharp, brutal punch to his gut from Francis. Tom doubled over, winded. Before crumbling to the floor, Francis gripped his hair, yanking his head to face the looming Count Houndly.
“Another failure and you will pay with your life,” the Count hissed. With a dismissive shove, Francis released Tom, his body dropping onto the grimy cobblestone of the alley.
Striding with an air of authority, Count Houndly paraded through the streets of Dampshaw, savoring his cigar. Late-night stragglers who chanced upon him scurried away, seeking refuge in shadowed nooks or nearby establishments. None wished to catch the eye of the cruel man.
Though Aeloria was a city nestled in the Duke's lands, it was an open secret that the Count pulled all the strings. The late Duke had entrusted the city's reins to the previous Count, and the mantle had seamlessly passed to Houndly as the only heir to the Count. Soon after he had gained his position, whispers of his unchecked power circulated. Many considered appealing to the Duke about Houndly’s transgressions, yet solid evidence always seemed to evaporate before they could bring their case up to the courts. The young Duke, who indeed heard the rumors, appeared indifferent to the grievances against Houndly, furthering the belief of his apathy to the city’s plight. This perception emboldened Houndly, making him ever more audacious in his pursuits.
However, the Count wasn't wholly unrestrained. He exercised caution whenever the ducal family or their renowned knights were in the city. His vast network always alerted him to such visits, allowing him ample time to rearrange his schemes. Belmont Aster’s unexpected presence, however, did unsettle him. He was determined to uncover the reasons behind the surprise visit. And adapt to the sudden intrusion, making sure his plans came to fruition. Ever since laying eyes on the Zoltecayan woman, he’s become obsessed. No obstacle, not even noble blood, will deter him. After all, Count Houndly always claimed what he desired.
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