A distance from the lake, Hen followed Lyre between the trees to a small clearing obscured from view of the revelers. Keeping to her word, four dolls were posted around them in a square formation; holding the hems of their purple gowns outstretched, and shielding them from sight.

"What do you think of my arrangements Mistress Hen?" asked Lyre, "Will they suffice?"

The impromptu changing space was adequate, and the dry clothes sourced for them were neatly piled on a wooden stump.

"How were your dolls able to find so much so far from the city? Are there traders here in number?"

"Traders, no, but travelers, yes. Many came to the lake better prepared than either of us; but fortunately chose not to take a dip themselves. Or... if they have, then I suppose they'll find themselves the unfortunate ones. My sisters sometimes take things without asking if they can."

Hen eyed the figure closest to her, frozen in place, her eyes glazed over as though the soul inhabiting its body lay dormant.

"Are they really your sisters?" she asked.

Lyre portioned out the clothes between them, and graciously turned around to let Hen change in privacy.

"Sisters, no," she admitted, "Though at times I'm reminded of the siblings I grew up with. My dolls are simply an extension of myself; so I often get lonely, having only myself to talk to."

"But the way you talk of them," said Hen, unbuttoning her bodice from the opposite corner, "Is though they had minds of their own to solve whatever problems they encountered. What of the doll you left behind in the palace? Will it be able to keep up the pretense that I am sick in bed?" 

"It moans as instructed, and takes and leaves the trays of food left outside your door. I know because I control it; there is a piece of my soul still in Relmund, and only when I call it back will I be whole again."

Loosening her sodden skirt, Hen slipped out of her gown. Her drawers and chemise clung to her legs, the fabric too soaked that either could be worn. She first peeled off her drawers, only a thin cotton shift remaining against the chill of the woodland air. Crouching to examine the items she'd received, there was not another chemise among them.

"Mistress Lyre," she called, her back still turned, "Was there not another set of underthings your doll brought back to us? I have here only a gown and a threadbare pair of drawers."

"Ah, I'm afraid that was all that could be had. Is there not enough to cover you? When our own things are dry we can change once more."

Hen believed she could withstand a single night improperly dressed. At least the clothes given to her were dry, and would cover her accordingly. 

"There's a cloth there too," said Lyre, "Make sure you've thoroughly dried your body before dressing yourself."

Sure enough, Hen found a scrap of soft fabric with which to towel herself.

"If your skin is still damp you'll be likely to catch a chill!" Lyre warned, "Your health is of greater value than your decency; I've seen it before where even girls together will seek to cover their nakedness as quickly as they can. You are quite safe from prying eyes here. Take your time to do things properly."

The drawers in hand, Hen had almost been guilty of sliding them onto her body beneath the damp chemise.

"Are you sure..?" she asked.

"Quite sure! Should you wish to turn around you'd see how sure I am... I wouldn't be standing here naked if I thought that someone would see me. Present company excluded of course. Your eyes are always welcomed upon me."

Hen swallowed, and stopped herself from sneaking a look.

A sharp and sudden intake of breath, and Hen resolved to strip herself bare and follow Lyre's instructions. The ribbon untied with a drawn-out motion, the neckline loosening as the fabric fell away from her breasts and hung at her waist. She couldn't contain the giddy smile forming on her lips, as her soft and smooth skin was exposed to the air; her nipples hardening from excitement rather than the cold.

"Did I hear you giggling?" asked Lyre.

"Did I?" Hen responded, a seductive lilt coloring her words as her hands freely roamed across her chest, "It's just a strange sensation is all. Don't you find yourself laughing when things are awkward?"

"Do you feel awkward with me Mistress Hen?"

"Not with you, no," Hen replied, taking hold of her chemise and shimmying it down below her lower half to where it crumpled on the ground, "But I've never been nude outdoors before."

Lyre sat on the stump watching her, a cheek resting in her hand as she admired the view. Strong legs, shapely buttocks, and a soft, hourglass waist. As Hen reached for the drying cloth, the rounded curve of her breast peeked out from the gentle fold of her back.

Lyre was enchanted, as though a forest nymph had appeared to tempt her; wearing nothing but the blush upon her skin.

"Have you finished changing?" asked Hen, rubbing the cloth over her thighs.

"Almost," lied Lyre, "Still drying off before I get dressed... I got so terribly wet earlier." A smile played on her lips as she watched Hen pause in her actions. "You?"

"Almost as well," Hen replied truthfully, resuming the task of toweling her legs, and finding that in the place between them, the persistent moisture refused to abate.

"Ah," said Lyre, "I hadn't meant to ask after your progress. I meant instead to ask you, if you were wet too..?"

Hen's gulity hand held the cloth to the slick spilling from her vagina, her clitoris pulsing beneath her finger. It was too embarrassing to admit her complete and utter arousal so openly. Even if Lyre's dolls were mindless, she found it hard to speak the words aloud in their presence. Hurriedly, she cast the towel aside and pulled on the threadbare drawers to hide her shame.

Lyre was disappointed, but charmed once more when the flustered Mistress Hen got her borrowed gown back to front, and had to put it on again.

"How long have you been sitting there?" Hen asked, turning as she fastened the bodice and finding Lyre's unwavering gaze upon her. 

"You were practically dressed when I turned to check, so I took a seat to wait for you. Though it looks as though you've buttoned your gown incorrectly."

"It's hard to see when-"

"When there are things that get in the way?" questioned Lyre, lustily admiring the outline of Hen's nipples beneath the taut fabric. "Here, I'll help you."

With no chemise obscuring the soft flesh hidden beneath the gown, Lyre drank in the seductive sight of Hen's expanding bosom; each button popping open at the touch of her eager fingers, revealing the space in which the sides of her breasts gently kissed.

"I think that's enough," said Hen, sure that the first had been fastened correctly.

"Ah." Lyre's hands tensed on the last elusive button. 

"You should hurry if you want to help. Master Strahl has been left alone for far too long; it's already getting dark."

Stretching the fabric from either side, Lyre joined them together, admiring the elasticity of Hen's bust, like soft-baked breads still warm from the oven.

"It's a little tight," said Lyre.

"Then I can do it myself..!" 

Hen's hands were batted away, as Lyre reluctantly pushed the next button through its hole; watching as the ample cleavage shrank beneath the restraint of the bodice. Before the opportunity was lost completely, she slipped her hands inside the gown, her fingertips gliding over Hen's nipples as she pulled the fabric from within.

"A small adjustment to better the fit," Lyre reasoned, savoring the touch, and the sound that escaped Hen's lips as her fingers made contact. 

"Hurry," blushed Hen.

Lyre had not left a doll to keep watch over Delph; she already had eyes in the palace to contend with, and wanted to focus her remaining attention solely on Mistress Hen. As such, she failed to notice that the witch had gotten so far from them; or what it was that had drawn him to the other side of the lake.

The Hermit's disciples had been quick to keep the cups filled of all in the Warlock's party. So much so that the oppressively gloomy atmosphere among them was beginning to lift. Only the Counsel remained fast asleep as the rest indulged.

"Do you enjoy it? Living in a cave?" Fiepet asked the Hermit, "I thought only bears thought to make them their home."

"Fortunately I'm quite adept at scaring them away," laughed the Hermit.

"And how was the Warlock when he lived there with you?" queried Elion, "It would seem that you didn't manage to keep him out as you did the other animals."

Fiepet's eyes flashed to the Warlock, but he was far too invested in reaching the bottom of his cup to listen in on Elion's mindless ramblings.

"A man so desperate to change his fate that he broke down all of my defenses. It was before Ease's time, but Olm will no doubt remember the Warlock's training. How could I have turned him away? His hatred for the Protectorate yielded a power too great to ignore. And burning even brighter than that..."

"His hatred for Enforcer Brox?" guessed Elion.

"No, you fool!" the Hermit replied, "Love! His love for the Maddening Witch made him a force to be reckoned with. If you stand in the way of such power, you will only stand to see yourself destroyed." 

"Who was Enforcer Brox?" asked Fiepet, "Was he the one who sent the witch away?"

"The vicious cunt who murdered Rel," the Warlock explained. 

Fiepet thought back to the play. A dagger to the throat, a push of a button, and a stream of red ribbon. No. Not a dagger, it was the jagged edge of his bracer... not an actor in his grasp, but a man in chains. Fie shook his head and downed a mouthful of liquor, before visions of red could cloud his mind.

"Three nights after the Warlock left my cave, the cunt was dead," the Hermit declared with a smile. "And I'll toast to your success on that front."

"Here here!" cried Ursa from the carriage.

Bound as he was, Rel's little brother had not been excluded from the festivities, and the potent drink was starting to loosen his inhibitions. The warmth of Min's sleeping form beside him, becoming harder to ignore.

"Is your brother much of a drinker?" Elion asked Fie, casting a casual eye over the Warlock's reactions.

"Delphin does not drink, as social situations do not suit him. My brother is often an object of fascination to interested parties. His looks attract trouble."

"An object of fascination?" clarified Elion, "Or an object of desire? Be honest. They wanted to fuck him, didn't they? Did any get the chance?"

Fiepet's outrage was tempered by the alcohol. "No one is going to fuck my brother!" he asserted, "He is a man!"
 
"But the witch... I mean, the Divine is a man. And the Warlock intends to marry him. So surely that means a man can be-"

"Quiet," the Warlock ordered.

"Yes, a man should know when to be quiet," waged Fiepet, "Just as how the Counsel has-"

A turn of his head and the words stopped. Elion and the Warlock followed his line of sight to the carriage behind them.

"URSA!" screamed the Warlock, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

The ambient sounds of celebration fell away. Ursa's bound hands were within the Counsel's clothes, his saliva still wet upon his lips. Min stirred as the Warlock approached; too late to stop the fist that flew at Ursa's face.

"No!" cried the Counsel, throwing his body between them, "Don't hurt him!"

 "After he dared to violate you?!"

"He didn't mean it," the Counsel assured, "Please, calm down and listen to me."

"Min! His tongue was in your fucking mouth!"

The Counsel wiped his lips. The people were watching them, the eyes and ears of the crowd upon them. "Not here," he vowed. Raising himself from the carriage, he fixed his clothes and climbed down to face the Warlock.

"We cannot speak of this here," he said, taking hold of the Warlock's arm, "Pike, for the sake of my dignity, let us talk in private."

Fie and Elion watched as the pair walked away. Only a fool would have dared to follow them.

"I'll go make sure they don't start a fight," said Elion, following after.

Whispers grew in volume around the lake, but the Hermit found the means to quell their restless curiosity. 

"A blessing for whosoever resists the effects of my liquor!" he offered, "Even the Warlock and his men are not immune to its potency! Come, come! Let us see if we cannot find the greatest drinker in the Madning Isle!"

Fiepet watched as the people flocked and a line formed, the Hermit's disciples busying themselves once more with the large earthenware flagon. He was grateful that someone with sense existed in this world. As he considered if it was right to check on Ursa in the absence of his friends, two strong arms swooped in with the crowd and carried him off.

Alone in the carriage, his cup finished, his cheek bruised, and with Min's warmth gone too soon from his side; all Ursa could do was cry. The drunkard wailed until his eyes brimmed with tears, and a blurry face appeared at his side.

"Piglet..? Is that you?"