“Dammit, dammit! Damn it all!”

  The mustachioed servant cursed in fury as he crept across the rocky terrain. He had scurried away from the battle when he saw that luck was turning against his lot, and now his meagre hopes were pinned upon somehow finding his way back to the spot where they had tied their horses. Unfortunately that place was a good distance away from here, as the steep and treacherous mountain terrain had become too much for their mounts and his party had been forced to continue their journey on foot for his party to continue riding, and everything had been thrown into chaos after they were set upon by that fiendish creature, and all-in-all he had been thrown dreadfully off-course.

  “Everything would have gone perfectly if it hadn’t been for that… Monster.” The final word was forced out with great reluctance, as if it hurt his tongue to give it shape. “To think, the Monsters are actually real… I absolutely must return to Baron Otkorn’s side to inform him of this development before he sets his plan in motion!”

  However, after he had scuttled past a sizable crack in the rock wall, he was waylaid by a silhouette form which stepped out of the shadowed crevice behind him!

  “So this was all Baron Otkorn’s doing, then? I really should have known.” Said the figure, their voice echoing eerily off the stone, and causing the mustachioed man to startle and hurriedly turn to face this newfound foe.

  Illuminated by the moon, Old Belfort’s pale hair and skin took on an ethereal, pearlescent glow as he unhurriedly cracked his knuckles through the leather of his gloves, working his way through one hand before moving on to the next. He then lowered his center of gravity as he sank into a pugilist’s pose with his elbows pointed down towards the earth.

  “You are not going anywhere.” He declared to the affronted Otkornian before him.

  The mustachioed man looked Belfort up and down, taking note of the fact that the two of them were clad in almost identical attire–the standard uniform of senior manservants–and he scoffed dismissively at his opponent. Despite his derision, he also lowered himself into a pugilistic pose the same.

  “As if I will allow myself to be captured by a foolish man who serves a weak and unworthy Lord!” He growled at Belfort, who furrowed his bushy brows, but was not given an opportunity to respond to the insult as his foe continued his speech.

  “My Lord is a man of exceptional character, but considering the scoundrel whom you follow, his preeminence is something you could never hope to understand. Now, have at thee!”

  And then, in the same breath, the two of them leapt forward with reckless abandon as their melee began!

  After taking a brief moment of rest to catch their breaths and settle themselves, Niklas and Uldred retrieved the fallen Hemsley and Missy, and together they all made their way back through that small patch of forest towards that clearing which was now strewn with scattered remains of Otkornian men and Petrician villagers. Niklas could not help but to stop and stare in awe–and no small amount of disgust–at the corpse of that great and fearsome creature which the three Hunters had brought low. Thomas and Nayantara waved to him in greeting from where they stood watch over the remaining village folk from Wiffeld, who in turn knelt behind the Hunters like the prisoners they were.

  Nayantara looked about, noting the absence of several faces which she had been particularly expecting to see amongst the returning party. “The Elder, is he..?” She asked hesitantly.

  Uldred shook her head. “He went over the cliff. Alongside mister Rochester.”

  “...Ah.”

  The two women turned then to observe the reaction of the villagers who had known the deceased man as their Elder. A few reacted with shock and horror to the news of Crawford’s passing, but most of their lot remained as outwardly stoic as any other Petrician. There were a couple of them, however, whose expressions lightened and relaxed in obvious relief.

  “So, what do we do about this lot, then?” Nayantara asked Uldred, gesturing to those assembled behind her.

  Uldred took a step past her fellow Huntress and approached the rebels, looming impressively over where they knelt upon the sparse grass. In that moment, with the bright, cold moon at her back casting her features in deep shadow, she appeared to them like some terrible, inhumanly large manifestation of Death itself. It was incredible, then, that only half of those weathered folk seemed somewhat afraid of her terrible countenance, and just as many gazed up at her with faces affixed in emotionless, stony expressions, the only crack in their fa?ade evident in the beads of nervous sweat which glistened like silver upon their foreheads.

  “I know what my Father would have done with them...” The Countess said, her voice deepening as her thoughts meandered down a dark and vengeful path.

  Niklas’ ears perked up as she spoke then, and he turned to look over at the commotion just as Uldred appeared to be readying her massive weapon to strike a deadly blow…! Immediately and without hesitation, Niklas sprinted forward and leapt to stand between his Noble wife and the villagers who knelt before her.

  “My Lady, please stay your hand! I beg of you!” He cried out, putting out his hands in a desperate, placating gesture.

  At first she was froze, his interruption having taken her by complete surprise, but then her face twisted as she felt her anger rise again, now twice as strong as it had been moments before. Her voice was deathly cold and deceptively even as she addressed her vexatious husband. “Step aside, my Lord Count. Why do you bother to defend these traitors–were you not the primary target of their wicked schemes, despite being their liege-lord? Their rebellion cannot go unpunished!”

  “We know naught about why they followed Crawford’s orders; they could easily have been deceived or coerced into assisting him in his folly! I beg you to withhold judgment until this matter has been properly investigated and a fair trial can be held.” He pleaded with her.

  “I am doing this for your protection!” She growled, jabbing a finger directly towards him as her frustration began to boil over.

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  “...I know you wish to do this for my sake.” He said with a sigh, before his expression turned sharp, his tone almost chiding. “But I also know how little you value your own safety. If you had been the target of this ploy, you would have brushed it all off and sent them on their way. Am I wrong…?”

  Uldred took a step back from the piercing gaze of her frighteningly perceptive husband, looking a bit sheepish. After all, what he stated was not, in fact, an incorrect assessment of how she would have handled such a situation. Niklas took a step forward to match her retreat as he continued to speak.

  “Besides that, I know that no matter the circumstance, condemning your own people to summary execution would pain you terribly. It would place a great burden upon your heart, a guilt that would weigh upon you for the rest of your days.”

  Even the most stoic of the kneeling villagers now wore expressions betraying their surprise, so baffled were they by this reversal of their expectations. They could never have imagined that the foreign Lord, the very man of whom they had attempted to rid themselves, would staunchly rise to their defense! And learning about the depth of their fearsome Countess’ feelings towards her people even brought some of them to tears.

  Uldred’s weapon lowered to rest upon the ground as her shoulders sank. Niklas took another step towards her then and placed one hand upon the back of her arm. In truth, he had meant to place it upon her cheek instead, but even considering her slumped posture there was simply no way for him to reach that high without assistance, so he was forced to settle.

  “You are not your Father, Uldred.” He said much more softly then, his face gazing up into hers with a gentle grin, a sight which sent such a sudden, overwhelming spasm of emotion through Uldred's heart that she felt as if she had been stabbed with a knife.

  The others–Thomas, Nayantara, Hemsley, and even Missy– drank in the scene that played out before them with grinning faces of their own as a warm and fuzzy feeling kindled in their bellies.

  Meanwhile, the young couple remained completely absorbed in one another as Niklas continued to speak.

  “As you previously said: time and time again, your Father did great harm to this place and its people as he sought to make everyone as miserable as he was.”

  Uldred nodded in solemn confirmation.

  “Meanwhile, you only harmed Petrice out of a misplaced, yet earnest desire to relieve the suffering of your people by repealing their taxes.”

  … And just like that, any warm and fuzzy feelings this scene had evoked for those gathered in that clearing evaporated into the air.

  Nayantara hid her face in her hands; Thomas’ grin never wavered, although his skin took on an ashy, nervous pallor; Hemsley hastily turned away and began tending to Missy to pretend he hadn’t been listening; Missy herself let out a particularly exasperated huff and rolled her eyes.

  Meanwhile, Uldred scowled down at Niklas with a poisonous look that could–and indeed, had–make lesser men soil themselves with fright. Wordlessly, she straightened her posture before reaching up and sliding her sword back into its sheath. She then turned one heel and, without preamble, began marching back in the direction of the Castle.

  Her gait was measured and unhurried, her expression was a mask of neutrality, and yet it was clear to everyone present that she emitted a strong aura of someone who was nursing emotional wounds after having suffered a grave blow to their psyche.

  “W-wait, I didn’t mean… that’s not what I––shit. Uldred, please come back!” Niklas cried, realizing his misstep. “I’m sorry, that’s not at all what I meant to say… Uldred!”

  Her wide, long-legged strides were such that Niklas had to scramble at close to a full run to just barely keep up with her. And while he desperately tried to find something to say that might correct his terrible blunder, he could never quite catch up to her well enough to see past the edge of Uldred’s hood, which hid her countenance from view. He was, therefore, completely unaware of her struggles as she worked to stifle a fit of giggling caused by his clumsy, desperate pursuit of her.

  The Hunters and servants watched the retreating backs of their Lord and Lady for a few moments before turning back to converse amongst one another once again.

  “Say,” Nayantara asked. “has anyone seen where Belfort got off to?”

  No sooner had she asked after the older man’s whereabouts than did he emerge from the shadows beneath the nearby canopy of trees. “Right here!” He said as they all turned to greet him. Before anyone could say a word, however, their collective eyes were drawn to the carcass the diminutive butler held dangling under one arm.

  With surprising ease, Belfort tossed the unconscious man forward, causing his limp body to land with a thud on the ground between himself and his fellows. They quickly gathered around the defeated Otkornian servant, taking note of how his face was bloodied and swollen, while his infamous curly mustache had been mangled and frayed terribly. He had clearly endured a most methodical, thorough and painful beating.

  “What shall we do with him, then?” Hemsley asked the group.

  Missy huffed into the contemplative silence.

  “I completely agree.” Belfort replied to her suggestion. “We tie his limbs like a hog and send him back to his Lord.”

  “I’ll get the rope!” Thomas stated enthusiastically before he began rifling through his packs.

  “If you would kindly fetch me some parchment and ink as well, I shall pen a strongly-worded letter for the Baron” Belfort said.

  So, with a mischievous and triumphant sort of malice, the party of Petrice went about their work with fiendish glee.

  We now turn our gaze upon the village of Wiffeld. It is early morning, and the weather is particularly foggy, even for Petrice. There is so much fog, in fact, that one could barely make out their immediate surroundings, much less pick up on any color or detail therein.

  It was the rare kind of day on which farmers would not dare enter their fields to tend to their crops, nor would the shepherds guide their flocks out to the areas where the meagre grass grew the most bountifully.

  On days like this, not a single villager ventured out beyond the confines of the tall, rickety walls which enclosed their settlement.

  They did not act this way out of a sense of discomfort, even though the chill, damp air erupted in billowing clouds whenever one exhaled, as thick as the breath of one who had just taken a deep pull of fragrant burning weed through a pipe. No, this was a matter concerning sight.

  Provided one could take a good look at their surroundings, the farmers would toil even when it rained, and the shepherds would wander out even when it snowed.

  In a land with such unique circumstances as Petrice, the ability to see a long ways out was of vital importance for people with no true means to defend themselves. For the Monsters who stumbled in from the West, whether they be small and quick or massive and lumbering, were a most foul and lethal threat. To have the best chance of escaping an encounter with one’s life, every second of forewarning was priceless.

  It was then this unfortunate, obfuscating weather that confined the humble village folk within their small and relatively warm hovels. It was then that, unexpectedly, someone managed to spot the dark silhouette of a man appearing from out of the mists just beyond the town gate. Whoever it was, their frame was slightly taller and wider than that of the average man. Once he drew close enough, his visage and a gait were revealed to be one that the villagers of Wiffeld were most familiar with. As this entity approached, a man wandered out to greet him.

  “Welcome back, Elder!” He called out, accompanied with an enthusiastic wave.

  The dark figure, however, made no reply.