#gasppppppp

He’s under duress this time too; it’s the fourth Friday in a row that she’s put her tray down at his table, and he stutters to a stop, eyes wide and cheeks flushed a painful red.

“I can go sit somewhere else,” she offers, though she has no idea where. Her only friends here besides them are Kihal, who has lunch fourth block on Fridays; and Ryuu, who eats lunch at the middle school, since the guidance counselor thinks it’s better for him to associate with children at his own level of maturity during free periods. He hates it, but Shirayuki gets how impossible it is to tell adults that when they believe they’re doing what’s best.

Oh, maybe she should let Kihal introduce her to some people like she keeps threatening to.

“This had become officially ridiculous,” Kiki informs him in her calm way, eyebrow twitching. “You need to tell her already. Look, you’re giving her anxiety.”

“I’m not --!” Zen grits down on his words, taking a deep breath. “I’m not giving her anxiety, you are giving her anxiety!”

“Amazing,” she deadpans. “Somehow you’ve managed to exceed my already ground-level expectations by digging under the bar. Just tell her already, or I will.”

His jaw goes slack, like he’s never considered that a possibility. “But then she’ll know that you --”

“Unlike you, I’m not ashamed of my hobbies for show.” Kiki turns to her with a brilliant smile; Shirayuki’s knees wobble under the beauty of it. “Since Zen is too weird to tell you, I like to spend my Saturday evenings --”

“We play D&D in my basement!” The moment the words are out, Zen wrenches his head away, hand wrapped around his mouth, as if it might keep more from leaping out.

“Oh.” There’s really no good way to say she has no earthly idea what he’s talking about. “That’s...good?”

Kiki’s mouth twitches. “You don’t know what that is, do you?”

Of course Kiki would find her out. At barely a month, Shirayuki knew all-too-well that it was impossible to keep a secret around her.

“No,” she admits on a sigh. “It sounds fun, though?”

“You’re entirely too nice for your own good,” Kiki informs her, though her mouth shifts to a smile. “Here, sit down. Did you like playing pretend games as a kid?”

Shirayuki has always liked words.

When she was five years old, she won a raffle at the town library. She hadn’t even known what a raffle was at the time, let alone that JaJa had slipped her name into the box, but that hadn’t mattered when she strutted down the street, collecting the children’s dictionary that was her prize. It was as thick as her arm and almost the size of her entire body, but it was first thing she had ever won -- the only thing she has ever won -- and she’d carried it the whole three blocks home, refusing to sit in her shiny red wagon and let JaJa pull her.

She spent many a day on the window seat of the B&B’s living room, poring over the seemingly endless entries. JaJa had laughed, had called her a budding intellectual with no little pride, ruffling her hair.

But she didn’t read her dictionary just to learn words, to be able to pull them out at breakfast and dinner and impress their guests. There was something comforting about it, about the idea that words meant something, that she could call something ovoid and have everyone see a similar picture to what she meant.

Well, provided they knew the word, of course. She ran into that problem often enough. Apparently, chiaroscuro was not a word that was common in the average adult’s vocabulary, let alone a nine year old’s.

This is the second time she has been in Zen’s basement, and Shirayuki honestly wonders if he knows what one is at all.

Basement means someplace dark, dry, the air heavy with must and the scent of wood shavings. It’s rickety wooden stairs and exposed beams of two-by-fours turning a suspicious green. It’s the small walled-in area where JaJa kept his tools, his projects piled high, chair legs shaped but unstained or entire pieces tipped on their end, held in vices for the glue to set. It’s a small, renovated area with a dying plaid couch and an overstuffed bookshelf, a place she could study without stumbling into guests every time she wandered out to the bathroom.

But this -- this is something entirely different.

This is fully renovated, with hard wood floors and walls painted a blinding white. The Game Room itself -- that’s what they call it, the game room, like their house is a Clue board complete with a study and a conservatory -- is bigger than her entire apartment, and there’s an exercise room just beyond it, filled with equipment expertly maintained, but most likely never used. She got to take a good look at it last time, because that is where the shared full bath is, along with a Jacuzzi tub.

It’s nice to be saved the trip upstairs, but still, still.

The furniture down here is at least not quite as intimidating as the painstakingly arranged antique and designer pieces upstairs, though Shirayuki is certain that just one part of that sectional sofa probably worth more than a month’s rent. She really doesn’t want to know what what the table set cost, especially not when Zen has been telling her they want to replace it, to put in a real gaming table, a custom model instead of just a regular dining table and -- and she really doesn’t know what a real gaming table would involve, but she’s sure it’s more zeroes than she would feel comfortable dropping for a car, let alone a slab of wood.

“Shirayuki!”

Zen scrambles out of his seat, realizing a moment too late that he’s stuck; Mitsuhide is settled in on one side, and Izana’s chair blocks a casual escape on the other. His nose wrinkles in annoyance, and all at once she finds it both endearing and -- and a relief. It’s nice to have someone excited when she walks in a room, but at the same time, it’s not as if she’s from an Austen novel and social mores demand that he rise for a lady. The last thing she needs is one of her few friends in this town giving her Mister Collins vibes.

Mitsuhide, at least, stays seated, absorbed in what looks like a new -- or at least new to her -- equipment book. Kiki had told her Bedwyr was in the market for some items to bolster his lay on hands; after all, he’s not going to be dropping points in Charisma any time soon, and all those mental stat boosting headbands were prohibitively expensive.

Shirayuki had nodded along. She had...definitely understood some of those words, when Kiki said them.

She knows the moment Izana steps down behind her, not only because his sternum bumps into her shoulder and sends her spilling forward, only avoiding an embarrassing fall into the sectional the price of a college education by the hand that wraps firmly around her arm, but also --

Mitsuhide bolts upright like a dog straining his leash and asks, “Are those...cookies?”

His eyes lock onto Frosty’s cheerful coal-eyed gaze, looking like he’d wag his tail if he could, like he’d be getting gleefully underfoot in hopes of getting a treat to spill on the floor, just for him.

“You bet they are.” She can’t see Obi, not when he’s right behind her, but she can feel his grin on the air, too pleased. “Red’s already bribing the DM.”

Zen flushes a deep red, and Shirayuki’s glad looks can’t kill, because otherwise she’d be looking for a new ride home. “Shirayuki would never. Who could even believe--?”

“Why, Shirayuki,” Kiki drawls, a slow smile curling across her lips. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Kiki!”

She winks. “I’m impressed.”

Zen fumes silently in his seat, arms crossed over his chest as he stares -- right at the hand on her arm, the one she’s just noticing is quite bronze against the cream of her cardigan. She follows it up, up, until she looks straight into amber, and --

And at least Obi looks just as surprised as she does, his hand slowly uncoiling, like somehow it will suddenly be less noticeable how long it’s been there if he just moves slow enough.

Her face is unbearably, irrevocably hot, and she knows she must be redder than her hair, in the midst of a blush she has no hope will go unnoticed.

“N-no, no!” she protests, turned back to Zen. “It’s only a, um, host gift! I thought it would be polite!”

She wouldn’t have done it at all, if she knew everyone would make it into such a -- a thing.

Ugh, no, she feels guilty even thinking about being that rude. Of course she would have done it anyway. “They’re snickerdoodle!”

Zen stares at her blankly, forehead wrinkling in confusion. “What’s a--?

“Anyway,” Izana drawls loudly, saving her from knowing whether it was host gifts or snickerdoodles Zen had never heard of. Either way seemed like an oversight on his parents’ part.

She takes a surreptitious look around the room. Well, maybe his au pair’s part.

“I believe there is a game we are supposed to be playing.” Izana steps past her, setting the tin down at the head of the table, just outside of his screen. The snowman is on full, humiliating display. She really should have chosen a plainer tin. “Or have you ingrates forgotten, marveling at how polite Shirayuki is?”

“Does that mean Red is going to get some sweet starting bonuses?” Obi asks, slipping into the chair next to Izana, across from Zen -- who only glares harder, as if he might be able to make Obi disappear from sheer force of will.

“I’m offended you would even ask,” Izana deadpans grimly, cracking open the tin. “Of course she is.”

“Ooh.” Obi perches his chin on a hand, waggling his eyebrows. “Sounds like a bribe to me, boss.”

Zen scowls.

“It’s merely a show of appreciation for such a thoughtful gift.” He plucks a cookie from the tin, inspecting it as if home-baked cookies were suspicious objects, like a bag left unattended at a bus station. “Shirayuki is above such venal acts.”

The cookie hovers near his mouth, and Shirayuki can’t help but stare, palms sweating against her skirt as she waits for him to take a bite. This is always the worst part of making something for someone -- that moment before they taste it, where she’s left to wonder if she picked something they liked, if maybe she mixed up the salt and the sugar --

A slap, quick and harsh, jolts her attention away.

“Ow!” Zen cradles his hand against his chest, scowling at his older brother. “Hey!”

“These are my bribe, thank you.” Izana nudges the tin closer to his screen.

Kiki lifts her eyebrows. “I thought Shirayuki was above bribes.”

“Of course she is,” he murmurs around a cookie. “But I never said i was above taking them.”

There are no bedchambers in the alchemy tower at Tintagel; you have come to understand this is a hard-won rule, brought into being only after a sufficient number of fires, explosions, and demons had destroyed enough personal property that it was deemed prudent to separate living quarters from working space. It makes sense, of course, and after a fashion, you appreciate the thought that went into such a rule, but -- it does leave you walking from one end of the castle to another at least twice daily. A small price to pay for not waking up exploded, or possessed, or worse, but still, there are days you think you might have risked it, if only to save you the trek.

It is while you are trundling through the central corridor that you hear voices, raised and pointed, coming from one of the rooms. It is an odd occurrence here in your, albeit limited, experience. Tintagel is a quiet castle, almost empty for one of its size. Some days it can feel as if you are the only one inside -- at least until your horned shadow peeks his head in your window, reminding you that even should you feel alone, he is always there, ready to prod every wound.

Still, it is not a place where arguments are common; Arturius railing against the unfairness of his brother’s mandates is a daily occurrence, yes, but to hear a counterargument -- it is unusual to say the least.

You draw closer, slowing until you walk nearly on tip-toe to get close to the source. You recognize one voice, at least: high and reedy, commanding -- it can only be Arturius. When he speaks to you, his tones are soft, dulcet, even demure, but you have seen him be prince enough to know that this is his voice as well, one that would be recognized more readily by his knights.

It takes you a longer moment to place the other. It is fluid, ever-changing, never quite rising to meet Arturius’s anger, only sauntering in to provoke it before leaping back.

Ah. It is the tiefling. Beaumains. Less surprising, though you would have bet hard-earned coin on him dogging your shadow, rather than prodding the prince.

You stifle a sigh. That is an unkind assumption. Beaumains, as obnoxious as he can make himself, has professed to turning over a new leaf, to dedicating himself fully to serving Tintagel, and by extension, you. Even at his worst, you would not call him mean-spirited. Between the both of them, it had been Arturius who refuses to warm to your new guard, not the other way around.

Of course, that does not mean Beaumains does not rise to meet the prince’s expectations of him. Or, perhaps more accurately, lowers himself.

“You are not coming,” Arturius fumes through the door, tone utterly final.

The prince is a man who is used to being obeyed, who is used to having the last word if his esteemed brother is not in the room, so it cannot help that Beaumains only laughs, hearty and dismissive.

“It’s my job, Master.”

Armor clinks, hissing against the stone as he moves. “Not if I say it is not.”

“I’d love to see you try and stop me.” You cannot see Beaumains’ face from where you stand, but you know his grin is razor sharp, his body coiled with that dangerous energy of a cat before it pounces.

“I am Arturius, Prince of the Angles,” he says, every word steel, “and if I say you stay, there is no word that may gainsay me, save --”

“You aren’t my prince.”

You can feel the very wind stop at those words, the way the temperature of the chamber drops. You doubt Arturius has ever heard such a thing before.

“I’m no Angle.” Beaumains takes pride in every word; you can nearly see the way his chest puffs out, the way he stares at the Angle’s prince in challenge. Lord be good, but he is asking for a fight.

“Oh, and just what creature do you name yourself, then?” Arturius sniffs, taking yet another clanging step toward him. “A demon?”

“A devil,” Beaumains admits easy enough. “But in your world of man, I’m a...uh...um...”

Obi shoots a helpless look toward Izana.

With a long suffering sigh, Izana picks up yet another snickerdoodle -- his fourth, Shirayuki can’t help but note with pride. “You’re a Pict.”

“Yeah!” Obi whips around, waggling his eyebrows smugly. “I’m...whatever the fuck that is.”

“A Pict.” Mitsuhide squints, chin tilted toward the ceiling as he thinks. “Isn’t that...Scottish?”

“Is it?” Obi’s head swings back, looking wide-eyed at Izana. “Am I?”

Izana lifts his gaze heavenward, hands raised in a despairing shrug, and Shirayuki sees his soul ascend from his body.

“No, aren’t they the, um...predecessor of the Scots in the Highlands?” It’s been two weeks since she read over the player guide, but it sounds right, or at least familiar. “They were in the northern and eastern parts of Scotland from the late Iron Age to early Medieval period, and they’re thought to have eventually folded into the nearby Gael kingdom to--” she looks up, finding everyone staring at her in varying shades of disbelief -- “form...Alba?”

She shrinks, just a little, in her seat. Oh, she’s done it now. Now she’s Hermione Granger, know-it-all extraordinaire.

Zen doesn’t even blink. “Do you just...know all this?”

“You...don’t?” She glances at Izana, only to catch his slack jaw, his raised brows. “It’s...in the supplemental materials. There’s even a map.”

“There’s a map?”

“It’s been on google drive for three years,” Izana reminds him waspishly, well-recovered. “It’s not like I’m hiding it.”

“It’s the same one on Wikipedia,” she offers, though by the annoyance on both their faces, it doesn’t help. “Did any of you read the player guide?”

Everyone makes a good show of looking anywhere but at her or Izana. Well, that certainly answers that question.

“To be fair,” Mitsuhide starts on something suspiciously like a whine, “the player guide wasn’t entirely complete when we started.”

“Oh,” Izana remarked mildly, “is that so?”

The air in the room is tense, a full two degrees cooler than when they started this particular conversation, and --

Obi is oblivious to it. “Does this mean I have a Scottish accent?” He clears his throat, leaning toward her with a throaty, “Ach, lassie, do you ken--?”

“Absolutely not.” Izana turns to her. “In any case, I do believe that Lynet must roll some Stealth, if she means to continue to eavesdrop at the door...”

With a groan that could wake the good neighbors in their barrows, the door falls out from under your hands. Your feet tangle beneath you, tied up in both your skirts and surprise, pitching you forward --

Right into the awaiting arms of Beaumains.

“Why, my lady,” he drawls, entirely too pleased with himself, “falling for me so soon--?”

“Really?” Zen deadpans. “Really?”

Obi leans back for a casual stretch, smile curling his lips. His shirt inches up, bunching around his shoulders, but his button-up is long, covering every inch of him, even where it cuts up at the side.

Not that -- not that Shirayuki is disappointed, or anything. She just couldn’t help but look sitting next to him, that’s all.

“What?” he chuckled, incredulous. “Are you trying to tell me you never wanted to use that line?”

Zen’s mouth opens, closes, and finally settles in a thin line. “Whatever.”

“My dear lady Lynet,” Arturius rumbles, seemingly unsurprised at your appearance, even as you stand stunned in the circle of Beaumains’ arms. “You are just who I had been hoping to see.”

Your heart flutters at that. You will never quite be used to a prince saying such words to you. “Me?”

“It is about your quest,” he says, studiously not looking at the man you are trying to extricate yourself from. It is far harder than it looks, especially since you are trying not to break the prince’s gaze. That seems like it might be...unwisely rude.

“You mean my sister?” Guilt gnaws at you with its tiny teeth; she has been on your mind, yes, and you have felt some impatience, staying here in the castle while she in imperiled in your family home, menaced by the Red Knight, but --

But you have also been distracted, busy with the resources that lay at your fingertips here in Tintagel. At home, you are the only alchemist within miles, with only hedge wizards and herb witches for company, but here --

Ah, now is...not the time to think of such things.

“Are we to leave soon?” you ask, attempting to sound eager. You must miss your mark, for Beaumains smothers a snort. Still, it does not seem that Arturius has noticed.

“Yes, everything is ready for our quest.” The prince favors you with a charming smile, his teeth so white and perfect in his mouth. “However --”

“However, handsome devils aren’t invited,” Beaumains explains, mouth twitching at a corner. He’s been saving that one up, you can tell.

“That’s not --” Arturius bites down on his next words. “There is no point to him going, if he is to guard your person.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Can he do that all the way from Tintagel? Is he the lord God?”

The prince sputters. “No, I only mean, you cannot possibly mean to go, and thus --”

“Excuse me?” Shirayuki doesn’t mean to sound shrill or accusatory, but -- what? “You want me to not play?”

“Of course not!” Zen flushes hot pink from collar to hairline. “I only --”

“Then what are you doing?” she asks. “Why are you trying to get Lynet to stay at Tintagel while the rest of you go on an adventure?”

“I’m roleplaying.” Zen lifts his chin, tone flirting with imperious. “Arturius is --”

“A misogynistic fossil?” Kiki offers helpfully, chin leaning on the back of her hand. “An asshole?”

“Chivalrous, is what I was going to say,” he mutters, annoyed. “It’s only--”

“Huh.” Obi’s brow furrows. “I thought chivalry was about horses.”

“That’s--”

“That’s correct, actually.” Mitsuhide squirms under Zen’s betrayed stare. “I mean, for the time period. Or well, the time period that most of the adaptations would like you to believe. It didn’t have anything to do with, you know, holding doors and stuff until much later.”

Zen swings a pleading look toward his brother, who only shrugs. “I agree with Mitsuhide’s analysis.”

“He is the history minor,” Kiki reminds him. With a small smile, she shifts her gaze to Obi. “Very impressive, Hell Boy.”

He shrugs, grin canting his lips. “Well, you know, I read sometimes.”

“We’re getting off-topic,” Zen interjects, “we were talking about the quest --”

“I am coming,” you inform the prince, as calmly as you can manage. “You cannot believe I would abandon my sister.”

“No, of course not,” Arturius assures you, hand reaching out to cup your elbow, as if you are some horse to be tamed by a touch. “I just did not want to assume--”

“Then you may be well assured I do not mean to stay behind.” You smile, to take away the sting of your words. “Besides, it is I who knows the way to Castle Perilous.”

“Ah, yes.” He grimaces. “I had...forgotten that detail. But no matter. Between myself and my sister and Sir Bedwyr, your safety will be well in hand. We do not need--”

“Beaumains,” you start, enunciating carefully so he may not mistake you, “is coming.”

“What?”

Shirayuki frowns, folding her arms over her chest. “We’re not going to leave Obi out of the game either.”

“I’m not saying we should!” Zen protests, as if he hasn’t spent quarter of an hour trying to make just that point. “He can always sneak along behind us, sent by Uther, or...whatever other shady reason he can come up with! That’s all I mean.”

“I think Obi should be with us from the start,” Shirayuki insists. “It’s mean to treat him like he isn’t part of the party. He’s sitting right here!”

“That’s -- that’s meta gaming!” Zen sputters, cheeks puffing out with annoyance. “Lynet has no reason to trust him!”

That seemed rich from the prince who was ready to trust Lynet the moment she walked into the throne room when his world is populated with evil sorceresses and shape-shifting fey.  “She doesn’t have a reason to not, either!”

“It’s fine, Red.” Obi’s words are light, casual, but the smile he turns on her is tight, pained. “Really. I can just sneak along behind.”

“No.” Shirayuki shakes her head. “Lynet wants him to come.”

Mitsuhide rucks up his mouth, dubious. “He did try to kill you.”

“He wasn’t trying very hard,” she informs him, ignoring the wounded gasp Obi makes next to her. “We’re past that now.”

“‘Kill’ is such a strong word anyway,” Beaumains adds with shrug of his shoulders. “It was really more of a...pointed discouragement. And as my lady says, I currently lack the proper motive to try again.”

“He means money,” Morgaine says to her brother, leading the mounts out from the stables. “In case you were about to take umbrage at the idea that there would be any sufficient motive for harming the Lady Lynet.”

“It still is not sufficient in my mind,” Arturius sniffs, refusing to look at your devilish companion. “Surely he might be tempted again, if offered a kingly sum.”

“Who could offer a more kingly sum than a king?” Beaumains’  mouth twitches as he takes a mare’s lead. “Uther, King of the Angles, is richer than Croesus. And the reward he offers me for keeping my lady safe is sufficient, for my tastes.”

Bedwyr frowns, considering him. “Are we supposed to believe those words from a man so fickle as to change masters for coin?”

“A man who follows money is less fickle than a man who follows his heart.” Beaumains grins at the way Bedwyr twists in discomfort. You sigh; these weeks have proven him a fine enough companion, if one that delights in the perverse, but this -- this is not helping his case.

Arturius’ nose wrinkles in distaste. “And just how is that?”

“You will always know his price,” Morgaine explains calmly. “One more than what he is currently being offered. A moral man will follow his own heart, and only the Lord knows where that might lead him.”

“If that doesn’t put you at ease, Highness.” Ah, how you mislike that smile -- “Then know I have very little motive to ruin a breast so fine as my lady’s for anything less than heaven’s vault.”

Zen whips a hand at Obi, staring at his brother. “Are you going to allow this?”

Izana lets out a long breath, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Shirayuki. Has Beaumains’ comment made you uncomfortable?”

She blinked. “No? He’s talking about Lynet, isn’t he?” It’s not like she has much chest to comment on. “I mean, Lynet is a little peeved, but -- Beaumains is only trying to annoy Arturius.”

“And it’s working,” Kiki observes, lifting a brow at Zen.

“You wound me, my lady,” Obi drawls, pressing a hand to his heart, eyelashes fluttering. “Beaumains is passionate in his devotion to you.”

“To his pocketbook, maybe,” Shirayuki allows.

“You know,” Kiki hums thoughtfully. “I really thought you were more of a butt guy.”

“Yeah,” Zen agrees, “there’s just something about you that says ass.”

“If you are all done speculating on which part of T and A Obi most prefers,” Izana interrupts, long suffering. “I need ride check from all of you.”

“Come on,” Zen sighs, “as if we don’t all have ranks enough to pass a five --”

“Oh, I don’t have ranks in that,” Shirayuki offers as she looks at her sheet. “That means...just dexterity?”

Izana grins. “It sure does.”

Morgaine specially selects the most docile, most trained mare in the stables for you; a pretty thing you never learn the name of, since you throw one leg over it and slip right off the other side. Three times.

“I think,” Bedwyr says in his hesitant, gentle way, which warns you he’s about to say something unpleasant, “that maybe you should share.”

“Oh, pick me, my lady.” Beaumains winks. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Obi waggles his eyebrows. “Beaumains is charged with protecting your body, after all.”

“Ah...” Shirayuki hums. Heat burns at the tips of her ears. She’s tempted, but -- 

“Are you planning on using every bad pick up line you know in this game?” Zen asks, half resigned.

“Well, it’s not like I can use them in real life,” Obi tells him. “I’m not as hot as Beaumains. Get it?”

She stares at him. “I’ll go with Mistuhide.”

The ride is tense as you make your way towards Avalon and the Castle Perilous.

Arturius hunches over his silver mare in the sort of sulk you would expect from a small child denied a sweet, not a prince gently overruled. As if to taunt him, Beaumains keeps pace beside you, chatting with Bedwyr in a way that make you think of a melee rather than a conversation. Although the morning is all water under the bridge for your guard, Bedwyr is eager to put him in place.

It is a many days to your home, and if you must listen to Beaumains’ deft parries to the weapons master’s clumsy thrusts, it will seem even longer still.

You look to Morgaine, seemingly the only reason in this party, but she is straight-backed, wary, eyes scanning the trees around you. It makes you tense as well, hunching close to Bedwyr’s back.

“Is something wrong?” you murmur, gaze fixed to the forest. “Do you see something?”

Morgaine shakes her head. “Listen.”

The die hits the table, spinning on a corner before it settles on a side, setting on the number Shirayuki had been seeing all night. “Oh. A one.”

Zen sighs, burying his head in his arms. “You need to get better dice.”

You strain, but to your ears, there is nothing. “I do not hear a thing.”

“That,” she whispers, mouth pulling into a grim line, “is exactly the point.”

Bedwyr’s back stiffens under you, his conversation with Beaumains stuttering to a halt as he listens. “Ah.”

Still, you hear nothing. “I do not understand.”

“No bird songs,” Bedwyr explains. “Not a one.”

“More than that,” Beaumains says, more serious than you have ever heard him, his amber eyes flicking to every shadow. “No wind.”

Now that you know, the lack of noise unsettles you, makes your skin crawl. You grew up in the woods of Avalon; for one to be so silent is unnatural. “What could--?”

There is a rustling, too loud in the silence, and you hold tight to Bedwyr, burying your face into his back --

“Halt!” a creature shrieks as it bursts from the bush, waving arms as thin as toothpicks.

The prince is at the fore, and so it is his horse that rears at the intrusion, its shriek echoing in the wood. Only expert horsemanship keeps him in his seat, his grip tightening on the reins and thighs squeezing tight to its flanks.

Morgaine is at his side at a moment, her slender hand hovering over the hilt of her blade, putting her mount between the creature and her brother. Though your heart beats as a bird’s wing in your chest, it aches with longing too. You are not so brave, so selfless as she, though you wish you could be. If only you could throw yourself into danger so quickly, perhaps your own sister would not be trapped, would not be at the hands of a man who cared not for her safety, but his own vile ends.

Bedwyr’s mare dances beneath you, his hand hovering at his side, and ah, this might not be the time to be having such regrets. Not when danger is so near.

Your gaze darts to Beaumains beside you, expecting his hands on his knives -- wherever they are -- his back tense and coiled, but --

But he has not moved, not an inch, just staring at the creature with bemusement in the gold of his eyes.

“Announce yourself!” Bedwyr commands, voice ringing through the silence of the wood. “What manner of beast are you?”

“Please, sir,” it begs, ducking its head. Now that it is not moving, not waving its limbs in warning, you can see it is not tall, a head shorter than you, with a stocky body made skeletal by what has to be either starvation or sickness. “I have only come to warn you! You must tread no further in this cursed place, else your very lives will hang in mortal peril!”

Morgaine draws her sword, the magic across its blade making it shine with a deathly sheen. It is the sharpest sword in the Isles, by Bedwyr’s account, having separated dastardly heads from broad shoulders as easy as breathing many times since its making. “He asked what manner of beast you are, sir.”

“Please!” it begs. Against its head, tawny hair clings in tangled whorls, like a man who has been sleeping in the brush for weeks, like a wild creature. “I mean no harm, but you must turn back!”

“Answer.” Arturius draws his own blade, pointing it towards the pitiful creature’s throat. “Or I will cut you down where you stand villain.”

“Wait.”

It is not until every eye has turned to you that you realize you are the one that has spoken, that it is on your word upon which this creature clings to life.

Ah, this is too much responsibility, too much power. How you wish you could have stayed in your Castle Perilous, if this was to be your life outside it.

It is Beaumains’ steady gaze that calms you; there is nothing expectant there, or questioning, just a strange sort of surety, as if he already knows what you might say, as if he already knows you have the right of it.

“I could...” You clear your throat, goading your voice to louder than a whisper. “I will look at him.”

“My lady,” Arturius breathed, shocked. “I could not possibly allow you to near this...this thing alone.”

You draw in a long breath, steeling yourself. “I--”

“Then I’ll go with her.” Beaumains swings himself off his steed with a grace that sends pangs of envy stabbing through you. “Since I’m such a dangerous man myself, there’s no way this pathetic thing could get a drop on me.”

He saunters over with his long-limbed gait; it should look awkward, gangly, but instead it reminds you of how wildcats prowl. He holds his hands up to you, ready to lift you from your saddle as soon as you give word.

Instead, you stare, heat flooding your cheeks as you consider him. “But I beat you.”

“W-well,” he stammers, ducking his chin into his shoulder, looking anywhere but at you. “Those were extenuating circumstances.”

“I tackled you,” you persist, for no reason at all besides that it seems important for him to know. “You were on the ground.”

He let out a disgruntled noise. “I did end up on top --”

“Not to break up this delightful roleplay,” Izana drawls, chin cupped in his hand. “But does Lynet plan on getting off her horse, Shirayuki? Or should I just let Morgaine and Arturius have their way with this creature.”

“Oh!” Shirayuki drags her gaze away from Obi’s, away from where his lips curl, too pleased. “Yes, I’ll, um, get down.”

“Perfect.” Izana’s teeth flash behind his smile. “Then why don’t you roll me...Dexterity.”

“No, wait.” Zen frowns at his brother, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “That isn’t fair! There’s no roll to get off a horse.”

“We’ve already established that Lady Lynet cannot ride on her own,” Izana tells him breezily. “I don’t know why that lack of skill wouldn’t extend to mounting or dismounting.”

Zen’s mouth pulls flat, but he looks away first, cheeks stained an angry red.

“So...?” She darted a glance between the two of them. “Should I...?”

“Oh, by all means.” Shirayuki really does not trust that grin on his face, especially not when Izana purrs, “Please.”

You curse yourself a fool for never taking your riding lessons seriously. Yes, there had been no way to know that you would not always have a riding block to hand, and no way to know that the extent of your excursions would stretch further than the length of your lands but -- still. You were a rambunctious child; surely you should have seen the merit in such a skill, even if your brother would not allow you to sit astride.

Ah, but what a perfect rebellion that would have been: learning to ride like a man. The only blessing you have remaining to you is that at least you are light, for otherwise you doubt Beaumains slender frame would have managed to keep you both upright as you tumble gracelessly into his arms.

“Oh,” he murmurs, chest rumbling beneath your palms. He is still so pleasantly warm, just as he had been when he touched you nights ago in your laboratory, so much more than any man, even Bedwyr.

“M-my apologies,” you stammer, red-faced, your hands itching as you peel them away from his tunic. “That was clumsy of me.”

He lets out a weak laugh, scratching at the back of his head, looking anywhere but at you. “Think nothing of it.”

“Need you be reminded,” Morgaine calls out, half amused, “that we are holding this creature at sword point, awaiting your counsel?”

“Oh!” You hurry forward, bag clanking at your hip, Beaumains just behind. “Yes, it’s only -- I think I know what he is. Or rather -- who he is.”

“I have to roll for this, don’t I?” Shirayuki picks up her d20 rolling it thoughtfully around her palm. “It’s, um...”

“Knowledge Nature,” Izana tells her gently. “Or maybe Knowledge Arcana. Possibly even Spellcraft, if we want to get down to it.”

She hesitates, the die’s corners digging into her fingers. “I have all of those. Is one better?”

“Each one gets you different information.” Mitsuhide leans over the table, pulling her sheet between them. “See how there’s so many knowledges? Each one corresponds to a type of creature, or sometimes items, or related topics. Nature is for natural creatures -- humans, animals, things we see in the real world -- and Arcana is for magical beasts, or constructs. That sort of thing.”

There’s so many on her sheet, with things like dungeoneering or planes that don’t seem to have much to do with creatures at all, but she nods. That makes...some sort of sense, at least. “What about Spellcraft?”

“That identifies a spell.” He gives her a gentle smile, and it occurs to her that she doesn’t know what Mitsuhide’s major is, but he should really consider teaching. “Sometimes, if you roll nigh enough when an enemy caster is casting, you can learn the spell, or counter it.”

That sounds...useful. Good thing she took a bunch of ranks in that. “Can I only pick one?”

“By all means.” Izana leans forward, just slightly, and she realizes -- he’s interested. She’s doing something he didn’t expect. “Roll all three.”

“He looks like a dwarf,” you say, shaking your head. “But he is not, only a man.”

Arturius blinks down, uncomprehending. “Are you to say that he is short?”

“Aye me,” Morgaine sighs, “of course you are preoccupied by such a thing.”

“Dear sister--”

“No,” you interject, before either of them can start an argument. “He is under a curse. A terrible one.”

“By who?” Arturius’ mouth pulled long, his eyes searching the forest’s edge. “A sorcerer? A fey?”

You shake your head. “I do not know its cause. It was done by one with more powerful magicks than myself. All I know is that his shape has been changed, and he is cursed to not be able to speak of his affliction.”

“Sounds fey enough to me,” Morgaine mutters darkly, eyeing the poor man. With a sigh she sheathes her blade, dismounting her steed to help him to his feet. “Come, what is it you warn us of?”

“Plague!” he rasps. “There is a plague at Laxdo.”

Silence reigns in the forest for a long moment. Laxdo, who had long been an ally to your house, who had long been an ally to the throne, now brought low by unknown hands. It could not be anything less than disturbing for the prince and his sister.

“We do not know if he speaks the truth,” Morgaine reminded him. “Not all is lost. This may yet be the trick of his master.”

“He wears their livery,” Bedwyr offers grimly, mouth set in a grave line across his handsome face.

Arturius takes in a long breath, serious. “We must go there --”

“Hold up, hold up.” Obi waves his hands, giving the rest of the table an incredulous glance. “A plague? Like, One to Black Death, where does this thing stack on the disfiguring disease-o-meter?”

“First off.” Izana ticked the point on his fingers. “Bubonic plague is not a number, and thus your scale is invalid.”

“Is your deal called dungeon master or dungeon pedant?” Obi gives him a flat look. “You know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do.” His expression may be long-suffering, but as Izana flicks up a second long finger, his lip twitches. Just a bit. “Secondly, the situation is a little more complex than rate-my-plague.”

“Still,” Zen insists, surprisingly taking Obi’s side. “The dwarf-man should be able to give us some sort of, you know, gauge.”

“Your unnamed friend has no basis for comparison,” Izana informs them easily, thumbing at the corner of his notes. “He admits, quite sorrowfully, that he does not regularly engage with plagues.”

Obi’s mouth pulls flat. “Listen, let me be real with you, chief. Beaumains only has twelve Con, so I’m just looking for how deadly this whole little soiree is going to be for me, personally.”

“Well --”

“You have twelve Con?” Kiki breaks in, incredulous. “Don’t you fight with knives? Aren’t you a strike-style fighter? How did you expect to survive?”

“I-I’m nimble,” he says, drawing himself up defensively. “And I have illusion magic!”

She stares at him. “Your plan was to just not get hit?”

Shirayuki hadn’t been sure in the car, but she’s sure now -- Obi is blushing. “I mean, yes.”

“That’s a really dumb plan!”

“Well, I know that now,” he gripes, folding his arms across his chest. “It just didn’t seem important at the time!”

“Hit points didn’t seem important at the time?” she deadpans. “Whatever, we will fix this next level. And we’re buying you a belt.”

“Aw, but I was going to buy a Dex--”

“You are getting a Belt of Mighty Constitution and that is--”

“How about instead of worrying about what you will buy next level,” Izana suggests, far too calm. “You worry about surviving to see it.”

“We must go there,” Arturius says again, this time more certain. “We must save Laxdo from this evil.”