Nova Liberdade

[The Regent In Red]

March 30, 2021
Old Temple

Iara hated Old Temple. The neighborhood stank of religion. Of gods, old gods, new gods, forgotten gods. And where there were old gods, there were Old Gods. The archfey, like his former patron. And was it not here where the Temple of the Divine Mother had also meddled in the affairs of Faerie? Iara could almost admire the sheer audacity of what they attempted, were it not for the chaos it had plunged Old Temple, and the city as a side effect, into.

In fact, the whole situation he found himself in left him with a sour taste in his mouth. The Regent might have been a friend of Mallory’s, but they were clearly fae, if not outright Gentry. Iara had a sinking feeling he might be biting off more than he could chew, even just by helping them. But the fact that he knew the stakes, knew the danger, was precisely why he’d been selected for this task. As much as he had complained about it initially, he trusted Mallory. If things took a turn for the worse, she could bail him out, pregnancy or not. He only hoped that it wouldn’t come to that.

He crouched in the backyard of a rectory, tucked behind a narrow rectangular Catholic church hewn from gray granite. A small garden with dogwood trees, white and blue hydrangeas, and purple foxgloves separated the church from the residence. They were working on reseeding the rectory backyard with grass, currently, so for the moment it consisted of a few shrubs against the side of the building and dirt. Perfect for drawing summoning circles.

He wore a light jacket and jeans, both in dark colors, as he knelt in the soil and drew the patterns necessary to conjure up what was needed for his task. When they were completed, and after he double-checked to make sure they’d been drawn correctly, he drew a curved knife from a sheath resting on his hip. He whispered words of power in Greek, then slashed his palm. Blood dripped down into the circle, turning to black smoke with a hiss whenever it hit the ground. The smoke eventually solidified into three sleek black hounds, their eyes crimson red. Iara whispered in the ear of the nearest dog. The moment he stood up, the dogs bolted away from the church, and deeper into the neighborhood.

* * *

The hounds ran, unseen by mortal eyes. They sprinted down nighttime city streets emptied of their people, with only lamplight and the steam drifting out of manholes for company. They left the abandoned part of Old Temple Iara had gone to, filled with churches devoid of worshippers in the late hour, and hurtled toward Nova Liberdade. They did not tire, and nothing could stand in their way. They passed through late night revellers, stray cats, the side walls of bakeries and apothecaries like they weren’t there at all, turning into plumes of smoke temporarily as they slipped past. Finally, they reached their destination.

Except for the gold (or was that bronze?) colored vase sitting on top of the balcony, Anastasia’s wasn’t much to look at. Once one’s eyes drifted to street level, it looked more or less like any other quick sitdown/takeout restaurant in RhyDin. Most of the front was windowed, including the door, and the windows were filled with their hours, their menu, and other signs. No public restrooms. No soliciting. No smoking. Yet despite that last sign, four men sat by the front window, doing just that while drinking glasses of strawberry kompot. The hounds passed through the glass and took a seat by the table, unnoticed, invisible.

“Anatoli, your friends -- “ The shortest of the four men was immediately cut off.

“Our friends.” Anatoli sent him a withering look.

“Our friends, they are not coming through how you say they would. Just tonight, Sergei here, him and Slava, they get in fight with Stolen Ones with Nino with them and barely escape.”

“Sergei, Slava, this is true?” Two brawny men, one with a bleach blonde mohawk and the other entirely shaved bald, looked at Anatoli.

“Da,” the bald one answered first.

“Okay, Slava. Sergei?”

“Yes, this is true,” the man with the mohawk replied. “But Nino saved our ass. He call his friend Garter, he come by, he drive a van through them. We jump in and escape, no one dead, just Igor burned some.”

“Good. Now, Ludmil, what does that sound like to you?”

The short man stared nervously down into his glass. “I don’t know.”

“To me, it sounds like they did us a fucking favor!” Anatoli slammed down his cup, splashing red liquid all over Ludmil.

“Sorry, Pakhan.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Nino when you see him next. Hell, apologize to the Snake.”

‘We never see him though,” Sergei interjected.

“You too?”

“I am not saying he does not help us, but he does not...get his hands dirty.”

“Perhaps if he did, we’d be winning this, and not stuck in standoff,” Ludmil said.

“Fine. You go tell Nino you want to meet the Snake, and you go meet the Snake, and tell him to his face. Maybe you get lucky. But what Nino tells me? I doubt it.”

Ludmil glared at Anatoli, who sat there impassively smoking a cigarette, not even deigning to meet his subordinate’s eyes. He eventually lost his nerve and glanced off to the side, out the window. He didn’t see the hounds rushing off into the rapidly chilling night.

* * *

“FUCK!” The Regent screamed, screeching feedback as Bailey’s nasal tenor added to the usual countertenor and contralto with which they spoke. They ripped the mask off of their face and smashed it against the peroba wood desk, shattering the ceramic and sending Jolberto back a couple of steps in surprise. Starkud stood his usual watch by the office door, thankful the room was soundproofed as well as warded.

“Come on, Bailey,” Jolberto said in a soothing voice. “This Snake can’t be as bad as some of the enemies you’ve fought. You killed the Sandman, for Christ’s sake! And didn’t you defeat your Keeper in battle?”

“Yes, but--” Another wave of rage and despair washed over Bailey, his voice now singular and his own. “You do not have the history I do with him, being originally from São Amador. How do I explain this?”

“From the beginning, perhaps?” Jolberto looked ready to chuckle, but when he saw Bailey’s expression, he bit it back.

“The Snake is almost as bad as the True Fae to the Stolen Ones Court here in RhyDin City. He has been around at least as long as I have been back here, as much an urban legend or a nightmare as a palpable force. We know very little about him -- a nickname, a gender, and the fact that he goes around, with a small group of fellow collaborators, and captures us Stolen Ones and returns us to our Keepers in Arcadia. He killed my motley, save for one, and had the one spirited back to the Lands.”

“But that’s good, right? You know he’s working with the Bratva, so that’s, é, a pressure point, yes?”

“Jolberto, there is a reason this guy -- whatever he is -- has outlasted Sandman, outlasted Glesni, and that nobody seems to know much about him.” Still struggling to get the words out, Bailey instead picked up one of the shards of his mask and bashed it against his computer monitor. Spiderwebs spread out from the impact point at the top of the screen. “He killed my motley! Fletcher! Lyeorn! Boris! Do you know what I had to do to get even a modicum of revenge?” The anger faded, replaced entirely by anguish now.

“Not specifically, no.” Jolberto’s eyes hardened, as he stared at Bailey. “But generally? Yes. Because I know it is the same thing you will do to protect this Court. To protect Nova Liberdade.”

“He will do whatever it takes,” Starkud said, arms folded sternly across his chest.

“Whatever it takes,” Jolberto echoed.

“Yeah.” Bailey glanced at his right index finger. One of the two times when he smashed his mask, a stray edge or spur of ceramic had sliced it, leaving a crescent-shaped well of blood on his knuckle that threatened to spill onto his clothes, the desk, the floor. He ignored it, looking back to his lieutenants. “Whatever it takes. Whatever it fucking takes.”

((Iara Tarasse is an NPC of Mallory’s, used with her permission and with many thanks!))

[The Regent In Red]

March 31, 2021/April 1 2021

The public access channel for the Stolen Ones, zero-zero-zero on the television dial, had been created years ago by a technomagical Stolen One as a way to spread news throughout the community without spreading it to those outside of it. Most folks never considered the possibility of a channel with three zeroes, and if the average person accidentally typed it in, their television either bounced it to channel 00, 1, 2, 3, or 4 depending on the device, or, if it somehow happened to go to triple-zero, they saw nothing but a soundless blue screen, looking for all the world like a glitch or a test pattern. Even so, most Stolen Ones only watched it in the comfort of their homes, or at bars and restaurants run by their kind. Better safe than sorry.

Gossip spread throughout the community during the morning and early afternoon of March 31, fueled willingly by those higher up in the Stolen One Court. “The Regent in Red is giving a special address at 7 p.m. tonight!” And indeed, they did, although the message was rebroadcast at 9 p.m, midnight, and 6 a.m. the next day for those whose schedules didn’t accommodate the live broadcast in the evening. When the appointed time arrived, those watching the TV saw the Regent in Red, sitting in their office at a peroba wood desk, the rest of the usual desk trappings shifted to the side to allow a clear view of them. Behind them was a bookshelf and some red curtains or drapes, brought in more for appearance than for actual utility. Of course, they wore their usual mask, red silk jacket, and white gloves. When the feed began, their hands were folded together on the desk.

“My fellow Stolen Ones, these are unprecedented times that we face.” Their voice still had both the usual countertenor and contralto tones, but instead of the usual delay effect that made the voices seem out of synch with each other, here they spoke in harmony. “We’ve seen great prosperity since I became your leader, nearly a year ago, but we have also faced some significant trials. Notable among these have been the efforts by the Bratva to try and destabilize our new safe haven, to try and take what we rightfully paid for with our blood, sweat, tears, and money. We have had several of our own wounded in the conflict, not to mention the tragic death of Hothouse Harry, and the disappearances of other Stolen Ones, some of whom we managed to bring back, others who we still seek to return to our fold.” The Regent paused to lower their head a moment. After an appropriate silence, they continued.

“Some of you might be asking ‘Why are we still fighting these gangsters? Shouldn’t we be able to overpower them, even if we may not have as many trained warriors as them?’ Believe me, these are questions that have kept me up for many, many sleepless nights. I’ve done the work, with the help of Jolberto, Starkud, Lasiodora, and McGraff.” The Regent leaned towards the camera slightly and took another dramatic pause. “The answer to these questions is, they’ve been receiving outside help. They’ve been receiving outside help from the Snake.” Again, they paused, to let that information sink in. They imagined the gasps and cries in Stolen One homes, pubs, and restaurants all across the city.

“Some of you may doubt the existence of the Snake, and I understand that. Sandman never really spoke of it, never really made an effort to root the man out, discover who he was, and remove his threat from the community. For many of us, he is more of an urban legend, especially for those of us who have not spent as much time in RhyDin City. But I assure you, I would not say he is involved if I did not have solid proof.” They shut up, and played a brief snippet of a conversation of the accented Bratva mentioning the Snake by name. “Now we only know a little more than we did before this was recorded. The Snake has associates named Garter and Nino. And, of course, we know that he’s providing assistance to the Bratva.” The Regent unfolded their hands.

“So what am I going to do now? It’s simple. I promise you -- I swear to you -- we are going to hunt down the Snake, Garter, Nino, and anyone else who has helped him. We are going to destroy the Bratva. We are going to find these collaborators -- these privateers -- and we are going to punish them with the full force of the Court’s might.” The Regent banged a hand on the desk for good measure. “For too long has your leadership played a game of ‘see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’ I am not going to be intimidated by those who would break our most sacred rules, who think nothing of capturing us and selling us back to our Keepers in Arcadia. They must be brought to heel. For the present and the future of Nova Liberdade and the Stolen Ones Court of RhyDin City, the Snake must be killed.”

At this point, a chyron flashed on the screen with a phone number and e-mail address, and a mailing address just above it, located in Nova Liberdade. “If you have any information on the whereabouts of the Snake, Garter, Nino, or any of the Bratva’s leadership, please send it to these places. Your tips will be kept anonymous. Thank you, and have a good night.”

[The Regent In Red]

((Trigger warning: Misgendering a nonbinary character))

April 1, 2021
The former Our Lady of Aparecida Church
Old Temple

“Regent?” Lasiodora ducked her head inside the office of the Stolen Ones’ leader, one set of arms braced against the frame while another set held several envelopes and a mailing envelope that looked large enough to contain a book.

“Yes, Lasiodora? You can come in, you know.” At the offer, she pushed away from the door and stepped inside, setting down the more ordinary mail for them, but not yet relinquishing the package. The Regent noticed this and tipped their head to the side.

“Oh, this? Don’t worry, we passed it through our magical and technical scanners and it turned up clean, no sign of anything that might hurt you, but it’s still irregular, chefe.” She slipped it behind her back, like it might make them forget all about the object’s existence. It didn’t work.

“Irregular, how?”

“Well, there’s no return address for one thing. Just your name and the address you put up on the TV yesterday. I would have brought it to you sooner today but everything’s been busy with all the phone calls and the e-mails I just now found the time to get to the post office box.” Her head bowed.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve all been very busy lately, but I have confidence our efforts are going to bear fruit.” They extended their hand, and Lasiodora handed off the package to the Regent. Without waiting for her to leave, they opened it, prying the edges of the cardboard loose with their fingers and a silver letter opener. Inside was a recordable VHS tape in a black sleeve. A white label strip on the side of the tape had two words written in large, capitalized letters: WATCH ME!

“Do we still have that TV/VCR cart from the old church in storage, Lasiodora?”

“I think so! Let me go check!” She dashed out of the room, and when she returned, her four arms were carefully pushing a wheeled trolley with a CRT television and VCR on separate shelves. Velcro straps held the boxy screen in place, while cords snaked around a bar-shaped chunk of plastic on the side. Without prompting, Lasiodora unraveled the cables, nudged the cart towards an electric outlet, plugged everything in, and turned the TV on. A blue screen greeted them. Channel 3. The Regent slid the tape out of the sleeve and into the VCR with a *chunk*, then pressed play.

* * *
At the bottom right hand corner of the screen, yesterday’s date and the time 10:36 p.m. could be seen in digital text, but the screen was otherwise completely black for about ten seconds or so. Some background rustling could be heard before something clicked -- the lens cap being removed. The view was blurry, but whoever was operating the camcorder eventually got the levels right, revealing an empty warehouse filled with floodlights and a human male. The harsh lighting messed with his features, but he seemed to be of average height and weight, with short brown hair and brown eyes. He wore a black leather jacket and tank top with navy blue sweatpants, and stood in the center of the frame.

“Hello, Mister Regent! Or is it Ms. Regent? Mrs.? Mizz?” He dragged out the z’s until they hissed. “It’s hard to tell, you know, with you being all secretive. Regent -- can I call you Reeg?” He turned to the side and laughed. “Who am I kidding? I can call you whatever the fuck I want here. My name is Nino, and I work for the Snake. The man behind the camera is Garter. Say hi to the Regent, Garter!”

“Screw you, Nino!” The cameraperson spoke with a higher-pitched voice and less control of their sibilance.

“That’s fair, that’s fair. I promised you wouldn’t have to be on screen. Regent.” Nino focused on the camera lens again, and not the man behind it. “I’m not sure why you called out our boss. Death wish? Desperation? You’re a dumbass? I know you didn’t think we wouldn’t notice this.” He paused, took a few steps to the left, letting them echo in the empty space.

“Sandman at least knew when to leave well enough alone. People go missing all the time in RhyDin. Who’s to say it’s not the Nexus, or some other privateer, or their Keeper come to recollect? Who’s to say there is a Snake?” Nino held up one hand like he was weighing something in his palm. “There was never a formal agreement, oh no. Plausible deniability. He never did make much of an effort to stop him, and we never took more than our fair share, even when our Buyer wanted more.” An accusing finger jabbed towards the screen. “But then you had to upset the orange cart.”

“Applecart,” Garter helpfully corrected, earning himself a dismissive wave from Nino.

“You had to upset the applecart. And if you think things were bad before, well, you have no idea how much worse for you they’re about to get.” He pulled at the lapels of his jacket to adjust the fit. “This doesn’t end well for you, Regent. You refused to give us Bailey -- you never even entertained the offer. That hurts us. We might have forgiven that, but you’ve just declared war on us. And you’re not just fighting the Snake, or me, or the Bratva. You’re fighting our Buyer. When word of what you’ve done gets back to them -- and it will get back to them -- you are going to wish you’d stayed in São Amador and never heard of RhyDin City.” Nino folded his arms, a triumphant expression on his face, and stood there. Several seconds passed, and he looked over to Garter. “Did you turn it off?”

“Not yet, Nino.”

“Stupid idiot!” Nino muttered under his breath as he approached the camera, then disappeared behind it. More rustling sounds could be heard before the screen went black again.

[The Regent In Red]

April 16, 2021
Nova Liberdade

The only thing standing between the three injured Stolen Ones at the end of the grimy alleyway and the eight-foot tall bugbear blocking their escape was the Regent in Red and their oversized silver broadsword. They held it in a guard position, both hands on the haft, silently daring the monster to move. The creature roared in Goblin, and the Ring of Klytus helpfully translated the message for them.

“<Gonna grind your bones between my teeth!>” The monster slammed the gigantic spiked club he was wielding against one of the brick buildings abutting the alley, sending stone and mortar down between the two. The Regent quipped back in their singular contralto an indescribably filthy insult about the bugbear’s mother, prompting the beast to roar and charge. The Regent waited until the last moment to slide to the right, sword lifted up to parry the attack they expected from the same side, but the bugbear tossed his club from right to left hand and swung at the Regent from an unexpected angle. They ducked, but the blunt weapon clipped the top of their head, cracking the top of their stylized mask. The Regent stumbled back but did not bleed from the blow. This puzzled the bugbear briefly. Then, he smiled a malicious smile as he watched the Regent stagger around.

“<Can’t wait to see how much it takes to pop your head!>” He prepared the coup de grace for the seemingly dazed Regent, lifting the club above his head. Only, when he swung it towards the figure’s skull, they suddenly tossed the sword between his legs and leaned to the side, body pressed against the bricks as the club slammed into a large puddle. Muddy water splashed along the Regent’s back and fully into the bugbear’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. It was the opening the Regent needed. With the creature now furiously (and futilely) attempting to flush their eyes, the Regent sidestepped and swung a foot squarely into the bugbear’s knee. It cracked like a gunshot, soon followed by a primal howl. The Regent shut him up quickly by locking his hands together and ax handle smashing the beast. He slumped against the wall of a nearby building and then sagged back into the puddle. The Regent stomped past the bugbear’s body, retrieved his sword, and gave it a few spins, despite its weight. Without any haste or further words, they lopped off the monster’s head. They then glanced back at their hurt companions.

“McGraff? Curly? Freemantle?” The Regent’s voice switched to its usual dual form.

McGraff had his eye on Curly, a barrel shaped man with a wispy gray beard and a pair of black horns in his namesake’s shape. “He’s in shock, but I think he’ll live,” the canid Stolen One said as he clutched his own broken arm. “Freemantle’s outright knocked out but still breathing.” Indeed, the third among them, a reed-thin woman whose skin shimmered like gasoline spilled on the asphalt, was rather unceremoniously leaning against a stack of milk crates.

“All right. Any objections to going through the Hedge, McGraff, Curly?” It took Curly a while but they eventually shook their head in agreement.

“None from me.”

“Okay. Let’s--” A vibrating sensation in the Regent’s pocket distracted them just as they pressed a hand against a wall. They sighed, retrieved the phone from their pocket, and answered.

“Can this wait?”

“S-s-sorry, chefe!” The small, nervous voice of Lasiodora filled the line. “I just figured you’d want to know that the forensic film analysts finally got done with the video that the Snake had Nino sent us and there’s some things you should know.”

“Bring a couple of chirurgeons to the Church. I’ve got a man with a broken arm, a woman who’s been knocked out with a possible concussion, and --” The Regent looked down and winced when they saw Curly’s horns. They had been gouged and scraped such that they could see the white interior underneath the black surface. “ -- I’m going to text you a number after I hang up. You’re going to call it and ask for Zevarrna. Either she’ll know what to do with Curly, or she’ll know who knows what to do with him. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Goodbye.” She hung up, leaving the Regent to open up a crimson portal. McGraff dragged the stunned Curly through, while the Regent opened a small portal at their side and shoved their sword through it, before lifting up Freemantle with a grunt and going through the gateway as well.

* * *

The four-armed Lasiodora, a goblin in a white doctor’s lab coat, and a one-eyed woman in blue scrubs greeted the four fighters as they stepped into the former church’s nave, cleared now of its pews and with several racks of folding chairs pressed up against the walls waiting to be used. Starkud and Jolberto were nearby kicking out the legs on tables to serve as makeshift beds. The Regent waited until they were done setting up before gently laying Freemantle onto the surface. Once she was in place, they looked over at McGraff and Curly. Someone had pulled up one of those chairs for Curly to sit in as the nurse shined a penlight in his eyes, while the goblin doctor set up a splint on McGraff -- standing on a chair of his own so he could reach his patient. The Regent breathed a sigh of relief.

“Lasiodora?”

“Eep!” Immersed in watching the healing process, she hadn’t expected the Regent to address her.

“Sorry, sorry. Let’s go to my office?” She nodded, and after one last look over their shoulder -- they watched the nurse switch from treating the conscious Curly to the unconscious Freemantle -- they strode towards the heavily warded office door and slipped inside.

“What do you have for me?” The Regent folded their arms as soon as they were both inside, the doors were locked, and the wards were reset.

“It’s a classic case of good news, bad news, chefe. What do you want to hear first?”

“I could use some good news tonight. Let’s start with that.”

“We know what Garter looks like now. He’s got a pretty typical height and build but he’s got scaly red and pale green ‘skin.’ I think it’s skin? Dark eyes, too, probably black or brown, though the imaging on the tape was less than ideal even after we went to work on it. It’s enough that we could put out a bulletin on him--”

“Let’s not. Not yet. If they don’t know we know that gives us an advantage. What’s the bad news?”

She shrank a little even as she knew the Regent was unlikely to get truly mad with her. “We found this out because we saw Garter reflected in Nino’s eyes at the end of the video.”

“He’s a mirrorskin.” The Regent’s hand went up to cover where their eyes were under the mask. “You’re right, that is bad news.” They laughed an unsettling, echoey laugh. “We’ll set up the pass phrases and shibboleths, make sure he can’t infiltrate us anywhere. Leite quente que dói nos dente.” They sing-songed the Portuguese to Lasiodora, who cheerfully echoed it back to them. The Regent then looked past her, towards the door. “Is Zevarrna on her way?”

“She is.”

“Would you mind meeting her at the entrance? I’ve got some things I need to work on in private.”

“Certainly, chefe.” Lasiodora opened the door and exited the office, leaving them standing alone by a bookcase. They soon wandered over to their desk, taking a seat and bowing their head. The Regent waited for a moment in silence. Finally, they locked their gloved fingers together, making a steeple, and prayed.

[Bailey Raptis]

The Hedge

Three identical figures in matching brown Bedouin thawbs walked in lockstep through the sand dunes of the desert. The sun overhead shined orange and pink, leaving the air rippling with its heat. Not that there was much to see here. Plenty of rolling sand dunes, but little other life -- no snakes, no cacti, no oases, no people save for the three trudging along. The wind whistled through the grains of sand on the ground, making verbal communication impossible. A good thing this trio didn’t need to speak aloud to talk to each other.

You’re sure Cuervo’s going to be okay training the new proxy, Dragão? The person on the left began wringing their fingers, though they were made of pink mottled marble.

Are we sure? No. The central figure shook their head, a bit needlessly. But they’re the best option we have. You’re too soft to fight the things that might be coming for Bailey, I’ve been told I’m too harsh, and Hunter’s too easily distracted by shinies.

Hey! The form on the right interrupted.

Am I wrong?

No, but --

Please let me finish? Like I was about to say, Cuervo’s managed to hold their own fighting in the duels, so we think they’ll be okay, as long they don’t waste too much time with their...alcohol proclivities.

...Why do we need another one of us?

Because Bailey’s still stretched thin, even with the four of us. If we could convince Proxinho to come back…

But they won’t. They’re different from us. They’re not us.

Has he ever asked?

No --

No, and he never will.

Why not? The question put a pause to their telepathic conversation, as they puzzled it over. When they finally spoke again, Hunter and Dragão answered at the same time.

Because we’re all that he needs.

Because we’re us, and he’s us, and they’re not. The trio stopped suddenly, in unison, in front of an ornate rather incongruously standing door in the middle of the desert. A rectangular white marble surround framed a mahogany door, paneled and studded with something that looked like metal, though when Dragão brushed their knuckles against it, they didn’t feel like any metallic object they’d ever laid hands on. They glanced to either side.

Ready, Corazón? Hunter?

Always.

We’ve gone too far now. Open the door, Dragão. They did, and a blinding white light engulfed them…

* * *

April 23, 2021
Bailey’s House
Kabuki Street

Two marble statues stood in front of Bailey Raptis’ home in Kabuki Street. Both were carved (or created) out of white stone. One had a surfboard tucked under one arm and a handle of Jose Cuervo Especial tequila in their other hand. The other was empty handed, almost literally a blank slate. The first proxy kept offering the liquor to the second one, who eyed it with extreme suspicion.

C’mon! It feels really good. The second statue leaned forward, took a whiff, and recoiled.

That smells terrible! And you’re telling me humans drink this? The Creator does?

Call him Bailey. And yes, some humans drink this, but Bailey prefers beer or cachaça. C’mon, do it for your dude, Cuervo.

Will you leave me alone if I do this? Cuervo responded by putting the bottle of tequila over their heart -- or where their heart would be, if they had such an organ.

Scout’s honor.

What’s a scout?

Nevermind that, just...get over here! Reluctantly, the second sculpture stepped closer to Cuervo, who opened the tequila bottle up and splashed the clear alcohol all over their head. They then returned the favor for the newest of Bailey’s proxies. They slouched, attempting to put a resigned expression upon their face, as the liquid spilled down their cheeks and into the curves of their collarbones.

And so started the rumor among many Kabuki Street residents that the kami at Bailey’s house had gotten restless -- or gone mad -- and begun laying waste to his property, starting with his booze.

[The Regent In Red]

May 3, 2021
Baudinville, Néa Gallía
RhyDin

The rain beat down on the stone sidewalks and brick streets like drums, a never-ceasing rhythm that lent a dull background drone to the current conversations inside Café de Lys. Inside, the decor seemed tailor-made for chasing off rainy day blues: polished brass railings on the doors, lamps, and rims of the circular tables; bucolic paintings of pastures and vineyards hanging in the hallways between dining rooms; red wicker seats, booths, and carpeting; and where there was wood, it was rich mahogany. In better weather, large windows looking out on the street would have brightly lit the interior, while patrons sat outside with their coffees and croissants, but with the rain, long vinyl covers with the cafe’s logo (a red lily) stretched out across the tables and chairs on the patio. Inside, smartly dressed waiters in black vests and pants with white shirts and aprons served casually well-dressed men and women in perfectly fitted blazers and blouses and trousers. Faint hints of coffee, bread, fresh fish and steak ebbed and flowed as the trays filtered in and out of the kitchen.

A tall, blonde woman in a blue summer dress sat at one of the tables inside, picking at the remnants of a soft boiled egg with a reddish-brown bordelaise sauce and fricasseed mushrooms. In her other hand she held a lowball glass with some sort of red liquid, a single large ice cube, and an orange peel twisting around the inside. She set her fork down and took a sip.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle!” A rich baritone rumbled in her vicinity. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a short, stocky man with an upturned nose, dark eyes, and dull brown hair -- either from being rained on, or from not being properly washed. She didn’t face the man, said nothing. He switched to Common, speaking a bit louder and slower. “Good afternoon, miss.” She still said nothing. The table rattled, the fork scraping against the plate as he stomped on the floor. “It’s rude not to answer when someone speaks to you.”

“Glesni?” A stout man in an ill-fitting gray sharkskin suit approached the table, startling the other person. The table shook again. The woman looked at the newcomer, a smile finally beaming on her face.

“Yeah?”

“Is this guy bothering you?”

“I’m not bothering her, I just wanted to say--”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to get rid of him?” The man in the suit slipped out of the jacket, rolled up his sleeves.

“Now, wait--” The unwanted interloper laughed nervously, glancing over his shoulder, but the wait staff was giving Glesni’s friend a wide berth.

“Please.” She tossed back the rest of her apéritif and set the empty glass on the table.

“Clean or messy?”

“Wh-gggh!!” The response got cut off as the apparent bodyguard lifted the first man into the air by his collar. Glesni finally deigned to look at him. He wore a white button-up shirt that was too long for him, light blue jeans that looked like they were about to fall apart, and white slip-on moccasins that were closer to gray with dirt and dust. She made a sour face, but caught sight of one of the waiters, hovering a good distance from the table holding a silver tray with what she presumed was her lunch. She sighed, waving them both off with a limp flick of the wrist.

“Clean, please, Raff. I’d like to finish my meal, and I don’t think they’ll let me if ya chuck him through the window.” Raff grunted, set the man down on his feet, and watched as he immediately sprinted past the waiter, nearly knocking him over and spilling her meal. She stared daggers at the spot he ran past, then picked up her fork to finish the rest of her appetizer. The main course was on its way after all.

“May I sit?”

“Of course, of course, I’ll ask for another plate or a menu? Do you like trout?”

“It’s fine.” He looked up to the waiter, who took the new guest at the table in stride and set down a breaded trout filet topped with slivers of onions, parsley, and a lemon-butter sauce, with an additional wedge of lemon on the side and roasted Charlotte potatoes.

“Bon Appétit! the waiter said, though he still looked at Raff expectantly.

"La carte des vins, s’il vous plaît? Glesni asked him in passable French, then added quickly, “et encore une assiette. He nodded, then slipped away, leaving Raff and Glesni alone.

“So, what ya got for me, Raff?”

“What do you want to hear about first?”

Glesni rested an elbow on the table, and cupped her cheek with her hand as she regarded Raff with a smile. That smile quickly flipped to a frown. “I want to hear about that bastard Bailey Raptis.”

“I’m not sure why--” She cut the sentence off by reaching across the table and grabbing Raff’s lapels.

“Why I don’t wanna hear about the asshole who’s responsible for our exile? Fucking bastard.” She let Raff go with a small shove at the end, sitting back up as the waiter brought over the second plate. She cut off a third of the fish and set it on Raff’s plate, along with some of the potatoes. After a quick glance at the wine menu, she ordered a bottle of Beaujolais, sending the waiter off with a little wave.

“Well, it’s not like we can do anything about it. You swore an oath not to go after Bailey or his friends, and to not to go for the Stolen Ones Court again. An oath you did break, technically.”

“Didn’t break it well enough. He’s still alive, right?” Raff nodded, though the question was rhetorical. “And Achlys and Bolér aren’t. Didn’t turn out so well for us. Can’t kill Bailey, can’t kill his friends, can’t depose this Regent in Red and rule the Court. Can’t go back to RhyDin. So...I still wanna know though.” The waiter returned, poured out a pair of glasses for the diners, and swiftly shuffled off to his next table.

“It’s hard to say,” Raff said, between bites of trout. “He travels a lot through the Hedge, so our spies don’t always see where he winds up. But as far as we can tell, he’s mostly just working at the burger place and spending time with his girlfriend. Tiefling. Calls herself Zevarrna the Merciless, apparently. He seems to be focused on those two things now. He gave up PathFinder a month ago, New Haven a couple of weeks ago. Said something about reaching an accord with the Opal, and that he was too busy with work and other obligations for New Haven.” Raff shrugged. “I never gave much of a shit about the duels, but it feels like he’s pulled back. Even last year, when he held Archmage and New Haven, he still sent statues to fight on his behalf. He’s not even doing that now.”

Glesni frowned, her fingernails clicking against the rocks glass. She took a healthy swig. “Fucking figures. Cashes in the favor I owe him to kick me out of the city, and then just fucks off to his job and girlfriend? Kid?”

“Not that we’re aware of, but as I’m sure you’re aware…”

“...we don’t have many people on the ground in RhyDin anymore,” she said, finishing Raff’s thought. “Do you think we could find an assassin?”

“One who’s willing to take on a multiple-time Archmage, a former Baron, and a former Opal? One who’s going to be able to get past the heavy wards he’s no doubt set-up at his job, his home, and his partner’s home? I’m not sure we’ve got enough money anymore for that. But-”

“Dammit. What’s the general sitch like?”

Raff looked a bit flustered at the topic switch, but after clearing his throat, he obliged. “They’ve traded our civil war for a battle between a local gang, The Snake, and his minions. The Court’s in a deadlock. Their new leader did manage to rebuild an entire neighborhood with Sandman’s money, for what that’s worth.”

Glesni shot Raff a flat look. “It should be me with that money, that power. Instead I’m stuck in this backwater country with ya and a bunch of blithering idiots. Why did I even call ya in to meet with me?”

“Uh…I asked to meet you, Glesni. I had some good news for you, possibly.”

“Where’s the good news? We can’t find Bailey, we can’t kill Bailey, the Regent didn’t get overthrown right away like they should’ve been, and we’ve got no allies and no options to get anything done!”

“Well, that’s not 100% true--” A dirty glare from Glesni stopped Raff briefly, but he pressed on anyway. “Besides our small cells and our allies here in Baudinville--”

“Maybe 20 people at best, and no real fighters among them. More importantly, no mirrorskins.”

“Well, then, you’re going to love my good news.” Raff pulled out his cell phone, pushed a few buttons on it, and a dial tone droned out of the device that he held in the palm of his hand. When the person on the other line picked up, he just smiled at them, then flipped the phone so that Glesni could see it.

“Glesni, meet Nikda. Former Sandman lieutenant, current exile from the Stolen Ones Court of RhyDin City. Most importantly for us, a mirrorskin.”

The woman on the small screen wore a blonde bob with a low-cut black blouse and large gold hoop earrings. Her dull brown eyes sharpened when they took in Glesni, before a smile creased her face. “Charmed. So, what do you need me for?”

[Bailey Raptis]

May 3/May 4, 2021
Moulin Vert
Baudinville, Néa Gallía

Even on a Monday night, the club Moulin Vert still had its fair share of patrons. Mondays were their gothic-industrial nights, Les Catacombes, so the bulk of the customers wore dark clothing and dark hair, which made Glesni’s blue dress and Raff’s gray sharkskin suit stand out more than usual. The doorman eyed them suspiciously, but Nikda slipped him a few extra silvers on top of the usual cover charge, and the three weathered the storm of blaring beats and flashing strobe lights to slip through the crowd of dancing bodies and head up the staircase that led to the rooftop terrace.

Up there, the club’s namesake structure, a green windmill, stood high above the various short and tall tables and chairs interspersed on the deck. An outdoor bar worked to serve anybody who had ventured up stairs, but the beats still thudding against the ceiling of the dance floor bore witness to the night’s primary focus. There were a few people scattered around the rooftop railings, chatting and smoking clove cigarettes, but the bar and the tables were mostly uninhabited. It suited the three Stolen Ones’ purposes perfectly.

Raff remained standing, his eyes panning across the small groups gathered here and there, watching carefully as patrons came and went. Glesni had another glass of Beaujolais, while Nikda brought over a pale green drink in a cocktail glass, garnished with dark red cherries.

“So, Nikda, what can ya tell us about RhyDin?”

“You mean the Stolen Ones Court and the Regent.” Nikda peeked to the side, to hide the rolling of her eyes.

“Yeah, that. Whaddya know?”

“Wasn’t exactly friends with them.” The mirrorskin rubbed her jaw. “One of their friends knocked my lights out, forced me to give up Sandman’s secrets. You know the rest. They cut me loose once everything was tied up. Been living off my cut of Sandman’s money. They were nice enough to let me keep that.” She laughed, short and sharp.

“Damn. So you’re basically in the same spot we are.” Glesni swirled the wine in her glass.

“Basically. Should probably be grateful they didn’t kill me.” Something in her tone suggested she wasn’t, not fully.

“So ya ain’t got anymore intelligence for me? Ya got any friends left in the Court?”

Glesni’s question earned her a flat look from Nikda. “Look. I was a lieutenant for Sandman. Anybody I know that I’d want to talk to is in the same boat. Sandman’s allies aren’t really welcome anymore. You understand that?”

“Yeah.” Glesni’s free hand rubbed at the back of her neck.

“Hmm…” Nikda looked briefly past the two, towards the street lamps and headlights glowing on the streets below Moulin Vert. When she met Raff and Glesni’s eyes again, hers had narrowed. “You’re missing something here, you know.”

“What?” Glesni glanced at Raff, who shrugged his shoulders.

“What would be the most useful information to have about the Court now?”

“I dunno...floor plans for their hideout? The number of fighters and spies they have? How much money they got?”

Nikda took a long, long swig of her drink, setting the empty glass down when she was finished. “Who’s the Regent in Red?”

The question earned Nikda a blank stare and a few moments of awkward silence, before… “The new leader of the Stolen Ones?” Glesni lifted her hands, palms up.

“No, who are they?”

“That’s...their name, yeah?” She scratched her cheek.

“This isn’t a Sandman situation, Glesni. That was his name. All the mystery for him was just to hide what he was capable of in battle. Pity it didn’t really matter.” Nikda shook her head. “No. Take it from someone who pretends to be someone else...the Regent is someone pretending to be the Regent.”

“Why?” Raff interjected.

“A good question. Could be they’re trying to protect friends and family. Soft targets to get at them. Don’t think it’s that though.”

“Why’s that?” Glesni asked. She traced a finger around the rim of her glass.

“Think about it. Sandman’s in charge, what, 30 years? You two fought for control for years.” Nikda ignored Glesni’s death glare and continued. “The Regent comes to town and gets it in less than a year.”

“Yeah, well --” Nikda lifted a hand and cut Glesni off.

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t seem strange to you? They had outside help.”

“Well, duh.” Something flashed in Glesni’s eyes, prompting Raff to take a couple of steps closer to her. Nikda ignored it and continued.

“Keep thinking. They had outside help. Who was it? I’ll tell you. Jewell’s Wayward Court, pixies from Twilight Isle’s court, wyldfae redcaps, Fae and Stolen Ones from São Amador. And another group that has nothing in common with those.”

“Filthy Gentry bastards!” Glesni picked her glass up and heaved it over the railing, sending a couple of smokers darting for the stairs, and prompting Raff to shuffle over to the bar to smooth things over with the tender. “It should have been me who killed Sandman! Me who took over the Court! Not this Regent collaborator bastard!”

Nikda cleared her throat. “You done?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. As I was saying. One of the group’s helping the Regent was the Kabuki Street delinquents. Yeah, they fight redcaps every once in a while, but what don’t they have in common with the others?”

“...They’re not Fae.”

“Right. So they’re somebody the Regent knew. They probably all were, but the delinquents definitely. There’s only one person I know with this group of friends. One person who’s also from São Amador, same as the Regent. One person I know who’s plotted to take over the Court -- besides you.” Nikda smiled triumphantly as she walked Glesni down the path of logic to the only conclusion that made any sense to her.

“Who?”

She couldn’t help it. She steepled her fingers together, leaned forward and waited until Glesni drew closer. Then, she whispered. “Bailey Raptis.”

[Bailey Raptis]

Glesni stared at Nikda. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Raff came back with another glass of wine for her. She waited until he handed her the glass, took a sip, and then…

“Ya fucking with me, right?

“Uh, no?” Unsure how to react to that, Nikda picked up her cocktail, swirled the remaining contents, and then slammed them back. “Why would I joke about this?”

“The last time I saw him...all he wanted was to be left alone. All the problems we had, he said was just because we wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“Well --” Raff began to speak, Glesni shot him a dirty look, but Nikda responded with a sympathetic expression of her own.

“Come on, Glesni, let the poor man speak. Raff?”

“I mean, a lot of the deal she made seemed to be designed to keep us from bugging him and his friends,” Raff tugged at the collar of his suit, still nervous about speaking up and possibly contradicting his boss. “But...he did make you swear to relinquish your claim on the RhyDin City Court. And then his favor was to send you into exile, Glesni. At the time, maybe we just thought it was because Sandman was more willing to work with Bailey and Jewell and the Wayward Court than you were. But…” He trailed off, and Nikda picked up the slack.

“He was laying the seeds for a takeover, even then. And maybe you forgot...the reason he got exiled before was fomenting a rebellion against the Court. And he used a fake name then. El Escultor.”

“Yeah?” Glesni looked to Raff, who quickly retrieved a smartphone, tapped at the screen a few times, and cleared his throat.

“The Sculptor,” he replied.

“Now, doesn’t that line up with everything else I said? The allies. The São Amador connection. Past behavior. It’s him. The Regent has to be Bailey.”

“...No.No. I refuse to believe he succeeded where I failed.” Glesni chugged the wine and Raff quickly plucked the glass from her hands before she could break another one. “After all we went through, to have the Court pass into the hands of a collaborator! Someone worse than Sandman! No. I can’t accept that. Besides, yer just guessing here. Ya got no solid proof.”

“True. It’s all circumstantial evidence.” Nikda reached into the pocket of her gray vest, retrieving a Zippo lighter, a silver cigarette holder, and a chrome-plated case. She retrieved a cigarette, stuck it in the holder, lit it, and inhaled, before putting everything away again. “Let me ask you this, though. What do you want?”

“..Ya know that.” Glesni rolled her eyes.

“Humor me.”

“Of course, I wanna be the Queen of the Court. Like I already should be.”

“What’s getting in the way?” Nikda blew a large ring of smoke into the orange-tinted night.

“They already got a ruler. I said I wouldn’t be the ruler. I’m exiled here.”

“And how do you fix that?”

Glesni laughed, sharp and bitter, shaking her head for good measure. “We kill the Regent. We kill Bailey. Can’t imagine that’s easy for us. We’re not exactly rolling in dough, and I’m sure Bailey’s got people on the lookout for me if I came back.” She nodded over at Raff. “He says he’s hard to find, anyways, and always has walking statues with him. And it’d be stupid to assume the Regent doesn’t have even stronger security.”

“There’s another way.”

“Yeah?”

“We discredit him. We prove that Bailey and the Regent are one and the same, and the rest of the Court will do the work of getting rid of him for us. Then we come in. There will be a backlash to the deceit. To his connections to other Fae Courts. The pendulum can shift back, and you can step in. All I ask for is…” She puffed on her cigarette instead of answering immediately.

“All ya ask for is…?”

“Make me the second in command. And when we take back this shitty little neighborhood he’s built, we sell it all, take the money that should have been passed on to me and the others, and we distribute it amongst us. I want a third of it. You figure out how to hand out the other two-thirds.”

Glesni eyed Raff, then nodded. “I assume ya got a plan already?”

“I do. Say the word, and I’m back in RhyDin.”

“Do it. Take back the throne for yer queen, Nikda. Try to kill Bailey first before ya send for us.”

“I’ll do my best.” She tipped her head towards the bar, pivoted slightly, and began to walk over there, crushing out her cigarette in an ashtray at a table she passed by. Once she’d strolled a good distance from Glesni and Raff, she allowed a smirk to finally curl onto her face.

[The Regent In Red]

May 19, 2021
The former Our Lady of Aparecida Church
Old Temple

The Regent in Red didn’t have an official privy council the way some royal courts did, but they did have frequent meetings with trusted advisors, and those advisors tended to be the same for each meeting. Jolberto, the closest thing the Regent had to a left-hand man, who was the face of Nova Liberdade to the public. Starkud, a member of the Nova Liberdade project board, and the Regent’s “muscle”, among many other things. Lasiodora, also heavily involved with Nova Liberdade, a forensic accountant who was frequently tasked with taking notes, since her four arms allowed her to both do that and assist with any other tasks needed at a meeting with ease. Others came and went depending on the topics of discussion, but the Regent rarely held a meeting unless at least two of those three advisors could attend. Today, all three were there.

They sat in a conference room the Stolen Ones had converted one of the former church’s rooms into, adding touches befitting of their leader. They laid down red carpet, brought in a rectangular mahogany table and burgundy leather office chairs, and hung a Rothko print at one end of the room. The Regent sat at the other end, at the head of the table, with a clear view of the red-on-red-on-red painting. Jolberto and Starkud sat in the closest seat to them, then Lasiodora and McGraff, the canine-eared Stolen One in charge of security and policing in Nova Liberdade and the Court.

“Anything else, McGraff?” The Regent’s two voices spoke in harmony, with little delay between them -- they didn’t want to grate on the rest of their advisors’ ears.

“Well...I almost thought this wasn’t worth bringing up, Regent,” he said, rolling his r’s heavily. “But I’m not so good with the glyphs, so I almost didn’t notice it at first.”

“Notice what?”

“Well, we’ve been getting some reports of graffiti around Nova Liberdade. To me, it just looked like the usual trash. Crude drawings by unskilled artists. But Deputy Rafeiro knows our glyphs much better than me, and he pointed out that what seemed like random diagonals and simple images was actually a message.”

The Regent leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Go on.”

“A skull with blood dripping off of it. A gold crown with a line through it. A stylized throne. Add in the other slashes and things, and the message read, “Death to the false Prince of the Stolen Ones.”

“This isn’t the Snake? Or the Bratva?” The Regent leaned back, pressing one hand to the temple of their mask.

“I don’t think so.” McGraff turned to Jolberto, who continued his thought.

“Chefe, I don’t think the Snake cares who’s in charge, as long as they leave him alone. And all the Bratva want is the territory they think belongs to them. Neither of them is interested in regime change.”

“Great.” The Regent’s fingers pressed harder into the mask, tipping it up so the bottom of their chin became visible briefly. “Just what I need. Increase the patrols, and if you catch this artist, let me know. It could just be a troll, but I don’t want to take chances.”

May 26, 2021

“Bad news Regent,” McGraff said, pulling his trench coat tighter to his body as he spoke. The same four Stolen Ones sat around the conference table as the week before. “Deputy Gwadd found our graffiti artist trying to tag a gas station on the western outskirts of Nova Liberdade. But the artist caught him by surprise and whacked him with some kind of baton and got away. Left him with a concussion.”

“Damn. Does he remember anything about what he or she or they looked like?”

“Not much. They were wearing baggy sweats and some sort of mask over their face. A respirator, I think they call it.”

“Hmm.” The Regent steepled their white-gloved fingers, considering this information from McGraff. Is it B-BO1? They shook their head. Why would it be him?

“Sir?”

“Sorry, McGraff. I know things are already tight, between this, the Bratva, and the Snake, but...do whatever you can to beef up security, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

June 2, 2021

“What’s the latest on our tagger, McGraff?” The Regent sat upright in their chair when the security briefing turned to this latest thorn in the Stolen Ones’ side.

“I...don’t have very good news for you, sir.”

“Well, spit it out.”

“Our tagger’s moved on to arson. They burned up a construction site near Barzinho da Vida -- set the project there back a couple of months. But they also left a message nearby.”

“Go on.”

“The artist stapled a manifesto to the head of a nearby security guard.” McGraff slapped several sheets of paper down on the table. “I’ll summarize for you. Our artist is part of a group. They’re calling themselves the Bastard Sons of Bailey Raptis. Or Bailey’s Bastards. They want Bailey Raptis to be the King of the Stolen Ones, and they won’t stop tagging and looting and burning until he’s put in office.”

Lasiodora gasped, pulling nervously on her fingers. Jolberto and Starkud both arched their eyebrows as they looked at McGraff. The Regent swore under their breath in Portuguese.

“Well…” Jolberto trailed off before he could fully form a thought.

“Just what I need,” The Regent finally said. “Nova Liberdade’s boogeyman coming at me.” They pinched the bridge of the nose on their mask. “Keep me posted. On all my enemies. You’re all dismissed. Wait. McGraff? Come here a second.” The security chief dutifully followed orders, leaning down closer to the Regent when they indicated they wanted to whisper to him. “Keep an eye on Lasiodora for me? Skittish little thing. There’s still a lot of people here who are terrified of Bailey, scared he still might take over the Stolen Ones Court from me. Don’t know why, given the fact he’s made it pretty clear he wants nothing to do with us…” The Regent sighed. “Just...watch her, yeah?”

“Will do, sir.” McGraff straightened up, snapped off a smart salute, and went over to Lasiodora, escorting her out of the conference room with murmured assurances. Once those two had left, the Regent locked the door, shut the blinds fully, and added additional magical wards to the room to prevent scrying or eavesdropping. Only when they felt secure did they drop the mask and dual voice and shift back into the role of Bailey Raptis.

“So are we sure this is not the Snake or the Bratva?” He pulled a cigarette and lighter out from a pocket inside of his red silk jacket and lit it, exhaling a large gray ring moments later.

“I don’t think so,” Jolberto answered. “Why would the Snake want to put you openly in charge of the Stolen Ones, when you hate him even more than the Regent does? If he put his mirrorskin onto the throne but then didn’t immediately come down hard upon the Snake, people would know something was up. Most people know he killed your motley. As for the Bratva, they just want us out of their hair. Anything they know about Bailey is either second-hand gossip from the Snake or general information from the news. Probably contradictory. None of it incriminating.”

“Then who else?”

“Boss, a thought?” Starkud interjected from his usual guard position by the door.

“Go ahead.”

“Not who, what. What do they achieve by this? What do they want?”

“Disruption?”

Jolberto shook his head. “There’s plenty of that already with Snake and the Bratva. Besides, McGraff and the guards have done a good job keeping this hush-hush. We’re the only ones who know about this.”

“So...somebody wants Bailey -- me -- to be in charge of the Stolen Ones Court. Which seems unlikely, given my general popularity.” He laughed, coughed as he inhaled a bit too much smoke, then continued. “Someone is trying to help me out indirectly by setting me up as a cuca to unite against, but...I think people hate and fear the Snake even more. Wait...provocation.”

“What?” Jolberto and Starkud chimed in unison.

“This is a provocation. They picked Bailey for a reason. Sandman’s loyalists could have picked one of his former lieutenants to step into the leadership void and agitate for a return to his policies and rule. Glesni has been quiet since we exiled her, and she also renounced her claim to the Stolen Ones Court, but...hmm. Jolberto, a question.”

“Yes?”

“If you wanted to get rid of a brand-new leader, but did not have the money to buy mercenaries or your own soldiers sufficient in strength to take them on, what would you do?”

“A guerrilla campaign?”

“You could do that, but that can be slow, grinding, and you have to worry about any losses you suffer affecting you far more than the superior force. A lesson that I suspect the Bratva and the Snake are slowly learning. No, there is something they can do that could depose a leader far quicker.”

“I’m not following you, boss--”

“Discredit him,” Starkud interrupted. Bailey pointed and grinned at him, as smoke danced around the table.

“And what would be the easiest way to discredit me?” He watched as the light bulb came on in each of his lieutenants’ heads.

“Unmask you as the Regent in Red,” Jolberto said first, with Starkud nodding along. Bailey snapped his fingers.

“Precisely. Someone either knows that I am the Regent in Red, and is trying to force me to reveal myself, or someone suspects that I am, and is trying to behave in such a way as to force my hand, force me into making a mistake.”

Jolberto scratched his head, giving his black ponytail a couple of tugs for good measure. “So what do we do?”

“I am going to visit all of our allies, check and see if they know who the Regent is, and if they do, make sure they have not leaked that information. And...incentivize keeping it to themselves. While I am not here, I need you to keep taking the fight to the Snake and to the Bratva. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!” Starkud snapped off a crisp salute, while Jolberto’s was slower and lazier. Still, he wore a stern expression despite his lax movements.

“Good...I also have one more trick up my sleeve.”

“What might that be?” Jolberto asked.

“I will tell you the specifics when I get back, but...I am going to Faerie.”

[The Regent In Red]

The trail of blood traced the Regent in Red’s path through their study, from their office door to the plush armchair they sat in now, being tended to by their lieutenant, Lasiodora, and a chirurgeon. First, a red handprint smeared across a brass knob, then droplets scattered across the dark maple flooring. Next, a pool of blood about halfway into the room, where the Regent had fallen and laid briefly before being hauled back to their feet. The splatter continued, until another pool formed by the chair where they now rested. The Regent slumped back, their legs propped up by an ottoman, their clothes in tatters from a variety of attacks: slashes from blades, bullet holes from gunshots, burned edges from magic blasts. Lasiodora worked on their legs, her four arms working to clean, disinfect, and bandage the cuts, sores, and blistered flesh on their shins and calves.

“Hold still,” she scolded the Regent, when they hissed and shifted their leg after a particularly liberal application of antiseptic. Looking up, she caught the disapproving gaze of the chirurgeon, who was applying some sort of gray mud to the Regent’s right eye, now visible beneath their broken mask. Before the clay covered it entirely, she caught sight of the red sclera marring a blue-green iris. Had she ever seen their eyes? She shook her head, frowning, when she realized she hadn’t.

Once Lasiodora had finished her ministrations, she wiped her hands clean with a towel, put away the first aid kit, and resumed watching the medic’s work on their more pressing injuries. The eye, yes, but also a stab wound to their chest just beneath their armpit, the blackened traces of a lightning strike across their abdomen, a series of banal questions to check if they had a concussion. She saw pink spreading slowly at the edges of the gauze, and the realization of why the Regent wore red dawned upon her.

“How…” the Regent trailed off, weakened, then summoned the strength to continue speaking. Their voice was discordant, flat, not at all like the usual counterpoint between its twinned countertenor and contralto. The usual echoes and reverberations were gone. The words spilled forth, smashed into the walls and the plywood boarding up the office windows, and died.

“How did I fuck this up so badly?”

[The Regent In Red]

The Regent in Red didn’t have to sneak off in the middle of the night to take their trip to Faerie. For one thing, they’d already told their inner circle about the trip, so it wasn’t really a secret anyways. For another thing, none of the other Stolen Ones had any real desire to return to the Lands. Once was enough for them. And yet here the Regent was, getting ready for their fourth trip there. Their third voluntarily. Insanity? Possibly. Really, though, the trip came out of desperation.

They opened a portal from their Nova Liberdade office to the Wilds north of the city, and walked carefully down a trail lined with tall, thin firs that sliced the moonlight overhead into slivers slashing diagonals across the dirt. Even for night, the forest seemed silent; no hooting owls, no howling wolves, no crickets chirping. Just a heavy blanket of silence, like the unseasonably warm weather that evening. It nearly made the Regent regret their decision to travel in their full regalia: a long red silk jacket embroidered in white and pink with additional gold zari highlights, a white shirt and trousers beneath, and a red opera mask with a stylized face. They traveled light otherwise, carrying just a small silver knife in a worn leather sheath, a pair of what looked like mangos in their jacket pockets, and a starfire lantern to light the way.

To light and guide the way. The Regent had a good mental map of the Trods and Hedge space that was connected to RhyDin City, but less knowledge of Arcadia. That’s where the lantern came in. A prize won for the Regent’s efforts in helping a group of slayers remove the threat of Brawmarwolaeth in the days following Beltane, it allowed its owner to reveal doors to Faerie. And they knew exactly where they wanted to go.

The still air shifted into a light breeze as the Regent stepped into a small clearing, a tree trunk positioned squarely in the center. It brought with it a hint of pine needles and the barest scent of decay. It seemed too sweet for what the Regent knew it was. Shaking their head at the thought, they held the lantern aloft, the “flame” unaffected by the wind. “You know where I want to go,” they whispered to the light, even knowing full well it probably wasn’t necessary. It couldn’t hurt to coax them, right?

Before they left the scene of the Great Hunt that one Beltane, they had whispered something to the Fae who organized it. Not in their usual dual tones, but just one. A high-pitched countertenor. "We have much to discuss, you and I, do we not? I think a meeting might be mutually beneficial."

So maybe the Princess’ gift gave the Regent a way to travel to her realm and meet her again, or maybe she had locked it out. There was only one way to find out.

A door shimmered into view, hovering just above the tree stump. Vines brushed against the edges of it, partially obscuring the oak planks that formed it. A round ivory doorknob beckoned. Rather than barge right into her domicile, the Regent did the polite thing, and knocked. Dun-di-di-dun-dun…

If a knock had come from the other side, whoever or whatever had raised its knuckles would have heard the hollow vastness of the Wilds, the thick and buzzing yet physically empty space between the towering trees that built pathways and clearings entire hamlets could (and sometimes did) move into. But from the Regent's side, the echo was close and muffled, like the door to a stuffy attic or a linen closet.

Something squeaked. Someone sighed. Feet touched the ground with a TH-THUMP and started to cross. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. "I won't be a moment," said a voice that echoed quite a bit into that hollowness that surrounded the knocker, as if they had awoken a titan from their cell in Tartarus.

And they didn't lie. They weren't just a moment. The thumping and shuffling neared and receded again and went quiet. Something clattered. Something burbled, like a drink from a pitcher. Glass scraped on wood and the great voice sighed, and the wind stirred and the summer-green branches with them. The cracks around the door gradually glowed like the sun as THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. mighty celestial feet padded closer.

The lock clicked. Chains and keys rattled.

And the door opened ajar, spilling the modest light of a solitary candle into the clearing. The face of someone who gave every impression of stooping to be on the Regent's level was perfectly -- exactly -- even with their height now. Dark eyes regarded them with a steady, weary kind of irritation. A ring of a great many skeleton keys dangled from her wrist, no two of them alike.

Between her floral night cap and her layered gown and the robe gathered around her shoulders, and the soft velvet slippers on her feet, she looked like she had just been asleep.

"Yes," she said, on another half-sighed breath. This one didn't seem to stir the branches, though they wavered a little, as if uncertain.

The Regent first glanced over their shoulder, then to their lantern, and finally to the woman who answered the door in what appeared to be pajamas. “I apologize for waking you. Am I in the right place?” Realizing the question could easily be misconstrued, they amended, “Is this the way to the Princess’ Realm? Or, in fact, the Princess’ Realm?” A thought came to mind, quickly snuffed out. This doesn’t look like –

She gave the Regent and their questions a few slow (and yet impatient) blinks. She didn't interrupt their words, but she did cut in on the thought. "The Princess is dead."

The declaration stirred the draped sleeves of her gown, and the forest beyond, and for a second the foot of her bed could be seen. A black cat stretched out on his forelimbs, kneading a child's hand-knit doll under his claws.

She tsk'ed and started to pick through her keys one after another, looking down as she grazed her pale thumbs over their sharp teeth. "What did she owe you?"

[The Regent In Red]

“Well, that’s unfortunate.” The jacketed figure at the door seemed to sag at first, as the wisp of a plan they had melted away, and then stiffened, once they realized the situation they were in. This wasn’t Jewell, someone he had a friendship with and could trust as much as anyone could trust any Fae. This wasn’t even the Princess, who he had at least met with once and managed to curry some small favor with. This Kindly One was a complete mystery, an unknown. It should have sent the Regent screaming into the night, but instead…

“She owes me nothing.” They held up the lantern, scattering light around the room beyond the door. “I helped her defeat a Fae beast in the Wilds here, and in return, I received this. I had hoped to further ally myself with her, but it seems that’s not to be.” The Regent paused, regarding the cat, then turning their thoughts back to the conversation. “I hoped to ask her assistance in finding someone who could teach me how to create a fetch.” They laughed. “I clearly didn’t think this plan through well enough.”

Someone else may have said, No, you didn't. But she wasn't someone else. She was whoever -- and whatever -- she was. Her expression changed very little through their explanation. "Wait here," she said, and without edge or fire, as if someone telling a new employee that the landing didn't have a railing and you could stumble over the edge, she informed them: "If you try the door, I'll kill you."

The glow of candlelight retreated. She left it ajar. The cat blinked at them and folded his paws, lantern-like eyes regarding them from the dark, cramped, dusty old apartment.

"What did she call you?" she asked from what sounded like a desk. Drawers scraped, paper shuffled.

“She would have known me as the Regent in Red, but…” Yet another wave of realization washed over them, as they realized they really hadn’t thought this through properly. Was it too late to go back? Yes. They stepped back, surveyed their surroundings. Nothing but the trees, the feline, the Fae. “We all wear masks, literal or figurative.” Beneath their own, they blinked, squeezed their eyes shut, and reached white gloved hands up to pull it off. The face of Bailey Raptis emerged, black hair a bit mussed, as he stuffed the mask into another jacket pocket. Now when he spoke, it was with a single voice, a more clearly male one, and more nasally. The casual tone that the Regent used faded away, replaced with something more formal. He almost seemed to stand up straighter, again. “I named myself Bailey Raptis, a long time ago. There is another name I was born with, but I do not think it applies to me anymore.”

Silence. Either she was stunned by the declaration, or--

"No." Paper shuffled, and soft leather thwapped onto wood when she dropped a book. "She didn't mention Bailey Raptis at all. Or the Regent. She did talk about the hunt for Brawmarwolaeth. A little." She thumped around near the door and swore in what sounded like an off-key half-second of song, and hopped into view in a pair of wellies. The cap and gown were still there. "I know you're not lying," she said without revealing how. "Do you have a jug of milk?"

And to make the intent behind the question clear, she extended a hand through the gap in the door, palm-up, expectantly.

“I can get one,” Bailey said. He thrust one hand to the side and began spinning it clockwise, opening up a portal that led to his house. His other hand reached inside his jacket and removed the goblin fruits he had brought with him – he had anticipated needing a present to smooth things over with the Fae, but apparently he had guessed wrong about what sort of gift he might need. The purplish-black energies expanded slowly, until the floating circle was a little larger than the wheel on a carriage. He pushed the fruits through first, then rooted around inside, the distorted sounds of glass and metal clinking together filtering their way back to the Wilds.

After a few moments, he brought back a carton of milk, not yet opened. “Will this suffice?” He held the jug towards her, waiting for her to take it.

She glanced from time to time, but only to see if he was done. Twice, she made kissy sounds at her cat, who was currently pacing behind her feet and meowing. But as soon as he held out the carton, she took it and shut and locked the door.

It must have sufficed.

A minute passed, and the door opened again, revealing a thorny, overgrown, liminal stretch of Faerie known as the Bramble. Bailey may or may not have known this, but the Keeper of Keys did not tell him this.

“The milk man doesn’t come out this way,” she explained mildly when she handed the empty carton back to him, as if it were a glass jug meant to be left out by the door. Maybe she’d never seen a carton before.

She had a book strap now, and a candle with a clip that could be affixed to a book cover, which she did now. “Did you have a specific fetchman in mind?” she asked as she thumbed through wills and folios that had mention of their names and services circled with lead. She was walking blindly through the Bramble, and each stomp of her wellies caused the thicket to slither back far enough to keep her gown safe from any snares.

She stopped only to see if he was following because of her duty to the door. She reached out to pull it to and lock it after him as soon as he had set his feet under the gloaming sky of Faerie.

[The Regent In Red]

A bit surprised at having the empty container handed to him, Bailey quickly reopened the portal he had retrieved the milk from and stuck it back there. Zevarrna would likely be having a conversation with him later about drinking all the milk and placing the empty carton back in the fridge…

“It is remote,” Bailey said nonchalantly about the milk man. Once it became clear that he had been granted passage through the door she guarded, he stepped through, careful not to touch any of the thorns, his eyes a little wide as she seemed to pay no heed to them and as the vines slithered away from her clothes.

He spared a quick glance at the sky, then looked at the Keeper’s back as she walked. “I hoped to make a fetch of myself. Forgive me if that is impossible or an impertinent request; my experience with such things was when I was much younger, and I did not have a…choice in the matter.” An indirect admission, whether or not she had already figured it out, that he may have been fae, but not Fae. An important distinction, in his mind.

The distinction did make her look over her shoulder. Something like sympathy lurked in the tired dark of her eyes. This did not affect her footing. “The fetchman will probably tell you if it’s impertinent. Or you’ll find out later.”

They crossed a muddy track with the massive paw prints of hounds of the Wild Hunt, blood seeping through instead of rain puddles. She stepped over it, looked to his feet and his face again, and said, “Are you ready to pay them?”

Wherever she was leading them, they were close to it. White smoke curled through the branches. They could smell wood and meat and clay and straw (while they couldn’t smell the blood from the tracks at all).

Bailey instantly regretted returning the goblin fruits to his refrigerator instead of keeping them. His only valuables now were his silver dagger, the lantern, a handful of coins in a pouch, and his cell phone. And he would not be handing that over. As he trudged, his fingers shifted through his pockets, like he might somehow find something valuable within them. He sniffed, expecting the scent of the blood beneath his feet, and wrinkled his nose when instead he smelled cooked flesh and charred timber.

“What is it going to cost me?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m the Keeper of Keys, not fetchmen. But from what I’ve heard, this one takes a pound of flesh. Usually on layaway.”

Within the illusory track meant to look like the Wild Hunt’s, a copse of trees obscured a hovel of mud, bark, and grass from view. Clay ovens stood in the muddy yard, each billowing smoke and more of that smell. Hides dangled from low branches and over tanning racks, and a whiter, wispier smoke poured from a mud brick chimney meant for preserving meat.

The fetchman was at a bench, using a flint adze to carve a cleaver blade out of a wide pelvic bone. He was short, compact, old and weathered and wiry-muscled, and gave the impression of a snake. Quick, and not someone you ever want unnoticed and underfoot. He tipped a look over his shoulder at the pair, gray-white eyes like bone or marble narrowing, and continued working.

The Keeper of Keys gave him a thin-lipped smile and said to Bailey, “I’ll wait here and bring you back when you’re done.” She paused. “Unless he kills you. Then I’ll just leave.”

“A pound of flesh,” Bailey mused, stroking his chin. A mirthless chuckle escaped, and then died off entirely once he saw the hovel, the seeming source of the smoke he had breathed in earlier. “A fan of the old classics, I take it,” he continued, his voice a quiet mutter. Something in it suggested he didn’t really expect an answer back. He considered the man at the bench, his tools, his works-in-progress, and shuddered. There was no doubt in Bailey’s mind that a pound of flesh was likely literal.

“Let us hope that it does not come to that,” he said, smiling thinly at the talk of his death. “I would hate for you to have gone to all this trouble for nothing.” He took a step away from her, and a step closer to the fetchman, taking care not to encroach upon his space until noticed and acknowledged. Bailey itched his cheek while he waited.

The Keeper shrugged. She'd done a little more arithmetic on the pros and cons of this man's death, but she didn't share these totals.

The fetchman continued working for a few moments, and looked back again to see Bailey standing closer. This time he paused. No implements were lowered. He did not know what he would need, after all. Pale eyes did not leave Bailey when he tipped his chin, very slightly.

As warm an invitation as he would grant. In some ways he was just the same as his courtly fae kin, but he did not seem to share their love of conversation and performance; and if he set lures, they were not bright and enticing things.

[The Regent In Red]

Bailey ducked through the entrance and stepped inside, hands carefully by his side. “Hello, sir. I am here to ask you to make a fetch of myself, if you are willing and able. My friend outside –” Friend was probably a little strong of a word to describe the Keeper of Keys, but it felt like a polite embellishment he could get away with. “-- says that your going rate for a fetch is a pound of flesh, payable later. Forgive me my impertinence if this is a non-negotiable fee, but is there a different payment that could be made? Preferably one rendered at a time known to me.” He shifted slightly on the balls of his feet, careful not to move too far in anyone direction, lest he bump into a chimney or a table.

The fetchman stared. His brow furrowed, and after a moment, when he realized that he would have to speak, his lips followed a similar downward line. “I don’t trust your word.” He tested his weight on a hook hanging from the ceiling of his hovel.

“Try again.” He let the hand slip back to his side. The other remained curled around the unfinished cleaver like gnarled roots, grasping and hungry.

Bailey took a moment to think. Does he not trust me because I am a stranger? Or does he not trust me because I am a Stolen One? Another thought came, and he felt his heart race even as his stomach turned. Or does he not trust me because he thinks I am Fae?

“I suppose I would not trust my word either, were our roles reversed.” He breathed out a sigh, looking at the pelvic bone being forged into a sharp implement. The implement of his demise? He resisted the urge to shake his head.

“Do you want me to make a different offer, or are you saying your price is non-negotiable?”

The fetchman stared at Bailey expectantly.

“I am going to guess that a silver dagger, these clothes, this lantern, or some coins are not of interest to you.” Even before he could respond, Bailey continued, “If I am to give you a pound of flesh, I would rather it not be on layaway. I would rather know precisely what I am giving away right now, and not at some inopportune time in the future.” He chuckled, despite himself. “I was hoping there might be a discount if I paid upfront.”

Well, he got the fetchman to snort. It was almost a laugh. The headshake sold it. “You’re being smart. Show me the lantern.”

Bailey kept a hold of the lantern, but leaned it closer so that the starry light it cast fell upon the fetchman and the workbench. “A fine prize from the Princess, may she rest in peace. Or not, if you hated her. I will not judge either way.”

The fetchman grunted again. “She gave me good business.” Pale eyes took in the prize… then Bailey. He held out his hand for it and gave his terms. “I’ll keep it for now. Forever, if you don’t pay. Fill that bowl with your blood. By your world’s sunrise…” He squinted at him. “…I’ll have your fetch made. But you owe me a mortal body, living or only an hour dead. Go and get it now, or take three days, but no longer,” he added, and thrust the bowl out at him.

Bailey let go of the lantern and set it down so the fetchman could grab it. He took a step back, and theatrically threw open his jacket to show off the worn leather sheath on his hip. He carefully drew the knife and approached the bowl, silver blade in his right hand, his left forearm ready to drape over the small wooden bowl. Without any hesitation, he slashed himself, swapped the blade over to his left hand, and squeezed the handle so the blood would flow faster. When the bowl was full, he tossed the knife back to his right hand, slid it back into the sheath again, and took a dizzy step backwards. He pressed the fabric of his jacket sleeve against the wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.

He took the bowl back, set it down, and started to work. Cleaver. Hooks. Needle and thread. He didn’t take out any raw materials, though. Not yet.

Because a whole heap of them might just drop at his feet.

The Keeper was waiting just beyond the treeline, and she and the fetchman were both eyeing him — he with a butcher’s keen look, her with the gaze of someone trying to communicate get your butt beyond the trees unless you really want my evening to be a complete waste, you knob, but only by blinking and tipping her head.

One nice thing about wearing a red jacket was that it did a pretty good job of hiding blood. Still, Bailey had left about a pint of his behind unexpectedly (along with the starfire lantern), and it left him staggering out of the hovel with one hand pressed against his forearm. His blood was brighter than the jacket, staining his fingers. By the time he made it to the Keeper, he nearly bumped into her, stumbling past to lean up against a massive cedar trunk. “Desculpe,” he murmured in Portuguese.

“You made it. Huzzah.” The Keeper gave him about three seconds before she seized a hold of his jacket to set him to stumbling back the way they came.

She was stronger than she looked, and she looked strong.

“Now let’s get you out of here. You’re bleeding, and the Wild Hunt is still very much a thing, and less blathering, more walking,” she said more to herself when she heard a distant howl.

Wellies cleared the way back across the Veil.

***

The moment Bailey stepped back into RhyDin, the Regent’s cell phone erupted into a symphony of notifications. He sat down on a tree stump, stopped pressing his hand against the now-healed wound on his forearm, and pulled out his phone.

Starkud
call when u get back

Lasiodora
fckng bratva

The disaster unfolded in reverse, as he read the texts and voicemail transcripts. The funeral would be scheduled as soon as the Regent returned. The visitation happened yesterday. The obituary ran in the paper Monday. He died Saturday. McGraff had found Jolberto, severely beaten and unconscious, outside Impulse in Star’s End.

Bailey buried his face in his hands and strangled a sob. Then he reached inside his jacket, retrieved his mask, and put on the mantle of the Regent in Red once again. Tonight, it felt like it was made of lead.

((Scene written with Ettyn's player, with much gratitude!))

[The Regent In Red]

“When moon cracks in two, and sun freezes to blue, and winter burns up dry with fireclouds for a sky, and night’s without its stars – know you’ll still have my heart.”
(Fiddlehead, “Heart to Heart”)

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go…
(e.e. cummings, “[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]”)

June 11, 2021
The former Our Lady of Aparecida Church
Old Temple

For the first time in years, the deconsecrated Our Lady of Aparecida Church hosted a service befitting its previous purpose. The nave had long been cleared of its pews, but the funeral home workers had set up folder chairs on the floor for the attendees. Behind the pulpit and lectern, placed on a raised platform so that it could still be seen past those who would be standing and speaking later, was the casket carrying the body of Jolberto Da Rainha.

The Regent sat in their office, with only Starkud and Lasiodora to keep them company in silence. It felt wrong, having to do this, without Jolberto there to walk them through it. They needed his easygoing nature, his calming influence, his keen insight, and, most importantly, his unwavering loyalty. Now, only Starkud knew who they really were. How could they fight this war, with only one person in the court who knew their true identity? Their jacket felt more like a weighted blanket, even though it was similar to the ones they always wore in public.

“It’s – it’s almost time, chefe,” Lasiodora murmured near the Regent’s ear.

“I just – I need a minute or two to compose myself. I know they are all – they’re all waiting for me. I don’t want to screw this up.” A large, stony hand fell upon their shoulder.

“You won’t,” Starkud said, fixing the Regent with gray eyes. “I believe in you. We all do.”

“This…this’s my fault.”

“Don’t say that.” Both Lasiodora and Starkud spoke at the same time, the latter with his usual even keel, the former nearly on the verge of tears herself. Lasiodora continued, “Y-you can’t be everywhere, and you can’t protect everyone, chefe. It’s just…a tragedy.”

“Come on.” Starkud pulled the Regent up to a standing position, a hand resting on their back briefly, before they walked in front of them and opened the door into the main part of the former church. They followed dutifully, eyes widening behind the mask as they saw…

…a crowded room. Even more crowded than it had been when they first presented Nova Liberdade. A rush of emotions washed over the Regent when they remembered that night…

* * *

“Are you ready, chefe?”

“I don’t know, Jolberto, I-”

“Don’t worry. I’ll go out, warm them up for you, and you seal the deal. Tá no papo, sim?

“Sim. Obrigado.”

“Nada, chefe…

* * *

“Lasiodora…where did all these people come from?” The Regent’s gloved hands went to rub their mask where their eyes would be.

“I called in some favors and some requests,” she said. “We went through the rolodex–-” she pointed to Starkud, who nodded. “-- talked to McGraff, talked to everyone we could think of to get friends of friends of…you get the picture?”

“Yes.”

“G-good.” As quickly as her confidence rose, it diminished, as she also took note of the size of the crowd. “Let’s go make the rounds before we sit.”

The regent exchanged murmured condolences with the heads of other Stolen One courts throughout the realm. Cadentia’s, led by a person with candleflame hair and wick black eyes. São Amador’s, their old realm, now led by a tan, sharp-toothed man with grey-white skin and gills on his neck. Gruvebyen’s, a tall woman with icy braids and limpid blue eyes. Even with their distinct appearances, the sheer number of introductions soon stretched the Regent’s ability to remember much more than a name, or an identifying feature, or the location that each person hailed from.

Just as they were about to take their seat in the front row, a woman on the opposite side of the aisle, wearing a black dress and veil that obscured most of her features save for her blonde hair, waved the Regent over. After a quick nod to Starkud and Lasiodora, who took their seats, the Regent walked over to her. Only when they were within arm’s length did they recognize her. The blonde ringlets, the aquamarine eyes, the impossible beauty that stank of glamour. Before they could even speak, she pressed a finger against her lips, instead gesturing with her free hand for them to bend an ear to her. They obliged, taking a knee beside her. She whispered. They nodded, whispered back. She whispered again. The whole exchange took less than a minute, after which, the Regent tossed off a lackadaisical two-fingered salute and returned to their chair beside Starkud and Lasiodora. When they asked who she was, the Regent just imitated her shushing.