Café de Nuit

15th Sarimiere, 551 Michaeline Reckoning
Haes

A muffled crash woke the old man from dreamless sleep. He sat up with his silk sheet and woolen blanket pulled about him as closely as a padded doublet and mail coat. Fumbling in the dark with flint and steel, he lit the oil lamp that stood on his nightstand. The old man tried to slow his breathing, as his physician had urged him to do when he became agitated. "Hello?"

No answer came.

A tingle ran through his scrawny legs as he swiveled out of the bed and took two steps towards the foot of the bed. He thrust the lamp left, right, forward. Squinting through rheumy eyes he made out the bulk of the chest-of drawers across the room, the glint of a brass fender by the cold fireplace, and a reflected gleam from the glass panels of his display case. Looking closer, he realized that one of the case’s little doors hung ajar.

He hoped than none of his toys were broken--
Something caught him around the neck. Surprised, he let the bedclothes from his back. The lamp crashed against the floor. He opened his mouth to cry out. Only a thin hiss passed his lips as the pressure around his throat grew tighter. He twisted and clawed, trying to pull the cord away from his windpipe. Sharp points dug through his nightshirt, pricking his back between the shoulder blades. Before he fell, he managed to lurch to the right side of his bed and seize the velvet rope that hung from the ceiling. The clamor of the brass bell only barely reached through the blood rushing behind his eardrums. Lying on his side with black spots creeping in from the corners of his vision, he saw flames and smoke rise from the pile of sheets in the middle of the floor.

* * *


The castellan smashed both fists into the wooden surface so hard that the pitcher before him bounced high and toppled, splashing amber beer all around. Suds dripped down his ashen beard and his silver chain of office as he leaned forward. His black eyes fixed on the sergeant’s own bleary orbs. He repeated his question, shouting "Where is the duke?"

Sergeant Dagobert shook his head in confusion. “You don’t know? He’s dead--Haelyn keep him! I only just heard a mome---“


"No-- I meant our new duke. Where is he?"

Dagobert’s recalled that he had seen the ducal heir last night, in a riverside tavern where the patrons were celebrating the duke's name-day. The young nobleman had performed knife tricks to a crowd of admiring boatmen and stevedores. After the impromptu show, he'd bought a round for the house and then headed upstairs with two redheads and a bottle of wine. That must have been about midnight, by the sergeant's reckoning...

The Castellan interrupted Dagobert's reverie with an impatient cough.

Squinting out the window at the morning sunlight, the old watchman replied-

“I’ll find him, sir. I know where to look.”
…

Devlin is sitting beside his kingly bed in the local tavern watching his latest conquest sleep while holding a mug of dark Tuor ale. He is annoyed that the woman is still there. While he enjoyed women, the young man did not always enjoy their company outside of the bedroom. He was thinking about how to wake her and make her leave without appearing the cad that he was, when he heard a knock at the door.

The red head stretches languidly, lithe body moving under the sheets. "Yawnnnnn....... Sire, who could be knocking at the door at this ungodly hour?" She opens her blue eyes and stares playfully at Devlin, imploring him to make the knocking stop. Giggling, she hops out of bed and moves to gather her clothing. "Well, don't just lay there, get the door, sire." She bends over and gives him an eyeful before commencing clothing herself.

Devlin shoots the redhead an icy look.

"I enjoyed your company last night woman, but you speak too familiar to me now. Gather your things and leave. Do it quickly."

Devlin ties his breeches and throws on a loose cotton shirt.

Dominica laughs heartily at Devlin as she dresses then exits, offering him a quick bow. She returns to her room, having a hot bath then dresses and heads below for breakfast.

After the redhead goes downstairs, Dagobert knocks on the door frame.
"Forgive my rudeness, your grace."
The grey-bearded, thickset watchman steps into the room and closes the door. After dropping a low bow he steps close to whisper in Devlin's ear-
"Your lord father has been murdered. Please, you are needed at Caer Haes."
The old man then retreats to the door and bows his head in silent respect.

Devlin stares at the old man in shock, the words heard but not registering.

"What.....what are you talking about.....father..."

The years of training kicked in then. Devlin straigtens and downs his ale. He fights back tears and chokes down the words he wants to say for the words he has to say.

"Bring me two guards at once, and horses as well."

Devlin takes his beer tankard and fills it with clean, cold water.

"And Braedonnal....I want Braedonnal now."

Dagobert snaps to attention.

"Yes, at once, your grace."

Devlin has time to finish dressing and gather his posessions while his orders are being carried out.

Later, in the common room-

Robin the serving-boy brings Domenica a small platter of sausage and eggs and a short mug of beer.
''Here you are, m'lady."

The common room is beginning to fill up with guests from upstairs and people walking in off the street.

"Thank you, Robin. Have you any good tidbits for me?" The red head scans the room and the patrons.

Robin quietly tells Domenica,
''Yes, m'lady. I noticed that some watchmen went upstairs a while ago, before you came down. Yeah, and a couple of them left in a hurry. I think they are all gone now. Somebody dressed sort of fancy left with them, but I didn't see his face."

The boy smiles.

"'Is that good?"

Lady Dominica smiles at Robin, discreetly handing him a few coins. "That is very good, Robin. That will be all for now, young lad. If you have anything else for me, don't tarry."

So, that Devlin left in a hurry. I wonder why. But it must be important if he left with guards as well. No matter, I will find out.

Northern Elevesnemiere

Smoke rose against the gray morning sky, long curls twisting up from the blackened husk of the farmhouse. Scattered though the ashy wreck, a few bright embers still glowed.
The hunter who knelt before the ruined house took note of all this. He looked over the tangle of boot prints and hoofmarks in the torn up turn and thick loam of the yard.
Walking round the back of the wrecked house behind the house, the hunter found three corpses. The farmer had an arrow lodged in his neck; a quick death. The woman sprawled in the dirt near him had not been so lucky. They had taken time with her. The babe’s small body had been gnawed by something.

Northern Elvesenmiere

The hunter silently dug graves and buried the victims. Saying a quick prayer to Cuiraeccen to take their souls. After burying the dead, he searched the area for a more usable set of tracks to follow.

RocEter wrote:Northern Elvesenmiere

The hunter silently dug graves and buried the victims. Saying a quick prayer to Cuiraeccen to take their souls. After burying the dead, he searched the area for a more usable set of tracks to follow.

After some searching, he locates tracks--horses and men-- headed east across the open fields.

He follows east across open fields following the men and their horses.