Chassandra
In Cryo Sleep
((if you do not enjoy novels, RP or reading in general, skip on to the next topic))
A hard day at work
A flash of silver, a sudden movement and then stillness again. It is still there, however. Hiding, lurking, waiting for suitable prey to pass within striking distance. Flesh to feed on, blood to shed. The strong feed on the weak, which is appropriate, and this one is strong.
Another silvery flash. It is restless, or it wouldn’t expose itself.
She dips one of her toes into the water, feeling the cleansing coolness tickle her nerves. She watches how the rings from her toe spread outward, hypnotically rippling the surface. Another flash of silver, and then stillness below the surface. A verse comes to her mind, or is it a childs silly rhyme?
“Cold as death, never breathing,
clad in mail, but never will it rust.
Lie with me, forever dreaming,
of… bottom something… lust?”
Slightly irritated on her failing memory, she splashes in the water with her foot. No silver flash this time. The fish must have fled.
So do most males, eventually.
She is suddenly aware of a tickling sensation on her left arm, as if hundreds of small legs crawl on it. The sensation slowly, ever so slowly, moves down on her chest. The fabric of her dress bulge slightly as the creature generating the tickling feeling moves. She leans back on her elbows, close her eyes and immerses herself in the sensations. The cool embrace of the water on her feet spreading a pleasant chill up her legs. The sun gently caressing her body in its warmth. A slight breeze, as sensual as a new lover’s slow exploration, fondling the parts of her body exposed by her dress.
The legs of ‘Nathan leisurely crawling down her bosom toward her belly. The barbs on his legs nibbles her skin, but sometimes only brush the diminutive hairs on her chest; sending tingling sensations like heated breath on naked skin. He continue downward, crawl over her belly and out her left leg. She moans slightly as his legs tickles the inside of her thigh, until he pass on to the less sensitive parts of the leg. She opens her eyes slightly and peers at him.
By then, he has slipped out from the bottom of the dress, his pale body looking almost transparent in the bright light. Clinging to her leg just above where her ankles meet surface of the water, he dips one of his legs. Deciding that he isn’t in the mood for a bath, he scurry back up her leg. She scoops him up before he can dive into her dress again and speak to him in her soft and melodic voice:
“You need some light, honey. Your legs are growing a bit soft and we couldn’t have that, could we?”
She plays with him, tickling him in the joints of his legs while he playfully bites after her fingers. Eventually growing bored of the game, she asks him in a jovial voice:
“So, where do you think Carl is now then? Crawling around in some sewer most likely. I hope he stays there” she chuckles.
A flash of silver down in the water once more catch her attention. She lowers the spider down to the wooden boards of the dock, whispering:
“I have an idea. Did you see those people fishing in the canals when we passed? Let’s spice things up a little.”
From a pouch made of heavy, dark fabric she picks up a small lavender-coloured crystal. Its surface is rather dull, like a rough-cut gem, but a slightly throbbing light emanates from within. She holds it up to her eye, spying into it as if scrying its secrets. A smile curves her lips as she remembers whence it came. The young farmer son who insisted on showing her “a special glade in the forest” had been so surprised when his life was stripped from him. He had been handsome too, for a human. Needed to clean his hair and get rid of the dirt under his nails… but otherwise he could have been fun. A pity.
Her face then grows concentrated, as the crystal in her hand cracks and disintegrates into thousands of tiny fragments. The purple dust gathers in the bottom of her cupped hand, swirling slightly as if stirred by a light breeze. At the outskirts of the swirls, the dust seems to darken to a rich dark-purple hue. At the centre, the dust turns solid black, like a hole to the abyss. Her eyes mirror the transformation, pupils widening until most of her eyes appears as gateways into darkness. She places her other hand over the swirling dust, clasping it inside. After several moments of hard concentration she releases her grasp, showing a small pile of now grey dust in her cupped hand. In the middle of the pile, a small luminescent green item rests, appearing to be a small gem or a seed. She picks the item it up tenderly, letting the dust blow away in the wind. She scrutinizes the thing for a few moments and then holds it out over the water, balancing it on the tip of her finger. Then she turns her hand upside down, letting the sparkling green item plummet toward the water. As it breaks the surface, she cheerfully mumbles: “Oops, silly me.”
It sinks down, a radiant green star in the murky water. With a silvery flash of sudden movement, it is gone. She peers down from the dock, trying to spot the fish, lurking in the twilight below. It suddenly appears, rather close to the water, thrashing wildly. She can imagine how it feels, being devoured from the inside, corruption spreading through its body. Without any sound that can be heard above the surface, the fish explodes, sending blood and rotting pieces of flesh spinning in the water. Within moments, other fishes are lured by the commotion, like carrion birds to a dead animal. With a mindless frenzy befitting predators in the twilight waters, every remnant of the fish is quickly consumed. She watches gleefully, as a couple of the fish starts to spasm, while others swim away whence they came. One after another, the fish starts jerking until they too explode in small clouds of blood and gore. More fish are attracted to the increasing amount of food. Those who eat a larger amount seem to succumb quicker, while those who eat less have time to swim away, spreading the contamination further. Spots of red soon dot the canal, revealing the massacre occurring below the surface.
As she lifts her gaze from the water, she notices a man approaching her on the side of the canal. He is clad in a light armour and breastplate with a sword hanging from his belt. His helmet dangles at his belt and he nods solemnly when he notice her attention. The lion of Stormwind adorns his tabard. The spider at her side quickly scurries inside her dress, hiding itself in one of the large sleeves as usual. The rough boards of the small dock creak as he treads down upon them, obviously unaware of the spider. The guard ruffles his blond hair as he greets her:
“Greetings, quel’dorei, is everything well?” She frowns at his clumsy phrasing of the foreign word but nod in return to the greeting.
“Yes, I am enjoying the view, thank you. Is anything amiss, sir?”
She can see his eyes resting on her cleavage, thus she leans her head backward, letting her hair billow slightly in the gentle breeze while exposing even more bosom. He stares for several seconds, far longer than is appropriate. Then he suddenly remembers his manners, murmurs and apology and continues:
“Erm, no my lady, nothing severe. We’ve had some trouble with undead creeping around after dark, but nothing we can’t handle. You should be perfectly safe.”
She purrs slightly at him, musing:
“Oh, you’re so brave, good sir. Fighting undead must be terrible, I can only imagine… pray tell, could you escort me home? I suddenly feel a bit frightened, and your company would make me feel much safer. Though I don’t want to disturb you in your duties…”
He straightens his back and offers her his hand while saying:
“Fear not, my lady. It would be an honour to escort you home. Prey tell, where do you live?”
She lightly takes his hand and raise gracefully to her feet, mindful to allow the dress reveal as much of her curves as possible. He smiles broadly when he meets her eyes as she answer:
“Oh, I live just over at the park, good sir. I need to make a purchase on the marked on my way there, but it will only be a moment.”
They begin walking toward the market square at a pleasant pace, chatting away over trivial matters. The guard tries to behave appropriate, but his gaze keeps being drawn toward her gorgeous body. She laughs gently at his jokes, acts all the part gentle high elf while encouraging his stares and keeping his attention from the canal they follow. As they pass a group of young men fishing, she notices that the fish that they catch has a slightly unhealthy colour, small drops of blood running from their gills. She calculates that it will be an hour, maybe two before the corruption is complete and by that time they will probably be cooked and eaten. She purrs slightly at a compliment from the guard and directs him to wait outside a store as she ventures inside to make her purchase. The shopkeeper, an elder gentleman in finely cut cloths of latest fashion, ask:
“Doral ana’diel, my dear mistress quel'dorei? What can I do for you today? Need more of the lace retrieved from the ruins of Eldre’Thalas?” His accent is that of Kul Tiras, but his Thalassian is far better than most humans can muster. She ponders if she should slip a warning to this merchant to stay away from fish dishes today. After all, good suppliers of cloth are hard to come by these days. Therefore, she says:
“Shinu a’manore, dear Greagori. I am in possession of all the lace I need for the time being. I had a most unfortunate accident yesterday. One of my customers seems to have gotten terribly sick from eating some bad fish, you see. I swear, the poor man almost choked to death in my arms. Therefore, I need some new primal mooncloth.”
He grins at her, a golden gleam in his eyes betraying the greed that drives all merchants, while saying:
“Oh, such accidents happen all too easy. Bad fish, you say? Terrible. And how much primal mooncloth would that be?”
She acts as if calculating and then speak as if the order was nothing out of the ordinary:
“Sixty-five bolts would suffice. I need them rather soon, mind you.”
She is amused at his attempt not to appear shocked and is well prepared for the reply:
“I am not sure I have that in stock, my lady. It might take some time to produce a that great amount, even if I make my seamstresses work double-“
She gracefully holds up her hand, silencing him, and answer:
“I am sure you will cope, master Greagori. Your sources have thus far been unmatched, and I am confident not to disappointed this time either. I will increase the payment by one fourth if you deliver before the end of this week.”
Considering the business concluded, she strides toward the door, leaving the merchant with counting the profit. Just as she’s about to exit the building, she says over her shoulder:
“I will not have any fish for the rest of the week and I recommend you to do the same. Who knows what those filthy fishermen have done with the fish? Shorel’aran.”
Outside the shop she meets the guardsman who has been awaiting her return. He has a somewhat worried frown and seems a bit impatient, but it is quickly removed as she places her hand on his chest and say:
“You are most kind, good sir, to wait for me while I did my silly errand. If only there were gentlemen like you to alleviate my company…”
They continue down the canal side toward the bridge crossing leading to the park. The guard entertains her with stories of his and his comrades’ valour, while she encourages his advances. Up ahead, she suddenly notices a party of women coming their way. Among them she quickly spots a high elf woman. Having no way to run without rousing the suspicion of the guard, she raises the hood of her dress, muttering:
“Did you feel that chill? It must be getting late.”
The guard hardly notices, continuing the tale of how he single-handedly captured a crazed mage and imprisoned it in the Vaults. As the group with the high elf woman draws close, she does her best to hide her face in the hood, keeping it from view. She feels the searching eyes of the high elf like needles upon her skin; questioning, probing. Once they’ve passed by, she dares a glace over the shoulder and immediately meets the eyes of the high elf looking back at her, recognizing her for what she is. The high elf seems to ponder for a while weather to act now, but probably figures that the guard could just as well be a spy too. She lowers the hood again and nods at the guard as if there were no worries in the world. He hooks onto the encouragement and delve deeper into his telling. While giving small comments at just the right moments, she reaches inside herself. From a pool of pitch-black hate, fed by the fate that has been forced upon her and her kin, she draws upon the powers of devastation and death. Directing it at the high elf, she forms a smothering curse of oblivion. She smiles at the guard again, knowing that within a few minutes, the cursed high elf will become a gateway into the abyss, slaying the wretched elf in the process. With some luck, a tarshesite will make its way through the lay portal. That would be a sight.
Crossing the bridge, the two of them soon enters the park. Kept alive and radiant by the druids residing in the city, it is always a marvel to behold. Stealing young men from their proposed spouses is a game she’s formed into an art, and they tend to stray to this part of the city.
The guard looks upon her expectantly and she realises she didn’t hear his last question, thus she’s forced to ask:
“I’m sorry, what did you say again? My breath was stolen from me by the flower over yonder. Its petals remind me of the skin of a nymph, blushing in the afternoon light”
He appears a bit sceptic, but repeats his question:
“In which of the houses do you live, my lady?”
She laughs gently and answers:
“Oh, yes. I live just over here, on the far side of the park. Come, let us walk there.”
The guard follows by her side, taking full delight of escorting an astoundingly beautiful woman through the park. A few other couples are strolling around, enjoying the romantic surroundings. At the far end of the park, one of the establishments stands out among the others. A clamour of merriment is heard from within and scores of people, in varying stages of refreshment, clatter outside the building. Rather unusual, however, is that the number of men and women is fairly equal. Also, all participants are finely clad in rich fabric, though often more revealing than is acceptable.
The guard hesitates as he escorts her closer, giving her a wondering look. At last he cannot keep his curiosity at bay:
“My lady, are you sure this is the way? I thought you were going home, not to a… an establishment like this, if you excuse my manners.”
She gives him the sweetest smile imaginable, and tells him:
“Well, this is my home. It is my establishment. Would you like to come inside?” She gives him an inviting glance, gently pulling him closer. Contradicting emotions play across his face but eventually he sighs, lowering his gaze to his feet and says:
“I am sorry, my lady. I did not recognize you as the mistress of the Happy Hermit. Lady Chassandra, isn’t it?” She mutters an acknowledgement, raising his head with the tip of her finger until their eyes meet again. She pouts slightly at him, asking in a mock-wounded voice:
“Won’t my escort share with me his name then, when he has so boldly figured out mine?”
He gives her a bow, somewhat deeper than their stations dictates, presenting himself:
“My name is Thomas Fidgewick, but you can call me Thomas, my lady. Pleased to be of service. However, duty calls and I am still on patrol.”
Chassandra nod at him once more, saying:
“Be well then, noble guard. You are welcome to join me here, should you feel inclined to once your shift has ended.”
Thomas turns around and walks back through the park, alone among the festive people. Chassandra watch him for a while, pondering if she really wishes to include this guard in her schemes. Without coming any some sort of conclusion, she walks up the stairs to the Happy Hermit Corner Club and is immediately greeted by the guards at the door. Slipping inside quietly, she heads through the kitchen down into the basement. She safely latches the door behind her and then walks down to one of the large barrels of fine vintage wines. Pushing in the tap of the barrel, the front of it glides open, revealing a tunnel inside. Low voices emanates from further inside, speaking gutterspeak and crude orcish. She slips inside and closes the door behind her.
A hard day at work
A flash of silver, a sudden movement and then stillness again. It is still there, however. Hiding, lurking, waiting for suitable prey to pass within striking distance. Flesh to feed on, blood to shed. The strong feed on the weak, which is appropriate, and this one is strong.
Another silvery flash. It is restless, or it wouldn’t expose itself.
She dips one of her toes into the water, feeling the cleansing coolness tickle her nerves. She watches how the rings from her toe spread outward, hypnotically rippling the surface. Another flash of silver, and then stillness below the surface. A verse comes to her mind, or is it a childs silly rhyme?
“Cold as death, never breathing,
clad in mail, but never will it rust.
Lie with me, forever dreaming,
of… bottom something… lust?”
Slightly irritated on her failing memory, she splashes in the water with her foot. No silver flash this time. The fish must have fled.
So do most males, eventually.
She is suddenly aware of a tickling sensation on her left arm, as if hundreds of small legs crawl on it. The sensation slowly, ever so slowly, moves down on her chest. The fabric of her dress bulge slightly as the creature generating the tickling feeling moves. She leans back on her elbows, close her eyes and immerses herself in the sensations. The cool embrace of the water on her feet spreading a pleasant chill up her legs. The sun gently caressing her body in its warmth. A slight breeze, as sensual as a new lover’s slow exploration, fondling the parts of her body exposed by her dress.
The legs of ‘Nathan leisurely crawling down her bosom toward her belly. The barbs on his legs nibbles her skin, but sometimes only brush the diminutive hairs on her chest; sending tingling sensations like heated breath on naked skin. He continue downward, crawl over her belly and out her left leg. She moans slightly as his legs tickles the inside of her thigh, until he pass on to the less sensitive parts of the leg. She opens her eyes slightly and peers at him.
By then, he has slipped out from the bottom of the dress, his pale body looking almost transparent in the bright light. Clinging to her leg just above where her ankles meet surface of the water, he dips one of his legs. Deciding that he isn’t in the mood for a bath, he scurry back up her leg. She scoops him up before he can dive into her dress again and speak to him in her soft and melodic voice:
“You need some light, honey. Your legs are growing a bit soft and we couldn’t have that, could we?”
She plays with him, tickling him in the joints of his legs while he playfully bites after her fingers. Eventually growing bored of the game, she asks him in a jovial voice:
“So, where do you think Carl is now then? Crawling around in some sewer most likely. I hope he stays there” she chuckles.
A flash of silver down in the water once more catch her attention. She lowers the spider down to the wooden boards of the dock, whispering:
“I have an idea. Did you see those people fishing in the canals when we passed? Let’s spice things up a little.”
From a pouch made of heavy, dark fabric she picks up a small lavender-coloured crystal. Its surface is rather dull, like a rough-cut gem, but a slightly throbbing light emanates from within. She holds it up to her eye, spying into it as if scrying its secrets. A smile curves her lips as she remembers whence it came. The young farmer son who insisted on showing her “a special glade in the forest” had been so surprised when his life was stripped from him. He had been handsome too, for a human. Needed to clean his hair and get rid of the dirt under his nails… but otherwise he could have been fun. A pity.
Her face then grows concentrated, as the crystal in her hand cracks and disintegrates into thousands of tiny fragments. The purple dust gathers in the bottom of her cupped hand, swirling slightly as if stirred by a light breeze. At the outskirts of the swirls, the dust seems to darken to a rich dark-purple hue. At the centre, the dust turns solid black, like a hole to the abyss. Her eyes mirror the transformation, pupils widening until most of her eyes appears as gateways into darkness. She places her other hand over the swirling dust, clasping it inside. After several moments of hard concentration she releases her grasp, showing a small pile of now grey dust in her cupped hand. In the middle of the pile, a small luminescent green item rests, appearing to be a small gem or a seed. She picks the item it up tenderly, letting the dust blow away in the wind. She scrutinizes the thing for a few moments and then holds it out over the water, balancing it on the tip of her finger. Then she turns her hand upside down, letting the sparkling green item plummet toward the water. As it breaks the surface, she cheerfully mumbles: “Oops, silly me.”
It sinks down, a radiant green star in the murky water. With a silvery flash of sudden movement, it is gone. She peers down from the dock, trying to spot the fish, lurking in the twilight below. It suddenly appears, rather close to the water, thrashing wildly. She can imagine how it feels, being devoured from the inside, corruption spreading through its body. Without any sound that can be heard above the surface, the fish explodes, sending blood and rotting pieces of flesh spinning in the water. Within moments, other fishes are lured by the commotion, like carrion birds to a dead animal. With a mindless frenzy befitting predators in the twilight waters, every remnant of the fish is quickly consumed. She watches gleefully, as a couple of the fish starts to spasm, while others swim away whence they came. One after another, the fish starts jerking until they too explode in small clouds of blood and gore. More fish are attracted to the increasing amount of food. Those who eat a larger amount seem to succumb quicker, while those who eat less have time to swim away, spreading the contamination further. Spots of red soon dot the canal, revealing the massacre occurring below the surface.
As she lifts her gaze from the water, she notices a man approaching her on the side of the canal. He is clad in a light armour and breastplate with a sword hanging from his belt. His helmet dangles at his belt and he nods solemnly when he notice her attention. The lion of Stormwind adorns his tabard. The spider at her side quickly scurries inside her dress, hiding itself in one of the large sleeves as usual. The rough boards of the small dock creak as he treads down upon them, obviously unaware of the spider. The guard ruffles his blond hair as he greets her:
“Greetings, quel’dorei, is everything well?” She frowns at his clumsy phrasing of the foreign word but nod in return to the greeting.
“Yes, I am enjoying the view, thank you. Is anything amiss, sir?”
She can see his eyes resting on her cleavage, thus she leans her head backward, letting her hair billow slightly in the gentle breeze while exposing even more bosom. He stares for several seconds, far longer than is appropriate. Then he suddenly remembers his manners, murmurs and apology and continues:
“Erm, no my lady, nothing severe. We’ve had some trouble with undead creeping around after dark, but nothing we can’t handle. You should be perfectly safe.”
She purrs slightly at him, musing:
“Oh, you’re so brave, good sir. Fighting undead must be terrible, I can only imagine… pray tell, could you escort me home? I suddenly feel a bit frightened, and your company would make me feel much safer. Though I don’t want to disturb you in your duties…”
He straightens his back and offers her his hand while saying:
“Fear not, my lady. It would be an honour to escort you home. Prey tell, where do you live?”
She lightly takes his hand and raise gracefully to her feet, mindful to allow the dress reveal as much of her curves as possible. He smiles broadly when he meets her eyes as she answer:
“Oh, I live just over at the park, good sir. I need to make a purchase on the marked on my way there, but it will only be a moment.”
They begin walking toward the market square at a pleasant pace, chatting away over trivial matters. The guard tries to behave appropriate, but his gaze keeps being drawn toward her gorgeous body. She laughs gently at his jokes, acts all the part gentle high elf while encouraging his stares and keeping his attention from the canal they follow. As they pass a group of young men fishing, she notices that the fish that they catch has a slightly unhealthy colour, small drops of blood running from their gills. She calculates that it will be an hour, maybe two before the corruption is complete and by that time they will probably be cooked and eaten. She purrs slightly at a compliment from the guard and directs him to wait outside a store as she ventures inside to make her purchase. The shopkeeper, an elder gentleman in finely cut cloths of latest fashion, ask:
“Doral ana’diel, my dear mistress quel'dorei? What can I do for you today? Need more of the lace retrieved from the ruins of Eldre’Thalas?” His accent is that of Kul Tiras, but his Thalassian is far better than most humans can muster. She ponders if she should slip a warning to this merchant to stay away from fish dishes today. After all, good suppliers of cloth are hard to come by these days. Therefore, she says:
“Shinu a’manore, dear Greagori. I am in possession of all the lace I need for the time being. I had a most unfortunate accident yesterday. One of my customers seems to have gotten terribly sick from eating some bad fish, you see. I swear, the poor man almost choked to death in my arms. Therefore, I need some new primal mooncloth.”
He grins at her, a golden gleam in his eyes betraying the greed that drives all merchants, while saying:
“Oh, such accidents happen all too easy. Bad fish, you say? Terrible. And how much primal mooncloth would that be?”
She acts as if calculating and then speak as if the order was nothing out of the ordinary:
“Sixty-five bolts would suffice. I need them rather soon, mind you.”
She is amused at his attempt not to appear shocked and is well prepared for the reply:
“I am not sure I have that in stock, my lady. It might take some time to produce a that great amount, even if I make my seamstresses work double-“
She gracefully holds up her hand, silencing him, and answer:
“I am sure you will cope, master Greagori. Your sources have thus far been unmatched, and I am confident not to disappointed this time either. I will increase the payment by one fourth if you deliver before the end of this week.”
Considering the business concluded, she strides toward the door, leaving the merchant with counting the profit. Just as she’s about to exit the building, she says over her shoulder:
“I will not have any fish for the rest of the week and I recommend you to do the same. Who knows what those filthy fishermen have done with the fish? Shorel’aran.”
Outside the shop she meets the guardsman who has been awaiting her return. He has a somewhat worried frown and seems a bit impatient, but it is quickly removed as she places her hand on his chest and say:
“You are most kind, good sir, to wait for me while I did my silly errand. If only there were gentlemen like you to alleviate my company…”
They continue down the canal side toward the bridge crossing leading to the park. The guard entertains her with stories of his and his comrades’ valour, while she encourages his advances. Up ahead, she suddenly notices a party of women coming their way. Among them she quickly spots a high elf woman. Having no way to run without rousing the suspicion of the guard, she raises the hood of her dress, muttering:
“Did you feel that chill? It must be getting late.”
The guard hardly notices, continuing the tale of how he single-handedly captured a crazed mage and imprisoned it in the Vaults. As the group with the high elf woman draws close, she does her best to hide her face in the hood, keeping it from view. She feels the searching eyes of the high elf like needles upon her skin; questioning, probing. Once they’ve passed by, she dares a glace over the shoulder and immediately meets the eyes of the high elf looking back at her, recognizing her for what she is. The high elf seems to ponder for a while weather to act now, but probably figures that the guard could just as well be a spy too. She lowers the hood again and nods at the guard as if there were no worries in the world. He hooks onto the encouragement and delve deeper into his telling. While giving small comments at just the right moments, she reaches inside herself. From a pool of pitch-black hate, fed by the fate that has been forced upon her and her kin, she draws upon the powers of devastation and death. Directing it at the high elf, she forms a smothering curse of oblivion. She smiles at the guard again, knowing that within a few minutes, the cursed high elf will become a gateway into the abyss, slaying the wretched elf in the process. With some luck, a tarshesite will make its way through the lay portal. That would be a sight.
Crossing the bridge, the two of them soon enters the park. Kept alive and radiant by the druids residing in the city, it is always a marvel to behold. Stealing young men from their proposed spouses is a game she’s formed into an art, and they tend to stray to this part of the city.
The guard looks upon her expectantly and she realises she didn’t hear his last question, thus she’s forced to ask:
“I’m sorry, what did you say again? My breath was stolen from me by the flower over yonder. Its petals remind me of the skin of a nymph, blushing in the afternoon light”
He appears a bit sceptic, but repeats his question:
“In which of the houses do you live, my lady?”
She laughs gently and answers:
“Oh, yes. I live just over here, on the far side of the park. Come, let us walk there.”
The guard follows by her side, taking full delight of escorting an astoundingly beautiful woman through the park. A few other couples are strolling around, enjoying the romantic surroundings. At the far end of the park, one of the establishments stands out among the others. A clamour of merriment is heard from within and scores of people, in varying stages of refreshment, clatter outside the building. Rather unusual, however, is that the number of men and women is fairly equal. Also, all participants are finely clad in rich fabric, though often more revealing than is acceptable.
The guard hesitates as he escorts her closer, giving her a wondering look. At last he cannot keep his curiosity at bay:
“My lady, are you sure this is the way? I thought you were going home, not to a… an establishment like this, if you excuse my manners.”
She gives him the sweetest smile imaginable, and tells him:
“Well, this is my home. It is my establishment. Would you like to come inside?” She gives him an inviting glance, gently pulling him closer. Contradicting emotions play across his face but eventually he sighs, lowering his gaze to his feet and says:
“I am sorry, my lady. I did not recognize you as the mistress of the Happy Hermit. Lady Chassandra, isn’t it?” She mutters an acknowledgement, raising his head with the tip of her finger until their eyes meet again. She pouts slightly at him, asking in a mock-wounded voice:
“Won’t my escort share with me his name then, when he has so boldly figured out mine?”
He gives her a bow, somewhat deeper than their stations dictates, presenting himself:
“My name is Thomas Fidgewick, but you can call me Thomas, my lady. Pleased to be of service. However, duty calls and I am still on patrol.”
Chassandra nod at him once more, saying:
“Be well then, noble guard. You are welcome to join me here, should you feel inclined to once your shift has ended.”
Thomas turns around and walks back through the park, alone among the festive people. Chassandra watch him for a while, pondering if she really wishes to include this guard in her schemes. Without coming any some sort of conclusion, she walks up the stairs to the Happy Hermit Corner Club and is immediately greeted by the guards at the door. Slipping inside quietly, she heads through the kitchen down into the basement. She safely latches the door behind her and then walks down to one of the large barrels of fine vintage wines. Pushing in the tap of the barrel, the front of it glides open, revealing a tunnel inside. Low voices emanates from further inside, speaking gutterspeak and crude orcish. She slips inside and closes the door behind her.