The black water of the lake is deadly still beneath the roiling, churning blood red and poison green colors of the sky above which cracks and flashes with bolts of light. The ruined, crumbling castle of the ogre still stands, despite the threats of its late inhabitant, the ogre Rathgar. He had promised that if he was killed the castle would blow sky-high killing all within, yet the vine-covered walls, empty keep and weather-beaten turrets still stand atop the rocks that stab upwards out of the ominously placid waters. There is no sign of the promised explosion.
A banged-up group of would-be ogre hunters emerges from the gate of the castle and without pausing moves quickly out onto the stepping stones that lead across the lake away from this death trap of a palatial ruin. The Huntsman leads the group, tall and majestic in his massive cloak of animal furs, antlered headdress and embossed leather garments. Without skipping a step in his long stride the Huntsman leaps up on the back of an enormous elk that had been standing at the gate awaiting his return. He pauses a moment to offer his hand, and a ride, to Reah.
“Who do you think you are?” she says tersely, looking up at him with her chin tilted towards him defiantly, a stern expression in her brilliant turquois eyes. Normally, perhaps, she would have been flattered by the attention of the towering muscular sidhe with golden hair, emerald eyes, and the face of Adonis, but after all she’s been through today she just isn’t in the mood, “You think you can just ride in, slay the monster and sweep me off my feet? Not today. Not after my friends and I did all the work for you. We fought our way through the swamp, we did battle with the ogre. If you wanted to save the day why didn’t you just do it all yourself and save us the trouble?”
A quizzical look crosses the majestic faerie lord’s face as though Reah had been speaking a language he didn’t understand. Impatiently he looks back at the castle, then out across the lake. “Very well,” he replies shortly, “I have not the time for discussions while still in the shadow of this castle, which may be blown apart at any moment,” and with that he turns to go.
“Wait,” Reah calls urgently, as Kyra emerges behind her carrying the unconscious Thomas over her shoulder, the preternatural strength in her blood allowing her to handle his weight without much difficulty despite his larger size. “Take, Thomas,” Reah implores the Huntsman. “It’s the least you can do after all we did for you.”
The sidhe lord scowls in dislike of the delay, yet he complies silently and quickly with Reah’s request, steering his steed closer to Kyra, and reaching down with one hand to lift Thomas’ slight body off her shoulder. He yanks the enormous elks’ reigns and the majestic creature wheels and gallops across the top of the lake. The others waste no time in following: the swift-footed vampire with rad streaks in her dark hair leaps out onto the water first, springing from stone to stone like a wolf running for it’s life. Reah with her long, shapely legs, is quick to follow across the stepping stones, moving with grace, if not the same flare as Kota. Ilario manages to next, moving as quickly as he can without stumbling. Kyra comes last, her thoughts deeply preoccupied with the hunger that just keeps getting worse and doesn’t go away, but still conscious enough to tread the stones without falling.
As the bruised and bleeding group approaches the opposite banks of the lake two figures stand awaiting them at the water’s edge. One is a tall man with long, flowing dark brown hair combed back from the chiseled features of his face. By far his most striking feature is his fiery golden eyes that glow with a mysterious and volatile inner power. Anyone foolish enough to glance into them sees that and little more, as most are very quick to glance away. He is dressed in an immaculate black suite, shirt, and shoes, all apparently impervious to the swamps muck through some supernatural means. He holds aloft in one hand a long black walking staff, with a white-gold dragon’s claw gripping an enormous orb-shaped blood red ruby at the end pointing towards the churning clouds above. The man’s other hand is held out in front of him, raised towards the castle with palm out, like an officer directing traffic.
Beside this imposing figure is another that is equally impressive, but in quite a different way. He is not as tall as the other, and slighter of build, with handsome, ageless angular features, pale skin and stark gray eyes. His dark hair is slicked back and reveals his long pointed ears, and his thin mustache matches his gotee, which is pointed in the middle as well. He sits atop an enormous pale horse and is dressed in black Elizabethan finery: a fancy embroidered doublet with high ruffled collar and short cloak draped across his shoulders, puffy breeches ending at his upper thigh in tall leather boots, a rapier is strapped to his side and a gold chain hangs across his chest.
It is the second man who speaks, his voice soft and low, like that of a spider, if spiders had voices, “You trespass in the Winterlands again, Huntsman,” he says, addressing the antlered sidhe lord. “I take your failure to acquire permission from me as a personal affront to my lordship, and as a breech of the Truce of Seasons.”
“Take it how you will, Rumplestiltskin,” the Duke of Summer bellows back, his voice echoing with power, “I have come on personal business. I do not require your permission to gather the remains of my cousin, who died under your watch.”
The unseelie regent rolls his gray eyes, “We have been over this, Duke; I am not to be held responsible for Seelie who trespass on my lands. Your cousin never came to me before entering my domains.”
“She had been brought forcibly by one of your vassals,” the Huntsman replies, barely containing his rage. “This conversation is done. Stay away from my family and I shall not enter your domain again. Harm another of my kin and it shall be your blood upon my spear. Out of my way.” Having said his peace the Huntsman spurs his steed forward and the elk lowers his antlers threateningly.
Rumplestiltskin moves his mount aside, but turns to call over his shoulders as the Huntsman rides by, “That’s a freebie. I know you are upset. If you ever threaten me again in my own domain I shall spin your intestines into gold.” His cold eyes wonder down to the unconscious body of Thomas slung over the back of the elk. “So,” he adds, “The wizard is still in league with Summer after all.”
“Not at all,” the Huntsman replies, “I would just as soon abandon this traitor in mud, but the lady requested I carry him. You’ll have to find a different excuse to weasel out of your contract with this mortal.” He gives a bemused grunt and rides off through the mist.
Rumplestiltskin raises an eyebrow and turns to appraise the lady the Huntsman had indicated. His icy gaze seems to bore holes through her as he examines the gentle curves of her face, the sparkling green jewels of her eyes, and her exquisite, statuesque figure. Even the layers of swamp muck that cover her can’t hide her rare beauty. “And who is this lady who managed to sway the steel heart of my arch enemy,” Rumplestiltskin murmurs. He rides up to Reah and offers her his hand, “Please know I mean it with all my heart when I say it is a pleasure to see you again, my lady. I had not expected to find you in such a place as this. What in all the worlds could have brought you here?”
“That would be Thomas, the man you know as the Forsworn Knight, Sir Tristan,” exclaims the tall man with the golden eyes in a deep, resonant voice. With his eyes fixed firmly on the castle across the water he adds, “This is what he does, he uses people to achieve his own ends. I took him under my wing, along with this young lady when he came into this city and as thanks he betrayed me and turned her against me as well. Then he joined the Summer Court and after benefitting from their power and knowledge just as he had with me, he left them when it suited him.” Then giving Reah a sidelong glance he concludes, “This girl and her friends will be no different.”
Rumplestiltskin gives the tall man a nod of acknowledgement then turns back to Reah and the others. “You all have Phaeton to thank for the fact that you are still alive. The Beast, Rathgar had woven a ward into his castle that would have unleashed enough destructive force into the castle that not one brick would have been left upon another. Phaeton has counter woven the spell.”
The sorcerer lowers his wand and sighs, “Done. The castle is yours, Lord Rumplestiltskin. All I ask in return is that I and my associate, Annabelle be allowed to take what we can carry from the castle.”
Annabelle steps forward, brushing back a strand of black hair from her cute, if not rather pale, face. “Excuse me, Sir,” she interjects, “Bleddyn assisted me in tracking down the ogre’s lair, should he not receive some compensation as well?”
The Regent of Winter nods, “Very well, Phaeton, you may have what you can carry, and your two associates may split between them whatever one of them can carry away.” At this Annabelle’s eyes light up and she grits her teeth with rage, but Rumplestiltskin’s spidery voice continues, giving her no window to respond. “As for you,” he says, turning to Kota, “You have proven your willingness to obey the rule of the Winter Court, you may retrieve your sire from the Omni Shoreham hotel.
Subject: The Aftermath 
Wed Jun 19, 2013 6:43 pm
