Chapter One: Part Two

Lord Pyrte Fitral settled into his plush, wing-backed chair and gazed into the fire. Once in a while, a gust of wind would tear over the chimney and make it howl, but thankfully the flue just before the opening into the fireplace proper prevented the weather from disturbing the flames. The light they gave off seemed to bathe the man in luxury; they enhanced the rich red-brown of the mahogany furniture, and the wine-red tapestries on the wall. It made the brandy in Pyrte's glass seem to glow.

At this point, supper had been over for a good while. The sounds of servants scuttling, dishes clanking in the kitchen and folks coming and going down the halls had died roughly a candlemark ago, and Pyrte and his fellows - a few lords from other local holdings that had been caught indoors by the foul weather - could now enjoy the sounds of a crackling fire and their own voices in privacy. One of them, a young upstart who was meant to take his father's place as Lord, was currently pacing the room like a caged animal. Pyrte had thus far managed to ignore the youth, and thanks be to the gods that the floors here were covered in so many plush rugs, else the constant tread of the man's booted feet would have irked Lord Fitral's temper. As it was, he cast a lazy glance toward the lad and frowned. "Why do you pace so, boy?" he demanded gruffly, breaking the silence that had settled over the room.

The boy came to a stop. He fiddled with the glass in his hands, still as full as it had been when a serving man had poured it for him. "This weather, Milord," he replied, after an uneasy glance out of the nearest window. The thick, bubbly glass didn't give him much of a view of the outdoors, but it did nothing to stop the flashes of lightning that brightened the sky at intervals. "It's uncanny. I've prickles up the back of my neck."

"Ah, come off it, lad," an older gentleman - the youth's father - said from his place in a beaten leather chair. Here and there, stuffing poked out of the upholstery, visible even beneath the gentleman's wide body. He turned toward Pyrte apologetically. "The boy's superstitious as they come," he explained. "His mother's doing, I'll wager. She still follows some of the old ways. Got him thinkin' there's evil ‘round every corner."

Around them, the others chuckled, sympathizing with old Lord Garnir even as they remembered their own women-folk at home. Garnir's son, Hiram, stopped pacing, obviously bristling over his father's comments. "Now, see here, you old goat," he jabbed an accusing finger in his father's direction, "You name me ONE time you've ever seen a storm this bad last as long as it has, and I'll eat my hat!" Silence followed his comment, and as one, the men in the room turned toward the room's only window. Suddenly Hiram's uneasiness didn't seem so far-fetched.

The door burst open.

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