(2024-08-09) The Atala and the Shadow (The Heist Part 1)
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Author: Athena
Summary: Count Lester Amerith is up to Something strange in regards to the Farrens/Dinnsfield brothers, and Natalyah, Lathrik, Peril, and the Guards are going to find out. They have a particularly thorough plan set up that in no way could go wrong. 14,200~ words and it's a Part 1. Definitely no way the plan went wrong there.
Rating: M for Mature 17+
Joelle Ebek Peril Farrens Ilanya Ravendusk Lathrik H. Dinnsfield Lester Amerith Natalyah Kensington-Whit Reniya Hartrim Tabiana Lynds
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It's Friday night in Stormwind City in August, the cling of summer stifling the onset of evening enough that the relatively cooler shade filled with iced beverages of taverns are particularly appealing. The light stubbornly holds a grip over the city, refusing to relinquish to the darkness of twilight, even as the bells of the Cathedral signal that it is, in fact, eight o'clock. In another year, this might be when one Lathrik H. Dinnsfield would be leaving his house in search of the eternally appealing combination of whiskey and women.

Instead, he is currently at home, but there is still whiskey and at least one woman. This is because of the woman seated at the dining room table, expanded out fully to accommodate the six chairs placed there in anticipation of company, who is currently holding onto a small glass of whiskey like she is either going to warm it up by her hand, or gearing up to crush it in a show of absurd strength. It is probably neither of those, but she hasn't taken a sip since she poured it for herself, just held onto it, chewing on her bottom lip.

Natalyah is dressed in a stunning halter fitted bodice black dress with one long slit up her right leg to her mid-thigh, tight satin mageweave with bright blue details along the bodice, and most notably for those who know their butterflies, a vivid orange patch at her lower back, the rest of her back completely exposed from the deep V of the dress back, a black tinted chain stretched across the wings of her shoulder blades. It's a dress meant to evoke the Atala Butterfly, one of the most hazardous (ha ha), toxic butterflies in the world, so dangerous that even touching such a butterfly can cause swelling and blistering, and consuming them at all, neurological problems and death. She looks like she should be at some very fancy Society masquerade, on the arm of a high profile nobleman, his scandalous mysterious date.

"That's the hour," she says to Lathrik. She sounds audibly nervous, despite the attempt at a casual bravado. "Which means that somewhere Elle's probably bodily picked Ren up and started hustling him this way." The plan, they both know, is to start at 8:30pm, as the sun sets and gives Lathrik time to get through Elwynn for true dark to offer better cover to the Count's manor.

Lathrik himself is dressed in black, tight fitting cloth, beneath which strips of leather are strapped to him in key locations to ward off at least fatal stab wounds, and a flat dagger is strapped tightly to his leg as a precaution. His usual bar clothes are laid out on the couch, and as the hour strikes, he begins putting them on, sliding them over the top of his other gear.

“Aye, and don’t think he wouldn’t,” Lathrik says, sparing a glance at her as he fastens the ties on his shirt. “You’ll be alright? If it gets hard, remember what I told ye about Azerothian Interest #7, when Peril convinced people of an impending raptor attack and the Guard had to issue an official statement on it to reduce the panic.”

It does the trick, as a deep giggle rises up and bursts out into the wicked cackle as she remembers. She doesn't laugh so hard that she has to lie down before she falls down, as she did the first time, but it banishes some of the anxiety clawing at her. "I can handle it. I've been at this for weeks now. I lasted all through the world's most boring corner that you stared at long enough for me to count exactly how many places needed new paint — forty-three — on a single building and I didn't go completely insane." Sure, but did anyone check to see if that's because she started there already?

She scowls at Lathrik's outfit, and finally takes a drink of her whiskey. "You know you could wear a flour sack, and ogre loincloths for pants. Fashion trends always have to start somewhere." She huffs, and complains, "Although you'll probably be too stupidly good looking even in that and actually start a trend, and the Guard will have to issue an official statement to reduce the crime of fashion."

A smile comes to his face. “Ogre loincloth has its benefits, I’ve heard. They can take a crap anywhere without even taking off their pants. Imagine the streets of Stormwind if that trend caught.” It’s possible he’s reached his own level of insanity after suffering through so many Azerothian Interest articles.

The laughter rings out again, and she reaches out for him with a hand, beckoning him closer. "I might not have gone insane from the most boring corner on Azeroth, but I think you might have after staring at so many Azerothian Interest articles for me," she tells him, the subtext made text. "Or has Talley Cat inspired you after all to think outside the strict restraints of the bathroom box." The curled smile she gives him is not unlike a cat's mischievous smile, but her eyes are velvet soft.

Lathrik joins her at the table, brushing her hair off the back of her neck and laying it to one side. “If I told ye that you’re dressed to kill, you’d tell me that’s the butterfly, wouldn’t you?” Ooh, is he learning?

She preens happily under the praise with a coquettish tilt to her head, as she catches his hand, holding it against her, and setting her cheek against his palm. "As a matter of fact, the Atala butterfly is only dangerous to other species that try to touch them or eat them. Among their own, I'd be dressed to watch a male scout ahead, and then dance for me, to impress me with his skill and scent, to entice me to bed him."

“That so?” His eyes radiate confidence as he leans down to kiss her, quick and gentle, a tease of a touch. “Then I’ll be sure not to disappoint.”

If she might have escalated, and she seems like she might, leaning up after him, her other hand leaving the whiskey to reach for him and pull him back towards her, it does not come to fruition, because she halts mid-action.

Her head twitches, and she groans, as she slumps down. "It's like finding out I have secret warlock summoning powers but only extremely selectively," she mutters tartly. "They're here."

Lathrik straightens and heads to the door, opening it before Reniya even has a chance to knock, which results in the other man’s hand colliding awkwardly with Lathrik’s chest before he can pull back.

“Oi, how’d you do that?” Reniya asks, surprise lighting his features.

Lathrik shrugs back at Natalyah. “She heard ye.”

Reniya enters the house, beaming at Natalyah. “Swallowtail, that’s quite a talent you have!” he says cheerfully.

“Maybe Ren is just noisy,” Joelle says, following him in.

Tabiana enters as well, a quiet concern on her face. She hasn’t been told any of the details, and that seems to bother her. All three of the guards are dressed for work, though in Ren’s case, it’s not going to matter anyway.

Natalyah turns in her seat, and the sense of the femme fatale is even stronger in her posture, an elbow bent to rest on the table with the whiskey glass dangling from an above grip of her hand, her hair still pulled to one side, leaving a dark line of her throat exposed.

"Don't be so hard on Ren," Natalyah starts. Aww, that's sweet. Wait, that can't be right. "You have to go easy on a man with so few talents of his own that he needs to count physiological traits such as 'hearing' among talents in order to pad out the resume." Ah, there's the sharp tongue.

Reniya smiles at her. He doesn’t laugh, and he doesn’t make a joke. His movements are notably stiff as he slides into a seat at the table. “So, we’re just waitin’ on that reporter?” he asks.

Lathrik turns from the door to face him. “Ren. You good?”

Reniya gives him a sheepish smile. “I know I cleared you for this, Junior, but if you wanna switch, just say the word. I’ll…” He glances at Tabiana and stops.

Tabiana also sits, folding her hands tightly in her lap. Don’t look at her, she’s nervous too.

Joelle seems to sense the mood and pats both of them on the head. “It’ll work,” he says. He’s been Told it will, and he has no reason to doubt.

Natalyah eyes Joelle warily, in case he's considering a round of head pats. Only Lathrik gets to touch her hair.

"Speaking of talented people, Lathrik can handle it," she says tartly in defense for him. Never mind that she's drinking because she desperately needs to stay as calm as possible for her part. "I just want to know if anyone's actually risked putting down any money on the bet that you'll manage a whole night without flirting with every person at the bar."

Reniya lifts his eyebrows, a look of innocence on his face. “Lathrik has,” he says, still smiling.

“Ren will come through where it counts,” Lathrik says, starting to close the door. It stops before reaching the opposite frame, caught on a certain reporter trying to squeeze himself inside at the last second. “Light, Peril, ye could’ve said somethin’.”

Peril laughs nervously. “I didn’t want to startle anyone. The tension’s so thick in here that it tickles the lungs. Why if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you all were worried about this particularly thorough plan we have set up that in no way could go wrong.”

Lathrik opens the door to admit him, closing it properly once he is through. “Am I the only one here who isn’t a wreck?” he asks, eyeing them all.

Joelle raises his hand. “I’m okay.”

Lathrik stares at him. “You… don’t count.”

“Oh.” Joelle lowers his hand again.

Natalyah tosses her head, which disrupts the set of her hair, and there's a strange little flash of something in her face from it along the lines of regret. She takes a long sip of her whiskey and sets it down as Joelle lowers his hand. "I'm doing perfectly fine," she says, not all that convincingly. "As long as you stay the one who isn't a wreck." That's directed at Lathrik with a jabbing point of her finger. Stay healthy, Lathrik. Or else. "I can only heal you if you're actually in range. Peril, you have the materials to summon?" All part of the plan, the emergency escape plan, for the plan that will definitely in no way go wrong, surely.

Peril joins them at the table, unloading a grimoire and a purple shard from a bag over his shoulder. “Yes! I have here this… uh…” He glances at Lathrik. “Stone from a particularly special mineral deposit which serves as a magical conduit through which the summoning magic can take hold.” It’s definitely a soul shard.

Lathrik eyes his brother, but lets it go. “Ren. You’ve got the potions?”

Reniya slides two potions from a pouch and sets them on the table. “Are you sure I shouldn’t’ve picked up an invisibility potion instead?” he asks as Lathrik takes one and grabs a smaller set of four vials that he’d laid out on the counter earlier.

“Won’t need it,” Lathrik says, heading over to the potion disposal bin and distributing the Illusion potion into the smaller vials. These he tucks under his clothes, sliding them into various hidden pockets.

“The duration on that’s going to be shorter with it split so many times,” Reniya warns.

Lathrik shoots him a scowl. “I know. Hana’s at work?”

“Hana arrived at work twenty-six minutes early to help set up for the evening crowd,” Joelle says. “I don’t think they will pay her overtime.”

Natalyah pours herself another finger of whiskey. Well, with her slim fingers it's more like two. She eyes Reniya and Lathrik discussing the potions like an annoyed anthropologist who is stuck studying a local population without being allowed to interfere in their customs.

Instead, all she does is slide the slim, spiral bound notebook with a gnomish pencil designed with multiple stacking sharpened points over to herself, opening it to the first blank, lined page. There are notches at each start of the lines, and very faint grooves on the paper that marks the edges. She spreads her fingers across the paper like she's petting a soft animal to soothe it.

Lathrik tosses the empty Illusion potion vial into the bin and turns towards the group. “Are we ready, then?”

Reniya pushes up from the table. “Aye,” he says. “Close your eyes, Tabby Cat, and don’t open them ‘til I’m gone.”

Tabiana turns her frown of concern on him. “Just answer me this. Is anyone going to die?”

“Not if we all do our jobs right.” Reniya winks at her. “We’ll be fine. Junior over here’s no slouch.”

Tabiana sighs, but obediently closes her eyes.

Lathrik joins Reniya at the table, looking him over one last time. There is a lingering worry in his eyes, the cause only Natalyah knows.

“Oi, what’re you lookin’ at me like that for, mate? I’ve got the easy job.” Reniya grins and pats Lathrik firmly on the shoulder. Then he uncorks the potion. “Bottoms up, eh?”

There is a moment where, to the careful observer, it looks like Lathrik might try to stop him. His hand jerks forward a couple inches, his body tenses, a word almost leaves his lips… but in the end, Reniya drains the potion uninterrupted. The form change is immediate. In what looks like a shedding of smoke, Reniya shrinks to Lathrik’s size, his hair, his eyes, his clothes all changing to match the paladin’s own.

Reniya looks himself over and grins — but this is a Ren grin, not a look seen often on Lathrik’s own face. His now light brown eyes twinkle with humor and it’s clear, he is already enjoying this. For whatever reason, though, he doesn’t speak, and in fact, he raises a finger to his lips, gesturing to Tabiana.

Natalyah's immediate look of distaste and mild horror at the Reniya expression on Lathrik's features probably gives some sense to her reaction, but she doesn't say anything to give away exactly what's happened. What she actually does is set her hands on the table, partially stands to lean forwards halfway across the table to where Ren is seated, and inhales several hard, deep sniffs. She exhales with obvious, intense relief.

"It won't fool a worgen," she tells Reniya, in partial triumph and partial cautioning. He could not fool her that he's Lathrik, his scent would give him away, and that's what matters.

“Good we’re not trying to fool a worgen, then,” Lathrik says. “We’d have to both bathe in sh— mud. Ren. Get going. I’ll give ye a head start before I collect Risk.”

Reniya/Lathrik pulls on his best brooding Lathrik expression — which is surprisingly accurate, then nods and steps outside.

Joelle wanders out after him.

Eventually.

He may have forgotten which Lathrik he was supposed to follow.

Natalyah watches Reniya go with a repressed shudder at the Lathrik Impersonation. Nope, nope, she does not like that, not one bit. One Lathrik only, please and thank you.

When the door closes behind them, Lathrik taps Tabiana.

“Ye can open your eyes now,” he says.

Tabiana complies, her hands still tightly clasped in her lap.

Peril sets his own notebook out between the grimoire and the soul shard, his eyes hidden by the rim of his hat. “I’m pulling you out if there’s trouble,” he informs Lathrik. “This time, I…”

“Peril.” Lathrik’s tone is sharp. “Don’t scare the ladies.”

Peril raises his head, glancing between Tabiana and Natalyah. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Never fear, for my name is Peril Farrens, and danger is my first name. We will see each other through this storm and together, witness the rainbow on the other side!”

“I am not frightened,” Tabiana objects immediately.

"And it's nighttime. If there's a rainbow outside after all this, it would mean something catastrophic has happened, like finding out there's some sort of Dawnlight's Cult we haven't even heard of yet," Natalyah says tartly, crossing her arms.

Natalyah, do not bait the journalist.

She looks at Lathrik, her chin tucked down, staring at him in some twisting expression of pleading fear and attempted confidence, one brow raised.

Peril blinks at her. “Dawnlight’s Cult? That’s a good one! Can I write that down?”

Lathrik pulls up a chair next to Natalyah and sits down, setting a hand over hers in a comforting gesture. He doesn’t say anything, and the speed of his thoughts is near visible in his eyes, plans upon plans wound tightly together, unraveling as he checks them over again.

"I'll do it." Without looking away from Lathrik, Natalyah picks up her pencil and writes in neat, possibly surprisingly simple handwriting on the first line of her notebook: Dawnlight's Cult. She draws a little cloud with a tiny arch coming out of it — a rainbow, presumably.

"You are going to be fine," Natalyah tells Lathrik, and it's not necessarily faith or belief — it sounds like an order. You will be fine, Lathrik Hazard Dinnsfield, or else. She chews at the corner of her bottom lip, and leans closer towards Lathrik in a yearning. He's too far away. The correct distance would be none. "You know what you're doing, and so do I."

Peril glances at Lathrik’s hand over hers, hiding his blush behind his hat. Oh no, hand-holding. Scandalous.

Except it doesn’t end there. Lathrik leans closer, offering Natalyah a gentle kiss. He leaves it to her to close the remaining distance if she chooses, because while he doesn’t care that they’re being watched, she might. “I know,” he murmurs.

Tabiana politely, respectfully, looks away.

Tabiana and Peril could be gasping in shock, clutching pearls, and actively tittering about the scandal, and it would probably have zero effect on Natalyah. She has warned Lathrik that she started off her Society entrance in scandal and it only went downhill from there. The woman is not made for fragile reputations of the noble class.

She presses a hard, desperate kiss to his lips, long enough to ensure he understands something from it, and then moves herself half onto him in an embrace, perched perilously on the edge of her chair, her arm around his shoulders the only thing keeping her safely in it, pressed into her favorite place, breathing him in with deep, shaky breaths.

"Lathrik, I — " It almost is something. The start of something that has a telltale sense of a confession, of some variety, of fear or doubt or some other feeling.

But she doesn't speak it, doesn't finish it.

The light from the windows dims fully, passing beyond the skyline of the city enough to plunge Lathrik and Natalyah's home into the twilight darkness, the room now illuminated by the candles set on the counters, and the one on the table, barely enough to make Natalyah's journal readable.

If Peril had pearls to clutch, he would probably be clutching them. Instead, he is clutching his notebook, holding it firmly over his face. No one told him he would be serving as witness to some sort of erotic novel that includes hand-holding and kissing.

“You’ll have Peril here, and Tabiana,” Lathrik murmurs softly, his hands at her waist. “And if anything goes sideways, there is a way out. Just watch for my signal. I’ll be sending Risk back, so have Tabiana keep an eye out for him. He knows the way home. And ‘Talyah… I promise I will come home to you.”

Natalyah nods into his shoulder. "That is the one thing I know for certain happens. It's staying safe after as much as during that I swear by sinners and martyrs you better do, Lathrik." She exhales heavily into him, a shock of warm air against his neck, and she pulls back to look at him, a hand gripping his shoulder so tightly that he can probably feel the moment there's something happening, a warming, even before the glow suffuses her hand, a swirling tempest around her fingers that sinks into him not entirely unlike claws — Fortitude. A blessing.

Lathrik smiles as the Light claws him blesses him, a look of pride in his eyes as he gazes at her. A blessing of his own leaves his fingertips, a soft and enveloping aegis, bolstering her with Might.

There’s a small shiver from her as the blessing lands, although it’s possible she might not know the cause, confused with just the touch of his fingers.

“I’ll need to be going now, Miss Butterfly,” he says, gentle but firm, waiting with an expectant air of patience.

It's a breath, and another, before she meets his eyes with actual intent, holding onto him. The shadows gather from somewhere inside her pupil, expanding outward, swirling to cover them fully lid to lid in an inky black so dark that the light sinks into it, an endless void of a starless sky.

She doesn't lose her balance, and doesn't have even a moment's hesitation of disorientation as her vision suddenly shifts from her own to his perspective. Using his sight, she lifts herself back up enough to fully position again onto her own chair, picking up her pencil sightlessly, and holding it above the notebook. "I'll be with you."

Lathrik gently takes hold of her free hand, pressing it to his chest, over his heart. “You always are.”

Then he releases her, patting Peril on the head on the way by, and giving Tabiana a nod, before stepping out into the night to retrieve his horse.

Natalyah waits there in the ensuing silence, watching through Lathrik's eyes until he's moving away from the property.

"All right, Tabiana," she says, a noblewoman accustomed to commanding a guard tone to her voice. "No one who shouldn't be here gets through that door. Be especially watchful for that worgen we talked about. I still don't know who they are, and if they're any sort of threat. And if we need you for a summoning, I'll yell."

Tabiana rises from her chair, taking up a place just to the side of the window, hard to spot from the outside, but close enough that she can see out. “In position,” she reports. “And I suppose no one will tell me why Reniya is leaving me in the dark on this?”

Natalyah is either silent for a moment in thought or she's watching what Lathrik's doing and concentrating.

What she eventually says, too long for a normal social pause, is, "I guess that depends a lot on how much you trust that Ren knows you well enough to decide correctly to withhold something from you for your own good, maybe personally or maybe for your career professionally. He's flippant and lazy, and his nicknames are ridiculous, but he does actually care under all that, and he doesn't want his people hurt. You're his pa — people." Look, she can be nice to him where he can't hear her. It's allowed.

A breathy sigh escapes Tabiana and she resigns herself to looking out the window. “You’re right, of course,” she says. “I won’t ask.”

"And I won't tell you," Natalyah says cheerfully. "Especially if you don't tell Ren I said anything nice about him. It'll inflate his ego so badly we'll lose the front door again next time he walks in here, and we just fixed up the place."

Outside, full dark is fast approaching, and street lights have been lit. The guards on the night shift carry lanterns of their own, diligently patrolling the streets for signs of mischief. For one who knows their routes, however, it is not difficult to avoid them, and so Lathrik does, turning onto the appropriate streets and alleys with the casual ease of someone who carries the patrol map in his head, and knows who is supposed to be where, and when.

He retrieves Risk from the stables without gear. No saddles, blankets, bridles, or bags, just a large black horse with no identifying markings. At least, to those who don’t know him. Even Risk is antsy tonight, keeping still for no longer than a couple seconds at a time, which makes mounting him bareback an extra challenge, but one he manages all the same.

The pace out of the city is casual, mostly a controlled walk, with Lathrik blending in as much as possible until they reach the night-empty roads of Elwynn, leading northeast into the hills. There, they break into a canter, and Lathrik does his best to keep his vision steady despite the speed of the horse.

Peril, who is sitting at the table sketching, finally looks up from his work. “Is he there yet?” he asks. Yes, he is going to be That Guy.

"You don't have to ask or guess every few minutes. I'm not going to just sit here mindlessly staring at things forever. When he arrives, I will start writing things down, and say, 'he's there.' We have enough mysteries to solve tonight to not add to it," Natalyah says peevishly.

The Count’s manor is not yet in sight when Lathrik slows Risk to a stop and dismounts. The horse is not too pleased with this decision; he looks like he wants to keep running, and he prances impatiently forward a few steps, before stopping again to wait for Lathrik. There is a deer trail through the forest, and the paladin turns onto it, leaving Risk by the side of the road. The stallion tosses his head in soundless protest, but stays put.

The cover of the trees at night makes visibility tenuous, but Lathrik presses on until he arrives at the bank of a river. Here, he begins to undress, peeling away his bar clothes in favor of the tighter fitting outfit underneath. First the leather vest comes off, followed by a moment of darkness as he pulls the shirt over his head. After dropping the shirt onto the light armor, he smooths a hand over his underclothes before unbuckling and stepping out of his pants.

He collects the clothes into a tight bundle, tying them together with the legs of his pants, then steps towards the river. Using the faint glow of moonlight for illumination, Lathrik holds up his hand and signs, ‘Sorry,’ before winding back and chucking the bundle into the river. The clothes land somewhere downstream with a splash, and are consumed by the current like a rat by a starving serpent.

Peril once again looks up from his notebook. “Is…” Oh yeah. No asky. He clears his throat. “I uh. Brought the stuff for hot chocolate,” he says. “I’ll just… do that.”

"Yes, very good. You're being immediately promoted to Best Heist Assistant," Natalyah tells Peril. "Sorry, Tabiana. You can still win this if you are actually hiding deluxe truffles in your bag, though."

Natalyah pulls her notebook a little closer, and begins writing in that oddly impeccable, neat script, <Risk at the side of the road, near medium game trail (deer?). L to river, stupid sexy clothes removed, leaving stupider sexier clothes on. Sexy clothes thrown in river, headed downstream.> "He's nearly there," she says, as she writes.

Peril beams. Was that genuine praise, or snappy sarcasm? Who knows! Certainly not Peril, but maybe he’s choosing optimism today. He gets up to start the water boiling.

Lathrik returns to Risk and mounts again, continuing down the road to the manor. This time he rides until the manor is in sight — a tall, pale stoned structure that looks ancient elven in design — from this angle at least. Tall spires rise above tree level as if to spear the moon, and Lathrik, still cloaked in darkness, dismounts.

Risk does not seem happy to leave him here, and it takes some coaxing, and finally a hard smack on the rump, to send the horse trotting away. Lathrik pauses in the shade of a tree at the edge of the forest to assess his route going forward. Between him and the manor lies a sprawling rose garden; it seems the Count is a collector of this particular variety of flower, and his collection is extensive. There are even two varieties of Gilnean roses, both the white and red, and it appears that these are not a recent addition.

Beyond the garden are stairs leading up to the manor, where two large wooden doors, accented by intricate metalwork in swirling patterns, sit nestled in the shadow of the second floor balcony. From where he kneels, Lathrik can see at least one smaller door tucked to the side of the main entrance, possibly for servants, and he points it out, as if noting it to Natalyah for later. But the main road continues on, curving away to the other side of the building. It’s likely where the stables and guest entrances are.

After a patient scan of the area, lasting maybe five minutes, he observes no movement in or around the manor, and points to the main road, signaling his intent to check the other side. And then he moves, weaving his way through the garden, using the bushes as extra cover where needed.

Back home, Tabiana shifts, stretching out muscles that have tightened during her time spent glued to the window.

“I could uh, take over?” Peril suggests from the table, taking a sip from his finished hot chocolate.

“You are a civilian, Mister Farrens,” Tabiana says gently. “This is my duty. But thank you.”

He glances nervously at Natalyah’s notebook.

Natalyah writes as Lathrik observes, and it's possibly obvious how used to this particular method she is. Her focus seems to be partially based on Social observations, rather than architectural exactly. She notes the manor's cardinal directions for the front facing facade, where the windows face predominantly and in what style, how many balconies there are to what rooms that might imply suites or larger bedrooms, and how well it's been maintained by money versus the wear and tear of time from the original build. Most importantly, she notes how many windows show any shine of light in them, rooms lit for convenience or guests, for staff to see by as they pass through halls, and which windows have their heaviest drapes already drawn fully, indicating either no one staying in the room, or a complete routine of opening and shutting them of staff moving regularly through the manor.

When Lathrik points at the servant's entrance, Natalyah writes down the precise description of the door type, with the eye of a noblewoman noting how another noble has structured their staff comings and goings. This is not especially useful information for someone looking at the building from a perspective of how to enter it, or how to leave it, but it is information on what it says about the time period the manor was built, how much money was put into it, and how structured it is to accommodate significant staff or guests.

As soon as she has her hot chocolate, she lifts it up, blows carefully on it, and drinks it sightlessly, staring ahead. A genuine impish smile curves her lips up, like she's got a secret about the hot chocolate. The hierarchy requirement of chocolate was, it would seem, genuine.

"You're also still on hot chocolate duty," Natalyah reminds Peril. "How much did you bring?" Even as she asks it, she writes, <Garden maintained, all rose varieties. Check L for thorn cuts and stabs later.>

“Lots,” Peril says, his eyes round with surprise. He’s being helpful! “Lathrik would have told me it’s unnecessary to bring any at all, but I thought, maybe it’d be good for morale.”

As Lathrik emerges from the garden of roses and begins scouting alongside the manor itself, the building suddenly shifts in style, the smooth, pale stones of elvish inspiration darkening into stormy, moody spires reminiscent of Gilneas. As expected, this is indeed the guest entrance, the road widening into a wide circular space fit for carriages, with the stables a distance further on.

Here there is a guard, and Lathrik drops into a crouch to observe him. Even from an awkward side angle he can see a blue glow radiating from the man’s eyes. His armor is dark, probably unrecognizable to Natalyah, and he carries a large sword across his back. He has short hair, and though it’s hard to see in the minimal lighting, it’s probably some shade of brown.

Lathrik pulls back quickly, signing in quick, urgent letters, D-E-A-T-H K-N-I-G-H-T. Before he can move to change position, some sound seems to surprise him and he glances skyward, then flattens himself closer to the building. ‘Wings,’ he signs. No visual of the winged creature follows. He has probably decided it is not yet safe to look.

Whatever reply Natalyah might have initially made to Peril is lost as Lathrik's situation takes a turn for the perilous.

Sweat beads on Natalyah's forehead, and she represses a shudder only partially. She's still human thought, and that's what matters. <Guest entrance. No carriages of recent arrivals. Guard out in front. Deathknight. Something winged audible. Patrolling or flying overhead.> She tilts her head, as if trying to see up, possibly looking at the very edges of Lathrik's possible field of vision. A faint whine emerges from her. Any reason he might have to not look does not please her.

"Good thinking, because I'm going to need morale," Natalyah says, reaching over for her whiskey with her other hand, and putting the alcohol into her hot chocolate. "A lot of morale."

Peril leans over to read her notebook. “There’s a —!” He nearly blurts it, but glances at Tabiana, who is now looking at them in concern. “Uh…lots of flowers,” he amends, taking a long drink from his hot chocolate.

To Natalyah, he whispers, “They can sense fear.” Now you are NOT helping, Peril.

"Now you are not helping, Peril," Natalyah hisses back. She drains her hot chocolate whiskey and then pours more whiskey into the cup and shakes it at Peril like an alms seeker. "More hot chocolate, less danger annotations."

Peril hurries to comply.

A minute stretches on, with Lathrik’s gaze trained solely on the ground in front of him, keeping his head down, most likely. Finally, he stirs, chancing another peek around the building. A gryphon has landed in front of the manor, unusually black in color, drawing attention to the scars covering its body. From its back dismounts a grey haired man in black robes carrying a cane, and though it is hard to see at this distance, he appears to have a scar of his own over one eye.

The death knight reaches for his sword, calling out a question to the old man, which goes unanswered. Lathrik shifts in position, lower to the ground, as the death knight draws his runesword, leveling it at the man who continues forward at a slow, deliberate pace. Taking advantage of the tension, Lathrik pulls his hands in front of him, indicating the old man and signing, ‘Danger.’ There is no time to be more specific.

Shadows gather in the man’s outstretched hand, and the death knight falls to his knees in a soundless scream, one hand clutching his head. He huddles on the ground, offering no further opposition as the man proceeds into the manor, his pace unchanging. Was the door locked? Did he break through it? It’s unclear at this angle.

For a while, Lathrik doesn’t move, his eyes trained on the death knight. When the death knight does not seem likely to move, he pulls back, signaling his intent to continue as planned. More quickly than before, he makes his way back the way he came, scanning for various escape routes along the way. A set of lockpicks appear in his hand as he approaches the servant’s door, and he sets to work by feel, his eyes still roaming, searching for trouble.

Peril fills Natalyah’s cup, then sits back down. “Let it cool though, it’s still hot,” he says.

In her book, she writes, but her handwriting is less precise now, the pencil pressing harder, as she describes the gryphon, the old man, and the death knight. <Expensive personal gryphon, scarred. Not stabled, but remaining, possibly raised from chick for full bond??> Her description of the man pays more attention to the cane, which hand he holds it in, how and if he uses it for a mobility aid, detailing his gait and dependency on it. <DK drew weapon. L sign of Danger. Recognition of the man? Older man casts Shadow magic, mental attack on DK Front door entry, and DK. Man: Cruel guest, unexpected visitor, or enemy?? L to plan, servant's entrance.>

Natalyah is shaking, panting hard, and ashen under the golden tan of her skin. The shadows of her eyes swirl, as she fights to hold the connection through rising panic. "Peril, I need you to do something," she says and there is a shrillness to her voice, someone with an unraveling grip on what calm she possesses. "Go into the bedroom, and on the bed there's a shirt. I need you to bring that to me, immediately."

Peril does not object, or even stop to ask questions, getting back up from his chair with urgency and all but sprinting into the bedroom. Tabiana glances between the two with growing trepidation, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword. She doesn’t say anything, but she may be mentally cursing Reniya. Peril returns in short order, carrying Lathrik’s shirt, and now he might have some questions. He remains mercifully silent though, draping the shirt over her shoulder so she knows that it’s there.

Natalyah seizes it, and grabs it to herself like a security blanket, which it sort of is, for all intents and purposes. She lowers her face into it, particularly right around the collar, breathing in deeply to steady herself. "He hasn't given the signal," she whines at Peril, as if the man has any ability whatsoever to influence his younger brother from here (or, uh, at all), let alone on when it comes to risk taking, which may or may not be against their family motto anyway.

“He, um…” Peril sits back down, folding his hands on the table. “Probably wants more information. About…” He swallows hard. “That. All of it.”

Natalyah huffs in annoyance to Peril with a sarcastic, "Oh, really?" But she doesn't expand on it with a sharp tongue, instead chewing on her bottom lip as she records what's happening.

The servant’s hallway is mostly dark. Maybe there are a lack of servants, or maybe Lester prefers it that way. Lathrik speeds along the hall, as fast as he can go without sacrificing silence, following the hall on, and on, and on… until it ends. Abruptly. A dead end.

Lathrik raises one hand to his face; he might be chewing on his finger, as his eyes roam the empty wall in front of him. Count Amerith is eccentric, but would he really build a hall to nowhere? Something seems to click, and Lathrik hurries back down the hall, checking every few dozen paces for hidden doors. He finds four.

One leads to a laundry room, dark and empty. Another leads to a large bathing room, a communal bath of sorts. Also empty. The third opens into a room full of beds, dark, but not unoccupied. The silhouettes of several sleeping women can be made out, and after a quick, cursory scan, taking note of four women, twelve beds, he closes the door again.

Her accounting of it pays more focus to the sense of occupancy of the place, and to criticize Count Amerith for being so weird about putting rooms behind hidden doors, except for the laundry room, which she seems to find clever. She has questions about the communal bathing room, but these are noted mostly in question marks, possibly preventing further scandalizing of Peril.

She counts the women sleeping down as four, and the amount of beds there are, but the room being dark and the examination cursory, she doesn't have enough to fill in any information about how likely they are to be occupied at all, how recently they were made up or if they even are properly all made up and ready, or if many have been only a sheet to protect the mattress and none of the rest to save on laundering for dust on the unoccupied beds.

After a short trip through another hallway, the final door emerges beside a staircase, into what appears to be the foyer. This room is lit from a chandelier overhead, shining down on pale glassy floors covered with rugs of red and gold. Along one of the walls on display is a suit of armor reminiscent of the set the death knight outside is wearing, only smaller, shaped more for a woman’s body. Here, in the light, it’s easier to tell that this is an unusual material, not typical of your average armor.

She takes no note at all of the saronite armor — she doesn't have any idea of the significance, and misses it entirely.

Lathrik pauses in the shadow of the staircase, observing the now open front door. The death knight outside is still there, and he seems to be having a bad time. He is alive (in a manner of speaking,) but still hasn’t moved from where he had fallen, what can be seen of his face twisted in anguish. The door itself does not seem to have been forced open, and the man from before is not present.

‘Safe,’ Lathrik signals. ‘Proceeding.’

"Safe?!" She screeches out as Lathrik signs it, as if she can talk to him at all through this distance. "That better be sarcasm, Lathrik Hazard Dinnsfield, or I swear…" What she swears isn't clear because she has to focus on holding the connection again, as she writes, <DK still mind locked. Shadow man not in L's line of sight, door is open. Shadow man probably inside with L, who signed safe like a fool and he better be safe or he will be sorry.> On the last word, the tip of her pencil snaps clean off from the force of her writing, and she snarls at it, as she rips off the section, and presses it onto the end of the gnomish mechanical pencil, a new sharpened graphite tip emerging.

Peril chuckles nervously at Natalyah’s outburst. “Maybe he has a sense of humor after all?”

As Lathrik steps from the shadow of the staircase, something moves at the far end of the room, emerging from a room on the other side, long, and sleek, and tan. He freezes. The lioness stops as well, her tail twitching dangerously. Who is this stranger invading her home? She gazes down her nose at him, her unusual green eyes assessing him with an imperious gleam, as if he is some creature who is beneath her and should be bowing and scraping and submitting to her whims.

Natalyah notes the lioness possibly before Lathrik does, attentive to another predator, and when she does she growls, low and dangerous, a worgen's deep, throaty threat, her teeth bared in a snarl, the threat of black fur rippling over her fingers. She can't actually project anything through Lathrik, but something compels her to try anyway.

The lioness might not hear it, but Peril nearly slides under the table at the growl. He is NOT the alpha in this pack.

Lathrik appears to draw himself up in height, taking a step towards the lioness as if he is supposed to be here, and she is the one intruding on his visit. The feline watches him, a long, held gaze, flexing her claws while deciding what to do about this subject’s insolence. She decides… nothing. The lioness flicks her tail in apparent dismissal, padding towards the open door as if Lathrik is already yesterday’s news.

The moment she has turned her back, Lathrik reaches into a hidden pocket, pulling a potion vial from it — the Illusion potion from earlier — and tips it back, tucking the vial away again before his form changes… to that of the lioness. There is, of course, one problem with this; he can no longer form signals. But Lathrik is not one to waste an opportunity, and he begins scouting the house as-is.

As Lathrik holds his standoff with the lioness and she turns from him, there's a hesitation in Natalyah for only a moment. She could jump to the lioness now and hide there for who knows how long. But then she couldn't see Lathrik, and there is now an unknown threat lurking in the house. The decision is not difficult for her to make. <L has found the lion. L has become the lion. Staying on L.>

“Risk is returned,” Tabiana says suddenly, at a noise from outside.

The large black horse peers through the window at them. He is here. Where is his master? He shifts restlessly.

"Good, because there's enough risk as it is with Lathrik," Natalyah says tartly back.

Cat Lathrik goes through the rooms on the ground floor quickly, but thoroughly, searching for anything unusual. The ballroom has a hidden room beneath the floor, but it’s just used as storage for decorations. There is an entire room full of dresses on display, masquerade masks lining the walls. The library is extensive, but there isn’t time to go through every book, and nothing has been left out. The kitchen is boring, though there is a wiry older man inside, who looks like he barely eats the food he makes.

Lathrik proceeds upstairs. Here, he encounters a maid on her evening cleaning cycle, dusting door frames and handrails. Her hair is brown and fluffy, and he notes the shape of a dagger outlined beneath a strip of cloth serving as a belt when she moves.

The maid stops when she sees him, a big smile coming to her face. “Well hello, Amalia,” her lips say as she kneels down to pet him.

Lathrik bats her hand away.

“Oh, you want to play?” The maid offers the feather duster, wiggling it along the floor.

With a reluctant obedience, Lathrik begins to play with the duster, smacking and grabbing at it to the maid’s delight, until another, more senior maid interrupts. Lathrik doesn’t catch the maid’s name, but his eyes lift from the duster as the conversation continues, and he tries to keep their faces in his line of sight.

The initial tension of Lathrik encountering the maid and her attempt to pet him risks another pencil nib loss. The moment Lathrik actually plays the part of the lioness though, Natalyah erupts into her wild cackle, the darkness of the shadow of her eyes deepening as it stabilizes. She writes down the part of it, <L plays with feather duster. Buy feather duster.>

“…intruder,” the senior maid is saying. “Wake the others. I’ll find the Count. Kill on sight.”

The fluffy haired maid nods and shoots Lathrik a regretful smile. “We’ll play more later,” she says. “Be careful, Amalia.” She rises and brushes herself off, then hurries down the stairs as the senior maid sets off to search the rooms of the upper floor.

As the maids converge to speak, Natalyah records their words relatively faithfully, and the shadows eddy dangerously in her eyes, the laughter snuffed out like a candle in a harsh breeze.

Lathrik resumes his own search, starting in the opposite direction.

Peril jumps as the door suddenly opens and Reniya and Joelle step inside without knocking.

Natalyah yelps at the sound of the door opening, a roll of black fur encasing her as she's suddenly a worgen, but she manages to hold the connection, forcing the change back again, although it leaves her sweaty and panting heavily.

“Tabby Cat, Swallowtail, how’s it lookin’?” Reniya asks cheerfully, headed over to the couch to take a seat. “I see Risk made it back.”

“Reniya, why is your lip bleeding?” Tabiana asks, frowning.

“Oh this?” Reniya touches his face. “Ask the lunk.”

“He walked into my fist,” Joelle says proudly.

"If you don't want to walk into my cane on your hand next, you'll stop distracting me. You want to know how it's going, read the book," she snaps at Reniya. Her expression is a twist of borderline panic and painful worry, crushing Lathrik's shirt to herself with one hand, as if she is one step away from just trying to push it fully into her chest. She looks unwell, ashen and sweating as if with a bad fever, the shake of the shadows in her eyes dark pools with violent ripples across them.

Reniya gets up from the couch and approaches, placing one hand on the back of her chair and leaning over her shoulder to read. She can probably feel his close proximity by his heat, and the light spiced apple scent he seems to carry.

There is silence while he reads, then finally, “This is an assassination attempt,” he says. “He’ll know it by now, too. Chances are high that he’ll interfere.”

“Assassination?” Tabiana blurts, eyes wide. “Reniya, if you are asking me to do nothing while someone is killed, I…”

Reniya shakes his head. “No. We couldn’t’ve planned for this. It’s not how it was s’posed to go. We should mobilize the guard.”

There are a half dozen ways this could go very wrong, from Lathrik being mistaken as an accomplice to the assassin to drawing the ire and attention of Count Amerith when there is no other explanation for how the guard knew to mobilize so quickly, and every single one of those ways seems to hit Natalyah all at once, the shift to worgen form a consequence of a flood of adrenaline. The shadows in her eyes are momentarily obscured by a bright, lupine gold, and then she gives a strangled scream as she forces the shadow to hold from a pinprick of the void in her eyes that expands back outwards in a way that looks painful, threads of black edging outside her lids like veins.

"He wouldn't take it — a summons — if we tried, would he?" She gasps out, the words slightly mangled, a high pitched whine underscoring them. "'First one in, last one out.'" Tears are already sliding down her cheeks, catching along the silken fur, as she reaches out blindly to grasp onto Reniya. "Ren, you can't let it happen to him." What it is might be a broad range of things, from immediate danger to long term danger.

Peril starts to reach for her at the scream, his expression a mix of worry, fear, and helplessness, but he pulls back at the last second. He glances down at the lone soul shard, his expression darkening beneath the rim of his hat, unnoticed by the others in the room. If he had more than one, they could spam summon him. Call him again, and again, until he finally saw fit to answer. If only he had more. If only he had killed more. He clenches his fist.

“Hey, hey…” Reniya says, gently grasping Natalyah’s shoulders. “It’s… it’ll be fine. We’ve gotten through worse. He’ll take a summons if he feels his life is in danger, it’s what he promised you. Meantime, we’ll have Tabiana mobilize the guard, and Joelle stay back here for summons. I’ll take Risk and see if I can’t drag him back myself if he’s stubborn about it, alright? Y’know we’re not… none of us is gonna let anything happen to him.”

Reniya’s voice is serious for once, rising to the weight of the responsibility placed on him. “We’ve still got this, okay?”

"No," Natalyah disagrees. "No, we don't still got this!" She's shaking, a fine tremor. "At the worst cases, he dies, Ren. But even in the best, this could end his career, and his life in the long term. Even if you manage to conceal his part of things from the initial scouting, once the guard is there, the Count will know that someone knew to call them, and that will draw his interest dangerously, which is exactly what we were trying to avoid!" There's a thought that occurs to her. He can see a dropping shoe, a horrified loosening of her limbs, and then something hardens in her jaw, a determination of some decision. Uh oh. That's…probably not good.

But the time to attempt to unravel it, make her tell him, will be much too long, and Lathrik's clock is ticking.

“Natalyah,” Reniya says, rubbing one of her shoulders, “Trust us. Lathrik was at the bar today. The Count’s own lass will attest to that. I’ll get ‘im out before he reveals himself, and Pennings will handle the rest. Stand by with Peril in case he signals.”

Lathrik, meanwhile, has lost his lioness disguise, and is still searching the rooms of the manor’s upper floor. Each door he opens seems to correspond to a different race of Azeroth, and contains a bookshelf with books by or about them, various artifacts and items of cultural significance, and decoration in the appropriate styles. The Count seems like a worldly man.

He paces through an orc room, a night elf room, a gnome room, and a tauren room, before arriving at — and, for some reason, stopping in — a room dedicated to human history. His reason for doing so soon becomes clear. Of all the rooms, this one seems the most recently used. There is a desk against the far window, and notes are scattered across its surface.

Many of them are coded reports, presumably from the Count’s wayward contacts, but one of them contains a rough sketch of an armored man, set above the words ‘Fray Farrens.’ A map sits next to it, a circled location that is smashed between the Arathi Highlands and the Wetlands, a tiny place called Highmarsh. Lathrik stares between the two papers, as if the significance of their placement here is having a hard time reaching him. He seems almost frozen, like he’s forgotten the reason he’s here.

Natalyah has frozen in place in a strange mirror, gripping the table with one hand. She fumbles the pen, but she can't write like this, not as a worgen. The shift she forces seems painful, difficult, and there's a dangerous moment where she seems almost trapped between the two forms, neither one or the other, before she's there as a human, shuddering like she's freezing, as she writes, the scrawl not nearly as legible, requiring some guesswork as to the words. But she does mark it down, the places, the circled location, the odd room themes. "Peril. Your father's name…was it 'Fray'?" Her voice is hoarse gravel.

“That… I think so,” Peril says, sweating a little beneath his hat. “I was… I was young, so… I would have only called him ‘father.’ We were told he died, but… they never recovered the body. Did Lathrik find something?” he attempts to parse her handwriting.

As Natalyah settles, Reniya sweeps from the house, nodding to Tabiana to fall in after him. He mounts Risk while giving her orders, before directing the horse into a canter. Good thing it’s not rush hour for most of the population. Tabiana herself makes for the barracks at a run.

"Papers and maps in some sort of desperately weird historical theme room that someone's been staying in recently. He's just standing there, reading the papers." But it's giving her enough time to write down what the coded papers say, as they are. She's writing quickly, and there are some words that are not as clearly legible as they should be, a problem for later perhaps, but she's getting them down as much as she can while he's still looking at them.

“The Count’s rather… thorough, isn’t he?” Peril observes.

Lathrik’s head jerks up from the papers suddenly, as if responding to some sort of noise. He abandons the desk, sweeping over to the side of the door and peeking cautiously out. Only the empty hallway greets him. Whatever the noise was, it must have come from further away. He pauses before leaving the room, holding both hands where they can be seen, and forming a heart shape between the two with his fingers. No he is not taking questions at this time.

‘Safe,’ he signs again. ‘Proceeding.’

"Don't you try to sweet-talk me, Lathrik," Natalyah grumbles tartly at him from across their distance. The sweet-talking does, however, seem to work somewhat, as the painful threads of black recede from the edges of her eyes, the shadow sight holding steadier. She writes down, <L on his way out of room. Hallway empty. Signs 'safe' again. Will have conversation about how 'safe' does not mean 'isn't actively being stabbed.'>

Lathrik continues down the hall opening doors until one, a troll themed room, opens to reveal a body on the floor. Caution thrown aside, Lathrik hurries to the side of the fallen maid to find it is the one from earlier, with brown, fluffy hair. Instead of the nice, full cheeks and cheerful smile, she seems to be wasting away from inside, her brow drenched in sweat and her body wracked with quivering convulsions.

Light surrounds his hand as he grasps hers, a purifying glow surrounding her, but the damage has already been done. She stares into his eyes, clutching desperately at his shirt as her lips form the word “Balcony,” before light and life slips from her eyes. Lathrik calls upon the Light again, a more forceful, fervent prayer, bending over her body with her hand in both of his, but the maid’s soul does not return, having bestowed her final task to him.

Natalyah cannot see the distress on Lathrik’s face, but it’s evident in his body, the way he slams his fist down onto the floor in a way that is decidedly not quiet, and stops to arrange the maid’s body in a way that looks more peaceful. Then he pulls another vial from a hidden pocket. The illusion won’t be perfect. Despite his efforts, the girl is obviously a wreck, but he drains the potion anyway, and gets to his feet as his body changes once again.

The Light still shimmers a faint glow around his skin in response to some emotion in him, fury, most likely, and Maid Lathrik leaves the room at a run, heading for the second floor balcony that he’d seen from outside, as if he holds the blueprints in his head.

"Shit," Natalyah sums up. She's writing as quickly as she can, sparse phrasing, trying to get the details right of signs of poison or some draining virulent, devouring plague. She notes the resurrection attempt, the rearrangement of the body, as she strokes her hand soothingly down Lathrik's shirt still held in her lap, as if she can touch him by proxy with it. She marks that he's taken on the dead maid's appearance, and seems to be waiting for something more after a moment that doesn't immediately come.

"Drink a mana potion, Lathrik," she urges him, from much too far away to be of any use.

Deaf to her urgings, Lathrik continues on without, slowing down only to sign the word ‘Sorry.’ Sorry? Sorry for what? What he’s already done, or what he’s about to do?

The doors to the balcony are wide open, and Count Lester Amerith stands near the railing facing his guest, a glass of red wine in his hand. There is only a second to take it all in; the man with the scar turns his sightless eye onto Lathrik as he raises a hand towards the Count, shadows forming. At the same moment, Lathrik, without an ounce of hesitation, calls the Light to shield the Count, continuing forward in a wild dash, freeing his dagger from its sheath with his free hand and driving it into the scarred man.

The shadows hit the shield around Count Amerith and dissipate, and his surprise is marked only by the lifting of his brow. Lathrik glances down at the dagger in his hand, only to find that it’s struggling to pierce the old man’s robes. But the problem isn’t with the dagger itself. The robes shift and swirl in his vision, formed of Shadow more than cloth. Shadowform.

Lathrik’s vision is thrown suddenly skyward, followed by the sensation of falling. He lands (presumably) on the floor of the balcony, the world spinning for a moment as he rolls back to his feet. His eyes scan the situation again, reassessing. The Count remains in his safety bubble, sipping wine. The old man with the scar is clutching his left side, just above the hip where the dagger did, in fact, find some small purchase. His hand comes away wet with blood.

The man turns to face Lathrik more fully, shadows consuming both eyes as he stares not at him, but through him. To Natalyah.

If the man thought to face a simple shadow priestess, or to see only a young woman, he might be surprised that as the shadows touch her, an awareness of being seen hits, that the transformation to worgen is instantaneous, a blur, and the roar she emits is terrifying — a jaw of dagger teeth and dangerously protective rage, that rocks through the small house. The shadow passenger on the paladin is neither helpless nor powerless.

At the roar, Peril dives under the table. Joelle, fiddling with some gadget on the couch, looks up briefly, but doesn’t seem bothered by it. Sometimes, a person just needs to roar. He gets it.

Natalyah jumps from Lathrik's eyes to Count Amerith, her viewpoint shifting to see not only the shadow man up close, but to get external eyes on Lathrik and how bad his possible injuries are. It isn't for long — she doesn't linger in the Count — before she jumps back to Lathrik.

Lathrik the Maid is crouched in the center of the balcony, and while no injuries are visible on her, one of her hands clutches her chest where the rune is, and she’s breathing harder than if she were simply winded. Natalyah’s vision switches back just in time for Count Amerith’s shield of Light to fade, and to see the old man reaching towards Lathrik with a shadowy hand.

And then… He stops.

Lathrik’s eyes remain on him long enough to make out the word ‘Hers…’ from his lips, before shadowy tendrils burst from the ground, arresting his arms and legs and consuming his attention. What comes next isn’t clear. There is a flash of arcane energy. The shadowy man with the scar falls over the railing, only to be caught by the black gryphon. Someone cuts Lathrik free from the shadows.

He runs. They both do. Someone’s hand is on his arm, pulling him into a closet. Clothes assault his face, keeping him from seeing his rescuer, but he seems to know who it is. He nods along to something that is said. Places a hand on someone’s shoulder, hard, squeezing.

Then, hands glowing for visibility, he forms the sign. ‘Summon.’

At Lathrik's signing, Natalyah jumps from him to Lathrik's rescuer. She's holding it. The shadows dim. But no, she is holding it. She's sweating and trembling so hard that she cannot shift back. "Peril!" She snaps, her voice strained and half growl. "Summon him. Joelle, we need you here. It takes three." She knows this from planning. Three people, one summons. Her panic is clearly rising with every moment she is neither riding along with Lathrik, or having him physically there.

Peril tries to exit the underside of the table too quickly and bumps his head. “Yes — ouch — yes, I’m here, I’m…” He claws his way up a chair and flips open the grimoire. Has he ever done this before? Nope! Taking the soul shard in hand, he moves to a clear space in the room and begins to channel some manner of spell, reading directly from the book which he holds awkwardly in the same hand. Hopefully he doesn’t drop anything.

He focuses his energy on reaching Lathrik’s soul. Joelle gets up to join, his own conscious energy adding to the spell’s power.

Lathrik, meanwhile, has lost his second illusion and returned to himself, and is pressing the remaining two vials into his rescuer’s hands insistently.

Natalyah joins the summons blindly, trusting that she's hopefully in the right spot and moving at the right time, and her own call for Lathrik is a nearly overwhelming force, as if she's desperately shouted his name across time and space. She's clawing at Lathrik's shirt, her nails shredding into the cloth.

The first thing Lathrik does after the summon pulls him into the room is reach for Natalyah, his arms folding around her in a firm hug.

“Mission complete?” Joelle asks.

Peril sighs in relief, hiding his expression behind his hat.

Natalyah's larger as a worgen, but seated, so it doesn't put them at too strange a height for her to rest her head on Lathrik's shoulder, breathing him in deeply, not only for Lathrik's own scent, but with an intent — she's trying to pick up other scents, anything that might tell her something.

Her shadow connection grows tenuous, but she doesn't drop it, not with Lathrik there. Breath by breath her panic level seems to recede, enough that she finally shifts down to human, her face no longer at his shoulder but pressed into his chest, as the magic repositions her. She doesn't look well — there's a sickly ashy color to her face, and she's soaked with sweat, her hair limp and plastered around her face. The shadows in her eyes are murky things that swirl around her irises, gone dull and exhausted, dust colored velvet.

"Lathrik," she says, and her voice is scratched, hoarse, and small.

“Natalyah,” he says back, rocking her gently from side to side. “It’s over. If I scared ye, I’m sorry.”

The freshest scent on him belongs to Reniya, followed by a musty scent that was probably the old man’s. The light scent of apricots is all over his hands; the maid’s.

That makes the rescuer, then, Reniya, who emerges from the closet under the cover of shadows, and sneaks into the foyer. There, the recovered death knight, a newly returned Ilanya, and Count Amerith, stand together conversing.

“So he came physically, this time,” Ilanya says, an annoyed frown on her face. “And what’d he want, Almeiria?”

“To show her there are no allies to which she can turn,” the Count says, adding a touch of drama to the words and his gesture.

“Hah! Screw that, I’d rather shove a dagger up his—”

The death knight bows, blocking her lips for the briefest of moments. “My debt remains unpaid,” he says. “I’m sorry, I…”

“Come now, there will be ample opportunity for that,” the Count says. “None of us have lost the — apologies —trulylost the game yet.”

Natalyah can't write and also hug Lathrik, so instead, she repeats out loud what she can read off the lips of the conversation. It isn't perfect, and it sounds strange all together: "So he came physically this time. And would he want, Elmerria. To show her there are no idles to which she can turn. Ha. Screw that, I rather shove a dagger up his. My debt remains an paint. I'm sorry, I. Come now, there will be apple opportunity for that. None of us have lost the apologies truly lost the game yet."

Lathrik frowns in confusion at first, until he realizes she is still watching. He listens, trying to place the words with potential speakers, or at least determine the context, until the last line is said.

“They don’t… know about her yet,” he says, his expression breaking. He buries his face in her hair, his next breath a shudder. “They don’t know how I failed her…”

Reniya glances behind him, looking for an escape route. Instead, he comes nearly face-to-face with the senior maid. She stares… for a moment, then walks right by with five other maids.

He turns back to the growing group.

“We are still missing an intruder or two,” the Count is saying. “Find them.”

Ilanya’s grin is brimming with mischief. “Shouldn’t be hard,” she says. “I bet one of them’s watching right now.” She flicks her wrist, and a throwing knife goes sailing straight towards Reniya’s position. He dodges it, barely, and it embeds itself in the wall beyond.

“I said find them, not stab them,” the Count says mildly.

Ilanya shrugs. “It’s as you say, Papa. If something like that could kill them, then they’ve already lost the game.”

Count Amerith chuckles, patting her on the head.

Natalyah gathers Lathrik to her as much as she takes her own solace in him, holding onto him hard. "We are still missing an intruder to do. Fine them. Shouldn't be hard. I bet one of them's watching right now — REN, DUCK. Oh, graceless damned gods." Natalyah shudders. "He…he dodged it." Her eyes are empty of the shadows, and she sags against Lathrik, looking up at him with a tormented apologetic pain. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I lost it. I don't know…I don't know if they found him."

“We’ll trust Ren,” Lathrik says, more confidently than he probably feels. “His biggest obstacle will be Ilanya. Way she moves, she’s used to moving in shadows, same as him. She can probably guess the places he’d be drawn to. But Ren’s tricky. He’ll enjoy the challenge.”

He falls silent, refusing to make even the slightest movement away from Natalyah. His heartbeat is fast and loud, despite his outwardly projected calm.

“Tabiana will be there soon, with Pennings,” Joelle says.

For the first time since his arrival, Lathrik blinks and looks around. “He called the guard in, too?”

Natalyah is doing her best impression of a two armed octopus, wrapped firmly around Lathrik. "Elle and Ren came back from the bar just after you were Amalia, and Ren read my accounting, which is exactly why I do it so I don't have to explain old things while trying to see new things. He realized there was an assassination attempt going on, and sent Tabiana to rally the guards while he got to you on Risk." She sniffles, patting at Lathrik slightly, as if in sudden realization. "You were hurt," she says, and as always, it sounds more like an accusation, but it's gentled by sheer exhaustion. The way she feels in his arms is not unlike he's the only thing keeping her upright even sitting.

It's also the only warning he gets before there's an over-bursting inundation of Light into him, an uncontrolled surge that feels incredibly unfocused, as if she's just thrown everything she has left at him in one last rush.

Which proves to be all too true, as she collapses into a woozy boneless faint with a groan.

Lathrik’s eyes widen in surprise. Again he is not expecting the sudden flood, and especially not what comes after. “Oh, Light,” he swears. “’Talyah!” He softens her fall and gently lowers her to the floor, laying her flat so she can’t injure herself. “Elle, find a cloth and some water. Drinkable water too, for when she wakes.”

As Joelle hurries to comply, Lathrik turns his attention back to Natalyah, taking one of her hands in his in a way that quickly reminds him of an earlier experience just that evening. He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth to fight off panic.

Meanwhile Peril is standing listlessly by the door, his head lowered. There are thoughts going on, and he’s having them. They may not be good thoughts. They are definitely not helpful thoughts.

Unlike the maid, Natalyah is not fully insensible for long and certainly not permanently. She groans again, as she first starts moving, then opens her eyes in a flutter, staring confusedly up at the ceiling like she has absolutely no idea how she got here, or what Lathrik's doing there like that. "Mm'all tingly," she tells Lathrik, of semi-useless information. That would be her blood pressure returning to normal after a dip.

Lathrik gives her a smile. It’s not his full mask lazy smile, but it’s at least halfway there. “Ye had a fall, aye?” he says. “Stay put for a bit. And no Light. Elle’s bringing some water.” He seems to have forgotten entirely about Peril.

But Peril hasn’t forgotten about Peril. He steps forward at last, opening the door to the outside.

Natalyah also hasn't forgotten about Peril, and her head turns as the door opens. "Peril," she says and it's weak, but audible.

Peril pauses in the doorway, holding the brim of his hat between two fingers. “I uh, forgot something I was supposed to do,” he says, trying to laugh it off. His eyes remain hidden to them.

“Peril, come sit,” Lathrik says, turning from Natalyah to look at him.

The reporter takes a step backwards, out the door. “It’s really quite important,” he says. “I… I’ll come by tomorrow. Rest well, Natalyah!”

"Wait," Natalyah insists, as she struggles to try to sit up, against Lathrik's advice to stay put. "I need to say." She blinks slowly. Something. She had thoughts just a little while ago, didn't she?

"You did good things. Thank you for making it not happen again, not to Lathrik." That definitely makes more sense to Lathrik than Peril. She frowns in frustration, still trying to sit up, now by grabbing hold of Lathrik for stability. "You're an important part of the pack. Good person." She probably would ordinarily correct that to team, but she's too tired and not at her sharpest.

His eyes remain hidden, but his smile falls away entirely, and his grip tightens on his hat. “Thank you, for saying so,” he says seriously. Quieter, in a murmur Lathrik can’t hear, he continues, “But good people don’t always…” The door closes behind him.

Joelle returns with a cloth and a bucket of water. That’s it. Maybe he expects Natalyah to drink from the bucket, who knows. Lathrik stares at him flatly. “Thanks, Elle, as always.”

“You’re welcome,” Joelle replies.

Lathrik waits.

Nope. He didn’t catch the sarcasm.

“Could ye fetch my waterskin, while you’re at it?” he finally asks.

Joelle nods and sets about this new task, which is completely unrelated to the previous task that he definitely succeeded at.

In the meantime, Lathrik dips the cloth into the water and starts wiping away the sweat that has accumulated all over Natalyah.

Natalyah might not be following along entirely yet, drained and stressed, still frowning from Peril, and unclear why there's a bucket?

As Lathrik presses the cool cloth along her over-warmed skin though, she relaxes into him in an entirely different boneless way than her faint, and makes a long, low moan of pleasure that is definitely not the sort that is intended for an audience.

Audience? What audience? Now Lathrik has forgotten about Joelle, too, his attention entirely focused on Natalyah and that noise she’s making.

As with most things concerning Joelle, however, this proves to be a mistake. The gentle giant crouches down on the other side of Natalyah, holding out Lathrik’s waterskin in offering, and says, “While you help her drink, I could keep applying the cloth? She seems to like it.”

Lathrik isn't the only one who has forgotten Elle until he speaks. Natalyah twitches, pressing harder into Lathrik at the offer of Elle applying the cloth to her. No, no touchie. Only Lathrik can touchie right now.

Lathrik bristles at his sudden and unwelcome presence. “Elle, I swear to the Light, if you touch her, I will break your fingers,” he says.

She relaxes at Lathrik's threat.

“Oh.” Joelle wilts a little.

With a sigh, Lathrik fills the waterskin. “’Talyah,” he says. “Can you sit up for a drink?”

Isn't she already sitting up? No. No, she is not. She started the process and then slumped onto Lathrik, and Natalyah seems to very belatedly realize this, as she fights her way back fully upright, clutching her dignity to her as tightly and slightly shredded as she did Lathrik's shirt (now fallen to the floor as well in a limp heap by the chair). "Of course I can sit up," she grumbles.

She reaches for the waterskin in an echo of how she did at the wedding, like she's shamefully admitting that she is, after all, thirsty and not impervious to needing help to solve that problem. The way she drinks from it is of a similar nature, long pulls that speak of significant thirst. For once, Lathrik might not have been the only one with a mana drain going between literally hundreds of [Mind Vision] casts and then one entirely too large [Holy Light].

Her head jerks up as if her memory's been jogged by the realization, looking to Lathrik with searching eyes. "You were hurt." It's almost a question now, of if that's still true. Did she do it? Did she heal him? She doesn't seem to be entirely sure one way or the other.

Lathrik hesitates. “It wasn’t… physical, so much as…” He raises one hand to his chest where the rune is, but he doesn’t speak of it in Joelle’s presence.

There's an unsubtle growl that accompanies that, and she bodily repositions herself to be in between Lathrik's chest and the rest of the world. It also, unfortunately or fortunately, reminds her of something, and she starts trying to move to a stand, a prospect she cannot accomplish without some aid. "I need to write this down, before I forget," she tells Lathrik. "There was something that man said." She hesitates, looking equal parts guilty, chagrined and fiercely defiant. "And he saw me, through you."

Lathrik’s gaze increases in intensity at this unwelcome surprise. “He saw you? That’s possible?” He moves almost automatically to help her back into the chair.

What's more surprising is that she accepts his help, smoothly, like she's always done that (she has not). She still seems a little unsteady, as she gathers her pencil and sets to filling in the journal from where she was forced to halt due to her worgen form's limitations and her own escalating panic. "If you're asking if I know how to do it, no. But I do know it's possible for very advanced shadow users to feel even the smallest nuance of shadow. My teacher could always tell when I successfully had the cast on someone or not, even if most people had no idea at all. I felt him looking at me." She shudders, either from the cooling of her skin, or in memory.

“Whoever he is, he’s dangerous,” Lathrik says, standing beside her chair to stay close to her. “The moment I laid eyes on him, I felt… dread. Attempts on Count Amerith’s life are not uncommon, but that… Gotta wonder what he did to draw the gaze of that menace.”

Natalyah writes, with only a slight shake to her hand, <CA on balcony, red wine. Shadow man in shadow form, to attack CA. L defense, dagger to Shadow man. Shield on CA. Shadow man sight through to me. Jump from L to CA. Shadow man has scarring all around his eye. Jump to L. Shadow man to attack L, hesitates, says "Hers." Unclear confusion of events, bright lights? Arcane? Shadow man off balcony. L inside to closet?>

What she says out loud as she writes is, "I don't know if it was entirely on him. After, they were speaking of someone. Elmerirah? Something…I've already lost it I think, the name. Maybe Ren heard it and recalls it better." Which only escalates a rising sense of panic again, as she looks up from her writing to Lathrik. "I'm sorry you had to leave him there. We should have prepared better, to have two summons at least. This wasn't what I planned."

“Ren’s alright,” Lathrik insists, maybe because he has to, for himself. One of his hands clenches on the table. “It wasn’t what anyone planned. D’you know much, about warlocks? About what Peril’s ‘magic rock’ was?”

Speaking of Peril, his notebook is still on the table, and the bag he brought with him is slung across a chair. Lathrik’s gaze flicks between his brother’s belongings and the door, but he doesn’t comment.

Natalyah nods, and reaches for her hot very cold chocolate and whiskey, drinking some and then making a face of strongly mixed feelings about the temperature and settled liquids. "Ugh." That might be about the drink, but she's scowling hard now. "I'm not uneducated. I knew warlocks in Gilneas, two of them, as a matter of fact. 'Soul shards' they call them. They could leech them right out of souls of living things, but it mostly worked when they killed. One in particular used to go off looking for something they called ettins. Weird giant creatures with a lot of soul or whatever."

Lathrik sighs. “Aye, well. I don’t feel right, asking him to take lives, souls, to work his magic. Wish I’d noticed sooner he was walking that path. I never would’ve let him continue it.”

Natalyah puts her pencil down, sliding over a little in her chair to be able to fit herself against Lathrik. "You're not the boss of him," she tells him, with an oddly bossy tone of her own. "You can't just make the decision for him. He's a grown man, and he's smart, and he's sweet." She shrinks back, although oddly reaches out for him at the same time, as if she can't quite choose a direction to pull, or perhaps that she has equal feelings of both. "He's not the only one with blood on his hands of taking a life to save yours. I know better than most how much it's possible a feral worgen could still have a mind in there under the wolf spirit. It won't stop me from ripping out the throat of one trying to kill you in their madness."

“That’s different,” Lathrik says, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You never…ripped a piece of their soul out to use as fuel. That magic, fel magic, is cruel, and Peril is not. I fear what it will make of him.”

"Well, pushing him away, and making him feel like he can't do anything as he is right now to help you isn't going to help that," she says tartly, but it's cut down a little by the fact that she tilts her head to rest her cheek on his hand. "Sometimes people tell you that you can't do anything, and it's just the way it is, but all it really means is that they assume you won't do something they've never thought of before. If you don't want him finding his own solutions, then don't make it seem like there isn't any other choice. He's too smart and too inventive to just give up, and, as a matter of fact, so am I." There's that stubborn set to her jaw again.

It's even more undercut though by the way she looks longingly back at the bucket and the cloth left behind. She's uncomfortable and sweaty and probably very much wants out of her dress and into something comfortable, and refreshed from the stress of the evening. Not that she's going to ask for that though, of course.

Lathrik catches her glance at the bucket. “Elle,” he says, turning to him.

Joelle is standing at attention nearby, waiting for further instruction.

“Ye can go home, for the night. Pennings will likely catch up with Ren and we’ll see ‘im again tomorrow,” Lathrik says. “Give our thanks to Hana, and tell her not to fuss too much.”

Joelle nods, giving them both a faint smile. “Good night, then,” he says.

Natalyah glances back and forth between the two of them incredulously. "You want to wait until tomorrow to find out what's happened?" Her voice rises a little, a higher pitched sheen that only emphasizes that she's still hoarse from earlier. "Someone could report back tonight, couldn't they?"

And risk yet another poorly timed interruption? Natalyah, please, reconsider.

“It’s late,” Lathrik says sternly. “By the time they’re done being chewed out by Pennings, they’ll want nothing more than to sleep. Let ‘em have their night. Let us have ours.”

Natalyah watches Joelle go with trepidation, like she's sealing Ren's fate to be unknown for who knows how long and therefore somehow influencing it to be worst possible outcome, but there's no way she can get Elle to obey her order over Lathrik's, and she knows it.

Joelle waves goodbye, then exits the house like a faithful hound at his master’s command.

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