#Tassel-eared squirrel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yanderenightmare · 4 years ago

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I have been reading and rereading your hybrid aus for the past week and they are just *chefs kiss* but how would you feel if it was reversed and the boys were the hybrids? 👀 (And what animals would you think they suit?)

I can also imagine this in like a "golden compass" au. These would be their daemons.

TW: predator x prey stuff, yandere

SHIGARAKI TOMURA

Striped hyena.

A carnivorous omnivore.

Will eat anything he can scavenge.

Doesn't mind living off scraps as long as he's surviving.

But he sure does love hunting.

He's a stalking predator.

Enjoys playing a bit with his prey before finishing them off.

Always snapping at their heels until they exhaust themselves.

Poor little thing falling to his feet all tuckered out and defenceless.

No energy spared to fight him back.

Tan jagged birthmarks lining his pale skin.

Running along his ribs and neck where they go side by side with his battle-scars and those scrapes he has from relentlessly scratching at his throat.

His white hair fluffy, pulled back up into a mohawk mane that runs right between a pair of large pointy ears.

The fucking smile he pulls.

With those sharp canines.

That swivelled-eyed look of utter insanity on his face.

As he chortles and cackles out that horrifying gut-wrenching laugh.

Sharp black claws and a long thick tongue.

Slobbering all over his prey.

His favourite meals are adorable antlered or horned herbivores.

Likes how hard they try to escape only to realise that he's been toying with them from the start.

DABI - TODOROKI TOUYA

Lone artic wolf.

And a predator through and through.

Every word has a little growl in them.

Carnivorous.

But will result to an omnivore's diet in desperate times.

Though, he cannot survive on it for long.

He'll grow weak and thin.

Disgraced like a retched street-mutt.

Starving in back-alleys and underpass-bridges.

No home. No pack before joining the league.

Black tear ducks and waterlines, further intensifying his cold cyan eyes. Looking like a rockstar's eyeliner.

Fur white like freshly fallen snow.

If only he didn't dye the locks black all the time.

A dozen piercings running up and down his shaggy pointed ears.

A couple of cuts on them too.

They're so annoying to colour...

The paint always trickles inside his ear canals.

But his tail is even more of a hassle.

Thick fur constantly growing back out white.

Not to mention he isn't able to put a cap on displaying arousal.

His bushy brush always giving him away, wagging and whipping about like crazy.

Even when he's chewing someone's throat out.

His favourite meals are bleating cloudy-furred lambs.

They're like forbidden fruit in his eyes.

Pretty and untouched and so adorably naive.

BAKUGOU KATSUKI

Grizzly bear.

Classified as a fearsome carnivore.

He's way more of an omnivore in reality.

He's far from a beggar, but he'll use anything he can get his paws on to his advantage.

He's a fine diner though and doesn't find himself in a need to lower his standards too often.

He loves raw salmon in sashimi and sushi.

And berries and apples for a snack.

And has a habit of putting way too much honey in his tea.

He has a little tassel for a tail.

People tell him it's cute. Quite like a bunny-rabbit's cotton-dot.

Kirishima will even dare squeeze it every now and again to tease him.

He hates it. Always has his shirt covering it.

Not to mention his adorable round ears.

Which are a bit harder to hide even as they sit in the thick bush of his hair.

But he's far from cute all over...

Heavy footsteps.

Just massive in size and stupid strong.

Large sturdy hands, thick sharp claws.

Growls in his sleep and on every loud-mouthed gaping yawn.

Showing off those strong jawed fangs that can so easily snap a bone in half.

Likes smaller prey.

Like frisky flighty gibbering little squirrels with frilly red-brown bushy tails swishing about behind them.

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU

Saltwater crocodile.

Reptile.

Purely carnivorous.

Always so kind, people forget he's deadly.

Cute snaggletooth in a mouth full of knifes.

A laugh so disarming you forget regarding the razors of his smile as made for tearing flesh.

Tough skin with some rough rocky scales.

Scattered in places they're needed.

Like knuckles, kneecaps and elbows.

Sharp claws. Solid, thick and sturdy.

Always marring the furniture and tearing textile.

Always indenting his palms with bloody leaking holes as he makes fist to calm himself down when he catches a whiff of blood on the breeze.

Abnormal eyes.

Blood-red iris with a black vertical slit for a pupil.

Made for discerning the strong form the weak.

Not picky when it comes to prey.

He's an opportunistic-hunter.

He'll grab about anything that dares come close enough to get snagged on his teeth.

KAMINARI DENKI

Bobcat.

Carnivore.

But he only picks on things much smaller than him.

Things that are easily snagged and held down by his razor sharp claws.

Retractable so they not dull.

Only used when pouncing on prey, climbing to escape or protecting himself through fighting.

Or threatening terribly soft skin.

Has a mouthful of strong pointy teeth.

Two long sharp fangs decorating both the upper and lower row of jaws.

Made for killing small prey with a single bite.

Cat-eyes.

Large and all-yellow with a drop of pitch-black.

Black waterlines and sharp tear-ducts.

Stylish dark spotted stripes in his blonde main.

Two fine pointed ears decorated with a tuft of black on the tips.

The signature bobbed tail, small and misleadingly cute.

He doesn't look too dangerous next to his friends but...

Good luck running from him.

He's quick as lightning.

It's really too bad his meal of choice are pretty birds that leave him in the dust.

With his speed he could catch about anything on the ground.

But he always seems to go for those who're just barely out of reach.

MIDORIYA IZUKU - DEKU

Fox.

Omnivore.

Loves the sport of hunting.

But will devour anything he can get his fine paws on.

Silent, fast, cunning, deadly.

Always watching...

Always thinking...

You won't see him coming and you won't see him leave.

You won't even know he's there.

Glowing green eyes.

Teeth small, but sharp. Always smirking.

Black tip on his pointy ears.

White tip on his thick fluffy tail.

He'll always tease with it, snake it about and tickle exposed skin.

Has a sick adoration for pretty little cottontails.

Can't get enough of their large innocent eyes on him.

And rubbing their soft fluffy lop-ears...

Finds them mouthwatering.

TODOROKI SHOTO

Snowy owl.

Carnivore.

Swoops in like a blizzard.

Merciless like the firestorm.

Eyes left human.

But no less abnormal.

One grey and the other cyan instead of them both being a deep unsettling yellow.

Majestic wings. Like a royal cape.

One as white as winter in the north.

Pearly feathers strict like pure starlight.

The other red like fire.

Bloody plume stark like the crimson glory rose.

So pretty, people mistake him for a swan half the time.

Only if it weren't for his curved and piercing talons.

Strong and ruthless.

Once those black claws tear into soft tissue...

They're not prone to ever let go again.

His favourite eye-candy are adorable little lemming.

A twitchy nose and bucked teeth.

They always scream so prettily for him.

SHINSO HITOSHI

Spider.

Imagine he has four more arms.

Three of them sprouting out on each side plus his legs.

He'd hold squirming little things down so easily.

Two hands pinning his tiny prey.

Leaving him with four hands spared to explore...

Fine silken string shooting from his palms.

Making the softest bonds.

Tying his prey up nicely.

Bringing new meaning to the art of shibari.

His main eyes left human, milky eyeball with a lavender ring surrounding a pool of black.

But the rest of his eyes aren't as normal...

With three slightly smaller ones decorating each of his cheek bones.

Pitch black looking like obsidian marbles.

Eight eyes in total.

Always watching.

Tusk-like fangs within his mouth. Behind that devious smirk.

Teeth secreting a special type of venom, seeping into his victims bloodstream.

A type of drug that has his prey weak to disobey his every little dirty command.

CHISAKI KAI - OVERHAUL

Andean Condor.

More commonly known as the Black vulture.

Carnivore.

Considered the largest bird of prey in the world.

Despite the fact that their talons aren't nearly sharp nor long enough to catch and kill prey other than small rodents.

Like rats.

They mostly have other animals kill for them and swoop in at a later time to feast without needing to lift a finger themselves.

He'll wear gloves to conceal them.

Never allowing anyone to think of him as less a predator than what his other menacing features show off.

Wings as black as night.

Feathers sharp like blades, carving through the air.

With a wingspan reaching farther than twice the length of his height.

Third widest wingspan of anything gracing the sky.

Always flying above the fray.

Looking down at people as though they're all mere maggots wriggling about in the dirt beneath him.

Signature plague-mask always adorning him.

A curved beak complementing his natural bird-like features.

Feathered collar lining his bomber-jacket.

Also compensating for those vulture-traits he was left without.

Golden brown eyes.

Small and slim.

Regarding everything with disgust, judgement and scrutiny.

Rarely goes hunting for prey and therefor doesn't have a favourite.

But once he fixes his eyes on something... he's not quick to give up.

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rodentcompetition · 2 years ago

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Preliminaries

Information about contestants below!

Douglas squirrel (Tamiasciurus douglasii)

Sometimes known as the chickaree or pine squirrel. The Native Americans of Kings River called it the "Pillillooeet", in imitation of its characteristic alarm call.

Their appearance varies according to the season. In the summer, they are greyish on their backs and pale orange on the chest and belly. In the winter, the coat is browner and the underside is grayer.

Mostly eat seeds of coniferous trees. They are hoarders, storing their food in a single location. Diurnal. On summer nights, they sleep in ball-shaped nests that they make in the trees, but in the winter they use holes in trees as nests. Territorial; in winter, each squirrel occupies a territory of about 10 000 square metres, but during the breeding season a mated pair will defend a single territory together.

Abert's squirrel or the tassel-eared squirrel (Sciurus aberti)

It is named in honor of the American naturalist John James Abert. It is recognizable by its tufted ears, gray color and rusty stripe on back.

Diurnal. Mostly feeds on the seeds and cones of the Mexican pinyon and the ponderosa pine. It doesn't store food, as other North American squirrels do. Nine subspecies are recognised.

Breeding normally occurs in summer, with a spherical nest being built high in the canopy. It's used year-round by most squirrels for nightly shelter. Three or four young per litter is typical, usually bear one litter per year.

Calabrian black squirrel (Sciurus meridionalis)

It has long been considered a subspecies of the red squirrel, but studies revealed that it is unique in both genetics and appearance, leading to its recognition as a distinct species. It generally resembles the red squirrel in its behavior.

It is monomorphic (not variable in appearance), being very dark brown to blackish with contrasting white underparts. Compared to red squirrels, the Calabrian black squirrel is also significantly larger, weighing on average about 35% more.

Lives in mixed forests in highlands, its nests are often placed in pine or oak trees, mostly near black pine, as the seeds are an important food source.

#preliminaries #rodentcompetition2023 #tournament poll #douglas squirrel #albert's squirrel #calabrian black squirrel

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hirvenxsoturi · 3 years ago

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During his search, a rust colored squirrel with tasseled ears hopped down from from a perch and zipped out of the barn.

The commotion makes him wheel around just as the squirrel takes off out of the barn, and Bev curses under his breath. All he saw was the flash of red, the fluffy squirrel like tail, and the fact that it was fucking huge.

"What the fuck is in the water here..."

#anon #v || singularity point

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limerental · 4 years ago

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Here we go, my first @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo fill, for the prompt, Romeo and Juliet

Relationships: Ciri/Dara

Rating: T

Content Warnings: referenced genocide, briefly assumed threat of sexual assault, minor head injury, canon typical fantasy racism & misogyny

Summary: Canon Divergent. Ordinary princess Ciri (no elder blood, no child surprise) is dreading her upcoming political marriage when she meets Scoia'tael Dara in the woods outside of Cintra.

Ciri urged her mount on through the tangles of the undergrowth, leaning to cling to the mare’s neck as she surged up inclines that scattered loose soil underfoot, leaning back again as they dropped into vine-choked valleys.

The horse was sure-footed and hot and could sense Ciri’s rush of adrenaline and frustration, the overwhelming need to flee and flee fast. Whoever dared to chase her would not keep up, not with the reckless route that she took through the landscape.

But no one was chasing her. Not yet, at least.

“Go take that new mare out,” her grandmother had said after Ciri’s frustration bubbled over into snide words unbefitting of a princess. Her lips had pursed with pale tightness, but the softness of her eyes said that she understood some of what Ciri was feeling. She and Queen Calanthe only fought so fiercely and so often because of how similarly stubborn and rebellious and bold the both of them were. “I trust that you’ll come back with a clearer head.”

She could pretend for a moment while hugging the mare’s muscled neck, that this headlong race was part of a much grander, more exciting adventure. That her life was not spiralling utterly out of her own control in ways that were so mundane.

Princess Cirilla of Cintra, having been of age for nearly a year now, was to be married off before midsummer.

“We have delayed long enough,” said her grandmother. “If it were wholly up to me, I would not have you marry at all except for love. But the threat from the Scoia’tael increases by the day, and a marriage will strengthen the coalition of our allies. You have known your whole life this day would come.”

Ciri’s whole life made for a dreadfully boring story. Nothing exciting or interesting had happened to her even once or ever would.

Even a harrowing flight through the forest in defiance of her Destiny was nothing more than a cliche. The newest feminist literature told similar tales over and over. Stories of bold maidens who spat and brandished swords and cut their hair short and fled from the marriage bed were all the rage in the more forward-looking areas of the Continent.

But this was Cintra, and Ciri was not a girl but a Princess. No one would ever write a story about her except as a footnote to some arrogant prince, further noted in the lineage of her sons and grandsons.

Probably her name would be misspelled. <i>Princess Serilla of Cintra</i>, it would say. <i>Producer of prodigious heirs and otherwise simply not of note even a little bit.</i>

The rugged landscape suddenly opened up as the mare charged ahead, and Ciri found herself on a beaten track, cutting off a rider on a grey stallion who scrambled desperately to avoid a collision.

Her mare skidded in a great cloud of dust and veered one way while Ciri veered the other. She soon found herself sprawled on the path observing just how much faster her mount could run without a rider as the horse disappeared around a curve in the path, her hoofbeats fading.

Something nudged Ciri in the stomach.

“Ow,” she said, touching the velvety nose of the grey stallion who snuffled at her abdomen. The horse’s face was fine-boned and dished along the curve of its profile, and it wore a bridle embroidered with intricate stitching and hung with tassels. The reins jingled with miniature bells. The horse’s ears were pierced with golden barbells.

This was no Cintran horse and certainly no Cintran rider.

Mustering all her courage, she forced herself to squint up at the towering rider, the dappled sunlight through the trees casting a mottled glow on his figure. A young man dressed in earth tones, his skin dark and jawline bare of facial hair. He looked down at her with brow furrowed, as though confused by the series of events that had led to a girl lying flat on her back on the path before him, dazedly stroking his horse’s muzzle.

Most distressingly, he wore a cap sitting askance on his head, a squirrel’s tail slung across his right shoulder.

“You’re a--” Ciri wheezed to clear the dust from her lungs and sat up on her elbows. “You’re an elf.”

“I’d say so, yes,” said the young man. "Have been since I was born.”

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” Ciri shoved herself up to stand and found herself much less fine than expected. The world spun.

“You alright?” asked the young man.

“No, of course not,” said Ciri. “What a stupid thing to ask.”

Her brain a bit addled by the fall, Ciri was not sure whether she should be more fearful that the elf would leave her alone in the forest or that he would take her with him. There were said to be Scoia'tael encampments scattered throughout the countryside, but she had not expected any so close to the outer wall.

She didn’t notice the rider dismount until he was standing beside her at the stallion’s head.

“His name is Wyn,” said the elf, lying a gloved hand on the horse’s face, “and I’m Dara. How about you?”

“I’m--” She stopped herself. “I’m no one. I’m an orphan. A brigand. Nobody.”

“A brigand? Did you plan to rob me? By flinging yourself from your horse?”

“Well,” said Ciri, “I’m not a very good brigand.”

“That was a well-bred horse for an orphaned nobody,” said Dara. He was smiling, the slow sort of smile that touched his dark eyes first, though she didn’t know what exactly about this situation was anything close to amusing.

“I stole it.”

“I thought you weren’t a good brigand?”

“Suppose I just go lucky,” said Ciri. She drew a deep breath and felt a twinge in her ribcage. Ignoring it, she squared her shoulders and faced Dara with all the bold nobility she could muster. “Or not. I know all about that cap you wear. I know who you are. I know you hate my kind and want me dead. So go on, get on with it. Try to strike me down. I'll defend myself."

“Your kind?”

“Humans,” said Ciri simply. “You wish to wipe us out and claim our castles for your own and muddy our bloodlines.”

Dara bent over his knees to laugh, a startlingly loud noise in the quiet forest.

“I think you may have some things a little backwards," he laughed. “Is that really what’s being said about us these days?”

“Yes. In all the… brigand camps.”

“I didn’t know brigands cared about castles and bloodlines.”

“No but--” Ciri felt her cheeks turn pink.

“You’re Princess Cirilla of Cintra,” said Dara, and Ciri’s heartbeat leapt in her throat.

“How did you--”

“You’re wearing the seal of Cintra at the clasp of your cloak. Your hair is as pale as they say. And you speak like a princess.”

“I damn well do not,” said Ciri. “Fuck you,” she added for good measure.

Dara laughed again, a sound both light and musical, a warming sort of laugh.

“Princess Cirilla,” he said, stepping closer to her. The horse between them seemed bored of the affair of standing in the middle of the road, his eyelids fluttering closed. Her head felt too muddy to know what she was meant to do in this situation. She expected that she should flee. Call for help. At any moment, a gang of Scoia'tael could burst from the trees and claim her for ransom.

“Ciri,” she corrected.

“Ciri,” said Dara, smiling. “I’m not going to leave you alone in the woods.”

“Right,” said Ciri, suddenly dizzy. She found that it was not as gratifying as she thought it would be to be a part of a more exciting narrative. “You’re going to kidnap me and take me back to your camp and make my grandmother give in to all your sick and twisted demands for my safe return. Or worse, you aim to defile me and force me to bear your children which will ascend to the throne. Or you--”

Her dizziness overwhelmed her.

The forest pitched to and fro, and when she became aware of her surroundings again, she rode on horseback with someone’s arms clenched around her, the undergrowth a green blur and the horse’s pace swift and sure.

Cold fear gripped her until she saw a familiar outer wall rise up from the forest. She knew if she craned her neck, she would see the glittering spires of Cintra’s main keep far away on the hill.

“You took me back,” said Ciri, her voice scratchier than expected. Dara’s grip tightened as she shifted to look round at him, and he reined the stallion to a halt. He had removed his cap, and she was struck by the strange urge to touch the line of his pointed ear. She realized a second too late that she had given to the urge and snatched her hand back, face burning.

“I took you back,” said Dara. “I’m not an animal or a monster. I don’t kidnap or defile distressed maidens. None of my kind do. We want reparations, not slaughter. We want our relics returned to us and our history respected.”

“How boring,” Ciri mumbled. “The other story’s much more exciting.”

Dara dismounted and shifted to help her do so as well. Ciri swayed on her feet but managed to stay upright, distracted by the warmth of Dara’s hands on her arms.

“I’m sure you know there’s a gate not far from here. Follow the wall. I can’t go farther than this.”

He gathered up Wyn’s reins and turned to lead him back into the forest, and Ciri felt her heart clench strangely.

“Wait,” she called. “You saved me. You’ll be rewarded.”

“I don’t think that’s how this works, Princess,” said Dara and smiled his soft smile.

Ciri breathed deep, holding herself upright and summoning all her bravery, and strode with only some unsteadiness to stand before him.

“Thank you, Dara of… the woods. For your service and protection.”

“Very formal for a brigand.”

“Yes, as is taught at brigand school.”

Being almost of a height, Ciri needed only to rise slightly onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against the line of Dara’s brow. His fingertips touched the curve of her elbow, and she rested a palm on his chest. Small and lingering touches that she would remember with perfect clarity long after.

“Have you read any of the latest stories? With defiant maidens who flee from the marriage bed and learn to fight with swords and ride swift horses and cut off all their hair?”

“I can’t read,” said Dara simply, “but they sound like good stories.”

“Yes,” said Ciri, and with all the stubborn rebellion that was her birthright, she ducked forward to kiss him on the bow of his lips.

#the witcher #ciri x dara #not yet posted on ao3

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amnhnyc · 5 years ago

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Exhibit of the Day: Abert’s squirrel in the Hall of North American Mammals! Only in winter do the perky ears of Abert’s squirrels grow tassels, or tufts of hair. Tree squirrels don’t hibernate, so a longer winter coat, topped by tassels, warms this species while it forages in its high, snowy habitat. This individual is from an isolated population on Arizona’s mile-high Kaibab Plateau. Separated for thousands of years, the Kaibab population has evolved an elegant white tail instead of the usual gray. Photo: R. Mickens/© AMNH (at New York, New York) https://www.instagram.com/p/CCwRAYqgbAC/?igshid=1nj964e2zwe79

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idolatreclothing · 4 years ago

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“𝔚𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢. 𝔚𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔦𝔰 𝔞𝔦𝔯. 𝔚𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔣𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢𝔰.” - #𝔄𝔪𝔞𝔩𝔈𝔩𝔐𝔬𝔥𝔱𝔞𝔯 🔥 This enchanting photo by @petemecozziphotography of the lovely @nailaliemmert features my new large spiral ram horns and vertebrae claws. I’m just finishing up the last of the introductory orders for these horns, and will most likely be listing them on Monday! ❤️🎉 Thanks to all for your purchases and patience, running a one person business during this pandemic has really been challenging but was able to receive my first vaccine dose today, the sun is out, and better days are soon ahead. 🌞✨ Pants @ Shinny squirrel belly dance / Harem Pants @ Kristine Boston / Vest @ Gigi D'lamour Shell and tassel belt @WickedGearTribal Overskirt / Sequined loin panels, & motorcycle chain belt @ Erin May / Hair @divadreads / Ears @elven.caravan / Leg Chains @zechariahstone ✨ . . . #art #sculpture #costume #cosplay #fantasyfashion #fantasyphotography #idolatre #idolatreclothing #ramhorns #spiralhorns #magic #headpiece #headdress #clawrings https://www.instagram.com/p/CN8T9GsDkhQ/?igshid=1bhrqu1erwxk4

#𝔄𝔪𝔞𝔩𝔈𝔩𝔐𝔬𝔥𝔱𝔞𝔯 #art #sculpture #costume #cosplay #fantasyfashion #fantasyphotography #idolatre #idolatreclothing #ramhorns #spiralhorns #magic #headpiece #headdress #clawrings

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lsbaird · 5 years ago

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The Devil’s Luck - Chapter Two Preview!

It’s a nice long one today, folks! Maybe snug up with a cup of coffee. If you’re just now joining in, the prologue is here, and chapter one is here! Today’s installment tells us more about Chancelion, the unfortunate Evern, the maybe more unfortunate Frey, why squirrels are bastards, and why you should lock up your books when Etienne comes to visit.

Etienne woke up late the next morning feeling almost cheery. It had been too rainy the night before to do a thorough scouting of the rooftops, and he had retired early. His garish bed made up in feather ticking what it lacked in subtlety, and none of it could be seen in the dark anyway. He had slept like the sainted dead, though he still had to suppress a yelp when he woke and saw the room by daylight. It was that damn cherub.

He opened his curtains onto the gardens—the view was as lovely as promised, if still somewhat waterlogged—and took a deep breath. All would go well. A rocky start did not predict a rocky end, after all, and if he was going to make some flubs on his mission, it was better to make them at the beginning rather than at a more critical moment. He repeated these things to himself until he started to believe them, and turned away from the window to face his first morning at Chancelion.

The tea and soup from the night before had not yet been cleared away. Frey's servants had heeded his order not to disturb Lady Elsa, and even if they had tried, the chair Etienne had put under the door handle would have prevented it. He was pleased to see it had not shifted an inch. Trustworthy staff, Etienne thought, adding the tidbit to his growing list of household details.

His dress was still unpleasantly damp, even after spending the night spread over two chairs by the fire. Etienne had three gowns with him, which was enough for his deception, but any real noblewoman would feel destitute with so little. Etienne padded across the bright carpets to the wardrobe lurking in the far corner. Wearing a frock of his fiancé's choosing was a sure way to his heart, and as Lady Elsa's lady-maid and trunks of clothing were all fictitious, it seemed a shame not to have a look, at least. It couldn’t be as awful as the rest of the room, could it?

Etienne tugged on the brass handles of the wardrobe doors, instinctively braced for whatever horror might await him. But here, once again, Chancelion—or at least Chancelion’s master—surprised him.

Shades of cool green and black washed over Etienne like a refreshing waterfall. In the letters to Frey, which had been concocted by Ephaseus and written by Etienne, ‘Elsa’ had mentioned her preferences when it came to such things: an emphasis on clothes that would be best suited for the concealment of weapons, and for activities where accidents could happen. Every least detail had been taken into account, even her (Etienne’s) antipathy to lavender. All the linens smelled of mint leaves, instead.

She would not be used to the cold, and as a result, there were three handsome wraps as well as a fine wool dressing-gown in Lady Elsa's favorite emerald hue. Pearls were her favorite gem, and the embroidered bodices were stiff with them, no matter the outrageous price they commanded in Easting. She enjoyed riding and hunting with birds, and so a green damask riding habit hung in the nearest corner, along with fine hawking gloves decorated with gold silk tassels. A lady's riding boots occupied the bottom of the wardrobe, along with several different pairs of slippers. An evening dress, suitable for a royal ball, was downright crunchy with its yards of thick gold lace; Etienne mourned that the neckline was far too low for his disguise. Jewel boxes nestled on the shelves contained ropes of pearls, gold chain, and actual emeralds. Etienne at once lost his vain little heart to a particular pair of pearl drop earrings, thinking they would look elegant on Elsa and rakish when worn with his usual black leathers.

Perplexed by his findings, he looked at the room again, as though to make sure its hideous state had not been some fevered imagining on his part, but it was as outlandish as ever. The wardrobe and its contents seemed to have come from some other chamber, possibly one in a different house.

Etienne fingered the soft velvet of a split sleeve. The gown was a simple one for day wear, easy enough to get into on his own, and the already demure neckline could be made even more modest with a fichu hanging nearby. After a moment's consideration, he pulled the dress from its hook and his mostly-dry corset from the windowsill, where he’d thrown it the night before.

Dressing took him time and care; it was, after all, as much his arsenal as his disguise. The pins in his wig could pierce a man's heart, the flutter of lace at his throat concealed a fine length of garroting wire. Poisons he had as well, of various sorts, but one in particular—the powder of the humble grensel blossom, concealed beneath the ruby on his forefinger—was for Etienne alone.

Etienne carefully measured out a tiny portion of the deadly nitoxis powder from the compartment on his ring, swirled it in his half-finished cup of tea from the night before, and drank it down. It tasted like nothing but cold chamomile tea and orange peel, but he couldn't repress a faint shudder. Playing dice with his own mortality was a dangerous business, but his immunity had saved his life six times so far. Of course, the time he failed to keep up his doses the withdrawal almost killed him, but that was a hazard of the job. It was a price he paid for being careless, and he'd learned, very quickly, to never be careless.

His weapons and dress secured, Etienne smoothed the sleeve of his gown to be sure the crimson brand on his wrist was well-covered, and swept out the door for breakfast.

Once again, however, the actors had failed to assemble for the performance. This time, it was the leading man that was missing, and Etienne was in the dining room before he found any of the other players at all.

“Out at the cattle barn, miss,” Tobias whispered, as the maid dished up oat porridge and poached eggs on toast for Etienne, alongside fat sausages and potted chicken liver and fried apples and all the other morning delicacies of the country. “One of the yearlings took ill in the night, and suffers naught but the Master to nurse it.”

“He is good with animals, then?” Etienne asked, napkin balanced on one hand to eat with a young lady's poise. It would not do to give in to his own peculiar habits, such as pouring massive globs of honey on his sausages.

“They take to him, aye,” the butler went on, in his creaky voice. “But the stableman hopes that some of the Master's good fortune will rub off. None he's nursed yet has fared poorly after.”

“Oh, how curious. Is he so very lucky?” Etienne sipped his at his tea like a bird tasting the air of a winter morning. It had been put out for milady’s breakfast on ormolu trays, served in cups of a fine porcelain as fragile as frozen milk, but was weak enough to read a gospel through. Coffee, to Etienne’s abiding regret, had not yet caught on in Easting. With a flash of longing he thought of Ephaseus' comfortable, parchment-scented study, a battered silver pot of black coffee laced with cacao powder at his elbow, and a thick book in his lap, leather armchair pulled up to the fire. Resigned, Etienne contemplated swift murder, and dutifully drank his impotent tea.

“Luck is what the unfaithful call the will of God,” Tobias wheezed, and it was lucky he had his back turned as he attended to the sugar tongs, so he missed the expression that crossed Etienne's face. It was as much for the sanctimony as the weak tea. “But it would seem heaven has seen fit for Lord Reichwyn to be uncommonly blessed in that regard.”

Etienne lifted his eyebrows, and wondered how quickly the uncommonly blessed Lord Reichwyn would sink in a swollen Easting stream after his lungs were punctured with a knife. “When might you expect him back?”

“He asked me to proffer his apologies, my lady, and inquire if you would do him the honor of going for a ride with him this afternoon.”

Etienne's smile was winning, and genuine. There were so many ways one could die, out on horseback in the country. “I should be delighted.”

“In the meantime, he bids you feel free to look around the house and grounds, and hopes you find them to your liking.”

Etienne remembered that Elsa was supposed to have every intention of making Chancelion her future home, and as a result should take an active interest in things like the main hall carpet and the gutters. For himself, Etienne wondered if there was a decent library. He finished his breakfast in spite of Tobias hanging off his elbow like a dried-up dungball, and went off to get a better grasp of the manor's layout.

Excepting the dearth of coffee, Chancelion was a well-appointed estate. Frey, in his two years of holding the title of Lord Reichwyn, had devoted considerable time and effort to converting the neglected property into one of the finest holdings in the north. Etienne spent the morning wandering the halls, not only checking to see which doors and windows were regularly unlocked but, more and more, with a genuine interest in the house. It would have taken all day and some of the evening for a complete survey of the rambling manor, which he fully intended to do, until he was distracted in his reconnaissance by the scent of books.

He was not prepared for the library. Country manors were rarely outposts of learning, and at best one could expect to find an old volume of St. Justicia’s teachings, or an archaic treatise on mushrooms, or doggerel poetry about cows. Or so Etienne supposed, and he was delighted to be proven wrong. It was not expansive, that was certain, only a simple square room with one window. But it was quality. Etienne knew that by the smell of old leather and quality parchment, as well as beeswax, which meant the room actually saw use. Within a minute he had vanished into the library’s inviting shadows, and the rest of the morning slipped by with astonishing speed.

He had just persuaded himself to resume his work, and was heading for the other wing of the house to do so, when there was a commotion from the entrance below him. Etienne gathered up the weight of his green velvet skirts (which had been made heavier with the weight of one or two rare editions that he was sure no one would miss) and peered over the balustrade into the stone-flagged entryway below.

Freyton Reichwyn Landry had just returned from the stables, as muddy and strawy as any cattle-hand, beaming in spite of the state of his boots and coat. His hair was falling out of his queue again, and his good spirits gave him the appearance of a boy returning from some successful caper. He was wholesome enough to make Etienne shiver, as would any explorer in a foreign land when confronted with some strange and innocent animal. Etienne didn’t think they even made them like that anymore. Or ever.

“I think she'll pull through, Tobias,” Frey announced with triumph, shucking out of his waistcoat. Etienne bit his lip and leaned slightly over the railing, watching closely, but Frey kept his shirt on. Even going out to the stables he had it buttoned to the wrists. His neckerchief was modest in terms of ruffle, but he wore it wound up to his jaw like an old-fashioned city lawyer. Etienne let out his breath in frustration as Frey put on his more gentlemanly boots. “But it's coming up another rain, I'm afraid. Touring the grounds with Lady Elsa will have to wait. Have you seen her?”

“Lady Elsa is inspecting the house, sir,” Tobias answered.

“Ah, well, I hope she hasn't gotten herself lost!” Frey pulled on the coat Tobias offered, a somber thing of brown velvet and gilt buttons, more suited for his role as manor lord, trading it for the threadbare tweed he had worn for nursing cattle.

Etienne pondered the advantages of making an entrance just then, but chose instead to retreat backstage to his rooms for the moment. For one thing, he wanted to dispose of his stolen books in his traveling bag, and for another, there was a trap to be laid.

Etienne paused by his dressing-table for a brief dose of powder and perfume, and then went out in the corridor and proceeded to get lost. Not terribly lost, of course, only a little bit lost, just a short way inside the unexplored wing of Chancelion and out of sight. He knew his perfume would do the rest. He also knew, from the sound of boots on the carpet down the hall, that a splendid, fated rendezvous was imminent.

Etienne positioned himself at a cross-corridor, between a suit of archaic tilting armor and a large ceramic urn, and put on his very best winsome and bewildered expression.

For once, the leading man knew his cue. Frey appeared around the corner with impeccable timing, redoing his ribbon and whistling a country jig. His eyes lit up at the sight of his betrothed in the corridor, and he quickened his pace along the landing.

“Here you are! I hope you haven't been too dreadfully bored, have you?”

“Oh!” Etienne said, wringing his hands and turning in surprise, as though he had not in fact been counting Frey's boot-falls, and had not known full well just when to look up to best effect. “Lord Freyton! I'm ever so glad to see you. I'm afraid I've gotten turned around entirely. Is this the way back to the east wing?”

Frey shook his head. “I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Elsa. I have been terribly rude to abandon you this morning, without even a guide around the house! I should have sent Tobias with you to show you the lay of the manor.”

“We'd still be in the foyer,” Etienne muttered, and then caught himself with an internal curse as Frey’s eyebrows shot upwards. Elsa would never say that! Not about such a dear, kind old soul! “I mean,” he hastened to add, “He is elderly, and I fear it would be too much strain for me to drag him all over at my pace, and…” Etienne hit on it all at once, and it was so obvious, he was ashamed it had taken him so long. “Well, the truth of it is, I was searching for a room.”

“A room?” Frey echoed, with a careless smile. “Well, there are dozens of them, Lady, you may have your pick. Is your chamber not to your liking?”

Etienne's laugh was a little thin. That had been a close call. “Not for me, My lord. One room in particular has caught my fancy,” he continued. “I have heard a legend told of this place: the great ghost story of Chancelion. In Ivanis City, they say that your great-uncle Evern Reichwyn played a hand of cards with the devil, and lost, and was dragged down to hell for payment. Is it true that the room where they gambled is still locked up, untouched?”

All of the good humor had fled Frey's face. For a moment Etienne thought he had gone too far, and some fast back-stepping would be required, but Frey shook himself and dredged up a smile from somewhere. It was a thin ghost of the previous one, however, and did not reach his eyes.

“Ah, I should have known you would be curious,” he said, sadly. “I suppose even in the south, the misfortune of Chancelion is known?”

Etienne clutched his hands in his skirts, consternated. “Forgive my inconsiderate curiosity, my lord. Of course, it is a family matter here, and a serious thing, not some scandalous fireside rumor told in a salon in the city...”

“Frey,” Frey said, with a touch of his old humor. “Call me by name, lady, and I will grant your desire, any desire.”

Etienne felt his pulse quicken, in spite of himself. He told himself it was only the hot blood of the chase. “So he did play a hand with the devil? There is such a room?”

Frey shrugged. “I wasn't there at the time, so I don't know about the devil or not. But there is such a room, yes, and it is indeed untouched, as far as I know. It's a morbid curiosity, really, and in my eyes it is the sad remnant of a man who went mad and nothing more. But I cannot deny the air of the place, and I've no heart to disturb it. The servants refuse to speak of the room at all, so one can hardly expect them to go in and tidy it up. There is only one key, and it is mine. I am not sure if such a place is suitable for you, even if it is only a legend.”

Etienne's curiosity was now well and truly piqued. So Freyton Reichwyn Landry—who if Etienne’s information was true, was the Devil's Heir apparent himself—doubted the legend of Chancelion, and his own great-uncle's fate? “I assure you, Lord Freyton, I am not prone to histrionics or fainting. I can endure the sight of a dusty chamber with a tall tale tacked onto it.”

“Then I will show it to you,” Frey said, and reached for the ring of keys at his belt. “Provided, of course, that you meet my condition.”

“Your condition?” Etienne echoed, and then remembered. “Ah yes.” He paused to taste the name a little before letting it out. “...Frey.”

His suitor smiled once again, and it was as though the sun had come out, though rain still hammered down like musket-fire on the leaded glass windows. “That is much better,” he said, and swept his arm towards the left-hand corridor. “This way, my Lady.”

Frey knew the passages of his rambling house as though they were the contours of his own bedchamber. Even though he had only lived there for two years, he could recite the date of every tapestry, the tournaments won or lost in every suit of armor, the artist of every portrait. Knowledge of his ancestral home was a matter of some pride for the young landholder, and as he had been unaware of his birthright for most of his life, he took it as both his duty and his pleasure.

Etienne did not have to feign interest on Elsa's behalf; he had a weak spot for history and the halls of Chancelion had their wealth spread out in a tasteful sheen, instead of the overcrowded luxuries of his room. Frey led Etienne across a landing and through a side-passage, then down a staircase of coiled squares, the railing-posts mounted with exquisitely carved hawks.

“They were an addition of his,” Frey said, patting one of the birds on its shiny head. “He liked it a great deal, I've heard. Hawking. You enjoy it as well, don't you? Perhaps tomorrow it will be dry enough to go out.”

“His?” Etienne repeated.

“Uncle Evern,” Frey said. “I never met the man, but Tobias was here at the time, you know. Much younger, of course. He knows everything about the place. I'm a mere amateur by comparison.” Frey had paused at the landing, under an ornate window with stained glass in the pattern of the Reichwyn arms, emblazoned on a shield held by a pair of rampant cats. On a sunny day, it would have splashed them both with blues and golds, but in the rainstorm, it was darkened as though in mourning. The device featured crowns and stars and moons and suns—-the same as Evern's ill-fated round of card suits. Etienne wondered if Frey had picked those motifs when he came to inherit, or if his Great-Uncle had chosen them when he won Chancelion. Etienne shuddered as he turned his back to the window. Perhaps it was only that the Archdemon had a wretched sense of humor.

“This way,” Frey said, once he had finished adjusting a bit of the stair-carpet that had buckled up under its rod. “Bloody thing is always coming up. Someone's going to trip on it and break his neck, honestly.”

Would it were that easy, Etienne thought, but he took note of the step, just in case. Maybe on the way back.

They soon left the refurbished parts of the house, plunging back into older, dusty passages. Bits of plaster had fallen from the walls to reveal bare stone. Crates were stacked against the walls, and moth-eaten hunting trophies glared down at them from the high walls, their glass eyes disturbingly lifelike in their gaunt heads. Frey and his guest had encountered no servants in their journey, and there seemed to be little chance of doing so now.

“I must apologize for the state of this wing,” Frey said, shoving aside an old oak table to allow more room in the passage for his lady's copious skirts. “My predecessors in the title were an unscrupulous lot, though I pray Saint Justicia had mercy at their souls' trial. They ransacked the house and sold most things of value. I've only just gotten the present rooms in a fit state to live in. It's something of an ongoing project—oh, damn.” A suit of armor had collapsed on itself, scattering pauldrons and greaves across the hallway like the wreckage of an upset carriage. Frey reached back a hand to help his lady across the mess. “Mind that spur, it can't be at all nice to step on. In truth, when I took the house, it all looked like this, and there wasn't much left in the coffers.”

“You've done splendidly with the manor,” Etienne murmured. “I had no idea it was in such a state when you came to your title.”

“Well, to be honest, it was worse than this. They were keeping pigs in the great hall, and had burned most of the furniture and banisters for firewood. I'm only glad they didn't touch the library. For one, I doubt they could read, and for another, Tobias locked the doors and claimed to have misplaced the key. Lucky thing he did. You enjoy reading, my lady?”

“A great deal,” Etienne answered, with honest enthusiasm.

Frey was delighted in turn by his bride's delight. “Then you must see our library. Do you know we have an ancient account of the binding of the Archdemon, in the very hand of the scholar D'Grassa?”

“Do you really?” Etienne said, his eyes wide, showing no sign that the leather-bound original D'Grassa was in his traveling case at that very moment. “That's extraordinary.”

“I can't read it, of course,” Frey said, apologetically. “But you mentioned—in your second letter, I believe—that you dabbled in the pre-Justician letters? I'd be honored if perhaps you could go over some of it with me. Some night after supper perhaps?”

“I shall do my best,” Etienne said, hoping his smile wasn't too fixed. He either needed to find a way to smuggle those stolen books back into the library, or to brain his fiancée before the subject could come up again. Though it was a pity, he thought. So few people want to learn the old letters in this day and age. I finally find one who wants to, and I have to kill him instead.

Frey was counting tapestries. “Seven, six... ah. Here it is. The one with the hunt on it.” Faded figures writhed across the wall-hanging, racing their dogs and horses pell-mell into the yawning holes made by age and vermin, all in the determined pursuit of a stained-looking stag.

“Was it always a hidden room?” Etienne asked, as Frey shoved up the tapestry with his elbow, and jangled through his ring of keys in search of the right one. “I mean, doesn't it strike you as a bit odd, that Evern would be playing cards in some hidden room?”

“Oh, no. It wasn't always hidden. This is the old armory. Evern had it converted into a games room, and Tobias tells me he always came here after dinner to play cards or dice with his friends. There were no guests the night of the last hand, but he would dice on his own.” Frey had found the key he wanted, a rather elegant one for such a room. Etienne had been expecting a slab of iron with a rough tooth, the sort for locking manacles. “The room was shut up and covered afterwards, by some superstitious second cousins of mine who inherited next. They weren't here long; the lady of the house went mad and wound up drowning herself in the duck pond. The staff insists her ghost’s been sighted regularly around the grounds ever since, not that I've run into her myself, but we did just have a scullery maid quit a fortnight ago after supposedly seeing her.” The lock gave a surprisingly well-oiled click. “There. Mind the tapestry.”

Etienne held up one arm to ward off the moldering folds of the hunt scene, and followed Frey's gesture into the fabled chamber. The overwhelming impression was one of dust, but that was only to the eyes. There were other senses to be assailed, other messages to heed, and they presented themselves at once, to the detriment of all others.

The moment Etienne crossed the threshold, the crimson tattoo on his wrist burst into pain, burning as though freshly inscribed. Etienne could feel every needle-stroke of the protective seal upon his skin. He put one hand to his wrist, grasping the mark hidden by his sleeve, and struggled to think past the agonizing warning. For Etienne was far more than a common-garden villain and garrotter. He was a sworn and bloodied member of the Order of the Crimson Seal, founded by Vynae himself after the defeat of the Archdemon centuries ago. Etienne was an elite soldier standing against a tide of black magic and foul sorceries. His was a sword of brilliant reason in the darkness, and he was branded and oathed to Ephaseus and his cause.

Frey left the door open behind him, though the tapestry tumbled down after and a few of the hounds lost their snouts in the crumbling threads. “You see, it is truly not much to—” He broke off, in alarm. “Elsa! You've gone white! Are you ill?”

With effort, Etienne pried his fingers off his wrist, and his teeth apart. The air of lingering evil was so palpable in the room, he marveled that Frey could stand there oblivious to it. “It’s—it’s nothing,” he said. “Only some dust in my lungs, it made me quite giddy.” He pulled a kerchief from his artfully constructed bosom, and held it delicately over his mouth as he forced his mind to clear, to focus past the pain. “I should be fine in just a moment.”

“I should not have brought you here,” Frey said, scowling. He had one hand on the small of Etienne's back, to catch his bride-to-be should she faint. “Your bravery is commendable, but there's no need to go further—”

“I'm quite all right now,” Etienne said, tucking his kerchief away, and making a grand show of fussing with his cuffs. “Now, we've come all this way to see this place, I should like to see it! Don't frown so, it was only a spot of stale air.” Etienne put a finger to Frey's lips, teasing, and it was enough to startle a smile out of his betrothed.

Etienne's head was clearing at last, even though the mark of the Order still buzzed like the stings of an entire beehive. The room was small, even cozy, though the air of neglect made it seem that much more empty and echoing. He had always pictured the famous duel taking place in a bare chamber with a splintery wood table and two chairs, like in some hidden dungeon. But this had been a delightful room years ago, one designed for leisure and pleasant pursuits. The high, narrow windows had all been boarded over, but several of the planks had fallen in, letting in a watery light. Dust lay thick and undisturbed on elegant tables and chairs; a settee sat decomposing in the corner, tapestry cushions lumpy grey in the colorless light. The beams of the ceiling had once been painted in bright, lively patterns, now they only looked like faded graffiti. A shadowy portrait peered down over the mantelpiece. Logs still waited in a neat bundle by the hearth, where black ash was scattered around the gnawed rug in tiny trails.

“Squirrels,” Frey said, following Etienne's eyes. “They'll have the whole room nibbled to floorboards in another year or so. I was going to have a grate put over the fireplace to keep them out, but I haven't found any workmen willing to do it.”

“Ah.” Etienne took a few steps forward, his skirts sweeping a clean spot through the dust. “This is the man himself, I assume?” He tilted his head far back to get a better look at the painting, but in the gloomy room—and under the dirt on the paint varnish—Lord Evern Reichwyn was a yellowed ghost, dark-eyed and fair-haired and elusive, sitting at ease with his hand on the head of a hunting dog at his knee. He was handsome, even in shadows, and wore his shirt open. Etienne could see an echo of Frey there, somewhere in his slightly-arrogant face, a whisper of familiarity beyond just coloring.

“I wanted to put him in the great hall,” Frey said, with a little sigh. “But one of the chambermaids swooned at the very idea of it, so I'll have to wait a bit longer to dine with my uncle, I suppose. I can't really blame the servants. They've all become superstitious. I only hope the painting's not ruined by the time I can have it brought out.”

Etienne took a step backwards to see the painting better, but his skirts bumped into something behind him. “Ah! I didn't even see... oh.” The something was a chair lying on its side, on the floor. Etienne knelt to right it again, and noticed the dust heaped up against the toppled legs. The chair had fallen decades ago, knocked aside from the delicate little table behind it. The matching chair on the other side was scooted a short distance from the table, as though someone had pushed it back to rise, maybe to refill his glass. But it was the table that drew Etienne's attention. Almost invisible under a thin film of dust, there were cards scattered on its surface. They had curled with age and one—the ace of crowns—lay on the floor. One corner had been chewed by a rodent. Frey was on the other side of the table, looking down at the three crowns and seven suns that lay there, just to the side of a grimy crystal glass. A bottle was on the table, empty save for some flakes of brown dirt, and the other cup was overturned, cracked and empty. Its contents had made a darker patch, long ago, on the table and the carpet below.

Etienne stood up without moving the chair from its resting place. “This is it, isn't it?”

“It is,” Frey said, heavily. “Sad, is it not? He even laid out another hand of cards and a glass. I suppose the loneliness of the place in winter must have driven him mad.”

“So you don't believe the Devil sat here, and answered Lord Evern's challenge for an opponent?” Etienne's fingertips hovered over the stack of undealt cards in the middle of the table. They had slipped sideways into a heap.

“Don't mistake me, Elsa. Every Sabbath I've a grateful hymn on my lips for Saint Justicia. But this speaks to me more of madness than of a curse. Though I suppose that's devilry enough, is it not?”

“So why the tales?” Etienne said, moving to the other side of the table and trying not to flinch as his tattoo went to pinpricks again.

“Tobias found Evern in this room the next day. Just like this. The wine for two, the cards laid out so, and Evern out of his wits with his hair gone snow white. Of course it went round to the servants in a flash that Evern was yammering nonsense about the Devil and a curse and payment due, and if someone asked him directly what happened, he would only gesture to the cards. He wandered off into the moors the next night. He's never been seen since. All the servants except for Tobias left Easting right after.”

“How awful,” Etienne said sadly, as Elsa would have. “So the curse—”

“Is a myth, of course.” Frey looked up at him, intently. “I know my cousins had hard luck at Chancelion, but they made their own misfortune. I've been here six years now, and it has been nothing but blessed for me. Surely, if there was a curse, I would have been victim to it? No. I show you this to put your mind at ease, Elsa. It is a sad room, but nothing more. No split-hoof prints burned into the carpet, no eternal ring of fire, no ghosts showing up on the anniversary of the game to replay it again in transparent pantomime. You need have no fear of it.”

“I'm not afraid,” Etienne said, though that did not mean he agreed. If there was no curse, then Etienne would not be standing there, tricked out in green velvet, with murder on his mind. If Evern had not gambled away his soul in that room, then why were there no coins on the card table? Even a madman playing himself would know a bet had to be laid as well as cards.

“I'm glad to see you are as brave as you are intelligent,” Frey said, and smiled at his bride-to-be. “And as lovely.”

Etienne turned away, wishing he’d thought to bring a fan with him to hide behind. “You do me to much honor, sir. I am only too curious for my own good, as my Aunt would say. But I thank you for being so honest about the room. Another man would not even have permitted his bride to see it, for fear of making her hysterical or overwrought or some nonsense.”

Frey's hands tightened on the back of the Devil's chair. “Honest?” he asked, as though to himself. “Hardly. In truth, Elsa, I only agreed to bring you here so that for a moment we could be most assuredly alone, and unobserved.”

Etienne's pulse tripped with warning. What was this, then? Surely Frey was not about to make an attack on his lady's chastity? “Oh?” He forced out a laugh, but it rang as hollow as a specter's in the room. “You choose a strange place for courtship, Frey.”

Frey did not warm to the teasing; if anything, he looked more grim. Etienne wondered for a split second if there was a beast under his veneer, one who would prey on an unsuspecting female, but dismissed the idea at once. If anything, it was Frey who should be worried about his bride's intentions.

“Elsa,” Frey said, and his handsome face twisted a moment with dismay. “I have... there is something I must tell you. Tobias suggested I wait until the wedding night, but that is dishonorable, and no lady deserves to be so willingly misled. I would give you the chance to refuse me. I don't think a sensible lady would reject my suit on such grounds, but you deserve the chance to do so.”

Etienne took a step away. For an assassin it was practical: he wanted some distance, something solid behind him if need be, and room in which to fight. But in his gown and wig and paints, it looked perfectly authentic as trepidation. “What are you talking about?”

Frey pushed himself off the chair, and raked back the hair that was always slipping out of its ribbon. “Elsa. Darling. You know I think this curse business is nonsense, correct? I'm a man of faith, believe me, but I will not be dogged by imaginary devils. Nor would I see you live here in fear, when my only wish is for you to bring warmth to this place... and... and children.” His face was flushed with crimson, and to Etienne it was the only color in the entire room. “For the two of us to give Chancelion life again. I never dreamed of achieving such things when I was a fatherless boy growing up in a tavern, playing cards to earn my mother's bread, without even a home to call my own.” He looked at Etienne in something like desperation. “But the moment I came here I have loved this house from cellar to spire. Yes, even this wretched room. It grieves me to see it so. All I have ever wanted was for fortune to shine on this place once more. And for two years, it has. Never have I been more convinced that there was no curse than I was the moment you accepted me as your future husband. It was the most wonderful day of my life, even more so than the day I was informed of my inheritance.”

Etienne felt his heart sinking, oozing down into his belly like the drowning wick of a tallow candle. Frey continued on, as though his confession was being dragged out of him with an inquisitor's red-hot hooks.

“But there is a reason—a trifling coincidence and one I give no credence to—that you might think such a curse exists. I speak not of Evern's madness, or the foolishness of my late relatives. It is something about me, specifically.”

Etienne wished he could loosen his corset. It felt like he couldn't breathe, and his one consolation was that his anxiety must be convincing. “...What is it?”

Frey looked at him, a long, searching glance, and then he took off his velvet coat. He flung it on the back of the Devil's chair, and sent his waistcoat after it.

“My Lord!” Etienne began, forgetting to call him Frey.

Frey did not answer, but his silk cravat unraveled to the floor like a serpent's ghost, and then, with only the barest moment of hesitation, he pulled his shirt off over his head.

Even the dim light of the room was not kind. Etienne's wrist burst into flames of pain, and he put a hand over his mouth, knowing his noise of horror would not be a woman's cry. From throat to wrists, and shoulder to belly, all over the smooth muscles of Frey's torso, tiny red lines writhed across his skin. They twisted and bent and curled like live insects held above a candle flame, and Etienne's stomach clenched with revulsion at the sight of them. He struggled to hang on to his ruse, and in no small amount, to his sanity as well. Elsa would only be shocked at the marks, surely. She would be aghast, but would think them only lines, blemishes.

But Etienne could read them. He knew the horrors inscribed across Frey's skin, and understood the terrible doom they foretold as they burrowed down Frey's ribcage. Death and chaos had been dragged over Frey's body like corpses behind a charnel wagon, leaving bloody paths behind. The letters screamed with rage inside Etienne's mind, the rage of a demon from the depths as he wrenched at the splintering bars of his cage. Those splinters made those awful letters, scribed in the highest tongue of hell. When Etienne could tear his eyes back to Frey's, he found them shining with grief.

“You refuse, then,” he said softly. “Lady. I do not blame you.”

Etienne gulped past the taste of bile in his mouth. “No!” he gasped, but he looked away and could not bring himself to look back again. “I am not so shallow, Frey. But they—what are they?” It was all Etienne could do to feign ignorance. He was possessed with a wild urge to take a blade to Frey's skin, to peel away the marks as one would a rotten spot on an otherwise perfect and luscious peach.

“Birthmarks, I assume.” Frey answered, subdued. “I've had them my whole life, though when I was a child they were mere mottling. My mother told me I looked as though I had been born flayed, they were so thick on my skin. But as I have aged they have thinned, sharpened. It's my hope that some day they will fade away entirely. But save for my head, my hands, and my feet, no part of me is unmarked by them. I believe them to be mere lines, like the strain of a vein broken beneath the skin, but—-tied to Chancelion as I am, they easily seem to take on a more evil meaning.” Frey had pulled his shirt back on, and though the demonic scribbling was still visible at his neck and wrists, Etienne felt a good deal saner without them shouting their horrific threats at him.

Etienne forced himself away from the side table, tearing his hands away from its marble top. His fingers had left damp, sweaty patches in the dust. “I am your betrothed, am I not? I fail to see how that should change. You do me little honor, Frey, to think such a small thing would sway me.”

The gratitude and adoration in Frey's eyes was heartbreaking, even to so small and shriveled a heart as Etienne's. “When you asked to keep our engagement quiet, out of respect to your aunt's endeavors to find you a suitor on her own, I admit, I was grateful. I knew then you could refuse me without bringing undue shame on yourself.”

Etienne drew himself up straight. “Shame? My shame, Frey, would be to refuse the heart of so worthy a suitor.”

Frey took a step forward, arms outstretched, and Etienne knew he must do the same. If he was to continue his role, then he would have to submit to being kissed, and kissed he was. Earnestly, and as chaste as a blushing milkmaid's dream. Etienne’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere. Frey had the marks, and only that confirmation made Etienne realize how desperately he had hoped otherwise. But it was so. Frey was the Heir, his doom was sealed by Ephaseus' decree, and Etienne was sorry. More sorry than he'd ever been for any blackguard nobleman seeking black powers, or for heartless beauties who cursed the lovers who spurned them. Those he had snuffed without a thought, serene in his duty. But once, just this once, Etienne had been beginning to hope Ephaseus was mistaken.

He should have known better. Ephaseus was never mistaken.

Etienne's duty was clear. Frey must die, and quickly, before the fate inscribed on his flesh could be allowed to manifest. And really, what better place to do that than in the hidden chamber? Frey was the only one with a key to the room, in a distant and unused part of the house. No one had seen them pass this way. Etienne could dispose of Frey here, lock the room, and then Elsa could protest that she had not seen her beloved all day. Who would look for him here? In the chaos it would be easy enough for Elsa to take her leave of Chancelion, for good. With any luck, by the time Frey's body was found, he wouldn't be in a fit state to show how he had met his untimely end. He would be another victim of Chancelion's curse, and would follow Evern into legend.

Etienne leaned harder into Frey's kiss, trying not to think about the state that warm mouth would be in, in a few days’ time. He'd sent enough men to the worms, there was no reason to go getting squeamish about it now. He was doing Frey a mercy, though the man didn't know it. The only question was how best to go about it. Poor bastard, Etienne thought. Probably it was best to be quick and painless, so he wouldn't know what had happened. He could go straight to Saint Justicia's arms with his true love's kiss still on his lips, dreaming of all the sons that would not be born.

Etienne put a hand back to the table, as though to steady himself. The other he tangled up in Frey's hair. To Frey, it must have seemed quite an ardent gesture. Etienne, however, was only looking for the best place to clonk him. Evern's empty wine bottle on the table was dusty and cold against Etienne's other hand, and he grasped it. Sometimes the best weapons were already provided. One blow to the head, and then if Frey was still breathing, the gentle pressure of his lady's hand over his mouth and nose would end that. It was perfect, really. As sweet a setup as Etienne had ever dreamed of. Etienne felt his belly tighten, and he brought the bottle up in an arc that would end at the back of Frey's skull.

Death was an eventuality for everyone, Etienne thought. It was only his job to speed things along.

It was at that moment, just when the murder was shaping up so splendidly, that it happened. Actually, it was several things, happening all at once. The first of them was only a tickle, a little tug on the strap of Etienne's ladylike shoe. It was not worth note until it was followed, alarmingly, by the unmistakable sensation of something large and alive wriggling under lace-edged linen drawers and crawling up Etienne's leg.

It was instinct; it was involuntary. Etienne shrieked and the bottle flew out of his hand before it was even a third of the way through its course. It crashed into the fireplace and exploded; the overturned table scattered cards up into the air. Frey started back with an oath on his lips, still quite alive, and Etienne was forced into a frantic kicking jig, at last flinging a bewildered and very much offended squirrel out of his undergarments. It shot beneath the settee and up the chimney, leaving Etienne swearing at it in words that Lady Elsa should by no means have even known, much less dreamed of using.

Etienne caught himself halfway through a tirade involving fornication, the nine fires of hell, and leeks, and whirled to face Frey. Surely, what with that and murder and misfortune and squirrels for the love of reason, Etienne's mission and his ruse were both lost.

But Frey, honest, guileless Frey, was only hanging off the Devil's chair, laughing until he couldn't breathe. For a moment Etienne hoped he might laugh himself into the grave and spare Etienne the trouble, but there was no such luck.

Actually, there was plenty of luck, and all the wrong sorts.

It was not a pleasant evening for Etienne. Not only did Frey tell the story of the squirrel to Tobias as he served the couple dinner, but Frey was only more enamored of his bride for their adventure, and for her presumed acceptance of him. He spent the meal gazing at Etienne in pure, unashamed adoration, and that evening kissed him again before saying good night: a frustrating experience for Etienne as there was no good opportunity for death in it. At nine thirty, he was left in his garish bedchamber with no company but his own frustration and that hideous cherub.

And then, of course, to top it all off, Etienne had to sneak out in the middle of the night and put the D'Grassa volume back in the library.

#the devil's luck #l.s. baird #indie publishing #queer lit #reblog to save a life #probably Frey's

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