Chapter Nine

Bowerstone

AN:/ Many thanks, once more, to all of you who have kept with this story! I appreciate your support (silent or written) in this endeavor. Thanks again to all of you who have reviewed, favorite, and added this fic to your alerts.

As a heads up, this chapter contains points in the story told from Keturah, Dara, and Reaver. I try and make the transition clear, but just be aware!

Special thanks to D-Ro once more for Beta-reading services.

Don't forget the link to the gallery: [DOT]com/albums/cc490/FooFoo_Cuddly_Bottoms/The%20Albion%20Hero%20and%20the%20Auroran%20Legend/ . Remember to replace the [DOT] with a period. The album is also password protected…just enter 'Keturah' at the prompt. Ben and Crevan's images have been added to the gang (although I really don't like how Ben turned out…his beard makes his head look too skinny). Walter is to follow!

Thanks again and enjoy!

Keturah and Crevan maintained a rocky relationship after the ordeal in the forests of Mourningwood. Each was civil toward the other, exchanges passed between them as though they were old friends, and kind words and gestures were made when appropriate. But it was as though a chasm had developed between them. Keturah had believed Crevan to be incorruptible, a disjointed portion of the brotherhood the left-handed assassin belonged to. He had been kind to her, open with her (mostly), functioning almost as Walter did. He mentored her in the matters of healing and the matters of the mind. She'd believed him a kind man. But now she saw him as he truly was: a shrewd, surreptitious, soundless shade who was as much a part of that dark bonded brotherhood as was the man who'd slain Saker. He had fooled her with his kindness and the ease with which he spoke…fooled her into believing he was another Walter. Hardly. He was much sharper and a much better teacher.

She had not asked him to expand on any of the statements he'd made that night. She had not made the inquiry of whether or not he would teach her to school her temper, her emotions…teach her to be a true leader. Walter knew how to help her become a soldier, help her become adept with a sword and a rifle, help her discuss political matters and make tactical decisions about battle. But she'd become far too skilled at hiding from him, letting him think the affairs in her mind were all neatly in order. This Crevan, this stranger, whether he acted as a piece in a chess game or not, had seen more of her true self than Walter or Elliot or Logan had in her entire time at the palace. She'd been schooled as a princess. Emotion was messy and unwanted. It was to remain bottled within oneself or it was to be locked away in the pages of a diary. There was no room for mess when managing a household. There was no room for mess when managing a kingdom, either.

But Keturah could not stop the tears that welled in her eyes as she clung tightly to Phillip's hand. Crevan was not there. He'd been escorting Ben and Jammy to Bowerstone to rendezvous with Major Swift and Walter. Not that it mattered. Even the most skilled of healers would do no good for Phillip now.

The corporal had wasted away, looking more like a Hollowman now than a soldier of six and twenty. Crevan was unable to control the infection and it had run rampant through his body. At most, he'd been able to dull the pain in the last moments. Keturah held Phillip's hand, offering him tenderness, warmth, and comfort as the light left his eyes and emptiness filled them. Strange as the observation sounded, Phillip's last breath sounded almost peaceful and accepting. Then again, Keturah did not understand why it would not sound as such. Death was a release from pain, a release from suffering, a release from struggle, a release from life. It was not a punishment to the individual. It was a punishment to those around them. Did Phillip have a wife? A child? Had he a daughter who would never again have dance lessons with her father, or would never be given away? Had he a son whose marksmanship lessons would cease, or would never learn a trade or apprentice himself?

Had Elliot felt such about dying? Had he believed it a relief: an escape? Or had he suffered, as Phillip had, trying to cling to life he believed worth living?

"I am sorry, Princess," came a voice from across the dais and above her.

She hadn't the energy or the will to cringe. She swallowed against the tears, willing the wetness to stop. "Leave," she hissed, unable to find her voice.

The assassin stepped silently closer, despite her command. She watched without seeing him, keeping her gaze intently on Phillip's empty eyes, wishing her tears and her sorrow would leave her, wishing her pent-up mess did not chose now, before this monster to avalanche and crush her reserve.

The man reached toward Phillip's face and she lashed out violently, catching his wrist in both her hands and digging her nails into the leather of the bracer there. She wrenched his hand away from the dead man. "Don't touch him!"

"I was merely closing his eyes, Princess," murmured the assassin, slowly retracting his wrist from her claws. The tone was strange, out of context with the behavior he'd displayed earlier. It whispered promises of comfort and conjured thoughts of happier times: warm milk and honey, the pleasant heat of her father's flesh when he'd hugged her good-night in his massively muscled arms. To say it was soothing did not begin to describe the sensation it evoked in her. It frightened her, put her on edge. Nobody's voice should do that, not unless there was something dark about them.

"A murderer such as you has no right to touch him," she maintained angrily, on the verge of sobs. "I'll do it." She must do it. She'd been with him as he'd died, comforted him as the unknown of death came for him. She was his princess, his leader. It was her duty to oversee.

She sat up and, shakily, brushed her fingertips over the corporal's eyelids. They slid shut easily. A wave of relief rushed through her…he no longer seemed so…dead. Merely as though he was sleeping.

The assassin stood nearby, silent and subtle as one's shadow in the twilight.

She looked up at him, glowering into the darkness that concealed his face. "Leave." She ordered, in no mood to do battle with her perpetual tormentor. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. It only drained her more to have the man there. He put her ill at ease. There was something about him that was familiar and the way in which he spoke was unnerving.

"With all due respect, Majesty," he replied with a fair bit of the familiar taunting lilt, "I think it's best I stay."

He moved toward her and she hastily reached for her rifle. But she saw that he did not continue his advance much further and merely curled his long limbs into a cross-legged position. He was close to her, but not too close. He'd done nothing drastic enough to earn a bullet wound…yet. So she settled the rifle on her lap and gazed at Phillip.

The tears welled up once more. Elliot, Bernard, Phillip, Aaron, George, Taylor, Remington: all dead. It was all due to her, either directly or indirectly. Had she worked harder, had she done something differently, they'd be alive. Surely that was true. Surely she could have saved them. Elliot would not have been so brutally murdered, Phillip would have survived the wounds as Jammy and Ben had, Aaron would have paid more attention to the Hollowmen repeaters…instead, he'd been watching after her in the fray….

The tears came. And once they started, she could not stop them. Half a year's worth of reality washed over her anew and she wanted nothing else but to curl up under the plush covers of her palace bed and sob until she had no sorrow remaining to poison her core. She wanted it all to be a bad dream.

She was aware that the assassin was there, quiet, polite, not saying a word and keeping so still one might have mistaken him for a statue. Keturah was aware that he was the last person she ought to reveal such a horrid emotional state to, but she could not stop herself. Better in front of someone whose judgments she did not care for rather than the folk she was attempting to lead.

After a long while, the sobs that racked her chest stopped, finally, and she was reduced to sniffles of embarrassment as she hastily cleaned her face with the sleeve of her borrowed military uniform.

"Here," the man said, extending a rather large chunk of chocolate toward her.

She was hesitant.

"Come now, Princess. I know you've a fondness for sweets," the man pressed. She almost heard a smile in his voice. Almost.

"You may have poisoned it," she countered feebly.

The man scoffed. "Princess, had my intent been to kill you, I'd have done it by now. I promise, there have been plenty of opportunities."

She reached out and accepted the sweet chunk with great trepidation. But the assassin did not move from his spot past to retract the arm which had extended the small gift. Slowly, she nibbled on the candy, the sweetness of the chocolate melting in her mouth and returning to her the feelings of warmth and comfort.

"You've been spying on me then, have you?" She made the inquiry hesitantly. Perhaps if she could get him to speak a bit more, she might be able to discover what he was doing. She was nobody's game piece…but that did not prevent her from being curious. How did he know my fondness for sweets? I'm sure I never mentioned it to Crevan.

"On and off, yes," he replied. "Though I prefer the term, 'Silent observation'."

"Spying," she concluded.

"You do not spy on a pianist when he is playing in concert. You do not spy on a magician when he entertains you with tricks and mirages," the man countered smoothly, his voice as rich as the chocolate in her mouth. "You watch with the intent of respecting them and their work. To speak and shout and cause an uproar would be considered rude. I merely watch the work you do with the soldiers and for the revolution and do not interrupt."

"Hm." He had a point and she was in no state to form a rebuttal. In the way he described himself, he was no different than Theresa.

"Why the mask?" she inquired next.

"I have no mask," he stated simply. She could imagine a cheeky grin beneath the murk of cloth.

She grunted in frustration. "Why the hood and the cowl? Crevan is free to remove his. Are you forced to wear yours?"

"I chose to of my own volition," he replied.

"Why?"

"Would you believe me if I told you it was an extension of my beard?" he inquired jokingly.

Keturah's narrowed. "No." She chewed another few morsels of the sweet chunk slowly. "Are you so frightened of me that you will not show your face? I feel honored."

"Frightened? Of a skinny little thing like you?" He laughed deeply. "No. I am simply frightened you will not trust me."

"I already do not trust you," she provided matter-of-factly.

"Nuance," he replied with a wave of his hand.

Keturah was not so easily deterred. "So what's a small chink in your already flawless reputation?"

He chuckled. "You've a sharp tongue on you, woman."

"And you've a sharp blade," she countered. "If you will not show me your face, tell me why you killed Saker."

He was silent.

"Assassin," she prodded after a while. "Tell me. You owe me at least that much."

"I owe you nothing," he countered, his voice losing the warm, soothing tones and becoming as harsh as a balvarine's howl.

"You owe me explanation!" Keturah raised her voice, now. "Something. Anything! I am not some puppet to be toyed with!"

He turned his head toward her, his face covered by a cowl and his eye sockets painted in darkness. She supposed he was assessing her, but she was uncomfortable beneath his gaze. It was piercing and made her skin prickle. Suddenly, she was struck with the notion that he knew far more about her than he should.

"I will answer a question if you agree to answer one of mine," he rebutted steadily.

"Any question?" He'd piqued her interest, now. He was still a murderous cretin, but she was determined to somehow gain the upper hand in this game of shadows.

He nodded with some hesitation. "Ladies first."

She chewed her lip. One question. There were many she had: who was he? Why had he killed Saker? What was the point of his game? What did he want from her, really? She hardly believed his selfless notion of 'I want you safe.'

"What is your name?" She blurted before reason could get the better of her.

He seemed as taken aback by her outburst as she was. "My name?"

No. It was a slip of the tongue. "Yes," she confirmed, feeling heat rush to her ears in embarrassment. What a stupid use of her question. But she was too proud to take the inquiry back.

"Dara," he provided hesitantly, as though calculating the harm she could do to him if she became privy to such information. "My name is Dara."

She nodded in acceptance. At least now she had a name to place with the voice.

Dara wasted no time in pressing the tense conversation forward. "My turn, Princess." He turned to face her fully, propping his chin on his hand and tapping the slender digits against what she imagined were his lips beneath the cowl. "Are you a virgin?"

Keturah's face flushed scarlet. "That is none of your concern!"

"Our agreement was that you would answer a question if I answered one of yours," Dara countered, laughter in his tone.

"Not that one! Pick another!" She retorted indignantly. Why on earth would he be concerned with such a thing? First Sara, then Ben, now this faceless creature!

Dara cocked his head slightly. "Very well, Highness," the title was murmured with some mockery, "Will you kill your brother when this Revolution is at its end?"

Keturah grimaced. Kill Logan? The people were expecting her to, Walter was expecting her to…but something didn't seem right. Logan had been a boy once, had been her brother, once. Yes, he was a tyrannical mad-man, now. He'd made her chose between the villagers and Elliot…but the darkness in him was not of him. It couldn't be. Something in him had changed and she would determine whether or not the damage was irreparable before deciding whether or not to cast him from Albion or allow him to stay.

"No," she stated firmly.

He did not seem at all surprised at her response. "You are indeed kind, Princess. I pray to the Light you do not lose it in the hardships to come."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He'd broached too many sensitive topics and outstayed his welcome. "Are we through?"

Dara stood. "I suppose so. Until we meet again, Princess." He nodded to her civilly and stood, backing away from her and retreating from the dais.

She watched him as he turned his back to her, determined to see the trick he used to disappear as readily as he did. He was silent and the mist lapped around his knees, but it was not enough to obscure the broad shoulders or the tall stature. This assassin, this 'Dara', was a strange creature, to be sure. But she was not entirely certain whether or not he was benevolent, maleficent, or benign.

"He's dead then, is he?" It was Crevan's voice.

Keturah glanced away toward the healer for half a moment, forgetting her focus on the retreating assassin. When she turned to look again, Dara's figure had vanished.

"Yes," she murmured, rising from her place on the ground. She was more than a little miffed at Crevan's interruption. "Come, we've business to attend to."

Two full weeks had passed since his heart-to-heart with the Princess and he'd kept away from the lair of the Revolutionaries. In that time, he composed a letter to Kalin explaining the occurrences in Albion to date: the location of Neygine's people, the Princess's location and actions thus far as well as his thoughts and plans for the future. Major Swift was being dispatched to the palace to attempt to speak to the old guard and gather recruits for the young woman's cause. Crevan had been sent with him to plant the bug in the Major's ear that allies might be found in Aurora. The letter had been sent back to his sister with Niyol on a boat. Dara and the others of his order, Aindrias, Lugh, and Midir, remained in Albion yet and were helping him begin the preparations for freeing Neygine's tribe.

The plan had been laid out carefully and each of the men had their roles. They'd discussed their tasks in a detailed manner, memorized each step and the timing needed to complete such a feat. There had been a map, check points, safety areas, guard patrols followed, learned, and memorized from the tracking on the map. Everything had been planned out so thoroughly…until little Miss Page had to muddle in his plans.

Theresa would have scolded him. He hadn't made use of the Sight enough, hadn't thought ahead far enough. He'd been too focused on keeping the Darkness at bay just a little longer and had grown lazy and content in his baby-sitting duty of the Princess. Now this had happened: a party. To infiltrate Reaver's house and rescue her lost revolutionaries. How completely idiotic and short-sighted the little Bowerstone Resistance woman was.

"Page," Dara murmured, slipping from the rafters and confronting the revolutionary leader in her private chambers. He'd had to sneak past the guards, one of them being Benjamin Finn.

She shrieked, clutching herself and trying to preserve her decency. "Auroran! Have you no shame?"

He half-smirked at that. He hadn't meant to stumble in on her naked but he couldn't exactly say that he was sorry for it. He'd always found Page particularly attractive. "Come now, Page. I've seen everything there is to see."

She scoffed, but he did not miss the smile that curled her lip. "Don't remind me. Worst bedding I've ever had."

"Really? That's not what I recall when you were clinging to me and moaning my name so loudly the folk of Industrial could hear it over the roars of the factories," he countered, grinning fully under the cowl.

She laughed, unable to discredit his recollection, and turned her back to him, continuing to get dressed. "You must have come here for a reason, Dara," she prompted, ever one to get down to business.

"The party," he began.

Page turned to him with a devilish grin. "Isn't it a wonderful idea?"

"To the contrary," he murmured, his voice low and grave. "It is a terrible idea."

"Hm, and why is that?" She inquired, though it was clear from her tone that she did not truly care for an answer.

Dara's shoulders tightened in controlled anger. She had gotten far too comfortable being in charge, far too protective of her people. She did not understand the resource she was risking to save a paltry few survivors. She hadn't a plan in place, hadn't the knowledge of what she was getting in to. She was simply content to accept Reaver as a stupid tycoon. She was too ready to believe she knew everything. And she was all too unwilling to admit that she hadn't a clue.

"To begin with, you haven't a plan-"

"I don't need a plan," she stated simply. "I've a Hero on my side. Have you met her? Not half-bad for being Logan's little sister."

"A Hero guarantees you nothing," Dara pressed. "I've business at Reaver's mansion. It would not be difficult to extract your men while-"

"No." Page stated plainly, hand on her hip. "They're my men and my responsibility."

"So send your lackey to do it," Dara sneered, making a gesture toward himself.

"No. I will see to it personally. I got them in there, I'll get them out. Here, tighten this corset for me."

He grunted, but did as was requested, tugging the strings forcefully and not truly giving a damn whether the garment was comfortable or not. He needed her to listen. "If you insist on going, leave the Princess. I'll not let her die for your stupid pride."

"Pride?" she snarled, whirling on him. "How are my actions different than yours would be in my position? If your Wraiths were trapped in Reaver's mansion and subject to torture and the possibility of revealing treasonous information, would you not charge headlong in after them?"

"If my Wraiths were stupid enough to get caught, then they deserve whatever fate Reaver has in store for them," he answered levelly. "They're also disciplined enough to keep silent under torture."

"You're an assassin, Dara. I suppose I expect little else from you," Page muttered, tugging her dress on over her head. "Get out. I appreciate your concern, but I have things under control. The Princess and I will be perfectly fine."

Dara could only glower at her beneath his hood, fuming as she dabbled the make-up onto her face with a little too much care. This was stupid. She wanted a grand demonstration, a grand exhibition that the people of Bowerstone would gossip and chat about under their breath. The plan wasn't smart, but it would be remembered if all went without a hitch.

"How do I look?" Page inquired, twirling around in her ball-gown, showing ample cleavage and a stunning neck-line.

"I'd watch the number of chocolates you eat. The corset only does so much for you," he said sardonically and turned from her.

"What?" She demanded, whirling toward him as he jumped and caught hold of one of the cross-beams of pipes and electric lines that formed the rafters.

He tugged himself up and peered down at her. "You heard me," he said and left, slipping along the pipes and away from her. He made his way toward the entrance of the sewers, cautious to keep quiet and not alert anyone to his presence. Fleetingly, he saw the Princess bending over the map-table and gesturing between locations, communicating to Walter some tactical plan or another. The Veil had been kind enough to reveal the path the battle would take once little Keturah led the revolution to her brother's doorstep.

"Any luck?" inquired Crevan and Dara slid down to ground level.

"She wouldn't listen," he lamented rather bitterly.

Crevan, to Dara's surprise, let out a rather hearty laugh, his broad grin twisting his tattoo and making him look eerily like a snide fox. "Of course not! You've no value to her save that hog's intestine between your legs."

"Yes. My curse, I suppose, for lying with a women so repressed as she," he spat.

"Can't have been all bad," mused Crevan snidely. "It made your visits here much more enjoyable."

Dara's retort was interrupted by the arrival of Major Swift. "As fascinating as your adventures with the fairer sex are, General, I rather like the image of your order I've set up in my imagination."

The Wraiths possessed no formal ranks, much unlike the uniformed service of Albion. The title of 'General' had been bestowed upon Dara by Major Swift half as a jest and half seriousness. The poor man didn't know how to address people if they had no title. He was far too mannerly to ever attempt addressing someone by their first name alone.

"And what image is that?" Crevan inquired, standing to attention now that his old friend was present.

"I'd always imagined you lot to be monks, of sorts. Deadly monks who partook of no pleasures of the flesh," Swift replied, fussing with his rather impressive mustache.

Crevan and Dara both threw their heads back and guffawed at the concept. No pleasures of the flesh? Hardly. They were both men and both had desires that they fulfilled one way or another. Dara more so than Crevan. The leader of the Wraiths was really quite the charmer, if he was in the right state of mind. It had been long, hard years of denial that had helped in curb the voracious appetite.

"You also don't laugh," Swift defended his opinion sternly. "Crevan, old friend! Shall we be on our way?"

The healer nodded and glanced to Dara, his gaze suddenly becoming serious. The two had discussed the high probability that either Crevan, Swift, or both would be killed on this little expedition. Dara had equipped the older man with what knowledge he'd been able to glimpse from scrying. But even so far away from Aurora, the Darkness's voice haunted his mind and its claws tore at his eyes while he pressed through visions and glimpses of what will and what might be.

"Lead on, Swift," Crevan said, gesturing that the Major should take the lead. He drew up his cowl and hood and followed silently behind.

The entire venture was, with many thanks to Page, completely chaotic. Dara and his men chose to enact their plan hurriedly while the Page aided the Princess in getting dressed for the party. It was easy enough for the men to skulk into Reaver's mansion while the loudest parts of the festivities were occurring around them. Dara tried not to think of the ramifications of the Princess and Page arriving late to the party and seeming even more suspicious than they already did. Of course, his inability to concentrate was in no part aided by the added presence of Benjamin Finn. The Sight had warned him of the Captain's volatile behavior…particularly in regards to Major Swift's safety.

"By the Light!" Dara hissed as Ben once again stumbled over an object in the dark and loudly fell and grunted in the muck of the tunnel system. "You are about as subtle as a blunderbuss!"

"This isn't exactly my specialty, y'know," Ben muttered as they continued. "All this cloak and dagger sneaking about isn't really how I was taught to go at an enemy. Why don't you fight like real men and just confront Reaver head on? This whole 'secret assassin' bit's a load of bollocks."

"With four men and one idiot, I think our chances of confronting Reaver and surviving are slim to none," Midir laughed from behind Ben.

"Hardy-har-har," Ben retorted. "The Princess and Page are going at it alone." He sighed and added wistfully, "Pity I couldn't go with them, really."

"Their being alone is all the more reason for us to hurry and keep quiet," Dara snarled, continuing to press forward.

Upon reaching the dungeons, the original plan was set into motion with Aindrias, Midir, and Lugh stationing checkpoints and removing any problematic guards who happened to trapeze their way. Ben was left on watch (though the task was truly redundant and unnecessary with the other men performing their duties – kept him out of trouble well enough, though) while Dara picked the lock to the holding cell of Neygine's tribe.

Most of the women were asleep. Their clothing was tattered and filthy and their blades were bloody, no doubt from defending themselves, but overall they seemed none the worse for wear.

"Time to wake up, ladies," Dara murmured, shaking the nearest one gently by the shoulder.

Her face was covered with a mask similar to Neygine's and made her expression unreadable. He could not see her eyes as she stirred, but he was not surprised by her reaction: she snarled, hastily reaching for her knife and haphazardly slashing at him. Dara drew Tantalize and deftly blocked her attacks for as long as it took her to recognize him.

"You!" She hissed, her assault ceasing and successfully waking the others. "What are you doing here?"

"Neygine sent me," he provided. It was all the explanation they needed. "My men have secured a path for a safe escape. Follow their lead and you will be on a boat to Aurora by nightfall."

"We are ten," the woman said, "but five or so have been taken by Reaver." She chuckled mirthlessly. "That father of yours is a cruel man, cur."

Dara did not react. "Go with the Wraiths. I will do what I can to secure the rest of them."

"I will not follow orders from one such as you," spat one of the women.

Dara glowered at her. "In your predicament, have you more feasible choice? It matters not to me whether you go or stay. You're welcome to be a part of Reaver's little games, if that proposition suits you better." He paused in his callous berating of the woman and glanced over her shoulder to the meeker members of the group. "Any takers to that end?"

It was a challenge to them. Each looked to the other through the lenses of her mask. None of the women spoke.

"Good!" he said, clapping his hands together jovially. "Now, then, out of the cell, down the hall, past the blond Captain, and out through the tunnels. Go!"

"And now we arrive to the fun part!" Reaver declared grandly, swinging his arms in a wide, all-encompassing arch. This was simply far too delightful! The pretty little rebel leader and poked her masked head into his ball. Oh! This was such a wonderful addition to the party! Her barley tea-colored skin was perfectly complimented by the ball gown, the corset wonderfully accentuating her beauteous bosom. Her wanted posters truly did not do her justice. And she'd even brought a friend! Of course, the other woman was not nearly as voluptuous, well-endowed or proportioned (she was as tall as most of the men) as Page, but she would have the proper plumbing, no doubt. That was really all that mattered.

"Enough of your games, Reaver!" Page bellowed up at him. Oh! He liked her spunk!

"Are you not enjoying yourself?" Reaver pouted.

"No!" She barked.

He tapped his cane on the ground, triggering the set switch beneath the balcony and causing the wheel the spin once more. The contraption clicked to a stop of the icon indicating that the Sand Furies were the next wave of creatures in the little midnight game of theirs. He was honestly surprised that they had gotten so far as this. He had been certain that the wave after wave of foes would be enough to stifle them. Of course, with Page's rough sword arm and her companion's sharp shooting, it had been quite an interesting spectacle. And he so enjoyed toying with Logan's foes before he disposed of them.

"Perhaps you'll enjoy this one more. Sand Furies! This will be your opportunity to act as a foreign dignitary for Albion, my dear Page."

He glanced to the grate on the other side of the pit as it clacked open and smirked down at the two women. They could move to the next area and entertain him, or they could stay. The creatures would find them regardless. He'd made sure to promise the Sand Furies their freedom if they slew the two women. Gullible, delightful creatures those Sand Furies were. His dealings with them before had been nothing but pleasant…they certainly were interesting bed partners. What with the lack of male Sand Furies, the poor things almost didn't know how to resist.

"Don't you know who this is?" Demanded Page. "This is Logan's sister! Princess Keturah!"

Reaver's eyes flashed at that. Logan's sister, eh? Perhaps Sparrow's blood had continued the Hero lineage in her. But, she hadn't used magic… He had indeed seen the red wisps of color that shone on her skin here and there, but had believed them to be tattoos or costume make-up. But now…could they be Will lines, perhaps? If she did indeed have magic, she possessed Hero's blood. If she possessed that, she might be capable of remedying his little longevity problem.

"Ah! Well, I'll see to it that the maiming is kept to a minimum, then," he nodded amiably. "Come now, move along! Next chamber please. Chop-chop!"

The women hissed among themselves for a while before Keturah snarled something and marched toward the opening. Reaver chuckled. Just like her brother, just like Sparrow: brazen, brutish, brave to the point of being stupid. But he could not help but be impressed. If she possessed Hero's blood, he would claim her as his own, addle her wits a bit, and return her to her brother once he'd satiated his own needs. If not, he could not very well justify laying a hand on her. She was of mediocre appearance, at best; far too tall and sparsely endowed with feminine assets for his taste.

Reaver moved into the next chamber and stood to watch the carnage. The princess had drawn her rifle and Page began to edge forward hesitantly with her sword drawn. From the shadows, he heard the clicks and hisses that the Furies used as their own language to direct and execute attacks. It was what had given them away in the sands of Aurora, what had led so many of them to be trapped. He had a good number of them…plenty to keep Page and the Princess distracted. With any luck, they'd coax some magic from the girl, if she had any to offer.

Sparrow's daughter, he mused, peering out assessing from his dark frock of hair. She certainly carries herself better than her brother, faces impossible odds handily, and is ever the stickler for proper decisions. Surely she has Hero's blood. She must.

One of the Furies lunged with a screech, causing a trill of pleasure to course up Reaver's spine and tickle the base of his skull. Page parried, if only just, and threw the Sand Fury back with a grunt.

A ring of Furies advanced on the two women, forcing them back to back, the princess' rifle flickering from target to target while Page hissed under her breath, her arm taught with a prepared strike. The Auroran strangers hummed and clicked around the revolutionaries and Reaver's groin ached with the expectation of the gore that was to occur. These Sand Furies were quick, so quick as to be able to swat bullets away as though they were nothing more than an annoying fly. These women could not possibly hope to counter them…at least not after the third wave.

A gunshot rang through the pit, though it was not from the direction Reaver had expected. Indeed, the princess and Page peered around, searching for the sound of the shot. Then, suddenly, a blond, well-built man languidly strolled from the shadows the Sand Furies had emerged from, the butt of his rifle pressed against his shoulder and is aim at one of the closes of the creatures.

"Not too late for the party, am I?" He inquired.

"Ben-!" Page began to snarl.

Reaver interrupted. This was simply too charming! "Of course not, young man! I question your methods in entering the pit, but no matter! The lovely Sand Furies were about to be greeted by the princess and the lovely rebel leader. I'm sure a male presence would be most welcome!"

Ben strolled leisurely into the center of the pit and, to Reaver's utter amazement, none of the Furies attacked. They simply stood, taught, prepared to attack, but unmoving. Ben drew the cutlass from the scabbard on his back, his grin shining brightly in the half-light of the chamber. His relaxed form belied the circumstances and Reaver spiraled down further and further into confusion. The Sand Furies held their ring and did not attack. The princess, Page, and Ben did not move. He was growing bored…as were the Balverines he had dressed as nobles.

"As entertaining as this all has been," sneered Reaver, "The hour grows late and my guests grow tired and hungry. If you will not leave them carcasses to feed from, I shall allow them the pleasure of creating their own corpses."

It was the command they had been waiting for. Each of them had been so terribly restrained under the spell and in the nobles' clothing. The smell of blood all battle long had taunted them, and he had enjoyed their writhing. But the games were over and it was time to end this little charade. If he could have no fun with the Sand Furies, the Balverines would assure some blood and gore, at least. "The princess is to remain untouched," he breathed.