A/N:Here's chapter three! I know the beginning of this story might be a little slow so far, since I have to introduce so many different characters (and I'm sorry about that and am trying my best to make it interesting despite that), but I really hope that it will eventually turn into story that's well worth the wait of the slower start. After this chapter, there will only be one more of character introductions and so I hope it'll start picking up into the main plot. Thanks for reading and your support. Anyway, here's Horace.

TrustTheCloak: Thank you. I really like David too, and I'm really glad you think I got him right—I was a little worried about it. He's a little tricky because he doesn't get all that much screen-time in the books (which is sad). If I had to give a chapter estimate I would probably say somewhere in the 20's range. It really depends on how long it will take to write all the things/scenes in my outline, so that number might change as I continue to write. Thanks so much for the review!

jaymzNshed: Poor Will indeed, stuck doing something he never wanted. That's never fun. Horace will be in this chapter and I promise I'll get to Gilan as soon as I can. Thank you so much for the review!

Drogonslover98: Things will definitely get better, and occasionally sometimes worse, as things go on and characters run into each other XD Thanks for the review! It made my day!

WisperRanger26: Awww thanks :3 I'm glad you like it so far. I agree, splendid is indeed a splendid word XD Thanks so much for the review and your kind words. I really appreciate it!

Chapter 3: Awry Part III

~x~X~x~

(A Few Weeks Previous)

~x~X~x~

They had cornered him again–this time behind the armory. Fifteen-year-old Horace glanced up almost despairingly at the trio of second-year cadets that had him surrounded—the same cadets who had been making his life a living hell for a year now. It seemed that, whenever he managed to find some secluded place to escape their attention, they always seemed to track him down eventually.

"What are you doing here?" Josh, the leader of the three sneered, "Trying to hide from everybody?"

"If my academic scores were as bad as his, I'd hide too," Gabe, the tallest of the three, added.

"You're a disgrace," Talo, the third one, said, looking directly at Horace. "You make all of us look bad, look weak."

Horace flinched. He knew that they were right. He'd been having trouble all year trying to keep up with the academic portion of classes. The barbs hurt but, amidst that pain, he could not quite snub a building flash of anger. It was mostly those three's fault that he was so behind in his classes. Their constant brutish attention was part of the reason he couldn't turn in his papers on time and had trouble focusing in class. Then the anger died. If he was any sort of real knight he would be able to take it and deal with it easily. This sort of attention from the elder apprentices was part of the toughening part of Battleschool after all—or so Horace thought. As far as he knew, it was normal practice, tradition even, for the older cadets to treat the younger ones this way.

Horace had known nothing about Battleschool before he'd come. He'd only had the very vaguest of notions about knighthood, honor, and the oaths and codes of chivalry. He'd had a mental image in his mind of glittering armor-clad knights doing honorable combat while lesser folk watched in amazed admiration. He'd thought of Battleschool as a place for glamour and adventure; people looked up to and respected knights. Consequently, he hadn't expected the reality—hard physical conditioning and lessons—being so drastically different from his notion… and so he also had no idea that Josh, Gabe and Talo's actions, their systematic bullying, was actually frowned upon by the Battlemaster and other knights.

Now, however, Horace found himself backing as the three got closer to him, crowding into his personal space.

"I think it's high time that somebody taught you a lesson about not making your fellow cadets look incompetent," Josh said. "You're weak and it's making all the rest of us weaker too. Get on your hands and toes!" he commanded, "Twenty pushups."

Horace hesitated only for a moment before getting down into push up position and then beginning the exercise. He had made it to ten when somebody, Josh probably, put his boot heavily on Horace's back, weighing him down. After a few more pushups with all that added extra weight, try as he might, Horace no longer had the strength to rise up for the next one and fell flat on his stomach, utterly exhausted.

"Pathetic," Josh snarled and kicked Horace's prone form in the ribs. Horace gasped and tried to curl in on himself but not before Gabe's kick glanced off his nose. He felt a small amount of blood beginning to drip down his face and his eyes filled with involuntary tears from the blow.

"Crying again, baby?" Talo asked. "Why don't you leave and cry to mummy? Oh, that's right, you don't have one do you?"

That was true as well. Horace was an orphan. His father had died during the early years of the war and his mother had died in childbirth. For a while, he had lived in the Ward that Baron Arald had created at Redmont. But when Redmont had fallen to Morgarath, and everyone had been forced to evacuate, Baron Arald had worked hard to find him and the other Wards a home. Horace had eventually been sent to live at Drayden Castle under Baron Tyler. Baron Tyler was a friend of Baron Arald's and he had also created a Ward in his castle for the children of men and women in his service who had died in the line of duty.

The children were raised in the castle by matrons, taught how to read and write and then offered the chance to apply to accepted as an apprentice to any of the castle's crafts masters—and that included the Battleschool. It had been Horace's dream, ever since he was a child, to join the ranks of the Knights of Araluen; so he'd immediately gravitated to the Battleschool. He was big for his age as well as athletic, all qualifications that had allowed him to be instantly accepted. That day had been one of the brightest in his memory… but it hadn't lasted long…

Because he'd grown up in the Ward, it had kept him from making friends already with the other cadets prior to their apprenticeship. That had made him a bit of an oddity; and the fact that he was an orphan and had been raised in the Ward only compounded the fact. It all worked together to make him rather a target. No sooner than a few weeks after he'd started his training, he'd been sought out by the school's resident bullies.

All year he'd put up with their relentless attacks, their slights, their forcing him into performing extra physical exercises. And because Josh's band had singled him out for their attention, none of the other cadets had dared to try and befriend him—for fear of becoming targets themselves. Horace had just endured it, dealing with the pain and loneliness as all his bright dreams for knighthood and honor faded steadily into a far more ugly reality.

He grit his teeth as Talo delivered another crushing kick to his prone form and tried to scoot back out of reach, rolling and then rising to his feet. His three tormentors looked furious at his sudden display of defiance. In fact, they probably would have moved instantly to make him pay for it, had they not been interrupted by the sound of footfalls heading towards them. They all froze and turned towards the sound in time to one of the senior knights.

The knight's eyes swept over them before landing on Horace. He frowned deeply as he saw Horace's bloody nose, assuming that he'd just caught these four brawling for the fun of it behind the armory and away from watching eyes. Under normal circumstances, he probably would have called them out for it—dealt out some quick punishment for their lack of discipline. But he had more urgent matters on his mind at the moment.

"You," he pointed to Horace, "Cadet Horace Altman, the Battlemaster has requested your presence."

Horace cringed inwardly, feeling a knot beginning to grow in his stomach. This was the week when all the Battleschool cadets were assessed. One by one they would be called to the Battlemaster and the other senior knights in order to have their performance over the year reviewed—and to have it decided whether or not they were fit to proceed into the next year of their training. Or, in the case of the fifth year cadets, whether or not they were fit to be knighted.

Horace had been dreading his turn all week. It was true that Battleschool was not what he'd expected, true that he grew more disillusioned with it every day, true that by now he fairly hated the place… but it was also true that he still desperately wanted to be a knight… and that he had absolutely nowhere else to go. He clenched his fists as he moved past Josh, Gabe, and Talo to follow after the senior knight.

A few minutes later found him standing at attention before the Battlemaster and his senior knights. They had asked him a few questions, had spent some time in discussion, and now the Battlemaster stepped forwards, clearing his throat before he spoke. Horace felt his heart rate accelerate and he swallowed nervously, wiping his sweaty palms on his surcoat.

"Your combat scores were within acceptable margins," the Battlemaster began, "but I'm afraid I cannot say the same for your academic scores. What's more, you've shown a consistent penchant for arriving late to class, handing in late and sloppily finished assignments, for taking poor care of your kit, weapons, and uniform."

It also appeared to the Battlemaster that the boy had a predilection towards fighting and a general inability to make friends or work in a team. He sometimes sported bruises, his attitude often left something to be desired, and all the other students tended to keep their distance from him. But he did not say that last aloud.

"I and the other instructors have taken all these factors into account and have come to the regrettable decision that you are not fit to continue on."

Horace, for his part, could only stand there in numbed shock. He'd been half expecting this, true, but he had been hoping against hope that it wouldn't happen. That was not even to mention the fact that hearing the words as irrevocable and final was enormously different than just imagining and dreading to hear them.

He was going to be dropped from Battleschool. He had failed. The hurt of that knowledge was a bitter one, but it didn't last long on its own. A sudden fear vied for a place with the pain. What would he do now? He had nowhere else to go. He directed his now wide, almost despairing eyes towards the Battlemaster.

He tried to speak, but nothing came of the effort. He swallowed, licked his dry lips and tried again, "Sir—"

But the Battlemater raised a hand to cut him short. "Our decision is final," he said flatly, taking away any chance for Horace to try and beg, or promise better, in exchange for clemency. Then he relented a little as he took in the boy's distressed expression and the tears that he was obviously trying desperately to hold back. "I and the senior knights have discussed your unique situation," he said more gently. "Normally we would simply send a dropped cadet home to their family. But since that is not an option with you, we have spoken with the Baron and have decided to give you some supplies and money. We hope you will put both to good use as a means to find yourself employment elsewhere and eventually build a life for yourself."

Perhaps the offer was meant to be merciful and kind but, at the moment, Horace could not register it. All he knew was that this was it for him. He'd just lost everything, including his dreams.

~x~X~x~

Present Day

~x~X~x~

The small settlement looked like many others he had passed through over the course of the past couple of weeks. It was comprised mostly of daub and waddle houses with thatched roofs. People were milling around, going about their daily tasks. A few of them sent curious and sometimes even wary glances his way.

In small villages like this, everyone tended to know everyone else so strangers were often treated with some suspicion—especially since the war. They viewed him with slight suspicion, yes, but no outright distrust or hostility. Travelers were not uncommon, despite the state of the kingdom. That fact was evidenced by the combination tavern and inn that he could see nearer the end of the street.

Even as Horace thought it, he could smell the food cooking there. It made his mouth water; he was so very hungry. And the thought of sleeping in a proper bed made all the aches and travel-sore muscles in his body seem all the more noticeable. He felt absently at the now pitifully thin purse at his waist. There was not enough coin in there to buy him a meal, let alone a bed.

He gritted his teeth as he drew level with the building, trying hard not to think of the hot food inside. But the ache in his stomach made that nearly impossibly hard. As he went past, two men walked out. The scent of the food wafted out all the stronger through the open doors, along with the sounds of lively conversation and laughter of the diners and drinkers within—friends and family sharing in each other's company. That made a different sort of hollow feeling take root in his stomach and he doubled his pace. The feeling of being alone despite being surrounded by people wasn't a new sensation to him. He'd lived with that and dealt with it before. As he'd done many times over the past year, he shoved the feeling roughly aside…. Unfortunately, shoving the hungry feeling aside wasn't quite as easy.

He stopped short then, his mind working. A tavern and inn was usually the hub of a town…. He fingered the scant purse at his side once more as he turned back towards the building, debating with himself. He backtracked, and then hesitated before the heavy wooden door for a moment. Finally coming to a decision, he straightened and entered.

There was a momentary hush in conversation as he made it inside and the people looked to see who the newcomer was. A few of them turned to assess him as he stood highlighted by the open door, blinking as he tried to adjust his sight to the dim interior of the building. They saw a youth dressed in fairly simple travel-stained clothes. At his hip, he carried a simple sword in a rather tattered sheath. That was nothing out of the ordinary; most people who traveled did so armed. The roads hadn't been safe since the start of the war fifteen years ago. And especially not since this fief, once peacefully settled in the middle of the kingdom, had become a border fief.

Horace nodded once at the people who looked at him and then continued on his way, keeping his posture straight and ready, trying to give off the impression that he was neither a threat nor a potential target. It seemed to work. The underlying feeling of tension that had grown when he'd first entered seemed to abate fairly quickly after that and the people when back to their drinks and food. Horace let out a soft sigh of relief before approaching the counter that ran along one end of the room.

"Can I help you?" The question was asked by a tall large-boned woman who stood behind the counter. Horace guessed that she was the innkeeper and tavern owner. She didn't wait for him to answer and continued speaking, "There are lamb-shanks, gravy, and steamed vegetables today," she told him, assuming that he'd come for the food: he looked a little young to have come for a drink.

Horace nodded before asking, "How much?"

"Five coppers," she said cheerfully.

Horace shifted uncomfortably and then licked his lips before daring to venture, "Is there anything that I could get for one copper?"

She frowned a little at that and, for a moment, Horace thought he caught a look of sympathy come into the woman's eye. That was new. Usually, people just got frosty with him or asked him to leave when he didn't have enough coin. She seemed to think for a moment before she nodded, stepping back into the kitchen and coming out with a large warm bread roll that she'd generously buttered and a small cup of coffee.

He nodded gratefully at her and passed over his single copper. He'd hardly eaten anything in a week and the roll and coffee tasted absolutely delicious… but far too short-lived. It was all gone within a matter of moments. He stared sadly at the empty wooden plate for a moment, his stomach still growling with hunger before he caught sight of the innkeeper returning from delivering food to another table. He took a breath in order to get up the nerve he needed to ask the question he'd come in to ask in the first place. After all, the woman had seemed kinder than he'd expected.

"Excuse me," he ventured.

She stopped and smiled a question at him and he took that as permission to continue, "Do you know if there are any jobs that—"

She was already shaking her head before he was finished.

"You'll not find much by way of jobs here. Spring planting's been over for a couple of days now, and John, the blacksmith, found himself an apprentice just last week. Nobody else is short of hands here. Sorry," she added, her tone a touch apologetic.

He nodded despondently. That was usually the way of it; in these little hamlets, there were few job positions open—especially when it was not planting and harvest season. Also, he'd found that, often, the few job positions that were open were ones that he couldn't take because he lacked skills in those areas. He knew nothing about milling, smithing, carpentry… or even farming, if he was honest with himself.

Again he found himself with the prospect of having no way to earn coin—and so no way to buy the food and supplies that he so desperately needed.

When he'd first left Drayden Castle and the Battleschool three weeks ago, he'd had little idea of where to go or what to do. He'd still been reeling over being dropped and losing everything. Consequently, he had just picked a direction at random and had started walking. And, for a long time after that, that was all he could think to do. He had no family or friends to go to, no idea what to do with himself.

It wasn't long after that that his meager supplies had started running low and he began to realize that he was going to have to find some way of making money if he wanted to survive. By the time he had pulled himself out of the sense of shock and pain enough to think clearly, he found that he'd wandered very far to the south where there was not much except for little outlying hamlets: none of which would have jobs for skills that he possessed.

He knew how to read and write, how to ride a horse, and, though he'd only been training for a year, he was fairly decent with the sword he carried and knew how to use polearm weapons as well as how to joust… all of which were skills that were not exactly in high demand out in the rural towns. He had a vague idea now that, instead of traveling southward, he probably should have tried to travel to the next fiefs over. But, by the time he'd realized that, he already lacked supplies and coin enough to backtrack and travel to one of the adjoining fiefs.

And now it seemed that he was out of luck again. Then he frowned as a thought occurred to him: even if he could make to another fief, he didn't have the faintest idea how he might find employment—or if anyone would even accept him. Considering how things had gone for him so far, he rather doubted it.

Nevertheless, he politely thanked the innkeeper and rose to take his leave. It was still fairly early in the day yet, so he continued on down the road he'd been traveling on already. It snaked through the farmland and then disappeared into the woods.

He really didn't know what else he could do besides move on towards the next town. He headed down the path as it wound its way through the thick and shadowed woodlands and around thick areas of scrub and brush. The air was still and humid under the trees, smelling of leaf mold and moist earth. The clusters of trees he passed seemed to blend into one another and he kept his head down, focusing mostly on the path he followed. He passed one other solitary traveler, but neither he nor the other seemed inclined to stop and speak or even acknowledge each other's presence more than glancing warily at each other—a sign of the harsh times they lived in, Horace supposed idly.

Horace stopped for a break a few times, finding some exposed roots, large rocks, or tree stumps to sit on. The third time he did so, he began to have the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him. He'd gradually been developing that skill over his past year of trying to dodge the bullies at the Battleschool. He had gotten pretty adept at it—and had never been wrong about it before. He frowned, opening his eyes and looking down the path in both directions, expecting to see another traveler. But there was nothing.

That fact was almost more unsettling than seeing an unfriendly person might have been. He got quickly to his feet, his hand reaching for the hilt of his simple sword. He glanced all around himself, at the trees, brush, and shadows... but saw nothing. Valiantly trying to suppress a shudder, he walked on, quickening his pace. He didn't take another break for several hours.

By the end of the day, the nourishing effects of the roll he'd eaten were all but gone and his stomach growled hungrily. He really needed to find some way to get food. He wished then that he had a bow or sling or some such weapon that he could use to hunt, or that he knew how to set snares or traps. Then he realized he might as well wish for food to drop down out of the sky.

"I wish," he muttered to himself. His stomach growled again as if in agreement. "Oh shut up," he admonished his stomach, "it isn't going to happen."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he caught sight of a man and his pregnant wife sitting around a fire in a clearing ahead of him. He could see a handcart pulled off to the side of the road and guessed that they also were travelers. He could also see a few small bags of provisions near the man. They were obviously getting ready to sit down to supper. Horace's stomach growled again, for perhaps the millionth time that day. His ever-growing hunger suddenly made him desperate and brave enough to beat down his pride a little and try something he wouldn't have dared a couple of days ago.

He altered direction and began cutting at an angle towards the couple. The man saw him and rose to his feet. He was roughly dressed and had the looks of a farmer or common laborer. However, in his hands, he carried a quarterstaff. He held it up threateningly as Horace approached. Horace tried to ease the man's worry by holding his hands to the side, away from his sword and offering him and his wife what he hoped looked like a pleasant and friendly smile.

"Good past noon," Horace began quickly, "I don't mean any harm; I was just wondering if you might have any food to spare. I don't have any coin to pay you, but I could do something for you instead, like fetch you firewood for the night or—"

"No," the man said quickly, cutting him short, "we've barely enough for ourselves as it is without having to share it with every pathetic beggar kid that passes down the road. Get on your way!"

The cold refusal stung. He felt the beginnings of an angry flush spreading across his face at the man's derisory tone and the insults that laced his words: pathetic, beggar, kid. He had been rubbed raw over the course of the year by insults like that. What made it hurt all the worse was that he knew that they were all true… and he hated that they were.

His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the man. He carried a quarterstaff true, but Horace could tell by the clumsy way the man held the weapon that he wasn't very skilled or familiar with it. He realized that he could probably easily take this man in a duel… and then take the food too. For a moment the idea took hold, tempted him. He felt his hand straying towards the hilt of his sword.

Then his angry gaze landed on the man's pregnant wife. She was standing nervously to the side, her eyes wide with fear. He looked back to the bedraggled man and felt the anger die as he realized that they probably needed the food just as much as he did. As the anger died, it began to steadily be replaced with an uncomfortable feeling of shame and guilt that he had even had the thought to rob them in the first place. What had he been thinking? It went against everything he believed in, against the knight's code of chivalry that he had sworn to follow. For a moment it scared him badly that he had come so dangerously close to compromising himself, his principles—and all for a few stupid scraps of food. He moved his hand away from his sword and took several backward steps.

"Forget I asked," he said quickly, "I'm sorry I bothered you."

With that, he turned away and moved quickly down the road again, leaving the man and his wife behind him. After he had made it past a bend in the road, he thought he again felt the sensation of someone's eyes on him. He turned quickly around, expecting to perhaps see that the man had followed him—just to make sure he was really leaving. But, for the second time that day, there was nothing, nobody there. There was just the fading light of early evening, the trees, brush, shadows and the sound of a few birds as they settled in for the night. He shuddered again, but this time he lacked the strength and energy to quicken his pace.

~x~X~x~

"I think you should turn him loose," Halt said, stepping out of the shadows in the dimly lit tavern. He had an arrow on the string of his longbow, aimed unwaveringly at the bandit's leader.

"And why should we do tha—" The lead bandit started to ask sneeringly, but before he'd even finished speaking and arrow had gone through his knife hand, forcing him to drop it. Only milliseconds later, another went straight through one of his calves. He dropped to the ground, yelling in agony. Halt was just as quick with the next two bandits.

A man who had been watching all these proceedings had moved swiftly to free the captured knight as soon as Halt loosed his arrows. The young man pulled free of the post and charged the last remaining bandit, bowling him over entirely with a swift and deadly punch to his jaw. The man crumpled senseless to the floor and the knight bend to pick up his sword.

"That's why," Halt said quietly in belated answer to the bandit leader's question.

Halt looked up to see that the entire tavern, including the young knight, were looking at him in something akin to fearful amazement over his speed and deadly accuracy—but all Halt could do was sigh inwardly. Now he really would have to move on from this hamlet. He couldn't very well stay after making a scene like that. It drew far too much attention—and not attention of the profitable kind. Having come to that conclusion, he saw no reason to put it off any longer. He turned to leave when he was stopped by the young knight.

"Wait Sira," he called, making his way over, "thank you for what you did."

Halt managed a nod at the young man and tried to continue on his way, but again the knight stopped him.

"Wait, you cannot leave without allowing me the chance to show my gratitude. How can I repay you?"

Halt turned to face him fully then, levelly, "Well then…" he paused, silently asking the knight's name.

The young man understood and provided it, "Guillaume."

"Well then, Guillaume, you want to do something for me?" he asked blankly. When the young knight nodded, he added, "then go out and do something useful with your life instead of wandering into taverns and causing trouble or planning to cause trouble elsewhere. There are plenty of innocents, women, and children that could use protecting—or isn't that a part of the knight's code anymore?"

He half expected the knight to get angry at the scathing tone he'd used, or the implications he'd made, but instead, the knight nodded seriously.

"I can do that," he said.

Halt raised an incredulous eyebrow as he looked Guillaume over and could only find sincerity in his expression. It was almost a ridiculous turn around if it was true…but perhaps near-death experiences and barely escaping torture had a way of changing priorities a little, he thought with a mental shrug.

"If that is how I can repay you then I will. I don't know where I'd be without your help."

"Short a nose," Halt pointed out mildly.

The knight's face flushed, but this time it seemed more a reaction to embarrassment than anger. A rueful smile touched his lips.

"Then I should thank you all the more; I am rather fond of this nose."

"I'm rather fond of this nose." Halt stiffened, an uncomfortable stirring growing in his mind. He had the distinct impression that he had heard those words before. They were so familiar, and so was this situation. He could almost swear that this had happened before. A shudder traveled down his spine as he cast desperately through his memories, trying to find it… and failing. The odd disconnected feeling began to grow until it was unsettling. He felt…wrong. He nodded once at the knight, saying a quick farewell, before turning swiftly towards the door. He needed air, needed sunlight.

He shivered faintly as he stepped outside, despite the fact that it was a fairly warm early evening out. He took a few deep steadying breaths, trying to rid himself of that feeling of déjà vu, the feeling of wrongness. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He glanced at the setting sun and then at the many people making their way down the fairly busy village street before him. But the feeling didn't go away. Worse still, his hands seemed to be trembling slightly. He clenched them to stop it, trying again to use calm and steady breaths. When that failed, he began pacing down the street. He was getting a headache on top of everything.

He silently cursed that red-headed knight for triggering whatever this was. Then he shook his head, confused. He distinctly remembered now that the knight's hair had been brown. Why had he thought his hair had been red? He put a hand to his head, feeling hot and flustered as he made his way down the crowded street. He felt lightheaded.

"Was that really necessary?"

"No. But it was really satisfying."

"I'm rather fond of this nose."

"There's a lot to be fond of."

As he walked he felt his eye being drawn to the oddest things: a woman in a white gown, a tall athletic looking warrior dressed in red, a young boy with unruly brown hair and bright, intelligent, eager eyes. "I just wanted to ask you… what does a Ranger actually do? A youth with a wide cheerful, yet almost mischievous, smile, "Admit it Halt, this time I've got the best of you, and you know how many years I've been trying." A somewhat overweight but burly soldier, a man in a hooded cloak, a youth dressed in white with guileless eyes.

He was finding it hard to catch his breath, and his head was pounding now. An older man smiling as he touched a finger to the side of his nose in a knowing gesture, "I have my sources." Red hair again, "I know how much she means to you." There was a castle with three sides that seemed to glow red in the sun. Red Mountain. There was a battlefield where the enemy was comprised mainly of ghastly animal-like creatures. And he knew their name: wargals. There was a sergeant lying mortally wounded on a field, Halt had promised him something, promised that he would...

Was he going mad, he wondered? He stopped trying to walk then. He tried to re-gather himself, regain his own thought process. He felt almost faint.

In front of him, a woman was selling trinkets. His eye fell upon several leaves shaped cleverly from metal. They were made for decoration, and there were many different types: ash, birch, rowan, elm. But he had eyes only for the oak leaf. His whole life he had felt an odd connection to oak and now he couldn't seem to look away. That shining piece of metal seemed a focal point for his spiraling mind. His headache grew into an almost unbearable level. Black splotches began to assail his vision. His legs felt weak. He saw the ground rising up towards him and knew no more.

A/N: Thanks again for reading! Next week is the last introduction chapter and will focus on Lady Pauline, Alyss, and Crowley. Reviews really give me the motivation to get going and constructive criticism helps me improve, both are very appreciated.

Note: In case anybody wanted to know, Guillaume is pronounced 'Gee' 'ohm' which is not exactly how it looks XD