"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in," the former tactician chuckled.
"Oh ho ho! You know me to be far above the mere affairs of felines, my olf friend," the man laughed with grandiosity, "For I am the Archest of Archers, the grand-"
"Duke Virion of Rosanne," his wife sighed, cutting him off.
"Cherche, my dear, must you always undercut me in that way?" Virion's face fell.
"Only when you get too big for your britches, milord," she smiled in an unsettlingly clinical manner.
"What's taking so long?" grumbled a voice from atop another set of wings.
"Have a little patience, Gerome," his mother demanded from below.
"I'm surprised," Robin admitted, taking the hands of both his former comrades, "you brought the whole gang here, eh?"
"I would do nothing less to aid a fellow man of unparalleled nobility, and-"
"Milord was hoping you could assist his crumbling nation once more. Mercenaries have been pouring out of Lieben into our borders for almost a week now, and we've had no way to resist them," Cherche explained in his stead.
"Another kingdom to defend," Robin sighed to himself, "feels like deja-vu."
"Father, this is perfect," Morgan nodded, "it gives us just the right context to seek an audience with their General Argent."
Robin smiled at his daughter, "Precisely, my dear. Virion, are you amenable to us finding a diplomatic solution?"
"If you can accomplish it, I would welcome anything that removes those scoundrels from our borders," the duke of Rosanne sank in worry.
"It won't be any good," sighed Gerome, nearing the ground, "Lieben wants war. It's all they've ever wanted out of Rosanne."
The former tactician shook his head, "You weren't around to see the Plegian campaign; no nation wants war. Kings, queens, and nobles want wars, but nations do not."
"Your rationale is as aged and defunct as you, old man," grunted the young man, taking the reins of his wyvern and jumping back up to the sky.
"You'll have to forgive him," Cherche declared, watching her son take to the air, "He has a hard time accepting things that conflict with his views. It comes from a nettling mother and an overconfident father, I'm afraid."
"I'm all too familiar with stubborn children," he laughed to himself. Morgan glanced disapprovingly at him, and Sylvia stifled a giggle. "All right, then," the former tactician inhaled, "I'd be happy to lead a diplomatic mission to try to talk down General Argent."
"I knew I could count on you, Robin, my boy," Virion's eyes glowed, "Huzzah!"
"Please stop saying that," his wife took Minerva's reins, "Hop on, everyone."
"Can Minerva really hold all of us?" Robin glanced at the wyvern carefully. It seemed to wink at him.
"Can she?" Cherche giggled, "She considers it a matter of personal pride. Now, get the lead out."
Robin shrugged and beckoned his small troupe join him on the back of the mighty onyx-colored beast. Inigo was the last to board, staring at the back of the wyvern's head with trepidation until he was secured behind the back of his betrothed. She giggled at him and patted his back, "You'll be fine." With a final lash from Cherche, Minerva began to climb, and the springlike winds of Lieben braced the faces of her passengers as she sped toward Lieben Keep.
[...]
"My lord," the young man bowed, the his sword glancing off the floor as he knelt, prompting an embarrassed breath.
"How went your little trip?" the purple-haired man wondered, staring out the window.
"Well enough, I should think," the Storm Blade laughed, rising to smile at his lord.
"That's funny," Nihilus pivoted in place, "because I seem to recall hearing that Arc was dead."
"Ah, acceptable losses," the swordsman with the leaf-green hair shrugged.
The purple-haired young man slammed his fist onto his desk, "Did you stop to consider if I would feel the same?"
"Milord," Cyrus's fist clenched, "As I told you on the day you recruited that egomaniac, we don't need him. Arc was a machine programmed to follow orders only until he decided he was far enough away to be touched by the hand of management, whereupon he simply did as he pleased. That's exactly what you saw happen when you gave him his assignment, and he died as a result. What the hell should any of us care?"
The young man marched himself within an inch of his subordinate's face, "Listen to yourself! We exist to give others a chance, not to determine their value in existence! This was Arc's first-ever unsupervised mission! Perhaps he was making plans that were outside the realm of my or your immediate knowledge, plans that would have furthered this operation?!"
"Well, then, I'd have been chuffed," the Storm Blade sighed, "but I found no such plans, so I can't force myself to make that assumption."
"You're a lot alike, you know," the disgruntled purple-haired man pushed his guard out of the way and turned to look back at the window.
Cyrus's fist clenched again, "Don't say that. That brainless beast couldn't hold a candle to me."
"In terms of conceit, I think you're both the size of bonfires," Nihilus scoffed.
The leaf-green-haired man smiled snidely, "But in terms of getting the job done, I think I've proven myself so much more capable."
His lord shook his head, indicating to Cyrus that he had won, "Did Dahlia, ahem, inform you?"
"Yessir," he recalled the instruction his fellow general had given him, and fished a small bottle out of his pocket, "I have it here. I don't know how well it will work, but I bought it from a very reliable merchant."
The purple-haired man took the bottle and uncorked it, "Thank you." After taking a small sip, he grimaced, "Gods... it tastes of raw seaweed, burnt garlic, and pegasus hairs."
"You must take your medicine, now, regardless, my boy," his subordinate smiled at him in a more genial manner.
"I'm not happy," he said, corking the medicine again, "If anymore of our men happen happen to be in jeopardy, I will expect you to come to their assistance, no questions asked. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal, milord," he saluted.
"You're dismissed," announced his superior, setting the bottle down on his desk, "I feel as though I need a nap on the sheer taste of that."
Cyrus chuckled and left the room, shutting the door behind him. A voice caught him before her could make another step forward, "You're a real piece of work."
"Was wondering if I'd see you again, Daffodil," he smiled coolly, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Stop calling me that," she folded her arms, "My name is Dahlia."
"Sorry," he winked, "flower girls all kinda seem the same to me."
"You're insufferable," she rolled her eyes.
"Good to see you're alive, too, Dee," the Storm Blade rubbed his neck.
"So," she began after a pause, "Are you going to tell me what the hell happened with Arc?"
"He was a jackass and he bit the dust. What else did you need to know?" the leaf-green-haired man smirked.
"I'd like to know why you thought it was okay to just watch the poor bastard die," Dahlia pressed.
"'Cause he had it out for me since day one," Cyrus grumbled, "You mark my words: if we'd'a let that guy do what he wanted, he woulda been turning his big, clumsy axe on us within a week's time. Never heard someone so convinced of his own invincibilty for so little justification. He deserved a little dose of reality, and it turns out he was allergic, 'cause it was fatal."
"I suppose it's done now," the Rose Blade threw up her hands.
"Exactly," Cyrus nodded, "No use crying over spilt blood."
"I don't think that's quite how the saying goes," she glanced up at him.
"Whatever," he shrugged, "Anyway, your boyfriend's taking a nap in there, so don't go bothering him, all right? I'm going to get lunch, and I won't get chewed out in the middle of a meal again just because you can't figure out what to do with yourself."
"Uh... he's not my, uh... I don't..." the Rose Blade blushed.
"Knock it off, Dee, you look like a lost puppy without him. It's really sad," Cyrus reported with a grin.
"You're... mistaken," she protested, folding her arms.
"Uh-huh," he rolled his eyes, "Like I said, I'm going to lunch. I'll be at Flannigan's if you need anything."
"Oh, good, going to drown yourself in whiskey for the fourth time this week?" Dahlia tapped her foot, regaining confidence.
He smirked again, "You know me so well, Dee. You wanna join? You could do to loosen up a bit."
"N-No..." she hesitated, "I'll just... stay here. I need to keep an eye on Lord Nihilus."
"Whatever you say, Dee," he chuckled, stepping out.
[...]
Steven parted the large metal doors, sighing dryly. He thought he would never tire of seeing foreign castles, but this blackened little vista amid the freezing cold of a Feroxi winter was enough that even the warmest and most comfortable lodging could not be suitable recompense. He was met with a stern-faced guard as he shuddered his way in.
"Who are you?" the man demaned gruffly.
"My name is Steven. I'm a dignitary from Plegia," he informed the guard.
"We weren't expecting you," the man replied, glancing down at what Steven had to assume was a list of appointments. His initial investigation had revealed that the new East-Khan was popular with his own subjects and foreign officials alike.
"Yes," the silver-haired man did his best to put on a worried face, "I was making a visit to the West... but I was attacked and run off by some of the khan's thugs, I do believe."
"Wouldn't surprise me," the man nodded with a sympathetic note, "You're seeking asylum, then?"
"Yessir," Steven bowed humbly.
"I'll see what we can arrange," he put the list away, "for your own sake, don't go anywhere."
"Of course," Steven nodded to the guard. The silver-haired man sat in silence. The conversation was too far away to eavesdrop on. He could get up, but he wouldn't have much time. Too little risk for too little reward; not worth the effort. He glanced at the trappings of the castle, some recently changed, as they no longer sported dust. Busts of former khans lined the stairway, Flavia among them. She looked out of place, the laughter implied by her eyes defying the stern and robust glare exhibited by previous warrior kings. A guard walked by outside, as Steven's ears picked up.
He heard him speak: "See anything?"
"One visitor, but he's handled."
"How're you holding up?"
"Freezing my ass off, but I'm okay."
"Ha, all right. Keep it together. Only another hour 'til your shift's over."
"You don't have to tell me twice."
"I'll see you in fifteen."
"Yep."
Interesting. Steven made a note of that.
Meanwhile, the guard began to descend the stairs, "My apologies, good sir, but my lords inform me we can't house others in our castle at this time, unfortunate as your circumstances might be."
"That is... regrettable," Steven's face fell.
The man nodded sympathetically, "I am sorry. I can offer you a warm meal, but that's about it. Short of that, I'll need you to be on your way."
"I see," the silver-haired man remarked disappointedly, "perhaps you could provide me with a bit of broth before I depart, at least? For the cold?"
"Of course," he snapped his fingers in the direction of the kitchen, "and a little Feroxi ale to keep you going."
Steven nodded thankfully. Ordinarily, he wouldn't drink (it dulled the senses) but he needed something to shake this ceaseless chill off of him. It was unbearable. The broth was brought to him in short order, whereupon he began to quickly slurp it down, followed by the ale, which took only a minute longer to be poured. He took it, too, and downed it a bit more slowly. "Not used to strong drink," he laughed knowingly to the guard, "All you ever get in most palaces is wine."
The man nodded happily in agreement, glad to see he had fulfilled his guest.
"The new khan... he's a busy man, eh?" Steven hazarded, taking another draught.
"You're telling me. I got folk like you in and outta these doors every moment of the day. The ones who get to the see the khan either hafta be checked out by me beforehand, and I don't even need to tell you what a pain that is, or, some of 'em carry some card that tells Khan Vlasis they're okay," the guard supplied.
"Really? What's the card from?" Steven wondered with genuine interest.
"I'm not quite at liberty to say," the man rubbed his neck, "but... well, suffice it to say they're doled out by a longtime friend of the khan."
"I see," the silver-haired man bowed his head. So there was little to no chance of him getting his hands on one... Unless there were one lying around somewhere. But he couldn't do that... But he would have to. He hadn't learned enough yet. He needed to gather more evidence. "Well," Steven declared, rising from his seat and returning the mug in which the ale had sat to its owner, "I thank you for providing what you could, my good man. I'll see my way back to Plegia with an escort once I find a town, and tell them of your hospitality."
"Of course," the guard nodded, "Safe journey to you, sir."
Steven bowed. This was going to be a long night.
[...]
The silver-haired man rubbed his eyes. He was going to wear them out with all of these night operations. That was what he had been told, anyway. He hadn't really ever needed glasses, but they did tend to make things easier for him nowadays, supporting the notion that his vision was fleeting. The cold whipped up and he pulled his cloak tighter to his chest. Stay focused, he instructed himself.
He prepared to skirt around the corner, but held off as he heard advancing footsteps. He cursed; Lon'qu had told him there would be guards. He paused and waited to hear the direction of the steps as they crunched in the snow. A shift and a pause indicated his opponent had halted in one spot. Steven leaned his head past the wall, finding the guard faving him, but staring off into space and not at the wall. Lucky, but not very; he would have to wait for the guard to face another way to advance. Unfortunately, it didn't happen: the guard walked closer.
Hells, Steven rolled his eyes. As the footsteps drew closer, he readied himself. How many steps? Five... and eight... that would mean... Three... two... He inhaled. One. The silver-haired man darted around the corner and seized the unaware guard, slapping a hand over his mouth and catching him in a headlock. The young man tried to squeeze his opponent into unconsciousness, but the guard began to struggle and resist. No time, have to hurry and end this. He slammed the man's face into the wall, where it left a shining ruby smear. The man collapsed to the ground and Steven rolled forward, throwing himself behind a tent as the snow continued to fall. Regular patrols... they have a check-in... at most, fifteen minutes before the evidence would be discovered. Clock was ticking.
With no one else observing, the silver-haired man darted forward, shaking the snow from his cloak as the large flakes piled into drifts that quickly covered everything below. That was good, maybe the unconcious body would be lost in the snow. It might buy him a few extra minutes. He halted at a crate near a wagon, being loaded up on the same side of the wall as the window. It didn't lead to the chambers of Khan Vlasis directly, (going straight for the target was a rookie mistake) which meant it was substantially less guarded. One knight called to another about supply shipments. There were at least two. This was going to be harder. Though still no problem for an expert, the silver-haired man rapped his fist on the crate and waited to hear the reaction.
"What was that noise?" wondered one of the guards.
"Maybe something fell," supposed the other.
"Wanna have a look?" the first proposed.
"Can't hurt," the other shrugged.
Damn. They were both coming. Steven sank to the ground and crawled through the powder to take shelter underneath the wagon. He watched two pairs of feet descend upon the crate he had been hiding behind.
"Should we open it?" asked one.
"It's still nailed shut... Nothing could've gotten in there, right?" the second suggested.
"Right," the first assented.
"Leave it, then. I'm guessing something just fell over," reported the other guard, fatigue staining his voice.
Steven winced. Ten minutes, if he was lucky. Desperate, he changed up his usual procedure. Pulling the seafoam-green tome out of his bag, he muttered the words, and the wind began to whip and howl, throwing the flakes of snow into blinding flurries. The icy cold struck the bewildered guards as they reacted, "The hell?"
"Can't see...!"
Had to stop them making noise. Steven leapt out from his cover and discharged his knee into the jaw of the first man he saw, causing him to slump straight to the ground with a groan. The silhouette of another shifted toward the noise. Steven flattened himself reflexively, allowing the man to walk over and find the mess. "What? Cole, what happened?" He drew closer. Closer. Closer... Now! The silver-haired man pulled the other guard down by his boot, and in the same motion, sprung to his feet so that he could plant his own boot in the guard's face. He was rendered silent, nose broken. Steven sighed and collected himself, glancing up at the window. Seven minutes.
No time left for perfect discretion, he lamented. He had to hurry himself. He brought out the tome again and leapt into the air, scattering the burst of wind below him to propel him to the windowsill. Stained glass. One way. No telling who was behind it. The silver-haired man reached into his sleeve and extracted the blade he used for emergencies. Its blade was sharpened to a fine needle point. He slid it gently along several panes of the glass until he had created a small window within the window to push through and did so, holding onto the panes so they didn't shatter as he entered. He stowed them in a corner quickly. There was no way to avoid having someone know he had been here at this point. He shoveled the remaining snow off his cloak and out the window to avoid leaving a trail. Damn, he had taken too long. Four minutes.
The silver-haired man took a deep breath and edged carefully around the walls, darting around corners. Surprisingly little guard inside. Perhaps they thought the outside ones were a sufficient deterrant. Fools. He hastened into a nearby office, its chair pulled out and papers strewn about a desk contained therein. He popped inside and looked it over. No card. Three minutes.
Another office sat on the opposite side of the central hallway. He checked the corner and dashed into it. Time was running out. He flipped through the papers more hurriedly. No card. No info on Vlasis. Nothing. Two minutes.
He would have to leave. What a waste. But, wait... The door to the khan's chamber was open... This was too easy, right? It had to be a trap... No time to think; he scurried to the side of the door, scanning one last time for any approaching guards, and peered in.
There he sat, the young man with snow-white hair. He was talking to someone, a figure cloaked head to heel in inky black. Identity indecipherable. One minute. Could he learn anything valuable?
"I'll be sending the shipments starting in three days, unless otherwise ordered by my employer, all right?" said the man in black. The khan nodded. "Then I must return to my own affairs, Khan Vlasis." Vlasis nodded again. The man turned and Steven finally caught a glimpse of his face: pale, light-blue hair and needle-point, colorless eyes. That was a distinct face.
"Where's Bertolt?"
Dammit. He had miscalculated. Time was up. The man in black looked in the direction of the cry, then focused his narrow eyes on Steven. The silver-haired man swallowed. Mission failure.
[...]
"Hair ties?"
"Check."
"Extra clothes?"
"Check."
"Spare weapons?"
"Check and double check."
"Maps? Food? Lockpicks? Water? Vulneraries?"
"Check, checkity-check-check-check."
"Bag of gold?"
"Crivens, mom, do we really hafta bring the bag?"
"Look, finding your father is my top priority," Anna breathed, "but I am not going anywhere without my emergency funds."
"But a whole bag?" her youngest son complained.
"You'd be surprised, sometimes you need some serious spending power out in the world," she noted, straightening out her hair. They proceeded down the steps of the castle togther until they reached the throne room, where Lucina was busily giving preparation orders to the remaining Shepherds.
"Anna, Leo, what's going on?" she broke from her work straight away.
"We're gettin' outtta here. Sorry, Lucy," Leo explained curtly.
"But... why? We need you here," the princess demanded.
"Well, my husband needs me out there," the redhead reported defiantly, pressing on.
"You think you can find Robin out there?" Lucina realized.
"I don't 'think.' Merchants don't make suppositions," Anna explained, "We only go with sure things. I 'know.'"
"It could be dangerous to go alone, you know," the princess cautioned.
"Who's alone? We've got one another. That's enough," Anna continued to ignore her.
"I've never seen your mother quite so driven, even in any sale she's ever made," Lucina informed Leo.
"Yeah," the auburn-haired boy nodded, "Well, I don't claim to know, but I think Dad is a special case. All the gold in the world can't replace him. At least, that's how I bet she'd feel."
"It makes sense," the princess acknowledged, "will you at least try to convince her to come back soon?"
"Lucy, I don't know where you got off thinking, for one, that I can control what my mom does, and, for another, that you can impose orders on me. We'll get back when we get back, all right?" he returned.
Lucina stood back and watched as they left, "Such a temper on that one."
Anna and her son moved past the doors, prompting the reaction of their current guards, "Anna, Leo... leaving so soon?"
"Robin's out there, Stahl. I can't stick around," the merchant reported curtly.
"Do you think that's the best idea?" the knight wondered.
"Leave 'er be, Stahl," his wife commanded, "If that were you, stranded out somewhere, an' I thought I had some idea of where you were... You couldn't stop me with a wall five million feet high."
"Heatening to know," the viridian knight smiled, "At least take this, Anna. It might get you out of some trouble." He handed the redhead a Levin Sword. She gauged it contentedly in her hand.
"I can certainly think of how this might come in handy, all right," she accepted the gift, "Thanks, Stahl."
"Sure thing, just do your best to find Robin. But, uh, don't get yourself hurt, okay?" the paladin hoped.
"And when you do find that husband o' yours," Sully said with a smirk, "do me a favor and give 'im a big kick in the pants for givin' me the runaround like this." Anna nodded tersely and continued on.
"Now, we need ta see how we're going to get to Valm..." Leo put his hands behind his head and leaned back.
"We'll get a ship, from Regna Ferox," his mother supplied.
"Ferox?" her son repeated, "innit a little dangerous around there anymore? And how d'ya think we're gonna get a ship?"
"I know of one in particular," Anna smiled to herself, thinking fondly, "but... it might not be in the harbor at this point. If it is, we'll just have to buy one."
"Buy one? You're kidding..." Leo cocked an eyebrow.
"I'm not," she shook her head, "I told you we needed the bag."
Leo sighed to himself. This was going to be a long haul. He had been on trips with his mother when he was younger, but they were always so carefree, so independent of deadlines. Now, Anna was hurrying, and he was left in the dust, not with a cartful of goods, spurring on horses, but with a big sack of gold he had to bear over his shoulder. All the same, it was his mother's health that really worried him. Though determination had captured her eyes, she seemed ready to break. That was a face Leo had seen in far too many interrogations. If she heard the news she couldn't bear to hear, it would mean the end of her.
[...]
Morgan turned from her position on the wyvern, noting that her father had slumped down. He was all right; only sleeping. She took a breath and looked back at her older sister, who was cheerfully examining the sky. "I'm sorry we haven't talked in so long, Sylvie."
"Oh, no trouble, Morgie," she assured her, "I get how things are."
"Things only have to be that way because of father," the redhead grumbled, "one day... he'll be out of the picture, and we can get back to be closer. All of us."
"Don't talk like that," her sister scolded her, "Father loves you, he loves all of us. Don't imagine his death like it'll be some kind of release. What kind of daughter are you?"
"One who wanted to live her own life, but was fenced off by her father," the young thief retaliated.
"You're exaggerating," Sylvia pushed back.
"How would you know?" Morgan argued angrily, "You never saw it because you're all older, but he treated me the worst out of any of you."
"How can you say that?" Sylvia cocked an eyebrow, "Morgie... don't you know daddy..."
"It doesn't matter," she cut her sister off, "I have my freedom now, that's all that matters. One day, maybe he'll be able to muster up the courage and the sense to tell me he was wrong, and then maybe we can fix things a little, but I ain't optimistic."
"Funny, you used to be the most lighthearted out of all of us," Sylvia informed the redhead, glancing up to recount flashes of her sister pillaging cookies from their jars and playing with small animals in the forests.
"People change," Morgan rebutted tersely.
"They certainly do," Sylvia folded her arms, "There's always enough time to change your answer."
"What do you mean by that?" Morgan leered at her sister suspiciously.
"Nothing, Morgie, just working on my act," her sister prevaricated, "Are you sure? Would you like to take a different card? Yes? Well, pick one..."
Morgan shrugged. For all her purported knowledge, Sylvia could be a bit of an airhead when she wanted to be. The sun was setting over the horizon of Lieben. It looked like their meeting with General Argent was slated to be a late one. Hopefully the general wouldn't mind. Morgan shook her head, why did she care? Her father would be the one to do all the talking, like always, and she would be made to stand and wait in the wings until it was time to go on to the next meeting she wasn't allowed to speak at. It was her childhood all over again.
"How did the last job go?" Inigo wondered over his shoulder, catching his wife by surprise.
"Well enough," she recovered, "Ylisse should see its way to twenty thousand gold, plus a new chain of clothing suppliers in... well, I was going to say four days, but we might have to wait until this all blows over."
"'Blows over,'" he repeated, "Right."
"You don't think it will?" his wife cocked an eyebrow.
Inigo glanced over the side of the wyvern, "I don't know, Morgan. Something about this doesn't sit right with me. When armed takeovers occur, especially by bands of roving mercenaries, there's chaos and panic. Houses are burned, women are... you know, and buildings are razed."
"You're disappointed?" Morgan glared at her husband snidely.
"No," he refuted, "it seems... too calm, Morgan. Like, on some level, people expected this to happen. I don't like it one bit." Morgan only shrugged her accedence and glared at the sky.
[...]
"Look, you have to believe me, I was set up!" the silver-haired young man shouted from behind the bars, "It was another man! I'm just a Plegian dignitary!"
"Shut up!" shouted his guard.
He sat down, "Crap. Well, worth a try..." Steven took a breath, and, with it, took stock: the bars were to solid to cut through, never mind that there was a guard not four feet from him, there were no windows, and he was on the ground floor, so any tunneling he tried would, in addition to needing to be well concealed, take several months, if not years. That was time he didn't have. If they believed him to be a spy, in a land like Regna Ferox, he could be executed as early as the following morning. It all chalked up to bad news for the silver-haired Ylissean orator.
"Hey, you!" a whisper sounded in front of the cell.
Steven shook his head to rouse himself if this was a dream. He couldn't believe his luck, "Is someone there?"
A figure in an obfuscating red hood held a finger in front of where its mouth belonged, demanding silence, "Never fear: your savior is here."
"I don't mean to be rude, but could we cut the theatrics to a minimum?" Steven glared at the figure.
"That was minimum," it replied, "now, hush. I'm working on the lock." Steven watched intently as the figure brought its hands up to the padlock on the cell door and, with a few furious and deft movements of the fingers, followed by a series of clicking noises, the lock dropped straight off and into the hands of the figure on the other side of the door. The figure waved to beckon the silver-haired man to move.
"What about the guard?" he hesitated.
The figure pulled something from the side of the cell up to the bars. The guard's head slumped limply over his chest.
"How did you...?" Steven looked with intense confusion at the figure.
"Do you want to stand around playing twenty questions or do you want to get the hell out of here?" it whispered in reply.
"Fair point," he got up, slipping through the door.
"Follow me, there's a window just over here," the figure commanded. Steven obeyed, and the two leapt out a window from an inconspicuous exteral hallway, rolling and hurrying out into the snow.
As the two recovered their composure, Steven glanced back at his rescuer, "I'm much obliged, friend."
"Don't mention it, kiddo, the Scarlet Hood is here for you. Keep it mum, though," instructed the figure.
"I thought you looked familiar," he nodded, "but... in the stories, they called you the 'Crimson Hood.'"
"'Crimson...?'" the figure paused, "Argh! I thought we had this settled, it was 'Scarlet...!'"
"Might I just ask for your real name, then?" wondered the silver-haired man.
The figure immediately regained its composure, "Sorry, not today. Gotta run, kid."
Steven attempted to apprehend the visitor, but the blood-red hood and the person beneath vanished beneath a flash of light, leaving the silver-haired man to stand and scratch his head in wonder.