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Temeria, Lusholm

At around noon, the light drizzle that blanketed the borders of Temeria in white mists soon turned into an outright downpour. So thick had the dark clouds become that they choked out the light of the sun, and the Pontar swelled at its banks as the storm drenched the land till all was mud or flood.

Thundering peals rolled across the skies, drowning out the screams coming from the small townhouse in Lusholm. This humble two-storey building had been chosen by the Order of the Flaming Rose as a holding for their many prisoners, who were set to be executed by burning at the stake as soon as the rain stopped.

But even then, there would be no peace for their victims.

Down below in the cellar, in a dimly lit room surrounded by empty crates and hollow barrels, stood three figures hunched over a fourth who was shackled to the wall. They were three of the Order, a couple of zealots and a man named Cutler.

He was a torturer by trade, and one that loved his job. The other two were nameless cronies of the task force sent to Lusholm. An ugly brute born of the dregs of Aedirn, whose passion for inflicting pain was the sole purpose of his joining with the Order, Cutler relished in the opportunity to make sport of the hapless woman bound before him. They'd lost a few dozen men trying to catch her on the road from Kaedwen, but eventually they waylaid her just when she spent the last of her strength and slapped the dimeritium shackles on her wrists. Cutler wasn't present at the chase, but he heard that the task force commander had dragged her through the mud behind his horse just to put a good bruise on the sorceress' pride.

Her name was Astrid Lyttneyd Ásgeirrfinnbjornsdottir. Also known as Lytta Neyd or Coral.

"Pretty little thing, aren't ya?"

She had that hard Northern strength in her frame, a stern and proud Skelligean look about her jade green eyes, and ever as haughty as she was beautiful.

Beautiful, that is, before she met Cutler. They'd gotten a hold of her for less than a day, and the torturer had already set to work. Her lovely nails had been plucked, and her delicate fingers had been hammered to swollen crooked shapes. Cutler left his signature all over her long supple legs with a carving knife, not too deep to bleed her out but deep enough to make her sing.

When he got tired of that, Cutler tore up the upper part of her dress and let it all hang loose from her waist. He liked the way her perfect breasts swung from her body like two forbidden fruits.

He liked it better when he stuck a hot poker into them till her smooth skin cooked and shriveled beneath the iron.

"Hmm..." Cutler stood back to admire his handiwork. This was the part of the job that he loved- the sight of a ruined and broken sorceress whose life hung by the thinnest thread. The worst thing about it all was that Cutler wasn't even doing it to get information from the woman. He was simply doing it because he enjoyed it, and could do it. It was the only thing that gave him pleasure in the whole world, and for as long as Lytta was in his grip he would savor every minute.

"Not so pretty now, are ya?" He taunted.

Poor Lytta could only heave, weep and pray for an end to her misery.

The storm thundered twice over, and the rainwater found its way down the cracks of the upper floor, leading to the cellar. Upstairs were the main cells of the other prisoners. The Order managed to capture one other mage, two herbalists and a woman accused of being something called a 'doppler'. All of them, including Lytta, were fated for the flame had the Order of the Firesworn not caught wind of their arrival at Lusholm.

As the rain drove everyone indoors, a band of armed men amassed at the town entrance.

Two Oathblades met them as the gates were opened.

The town guardsmen looked the other way as a bunch of coins were slipped into their hands. Reyncourt was directed towards the townhouse and given half an hour to accomplish his task before the alarm would be sounded. The Grandmaster bade the guards farewell and rode out to his intended target. His knights dismounted first when they arrived at the empty street leading towards the townhouse, drew their swords, then dispatched the sentries who were checking up on their horses in the stablehouse nextdoor. They caught them by surprise, for the Flaming Rose never assumed that the Firesworn would be so bold as to brazenly attack one of their own.

Reyncourt stepped through the threshold as his men surrounded the townhouse before following him in. He took one look at the captives huddled behind a crude cage of cheap pig-iron, then to the armed zealots keeping watch over them, and drew his longmace. The room was spacious enough for him to effectively use the weapon, which granted him the reach to smash the zealots' bones to splinters.

Crack went the flanged mace-head as it connected with a man's skull, sending his eyes bulging out of their sockets when his brains turned to mush. Reyncourt stood firm when the other zealot ran a dirk right into his chest, which bounced right off when the iron skidded across rolled steel. The Grandmaster retaliated by bashing him in the nose with the shaft of his longmace, then kicked his kneecap in. With a loud cry, the zealot collapsed to the floor and tried to right himself up on all fours.

Reyncourt raised his weapon and brought it down with such force that the floor beneath cracked as the zealots' head was soundly hammered into a pulp. Blood splashed in all directions, and the Grandmaster hefted his longmace while he collected himself. His knights joined him inside and moved to free the captives. The cage was unlocked, and their shackles were smashed to pieces. The group was just about ready to go, but one of the herbalists told Reyncourt about the sorceress trapped in the cellar with the torturer.

"They have her, my lord." The herbalist said, "They have the Lady Neyd in the cellar, and have been for near a day. Please help her..."

Reyncourt nodded, turning to his Oathblades. "I'll handle this. Take these people and find horses for them. We leave for Blackstone as soon as I exit the door."

"Aye, Grandmaster."

He followed the direction of the herbalist, which led to a trapdoor in one of the many rooms of the townhouse. Upon opening it, Reyncourt was met with the two Flaming Rose knights who guarded Lytta. They emerged from the open trapdoor swinging, sending Reyncourt back two steps. The Grandmaster grimaced, took a deep breath, then let out a fiery cloud of death that suddenly enveloped the two knights. They shrieked in agony, flailing wildly to put out the flames that slowly cooked them inside their own armor.

Reyncourt ignored them and descended down the stone stairs towards the cellar. Finally, he met Cutler the Torturer face-to-face, who came at him with a wicked-looking spiked morningstar of all things. Reyncourt supposed it was a fitting weapon for an animal such as he. One look at Lytta's ruined half-naked form, and the Grandmaster was seething with cold fury.

"Hah, yer a good lookin' man." Cutler waved the morningstar around as though warding off an evil spirit. "Can't wait to see what y'all look like with me mornin'star buried deep in ya pretty face."

Reyncourt didn't answer. He let the ugly man approach, even let him make the first strike. But Cutler was a torturer, not a fighter. When he swung, he swung clumsily. His morningstar missed Reyncourt's face by two inches and landed on a nearby crate, burying its spiked head into the wood. Cutler tried to yank it out twice, gave up, then dove for his tools piled up on a table. Reyncourt followed him like a prowling lion, amused by his prey's desperate flailing. He could see Lytta watching, she was enjoying the sight too and was anticipating a swift conclusion.

The Grandmaster let his longmace swing down and into an upwards strike, much like a pendulum, which went up between Cutler's legs.

Something soft got the brunt of the swing, like a bunch of grapes suddenly smashing against a winepresser's foot. Cutler howled in agony, clutching his groin as blood and piss soaked his britches. Reyncourt let him roll around the cobblestone floor, and he unlocked the dimeritium shackles on Lytta's wrists to free the sorceress.

The woman's bloodshot eyes gleamed with renewed light, even as she stumbled and fell into Reyncourt's arms.

"Come, my lady." The Grandmaster said softly as he helped her stand on shaky legs. "Let us be away from this cursed place."

Lytta lifted her gaze to meet his, uttering a determined piece of her mind. "No. Not yet."

With her trembling, swollen, broken hands she casted a spell over the castrated torturer. A bright light shone from his body and Cutler began to shrink. His limbs slid into his clothes and his head disappeared into his shirt. Pretty soon, a pile of soiled garments remained on the floor. But something moved among the clothes.

Something tiny.

Reyncourt frowned, hearing the muffled croak of a frog from within Cutler's shirt. Lytta smiled as she bent down to pick up the cursed man, whom she'd transformed into a helpless little green thing. He watched as she pressed the frog tightly between her hands, not even caring for the excruciating pain of flexing the broken fingers. Reyncourt could only assume that she was well beyond pain in that moment, where she savored the very thought of repaying her tormentor his due. He heard her speak with a voice full of venom.

"Pretty little thing, aren't you?"

Aedirn, Gatberg

Averon shrank back into the shadows as a pair of Nilfgaardian soldiers marched past the window of the doctor's office. He tried not to seem too conspicuous, but it was clear that the physician in charge of fixing up little Anséis had noticed.

"You know, for a specialist bearing the seal of the Emperor..." Dr. Ibram Landsmeet, the best doctor for miles around, mused on the crude alias his guest was using and how lucky he was that it worked- so far. "You don't look very Nilfgaardian to me."

Averon glared at the doctor but said nothing. The wiry bespectacled man of Oxenfurt reminded him very much of the mad scientist who abducted him and his half-brother when they were kids. All of them did, all of the doctors. They all had the same look and demeanor around them, as though they were made from a printing press. Oxenfurt churned out people like that, and Averon couldn't help but despise them for it.

His eyes fell upon the child lying on the bed in front of Landsmeet. The young prince's wound had been examined, cleaned and rebandaged. The doctor gave him something to drink for the pain and he was soon fast asleep.

"The florens were for your discretion." The Myrmidon warned, moving close to his spear leaning against a nearby wall. "Press me again and the next I draw is steel."

"Calm down." Landsmeet said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'm only stating the obvious, and I am merely astonished as to how they let you into Gatsberg in the first place. Almost feels as if the blackclads are more lax around here."

Averon leaned in over the desk where the other man set his papers on, "If they are, I'd rather they stay that way. Tell me, doctor, what's going on with the boy?"

Landsmeet eyed him warily as he drew closer, picked up some notes, then retreated to the bed with his patient. "The blow to the head, as you described, didn't break his skull- thank the gods. But there is bruising, in and out."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that his head, if you notice the swelling, will puff up where he got hit. Then on the inside, his brain may have gone for a sound knocking about. In short, I would like to keep him here for a few days to observe any changes. For the boy's own safety, you see."

"That won't do." Averon grunted, "Patch him up as best as you can today. We leave in the morning."

Landsmeet wagged a finger, "Now now, I understand your concerns regarding Gatberg, but the boy simply cannot be hauled around like a piece of cargo. You'll do more damage to him on the road than in here."

"That your professional opinion, doctor?"

"That, and a whole lot of others. You are not equipped for this, but I am. And as a physician, I put the welfare of my patients above all. Surely you can understand that?"

"He's not safe here."

"On the contrary, his odds are higher when in my care. But as I see that you are his guardian, I leave the choice to you." Landsmeet opened a drawer, fished out the golden florens Averon paid him, and dropped the money on his desk. "If you wish to leave, take your money back. Perhaps on the road, you might be able to buy a horse and cart for him."

Averon met the doctor's gaze and stared him down for a full minute. The gears in his head turned slow, but eventually he made his decision. "Fine. Three days."

Landsmeet nodded, "Three days."

"Then we walk."

Blackstone Castle

The mixed multitude of men, elves and dwarves was an unexpected sight to the rescued captives when the Oathblades escorted them through the gates of Blackstone.

A distinct few, medics and herbalists once hunted by the Church, emerged from the crowd gathering at the outer courtyard to help the injured mages- the Lady Neyd especially. She rode with Reyncourt, and she was growing weaker by the minute. When the Grandmaster pulled his mount to a halt, the sorceress slumped forward in the saddle against his back and began to slip. Reyncourt twisted around for as much as his armor would allow and caught her by the arm just before she fell.

"Hospitallers, bring her inside!" He said, calling to the men and women dressed in mail hauberks and surcoats of purest white.

The hospitallers obeyed, carrying off the injured to one of the dwellings built into the Southern wall. There, warm beds and clean sheets awaited the liberated captives.

Lytta woke up a little later in the evening and slowly sat up. Most of her injuries had been cleaned and bandaged. The shredded ruin that was her dress had been replaced by a simple white gown. Upon seeing the battered sorceress awaken, one of the hospitallers approached her bed and set down a tray containing a small ceramic drinking bowl with water and a philter which held a curious golden fluid.

The woman watched him pop the lid, pour a single drop into the bowl, then serve it up.

"Please, drink." The hospitaller beckoned, "It will heal your wounds."

Lytta threw him a suspicious look. Had she the strength, she would've done the healing part herself. Alas, she was exhausted and in agony. Cutler had done her in pretty hard, and she just didn't have the energy to cast any more spells. Taking a chance on the matter, the woman reluctantly accepted the strange potion and drank the glowing golden water. As soon as she swallowed to the last drop, she felt a peculiar sensation welling up from the pit of her stomach. Something warm spread across her bones, permeated into her veins and squeezed out of every pore in her skin. She felt her skin mend itself, closing wounds and resetting fractures in her bones. None left a mark, not a bruise nor scar. Even the deepest injuries Cutler had inflicted upon her body disappeared. Her broken fingers snapped back painlessly into place, and the swelling was gone.

Alas, some injuries would yet remain. No medicine, no matter how sophisticated, could mend the marks of the mind.

"Intriguing." Lytta remarked, "What... what was that?"

"The godsblood." The hospitaller replied. "It heals all, binds all. The blood of the Grandmaster- of Saint Vandal."

"Er, yes." The sorceress glanced around quickly and realized that she had lost something along the way. "H-Have you seen a little green frog? It may have been among my things, I was-"

"Rest easy, my lady." Lytta flinched when the man touched her shoulder, "You have been through much this night. Set aside your worries and lie down for now. On the morrow, you can search for whatever it is you're looking for."

The woman scowled, unaccustomed to being told what to do. She obeyed, she curled up in bed and went to sleep. But she couldn't stay asleep. Tormented by the fresh memories of her time in that cursed cellar, Lytta sat up all drenched in a cold sweat. Wearing a determined look on her face, she boldly slipped out of the infirmary and strode into the empty courtyard to look for the pretty little thing that promised her much relief.

She wouldn't find it on her own, no matter how much she searched or casted her spells of clairvoyance.

"Hello." Lytta turned around to see Reyncourt standing in the dim light of the crescent moon shining in the night sky. He'd caught her somewhere near the communal well, which drew clean water up from the earth beneath the Pontar. The Grandmaster wore his favorite green gambeson, and held a glass jar containing the polymorphed torturer. "Looking for this?"

"Give that to me!" She cried, making a grab for the jar. Lytta managed to snatch it from Reyncourt's hands. When she realized how unbecoming and slightly unhinged she looked, the woman straightened herself up and regained her composure.

But Reyncourt saw through it all. "If you plan on killing him, I pray you do so quickly."

Raising her head haughtily, Lytta sneered as she glowered over the hapless creature before her. "Him? Quickly? No, my lord. Don't let the harmless new form deceive you. Such a beast requires more than a quick death. I shall see to it."

Reyncourt sighed, "Tormenting him will not give you peace."

"Perhaps. But I will enjoy it." Lytta paused, turning her gaze in a challenging manner towards the Grandmaster. "And you will not stop me."

He opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Reyncourt watched the sadistic gleam in the woman's eyes as she strutted off, curiously in a better state of mind when she occupied her thoughts with visions of all manner of creative implementations of pain and suffering directed towards the hapless green frog. The only thing Reyncourt could get out of the exchange was that he was grateful that Cutler no longer had a voice to scream with.

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