Rangda: The reason he didn't use that lightning bolt is that it took way too much magic for Lyle to have used at that moment, especially since he was already pushing himself way harder than he should have at that point. Raising and using bones is much easier in comparison and less taxing on his mind. If he pushed himself any harder than that he may have either A: exploded, or B: Wound up with a few extra appendages than he would have normally. Granted he didn't fully understand this, but he knew he was at the end of his rope magically.

Zerkil: Oh they suspected. They just didn't think they would see physical evidence to prove what they had already suspected, especially since Kemmler often relied so much on necromancy as a whole. Hearing about something outrageous and seeing it in person can oftentimes lead to two very different reactions. As for pairings, I ain't gonna spoil things too much for obvious reasons, but your reasoning regarding the princess is rather sound I must admit. Well scouted.

Destroyer78901: Don't worry. The Empire will have its day, I just have to build to it a bit. And trust me this newcomer may surprise you in ways you may not see.

Lyle had decided he was going to kill Porky and Slackjaw.

No, he wasn't even going to deign to call them by their names from here on out because they didn't deserve it at this point.

He'd killed before. Killed even before he arrived in this world. Back then, he'd regret it with every fiber of his being and just couldn't mentally handle the weight that it brought, especially since, in his eyes, it wasn't someone that deserved it. Particularly with it being a guy who'd gambled once too many…and skipped out on collections once too many.

His uncle hadn't been impressed by his reaction, and his entry that thing of his had been summarily…denied, among other reasons. That and he wasn't sure if he could stomach disappointing his own mother any more than he already had at that point.

But now? He was confident he would have no such scruples. Not since those two inbred, two-faced, malformed, knight-simping, Judas-fucking, motherfuckers were so willing not just to sell him out but those that were amongst their village. Especially after Lyle went through all of the trouble to save their hides, both from the orcs and the lord, that couldn't be bothered to do his job.

At first, he decided to make it quick when he had the right opportunity.

Then, they took it a step further when Slackjaw suggested they nab his Nikes and his socks to boot. All the while, Lyle could do nothing but curse and thrash around uselessly in his bondings. The price for resisting? A couple dozen swift kicks and stomps to his ribs, knocking the air out of the Earth Native like a deflated football.

No. They'd earn a slow and painful death. In Lyle's eyes, they well and truly worked hard and earned it with a great amount of effort that he could only hope to reciprocate. After all, since they had wanted to nab his Nike's from the beginning, it was only fair that they both paid the price for it in full.

A shove from the back into his new prison ground his revenge fantasy to halt, leaving him to glare up at the knights that were all too willing to do what would be considered back home as "excessive force."

"Enjoy your brief stay, heretic. Don't worry. You'll have a few fellow abominations to keep you company before the Lady passes judgment on you."

Lyle wanted to say something smart but thought better of it in a rare moment of clarity. Let them have their victory. Let them think they've won. I may be down, but I ain't out. Cause if I really am out, the people Riffen are gonna go out with me.

Mercifully, the knights didn't say anything besides a few generic insults, like 'low-born, foreigner, or heretic,' and instead shut the door to the pit that they had hurled him into, with an audible lock being sounded from the other side of the room.

And what a room it was. This wasn't your everyday, small, cramped prison cell that they had thrown Lyle into. No. Instead, it seemed like a large pit of sorts filled with the bones of what could only be described as unnatural beasts of all shapes and sizes. Some of the skeletal remains looked as big as dogs, while others seemed as big as houses…in fact, unless Lyle was starting to lose grip on his sanity (which wouldn't surprise him at this point), he swore that some of them looked like the remains of dragons, with bony wings and all.

Lyle realized, after marveling at some of what used to be terrifying and magnificent creatures, that he was not alone. No. In fact, there seemed to be two different occupants in the room that were now pointedly staring at him with interest.

The one on the right was sitting behind some large dragon bones from the looks of it, their shape almost shrouded by the very poorly lit room, which was only receiving lighting thanks to a handful of torches within the room. Lyle was surprised that they even gave them that much, even if they seemed too high up and out of their reach. Not that they would help his initial plan of burning the door down since it would still leave him unable to perform magic with this thorny collar around his neck.

He was almost tempted to burn that but shuddered to think about burning himself in the process, even with the invocation of Nehek. No. Too risky. He'd need to think of something else.

Eventually, before he could think of another idea off the cuff, the third occupant to his left shifted forward, their appearance becoming more pronounced in the darkly lit beast-pit prison. "Someone new? I was wondering what those louts from upstairs were hootin' and hollerin' for, but I guess you're the reason they're patting themselves on the back." The voice was female and older that much Lyle could tell. Unlike the prisoner to his right, this one seemed to show no fear as she shuffled further and further into the room, and to his surprise, it was indeed an older woman.

She was indeed on the older side of her life if the silverish-gray hair that went down to her shoulders was any indication, as were some of the lines on her face. That being said, Lyle wouldn't dare call her a hag or cronish. She seemed to be on the older side of fifty, maybe in the early stages of sixty, but she was clearly attractive in her prime. From how she was walking and moving, she seemed to still be in good shape, not too thick and not too thin, with a large set of rags covering most of her figure. At least they allowed her that much sanctity.

Her green eyes were focused but also seemed amused by the sight of Lyle, showing a mirth that was in short supply in this world, but what stood out to him the most was that much like him, she too had a green thorny vine-like collar that was fixed around her neck, which could only mean one thing.

This was the other necromancer that the knights had mentioned above. Still, he was sure that he hadn't seen this woman before, even amongst the other necromancers he had personally commanded in battle or during his brief time at Blackstone Post. Her appearance seemed almost too striking to miss, and there were seldom any female necromancers at Blackstone Post besides Freddy.

With a quirked silver-haired eyebrow and an amused smirk now forming on her lips, the woman snorted through her nose. "Hm. A fellow Dhar practitioner whose eyes aren't sunken and isn't going as bald Schmitz. I'd call it a breath of fresh air, but I doubt I'd get any in this pit."

The mention of a familiar, old, and grumpy necromancer lowered Lyle's guard just a bit, as he looked somewhat perturbed. "You know Schmitz? So you ARE from the Barrow Legion. Those knights weren't bullshitting?"

The woman cackled softly behind the back of her hand, shaking her head with a sense of sardonic enthusiasm and mirth. "I WAS from the Barrow Legion boy…but it may as well have been from a lifetime ago. So long, I'm sure I didn't have any wrinkles on my arse as much as I had on my face."

Instead of being disgusted as she intended, Lyle just raised an eyebrow and smirked. "So, not many to begin with?"

Blinking in surprise, the woman cackled again, brushing her silvery hair behind her neck. "Are you sure you're from the Barrow Legion, boy? I don't recall any of my colleagues sharing your boldness…unless it was with someone whose blood was no longer flowing."

"First off…ew. Second, I'm not being bold, just callin' it like I see it, Ms…

"Sybille, boy. Though perhaps calling Kemmler's successor a boy, isn't appropriate."

"You know who I am?"

"Those knights boast and thump their plated chests more than they have any right to. And with every chest beat, they scream all I need to hear of what happens on the surface. Stupid, but I'll hardly complain."

Lyle openly smirked, considering all he knew about the knights of Bretonnia, that seemed pretty standard…though now that he thought about it, he couldn't help but think that these Bastonnian knights seemed especially boastful compared to the nobles and knights of Artois. Or maybe he was just projecting due to how royally furious he was towards the nobility right now. It could be they were just stroking themselves off to kick his ass.

Sybille seemed to agree, smiling while rolling her eyes. "If I didn't know any better, they need to punch all that hot air out their chests lest they risk popping from their own arrogance. A shame that the rumors of you being thumped by Bohemond turned out to be true. Their hubris could have used some deflating, if for their own sake."

Lyle winced, running a bit weary of the constant reminder of his failure. "Not my proudest moment."

"No, it would appear not to be." Sybille agreed, walking closer to Lyle, getting a measure of the boy before her. "I would chastise you for throwing away an opportunity to humble these Bastonnians, but alas, I'm torn. Kemmler would have never been able to conquer Artois as you had, even though I can tell just from a glance that he had more mastery of the winds than you." The elder necromancer's smile fell as she looked away, almost wistful. "So much potential back then, all wasted on chasing for something that could never be obtained."

"Huh…I was wonderin' why I never saw you before. So you worked with the old man that ran what I ran? You guys have a fallin' out or somethin'?"

"The lethal kind, yes, boy. Hm. I can remember when I was young and Kemmler was…well he was younger, though I wouldn't call him young. Where it would appear you're concerned with capturing territory and crowning yourself king, Kemmler was always more interested in pushing the boundaries of Necromancy and extending his life as long as possible. Now I can understand living beyond the years of a mud-eating peasant, but even I would get tired of living at some point I'd say. Not Kemmler. Never Kemmler…Heh. Turns out all of that work was for naught in the end. I didn't put nearly the amount of work he put in for eternal life, and yet even I wound up outliving that decrepit old fool."

"I'd ask you not to speak ill of the dead, but from what I heard, he would kind of deserve this kind of slander."

"Oh, he did more than deserve it. He earned it, though none of his boot and taint lickers would ever admit it. Speaking of which, the more I hear your voice, the more confounded I find myself as to how a foreigner who looks and talks the way you do became the Lych Master of the order I once prided myself on being a part of. In fact, the mere idea of the Barrow Legion lasting as long as it has, with said boot and taint lickers eyeing the scraps getting along, is as ludicrous as Kemmler's vaunted eternal life."

For a moment, Lyle didn't say anything. Right now, he was debating whether or not he should help fill in the blanks on some of these questions but ultimately decided it was best to humor this Barrow Legion alumnus. He didn't know whether she was trustworthy, but he figured he would need all the help he could get if he were going to get out of the mess he'd thrown himself into.

Plus, if she didn't like Kemmler, maybe that could work to my favor. So Lyle divested all the details that he could on how he came to be in this world and the events that led up to his capture. He wasn't sure for how long he was talking for, but Sybille, to her credit, rarely interrupted him, seeming to focus on his story with rapt attention, sometimes widening her eyes in disbelief at some parts, including how easily he had taken Castle Artois.

When he was finished, the woman, for the first time, eyed the other occupant in the room, who Lyle still couldn't see on account of them skulking behind those large set of bones. I wonder if I should be more concerned about having a captive audience here…eh, whatever. I can always focus on that later.

Right now, he had to focus on the rather lively necromancer in front of him, who was looking at him with a minor amount of incredulousness. "You've managed to last this long while only having the nearest amount of training on the arts of necromancy, captured Artois with the majority of its knights in the North, and killed an orc warboss all by yourself while suffering…a headache, you say?"

"Felt like my head was gonna fuckin' explode."

"Right. Did that with your body unable to draw in any more winds of magic? I don't know whether to call you fortunate or bloody reckless. Eh. Might as well say both since neither would have been enough to get you into THIS situation. The mere fact you're alive shows that the spell that summoned you must mean you have one of the many Gods watching over you in some capacity, which wouldn't surprise me at this point."

Lyle wanted to refute that claim. Even if Gods apparently DID exist in this world, it didn't have to mean that every single thing he had accomplished…or fucked up was because of some deity from above or below. It'd be pretty depressing in his mind if that were the case.

"Then there's the other thing. Fredericka. Just a wispy little thing, oh yes, I remember her. Always small and unassuming, but I knew ambition flickered in her eyes like so many others, but to think SHE'D be the one to be bold enough to use you to keep the Legion together. I always thought it would be someone like Schmitz, but it makes sense that Kemmler wouldn't trust him with a scroll to empower someone like you."

Now Lyle was interested. "Really? What makes you say that?"

"The girl has ambition, but unlike the average necromancers who get high off of their own Dhar-tainted farts, she doesn't take a leave of her senses when reaching for it. Hmm, yes, I can see why she was so willing to have you take up the mantle of Lichemaster. You can be the face that leads, while she is the one that pulls your strings. I would admire her guile more if she hadn't tossed you aside so needlessly. Not when Bohemond still lives and breathes down the Legion's neck."

Caught off guard by the statements, Lyle felt himself getting more than a little defensive. "Ooohh, hold on now! What's with the accusations all of sudden! Freddy ain't be nothin' but a help to me since I got here! I mean hell, if it wasn't for her, I'd know jack and shit about how to do the spells I can do…at least when I don't have this annoying ass collar around my neck which is prickin' real damn hard right now."

Once again, the older woman cackled, throwing her head back uproariously. "From what you've told me, you don't require much in the way of guidance to use spells. Kemmler's Grimoire would have been more than enough to learn spells."

"W-well maybe, but she still told me a lot of other stuff too, like how Dhar works! She works a lot better than the scrubs back home that call themselves teachers, I'll say that much."

"Perhaps, but from what you've told me, I've also learned what she HASN'T told you. Along with some things that were not mentioned in what you told me…for example…what has she told you about chaos?"

"Erm…that it's magic different from dhar? Also, something that those furry beast guys like to use?"

"I don't know whether to laugh or cry at seeing a Lichemaster so poorly informed on the different winds of magic. I think I'll decide later after I've broken us out of Duke Bohemond's beast pit room which screams, 'My lance is larger than yours.'"

"Hey now, I've gotten this far, haven't I? I mean, I know I'm not that ba-wait you can get us outta here?"

"Dear me. If a youngun' like yourself is hard of hearing, I dread how bad I'll have when I start going north of sixty. If you must know, yes, I have found a way to occupy myself for the weeks I've enjoyed the hospitality of these 'supposedly' better bread Brettonians, and I'd much prefer to live the lodgings of a bog witch as I once did, thank you very much! They may like their larger-than-life castles, but I'd prefer the simple life if I can."

"Th-that's great to hear! Honestly, I was hoping for this, since I'm kinda on a time const-SHIT!" Lyle cursed out, looking at the entrance door with sudden wide eyes.

Sybille looked confused at the younger necromancers' consternated and concerned face before she chuckled, shaking her head knowingly. "Bit late to worry about eavesdroppers from the guards, but do untense your shoulders, boy. You look like a forest goblin who sucked down the wrong kind of mushroom."

Seeing how blazed she was being, Lyle did indeed untense his shoulders a tad but still looked furtively at the door, which had bars at the top that would allow someone to not only listen in but also look through. The fact that this slightly batty, if critical, necromancer was so loose with her words eased Lyle's tension at that moment.

"I'm gonna guess you have some kinda plan in place, or maybe some plan to deal with the guards?"

Sybille openly scoffed, rolling her eyes and folding her arms knowingly. "Why would I ever want to deal with guards that will help in our escape? Counterproductive doesn't do that idea justice." When Lyle's eyes widened at that claim, she cackled once more. "That's right, boy, my escape has already been arranged. I just decided to tarry to see if rumors of your capture were true. Thank whatever gods you keep close to your chest that I wanted you to entertain my curiosity."

Can't remember the last time I prayed to the man on the cross. May thumb my nose at religion more times than I can count, but I don't think a quick thanks to JC can hurt my fortune. I mean, shit, if a bathwater goddess is a legit thing, then the man upstairs could be keeping score for all the times I took his name in vain. In that case, I'll thank Christ.

Still, he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. If she had a route out of here planned, then why complain? "Well, thank you very much, Miss Sybille, that was mighty kind of you."

"Kindness had nothing to do with it, boy. My escorts simply convinced me it would be the right move…and they refused to leave without you should you truly have been captured. That and your exploits meant I just HAD to meet you."

"...wait. They?"

"Lord Lyle!" A young and familiar voice called from beyond the door. Whipping his eyes back to the door, Lyle felt some adrenaline enter his veins from seeing a one-eyed peasant boy in yellow man-at-arms garb with a kettle helm that was a tad too big on top of his head.

"Rudy, you beautiful bastard!" Lyle exclaimed, hobbling over to the door with a grin on his face. "You have no idea how happy I am to see your eyeball right now!"

"And I, you! I-I was so worried when I heard of your defeat, but I knew you couldn't die so easily! You wouldn't!"

"Damn right, I wouldn't!" Lyle proclaimed, putting on a brave face. "Though I gotta ask my man, how'd you know I'd be here? Scratch that, how'd you even sneak your way in? I'm not doubting your skill, kid, but I'm genuinely impressed here. You're making how I saved your ass way back when looking at Junior Varsity in comparison!"

"That would be my doing, Master Lyle." Another familiar voice came from behind the peasant boy, wearing a similar peasant soldier garb with coverings around the facial area. Still, the English accent and the slight sight of rotted flesh that you'd have to squint to see well showed his true colors. "Young Rudy was lacking subterfuge, but thankfully, he never lacked eagerness…I merely planned a route."

"Soren… I'd kiss you, but I don't wanna catch somethin', so for now, I'll settle for giving you a job damn well done!"

"Your too kind, my lord." The undead nodded, his eyes as blank and milky as ever, even from behind coverings. "I must admit stowing ourselves away was a simpler matter than I thought. Though it seems that as greedy as Bretonnian nobles can be, they're more than willing to allow their peasantry to get drunk during feasts and celebrations…even if it's of a lesser quality."

"At least they give us something." Rudy pouted. "Though that hardly makes up for everything else."

"Atta boys! Say, where'd you get the uniforms?"

For a moment, Rudy actually hesitated, flittering his eyes toward the very blank-looking Soren, who, with no hesitation, fished out a blood-stained knife.

Immediately catching up on the implications, Lyle wanted to ask if he had at least killed peasants that were of dubious moral nature but ultimately decided that he was better off not knowing for his own sake.

Choosing to focus on the here and now, Lyle narrowed his eyes, focusing on the moment.

"Boys, your timing couldn't be any more perfect. I need you two to get us some uniforms. I mean, I don't know how convincing Sybille here will look with a uniform on bu-

"Master Lyle." Soren interrupted with his almost bored raspy voice.

"Erm…yeah?"

"Mistress Sybille has already concocted an escape for all of us before your arrival. In fact, it is she that I have been looking for when I initially left the Barrow Legion. It was she who called for me to gather my assistance to help in her own escape."

"Oh…well damn, I'm really behind the curb, ain't I?"

"Terribly so, Master Lyle."

"Huh. Guess it seems like me getting captured didn't have much in the way of consequences after all!" The earth native chuckled to himself, ruefully shaking his head as he admired Sybille's planning and his luck. "In a way, maybe the big man upstairs is looking after me?"

"Don't be so bold as to believe that there's nothing to lose from your defeat and capture, boy." Sybille sniped, moving up to him with a disapproving look. "If you still desire to rule the Barrow Legion as you have until now, I'd be very concerned in your…nonexistent shoes." She added, noting Lyle's feet which only irked his ire as a reminder of who swiped his Nikes.

"Eh, I'm not too worried. I'm sure Freddy has things under-

"Control? The girl? By herself? Please, boy, I'm sure you like entertaining yourself with fantasies, but I have better ways of making myself laugh!"

"Look, lady, I know that you don't think much of her-

"It's not that I don't think much of her, it's that all other necromancers will think much higher of themselves. She simply lacks the backbone, intimidation, leadership, and power that Kemmler and yourself had to wrangle what is a gaggle of freaks who wield the dead. A gaggle of freaks who are justifiably outcasts and renegades from human society for one reason or another that ironically find it hard to trust those in their own field."

Before Lyle could try and say otherwise, Soren spoke on the other side of the door, interrupting him. "I must agree with Sybille master Lyle. I have seen firsthand how your Barrow Legion is, and without someone of your power, there will be little in the way to act as nuts and bolts to hold the Legion together. In fact, I remember eavesdropping quite a bit on the rank and file of necromancers who were too free with their own words…so free they felt that they omitted…scandalous yet revealing knowledge."

"...Such as?"

"Such as how lucky Fredericka was to have summoned you when she did, lest they try and strike out on their own…or another instance in, and I quote…their words not mine, but 'the little greasy haired whore is fortunate to have gone into bed with not one but two necromancers."

"Bu-ey-wh-whoa-phhht! Whoa now!" Lyle stammered, thrown off by the accusations and the viciousness of them. "Fr-Freddy and that wrinkly old man!?"

"As baseless as the idea of any of those fools popping their own cherries…at least with anything still breathing." Sybille snorted. "Kemmler was hardly interested in the female body. At least not like that. Trust me, I tried once upon a time ago."

"Well, I most definitely didn't tap that! At least not yet…" Lyle coughed to himself, looking at the zombie with no small amount of concern. "They…they really said that?"

"Among other things."

"W-well, I mean, I know I'm not working with the Boy Scouts or anything like that, but…do you honestly think whoever replaces me could be that bad?"

"Oh, it will be even worse." Sybille said gravely. "My wrinkled hide may have been away from the Legion for a few decades, but I know its politics all too well. No. I give it maybe…a month before the whole thing crumbles from within. Nobody is on Kemmler's level of intimidation nor your level of power to keep the beasts in line. Too many opportunists, freaks, and power-hungry tome hoarders that will eventually hurt rather than help one another to get ahead or just to survive. Fools lot of them, but it's in their nature. Part of why I left." She huffed before looking away in frustration. "It all could have been something more, but Kemmler always preferred this sort of hostile environment. It ensured that there would be no Barrow Legion without him at the helm…or at least beyond someone like you, who has such a natural grasp of magic to act as a whip to keep everyone in line. No. I give a few weeks, maybe even one if everyone is in the right mutinous mood or if Schmitz is feeling particularly in the mindset to act like the greedy, power-hungry bald-headed prat that he is."

Lyle wanted to refute them. He really, really wanted to.

But the more he thought about, the more of what they spouted on about made sense. Even back at home, there is more than a small share of disagreements on the football team, often about the most inane things! Who was fucking who? Who said what? Who got to run this route on the field? Who was being the most annoying during the eternal game of grab-ass in the locker room?

It was annoying, but it often fell to him as the quarterback or some of the other team captains to settle, if not outright stifle, the feuds within the team so that the whole could act as a unit…strangely enough, he didn't have to deal with that as much as the Lichemaster as of the Barrow Legion, but for all, he knew Freddy did that for him, while he acted as the lightning rod that moved the army forward. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd seen it happen since his uncle and cousin had a similar arrangement in their own family.

But, if he wasn't there to act as the lightning rod and Freddy was the one taking the heat, the warnings about the Legion suddenly crumbling now made a whole lot more sense, significantly if you factored someone as arrogant as Burtholdt in, who liked to brag about his power like one of the boys back home would brag about who nailed the new girl.

It made Sybille's warning all the more haunting to him. If the Legion crumbled, then his army crumbled. And if that happened, then Bohemond's words about Brettonia staying exactly as it has for centuries would be as real as their Simp Queen, The Lady.

Unacceptable. "Well, then what the fuck we standin' around talking for?" Lyle nearly yelled. "We gotta get goin', especially if you said you have an escape route, planned so what're we standin' around for!?"

"Getting you up to speed boy. Don't worry. Everything is where it needs to be for our escape. Soon We'll be at Blackstone Post and then-

"No! We ain't goin' there first! I mean, we'll go eventually, but not there! Not yet! We gotta head to this village that has to be nearby. Fuck what was it called eh-Riffen! Riffen! We gotta head to Riffen A.S.A.P!"

Sybille thinned her lips in annoyance. "This ought to be good. Hopefully, NOT a good waste of time."

"It's not! Those bastards had some peasants lie…well, they foiled my lie about how I was trying to get people riled up in a revolt in that village, and…well…I don't trust those nobles upstairs to leave well enough alone."

Sybille was now openly sighing. "Must we waste our time there?"

"Ey! We aren't wastin' time, lady, were savin' lives! I ain't letting those poor lemmings die just cause I wanted to teach em' how to stand up for themselves!"

"Lord Lyle." Rudy muttered his eyes in wonder and admiration. "You truly DO care!"

"Well, no shit! I didn't go out of my way to keep orcs from killing the villagers only to give these smug, bathwater-sipping tin heads the pleasure! Don't try and convince me otherwise, lady, I ain't budgin' on this!

The woman closed her eyes and let out air through her nose. "Need I remind you, boy…the more time we go around acting as the saviors the knights claim themselves to be, the greater chance you have at losing everything at Blackstone Post?"

"Look, it'll be a quick detour! We go in, get everyone to get the fuck out, grab Kemmler's Grimoire, and THEN we go to Blackstone Post, and…ah dammit, we gotta also bail Ave out too. So we go find he-

"YOU HID THE GRIMOIRE AT THE VILLAGE!?" The woman shrieked with bug-wide eyes, with her voice becoming shrill. "What possessed that inane mind of yours to do something like that!?"

"I was getting cornered by the knights, the fuck you want me to do? Let THEM find it!?"

Sybille looked like she wanted to shriek some more, only to put her fingers to her temples and massage them slowly. "I'm not going to lose my temper. It's unhealthy at my age, ESPECIALLY at my age." Inhaling sharply for a moment, Sybille centered herself before glaring at Lyle. "Very well. To Riffen we go."

"Glad to hear it. Now can we hurry up with your plan, we're burnin' daylight!"

"Indeed. Have no choice now, don't we." Sybille glared, shaking her head. "If those knights find the Grimoire and destroy it, it would be disastrous for not just you but the Barrow Legion." She then turned away from Lyle and the door and further inward into the deeper part of the pit. "Well, don't just stand there gawking about. You've heard more than enough, haven't you? Time for you to play your part, rodent!"

The figure shuffled almost awkwardly behind the bones it was hiding behind, with Lyle making a perturbed look at Sybille. "Hey now, I know that we're in a high-strung situation here, but no need to resort to name-calling here, Sybille. I mean, what'd he do to you? Forget to take a bath like everyone else in this country?"

"Hardly. But, we need him to retrieve something of mine in this castle, and much like your Grimoire, I'd rather not leave without it."

"Aight, but the least you can do is be a bit kinder to our fellow cell mate by not callin' him a rat. I mean, where I come from, that's one of the lowest things you can do, especially wheee…"

Lyle trailed off as the cellmate shuffled forward, almost shily coming to the torchlight, revealing their form. It was an almost hunchbacked-looking creature that had the form of a literal rat. Its fur was a thick dark black with scars coming up and down its long tail. Silken-like rags hung onto its body as its beady red eyes darted furtively from the door to the other occupants of the room.

The moment Lyle's eyes gazed upon this creature, he felt his heart rate climb up to a level it usually wasn't used to. His palms become sweaty, his knees weakened, and his tongue drying. His lungs found themselves short of breath as he tried to mentally comprehend what he was looking at.

Seeing the undead? Please. He hardly blinked at the anatomy classes at school. Seeing beastmen? Strange but nothing bloodcurdling. Orcs and goblins? Personally, he found Tokein's version of Lord of the Rings more visibly terrifying.

This, however? What he was looking at right now?

"So we can leave-leave?" The deep voice called from the rat. "Finally-at last. Took long enough witch man-thi-

"FUCKING KILL IT WITH FIRE!"

…

"You…you want me to raze your village?" Gerome asked slowly, making sure that he had heard correctly.

Bastien's smile never left his face when he made such a request. It was something surprising to hear from the man who had captured Lyle Spolletta not too long ago, especially considering the other…ears that were present.

They were within the Solar of Duke Bohemond, but the longer he had spent within Castle Bastonne, the more landless lord began to realize that it wasn't truly the room for the lord of the castle.

Standing to the left was a gloomy-looking man with bags under his eyes and a plaid expression, documents in one hand and a quill in the other. He looked tired of being there with his worn-out overcoat, graying brown hair, and disgruntled disposition.

The second man was sitting at a desk where Gerome was sure Bohemond would surely be sitting, especially since this was HIS Solar. The man seemed much more upbeat, sitting upright with his hands folded as Lord Bastien stood next to him with a knowing look on his face as if he understood some sort of joke that only those who first entered the room were privy to.

It was the last man, furthest to Gerome's right, that convinced him to keep a finger on his sword pommel.

He had to be an Estalian or maybe someone from Tilea. Gerome had never truly been that far south in Bretonnia, so he wasn't entirely sure, but he was clearly someone from the southern kingdoms, from the way he dressed in his poofy attire and bright colors and southern accent, one could mistake him for another one of the many merchant princes that dwelled beneath Carcassonne.

Yet the battle senses of the landless knight set his hair on edge, and his mind screamed to keep this man in the corner of his vision if nothing else, especially with the way he was smiling.

Finally, Bastien addressed his question after what seemed to be an eternity. "It's a shame, but it must be done. If my village has turned traitor to a necromancer, then drastic measures must be taken, wouldn't you agree?"

"Perhaps." Gerome hedged, feeling unnerved at the direction of this conversation. "Don't get me wrong, Lord Bastien, I understand your position, but…why not just execute the ringleaders? Did you not have one of them with that girl who frolicked with Bertrand's Brigands? Was she not one of the revolt's leaders?"

"Oh, the girl will be dealt with in time?" Bastien declared offhandedly with a wave of his hand. "But, malformed peasants who told me the truth were very explicit in their detail. All of their ilk in Riffen were on board with the Revolt. To allow even one wild oat to remain uncut could be poison to the rest of us. I'm afraid something such as this cannot be suffered here."

It was still odd to request of him, especially to him, a lord from Artois. Back home, even if the peasants were feeling mutinous, you made sure to spare as many valuable peasants as possible to stop revolts by killing those most responsible, hanging them from gibbets as an example to the rest. The reason for this was that in Artois, having as many hands as possible was crucial for the day-to-day work that needed to be done, especially for settlements within the forests of Artois to defend against beastmen incursions or forest goblins that got particularly bold.

Perhaps Bastonians didn't have as dire a security problem as Gerome's people. Or maybe they were arrogant enough to believe they didn't need such a surplus of the peasantry. Either way, even while Gerome didn't have the highest opinion on the lower class of his country, this whole arrangement still sat ill with him.

"Still though…" Gerome began, still hedging for information. "If I truly raze your village root and stem, won't you be as landless as I am?"

"Hardly an issue. In truth, the village of Riffen has little to offer me personally besides a supply of fertilizer. It's very fortunate for me…" The man began with a smirk, looking toward the man sitting at Bohemond's table. "After all. It just so happens that I'm in line to inherit the town of Nanres. A shame what happened to my uncle recently. To think that his horse would fall on him with such weight." He shook his head and put on a sorrowful face, which in Gerome's private opinion, looked about as false as a vampire's kindness. "Richaud, my friend. Wouldn't you agree that such a thing is truly unfortunate?"

The man sitting at the table nodded amiably. "Indeed, Bastien, indeed. Truly your uncle was a paragon of what a knight should aspire to be, much like your father."

"At least." The lord of Riffen wiped at his cheek as if to wipe away a non-existent tear. "At least those two now have each other in the embrace of the Lady."

Richaud dipped his head in respect. "I couldn't agree more."

Gerome couldn't help but be curious as to the reactions of the other two occupants of this room toward this…display, this…what was clearly some play a theatre. The depressed-looking man looked as dour as ever, but Gerome could swear that he seemed to be holding his documents ever so more tightly. The pompous southern man on the right, however, was holding a hand to his mouth and looking away, unable to hide the grin forming on his face entirely but not altogether bothered at being caught.

If my wife was here, she would see what I cannot. Something about this beyond slaughtering peasants sits ill with me, but she was always the more politically minded of us…but I cannot be distracted by such theater, even if it reeks as vile as a Nurgle worshiper.

"You have my…condolences Lord Bastien truly. With that in mind, I'm sure suffering such loss is precisely why you said you had a solution to my dilemma…correct?"

"But, of course, lord Gerome! I would love nothing more than to assist in rescuing your family and those that suffer under the heel of those wretched necromancers! While I'm sure you've heard my liege lord proclaim his aims to siege and raze Blackstone Post till' not a stone of its namesake remains, you'll find that Castellain Richaud here can be quite…persuasive when need be."

Gerome couldn't quite hide his skepticism. "Truly?"

Richaud, seeing and hearing said skepticism, smiled knowingly, leaning forward on the desk. "Duke Bohemond is a true follower of the Lady. A paragon of virtue, a grail knight through and through. Some are even bold enough to say that he is the greatest warrior to walk the land since Gilles Le Breton. So mighty is he when it comes to his martial prowess and culling the land that soil the Lady's earth that it leaves little time for him to tend to…stately matters. Matters that he implicitly trusts me with to ensure that he may pursue all of his dynamic endeavors with his usual righteous fervor." The older man looked rather proud of himself as he declared this, smiling with the assurance that not even money could buy. "If he…well NEEDS to have traitors executed, he leaves it up to me to find them and ensure they hang from a gibbet by sundown. If taxes need to be combed over, he leaves to my studious eye…if he perhaps needs to be convinced on where the army should go to please his vassals and ensure the standing of his families security… he's more than willing to weigh my words with care."

The picture that was being painted suddenly began to form more clearly to the landless lord, who was becoming increasingly uncomfortable yet understanding of the situation. "I…I see…and if the village of Riffen were to no longer…exist."

"Then to Gisoreux, we go!" Richaud finished with a nod.

"I…I understand, but…why me? Why not simply handle your own village by yourself, lord Bastien? Unlike me, you have men that can follow your orders, including your own household knights and retainers."

"Because it would not be legal." The dour man to the left answered. "Bastonnian customs dictate that in order to sufficiently punish those who incite rebellion, as you mentioned, the ring leaders must drawn and quartered with knights conducting an investigation as to how far said rebellion has reached. Only then can the village be…culled after proof is found...at least Bastonne."

Bastien sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "The man has it, of course. Culling them is not the problem, Lord Gerome, it is a matter of speed, and while the village would receive its due justice in time, I would prefer not to wait any longer than necessary to do what needs to be done. Especially since, in your case, you have no such time, as by the time we've taken the care to finish the investigation to see 'how far rebellion has spread,' the army will be besieging Blackstone Post."

Leaving my family's fate up to the mercy of the Lady. Now it was that Gerome realized that he truly had no choice in this matter and that his next words were inevitable, if not final. "What…what exactly must i do?"

"You'll be leading a group of riders. Trustworthy riders to ensure that what must be done is done, and quickly." Richaud declared, sounding all business. "The most important thing is that you will be provided dark colors to conceal your identity to make sure no blame is cast on you or us, and to, above all, make sure nobody lives to leave this village…without leaving in a cage."

"...c-cage?" Now Gerome was confused again. Why would they need prisoners? Weren't they just going to kill everyone anyways?

"Shall we enlighten the good knight on what he's truly going to be doing?" The pompous southerner to the right said with a grin as he twirled his mustache. "Good heavens, even I don't enjoy stringing clients along as much as you enjoy stringing along your own!"

Gerome couldn't help but glare at the man who was far too boisterous for his tastes. "Will somebody tell me what the purpose of this foreigner being here serves?"

The foreigner bowed mockingly. "Alberto at your service, my landless lord."

Gerome bristled visibly. "You da-

"Come now, Alberto let us not be cruel to Gerome when he has offered to lend us his aid." Bastien chastened with a smile. "He's practically already agreed thus far."

"Just so, I cannot help myself when the time arises. To answer the question that I'm sure is forming on your lips, Lord Gerome. Yes, you'll be helping put at least half the villagers in Riffen in cages that my men have specially prepared for such a magnificent and carnage-filled occasion! After all, Lord Bastien gaining new and more profitable land is one thing, but filling my pockets by selling unwanted serfs to Drucci slavers is another matter entirely! We want everyone to profit, including yourself, from this arrangement!"

Even as the words were uttered, Gerome couldn't quite comprehend what he had just heard. The landless lord felt his head become almost light. Too light as this smug southern mustached man just gleefully admitted to being part of one of the worst crimes that you commit against your fellow man within the Old World…and even worse, that apparently, Bretonnian Lords were partaking.

No. It was too outrageous. Too outlandish, by THE LADY, it was outright heretical! Unchivalrous in every fiber of the idea. He must have misheard. Perhaps he misconstrued that southern accent somewhere down whatever he was saying.

Yes. He must have misheard. He had to have misheard. There's-

"I told you to tell him once he was already on the way to Riffen, not to just hurl it like a javelin at him." Bastien admonished with a small frown.

Gerome felt his stomach sink. "Wh…Lord Bastien, wh-what are you…"

"We're trying to turn a profit, as was mentioned earlier, Lord Gerome." Alberto winked, reveling in the shock and horror the landless Artois lord was going through. "And what better way to turn a profit than to turn to one of the most lucrative trades that has existed before the Empire or Bretonnia? Flesh Peddling across the sea!"

Gerome whipped his head to the other three men in the room, eyes wide and mouth agape as if trying and hoping in vain that this was some poor jest made to further break the ice from these already dirty dealings.

Sadly it was just that. A vain hope, as Richaud would prove. "I'm afraid that this is no jest, my lord. But, with that in mind, don't think of it as selling peasants into slavery. Not truly. Think of it as giving traitors the punishment that they rightly deserve! At the very least, we can make a profit off of their skullduggery-

"That does it make it any less chivalrous!" Gerome found himself screaming, his face going red at the indignity of it all. It was simply too much for him to handle, especially with the stress he had been experiencing up until that point. "Traitor or no, to put people into chains, OUR people to those…to call the dark elves heathens is too kind it's… It's-

"What you'll have to do if you want what is best for your family…that is if you care for your family."

Gerome glared hatefully at Alberto, his right hand now tightly wrapped around his pommel. "Watch your tongue, you flesh-peddling mongrel! Insult my chivalry and the love I have for my family at your own peril!"

"That will be quite enough of that." Richaud said, his amusement now gone. "Alberto. Do us all a favor and only speak when necessary. I'd like to have this deal hammered out without unnecessary bloodshed."

Gerome's hateful gaze then turned to the Castilian, his voice incredulous. "Does Bohemond know what you cavort with and what you do with the peasantry? That the man that he trusts to run his household knows only Tyranny and hypocrisy! You're only proving Lyle Spoletta right with this kind of conduct, damn you!"

Richaud stared evenly back at Gerome, not at all moved by the unsaid threat in the landless lords words. "It is as I said. I do what is necessary to assist Lord Bohemond in running the realm since he has shown little interest in doing so himself, even as a little boy. Oh, I've no doubt that someone like you with such a great deal of vaunted…honor would be tempted to tell my Duke what you have heard here, but do ask yourself this, Lord Gerome…what is Bohemond more likely to entertain? The word of a landless knight who has abandoned his family, his friends, knights, and liege lord to the undead with his tail tucked firmly between his buttocks? Or the Castellan, who has essentially become a second father in his estimations. You don't seem like a foolish man, especially since you've survived this far in spite of all the misfortune that has befallen you. I'm sure you can come to your own conclusions."

Gerome wanted to rage. To draw his sword and cut down every single vile man-no, cretin within the room, especially as he saw the smug and knowing looks of Alberto and Bastien. So smug were they that Gerome knew what they knew.

They knew what he wanted to do in that instance, and yet that he could not. It was as they had said.

He valued his family too much. To lose them was to lose himself.

Gritting his teeth, the Artois lord looked down to the floor in shame. "Why…why me? Why do you even need me, surely your brigands to accomplish what you require without myself? Why come to me?"

"To see if you're trustworthy of course." Bastien smiled. "We'll need to see if that trust is well-placed once we've helped you retake Gisoreux so that we may all…profit from one another."

"Wh…what do you-

"What he means…" Richaud began diplomatically with an oily smile. "Is that Gisoreux is quite an important trade hub in Northern Brettonia. We could use a contact like yourself when we're conducting future business with one another, especially through our mutual friend here, Alberto."

All too happy to reinsert himself into the conversation, Alberto bowed again. "Contacts like you are a rare find these days. I have much cargo I would love to move through your city, far too much for someone not as well bred as you to count. Animals, food, weapons…people. And even better, you can make a great deal of profit from this like so many who have this opportunity."

I've fallen into a pit of vipers. Gerome realized too late as if finally seeing through the fog of intrigue that had now ensnared him. Oh, my dear wife…my daughter. I pray you never know what I must do now…for knowing that the Lady will now be aware is too heavy of a weight on my soul even now.

He could back out, perhaps, but he knew the danger in this. If someone like Alberto before him had the connections to smuggle Brettonian peasants out west to the drucci, he could easily arrange to have him assassinated…or worse…someone in his family. Even then, Richaud could easily delay retaking Gisoreux, perhaps even convince Bohemond against the idea entirely, especially since it would be in Artois and not Bastonne, therefore not his responsibility. Anything could happen, and the landless lord simply couldn't handle so much uncertainty, not when it involved those that he cared about.

"When…when do we leave?"

"Now, preferably," Richaud admitted with a smile. "We knew you'd see sense, my lord, which is why Alberto's men will be waiting out beside the royal stables with your new colors and horse. We'd of course, hate for your name to sullied in such skullduggery of course."

Again, Gerome was tempted to draw his sword. It would be so easy with their guard down. It would be so simple and straightforward, just the way he preferred it. Yet to his shame and hatred for his own weakness, the Artois Lord turned on his heel and moved to the door.

Sadly it wasn't fast enough to avoid hearing what Alberto uttered next. "Do take care to ensure that you reign in your blade from butchering children and those who are of a younger stock, my landless lord! My drucci friends appreciate them the most with how easy they are to break in! Oh, and women too! Many women like that Ave girl, those ugly peasants are enjoying! The more, the merrier, yes?

A/N: With every successful institution, whether your merchant lord, or a knight, there's always going to be bad apples that can seriously spoil the bunch. Add someone as opportunistic as our favorite southerner Alberto here and that spoiled bunch and bring horrible consequences.

On a side note, I woulda finished this chapter sooner, but I've been caught helping my parents move into a new house, which has been a bitch and a half. I'm honestly impressed they can afford one considering we live in California, but hey, more power to them. When things calm down I can hopefully invest more time into this fic as much as I invest into my book.

Please leave a review, telling me what you think, and enjoy your summer, for those who may still be hitting the books!