>>5959339“You’re sure it’ll arrive at the right place?” you ask.
Izzy looks almost offended, and you hold up your hands placatingly. Her dour expression melts into a smore sympathetic one and, almsots hyly, she leans forwards to cup your cheek and kiss your lips.
“<Teleport Object>.”
The letter vanishes. Your stomach knots itself. You take a deep breath in, close your eyes, and breathe out—and old meditation technique from an Oriental book which you and Izzy had once read, as children.
“Let’s go,” you say. “The Thief should be returning soon."
You, your girlfriends, and your familiars descend from your treehouse accommodations to the forest floor of Iternagreyn in small groups, during holes in patrol. There, you find Oncyth is already waiting; poor Pearce ahs been tasked with wrangling the Unknowable Prince, who cannot emerge without immediately attracting attention from the elven guards. First, thoguh, you must meet with representative of that unwholesome Unseelie Court… And sure enough, no sooner are you all gathered than they emerge. Either your timing is impeccable—or, perhaps, The Thief and his eerie allies were waiting for you to finish.
There are two of them, both male by your estimation, accompanying The Thief. They have the greyish pallor and opaque, black eyes which is their signature—though, you now know, they come by them honestly, for these are also the hidden features you saw upon the face of Princess Yllarquin of the Three-Quarter Moon. They wear rough hides and stolen, tattered fabrics. And have shaggy fur boas which seem to melt into the cloaks about their backs, and the hair upon their heads, and which you know to in fact be wings, moth or owl-like. They stand at half your height, with arms too long and four-fingered hands. When they open their mouths, their teeth are poorly-aligned, yellowed pegs, but sharp and numerous.
“Well well well,” says one of them in their harsh dialect of elventongue, “if it isn’t the kinslayer.”
You bite back a reply that they are ones to talk, instead saying: “What happened in Dappulyet—in defence and in the honourable duel—is behind us.”
“That the one what et Grinwellie?” asks the other Unseelie Fey, gesturing to Oncyth.
The werewolf growls, a low and rumbling sound that doesn’t match his current visage, and the Unseelie shrink back into shadows. You give him a pointed look, and he stops.
