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You touch the slightly damp stone walls of your cell, mourning the loss of spells which could have blown them apart, or turned them into butter, or at least made them a little less damp. It still makes you bristle. Perfect virginity for seventy-three years, and the lord's daughter accuses you of indecency!
First of all, you were not spying. Spying implies subterfuge. You were sitting naked at the bottom of the tub, attempting a spell of water-breathing, when Maryellene, the spoiled baby of the lord's brood, had decided to come in and bathe. She had slipped in so quickly, and you were so absorbed in your own meditations, that you had not even noticed her until her slender foot had savagely found the back of your head, at which point she had run off screaming bloody murder before you could express that you had seen nothing of consequence (not entirely accurate).
Her maidservant had then dragged you (by the ear) to the chambers of your master, Sir Guillame, eldest of the Merovin clan, second in authority only to the lord himself, and doting brother to Maryellene. One sided explanations were conveyed, witnesses produced, testimony corroborated, pleas of innocence and misunderstanding swiftly ignored, and the suffering of indefensible humiliation by a young maiden established (nevermind that you were paraded sopping wet and naked through the castle). In short, you were to be detained.
Detained without dinner, you might add, which the softhearted chatelaine found so harsh a punishment she had come down an hour ago to sneak you a loaf of fresh bread. You had, of course, refused. What is a single night without vittles to the memory of forty days fasting beneath the red desert moons? Then, your austerities had opened your sight to the realm of the changelings, demons of fire and light, secret beings without a fixed face or form. Now, you merely feel your stomach grumble, and a damnable craving for a bit of apple tart. Curse this childish body!
You are finally released in the morning, only to be brought before the lord himself, freshly returned from his trip to the city, while he takes his breakfast. This is your first encounter with the man. You've heard that Lord Merovin earned the epithet of "Bear" when he was a young man for his great size and taste for honey-cakes. He seems to have only grown into the moniker with age, still hirsute, and with seemingly no loss of appetite or strength despite the passage of thirty years since he acquired the appellation. The other half-dozen or so squires are there as well. As is Maryellene, suddenly paused in her needlework. They wouldn't miss this for the world.
"Have you anything to say?" the lord asks, popping a grape into his mouth.
>Keep silent. It's doubtful the apple falls far from the tree.
>Proclaim your innocence. It was a misunderstanding.
>Confess. Yes, you were peeping. Sadly, you saw nothing of interest.
>Write-in
