Stars hide from the city below, leaving the sky a blanket of murky black, only punctuated by the misty countenance of the moon shining down - itself obscured by the clouds above. The city, though lacking the usual thrum of activity in its twilight, is by no means silent nor pitch dark. Redault is, after all, home to innumerable unscrupulous groups, and individuals of low moral standards for whom sunset replaces sunrise.

Mercifully, from the tall, vaulted window of the guest bedroom provided to the Lantessa, the worst of them cannot be heard. No brothel mistress, publican or drunken street tough would dream of rousing the anger of a Clait by disturbing their rest at this hour no matter how brave, stupid or inebriated. Fear of the Claits is old and deeply ingrained in the city's population regardless of social class and profession. The Duchne may be the King's representative and the one given the right to rule this squalid hive - but the true power of rule has been in the hands of the Claits for decades before she was even born.

This difference in power is best demonstrated by the bawdy songs sung by bards that depict the Duchne as a two brass Nonne strumpet who has to present her 'commodities' to a Clait enforcer every time she wishes to do so much as leave her estate. Such ditties would never feature a prominent member of a Clait in a negative light.

Ulrissa can't help but shudder at the thought of being reduced to such measures to retain her position. The very notion of it is utterly sickening, but with things as they stand, a very real and present danger. The planned massacre of that village of inbreds was bothersome enough to agree to without her pride and dignity being at stake.

She is keenly aware that the Dost has as much sway over her own actions now as he does the Duchne. At least for the duration of their...'business partnership', as the Dost put it. Likely beyond the acquisition of her birthright if he has any say in the matter, too.

The terms for the new deal were already decided upon through a mixture of desperate negotiation and high-handed decrees from Yprus. The only thing left now was to agree to it or pay a different price altogether, and watch as her venerable Ancestors' achievements go to waste. To say nothing of the further reaching consequences of failure to secure a trade route with the elves.

Ulrissa itched to sic her beloved Prime Blade upon the decrepit old vulture and wash her hands of his smug filth. An 11th level Swordsman is more than excessive a solution for a single impertinent merchant family. The guards were no doubt competent, but against the might of an expert Advanced Class holder, such menial opposition means little with so few. Even now, she wishes for the comfort of his brightly charming smile. But such a thing would be wildly inappropriate at this time of night, and her Uncle would definitely disapprove of such impropriety.

It stung to be still considered a pure and innocent child to be protected and patronised, but with no achievements worthy of her title, how could her family expect anything more from her?

In the end, just as the Dost so arrogantly declared, her family needed Dwast Clait far more than the Clait needed her family. By no means an ideal situation to be in, but what was she to do? Ulrissa had no part in any of this scheme before now, and thus the responsibility for any leaks or mistakes was on her father and uncle. Their subordinates too, by extension.

But now, at the end of it all, the decision to take the wretched old man's deal in spite of it fell to her. Which meant those mistakes would also become hers. Along with any punishment her elders saw fit to hand down, regardless of whether she was truly at fault.

Yet, again, what could she do but accept this Djinnit's Deal, and ownership of that filthy mongrel with dyed hair they presumably stole away from some low-class brothel?

Nothing.

Across the country, in the master bedroom of a small wood-built cabin, Walther sits on the edge of the two-person bed struggling to take off his trousers without hurting his leg. The pain medication given to him earlier has started to fade away, revealing the sharp edge of burning agony. The brief sprint towards his son in the late afternoon didn't do him any favours in this regard, and if not for the durability of Ironsilk, he might have burst a few of his stitches. As it stood, the sharp thread just opened a few of the punctured areas a little further.

The room is fairly claustrophobic despite the title. With most of the space dominated by the bed with little room to move around it. The only other piece of furniture is a tall chest of drawers carved from Oak. Though Klennockwood would certainly be more plentiful as a resource given the adjacent forest's abundance of it, as a material it is difficult to acquire and harder still to work into items and furnishings. The hardness and lustre of the finished product does, however, make it a desirable material for high-end carpenters and the wealthy, so any collected timber is usually reserved for sale instead of use. Albeit at a fraction of its true value.

With the rates as they are, providing for his family was becoming increasingly difficult. Changes in market value and other variables beyond the simple Woodsman's understanding have lowered the price he has been able to sell 4 trees worth of lumber from 1 Quartz Nonne, to a paltry 3 Iron and 12 Bronze Nonne in the past 20 years. The simple truth being that the merchants at the other end of the chain were becoming less willing to pay a fair price for the valuable Klennockwood every year for the sake of their own profits. Whether because of greed or a change in the market price of the lumber, it was difficult to say.

In a twisted way, his son's decision to leave home early was a relief. Supporting two on a bootstrap budget is naturally easier than supporting three on the same income. Without training in a different trade, he couldn't be relied upon for stable additional funds. Maybe the folks in the village would pay for odd-jobs, but that's no way to make a living.

Walther grimaces. It's shameful to think of your own kin as a burden, especially a good lad like Nealan, but as the man of the house and the one bringing the dragon's share of Nonne, the responsibility of managing finances falls to him, and even the unpleasant business of encouraging his son to find path of his own, is necessary for the family's survival.

Whether Nealan stayed to increase the yield of lumber or left to pursue his dreams of adventure, the family would live on. The boy didn't want to feel his folks were a burden to him, either, ironically. Walther almost choked up hearing that. Fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, as the saying goes.

The door opens slowly and quietly, just enough to allow Yvette, now wearing an old linen nightgown to slip through and shut it behind her noiselessly. Seeing the consternation on her husband face, she frowns.

"How is he?" Walther asks.

Yvette laughs briefly, "Fast asleep. Like he ain't aged a day since he was born. Now, what's eating you, you old fool?"

Walther smirks, self-deprecating, "A dirolft was this afternoon now you mention it."

She swats his head half-heartedly, "Don't give me that, my patience is wafer-thin. It's about him leaving tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yeah and no," Walther sighs, finally managing to tug his trousers off with a pained grunt, "Just fomenting over some unpleasant truths. Makes me question whether I'm doing right by the family, thinking that way, it does."

Yvette bites her lip, "It's about the money isn't it?"

Ashamed, her husband glances away, "Aye. I don't know if I can get the delivery after the next one like this. Thank Tula for my fastidiousness that I already sent the next batch of logs over to old Woody, so we're...probably fine for a few months. Problem is, I don't know if Nealan leaving helps or hurts us. We could use the hand but unless the price of Klennockwood goes up we might not be able to feed another mouth. And it sickens me to admit that about our boy."

Sitting on the bed next to her husband, Yvette sighs, only to smile up at him, "He really does take after you, doesn't he? Always feel like it's your responsibility to do everything all the time, no need for others to budge in. A stubborn old fool and his reckless brat of a son."

She brushes her fingertips over his wounded leg, the smile turning lopsided, "Idiots, both of you."

Standing up, Yvette walks around to the opposite side of the bed and slides beneath the thin blanket, "I dearly want him to stay, even if it's a few days longer, but I doubt he'd listen to me. I understand, though. Family is all we have, and you both want to protect it, however you may."

Sinking further into the bed, Yvette's exasperated sigh turns into a yawn, "Always too serious for your own good, you two."

Walther grimaces, lifting his injured leg with his hands onto the bed and entering beneath the covers alongside her. Shifting a little to a position that's more comfortable, and rubbing his tired old eyes, "You're taking this a lot calmer than I thought you would after everything this afternoon."

"Mm. Too tired to keep it up. And the more time passes the less reason I find to stay vexed. Though that doesn't mean I'm not going to give Daurn a piece of my mind the next time I see him, I can assure you of that. He doesn't get to order my boy around to deal with problems best left to the militia without my say-so," She grumbles into the sheets.

Walther laughs, snaking an arm over to brush his wife's hair out her face, "Now that sounds more like the woman I gave my vows to. Your moping face may be adorable, but your fury is a raw beauty no bard can do justice."

As if demonstrating his point, she kicks his leg out of embarrassment, realising it's wounded a fraction of a second too late. Walther sucks a sharp breath in through clenched teeth, "Oi, oi, be gentle. It's still tender, y'know?"

Unwilling to admit fault despite the guilty tone of voice, Yvette huffs, turning her back to him, "Sleep it off."

Shaking his head ruefully, Walther closes his eyes, "I plan to. Still...I hope everything works out for our boy. If what he and Daurn suspect is the truth, he's going to be in more danger than he's ever known. You don't go huntin' for a Lancefly hive and expect t'come away unstung when you stick your arm in it's hidey-hole."

For several minutes, his wife remains silent. Rolling onto her back once more, she cocks her head while staring at the ceiling, "I worry too. Almost as much for what it will mean for us and the village if it is. He's still so young."

"Aye. In the end, all we can do is pray to Tula for his safe return."

"Y'don't pray to Tula for such matters you old fool. It's Tumal, her brother. Why do you always get them mixed up?"

"...Go to sleep, m'love."

"Fool."

Scraps of linen scatter as a man jolts awake, screaming in pain and abject horror, both hands clutching fiercely to his burn disfigured face, eyes bulging between fingers. The night is still young, but the sickeningly oily smell of damp, rotting rubbish permeates the ruined smalltown hovel, making a return to slumber a challenging prospect when nothing but nightmarish memories await him. Sleep first came with the aid of cheap hooch, but the clay container lies discarded and empty. In his socks he has but a few small coins left, which won't cover the cost of a refill, even if the landlord of The Jester's Jollies were feeling charitable enough to give him a second round at the discounted price he bought the first in exchange for hauling away and dumping some rotten mead into the town's moat.

For the paupers and the disgraced, even being able to live in this squalid ruin is a luxury in the Santocracy of Suld. With no achievements to your family's name or recent deeds to your own, you were considered no better than a parasite upon the wealth of the successful, and a phage upon the efforts of the earnestly industrious.

Such unfortunate souls are expected to quietly disappear into the dead of night and never return to the land of the living. To even leave your corpse behind is considered an insult to the pride of the town's caretakers hard work. To not only waste your life, but the time of the successful after your death? Utterly disgraceful. Reprehensibly arrogant.

Such thoughts swirl the ugly man's mind, torturing him in their unceasing, cacophonous babble. Self-loathing pervades every fibre of his being as he hunches over, grabbing at the filthy, torn rags that formed his makeshift blanket.

But in short order, the hatred dissipates, and in his eyes is left the smouldering embers of ambition.

"By my name, by my pride, I swear I will achieve deeds meritorious. By those deeds, I will claim the happiness, wealth and respect I deserve. The very things those bastards claimed through abuse of old power, I will make anew for my sake, through my own sweat and blood."

Deformed, filthy, freezing and emotionally broken, the man swears thus to the gods, to the decaying corpses of rats, and the world.