Ça fait un bout de temps

Title: Ça fait un bout de temps
Time Period: June 29, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: When a cordial visit turns into a creature feature, Dina Ross sends the Hermetics packing.

They first send a herald. Not a mere messenger- that would insult both the dark haired man with the otter-out-of-water familiar who carries the missive, and the residents of the manner to whom it is delivered. He is a member of the delegation, inquiring after an audience with the recipient of their letter, a honored personage they are taken to understand. Despite its being delivered to Duncan, and Dina’s possession a matter of contingent circumstance, they are not making a misattribution. It is Dina Ross that the delegation wishes to speak to, in recognition of her peerless standing in the community, her authority on the matter of their concern, and her repute for wisdom and virtue.

The actual message Septimus delivers uses more, not less, complimentary language. It is difficult to tell if this is insincere flattery, or sincere formality, or some strange balance. In any case, it’s a difficult request to refuse, especially with matters as they are: the docks more lively for the foreign sailors, and the Rowntrees giving them room in the castle. And in an age where word of the outside world comes thrice in a year, and then rarely much further than Dover or Calais, travellers from past Gibraltar are an object of at least some interest.

And they do make a peculiar little band when they do arrive, just about on time. The way is led by the somber-clothed Octavia who passes her stave from hand to hand with every thirteenth step, a sort of nervous gesture perhaps - her eyes are so watchful it would stand to reason, and her familiar has assumed the aspect of a toad with a particularly noxious green-yellow color. Behind her is d’Sadonne, looking a bit more pulled together, hair marshalled into a bun which is secured with two long needles; her familiar - for she must have one - is still nowhere to be seen.

Bringing up the rearguard is an imposing figure covered from head to toe in armor, a doubly doomed decision during a Scottish summer, where the sun either beats down or rain falls and you rust. His steps are lumbering, but not slow. He seems to move with effort rather than difficulty.

Sincere or insincere flattery are par for the course when it comes to diplomacy and always filled with double edged swords. How does that southern joke go? A proper lady goes to charm school to learn to say 'That's Nice' when they really mean 'Fuck You'. But the intent behind the letter was recognized. Either way.

So it's little surprise that everyone here at the mansion is in their best uniforms and an extra layer of polish on the furniture in the room that Octavia and her expensive steel can are escorted to. Meant for accepting visitors, with it's good furniture, refreshments laid out, and light coming in, it's not that hard to see that this is indeed one of the houses of the higher class in Dornie.

What isn't hard to see is no Dina as they deposited there. Doesn't mean they're alone though and it's a good few minutes before she does arrive. Simple skirt with it's embroidered hem, simple blouse and earrings, hair as well in a bun. That's not to say that Dina looks simple. It's in the details. The colors. Purple is a hard dye to get a hold of and precious in it's use. Her own bodyguard looms behind her and to the left as the woman with her ivory handled can carefully makes her way into the room, letting Greets The Sun, hidden in the room, filter observations to her. Addler, nowhere to be seen.

Septimus joins up with the group in an antechamber, completing their party. Boards creak conspicuously as the armored man marks the end of their train through the house and into the sitting room - one wonders if they had to lower him off the ship by pully. Octavia enters first, then Septimus, and each steps to one side of the door, as if taking post. The effect is purposeful. Flanked as she is, this allows d’Sadonne to enter the room. The parlour drama stage trick has a distinctly Continental flavor and if d’Sadonne were not also quite simply dressed - a dress of white cotton and a pale green shawl - the effect might border on ridiculous, in contrast to the modest dignity of the Ross matriach.

Pourpre,” is the first thing d’Sadonne exclaims- her eye has caught on Dina’s skirt, “so rich! As fine as Tyrian-” her upper teeth flash in a smile, all conspiracy, “-you aim to impress, surely? Or are you really so nonchalant?” Under cover of this sudden informality, the man in armor moves as discreetly as he can into the room.

Trim this. Dig here. What are you doing. Those are weeds.

Days spent start to finish stooped in the garden run together in grimy streams, muddying the passage of time. It rains a lot in Dornie.

Today it's dry, sun beating at the back of a shirt that was probably white, once upon a time. The earth holds moisture from yesterday in black under the turn of his trowel, clumping dirt together and glistening across the ends of worms on the retreat. Another dig sees the same fat end twisting away again. Another — bisects the worm into uneven halves.

Long face frozen in an uneasy blank, Flint watches the separated ass end flick and twist a moment before covering it back over. A guilty glance across his shoulder yields no suspicion on the part of his fellow gardeners.

He's safe to reach for and twist against the clump of weed growth he was originally after.

No one else could hear it. Deckard barely does. A ghost of a sound, like muffling without a thing being muffled. A night noise. And then, upon the upright handle of a spade sunk in the dirt just yards away, two round, blue, reproachful eyes judging him from within a doleful mask of white feathers. In the direct sun, the owl’s white wing seems almost luminous.

French. Dina doesn't much care for them. Her hand settles more comfortable around the handle of the cane with measured steps into the room proper to take in the woman and her men. "The male peacock, something that many here have never seen, is a flashy audacious thing, walking around, putting his wealth on display." Her accent differing from that of the locals. Welsh. "It's the female though that is more impressive. SMaller in stature, all shades of white. The same patterns but so subtle that one must sit and wait, to see it. Once need not be dressed up is flashy baubles to impress. Sometimes, less, is more."

There's a gesture for the woman to sit on the the dainty sofa's that make up the direct area around the tray with it's tea and alcohol, bite sized foods. "I care not for pretentiousness. This is Dornie. We live, and we die by our actions. By our people. But I indulge my vanity just a fraction. I am sure that you understand. Please, be seated"

Prétention? Never!” A fever upon the mind who’d think it. d’Sadonne glides over to the couch upon Dina’s invitation, taking a rather comfortable sit, hands coming to rest on her knee. “A man will swell up like a toad, then forget he is only full of air. A woman knows to be always equal to herself- if she has sense in her head.”

Octavia’s own amphibian familiar gives a small croak of protest, earning him a glare from his own mage. Septimus is apparently sizing up the bodyguard, though his investigations always so much less unfriendly then Octavia’s. d’Sadonne takes a moment to pour herself some tea, which she sips but once before moving right on to business.

“Our letter was meant to find the one who’d be able to help us most,” d’Sadonne says, “the travelling god must have overseen its journey personally- you are just she.” More flattery? Perhaps. But also fact. “This man in your employ, he washed up from a wreck, yes?”

d’Sadonne’s brows cant upwards, her expression plaintive all at one. “Could you fetch him? Our concern is his concern-” she halts herself, “no- forgive me- I misspeak. He is our concern.”

Deckard pauses mid-reach at the sound, second-guessing that he's heard it at all until he cranes his crouch around again to have a look. And there's the owl.

His own blue eyes are desaturated by the sun, washed pale and grey and guarded once the hairs at the back of his neck begin to prickle. Owls are unsettling enough when they aren't being judgmental.

Without thinking, he adjusts his reach to wrap bony knuckles around the grip of his trowel, blade still stained with a muddy bit of gut where he murdered the worm. A beat passes, still and quiet. Then he flings it hard at the owl.

A bad dream. Nearing heatstroke perhaps. Because of course the trowel finds only air. The owl is not there. But there, around the handle of the shovel - a long, copper-colored serpent, spiraling down towards the blade.

Somewhere, deep down, there's the voice that urges her not to.

Or perhaps that's Greets The Sun who didn't read the note and this isn't under it's influence. His caution from where he hides in his minute mouse form goes unheeded in Dina's mind as she looks to the door where bodyguards are sizing each other up. Hers is no where near as dressed up as Octavia's but is likely no less dangerous for it. He steps outside, alerts a servant to the request who is soon zipping off to find the gentleman.

"Such a man is in my employ, yes. I have taken him under my roof and provided him with a job when he was brought to my attention. He is a member of our town now, and we do protect those who would become valuable to our existence" And you know, werewolves, like he, are pretty valuable. "Do tell though" She's pouring a cup for herself of tea from the same pot. "What the concern would be regarding my gardener?"

Octavia is fidgeting again - without her stave this time, since she handed it over out of courtesy. She wrings her hands, rhythmically, twisting knuckles at odd but patterned intervals. Septimus looks like his gaze wants to follow the bodyguard, and then perhaps the servant, curious about goings on elsewhere.

“You are most welcoming, this is very clear,” d’Sadonne says, her teacup balanced on her knee, “before this, though, the man you employ was on a ship in the pay of my Ordre - he was bound for Marsailles, from where we,” her hand tilts back on her wrist as she indicates her compatriots behind her, “set sail, as soon as we heard. You see this man- he was to be put to death for murder. We bought his pardon, because he is our responsibility.”

Owl to snake is not an improvement.

Stricken upright by an unsteady lick of fear, Flint looks outward in instinctive search of help. All he finds is a fellow garderner staring suspiciously back at him after the spin and bounce of the trowel across tidy grass.

Weight sunk in on the balls of his feet, Deckard hesitates for the shaky beat it takes him to build up courage enough to spring off for more open ground. Past the shovel.

There’s no telltale hissing of a readied strike, if there even is such a warning given by adders. Rather there is a sound like ripping, which shifts into a low, vicious growl. Like a seeding from Scylla’s fang, a lean grey dog with short fur and a thick ruff has grown from the Ross’s garden. Its bares its teeth. Snarls. Lunges.

From the depths of his hiding place, greets the sun makes his quiet way scurrying across the floor, making no effort to be hidden. Past the bodyguards, past octavia, making no effort to change his form. Little paws work their way up furniture, across the arm of the armchair Dina sits in and eventually comes to a rest on the back of her palm where the older woman reaches over to scratch behind his ears.

"You may come from Marseilles my lady, but you have landed in Dornie. Here, we have our own customs, our own rules. We take what we find. While I may understand and sympathize with your desire to have him back, it is not up to myself solely to decide what to do with he who is in my employ now. He has become a citizen of Dornie, bearing all the rights and privileges of such. It would take a consensus of those who lead this town with me, what to do regarding this man. And evidence that he had done such. Evidence that I have yet to have seen. With all respect, of course. The very uptmost. I hope you would understand, given these… times"

d’Sadonne looks… surprised. Perplexed. Her head tilts a little, birdishly. “Je ne comprends pas-” she begins, “Is he now also your prisoner? Can he not go if he wishes?” d’Sadonne’s brows lift- “It was our hope that he’d come of his own free will.

“This man- he has a terrible curse-” the ranking mage glances back at her bushy-browed left hand, for confirmation. Octavia nods. d’Sadonne looks back to Dina. “We have the means to lift it.”

AAAaahh. Panic contrives that a hulking, snarling adder has stricken him down from behind when Flint tears into the lawn upon impact, ringing white bright around his eyes while he struggles to his side. Clawing for freedom on his back — wrestling against the hound's weight with a knee and then a fist.

The fact that it's 'just' a dog does little to let logic back in — there's a pulse and spasm that thickens muscle from chest to jaw, strangling a plea for help. In any case, the second push of his hand to keep canine jaws away from his face and neck is considerably stiffer-armed than the first.

In a few moments, there’d be buckshot in the beast’s side. The Ross staff are swift footed, and some of them very well armed. But they don’t come upon Deckard being savaged by a slavering mongrel. They see a man lying prostrate, trying desperately to ward off the black-furred cat standing, slim limbed, on his chest.

The once-owl looks down at him from new eyes, but the blue is the same. As is the reproach. It turns and hops off, picking its way through the furrows in the earth of the garden.

"I already offered to let him go. He chooses to stay. He is free to leave at any time, should he wish to do so. But I will not force him to leave with you against his will. As I said, he has become a member of our town and an employee under my home" Greets the sun watches the others, whiskers twitching, settling on his haunches and grooming himself and occasionally Dina's skin. "Such different customs and way of life, I am sure. And as for his curse well. I once again leave that up to him. After all, it's just magic."

Outside, there's a call for help and a few of the outdoors servants are moving to aide Deckard and bring him inside, a call for ice water. That is until the servant sent for him catches up to them "Her ladyship requests that you present yourself in the sitting room" With dina, they are requests, with the expectation that they are followed through on.

“Forgive me- my manners are perhaps poor. Is it my English?” d’Sadonne says, the perplexity back and with it just a touch of bruised feelings, “why is it you imagine we have any intention - any wish! - to resort to force?”

Alive, damp, smudged with brown and stained with green, Flint lies disoriented and disheveled with what feels to be too many teeth to fit in his mouth. A delayed grasp after the cat is intercepted by an arm looped in under his. He's hauled helpfully to his feet before he can say don't, heavier than he should be. Wheezing through the odd set of his jaw.

By the time he's been hobbled back inside his teeth have lost their edge and he's remembered how to breathe through his nose. Crises averted.


Deckard still looks like shit, sweat tangling his shirt close to his skin, collar turned out and grass rubbed green up his flank when he's herded reluctantly into the sitting room. Gaunt. A little wild about the eyes.

"Your English is perfectly fine. I understand you well enough my lady. I would not have you in my home if your manners were otherwise. It is your actions that I question, prior to your arrival. Greets the sun looks to the doorway when Deckard is unceremoniously - and smellily - procured and plopped into the middle of this all.

"Because to the best of my knowledge, an attempt was made to already forcibly remove him from our town. Such a shame that the individual in question did not know the nature of what lies hidden. I promise you though, he survived, though thought twice about his actions" Dina shakes her head sorrowfully. "Mister Deckard. Come in. We have guests"

d’Sadonne’s next word is sharp, hurled over her shoulder like a projectile. “Adepti?” The two other mages stand at sudden attention- caught, if not quite red-handed. What follows is a conversation the Magus has in clipped, interrogative tones in rapid French, prompting apologetic replies in equally rapid French. By the end of it, d’Sadonne makes what is unmistakably a both demand and reprimand, and Septimus steps forward.

“I must ask your forgiveness, Mme. Ross,” he says, making a low bow, “I employed that man. I did not know his character was so poor. I was mislead-” and just in time, Deckard is brought in. Septimus offers a rather less extensive bow to him, but his tone is still sincerely apologetic.

“He is not one of ours. Indeed, I hope you administer justice,” d’Sadonne tells Dina, with civil outrage. Her own attention goes, in turn, to the gaunt newcomer. Her mouth quirks into a smile like a twist of wire.

Ça fait un bout de temps, non?

Deckard doesn't manage stress so well, these days. Having worked all day and then just now been attacked by an escalating carousel of imaginary monsters that he's still confused over, he's beat. Bushed. Out of gas.

Breathing evenly is still a bit of a struggle, so he focuses on that, eyes following a predictable path from Septimus' bow to d'Sadonne's smile. He returns neither gesture in kind, hedging between them for an uncertain beat before he looks to Dina instead.

"If we do or do not, is none of your concern. He is also not… one ours" Not a citizen of this town at least. Dina swivels her gaze to septimus. "Whether you were mislead or not, and by whom, is none of my concern. We both know that those who we employ to do our bidding, reflect upon us. They are the standard by which we are measured by others. There is a reason that Mister Deckard here, is a gardener. The same as your man there is a sweltering tin can, who will surely pass out from the heat on your journey back to the Rowentree castle when you leave. So perhaps it is to he, who you should apologize given the state he was in when we found him a second time."

Now it's to Deckard, a grim line at the french language. "They have decided to ask, that you return with them. To be cured of your… curse, as they call it, and even to stand for charges of murder." Key word ask. "Do you wish to do either of those? If so, I will not stand in your way"

“René is made of sterner stuff,” d’Sadonne assures Dina, and in so doing names the fellow in the conspicuous outfit. Her tone is light as she wields the idiom- she sounds very nearly jocular in comparison to the no-nonsense Scotswoman.

Mes dieux!” d’Sadonna says, as Dina conveys their intentions, shocked once again by these proceedings. She looks behind her other shoulder, at Septimus. “Est la vieille folle?” Septimus blinks, brow furrowing, then shrugs. Octavia’s face works against some emergent expression.

“Did I not mention? The Ordre bought his pardon.” d’Sadonne says, addressing Dina again. “We do not hold him guilty. It is not the man it is- ah- but you cannot have seen?”

She rises to her feet, hands folding before her, turning to face Deckard.

“She has not seen, has she? She knows, but she does not understand.”

Wear and tear around Deckard's wrists has had time to heal; pinkish scarring puckered around the bone is hidden someone by a self-conscious take and twist of sleeve in hand.

An answer for Dina is on the tip of his teeth, only to fall back with the intake of a steelier breath when d'Sadonne rises. He stiffens straighter in turn, some subtlety of tone or the question itself already provoking defensive tension.

"I saw an owl," he says suddenly, appropos of nothing. "It turned into a snake."

"I understand perfectly well" Dina is standing then, moving Greets the sun up to her shoulder and using the cane to rise. "I understand that he is a werewolf. I have not seem him change, but I know perfectly fine. I have another individual in my employ who undergoes another change to a different animal." Upright now, coming to stand adjacent to - but not as close as she normally does, Dina turns to face Octavia. "You have mentioned that you may have procured his pardon, but as I spoke earlier, he washed up on our shore and has pledged fealthy and service to Dornie and to my family. Till such a time where I change my mind, he changes his mind or the the communal heads of the town should change their minds, I respectfully deny you. At least until the evidence that you may have regarding your claims can be produced for us to see, both the Rowentree's and the Rosses. Do you understand dear Lady? Mistake not my age for density of mind and hard of hearing"

d’Sadonne doesn’t dismiss Deckard’s story. “An owl in daylight is a bad omen,” she advises. Septimus nods his confirmation behind her, evidently also educated on the subject, amending, “unless it is interpreted with sufficient wisdom.”

Je suis désolé,” d’Sadonne says to Dina, the warmth and lightness ebbing from her tone even as she says it, “but there is nothing to deny, respectful or no, Mme. Ross. I am not asking you for anything.”

“Adeptus Octus,” d’Sadonne says, and Octavia steps forward, up to Deckard, lacing her fingers and cracking her knuckles. Her aspect is of one about to go to work. The Magus gives poor helmeted René a nod, and he moves a few steps further into the room. Septimus’ familiar has assumed the shape of a hedgehog, nestled like a defensive structure between his mage’s feet.

“We will explain-” d’Sadonne says. She gives Octavia a nod, a signal for the adept to flatten her laced fingers into a plane and lifting it to the level of her chin. Octavia’s eyes roll back into her head, lids lowering ‘til only half-moons of red-laced white is visible. Her mouth opens, and in a gravelly voice - wholly unlike her own - the words homo homini lupus spill out.

She wastes no time in putting distance between herself and Deckard afterwards. René sidesteps into her wake as she passes.

There's no fighting it this time. Having hunched into near retreat at Octavia's approach, eyes wide, Deckard stays rooted in place despite misgiving rising like bile in the back of his throat. He hasn't been dismissed.

The three little words she utters instead jolt him to the core, jerking spine upright — as if after the passage of a bullet. Beyond that, transition from man to man-wolf is not a subtle one. Muscle wrenches hard around bone bolstered heavy from shoulder to elbow; his ears draw back from jaws yawned too wide and too long. There's an audible biomechanical racket beneath ragged breaths drawn too broad past the flex and bellows of his ribs — tendon cracking stiff just under greying flesh, joints popping when one knee is forced into a bend. His nails blacken into claws, feet flexed and twisted into paws.

Fur is last, patchy and uneven across hide that's still growing and stretching out. And up. It takes less than a minute.

He's still standing when it's all said and done, shirt in tatters and ears pinned flat to the long jut of his skull, eyes ringed bright against the near black of the rest of him. A werewolf.

Any curiosity over what big teeth he has is quickly resolved when he shows them to René, tongue curled in under an ugly growl.

"Cease this imme-" Dina's stepping forward, hand on cane and ready to rap the woman on the arm to stop whatever magic she might be doing. Not that she's stupid, she can hear the words and figure out what it is that the woman is doing.

There's a rule in the Ross household. Unless you're a familiar, your fur stays outside the house.

So she turns, watching in a mix of horror and fascination at the transformation and what's left standing in the wake of the magic

"Enough" Her voice booms, the words echoing in the room even though she has backed off from Deckard, but away from her guests too. "Enough. The whole of you. This is my home. How dare you pull this in here" Clearly too, she doesn't need the cane to move. She uses it to point to the door with jaw tights and nostrils white. "Leave" Fear of both what's all fur and teeth. "You will quit this house and return to your accommodations. You had no right to do such foolishness in my house and put my life at such risk" She's ushering them out - yes, even managing to lay a hand on the tin can and physically remove them, even as servants are creeping arms in. It's time to not be in the room with a werewolf. A growling werewolf. Only Greets remains, plopping down to the floor and scurrying to a hiding spot at Dina's orders, to keep an eye on Deckard. Dina, is livid.

There is that instant of contact with René, yet enough for more than a lifetime of memory. The next moment the contact is gone - the armored man has lunged at the werewolf, arms closing to try and crush the wolf in a steel-lined bear hug, gripping and twisting.

d’Sadonne looks maybe just a little sheepish as Dina proclaims banishment. This was a rather excessive gesture, wasn’t it? But not to worry.

“You are in no danger,” she pledges. She has great faith in sternly made René, it would seem.

But not total faith. d’Sadonne’s pulls out the needles that hold her hair up, gripping one in each hand like armament. They are topped with pearl but their opposite ends are sharp and gleam with a softer light than steel. She crosses them before her, arms extended, warding.



Flint lunges first — a thrust off his haunch and one long arm. Not for René, but around him, for his softer and fleshier compatriots.

No matter.

His jaws close on air, one forelimb caught up before the rest of him can be bound up in steel.

Some animals calm when they're firmly secured.

Not the case, here.

The werewolf twists and shrieks and garbles and snaps, jaws closing ineffectually on arm guard and shoulder and helmet. Whatever they can reach. He has one lower canine through a grate in the faceguard when the gleam of d'Sadonne's pins catches his eye and he stills, one heavy paw braced to the floor between the juggernaut's feet. The other is frozen in its clawing push against bear hugged arms.

Saliva runs in viscous tracks from the open lock of his maw.

Dina's wrenched away from the memories that she was getting lost in, face trailing in the wake of…

He's a mummy?

So it is that The other female mage is breaking out her weapons while wolf and mummy? duke it out. "Guards!" Dina's own bodyguard rushing into the room, flabberghasted at the sight of werewolf but heading for Octavia with a motion from Dina. "Out. Now!" Cane lifted in a promise of a good rap across the head if she has to should the woman resist. "Let your pet and my man finish what you have started and pray that my sitting room is salvagable"

Others are coming to the door now, the varying personal militia of the Ross family, ready to wade in should Dina wish it so.

“René,” d’Sadonne says, hotly, “est un homme de vertu irréprochable.” This, of all things, has visibly ruffled her feathers. The werewolf she is remarkably calm about, though this may be contingent on her keeping those needles lifted. It is still, after all.

“Adept!” it’s Octavia who’s being addressed. Septimus, like his familiar, has adopted a strictly defensive posture. Of course The bushy-browed woman pulls her laced fingers apart, knuckle by knuckle.

The shift back to man is less dramatic but just as painful. Deckard's skeleton has rearrangements to make: fangs and fur and raw muscle receding in at intervals metered by the shudder of his breath. René will have to tighten his grip if he wishes to keep it, the teeth Flint'd been trying to force through helmet and face replaced by the broad splay of his right hand.

More out of instinctive fear than determined resistance. As wrong as everything about him smells, d'Sadonne still has her pins.

"Out!" The bellow from the Matriarch of the house and one of them of the city reverberates through the room after Flint has turned back human. "You and your /mummy and your retinue can leave these premises right now. Return to your ship or your lodgings. You are unwelcome in this house until you learn to mind your manners. A creature fight in my living room is unconscionable, the height of rudeness and impropriety. Out"

And then Deckard. "And you. To your quarters till I has the presence of mind to deal with you" The house guards are filtering in now, even as Dina is gesturing to the exit. Poised to enforce her wishes on all, should they decide not to on their own. "I will be informing the Rowentree's of the ridiculousness that has occurred her. Mark my words"

Indeed, staging a classic monster mash in your hostess’s parlour isn’t listed as a winner in any reputable book of etiquette. But with the curse’s effect receding, and Deckard drooping out of René’s hold, the travesty is almost at the end. Welcome thoroughly overstayed, the Hermetics begin to gravitate towards the door. There is rather a lot more legitimate violence massing in this room than they could confidently deal with.

Merci beaucoup,” d’Sadonne says, archness as bare as her irony, “we will disturb you no further.”

While Dina is obviously immune to appeal, at least as long as her furor is on, this doesn’t stop d’Sadonne from turning to the once-wolf.

“No one can stop you from seeking help,” she reminds him, “and we can help you.”

No more ado is spared. The Hermetics start to file out, avoiding further conflict. They’ll have enough to deal with when the return to the castle, with this story running ahead of them.

Whump. Flint hits the floor in a clatter of knee cap and elbow to hard wood, one hand groping automatically to ensure that his pants stay on once this new, sharper pain has run its course. "Go to hell," is gravelled at d'Sadonne's shoes for her gracious reminder. She might not even hear.

Drool scrubbed slick against his ill-shirted shoulder once he's hobbled back to his feet, he keeps his head ducked past a shifty glance to Dina on his way to following directions.

Dina's taking a step back, a step away, the slightest shuffle as he passes, as the rest of the french delegation make their way out of her home. She's still furious, even as her own Familiar is scuttling out, keeping a discreet distance - and a mouse form still - as he trails after Deckard to keep an eye on where the man goes.

It won't be until everyone is out, that she will be sending someone with word of what has happened, what has occurred, riding fast for the Rowntree castle before the French can.