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[Oroboros]

---

Dear Me,

It has happened again and I am utterly powerless to stop it.

Johann reeled down an upstairs hallway of the Bramble Rose and came to rest uncomfortably face first against a door that he hoped lead to his room. He saw stars. This door had been drinking too much, it's foul breath reeked of liquor.

These folk are so generous, offering me fine lodgings in this beautiful theatre.. and this is how I repay them? What would Harlequin think if she knew? Why must this shame torment me so?

Fumbling with the key that hung from a cord about his neck, He knelt and craned forward in an attempt to slide the key into the lock. *bang*......*bump*....*scrape*
Pushing the key forward, the cord tugged at his neck and his forehead banged against the wood.
"By the mother of all that is unholy, Why did I not cut this cord longer?"
Standing unsteadily, he yanked the cord so forcefully that he brought himself sprawling to the floor with a loud thud, parchment fliers spilling from his knapsack.

"REWARD, MISSING PERSON - Wendy Wainwright, Jewler's assistant. Resident of Britain. Last seen on the Night of Riots in Britain. Please send any information to Johann B, Ashencrosse."

I've been posting these damned things all over. I can't even remember where I've been with them now. I made the mistake of posting one on the bulletin board outside the Traipsing Truant Wayside Rest. I of course could not pass by the place without stepping in for my usual, a Bleeding Ettin. And where there's one bleeding ettin there's a dozen more right round the corner. I should not ever go back to that damnable city alone. It is nothing but terrible memories and more trouble than I care to forget.

He reached for the doorknob to pull himself back to his feet and felt it turn... He had never locked it in the first place. He dragged himself in and kicked the door shut behind him. The effort was exhausting and seemed to tug at the roots of the universe itself. Bollocks to the mess of fliers he left in the hallway. Bollocks to the alcohol that the room swam in, and bollocks to painful memories of the final parting moments before Wendy was gone.

Illusion and reality shift and mingle, and I am no longer certain of anything I see, say or do. These times are dangerous for me. If only I could make it stop.

He threw off his tunic, discarding it haphazardly. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached down and drew from his boot a stiletto with an emerald set into the pommel. Tracing a finger drunkenly across the engraved letters, the blade became wet with tears. Gripping the handle firmly, he drew the blade across his left shoulder and down his chest. Once, twice, and thrice. Blood welled up and ran down like fingers of despair.

With halting sobs, the bells of his hat jingled.

[Harlequin]

---

Quinn woke with a start. She was blind, despite the lantern which she knew glowed cheerfully at the end of the hallway. Blind?!

She sat bolt upright, tossing her bedroll and blankets frantically. The parchment fell away from her face, and fluttered like ash into her lap. Not blind. Just covered.

A thud, a rattle, and the closing of a door. So clumsy was the sound, that Quinn looked instinctively to Paine’s door, but he snored like a bear in the safety of his room. That only left…

[Oroboros]

---

Dear Me,

Today was a bad day. I am here at one of my old haunts, three glasses deep into a quickening sea of forgetfulness.


Walking briskly through the scorched and marred streets of Britain, Johann's bells jingled a tuneless rhythm. The tails of his red hat bobbed as he bounced down the street, projecting a thin illusion of merriment. Over his shoulder was slung a burlap sack partially filled with
curled parchment and fliers hastily scribbled by the quills of seven scribes hired in the city of Haven. Holding one of the scrolls up to a timber supporting an inn and tavern, he poked a nail and swung a small mallet. *THWACK* He yowled in pain as he missed the nail and smashed his thumb. A little girl being led along by her mother giggled and pointed "Mommy mommy, look at the funny red man! What is he saying?" The mother placed her hands over the young girl's ears and hurried around a corner with a look of alarm , attempting to escape the loud string of oaths and curses spilling from the mouth of the grimacing fool.

I never wish to think of it again. If only I could crumple the memory like a parchment and set it aflame.

He had been hanging his missing persons notices on nearly every vertical surface that would accept a nail or posessed a crack to stuff. He gave them to strangers, gave them to pack mules, folded them into Tokuno Drakes and sailed them into open windows.

Cradling his wounded thumb, he looked up and noticed the sign swinging gently in the breeze: "Traipsing Truant Wayside Rest"

[Oroboros]

---

Dear Me,

Why why why did I have to come in HERE for a drink? When one wishes to forget, one does not unfurl the appointment calendar.

Unless one's name is Johann Bloodlute.


The tavern hall was beginning to fill up, and patrons of many stripes noisily conversed. Serving girls wound their way through the knots of humanity, and the air was growing thick with the scent of tobacco smoke, barbecued meat, and sweat. The portly balding man behind the bar noticed Johann's entrance and waved him over. Jingling as the buffoon's cap crossed the room. "Fancy meeting you here, Ghond. Say, have you seen Wendy anywhere since last week?" The question was met with a flat disbelieving gaze. "Johann, that's a terrible joke. Even for you."

Johann frowned. "What speakest thou of mirth, braumeister? She has gone missing since the night of the riots! I saw her taken by the mob! The visions haunt my dreams nightly and only a gang of the usual suspects will help me sleep this night through."

Ghond levelled a heavy gaze at Johann before ducking into the kitchen. "I will never...ever...understand you." Momentarily he returned, setting upon the bar a serving tray bearing thirteen mugs of beer and thirteen shots of Blood Spirits. Johann neatly plucked one of the shooters and let it drop with a plop into one of the beers, which he proceeded to throw back and guzzle greedily. Ghond also placed a small oblong package wrapped in brown paper upon the bar. Johann wiped his mouth with the back of a crimson sleeve and stared at the package. He blinked. "A present. You shouldn't have."

Ghond's thick tattooed arm slid the package toward Johann, who stared vacantly at it. "You told me to hold this for you until you came back for it. Well... You're back."

I didn't want it back. Not this way. I wanted it to come back with her.
I wanted it in my own heart, cutting my own throat. Memories began flashing through my head. A strobe of vile imagery.



Smoky red skin, horns, vicious black fangs dripping with sulphuric saliva.
Black claws lunging for my throat.
Screams, my own, as I lashed out with the dagger that my beloved had left with me for luck.
My hands slick with spattered crimson.
Wendy's sweet face frozen in a look of shock and horror, blood leaking from the corner of her lips.
Holding her in my arms as the warmth left her body, seeping out in a dark coppery river.
The twisted face of the demon superimposed upon hers. Blending, meshing, shifting.


How could it be? How could that have really happened?
HOW COULD I MISTAKE HER FOR A DEMON OF THE THIRTEENTH HELL?
...
Easy. It never happened. I never stood trial, was never found lacking in sanity. Was never sentenced to life in the sanitarium. Never escaped in the chaos of the riots, dodging flames and flying bricks. Never. Never never never NeVEr NEvEr NEVER!!!!!!!

[Harlequin]

---

“Ahh, rubbish.” Quinn jerked her hand from the heavy metal chest, a trickle of blood, bright red against her pale painted flesh, wept down the back of her hand to the wrist. A neat slice flayed her index finger at the knuckle. “Guess it matches the other three now.”

Quinn sighed. “I need more room…” She looked around the tiny room in the guard tower, let Ansel step onto her hand, then rose and pushed open the heavy door to look for guards. Finding no one, she released the pied crow, who fluttered to the top of the guard tower, then she shut the door and flipped the iron deadbolt. With all her strength, Quinn pushed on the back of the chest to spill its contents onto the stone tiles. Blades of all shapes and sizes clattered across the floor. Maces tumbled end over end and rolled beyond her reach. Quinn crawled on hands and knees through the scattered weaponry – weapons the guards had confiscated from corpses after the riots. Whatever the scavengers hadn’t gotten to yet, anyway…

“Emerald, emerald…..no emeralds. Ah!” Quinn snatched up a dagger with an emerald embedded in the pommel. She held it up to the light, looking for an inscription on the blade, but found none. She sighed and tossed the dagger back into the pile. It was one more dead end. But with each chest she sifted through, and came back empty-handed, she was one breath closer to believing that the one they sought might still be alive.

Somewhere above her head, Ansel was cawing and screeching. Quinn gasped. Hastily, she began shoving, tossing, throwing the weapons back into the chest. The door latch rattled, and a moment later the deadbolt clicked. A rather large, imposing guard stepped inside the guard tower and looked down at the scattered weaponry in the floor around a painted and scantily-clad harlequin.

“The ‘ell is the meanin’ of this?” The guard’s voice sounded as dumb and gruff as she had expected it would.

“It’s about damn time you got here.” Her heart beat wildly. “Do you know how long you’ve kept me waiting?” Quinn rose without a hint of bluff in her voice, to her full five feet. The guard towered over her by well more than a foot.

“Waiting? You’re tresspassin’, Lass.” He reached behind himself to lock the door. “Afraid I’m going to have to do something about that.”
_________________
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar

[Harlequin]

---

“Excuse me, but I’ll have none of your overbearing buffoonery. I am an artiste, and I refuse to be manhandled, even by paying customers.” Quinn released the clasp on her braid and ran her fingers through to loosen the plait, then shook out her hair and smiled up at him.

“What the ‘ell are ya on about?” The guard seemed taken aback, pausing in his approach.

“Aren’t you Nigel? I was paid for a private…performance here?” Quinn pouted slightly, straightening the seams of her leather gloves.

“Oh….OH!” The guard laughed loudly. “That’s Nigel for ya. I should’ve guessed.” Finally, he relaxed a bit.

The good news was, there was actually a guard named Nigel…

“Well then perhaps you could skeedadle and fetch him for me, aye? I’m paid by the hour, after all.” Quinn flicked her hands toward him, shooing him toward the door.

The guard backed up, but his gaze dropped to the floor. “Hold up a sec. What about all this?” He gestured toward the scattered weaponry.

Quinn looked down at the blades scattered at her feet and shrugged. “Knife fetish.”

Swiftly, she scooped up a handful of knives and daggers and began to juggle them, a self-satisfied smirk spreading to replace her vacant painted expression. “Now, be a good boy and go get Nigel. I’ll be safe here. Honest.”

“A’ight then.” The guard looked unconvinced, but he moved toward the door, released the deadbolt again, and pushed it open. “Nigel! ‘Ey, NIGEL!! C'mere!”

The bad news was, Nigel was within shouting distance…
_________________
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar

[Harlequin]

---

Nigel sat with his chin in his hand watched with stars in his eyes. The first guard stood behind him, leaning back against his wall with arms crossed, but his expression betrayed a hint of eager anticipation.

“Nobody said anything about an audience.” Quinn half smiled, and bit her lip in a shy and nervous fashion as she wound the crank of the music box she'd found under a filthy sheet of canvas in the corner. A striptease to “Stones”...shouldn't that somehow be illegal?

Her body took hold of the song and undulated, wrapping the music around her in drafty upward spirals. The two guards looked at one another, Nigel quirking a brow as Quinn writhed to the music and stripped off a glove, tossing it to him. She bit the fingertip of the other, pulling the glove off and winking at the other guard as she threw it to him lightly. Then, she bent forward, shaking out her hair and licking her lips seductively as she pulled a pristine sword from the sheath at her belt.

Quinn tilted her head back and opened her mouth, slowing her movements to a halt. She stood straight, and stock still as she slid the sword's point into her mouth and began to push the blade down her throat.

“Ahh...Ohh! Tha's jus' not right...” The first guard cringed and covered his averted eyes.

“But Ren...” Nigel boggled, nudging the gaurd absently, his gaze fixed on Quinn as she swallowed the sword.

With a flourish, as the golden hilt touched her lips, Quinn lifted her arms and curtsied gracefully. Then, she pulled the sword out, as slowly as she had pushed it in.

Nigel and Ren erupted in raucous applause, complete with whoops and hollars.

“And with that, Gentlemen, I bid you adieu.” Quinn performed a sweeping bow as she sheathed the sword and pirouetted to the door. Slipping out onto the streets, she heard only the first bit of conversation as the door clanked shut behind her.

“Hope ya got yer money's worth, Nigel.”

“Whaddya mean MY money's worth?”

Quinn shouted as she broke into a dead sprint. “C'mon Ansel, time to fly!”

She rounded a corner and disappeared as the guards came clattering out the door of the guard tower, the pied crow flapping close behind her. That had been the last guard tower, and there was still no sign of the bejeweled dagger Johann sought. Sorry Handsome, she thought as she swiftly fled the heavy bootfalls that rounded the corner behind her. I can only hope this is good news.
_________________
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar

[Oroboros]

---

Johann slept fitfully, tossing and turning in his bed upstairs of the Bramble Rose theatre. Muttering as he slept, his eyes danced to the frenetic rhythm of the past.


He covered his mouth with an institutionally uncolored bandanna and staggered through the black smoke that billowed through the halls of the Hollyhock Sanitarium. He was awakened to the sound of shouting, the clash of steel, and explosions in the distance. He knew something was wrong, even through the foggy mental state that accompanied the nightly tincture that he was given. When nobody responded to his hollered inquiries, he threw his shoulder into the door until the latch splintered and gave way. The building was on fire and everything was chaos. He could hear staff members and patients shouting, fighting and breaking things. One of the monks lay precariously crumpled between wall and floor a few yards away, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him. He approached the man, kneeling to see if he was still alive when he heard stern voices from behind. "By the virtues, the fool has done it again! He's killed brother Lachlan!" Glancing over his shoulder he could see the wavering forms of what looked to be the hulking orderlies Tooms and Hayden cautiously approaching. He stood dizzily and look around. He spotted opportunity in the form of shutters. The hulking orderlies were getting closer, rolling up their sleeves. Johann's lips pulled back in a snarl and he began to growl at them like an attack dog, hunching lower to the ground. As saliva drooled from his mouth, his own voice sounded thick and distorted, deep and basso. They had really mixed him a strong one tonight. When Hayden and Tooms hesitated, their grim expressions shifting toward uncertainty, Johann abruptly bolted to his right, leaping into the air and crashing through the wooden shutters and paned glass with a cacophanous smash. Everything moved in slow motion then: Hayden reaching his hand out "NnnnnnooooOOOooooOOO" as splintered wood and shards of glass exploded around the drugged madman. He emerged into the cool night air, stars whirling in long white streaks. His stomach lurched as he plummeted from the second story into the thick hedge below. Branches scraped at him as they broke his fall.

[Oroboros]

---

Groaning uneasily, the fool kicked in his sleep and wrestled with the blankets that tangled his limbs.

Vines and leaves seemed to claw greedily at him as he gasped raggedly to regain the wind that he lost in the fall from the second story window. Tooms poked his head out beyond the remains of window and shutters.
"'Ey! Bugger, 'E's down in the courtyard! If we lose 'IM Renwood'll 'ave our 'ides! "

Hayden turned and rushed down the hall. "Jump if ye want, I'm takin the stairs!"

Johann stood dazedly, grass and trees of the courtyard swimming drunkenly before him. He could hear the thick drippy sounds of men speaking somewhere above him, like mollasses from a jar. He stumbled forward out of the mangled hedge and steadied himself against a blossoming crab-apple tree in passing. The stone entrance arch loomed sinisterly before him like the gaping maw of some great beast. He smelled cinders on the air. Tumultuous waves of screams, shouts and violence drifted over him in waves, spilling over the stone walls from the crowded city beyond. There was no guard posted at the door, strangely. Where would they have gone? He turned, swaying in the breeze to look upon the building which had imprisoned him for an unknown length of time. Tall and imposing, the stone monstrosity leered at him like a hungry behemoth. From windows on the east and west wings, he could see the dancing orange of flames through the windows - great glinting eyes. Turning again, nearly losing his balance in the action, he caught himself on the heavy oaken crossbar that held fast the tall iron doors. He lifted it from it's cradle and pinwheeled backwards to avoid smashing his toes as it fell. He siezed a heavy iron pull-ring and hauled against the door with all his might and it began to move with a low groan. As soon as the door was ajar by a foot or so, he squeezed through and escaped into the riotous chaos beyond, paying no mind to the shouts of protest pursuing him.

[Oroboros]

---

The city of Britain had vomited forth all of its seething unrest and lit up the night with its stinging bile. The anger of the downtrodden had now made manifest as they took to the streets wielding the pitchfork, the plowshare, and the torch. A mob of people pressed along ahead of a building which had begun to collapse beneath its own flaming timbers. A soot covered mask of stubble and rage loomed into view as one of the rioters took Johann's tunic in his fists.

"ARE YE WITH US OR AGAINST US???" the man shouted.

Johann attempted to sputter a question in reply, but the crowd pressed them on and he became lost in the throng as it surged.

He saw one of the city watch being beaten and stomped mercilessly by a crowd of patchcloak peasantry who shouted angry slogans.

"Might makes right! We are Right!" as the guard's helmet was kicked free in a spray of blood and teeth.

He ducked into the doorway of a tailor's shop to catch his breath and let the world spin less crazily about him.

What in the Hells had happened to the city while he'd been cloistered away? What was happening?

As last stragglers of the roving mob passed him by, he lurched against the doorway, staring incredulously. The plaza before the West Britain Bank was a scene of pandemonium. Violent protestors fought tooth and nail against guardsmen and deputized citizens. Smashed articles of furniture and pottery littered the streets, buildings blazed indignantly despite the best efforts of desperate bucket brigades. He wandered forward in a daze, unsure of the veracity of the scenes he surveyed. He passed unnoticed by a crowd of people who were stoning a man to death with bricks and rubble. Children screamed, running to and fro or huddled like mice in corners. He stooped to gather a few handfuls of water from the River and walked on towards the poor gate and stopped short.

A crowd of angry citizens wielding all manner of makeshift weapons hurled rocks and insults toward the gate of Castle Britain. There amidst them all she stood, beautiful as the last day he saw her. The din receeded into the distance, and all became quiet within his mind. The people, the buildings, they began to dim and fade slightly, leaving Wendy Wainwright standing in stark contrast, vibrant and colorful in her flowing dress. Her lips were moving and her arms reached out, but he could not make out her speech. She seemed to be floating, slightly raised above the heads of the others around her, who did not appear to notice her in the slightest. He could make out his name, and concentrated on trying to read her lips. "Johann, Johann, you must ..." And then there was blinding light as flame erupted amidst the mob. A man clad in black flung another purple hued bottle before fleeing down an alley way, and another explosion rocked the gate and dropped Johann to his knees shielding his eyes. He could hear a deep otherworldly laughter and he looked up , bodies burning black beneath a conflagration. Within the flames shimmered a face of orange and red, smoldering eyes and simmering horns. A tear in the fabric of reality appeared before him, a window to another place, green meadows and peace, and out stepped a group of horsemen and a wizened old mage. Suddenly he was struck from behind and pitched forward through the magical portal, a stone on rising to meet his forehead as he fell towards ground he knew not where.


He woke with a start, a scream stuck in his throat, as the shutters to his bedroom atop the Bramble Rose banged open in a gust of wind. His breath came heavily and sweat rolled down his brow.

[Oroboros]

---

Johann clutched the reigns of his quarterhorse tightly, ducking beneath low hanging branches he galloped swiftly along the little used forest path. The bells of his cap did not jingle this day. He had given up his usual crimson headware in favor of a shiny steel helm. At The Countess' suggestion, he had sat down with the rough edged healer Rosar to discuss the problem of his plague of nightmares. He had attempted to brush off the fool at the first, but after some persistent inquiries he finally offered some sage bits of wisdom. A magical spell or incantation would be of use, he said, in keeping the intruding dreams at bay, especially considering the possibility of Daemonic or Devlish origin. Johann did have considerable talent with sorcery, but only with the most loud, flashy and obnoxious sort; He knew nothing of protections or wards. He now travelled through dense forest towards a small stone tower where lived a certain solitary Arcanist, who would know just such details if anyone would. In the meantime, however, He figured that high quality steel polished to a mirror's sheen would better deflect the maleficent intentions from beyond the veil.

So what if he looked ridiculous?

His vision was a blurred tunnel of greens and earth as he sped along, spurring Neigh-Sayer intently. His thoughts kept wandering to the midnight visions, vivid reenactments of his escape from the years of solitude he spent in the Sanitarium on the night of the burning riots. He knew the face which, night after night, laughed at him cruelly from the flames. It seemed to take delight in continually interrupting Wendy's apparition which appeared to him with some urgent message that he could not understand. Daily, his mental strength ebbed. He felt the fabric of his sanity, such as it was, wearing thin and ragged without restful sleep. The knight, Sir Chanticleer, had advised Johann to sieze the initiative of his own accord and seek to meet this tormenting foe head-on. His words had been searching, his gaze seeming to peel back the layers of truth, as he sternly inquired as to Johann's intentions of leaving the protection of Ashencrosse. Shortly after his arrival, upon learning of Johann's sentencing for the murder of his betrothed and subsequent escape, chanticleer had interviewed him at length. He presently judged him as trustworthy, yet beset by the machinations of a vile Daemon who sought his demise for reasons unknown. However, as part of the deal offering him safe haven, if Johann was discovered to be guilty of this murder without the intervention of outside forces, he would be bound to stay forever within the walls of Ashencrosse.

Following advice to keep his intentions close, so as not to tip his hand to any possible ears the daemon may have, Johann snuk out of the Theatre quietly under the cover of an uprooted shrubbery, and saddled up before the sun had made first light. As he reigned Neigh-Sayer to a slow for the creek crossing, now within shouting distance of the tower, he sincerely hoped that nobody would mind the suit of armor in the meeting hall being a bit headless for the rest of the day.

[Harlequin]

---

“This isn't good.” Johann screwed up his face slightly as the two stood side by side, staring at a poster. “That's not a good likeness of me at all. My hat has four points, not two.” He turned to Quinn.

She looked at him in his shiny silver helm and smirked. “Your hat has no points, at the moment.” Then she turned back, her eyes trailing down over the poster. The sketch, unfortunately, was a very good likeness. Quinn reached up and tore the poster down, rolling it and stuffing it in her pack. “C'mon, Handsome, let's find your maestro.”

Johann was sneaking through Britain like a ninja in his own parade. Except visible. Very visible. He slunk along one wall, eying a guard who stood not six feet away. If he wasn't recognized, he'd be arrested on suspicion alone. Besides, he'd gone well out of his way, seemingly just to slink behind the guard.

Quinn rolled her eyes and approached the guard, fiddling with the a spike on the woman's leather shorts flirtatiously. “Hi.” The woman narrowed her gaze and stiffened. Johann stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide, and Quinn quickly jerked her head to urge him on, keeping her eyes on the guard as she ran her hand over the spikes. “I really like your...”

Johann burst into a dead sprint toward the bank as the guard looked down to Quinn's touch with a quirked brow and a curious gaze. Quinn glanced after Johann, who'd disappeared into the crowd.

“K bye!” And the mime sprinted after him.

“That was close, thanks Quinn!” He bounded ahead of her through the art district toward the bardic guild.

Johann seemed different without his hat. It was more than the lack of bouncing and jingling. It was a certain seriousness that permeated him. And she didn't like it. Oh, he was still mad. And madly so. But whether the helm or these dreams were the source of his malaise, it had to stop. He looked left and right shiftily as he stopped to speak with an older gentleman inside the doors of the music hall.

“I need your help, Max...” Johan began.

Max nodded, wandering a step at a time as Johann spoke, seeming aimless in his path. Quietly, he opened the front doors of the hall, and noting Neigh-Sayer tied outside, he picked up an apple and wandered a step or two beyond.

“Shut the doors!” Johan yelled frantically. “Sh*t, he's going for the guards!!” And Johann ran. It was the run of a desperate man. The sort of run that places a man first there and then not. There was no windup. There was no hesitation. Johann had, quite simply, hauled ass.
_________________
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar

[Harlequin]

---

Quinn was glad the fool wore a red cape. Made it easier to find him, and pull him out of hiding. Since the two had arrived in Britain, she'd used it to pull him out of two closets, and out from behind a bookcase. This time, she grabbed the cape and gave a hefty tug, dragging him out of a tree. He fell to the ground with a sickening thud, and an ouf! Quinn pondered momentarily on how she would spell that sound, if she ever had to write the memoir later.

The latter left him flat of his back on the cobblestones in front of the music hall. Max stood over him with a look of consternation, but seemed little affected, as he turned to wander toward the wall, then seemingly inspect the masonry.

That settled it. Max was just plain weird. And coming from Quinn, that said something.

Johann finally settled into more comfortable conversation with Max, and at last he began to get the answers that he came for. The old professor he sought was named Collins, and lived not far to the north of Britain, in a cozy cottage nestled against the mountain. With renewed vigor, Johann smiled broadly and took Quinn's hand.

“Come on, Painted One! This way!” And they ran, winding this way and that, through the forests of Britain until they came upon a cottage that perfectly fit the description they'd been given.

It was a relief. Quinn had often wondered as they embarked upon this journey – how many of the names and faces they sought actually existed. And how many existed only in the convoluted mind of Johann Bloodlute.

Collins, was of the former persuasion. More importantly, he had known the fool's father. He spoke of Johann of the many adventures and endeavours his father had pursued. And from inside his cozy cottage, he retrieved a scroll left in his care by Lord Bloodlute himself. It was dusty and worn, but not unreadable.

Johann unfurled it excitedly as the two traipsed back to Britain, but then halted, and just as quickly became crestfallen. “Dear me...”

“What is it Handsome?” Quinn looked around his elbow at the scroll.

“Someone hath spilled gravy on it.” Johann looked back at her with a soured expression.

“Johann, I think that's a map...” Quinn grinned at him, her vacant painted expression scarcely able to conceal her excitement at the implications of the two securing a map.

Maps meant adventure. Maps meant boats, and pirates, and treasures and--

“Sh*t, a guard!” Johann dove into a bush.

Quinn sighed. “It's a protester.” She grabbed his cloak and dragged him out, but didn't let go as he skidded along the ground behind her toward Britain Cemetery, clawing at every bush and bramble they passed. Then, unexpectedly, she stopped.

There, on the ground, lay a folded brown robe. Quinn wrinkled her nose, and nearly gagged at the thought of where it might have come from, but it served the purpose. And Quinn was washable. Quickly, she tossed the robe over her head and shoved up the over-long sleeves. Johann sat, somewhat bewildered as he watched her.

“Do I look like a healer?” She wandered, two steps at a time, pausing before continuing on her aimless path.

A brilliant smile spread across Johann's face. “Excellent idea!”

The two found themselves in a dead sprint toward the center of Britain, where Johann ducked into a tailor's shop ahead of her. By the time she shut the door behind her, he was standing in front of a mirror, admiring the fit of a lovely lavender dress with lopsided breasts.

“Fix your boobs, you dolt.”

Johann looked down and adjusted the balls of yarn inside the dress with a look of concentration. Quinn grinned, and tossed a handful of coins on the table. “It's perfect. We'll take it. The balls of yarn too.”

The shopkeeper looked at the two and shrugged helplessly as she turned back to a dress she was pinning on a mannequin.

Johann grinned broadly and took her hand again, pulling her into a run out the door and into the streets of Britain. As they hit the west bridge out of the city, they slowed their pace to a walk by the light of the lanterns that faded into the background. They two, the short, painted healer and the tall, ungainly damsel, disappeared into the night, with only the trailing of their voices to mark their path.

“Thank you, Painted one.”

Quinn smiled, watching the silhouette that watched her, and she spoke matter-of-factly in the darkness.

“Thou hast strayed from the path of virtue, but thou still deservest a second chance.”
_________________
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar