[Miroku]

'The missing souls', Threnody thought, mind working furiously.
That had to be the key to tying up much of the loose threads here.
A handful wouldn't have raised many eyebrows, but dozens.... quite
possibly hundreds... had just vanished.

Life in the Pit wasn't all cake and pie, even here at its most
pastoral and pleasing. Some of the Damned would go wandering into
a Wendigo or trolls' path, and henceforth into its' stomach. Even
then, among those in the know, it was generally understood (tacitly)
that the interference in Infernal politics by the Divine Host was
unacceptable. Having wrathful angels intent on running you through
with flaming swords while you debated the finer points of trade
between the Circles of Hades and Malbowges tends to be a downer,
and in almost all cases a dealbreaker. So, everyone made sure to be
aboveboard on their treatment of the lowest of the low, here in the
Lowest of Places in Creation.

She turned the corner into the last stretch of hallway leading
to Lady Titania's suite of rooms and groaned. There were a couple
of guards waiting outside. Now while guards on Her Fey Majesty
weren't unusual, one of the guards bore a shield with the arms of
Cuchulainn. She strode purposefully toward the retainers. Both
were relaxed but watchful, meaning they hadn't been there long.
Just ****ing great.

"Halt and be recognized", Cuchulainn's shieldbearer said in a
bored voice.

The High Sidhe dialect of the Seelie rolled off the tongue
like fine aged cognac, sweet and intoxicating. Cloyingly sweet
for palettes used to stout. Drinks you need a toothpick for
afterwards.

"One Threnody, First Sergeant of the Blood Moon Fist, and
Sergeant of Infernal Rank. I am here to speak to Her Majesty on
a matter of grave and pressing concern". If you didn't add
'grave', 'pressing', or even 'urgent' in, then it could be hours
or days before anyone would get back to you.

Lady Titania's guard, a tall slender elf of fair looks (was
there any other kind?) gave Threnody an almost pitying look.
"Her Majesty is holding private court with her War Champion".

He turned to his companion and remarked, "They've only been
at it for a half hour, right?" The other guard laconically
grunted, "Yup".

The guard smiled apologetically. "Her Majesty is.... having
one of her moments. Lord CuChulainn is here comforting her".

'I'll just bet he is', Threnody thought irately. Comforting
her on the bed, in the hallway, on the divan, on the floor in
every room, et cetera.

"If you like, we can send a page to find you as soon as their
private discussion is over with", he offered.

Shaking her head, more out of pique than refusal, Threnody
sighed. "No. I'll wait here. This shouldn't take more than
another half hour, right?"

The two guards eyed one another knowingly. Titania's guard
raised a slender eyebrow. The mostly silent one shrugged.
"These sessions are hard to gauge. Some go a half an hour while
others go four".

Feeling suddenly very tired (which after the short rest
break she still was), Threnody leaned back against the stone
wall.

The talkative guard spoke up again. "If you care to, there's
a table and a few chairs we could move in here so you'd be more
comfortable". He seemed hesitant for some reason. Exasperated
with Sidhe circularity and politeness, Threnody snapped, "If you
have something to say, spit it out!"

"Sorry, but.... perchance..... do you play fidchell?"

The only answer was the sound of Threnody's head banging
against the wall. 'I wonder if they still need Packmasters in
the Woods of Sharp Teeth?', she wondered despondantly.





The lazy clatter of tree branches in the wind. A meadowlark's
lonesome call in the distance. The morning light dappling the
grass sward through the shapes of the surrounding trees, and
turning the surface of the stream into molten gold. All this the
lone figure took note of on its' solitary walk along the waters'
edge.

At the base of a nearby willow tree was a beaker with what
appeared to be a bone stopper. Eyes narrowing to platinum slits,
the male figure ambled over. A band of silver was bent around
the beakers' neck...... hmm...

He picked up the bottle and pulled the stopper from it.
A brief wafting of the gaseous contents were enough to tell him
three things clearly: the scent of arsenic meant that somebody
was wanted dead; the odor of sulfur meant that the target was
an infernal. He could also smell eyebright in the bottle,
meaning that the target would be marked somehow. The stopper
was another matter entirely, and held his attention. It was
troll bone, and not easilly obtained.

There was a troll who laired in this area, and he highly
doubted that the bone was from this one. The troll..... to be
used as an unwitting assassin? That would explain using the
bone as a stopper. The troll would contain the infernal as
effortlessly as would the stopper the contents of this bottle.

Sighing softly, the diminuative man put the bottle in his
belt pouch. He'd have to fly to make it to the rendezvous point
on time. Spreading his arms, he gave a quick trilling chirp.

A flurry of beating wings and the clearing was soon quiet
once more.

And that is as far as I got with it.