(122-04-04) Beesbury BloodBath

It's daytime, and pretty out here. There's a light breeze that cuts the heat and moves the leaves, and the grass between the trees.

Isador is collecting herbs and various sundries in the woods - she is in attire that is perhaps too good for this task - lifting her skirt as she traverses the terrain. She carries a small basket. Every so often she examines a piece of fallen wood - no doubt looking for something to carve her figurines out of.

Malcolm is riding along the path on his big silly destrier, wearing his leathers. he has the look of a man scouting paths with a tactical eye.

Having spent most of his time in the Citadel lately, Bryn has taken a chance for some free time out in the woods. Herb-gathering. At least, that's his excuse. While he is paying attention for herbs, and he has a belt full of pouches for various ones he finds, he's mostly out enjoying the weather and the break from the library. Instead of his usual Citadel robe, which would get caught up in branches and such, he's dressed more in the fashion of a commoner child. Barefoot and wearing just a sleeveless vest, and a pair of trousers, and a leather string carrying his single link hanging from his neck.

A little covey of quail sneak out of a stand of hazel, creeping through the grass in their hurried way. The nuts are almost ripe in that particular bush.

Isador observes the quail and suddenly wishes she had her bow. She continues collecting herbs - not paying attention to any of the other comings and goings of the forest. Perhaps not noticing others - perhaps not caring.

Malcolm is not much of a marksman, but makes note of where the quail were for the future setting of traps. He gives Bryn a friendly wave and the the witch a more formal salute.

The little ground birds disappear into the next stand of bushes.

There's no need to, Bryn has absolutely no need to hunt for food. But still, it's fun, and on seeing the quail, he makes a dive to catch one just for the sake of trying to catch one, though ends up face-planting in the dirt empty-handed. He laughs, though, picking himself up. Only then does he seem to notice the others nearby, waving back to Malcolm. "They're fast," he comments.

One of the birds takes wing with a clatter when Bryn dives for it, and the rest burst out of the bushes in sympathy. They skim off over the tops of the hazels, and a hawk, overhead, wheels to dive in for a closer look.

As he gets up, something to the North seems to catch Bryn's eye, and he gets a curious expression as he looks in that direction.

Malcolm stiffens and draws his sword. After all the bandits chased away from the Rose Road had to go somewhere. It's not unreasonable that such might startle quail.

Isador looks in the direction the quail were coming from - then slowly carefully proceeds in that direction. Looking warily to Bryn and Malcolm as she does - she offers no explanation voluntarily for her conduct - perhaps she might be amenable to being asked.

There's more movement there, among the leaves. Another glimmer of white passes between two trees, quick.

Bryn blinks, looking up to Malcolm and then to Isador. Very different reactions. He goes quiet, standing as still and quiet as he can, looking to the North again towards the movement.

Malcolm waits, watching to see if ought leaps out at the witch, sword at ready if he needs to charge his horse that way.

Above, the hawk turns away when the quail go to cover in another stand of bushes, a quarter of a mile away.

Isador pauses watching the movement of white between the trees. She continues slowly moving in the direction she was heading. She then says something in the "old tongue" - and entreaty perhaps.

There's a sudden quiet when Isador speaks. Whatever was moving back there, it was coming closer, and now it's frozen still.

Malcolm is patient and still, as he is wont to be. The horse fidgets and blows a soft sound between his lips.

Bryn is patient too, though he moves a little, positioning himself partially behind a tree. Still peeking out to see what's happening, but gaining some cover just in case.

"You can come out - we wont harm you girl," Isador says switching to common and effecting her best return to a wildling lingua franca - dropping as best she can her braavosi accent. "I promise."

Malcolm slowly lowers the sword, but doesn't sheath it, letting Isador do the talking. If it is a frightened girl, a woman wouldd likely be better talking her into coming out than a tall, armed Knight.

There's a few more moments of tense stillness, and then something is creeping out from behind one of the bushes. Something white, low to the ground, shy. A girl?

No. It's an animal. It's a dog. A pretty white setting-brachet, with rust-red patches on her back and sides.

Bryn looks up to Isador again in surprise, then back to whatever it is crawling out… and then grins as he sees it's a dog, relaxing and stepping out from behind the tree again.

Malcolm looks the beast over, then sheathes his sword. He fishes out a bit of jerky and waggles it. Not wanting to startle the beast he stays in the saddle and doesn't throw it, sudden movements being apt to alarm nervous beasties. he does hold it low where Bryn might take it if he liked.

Isador raises a crimson brow at the revelation of a dog but stands her ground - kneeling to dog level to see if the animal will approach.

It's a pretty dog. A bitch. Some nobleman's hawking-dog, by the build of it, by the feather-fur on its legs and its white and red tail. She's a skinny thing, and she wags her tail cautiously at Isador as she straightens up. This dog has little rust-red spots of fur over her eyes, red eyebrows.

Malcolm dismounts very slowly, making no sudden moves.

The dog wags her tail at Malcolm, and approaches him nervously. After all, he has food.

Isador remains in place and tries to win the dogs trust with the same immobility as the animal. She lets the dog approach Malcolm - simply watching the spectacle from her crouched postion.

Malcolm squats down low holding the food out, body language relaxed.

The dog reaches her white muzzle forth to accept the jerky delicately. The eyebrow-spots make her quite expressive, it's a 'thanks, friends? I'm not sure…' look.

Isador crosses her legs and places a hand under her chin elbow propped on her knee merely observing - perhaps a little underwhelmed. She was hoping for something else. But the day was young.

Malcolm leaves his hand out in case of sniffings, but squats there as if he could do it all day.

The dog eats, not wolfing the food down, but consuming it in three delicate bites, cutting it between her incisors. Then she licks Malcolm's hand, a tiny brief touch, and looks back over her shoulder. Her expression is oddly sad now.

"Perhaps something has happened to our little lady's canine master?" Isador suggests. She retains her pose on the ground. "We could retrace the dogs steps or perhaps the bitch will be so kind as to lead us back there. Assuming my theory is correct."

You say, "I'm not woods man, but I think it is best to check. There have been bandits about."

The dog looks at Isador, and then at Malcolm. She then looks North, and whines softly.

Isador looks at the dog and rises then heads shortly to the north seeing if the dog will follow - or hopefully alternatively lead.

Malcolm rises also and makes as if he's about to go that way.

The white brachet stands trembling, watching Isador go, and then suddenly breaks, rushing towards the woman in an attempt to catch her hand in her jaws.

Isador is not built for war - not for a long time after leaving north of the wall - but the dog bite - well she endures it with a mildly contained fury. And the dog is lucky she left her sword at home. She bites her lip and then pulling the dog towards her cruelly twists one of the bitches ears. From experience she knows this is especially painful for dogs. The Red witch positively radiates fury at the attack.

Malcolm makes an alarmed sound as she harms the dog and half moves to stop her, alas too late, "The beastie is frightened, I think, and no cause to hurt her." Malcolm is off his horse. Isador was collecting herbs. There is a small, pretty, skinny hawking daog.

The white dog tugs at Isador's hand and wrist, actively pulling, but when the woman twists its ear it squalls in pain and lets go, spinning to flee.

Malcolm tries calling to the poor, frightened bitch, making the sounds he's likely heard Tellur use on the Stark's beasts. He gives Isador a glare. "She was trying to lead you, I think."

There is a laggardly 'clip clop' from a little distance away as Tellur arrives on a startlingly ugly yellow horse. The beast has a very thin saddle with almost no pommel, and reins with no bit. There is a massive lurcher on one side of his mount, and a shaggy…animal on the other that has a dog collar on that helpfully says 'dog' despite its owner looking more lupine than canine.

The unfortunate white-and-red setting brachet's panicked fleeing from Isador sends her right towards Tellur and his much larger dogs.

Isador is enraged, "I will neither be bitten nor struck have I the power to resist. And believe me that power I have - although it was not always such," she asserts - even demands of Malcolm. "An unusually intelligent beast if that is all she wanted of me to 'lead' me - I have not been led by the mouth by a dog. Perhaps we should just follow it." Isador is still incensed but halfway sensible as is her want. Tellur's arrival is greeted with an exasperated confusion.

Malcolm looks relieved to see the man on the ugly horse, "Tellur Snow! This beast was found frightened and hungry! we fear something may have happened to her master. Could you…?"

Tellur eyes the dog as she darts towards him, and he lifts two fingers to his mouth and gives a sharp whistle, a 'come 'roun heel' type. The noise might well not work - it depends how universal that call is. And then he realises people are present, and his shoulders hunch up, a little, before he says "Nay, a good dog will know to tug on the sleeve of one - if she's a hunter, or a herder. But this is a brachet - a scent-hunter." He shuffles, awkward on his ugly beast.

The dog doesn't come about, but the whistle makes her stop, lifting her head in startlement and going ass-over-tit as she notices the bigger dogs and the horse right in front of her. She squalls as she tumbles.

Malcolm's voice is gentle as he finds another bit of jerky in his pouch, "There, there wee, beastie. We mean ye no harm. Mistress, Idador, this is the Master of beasts for the Starks and one of the best trackers your likely to find. Tellur Snow, this is Mistress Isador, a traveler." His tone suggests he is acquainted with the woman, but not particularly well or fondly.

Isador coldly watches the proceedings massaging her hand as she does - angry at being assailed. It plainly is a 'thing' for her. She does not speak.

"Then she's a decent woman," Tellur says in his ingracious mutter, but at least 'traveller' gets more of a compliment out of him than, say 'singer' or 'noble' would. He eyes the dog, and as she squalls, he says "Aye, whoa there, lovely." The man slides off his horse and snaps his fingers, half-crouching "Is she yours?" he asks Isador "And thank you for the flattery, Ser Malcolm."

The little white and red bitch doesn't notice the new offer of food. She actually covers her face with her forelegs and sobs. It's a doggy sob, but it still sounds rather human.

Malcolm says quietly to Isador, "I think she is frightened and wanting help of some sort. I am sorry she distressed you, but I do not think harm was meant. We found her hiding in the brush, Tellur Snow. We fear something might have happened to her Master and were hoping she might lead us to whatever the trouble was."

"I'll accept the assertion of her horror and displacement if she leads us to something - there might even be peace offerings and high accolades my Lord. But until then I am still bit and nothing seems to be occurring. I doubt any peace offering from me would stir the mut. Unless Lord Tellur thinks it would?" Isador is still out of sorts.

At that noise, the blood drains from Tellur's face, and he says "Aye, sounds a good call, we should follow her." The reversal is abrupt, and he says to the beast "Do you have somewhere to take us?" As Isador speaks, he gives a taciturn shrug "Beasts don't think like people," is what he says. The thunderous frown on his face is sadly likely permanent. And Tellur nudges the beast, gently "Something to show us? If not, you need food."

The dog squirms away from Tellur's boot, cringing. She looks up at his face, then to the North, and shudders.

Motley, the big floofy Destrier, has been quietly sidling towards Tellur and Loathly, with the air of a beast hoping treats might appear.

Ser Malcolm shrugs and stalks quietly North, drawing his sword. He's the look of a man used to moving in woods.

Isador just mirrors Malcolm. She is unarmed - so sensibly moves behind him.

The dog looks at the two moving off and then up at Tellur. She whines.

Tellur notes to the woman "I am most definitely no Lord, of any stripe. I am a kennel master," his lips quirk "An honest thing." Still, he is more concerned with the beast than it's direction or information. As she whines, he hesitates, then says "Aye." And Tellur unslings his bow and heads off cautiously as well.

And again the dog whines. She follows, trying to press her side against Tellur's leg as they go.

The Lurcher finds no trail, except that of the brachet. The pretty white beast seems to relax after a while, and casts about in the wood, looking for wood-grouse, but every so often she gets nervous and looks back to Tellur, and then to the North, and shivers. Once she even growls in that direction.

Tellur reports this back to the others, and then tells Grace to follow the track back, further. In all other respects, though, his demeanour is quiet.

Malcolm trusts Tellur. He is quiet, patient, alert. Softly he says, "Looks like what scared her is North…" Though he is the only noble here, he lets the expert lead.

Isador simply follows Malcolm - waiting for some evidence of a crime /maybe/.

Tellur frowns a little as Grace reports back, by ear and nose and general demeanour "There's little here," he says, glancing back at the small hunting dog accompanying them, and then he says to the two "Perhaps she is but lost? We'll make it to a mile, but after that, I've no desire to be caught for a possible poacher."

The little dog looks up at Tellur, sadness in her brown eyes, accentuated by the rust-coloured eyebrow spots.

You say, "I've a bad feeling about this. My instinct is to back track to see where she was lost _from_."

"And mine is to follow Malcolm's," Isador firmly rejoinders. She looks back over the dog tracks.

The brachet came from the North.

Tellur gives a comfortable shrug "Well then, let us go. Dog will stay with Loathely and your greedy beast, Mal. Ah. Ser Malcolm." He coughs, and then he strides on, heading towards the North. His eyes are on Grace, looking for the way she signals "Follow, girl. Find the scent, further, faster."

Malcolm flashes Tellur a reassuring smile. "Odds are, if we run into huntsman, we can talk our way out of it." he moves on, following grace.

"Or even fight…" Isador floats after Malcolm's assertion. Her being not in the best of moods.

It's a funny track — it seems that sometimes the brachet had been running full out, and straight away from whatever it is that's to the North that she's lost from, and sometimes it twists and meanders as the animal behaved like the bird-dog she is, sniffing about and searching for things in the brush. It's a long walk through the wood this way. The brachet herself, well, she's something of an echo of the trail. Sometimes she sniffs about, and points at grouse, and other times she clings to Tellur's side and whines. As they get further North and the tracks of a heavy horse cross those of the brachet, she looks at Isador significantly and whines more piteously than before.

"You first," Tellur grins at Isador, an unusual expression. He frowns as they walk through the wood, and he rolls his shoulders back. Curiosity, though, has gotten him here, and he says "Which track? I can follow either."

Malcolm looks to the small brachet, seeing how she behaves at this crucial juncture.

The little bitch looks to the North and shudders. Her hackles go up when she sniffs at the breeze coming from that direction.

Malcolm continues North, towards whatever is frightening the beastie, "I've a nasty feeling there will be a dead body at the end of the trail…."

As if to confirm Malcolm's suspicion, there's the sound of crows drifting down with the breeze.

"We'll be seeking a culprit then soon enough," Isador addend's ominously.

Ahead, through the trees, there's something yellow and bright.

Tellur is quiet now. He walks low, stalking, slinging his bow off his shoulder, and he is sniffing. A hand goes up quietly and he indicates the other two, then points North, and heads that way in a slink

The pretty white bitch growls softly.

Malcolm's stender blade is out and ready, he moves as quietly as he is able.

The three and their dogs creep up through a stand of wood, the white brachet lagging behind anxiously. In the clearing beyond is a pavilion, made of black and yellow cloth, striped vertically. There's a horse standing beside it, tethered to a tree and evidently asleep. Beyond, further North, crows are perching in the trees, dropping occasionally to something hidden in the underbrush.

Malcolm gives the pair a very grim look and stalks towards whatever or whomever the crows feast on.

Isador - unarmed merely follows the men.

Tellur steps out to the side, instead, dropping a hand to Grace's shoulders. His silent expression says 'How bad is it?'

A half dozen yards behind the pavillion there's a corpse, lying in a little low spot, amid the grass. As the three come up to the the crows come up off it, raucously objecting to the interruption. It's a woman. She's naked. A tall, slim, young, red-headed woman. Her eyes are gone, but mostly the birds have been picking at a wound in her belly, near emptying her. She's been there a few days, by the look of things. And the smell.

Malcolm's expression is even grimmer, "What do you think killed her, Tellur Snow?" He looks her over in case she recognises her or her clothes then goes to warily check the tent. a woman such as this is unlikely to have been so far out alone.

She wears no clothes. Nothing. The wound, where it's not been ripped at by the birds, is smooth-edged, a blade.

"Let's have a look," Tellur says, and glances at Isador. Then he moves closer and he crouches down by the body, and says "…this is very bad, Ser Malcolm. For thieves would have taken the horse." He rises, and goes back to the animal, to look for a brand on it.

In the tent, there's a fair amount of bedroll, comfortable looking, and messed, and a number of empty wineskins. It's more than that one chestnut rounsey-horse could have carried, if you count the pavillion itself. The crows swirl overhead, and the white brachet gives a little yelp.

Malcolm growls, "There had to be a second horse and rider…." his head comes up. he hisses, "I hear a horse approaching. Best to be out of sight. Whether it's attacker or one apt to think we killed her, I'd rather look them over first." he heads for cover to the North east.

Tellur is concerned with the horse, above most things - someone might consider taking insignia away from the camp, but likely not think about a brand on the horse. Still, as Malcolm speaks, he shows his teeth in a growl, and takes Grace by the collar to sidle over into the brush on the opposite side from Malcolm.

The brachet looks at Isador and whines miserably.

It's not long before the sound of the horse is unmistakable. A lazy trot, accompanied by swearing.

Malcolm winces as Tellur hides in the direction of the rider.

Isador stands back and watched the proceedings moving back…

And so a great black destrier comes trotting in, bearing a large armoured man, black-bearded and somewhat shabby looking. He wears the colours of House Beesbury, but reversed — the beehives are black on a yellow field. He's cursing and muttering. He's in half armour, and wears a gauntlet on one hand, carrying a hawk. The bird is bating furiously, trying to flap away and ending up dangling on its jesses, and the man is swearing at it. And then, abruptly, he brings his horse to a halt and says, "Seven Hells!" staring to the place amongst the trees where Isador took cover.

Malcolm is very, very still and quiet, the better to see how it plays out.

Half armour seems a little much for a hunt. Tellur stays still, and one hand is on Grace's shoulders. Suddenly, he is glad of having a manhunter with him. His eyes barely blink as he watches.

The man rides to the pavillion and dismounts, smooth and quick for someone of his bulk. He chucks his hawk, flapping in distress, into the tent, and starts to stride towards the edge of the wood where Isador hides, moving fast.

Isador stands out stating, "What the seven hells are you truly looking for?" she looks about herself, "I hope it is not related to me too poorly?"

Malcolm squats silently, letting things play out. He is a bastard after all.

"Bitch!" says the man, moving to grab Isador's arm.

The brachet, cowering in the bushes, suddenly finds her steel when the man grabs for Isador. The little dog springs out and flies at him, snarling.

And Tellur rises, near-silently, to step towards the man. But it is Grace that he holds his fingers up to, holding her back, back…ready to leap.

Gashlycrumb pages Malcolm and Tellur: Can you clean up the remains of my head when it explodes?

Isador wildly dodges the initial attemot at her arrest - but surrenders in confusion. "And what the hell is this about?" she asks in annoyance.

The big man grabs her after Isador dodges, a heavy hand around her arm. And then the dog is on him, sinking her teeth into thigh where it's unarmoured. He yells and cuffs her, hard, with his free hand, but doesn't let go of Isador.

Malcolm watches carefully, poised to intervene, but hoping that the man will say something useful if left to his devises.

And Tellur likely feels a fool out in the open, but he has his hand raised, raised, listening for a moment. It is not yet plunging down to release the manhunter on the other bastard.

"Ghost of her or sister of her," says the big man, "I'll have you just the same." His blow sent the little dog tumbling, but she springs back at him just the same, snarling again and making a high crying sound at the same time. This time he doesn't cuff her away, but grabs her by the scruff and pulls her off him, holding her away from him. He must be terrible strong to do that with such seeming ease. The brachet yelp-screams.

"Found my bitch, did you?"

Isador gives the knight as black a look as she has ever given anyone. She looks to Malcolm - "Two gold dragons for this man's head and the truth." She offers bluntly without apology. "One more if you make it hurt… badly."

Malcolm was in the act of leaping from behind a tree to attempt to slit the man's throat when adressed, and it being to late to stop and Mal being the all or nothing type, he leaps at the other bastard, whips his blade around and tries to take him in the throat with a dealy serious exporession and yet another glare at Isador.

…and then things sort of go to hell in a very, _very_ short order. Tellur starts to open his mouth, shrugs, gives up, and then pulls up his light crossbow, as a distinct way of saying 'Everyone settle down'. Everyone does _not_ settle down. The Master of Hounds says to Grace "Hie-ya, knock him down, lass!"

Tellur pages Gashlycrumb and Malcolm: I keep wondering if it's possible for anyone to be as patient as you are :)

Isador rolls right out of the fight - pathetically. She does her best to avoid the fights. But wildling or no - she is a girl without protection.

And that is. That. Mal is on the man in the reversed Beesbury colours before the bastard can drop his squalling dog, and the blade goes past the man's unbuckled gorget and opens his throat before said dog hits the ground. A great gout of blood comes forth, spilling directly onto Isador.

Malcolm let's the others do as they will. he knows Tellur is a dab shot and Isador made her own bed here. He is focused entirely on giving the man a second smile, and this is what he was trained for, really, the ending of men one way or another. As the bright arterial blood bathes the witch he glares at her again, "I didn't do it for gold, nor do I want any. have a little more Faith."

Malcolm moves…rather frighteningly fast, and Tellur scratches behind his ear as Grace skids to a stop, howling at the smell of blood. "…water dancer?" he asks Malcolm, a little dryly "You know, without proof here…" Tellur, grumpy bastard, crouches down, and croons to the dog.

The brachet is on her feet a moment after she hits the ground, making to fly at the man again, but he's spilling blood. Instead she opens her jaws and gives a funny sort of doggy roar, part bark and part howl, thick with rage and triumph.

Weaponless Isador - hoping to remain alive moves as far back as she can from the scene. Simply observing.

Malcolm sighs, "I know. It looks like we are the villains. Too many days between the deaths to put knife in her hand and make it look like she got her revenge….."

The big man falls, spilling more blood, and struggles weakly on the ground for a second or two as he bleeds out. The white-and-red dog howls again, more wolfishly.

Tellur shows his gentle manner and kind nature by putting one of his hobnail boots in the ribs of the poor bastard on the ground. Then he says to the other two, bluntly "We must inform House Stark, and then speak with the city as soon as possible." Because that will go down so well. Then he glances back towards the grim tent "We tell the truth." That always works! The truth! Tellur adds to the small dog "Should I kick him again?"

The dog seems to understand, and barks a little bark of affirm at Tellur.

Malcolm does not interfere with the kicking, "Is Lord Carolis back yet? Because otherwise there is no Lord to speak for us to Beesbury."

Isador tries to wrench her hand free if it is till constrained?

Tellur lays in another kick, and then spits a particularly obscene and low-born curse "No! Frig. I have an ear or two amongst the dragon-blooded, but not like _this_. Ser Malcolm, he went out of his way to abuse her beasts, it's likely he had no right to have such fine ones. I'll calm the hawk down, can you get the reins of the horse? Milady," he notes to Isador "You'll likely need to give evidence."

The brachet gives Isador a distinct, 'I told you so,' sort of look, and then goes around to look at the corpse behind the pavilion.

Malcolm nods to Tellur as if to an equal and follows his orders, going to catch the beast and try to calm it. He's got dried apple bits if it comes to it and a calm way about him.

They are tame enough horses, well trained if a bit suspicious, and rather keen on apple bits.

Tellur rises up, and then head around with the dog, to peer with it at the corpse. But it is the animal's behaviour that he watches, his eyes narrowed "Not a nice man, eh?"

The white-and-red dog stares down at the corpse, looking as grief-striken as a dog can look.

Malcolm is patient, moves slowly, and likely smells of Motley. He leaves tellur to do what tellur does best.

The horses are soon in hand, and probably liking Malcolm far better than they did their former master. The goshawk is not only in a high temper from its recent treatment, it's a goshawk, and takes some time to settle down. But nothing happens. The woods are quiet, except for the crows, and eventually, the brachet sobbing like a child again.

Tellur clicks his fingers for the dog, and then says to Malcolm "If you'll let me have the beasts, then I'll leave you to search, wa…Ser Malcolm. For any more items of interest. I should get the dog back to where she can feel safe, under a dark bed with a good bone." And possibly attempt to 'interrogate' her as much as possible, for Tellur is _terribly suspicious of that poor hound. As the animal begins to howl, Tellur attempts to scoop her up and make soothing noises.

The pretty little dog allows herself to be picked up, still crying.

Malcolm nods, "If you take the more restive horse, you will go faster. I will check the tent more thoroughly and follow on the other." He turns to Isador, "It may be the blood will spook the horses, but I could escort you back to town if you wait momentarily." He ducks into the tent again, hoping to find the woman's clothes or insignia or other clues.

There's nothing much there. One dress, plain brown homespun, ripped, a servant's sort of dress. Gear for the hawk. Bedding. The parts of the man's armour that he wasn't wearing. Saddlebags, probably to go on the chestnut rounsey. A box of salt. Nothing unusual.

And indeed, more wine.

Tellur notes to Malcolm "She's Beesbury - or at least, her palfry is. This set up was designed to kill her, Ser Malcolm. For she was rendered insensible first - drunk, I'll wager, and then slaughtered? I'll be heading back to look up the books and find out how many bastards Beesbury has of that lout's age this season." And indeed, Tellur will spirit both dog and horse away. Unless anyone stops him.

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